New World | Chapter 12
Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 2.6 k | 11 minutes Warning: none
It had been a few days since you arrived at the castle, and in that time, you had rejected every dinner invitation Seonghwa had sent. You didn’t know why, but each time the invitation arrived, a strange, inexplicable fear would settle in your chest. The thought of sitting in that grand room with all of them—the rulers, the powerful, the untouchable—was enough to make your stomach twist.
A flicker of guilt passed through you. Seonghwa had been nothing but kind, offering polite invitations with a softness that almost made you feel welcome. But you couldn’t bring yourself to walk into that room and face them all. What if you said something wrong? What if your nerves betrayed you and you said so mething foolish in front of the 8th?
You told yourself it was simply the unfamiliarity, the pressure of being watched under their piercing gazes. But there was something more, something unspoken that made your skin crawl. Maybe it was Yunho, his cold presence always lingering in the background like a storm waiting to break. Or perhaps it was the subtle, dangerous expectation in the air—the weight of being a guest in a place where every word could have consequences.
Avoiding Yunho had become second nature, though it required more effort than you cared to admit. You weren’t sure if he had noticed your deliberate distance—or if he even cared—but the tension between you lingered, thick and unspoken.
And this damn castle didn’t help. Even after days of roaming its endless corridors, it still felt like a maze, one designed to keep outsiders like you feeling lost. It was a constant reminder of how small and insignificant you were in this world—how easy it would be to disappear among the shadows, unnoticed, forgotten.
God, I hate this maze.
It made you feel stuck, as though you were a mere spectator in a game you didn’t understand.
That was the only reason you had ended up here—standing uncertainly in the middle of a long hallway, straining to hear the faintest sound of movement.
In your defense, you had only been trying to find the library. But you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to ask for directions. The fewer conversations, the better. So, you had wandered instead, following the most well-lit paths, hoping you’d stumble across something familiar.
Your footsteps were light against the marble floor as you hesitated, unsure which way to turn. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, its towering walls lined with ornate sconces that flickered against the dark stone. You were just about to take another step forward when something—someone—caught your eye.
A tall figure in the distance, moving with purpose.
Your breath hitched. Even from afar, you recognized the cold grace of his stride, the unyielding presence that made the air feel thinner. Yunho.
Panic surged through you. Had he seen you?
You didn’t wait to find out. Spinning on your heel, you darted toward the nearest door, heart hammering as you pushed it open and slipped inside.
For a moment, all you could hear was the rush of your own breathing. You pressed your back against the door, exhaling softly as you listened for approaching footsteps.
Silence.
Only then did you dare to look around.
The room you’d stumbled into was quiet, heavy with the scent of aged parchment and something faintly woody—cedar, maybe, or sandalwood. It wrapped around you like a cloak, calming your nerves just enough to pull you back to yourself.
Dim light filtered through a tall, arched window, casting long shadows over the space. This was no ordinary study—it was vast, stretching farther than you expected, its walls lined floor to ceiling with dark mahogany shelves, each one overflowing with books. Thick tomes and weathered manuscripts leaned against one another, their spines faded from time and handling. Some titles were written in old, unfamiliar scripts, while others were embossed in gold leaf, glinting faintly in the low light.
A large desk sat near the window, carved with intricate patterns and cluttered with maps, opened books, and a few quills resting in a glass inkwell. Scrolls were tucked into corners, half-unrolled as if someone had been searching for something in a rush. A worn leather chair was tucked neatly behind it, its cushion slightly indented from use. This space was lived in—used often, but meticulously kept.
The atmosphere was rich with quiet intellect and mystery, like the air itself was thick with secrets.
On the left wall stood a ladder affixed to a rail, allowing access to the higher shelves. Notes were pinned here and there between the books—some handwritten, others sealed with wax, as though this was both a place of reading and of strategy. An entire corner was devoted to records, their spines numbered and dated.
A single globe sat in the far corner, beside a tall armchair with a velvet throw folded over the back. It looked like the kind of chair you could disappear into for hours, lost in a book, if not for the tension still clinging to your chest.
You didn’t know whose study this was, but something about it felt like a sanctuary—a quiet place carved out of the cold, echoing vastness of the castle.
For now, it would do.
