Chapter Text
The empire of Aethelgard was built on three things: iron, blood, and the bottomless coffers of Dunk Natachai.
At twenty-five, Dunk was a shadow sovereign. He controlled the Trade Union, the silk routes, and the very grain that fed the King’s horses. He was also, quite famously, the most persistent nuisance in Joong Archen’s life.
Captain Joong Archen paced the limestone courtyard of the West Barracks, his leather bracers cinched tight. His jaw was set in a line of permanent irritation. For three years, he had been the target of the empire’s most lavish—and most embarrassing—courtship. Dunk Natachai did not do things by halves. He didn't send flowers; he sent entire botanical gardens. He didn't send letters; he sent poetic scrolls delivered by trained hawks.
And the teasing. Gods, the teasing.
“Still holding out for a dowry of ten cities, Captain?” his lieutenants would snicker.
Joong hated it. He had earned his rank through the dirt and the blade, rising from a palace guard who had once saved a wealthy boy from an assassin's knife at fifteen, to the Captain of the Eight Troops. He didn't want to be known as the merchant-prince’s favorite toy.
“Captain,” a voice interrupted his brooding. It was King Pond, draped in regal indigo, looking far too amused for a man whose western borders were currently being threatened by barbarian clans.
“Your Majesty,” Joong saluted.
“The West Wing is in revolt. You leave at dawn,” Pond said, his eyes glinting with a secret. “But since you refuse to take a full battalion into the narrow mountain passes, I’m assigning you a specialized close-combat aide. He’s... skilled. Very quiet.”
Joong frowned. He preferred his own men, men he’d bled with. But one does not refuse a King, especially one who owed his crown to the very man Joong was trying to avoid.
Standing behind the King was a figure clad in nondescript grey soldier’s linens. He was tall—nearly as tall as Joong—but lean. A wide-brimmed traveler’s hat was pulled low, casting a deep shadow over his face.
“He’s a bit pale for a soldier,” Joong noted, stepping closer. The man stood rigidly, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He smelled faintly of… sandalwood? No, something more expensive.
“He’s effective,” Pond promised, coughing into his hand. “I’ll leave you two to acquaint yourselves.”
As the King retreated, Joong circled the new recruit like a predator. The man didn't flinch.
“Name?” Joong barked.
“Dango,” the soldier replied. The voice was muffled, a low rasp that sounded strangely forced.
“Only that? No House? No lineage?”
“I am an orphan, Captain. No family. Just my blade.”
Joong grunted. He signaled him to follow.
When they reach the camp. Joong reached out, tossing a heavy bundle of standard-issue army leather and a rusted iron spear at the man’s chest. Dango caught them, though his arms wobbled slightly under the weight.
“You look like you’ve never seen the sun, Dango. If you slow me down on the mountain paths, I’ll leave you for the vultures. We move at first light.”
That guy just give Joong a stiff nod.
---
The morning of the march was cold. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the metallic tang of sharpening steel.
Usually, these departures were a circus. Dunk Natachai would typically arrive in a gilded carriage, throwing rose petals and shouting declarations of love that made Joong want to impale himself on his own sword.
But today, the palace gates were quiet.
A messenger boy ran up to the front of the line, panting. He handed a small crate to the quartermaster—high-grade rations, dried meats, and medicinal salves—enough for the whole troop. Then, he scurried over to Joong, holding a small silken square.
“From the Lord of the Union, Captain. He… he couldn't make it. He said he’s feeling a bit under the weather.”
Joong took the handkerchief. It was white silk, embroidered with a tiny, delicate gold sun. In the center, there was a faint, red smudge—a kiss, pressed in expensive lip-stain.
Joong felt a strange, uncomfortable jolt in his chest. Under the weather? Dunk was never sick. Dunk would attend his own funeral if it meant he could flirt with Joong one last time.
“Captain? We’re losing the light,” One of his aide called out from the back of the line. Joong took a glance at his troops and his eyes stop on Dango. The soldier was mounted on a sturdy brown mare, his hat still pulled low.
“Right,” Joong snapped, quickly tucking the handkerchief into his breast pocket, right against his skin. He told himself it was just to keep it from blowing away.
As they rode out, the scent of the handkerchief wafted up—a heady mix of jasmine and expensive musk. It was the scent of the man who had been chasing him for three years. For the first time, the silence from the palace felt… heavy.
The first night of camp was grueling. They were deep in the foothills, the terrain jagged and unforgiving. Joong watched his new aide, Dango, with a suspicious eye. The man was quiet, barely eating, and he refused to take off his hat or his face-wrap on other's sight even while need to drink water.
“You’re a strange one, Dango,” Joong said, walking over to where the soldier sat by a dying fire.
Dango jumped, nearly dropping his tin cup. “I value my privacy, Captain.”
“In the army, there is no privacy. We sleep in the dirt and bleed in the mud.” Joong sat down heavily across from him. “Tell me, Why join this campaign? The West Wing barbarians are known for flaying men alive.”
Dango’s shoulders shifted. “Perhaps I am looking for something.”
“Glory?” Joong scoffed. “Glory is a lie told by poets. Take it from me. I have the ‘glory’ of being the most harassed man in the empire, and it hasn't brought me a lick of peace.”
Dango tilted his head. “You speak of Lord Natachai?”
“Who else?” Joong growled, poking the fire with a stick. “The man is a menace. He thinks he can buy a heart like he buys a shipment of spices. He even tried to bribe the Matchmaker’s Guild to offer me a General’s commission if I married him.”
“And you said no,” Dango said quietly. It wasn't a question.
“I’m not for sale,” Joong said, his voice dropping an octave. “Even if he is the rumored most beautiful man in the empire. Beauty is a mask. I’ve never even seen his face—he’s worn that silver visor since we were fifteen. For all I know, he’s hiding a hideous scar or a permanent smirk.”
“Maybe he hides because he’s afraid,” Dango whispered.
Joong laughed harshly. “Dunk Natachai isn't afraid of anything. He’s the most arrogant, reckless, beautiful… annoying person I’ve ever met.”
He didn't notice Dango’s hand trembling as it gripped the tin cup.
