Chapter Text
The morning air in Dongnae tasted of salt and flowers. Jimin walked the narrow path behind their home, a basket hanging from one arm, eyes searching the undergrowth for herbs that had survived the night rain. Camellia blooms dotted the garden wall, red against gray stone. Their scent clung to him wherever he went.
He knelt to gather ginseng roots, brushing dirt from their pale skin. His hands moved automatically, careful and patient, just as he had learned when he was sent to study medicine under a hermit healer in the mountains near Gyeongju after his first heat.
Being the second omega son of a noble meant he could study without pressure to inherit land or title, but it also meant his life would be decided for him.
But healing was his. He had made a promise to heal without fear, to heal to help people. So healing had become a habit; people from nearby villages came for teas and ointments when fevers struck, for salves and assistance whenever there were wounds.
Inside the main hall of their home, his mother called his name. He placed the basket carefully by the entrance, wiped his hands on a cloth, and stepped inside. He was surprised to see his sister already seated beside their parents, her hair pinned with gold and pearl, posture flawless. Jimin bowed.
Park Nari, the first omega daughter of Lord and Lady Park, had always been poised and proper. She was the pride and joy of Dongnae, and people often said she would have a place in the royal palace. So it was not a surprise when his father spoke.
“Our family has received a royal summons,” his father said. “The King will hold a new selection for concubines in a fortnight. Your sister has been chosen to attend.”
Jimin smiled, polite and proud. “Congratulations, Noona.”
She returned the smile, but it never reached her eyes.
“Thank you. And you, little brother, you should be happy. Lord Han’s scholar son has asked for your hand. It’s a fine match.”
Their mother clapped softly. “A healer and a scholar. Heaven’s balance.”
Jimin bowed again, trying not to show how heavy his chest felt. This was the first time he had heard of the match with Lord Han’s son. Marriage, duty, obedience - everything was already decided for him.
That evening, he sat by the window, watching the sea darken. He hoped that whoever his betrothed was, he would be a kind man, and that perhaps, somehow, he might still be allowed to heal.
✧ ✧ ✧
Two days later, Park Nari slipped away to the shaman’s shrine on the hillside. The woman’s eyes were clouded with smoke and age. She threw bones into a brass bowl and murmured over them.
“I see two paths,” she said. “One lined with silk and gold, one with thorns. The elder will sit in silk, but her heart will bleed. The younger will walk among thorns and find joy.”
Nari’s voice trembled. “Does that mean I will suffer in the palace?”
“The cheonshin speaks and I listen,” the shaman replied. “Choose your path carefully. Happiness is not always found in riches, but in the life that endures.”
Nari left the shrine with clenched hands. By nightfall she told their parents that fate demanded a change: that she must marry the scholar and that Jimin should take her place in the royal selection.
“He has studied the arts of healing, and he is well-versed in the art of dancing,” she said sweetly. “Surely the King’s court will see value in his skills. I think he will do well in the palace.”
Her reasoning sounded noble. Their father seemed troubled but not unmoved. Then Lady Park, who had always favored Nari, spoke.
“If that is what the spirits decreed, we should not defy their will!”
“And what do you say, Jimin-ah?” his father asked.
Jimin spoke softly. “Father, I think Noona is better suited—”
“Hush,” his mother said. “It is decided. You will go to Hanyang in your sister’s stead. I will make the necessary arrangements. You leave in two days; the journey will take ten.”
Jimin could only bow his head. He glanced at his father, who looked both worried and defeated, but didn’t dare to defy his wife.
✧ ✧ ✧
Two days later, the caravan bound for Hanyang left Dongnae before dawn. Servants cried quietly as Jimin bowed farewell. Jihoon, one of his most trusted servants, will be traveling with him to the capital. At the gate, his father placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Remember, Jimin-ah. You represent the yangban of Dongnae. Speak little. Smile often.”
“Yes, Father.”
The carriage rolled away from the coast. Through the window, he watched camellias scatter behind him like drops of blood on the road. The path north shimmered with mist; cranes rose from the paddies like white brushstrokes in the sky.
✧ ✧ ✧
After days of travel, the walls of Hanyang rose before him: tall, gray, and cold. The palace official who met the arriving candidates wore deep-blue robes trimmed in silver.
“You are Park Jimin of Dongnae?”
“Yes, Minister.”
“You will stay in the East Pavilion with the rest. We will show you to your accommodations. Do not wander.”
Jimin and Jihoon quietly made their way to the assigned chamber to unpack his belongings.
On the day of the first screening, Jimin woke early to prepare. From what he had heard, the candidates would be assessed on appearance, literacy, and health. He chose a plain hanbok: a soft ivory jeogori and green silk chima, with a light gray durumagi. He tied his hair into a low braid with an ivory ribbon.
The courtyard of the Ministry of Rites smelled faintly of ink and pine. Dozens of candidates stood in rows beneath the morning sun, the sweep of their skirts like petals across stone.
Clerks moved between them with brushes and scrolls, recording names, birth years, and family lines. Each was called forward in turn - examined not as people, but as measures of virtue.
A court physician began with the usual ritual: pulse, eyes, skin, posture. Beside him, a senior court lady noted each observation with an expression that never changed and on the other side, the Minister of Rites is also observing everyone with a straight face.
“Next. Park Jimin of Dongnae,” a clerk called.
Jimin stepped forward, bowing low. The physician’s touch was cool against his wrist.
“Healthy,” the man murmured. “Delicate constitution, but steady.”
The court lady’s eyes lifted. “You studied medicine, did you not?”
Jimin hesitated, aware of the quiet glances from the other candidates.