Tucked into the far right corner of the study was a small cubby—a cozy alcove almost hidden by the larger shelves. It was lower to the ground, framed by curved woodwork and slightly dimmer than the rest of the room, as if meant for quiet, private reading. Rows of books lined the little nook, most of them older, dustier, forgotten. But one caught your eye.
Bound in deep blue leather, its surface was smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. The title was etched in delicate silver lettering that shimmered faintly under the dim sconce above—words you didn’t fully recognize, but felt weighty somehow. You pulled it from the shelf and held it for a moment, the cover humming with a strange kind of gravity.
When you opened to the first page, your breath hitched. In elegant, sharp script, it read:
"For the Future King."
The rest of the writing was in an old tongue—archaic, looping, and unfamiliar. You couldn’t quite read it, not fully, but the pages held a strange allure. Margins were filled with handwritten notes—some underlined passages, others commented with short phrases and translations. The ink varied in color and style, as if several people had once studied this book, passing it between them like a sacred artifact.
You flipped through the pages slowly, entranced by the patterns of the letters, the careful notes scribbled in between. Despite not understanding it, there was something soothing about the way the words moved, like a secret waiting to be understood.
But before you could turn another page, a sudden motion startled you.
The book was snatched from your hands.
You gasped and looked up—heart lurching—only to realize that you weren’t alone.
You froze, pulse hammering in your throat as your gaze met his.
A book rested in one gloved hand, the very one he had just taken from your grasp. His other arm hung loosely at his side, but there was nothing casual about his stance. He stood tall in deep emerald robes, the fabric simple yet refined—like him. Subtle silver embroidery traced along the hems, catching the dim light in quiet glints. At his collar, serpent-shaped pins fastened the folds in place—small, unassuming, yet unmistakably regal.
Yeosang.
The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline, the cold, unreadable expression in his dark eyes.
You had grown up on stories about him—tales of his ruthless nature, his discipline, and the icy demeanor he had inherited from his father. He was said to be a man who did not forgive, who ruled with an iron will and expected nothing less than perfection. Yet, as you stood there in the dim glow of the library, watching the candlelight dance across his features, all those whispered warnings felt distant. In this moment, all you could focus on was how undeniably beautiful he was.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Yeosang’s gaze lingered on the book in his hand for a beat longer, the candlelight catching on the silver lettering like it was something sacred—and maybe it was, to him. He held it as though your fingers on its cover had been an offense, a trespass. But still, something compelled you to speak.
“Your Majesty.” Your voice was quieter than you had intended, almost uncertain.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you added, swallowing hard.
“You did,” he said plainly.
That stopped you. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you instinctively lowered your gaze.
“I was just curious. The book... it caught my eye.”
He glanced down at the book, fingers tightening ever so slightly around its spine.
“That,” he said flatly, “isn’t part of the public collection.”
Your stomach twisted. “I—I didn’t know. I swear.”
“You should’ve.” His response was sharp, immediate—like a strike meant to cut, not linger. No softness in his tone, just that chilling calm that made you feel small again.
You lowered your gaze. “I wasn’t trying to steal it, I—”
“I know,” he cut in, voice low and final. “Still.”
The words should have stung, but oddly, they didn’t. There was no malice in his voice—only observation, like a teacher quietly stating a fact. But still, your cheeks burned.
He stepped away from you then, slow and deliberate, moving back toward the desk near the window. You thought that was it—that he’d leave you standing there, dismissed and chastised. You wouldn’t have blamed him.
But instead, he stopped beside a nearby shelf.
His gloved fingers skimmed across the rows of old spines until they paused at a book tucked between thicker volumes. It was smaller, the leather soft and worn at the edges, bound in a faded green-blue that shimmered slightly when he pulled it free.
Without a word, he turned and extended it toward you.
You blinked, surprised. “…What’s this?”
He didn’t answer right away, merely waited until you hesitantly reached out and took it. The leather was warm from his touch.
“It’s written in the same tongue,”
“That one,” he said at last, “you’re allowed to read.”
The cover was cool to the touch, and the letters, though still in that same looping, old language, were softer somehow—less heavy.
For a moment, you just stared at him, waiting for an explanation that never came. He didn’t justify why he had brought you here, didn’t elaborate on why he thought you would be interested in these books. It was as if he expected you to simply understand.