“Get some sleep, soldier,” Joong commanded, standing up. “Tomorrow, the real climbing begins.”
As Joong walked back to his tent, he reached into his pocket and fingered the silk handkerchief. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to see that silver mask of Dunk fall. He wanted to know what Dunk was doing right now. Probably lounging on silk pillows, drinking wine, while Joong froze in the mountains.
Joong sighed, he looked up to the moon and wondered if Dunk is also looking at that.
---
Inside the soldier’s tent, Dango finally removed his hat. Dunk Natachai wiped the sweat from his brow, his skin pale and shimmering in the moonlight. His muscles ached in places he didn't know existed, and his hands were blistered from the reins.
He looked at his reflection in a small hand-mirror he’d smuggled in. He looked exhausted. He looked nothing like a merchant prince now.
“Just a few more days, Joong,” Dunk whispered to the empty air, a determined, slightly mad glint in his eyes. “If you won't fall for the rich man, let’s see how you feel about the man who saves your life in the mud.”
He touched his lips, thinking of the kiss he’d pressed to the silk currently resting against Joong’s heart. The burn had only just begun.
---
The ascent into the Iron-Spine Mountains was not a journey; it was an endurance test designed by the gods to humble arrogant men. The air grew thin, biting at the lungs like swallowed needles, and the narrow trails forced the troop into a single file that stretched like a dying snake along the cliffs.
Joong rode at the head, his eyes scanning the ridgeline for the tell-tale glint of barbarian scouts. But his mind—traitorous and distracted—kept drifting to the back of the line.
"Dango" was struggling.
The newest aide was swaying in his saddle, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. Every time the trail dipped or a loose stone skittered into the abyss, the soldier flinched. Joong pulled his mount aside, letting the troop pass until he was level with his mysterious aide.
"You look like you’re about to faint, Dango," Joong remarked, his voice cutting through the wind. "I thought the King said you were an expert in close combat. Did he forget to mention you’ve never seen a mountain?"
Dunk, hiding behind the grit and the grime of his Dango persona, bit his inner cheek to keep from snapping back. His thighs were screaming. The inner friction of the rough trousers against his skin—skin usually treated with rose-water and silk—was bordering on a medical emergency.
"The air is... different here, Captain," Dunk rasped, keeping his head down. "I am a city creature. We breathe smoke and gossip, not ice."
Joong snorted, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he rode alongside him, his massive frame shielding Dunk from the harshest gusts of the northern wind. "If you fall off that horse, I’m not stopping the march. I'll just tether your corpse to the saddle so the crows don't get a head start."
"Your romanticism is truly unparalleled, Captain Archen," Dunk murmured under his breath.
Joong’s ears perked up. "What was that?"
"I said... I’m grateful for the warning," Dunk corrected quickly.
They stopped at a plateau where a frozen spring offered a meager trickle of water. The soldiers collapsed, groaning as they shed their heavy packs. Joong, ever the disciplined leader, began inspecting the perimeter.
He found Dango sitting far away from the others, tucked behind a jagged rock. The soldier had his boot off and look like he was staring at a bleeding blister with a look of pure, unadulterated horror, Joong wouldn't know if it is real, Dango still didn't remove his hat.
"Gods above," Joong sighed, stalking over. "Give me that."
"No! I can manage—"
Joong didn't listen. He knelt in the dirt, his large, calloused hands grabbing Dango's ankle. Dunk froze. The contact was electric. Joong’s hands were warm, smelling of horsehair and steel, and they were frighteningly strong.
"You have the feet of a nobleman’s daughter," Joong muttered, pulling a small tin of salve from his own belt. It was the same salve Dunk had sent in the ration crates. "Soft. Unmarked. How did you survive the training camps?"
"I... was a fast learner," Dunk stammered. He watched Joong’s dark hair catch the light as the Captain worked. Up close, Joong was even more devastating. The sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar above his eyebrow from a training accident years ago—Dunk knew every inch of him from afar, but this proximity was intoxicating.
Joong smeared the salve over the blister. His thumb brushed against the arch of Dunk’s foot, a slow, rhythmic motion that felt far too intimate for a battlefield.
"You remind me of him," Joong said suddenly, his voice low.
Dunk’s heart stopped. "Who?"
"Natachai. That peacock back at the capital." Joong looked up, his dark eyes searching the shadow of Dunk’s hat. "He has this way of looking at the world like it’s a personal insult when things aren't comfortable. You have that same air around you."
"You spend a lot of time thinking about him, then?" Dunk teased, his confidence returning as his pulse raced.
Joong stiffened, dropping the foot abruptly. "I spend a lot of time wishing he’d find a new hobby. Like stamp collecting. Or marrying a Duke. Anything that involves him staying out of my barracks."
He stood up, wiping his hands on his leathers. "Wrap that foot. We move in ten minutes."
As Joong walked away, Dunk leaned back against the cold stone, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He’s thinking about me. Even out here, in the middle of a war, I’m in his head.
---
The peace didn't last.
As the sun began to dip, casting long, bloody shadows across the pass, a shrill whistle echoed through the canyon.
"AMBUSH!" Joong roared, drawing his heavy broadsword in one fluid motion.
Arrows rained down from the ridges. The West Wing Barbarians weren't just disorganized tribes; they were coordinated. They poured from the rocks like a dark tide, clad in furs and wielding heavy axes.
Joong was a whirlwind of destruction. He moved with a brutal elegance, his blade carving a path through the attackers. But his eyes kept darting back, searching for his useless aide.
He saw Dango surrounded by three tribesmen. The soldier looked panicked, holding his spear like a fishing rod.
"Dango! Behind you!" Joong yelled, kicking a barbarian off the cliff side and sprinting toward him.
But Dunk wasn't as helpless as he looked. He might have been a peacock like Joong teased, but he had spent thousands of gold pieces on the best private tutors in the empire since the day he was nearly killed at fifteen. He knew how to fight; he just preferred not to get his clothes dirty.
As a barbarian lunged with a rusted dagger, Dunk pivoted. It wasn't a soldier’s move—it was like a dancer’s. He caught the man’s wrist, used his own momentum against him, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat with sickening precision.