“Only a little, My Lady. My teacher was a hermit physician near the Gyeongju mountains. I assisted him in preparing remedies, nothing more.”
A girl nearby, dressed in silks rich enough to whisper, let out a soft laugh.
“How curious. The King seeks a companion, not an apothecary.”
Her tone was mild, but the others smiled behind their sleeves.
Jimin bowed again, unflustered. “Healing is service. Perhaps it will still have some use in the palace.”
The Minister who has been quiet the whole time speaks up, “We shall see.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Later, as they were led to the waiting hall, murmurs followed him—
“Too pale.”
“Too humble.”
“From the provinces.”
Jimin folded his hands before him, the memory of mountain wind brushing through his thoughts like comfort. He had come this far. The rest, he told himself, would be decided by grace or fate.
When the steward announced the next trial - a demonstration of talent before the ministers - he felt the faintest flicker of calm.
He still had his fan.
And he still remembered how to move with the wind.
✧ ✧ ✧
By afternoon, the sun had softened. Shadows of roof tiles stretched long across the courtyard, and silk banners marking each noble house fluttered in the breeze.
The final part of the first screening would test the candidates’ grace and refinement: calligraphy, music, or dance.
When Jimin’s name was called, the whispers quieted. He stepped forward carrying a single folded fan, the one painted with red camellias by his own hand before he left Dongnae.
The court lady overseeing the proceedings arched a brow.
“You will perform a dance?”
Jimin bowed slightly.
“If it pleases the court, I offer a small dance of wind and blossoms.”
A drummer struck the first slow beat. The fan opened with a whisper - snap, sigh - and the courtyard seemed to inhale with him.
His sleeves unfurled like wings, soft white silk trimmed in red. Each turn of his wrist drew the camellias in circles, petals blooming and fading with the rhythm of the drum. He moved neither quickly nor slow - like the tide, like breathing - the sort of motion that didn’t demand attention but gently took it.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers. One court lady nodded approvingly.
“His form is untrained but pure. There is quiet in his motion, no vanity.”
At the back of the courtyard, Lady Choi, daughter of the Minister of Justice, smiled behind her veil. Her own performance had dazzled earlier, but the courtiers’ whispers for this provincial boy cut sharper than any critique.
“Too pretty for a noble who plays at being a physician,” she murmured to her maid. “Find out where he’s staying tonight. I’d like to send him a gift, something to soothe his nerves before tomorrow’s presentation.”
Her attendant bowed, hesitant.
“Lady Choi…?”
“A kindness, of course,” she said, eyes never leaving Jimin’s bowed figure. “The capital can be harsh on those who don’t belong.”
As the candidates were dismissed, Jimin gathered his fan and walked toward the shaded corridor. The other girls passed him with polite nods, their chatter returning in low waves.
When he looked up, the palace roofs gleamed beyond the wall, sharp and distant, like a promise he hadn’t yet decided to want.
✧ ✧ ✧
That evening, the Ministry grounds were quiet. Lanterns floated in the lotus pond, their reflections trembling against the water. Jimin sat by the open lattice window, brushing out his hair. Jihoon had retired early, leaving him alone in the hush of the capital’s night.
He thought briefly of Dongnae: of the waves that touched the stones near their gate, the sound of the market children’s laughter, the mornings spent tending his garden. Here, the silence was heavier, as though even the air waited for judgment.
A soft knock broke his thoughts.
“Omega Park of Dongnae?”
The voice was careful, practiced in deference.
When Jimin slid the door open, a servant bowed low, holding a lacquered tray. On it stood a cup of steaming tea, pale gold under the lantern light.
“A gift from Lady Choi,” the servant said. “She wished to congratulate you for your grace today. The tea will calm the nerves before tomorrow’s presentation.”
Jimin blinked, startled.
“That’s generous of her. Please thank Lady Choi for me.”
“She asked that you drink it tonight, before resting,” the servant replied with a bow.
The scent rising from the cup was floral, pleasant - but beneath the sweetness was something sharper, an unfamiliar spice that pricked at the edges of memory.
Jimin hesitated only a moment before smiling politely. “You may tell her I will.”
The servant bowed again and disappeared down the corridor, her footsteps fading into stillness.
He sat for a while, the cup warm in his hands. The color of the tea caught the candlelight, amber, almost like sunlight trapped in water.
He had spent enough time grinding herbs in the mountains to recognize angelica root and honey - both harmless, both calming. Yet beneath that sweetness lingered a note he couldn’t name, a faint spice that caught in his throat when he leaned too close.
Still, he lifted the cup. He was not here to cause trouble, nor to insult a noble’s kindness.
The first sip was warm, smooth, and slightly bitter.
Outside, lanterns reflected over the pond like small, floating moons. He closed his eyes, meaning to rest only for a while.
✧ ✧ ✧
Elsewhere, in her quarters across the compound, Lady Choi sat before her mirror, combing out her hair.
“Did he drink it?”
The servant kneeled. “Half the cup, my lady. Perhaps more.”
Lady Choi’s reflection smiled faintly in the polished glass.
“Half will do. By tomorrow, the pretty healer from Dongnae will forget how to keep his composure. The King’s court will have no place for an omega who cannot control himself.”
She set the comb down and reached for a pin shaped like a phoenix. “A pity,” she murmured. “He truly dances beautifully.”
She looked out her window. The moon over Hanyang hung low and full.
But in the East Pavilion, Jimin slept uneasily, warmth spreading like a secret fire beneath his skin.
Far beyond the walls, the capital murmured in its dreams, unaware that the scent of camellia had already entered the palace halls.