Something about the gesture, the quiet offering of something so rarely shared, left a strange warmth in your chest. Yeosang was not kind—at least, not in the way most people would recognize. He did not speak softly, did not offer reassurances, did not try to make you feel comfortable. And yet, this— was something.
“It’s… beautiful,” you murmured, running your fingers along the delicate, looping letters stamped into the front.
“It’s a collection of parables,” Yeosang said, as if discussing the weather. “Meant for noble children to begin their education.”
You flushed, unsure if that was a quiet insult.
But when you glanced up, his gaze wasn’t mocking. It was neutral. Observant. And somehow, that was worse. You didn’t know what to do with neutrality. At least anger, mockery, or scorn had clarity. This—this unreadable stillness—left you breathless.
He turned from you again and walked to the desk by the window. Pulling out the chair with one fluid motion, he sat, retrieving a set of scrolls from the pile. He didn’t look at you as he spoke next, but his words stopped you cold.
“Sit.”
Your breath caught.
“I… what?”
He gestured vaguely toward the armchair in the far corner, near the globe and the velvet throw. “You clearly won’t leave, so you may as well sit. I have work to finish.”
There was no invitation in his tone. No warmth. And yet, it didn’t sound like a command either.
And yet, your heart—fluttered.
Still stunned, you moved slowly to the chair, your fingers brushing the book’s spine as you sat. It enveloped you instantly, the velvet soft and warm beneath your palms. You tucked your legs beneath you instinctively, like muscle memory from childhood reading corners, and balanced the book on your lap.
Yeosang, meanwhile, returned to his desk. The only sounds were the faint rustle of paper, the scratch of his quill, and your own breath as you opened the book and began to read.
You read, occasionally speaking—soft comments, fleeting thoughts—but Yeosang only responded in small, almost imperceptible ways. A glance. A nod. A shift of his posture. Once or twice, you asked about a few words you couldn’t quite decipher. His answers were short, clipped, but never impatient. Each one delivered without hesitation, as though he'd known you'd ask. And yet, somehow, it felt like a conversation. Time blurred, the soft rustle of pages and distant flicker of candlelight lulling you into a quiet comfort you hadn’t expected. The world outside darkened, shadows creeping along the stone as night fell.
The candle had burned halfway down when Yeosang stood. His movements were precise, his posture tall and unwavering as he walked to the far side of the room, barely a glance in your direction. You could hear the soft scrape of his boots on the stone floor, but it was the sudden absence of his presence that made the quiet seem even more profound.
But as he reached the door, he stopped.
Without hesitation, he turned, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. His expression was unreadable, as always, but beneath the icy exterior, there was something else—a telltale flicker of expectancy, so subtle you might have missed it had you not been watching him so closely.
And then, his next words sent a strange tug through your chest.
“Dinner is in the hall if you wish to join,” he said, his voice steady, even. There was no warmth, no invitation—only a statement, as if the decision had already been made for you. But then—just barely—you caught the slightest pause, a hesitation so faint it almost didn’t exist.
But then—barely—came a pause. So slight it almost slipped past you.
"I’ll be waiting for you."
For the first time, his voice wasn’t entirely detached. It was quiet, careful. But there was weight behind it—something held back, something uncertain.
Your heart ached at the realization. You had been so consumed by your own turmoil, by the wounds that had yet to heal, that you hadn’t considered how this bond tethered you all together. No matter how much you wanted to resist it, to reject the ties fate had woven between you, they were still there.
They were still yours.
And at the end of it all, you had to at least try.
Even if you hadn’t forgiven.
Even if you hadn’t accepted.
So you smiled—small, hesitant, but real.
And just like that, he was gone.
The air felt colder without him, heavier somehow. You stood there for a moment longer, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin.
Then, slowly, you turned. The books in your arms held close, a fragile shield against the uncertainty ahead.
His words lingered, echoing in the quiet:
"I’ll be waiting for you."
And though you knew exactly where he meant, part of you clung to a different hope—
That no matter how long it took, he would wait. they would wait.
Not just for dinner.
But for you.
Masterlist
eleven | thirteen
A/n: my..has it been a while stars. i am pleased to say that i have begin writing again. but due to the new schedule i have it might take longer to update. i have been feeling burnt out my love, apologies. i do not want you to keep waiting, but i kept on thinking if i should just erase all my chapters but then again, i would like to see where the story goes just as much as you do. do not fret, i will be back and always here. enjoy my stars.
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