Joong arrived just in time to see Dango sweep the legs of a second attacker and finish him with a quick, clean thrust of the spear.
The third attacker, a massive brute with a scarred face, swung a mace at Dunk’s head. Dunk dived, his hat finally flying off in the wind.
Joong’s sword met the mace with a bone-shaking clang. He shoved the brute back and buried his blade in the man’s chest.
Silence fell over the pass as the remaining rebels retreated into the gloom.
Joong turned, breathing hard, his face splashed with blood. He looked down at his aide, who was kneeling on the ground, gasping for air.
Without the hat, Dango’s face was partially visible. His hair—black as ink and damp with sweat—clung to his forehead. He quickly pulled his face-wrap higher, but not before Joong saw the line of a high, elegant cheekbone and eyes that were far too bright, far too familiar.
"You..." Joong stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Where did you learn to move like that?"
Dunk scrambled to his feet, dusting off his dirt-stained tunic. He felt the cold air hit his damp skin, and for a second, he considered just taking the mask off. Just ending the charade.
But then he remembered the way Joong had looked at him back at the palace—with disdain. With the belief that Dunk Natachai was nothing more than a shallow purse of gold.
"I told you, Captain," Dunk said, his voice dropping into that forced, gravelly rasp. "I’m an orphan. I learned to fight to stay alive."
Joong reached out, his hand hovering near Dunk’s face-wrap. His eyes were narrowed, suspicious and intense. "Your skin... it’s clean. Even after a fight. You don't smell like a soldier, Dango. You smell like the handkerchief in my pocket."
Dunk’s breath hitched. He stepped back, putting distance between them. "Perhaps we use the same laundryman. Should we check the perimeter, or are you going to interrogate me all night?"
Joong stared at him for a long beat, his hand slowly dropping back to his side. The tension between them was no longer just about the war. It was thick, heavy, and sparked with a dangerous kind of curiosity.
"Check the horses," Joong ordered, his voice gruff. "And put your hat back on. You’re distracting the men."
And me, Joong thought, turning away to hide the confusion written across his face. You're distracting me.
---
Because of the ambush, Joong ordered the troop to double up on tents for warmth and security. As the Captain, he had the largest tent—which meant Dango, his personal aide, was bunking with him because Joong want to have a talk with him.
So now, the space was cramped. Two bedrolls, one small lamp, and the oppressive heat of two men who were pointedly ignoring each other.
Joong sat on his furs, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Dunk sat on the opposite side, trying to unlace his boots without wincing. Every time he moved, he felt Joong’s eyes on him.
"You're a high-born, aren't you?" Joong asked suddenly.
Dunk paused. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you carry yourself. Even in those rags, you look like you’re waiting for someone to bring you a tray of grapes." Joong set the whetstone down. "Why are you here? If you’re a noble’s son running from a debt or a marriage, tell me now. I don't like surprises on my flank."
Dunk looked at him. Truly looked at him. The lamplight softened Joong’s features, making him look less like a warlord and more like the boy who had saved him all those years ago.
"I’m not running from a marriage," Dunk said softly. "I’m chasing one."
Joong’s eyes darkened. "She must be quite the lady to make you suffer this hell."
"He," Dunk corrected, his heart thumping. "And he’s the most stubborn, infuriating, beautiful man in the empire. He keeps saying no because he thinks he knows who I am. But he doesn't have a clue."
Joong felt a strange, bitter pang of jealousy. He thought of Dunk Natachai, probably back in the capital, throwing a party while this brave, strange soldier was out here fighting for a man who didn't want him.
"He's a fool then," Joong muttered, laying down and turning his back to Dunk. "Get some sleep, Dango."
In the darkness, Dunk smiled. He lay down just inches away from Joong’s back, the heat radiating off the Captain’s body acting as the best blanket he’d ever had.
"Yes," Dunk whispered. "He really is."
---
The Iron-Spine Mountains earned their name that night. A sudden, violent blizzard swept through the pass, the wind howling like a wounded beast. Inside the tent, the temperature plummeted until every breath came out as a silver cloud.
Joong woke to the sound of teeth chattering. It wasn't his own.
He sat up, rubbing his face. The small oil lamp had flickered out, leaving the tent in a tomb-like blue darkness. Across the small gap, Dango was curled into a ball so tight he looked like he was trying to disappear into the earth. The soldier was shivering violently, his breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches.
"Dango?" Joong whispered. No response.
Joong crawled over. When he touched the soldier's shoulder, he recoiled. Dango was burning up, yet his skin was clammy. The physical exertion of the climb and the shock of the ambush had finally broken the newest aide’s pampered constitution. Joong knew he might caught fever with the amount of blood from the wounds while covering Joong from ambush.
"Dammit," Joong cursed softly. He pulled the soldier toward him, and this time, Dango didn't resist. He went limp, his head lolling onto Joong’s chest.
"Water..." Dunk murmured, his voice no longer raspy but soft, melodic, and terrifyingly familiar.
Joong reached for a canteen, but it was frozen solid. He cursed again, knowing that in this cold, a fever was a death sentence. There was only one way to keep him from slipping into a coma.
"Listen to me, Dango. I’m going to get you warm. Don't fight me."
Joong stripped off his own heavy fur-lined cloak and then, with hesitating fingers, began to unbutton Dango’s stiff army tunic. He needed skin-to-skin contact. As the layers came away, Joong paused.
Underneath the rough wool, the soldier was wearing a vest of the finest, thinnest white silk Joong had ever seen. It was the kind of garment that cost more than a captain’s yearly salary.
Are you really him? Joong wondered, his heart hammering.
He pulled the silk aside. The skin beneath was porcelain-smooth, devoid of the scars a mercenary should carry. Joong lay down on the furs and pulled Dango—Dunk—flush against him. He wrapped his own massive cloak around both of them, creating a cocoon of heat.
---
Dunk was drifting. He was back in the palace gardens at fifteen, the sun hot on his neck. He saw the flash of an assassin’s blade, felt the terror—and then the weight of a boy slamming into him, knocking him to safety.
“Are you hurt, My Lord?” the boy had asked.
Dunk had looked up into the most intense dark eyes he had ever seen. Joong. Even then, Joong had been steady.
“Joong…” Dunk moaned in his sleep, his face burying into the crook of Joong’s neck. He inhaled deeply. The scent was there—the woodsmoke, the iron, the man. Dunk’s hands, fueled by feverish instinct, wandered up Joong’s chest, clutching at the damp linen of his shirt.
Joong froze. The sensation of those soft hands on him was agonizing. He was a soldier, a man of iron discipline, but he wasn't made of stone. The way Dango—or whoever this was—pressed against him, leg hooking over Joong’s hip for warmth, was testing every ounce of his resolve.
“Stay still,” Joong rasped, his voice thick.
“Cold,” Dunk whimpered, his eyelashes fluttering against Joong’s skin. “So cold, Joong. Don't leave me.”
Joong’s breath hitched. He called my name. Most soldiers called him Captain or Sir. Only the King and... and him used his name.
Joong looked down. In the pale moonlight filtering through the canvas, he could see the man’s face clearly now. The face-wrap had fallen away along with Dango moving.
It was him. Joong haven't seen a grown up Natachai but he had memorized a fifteen years old facial features.
The high bridge of the nose, the plush, bow-shaped lips, the elegance that no amount of dirt could hide. This was Dunk Natachai. The richest man in the empire was currently shivering in a common tent, disguised as a low-ranking scout, just to... what? To follow him?
“You absolute lunatic,” Joong whispered, a mix of anger and awe swirling in his gut. “You could have died today. You almost did die.”
He should have been furious. He should have dragged him back to the King. But as Dunk let out a soft sigh, his fever seemingly breaking as he finally found warmth, Joong felt a protective surge so violent it frightened him.
He didn't pull away. Instead, Joong tightened his grip, pulling Dunk’s head securely under his chin. He let his fingers trail, just once, over the soft curve of Dunk’s jaw.
“Three years,” Joong murmured into the dark. “You’ve been chasing me for three years. Why are you so stubborn?”
Dunk didn't answer, but he did cuddle closer, his hand sliding further down Joong’s back, pulling their lower bodies together until there wasn't a breath of air between them. Joong closed his eyes, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care about the war outside.
---
The sun hit the tent with a blinding white glare on morning. Dunk groaned, his head throbbing. He felt... heavy. And warm. Very, very warm.
He opened his eyes and saw a wall of muscle covered in dark linen. He realized his leg was thrown over a very sturdy hip, and his face was pressed against a collarbone that felt like granite.
He looked up.
Joong was already awake, leaning back on one elbow, watching him with an unreadable expression. His dark hair was a mess, and his eyes were hooded.
Dunk jumped back, tangling himself in the cloak and nearly falling off the bedroll.
“C-Captain!” Dunk squeaked, his voice cracking. He scrambled to find his face-wrap, his heart doing a frantic dance. “I... the cold... I apologize for the—"
“Sit down, Dunk.”
The name hit Dunk like a physical blow. He froze, his hands trembling as he held the scrap of cloth to his face. He looked at Joong, who hadn't moved.
“The game is over,” Joong said, his voice dangerously low. He stood up, towering over Dunk in the small space. He began to dress, pulling on his leather vest with slow, deliberate movements. “I know who you are. Actually I’ve doubts since you used that dancer’s move on the barbarian yesterday. No common orphan moves like a prince.”
Dunk dropped the act. He sat up straight, his spine regaining that regal curve even in his grimy clothes. He wiped the dirt from his cheek with the back of his hand.
“If you knew, why didn't you say anything?” Dunk challenged, his eyes flashing. “Why let me sleep in your arms all night?”
Joong stepped closer, invading Dunk’s personal space until their knees touched. He reached down, grabbing Dunk’s chin and forcing him to look up.
“Because I wanted to see how far you’d go,” Joong growled. “You’re a Trade Union leader. You’re the King’s advisor. And here you are, smelling like horse piss and sleeping in the mud. For what? To prove you can buy my loyalty with a bit of hardship?”
“I didn't come here to buy you!” Dunk snapped, his voice trembling with genuine emotion. “I came because you were going into a war zone with a skeleton crew! I came because I knew you’d never accept my help if it came with a union seal on the envelope!”
“So you lied,” Joong said.
“I navigated,” Dunk countered. “It’s what I do.”
Joong let go of his chin, a dark smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Dango, you’re still my aide until we reach the West Wing fort. And since you’re so eager to serve, you can start by cleaning the mud off my boots. I wouldn't want the richest man in the empire to get bored.”
Dunk stared at him, stunned. Joong wasn't sending him back. He was... keeping him. And he teased, rude, but still teasing.
“And Dunk?” Joong paused at the tent flap.
“Yes?”
“Next time you want to hide your identity, don't wear silk underwear to a mountain range. It’s a dead giveaway.”
Joong stepped out into the snow, leaving Dunk blushing a deep, furious red.
---
The journey to the West Wing Fort was a jagged descent into hell. The barbarian clans weren't retreating; they were regrouping, using the narrow "Devil's Throat" pass to funnel Joong’s troops into a killing jar.
The attack happened at twilight again. A hidden pressure plate, a rain of boulders, and then the screams.
Joong was at the front, shouting orders to form a defensive circle, when a rebel scout—clad in a ghillie suit of mountain moss—dropped from a ledge directly above him. The scout brandished a curved, poison-tipped kukri, aimed straight for the gap in Joong’s neck armor.
Joong was mid-swing with his broadsword, committed to another foe. He saw the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye. He was too late.
“Joong!”
A blur of grey and white intercepted the blow. Dunk didn't use a sword; he used his body momentum. He slammed into Joong, shoving the heavy Captain aside with a strength born of pure panic. The kukri hissed through the air, slicing deep across Dunk’s upper arm before he managed to drive a concealed stiletto into the attacker's ribs.
Dunk tumbled to the ground, his face pale, clutching a shoulder that was rapidly blooming crimson.
"Dunk!" Joong roared, his voice cracking. He finished his opponent with a brutal decapitation and knelt over Dunk, his shield raised to ward off arrows. "You idiot! I told you to stay in the center!"
"And let... let you get a hole in your head?" Dunk hissed through gritted teeth. "I've invested... too much time in you to let you die now."
The battle was short and bloody. With their Captain's fury ignited, the Eight Troops decimated the remaining rebels. As the dust settled, the soldiers began rounding up survivors.
Among the wreckage of a rebel supply wagon, the soldiers found her.
She was stunning—a high-born captive of the barbarians, perhaps a local governor's daughter. Her hair was a cascade of midnight silk, and despite the dirt on her face, her beauty was undeniable. When Joong approached to inspect the prisoners, she looked up, her eyes wide and shimmering like stars.
She didn't see a dusty soldier. She saw a savior. She saw the legendary Captain Archen, blood-spattered and magnificent.
"My Lord," she breathed, her voice like a silver bell. She reached out a trembling hand toward Joong’s boot. "You saved me. I am yours to command."
The surrounding soldiers began to whistle and hoot.
"Look at that, Captain! A prize for the victory!"
"In the capital, they say the King would give a province for a girl like that. You get her for free!"
If it is in any other story, the heroic Captain would lift her onto his horse and ride into the sunset. But Joong didn't even blink. He didn't see a beauty; he saw a distraction. He saw a girl who was not the bleeding, while his stubborn man currently being bandaged ten feet away.
"Corporal," Joong barked, not taking his eyes off the horizon.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Take this woman to the medic's wagon. Give her food and a cloak. When we reach the fort, arrange an escort to return her to her family."
The girl’s face fell. "But My Lord... I wish to serve you."
"I have enough servants," Joong snapped, his tone icy. "And most of them are incompetent enough as it is."
He turned on his heel, his gaze landing on Dunk. Dunk was sitting on a crate, his tunic torn open to reveal the bandage on his shoulder. He was glaring—not at the injury, but at the girl. If looks could kill, the beautiful captive would have been a pile of ash.
"Dango," Joong called out, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register.
Dunk snapped his head up, his eyes flashing with fire. "Yes, Captain? Finished collecting your rewards?"
"Inside. Now. We need to... discuss your combat form."
---
The tent flap closed, muffling the sounds of the camp. Dunk stood in the center of the space, looking like a ruffled, blood-stained bird of paradise. He was fuming, the adrenaline of the fight and the sting of jealousy making him reckless.
"What?" Dunk snapped, crossing his arms over his chest—then winced as the movement pulled at his wound. "If you're going to lecture me about following orders again, save your breath. I saved your life. You're welcome."
Joong didn't say anything. He just watched him. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"What is it, Joong? Speak or let me go get some sleep. I'm sure your new star-eyed friend would love to take my place in here."
Joong stepped forward. One stride. Two. He didn't stop until he was inches from Dunk’s face. The smell of copper and salt was heavy between them.
"You're a nightmare," Joong whispered.
"And you're an ungrateful—"
Dunk’s insult was cut short. Joong didn't grab him, and he didn't growl. Instead, he leaned in with a sudden, devastating softness and pressed a light, lingering peck against Dunk’s lips.
It was barely a second—a ghost of a touch—but it felt like a thunderclap.
Joong pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and searching. "You're bleeding for me, Dunk. Stop acting like it's a game."
Dunk’s mouth hung open, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Joong could feel it vibrating through the air. He was suddenly speechless, his brain short-circuiting at the taste of salt and iron on Joong’s lips.
"You..." Dunk whispered, his voice trembling. "You just..."
"I'm checking if you're still delirious," Joong said, though his own hand was shaking as he reached out to steady Dunk by the waist. "Are you?"
Dunk refused to reply but he was smiling.
Joong felt his heart is thumping loudly in his chest.
---
The silence of the mountain night was usually a heavy blanket, but to a seasoned warrior like Joong, it was a warning.
He didn't wake to a crash or a scream. He woke to the sound of whispers—the microscopic friction of silk sliding against leather. It was a sound that didn't belong in a rugged military camp.
Joong remained perfectly still. Dunk was draped over him, his head resting on Joong’s shoulder, their breathing synchronized in the cool air. Slowly, Joong moved his hand. He didn't reach for his sword yet; instead, he traced a single word onto the bare skin of Dunk’s forearm:
HOSTILE.
Dunk’s eyes snapped open. The pampered merchant prince vanished, replaced by the man who had survived a dozen assassination attempts in the trade courts. He didn't gasp. He simply tensed, his hand sliding toward the stiletto hidden beneath his pillow.
On the count of three, they moved as one.
Joong surged upward, pinning the shadow against the central tent pole, while Dunk lunged low, sweeping the intruder’s legs. A muffled cry echoed through the tent as the figure hit the dirt.
The moon spilled through the flap, revealing the Captured Beauty. She was no longer weeping; her eyes were sharp, calculating, and filled with a strange, predatory mirth.
"Explain," Joong growled, his forearm pressed against her throat.
"My Lord..." she gasped, trying to summon that star-eyed innocence again, though it failed miserably under the dual glare of the two men. "I only... I only wanted to serve you. The night is so cold."
"Serve him with this?" Dunk huffed. He reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a needle-thin stiletto, the tip coated in a suspicious, iridescent green film. Poison.
The girl’s facade shattered. She let out a low, melodic laugh that sent shivers down Dunk’s spine.
"Hmm," she hummed, looking at Joong with genuine interest. "You are lucky, Captain. I might have to give you credit. Most men would be dead by now. They usually let me into their beds without a second thought because of my face."
Dunk stepped into the light, twirling her poison blade between his fingers. "That look? Honestly, I’ve seen better-looking rugs in the bargain bins of the West Market. You're a bit... symmetrical for my taste. Boring."
The girl shifted her gaze to Dunk. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her lips. "And you... you must be Dunk Natachai."
Dunk didn't flinch. "Woah. Look at that. The assassin does her research. Congratulations, you get a prize: a quick trip to the gallows."
"I heard Joong Archen hated you," she said, her voice dripping with honeyed malice. She looked at the way Joong was positioned—halfway between her and Dunk, his body instinctively shielding the merchant. "The rumors in the North said the Captain would sooner behead you than bed you. But it seems... the rumors were quite wrong."
Dunk’s heart skipped. He looked at Joong, whose jaw was tight enough to crack stone.
"You talk too much for a corpse," Joong said. He didn't look at Dunk, but his grip on the girl tightened. "Who sent you? The barbarian clans don't use high-tier assassins from the Shadow Guild."
"Does it matter?" she whispered. "I was told you were a man of stone, Captain. But even stone has cracks. And yours... yours is shaped like a wealthy boy with a pretty face."
She looked at Dunk again, her eyes mocking. "He’ll never acknowledge you in the capital, you know. To the world, you’re just the fool who chased him. And he? He’s the Captain who refused the empire's greatest treasure. If he takes you now, his reputation is ruined. He becomes just another man bought by Natachai gold."
"He didn't buy me," Joong said, his voice a low, vibrating roar.
"Then prove it," she challenged. "Turn him over to us. Let me finish my job, and I'll tell my employers you were too strong to be swayed. You know the Lord Natachai has many enemies, you can just report to king as he was kidnapped from one of them. In that way you can easily escape from his relentless pursuing. You will be free. But if you choose him, you will become the useless soldier who got his rank from selling himself."
Dunk felt a cold prickle of doubt. He knew how much Joong valued his honor. His pride was his armor. Would he risk his standing, his reputation as the untouchable captain, for a man he’d spent three years rejecting?
Joong didn't hesitate. He dragged the girl toward the tent flap and whistled—a sharp, piercing command. Two guards appeared instantly.
"Take her. Chain her in a cage of iron. If she speaks, gag her. If she moves, break her legs. She belongs to the enemies side now."
As the guards hauled the laughing woman away, Joong turned back to Dunk. The tent felt smaller now. The air was thick with the girl’s parting venom.
Dunk stood there, the poison blade still in his hand, feeling suddenly very naked despite his clothes.
"Is it true?" Dunk asked quietly. "What she said. About your reputation."
Joong didn't answer immediately. He walked over, took the small blade from Dunk’s hand, and threw it into the dirt. Then, he grabbed Dunk by the front of his tunic, pulling him close—so close their noses brushed.
"My reputation survived three years of you sending me a thousand lilies and a singing troupe," Joong rasped. "I think it can survive a few rumors."
"But—"
"Shut up, Dunk."
Joong didn't just peck him this time. He crashed their lips together, a messy, desperate, and fierce kiss that tasted of everything they’d been suppressing. It wasn't a Captain and his aide kiss. It was the richest guy in the empire and the most stubborn soldier finally setting the map on fire.
---
The siege of the Black-Crag Fortress lasted four days. For four days, Joong Archen lived in a state of controlled carnage. He broke the barbarian lines with the force of a landslide, his broadsword a constant shadow over the enemy’s necks. But for the first time in his career, his mind was split in two.
One half was the Captain: calculating wind speeds, assessing supply lines, and coordinating the flanking maneuver of the Fourth Troop.
The other half was just a man: wondering if Dunk was drinking enough water, checking if Dunk’s shoulder wound had reopened, and—most distractingly—thinking about the way Dunk’s mouth felt against his in the dark of a tent.
By the dawn of the fifth day, the fortress fell. The West Wing Revolution ended not with a bang, but with a whimper as the remaining rebel leaders were put in irons.
While his men celebrated with watered-down ale and the relief of being alive, Joong sat in the command tent. A single candle flickered on the table. Before him lay a formal report for King Pond.
His pen hovered over the parchment.
Reputation can be damned, he thought. He remembered the assassin's mocking laughter—the idea that he was too proud to be seen with Dunk. He thought about Dunk, who had traded a life of silk and gold to sleep in the mud and take a blade for a man who had spent three years telling him "No."
Joong began to write. He detailed the victory, the capture of the Guild assassin, and the stability of the border. Then, at the very bottom, his hand didn't tremble as he added the final paragraph.
Furthermore, Your Majesty, prepare the Royal Registry. I will be marrying Dunk Natachai when we reach the capital in spring.
He stared at the word we. He took the quill and traced over it again, making the ink thick and bold. It was a declaration. It was a surrender.
He could already picture Pond’s face. The King would probably fall off his throne laughing, clutching his stomach as he realized his two most difficult subjects had finally stopped their ridiculous dance of pride. Pond had been trying to set them up for years; now, he’d never hear the end of it.
"Captain?"
Dunk stepped into the tent. He looked exhausted, his hair a mess of knots and his face smudged with soot, but to Joong, he looked more beautiful than any polished noble in the court.
"The men are asking if we start the march back tomorrow," Dunk said, leaning against the tent pole. He looked at the parchment on the table. "Writing your report? Tell the King I want a new carriage. This horse is ruining my spine."
Joong stood up, rounding the table. He picked up the report and handed it to Dunk.
"Read the bottom," Joong commanded.
Dunk took the paper, his eyes scanning the military jargon until they hit the final lines. His breath hitched. He read it once. Twice. He touched the bolded we with the tip of his finger, his eyes widening.
"Joong..." Dunk whispered, looking up. "You... you're serious? The whole empire will know. They'll say you finally gave in. They'll say I bought you."
"Let them say I cost a hundred cities," Joong said, stepping into Dunk’s space and wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him flush against his chest. "Let them say I'm the luckiest man in Aethelgard. I don't care about the gossips in the banquet halls anymore."
Dunk laughed, a wet, shaky sound, and threw his arms around Joong’s neck. "Three years, Joong. Three years of No. You really like to make a man work for it."
"You're a merchant," Joong murmured, his face burying in the crook of Dunk’s neck. "You should know that the most valuable treasures are the ones you have to fight for."
Dunk pulled back just enough to look into Joong’s dark eyes. "So, is this the part where the brave Captain claims his prize?"
Joong’s gaze dropped to Dunk’s lips, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "No. This is the part where I tell you that you're never wearing that Dango outfit again. From now on, you stay exactly where I can see you."
"Is that an order, Captain?" Dunk teased, his voice dropping into a sultry rasp.
"It’s a promise," Joong replied.
He kicked the tent flap shut and lifted Dunk off his feet, carrying him toward the bedrolls. The war was over, but the heat between them was only just beginning to burn.
---
The lanterns outside the tent cast long, flickering shadows against the canvas, but inside, the world narrowed down to the space between their heartbeats.
Joong lowered Dunk onto the bedrolls with a deliberate slowness, his large frame hovering over the man who had turned his life into a chaotic, golden whirlwind. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and the cooling embers of the fire, but between them, it was all heat.
"You're remarkably quiet, Dunk," Joong whispered, his voice vibrating against Dunk’s collarbone. "Where did all that sass go?"
Dunk reached up, his fingers tangling in the dark, messy strands of Joong’s hair. He looked up at the Captain, his eyes reflecting the soft moonlight. "I'm busy recalculating. I didn't expect the Man of Stone to have a heart of molten lava."
Joong let out a low, dark chuckle. He began to unlace Dunk’s rough soldier’s tunic, his movements no longer hurried by war but slowed by a deep, possessive hunger. As the coarse wool fell away, revealing the pale, elegant expanse of Dunk’s chest—still marked by the silk vest beneath—Joong’s breath hitched.
"I hated it," Joong admitted, his thumbs tracing the line of Dunk’s ribs. "Hated how much I wanted to reach out and touch you during the march. Hated that I liked the way you smelled more than the scent of a victory."
Dunk arched his back slightly, his eyes fluttering shut as Joong’s warm palms met his skin. "You hide it well. You were so cold, I thought I’d actually have to buy a province just to get you to look at me."
"You already have me," Joong muttered. He leaned down, his lips trailing from Dunk’s jaw to the sensitive dip of his throat. "Every coin, every trade route, every drop of blood. You win, Dunk. You’ve always won."
Dunk’s hands tightened on Joong’s shoulders, pulling him closer. The friction of Joong’s leather armor against his bare skin was a delicious contrast—the rough and the smooth, the soldier and the prince.
"I don't want to win," Dunk gasped as Joong’s teeth grazed his shoulder. "I just want you."
Joong shifted, shedding his own heavy gear until they were skin to skin, a tangle of limbs and whispered promises. The stubborn Captain was gone, replaced by a man who worshipped every inch of the beauty beneath him. He kissed Dunk with a ferocity that spoke of three years of repressed longing, a deep, soul-searing connection that made the mountain peaks outside seem insignificant.
In the quiet of the camp, under the watchful eyes of the stars, the richest man in the empire finally found the only thing he couldn't buy—and the most feared Captain in the army finally found the only thing he was willing to surrender to.
---
Months later, the capital was in an uproar.
The gates of Aethelgard swung wide as the Eight Troops returned, led by Captain Joong Archen. But the rumors had traveled faster than the horses.
King Pond stood on the balcony of the Great Hall, a glass of wine in hand, watching the procession. Beside him, the court gossips were already whispering about the figure riding right beside the Captain—not a soldier, but a man dressed in the finest midnight-blue silk, his face no longer hidden by a mask, glowing with a triumphant, radiant beauty.
Pond chuckled, seeing the bold red seal on the report tucked into his belt.
"So," the King mused, "the lion finally realized he liked the taste of gold."
As Joong and Dunk reached the palace steps, they didn't wait for protocol. Joong dismounted and reached up, catching Dunk around the waist to help him down. In front of the entire court, the generals, and the shocked matchmakers, Joong didn't pull away. He kept his arm firmly around Dunk’s waist.
Dunk leaned into him, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he looked up at the King.
"We’re back, Pond," Dunk called out, his voice ringing through the courtyard. "And I believe I owe the Matchmaker’s Guild a very large cancellation fee."
Joong squeezed Dunk’s side, his gaze softening in a way that silenced every critic in the square. "Actually," Joong corrected, looking at his future husband, "I think we’ll just put it on your tab."
The empire would talk for decades. They would talk about the soldier and the merchant, the war and the wedding. But as the couple walked into the palace, hand in hand, the only thing that mattered was that the long, cold march was over. They were finally home.
---
The throne room of Aethelgard was usually a place of stiff necks and even stiffer protocols, but today it echoed with the kind of laughter that made the ancestors rattle in their tombs.
King Pond was doubled over, his royal crown sliding precariously toward his left eyebrow. He slammed his hand against the gilded armrest of his throne, gasping for air.
"You..." Pond pointed a shaking finger at Joong, who was standing at stiff attention, though his hand was still firmly entwined with Dunk’s. "You wrote it in a military dispatch! Furthermore, Your Majesty... I will be marrying Dunk Natachai. Do you have any idea how many scribes had to read that before it reached me? The royal archives now officially list your love life as a matter of national security!"
Joong’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, but his expression remained stoic. "I wanted to ensure there was no room for misinterpretation, Your Majesty. And I believe the we was quite clear."
"Oh, it was clear," Pond snickered, finally straightening his crown. He turned his gaze to Dunk, who was looking exceptionally smug in a high-collared tunic embroidered with gold thread. "And you! I send you out to observe the front lines, and you come back with the Captain of the Eight Troops as a souvenir? I should have charged you a finder’s fee."
Dunk smirked, bowing with a flourish that was far too graceful for a man who had spent a month in the dirt. "On the contrary, Pond. I believe I saved you a fortune in wedding planning. Since I’m the one with the gold, I’ve already booked the Great Cathedral, the city’s finest chefs, and three days of open wine for the citizenry. All you have to do is show up and look kingly."
Pond rolled his eyes, but his gaze softened. He looked at his two best friends—one the shield of his kingdom, the other the engine of its wealth. "In all seriousness... I'm glad. I was getting tired of Joong’s brooding and your constant pining. It was making the palace gardens very depressing."
---
The wedding was not a quiet affair. Dunk Natachai did not do quiet.
The city of Aethelgard was draped in white and gold. The air smelled of expensive incense and roasted meats. But inside the private chambers of the Cathedral, the atmosphere was uncharacteristically hushed.
Joong stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, struggling with a ceremonial sash that seemed designed to frustrate the most patient of men. He was dressed in his full Captain’s regalia, but with a twist: the dark leather had been polished to a mirror sheen, and his cloak was lined with the very same silk Dunk had worn in the mountains.
The door creaked open. Dunk stepped in, dismissing the attendants with a wave of his hand.
He was breathtaking. He wore no mask—the silver visor had been melted down and forged into two simple, elegant bands that now sat on a velvet cushion. His face was open, radiant, and fixed entirely on Joong.
"Let me," Dunk whispered, stepping behind Joong to fix the sash. His fingers were steady, moving with a practiced ease.
Joong watched him in the reflection. "You look... far too beautiful for a man marrying a grumpy soldier."
Dunk leaned forward, resting his chin on Joong’s shoulder. "I'm not marrying a grumpy soldier. I'm marrying the man who gave me his cloak in a blizzard when he thought I was just a nameless orphan. I'm marrying the man who chose me over his pride."
Joong turned in Dunk's arms, his large hands coming up to cradle Dunk’s face. The scars on Joong’s knuckles—the ones earned in the West Wing—brushed against Dunk’s soft skin.
"I have something for you," Joong said low.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of silk. It was the white handkerchief Dunk had sent him before the battle. It was stained with travel dust and a bit of dried blood, but the gold sun was still bright.
"I kept it against my heart every day," Joong said. "It reminded me that even if I died in those mountains, I had someone worth returning to. I don't need the gold, Dunk. I just need this."
Dunk’s eyes welled with tears—a rare sight for the man who ran the Trade Union with an iron fist. He took the handkerchief and pressed it to his lips, right over the faded red smudge of his own kiss from months ago.
"Then let's go," Dunk said, his voice thick with emotion. "The whole empire is waiting to see the Captain finally surrender."
"I surrendered a long time ago," Joong replied, leaning down to capture Dunk’s lips in a final, private kiss before the world claimed them. "You were just too busy buying flowers to notice."
As they walked out of the chambers, hand in hand, the bells of Aethelgard began to ring. It wasn't just a marriage of two men; it was the union of the sword and the coin, the hunter and the prize.
And as King Pond would later write in the royal chronicles: “It was the most expensive, loud, and ridiculous wedding in history. And I have never seen a Captain look more terrified or more happy.”
---
One year later, the empire of Aethelgard was at peace, the treasury was overflowing, and Captain Joong Archen had learned a very important lesson: you can lead an army of ten thousand men into the mouth of hell, but you cannot win an argument with Dunk Natachai.
The morning sun spilled across the sprawling balcony of the Natachai estate—which was now, officially, the Archen-Natachai estate. Joong sat at a marble table, looking remarkably domestic in a loose silk robe that Dunk had forced him into, replacing his preferred stiff leather.
"No," Joong said, though his voice lacked its usual battlefield authority.
"Joong, darling, listen to reason," Dunk replied, not looking up from his ledger. He was draped in a lounge-wrap of emerald velvet, looking every bit the merchant king. "The western garrison needs a new barracks. The stone is crumbling, the ventilation is abysmal, and the men are grumpy. I’ve already commissioned the architects."
"We don't need marble floors in a cavalry barracks, Dunk," Joong sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It’s a place for horses and sweat, not a summer palace."
Dunk finally looked up, flashing a smile that still made Joong’s pulse stutter after a year of marriage. "It’s not marble. It’s polished granite. Much easier to clean. And I’ve decided we’re installing the heated water system I developed for the bathhouses. Happy soldiers are loyal soldiers."
"It’s excessive."
"It’s an investment in morale," Dunk countered, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. "Besides, I’ve already paid the contractors. If you refuse, I lose the deposit. You wouldn't want your husband to lose money, would you? It’s bad for the brand."
Joong stared at him. He knew that look. It was the same look Dunk had used when he convinced Joong that they "needed" a twenty-foot bed, and the same one used to justify the three-day festival for their anniversary.
"Fine," Joong grumbled. "Granite. But no gold leaf on the weapon racks."
"I’ll consider it," Dunk chirped, which Joong knew meant the gold leaf was already being hammered.
Dunk stood up and walked around the table, sliding onto Joong’s lap with the effortless grace of someone who owned everything he touched. He wrapped his arms around Joong’s neck, his fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of the Captain's neck.
"You know," Dunk whispered, his voice dropping into that sultry tone that always signaled Joong's complete defeat. "The King is hosting a banquet tonight. He wants us to lead the first dance."
Joong groaned, burying his face in Dunk’s neck. "I’m a soldier, Dunk. Not a puppet. I hate the banquets. Everyone still stares."
"They stare because we’re the most powerful couple in the empire," Dunk corrected, nipping playfully at Joong’s ear. "And because you look devastatingly handsome in the formal black uniform I had tailored for you. The one with the silver embroidery."
"The one that’s too tight in the shoulders?"
"It’s not too tight; it’s fitted," Dunk insisted. "It shows the people that their Captain is well-fed and well-loved. You’re going to wear it. And you’re going to dance with me. And then, you’re going to tell me that I was right about the blue silk drapes for the master bedroom."
Joong looked into Dunk’s bright, mischievous eyes. He thought about the three years of "No" and the one year of "Yes." He thought about the mountain passes, the blood, the gold, and the way his life had become infinitely more complicated—and infinitely better—since he let this man behind his shield.
Joong sighed, a sound of total, blissful surrender. He pulled Dunk closer, his large hands settling possessively on his husband's waist.
"The drapes are fine," Joong muttered against Dunk’s lips. "The barracks are fine. Everything you say is fine."
Dunk beamed, victorious. "I knew you’d see it my way."
"I don't see it your way," Joong corrected, just before kissing him senseless. "I just love you more than I love my own pride."
"Good," Dunk whispered against his lips. "Because I’ve also been looking at some new horses for the Eight Troops. They’re white stallions, very rare..."
Joong didn't even argue. He just kept kissing him. In the empire of Aethelgard, the King might have worn the crown, and the Captain might have held the sword, but everyone knew who truly ruled the heart of the realm.
The End.