The sun filtered through the wooden slats of the calligraphy hall, casting soft golden lines across the paper-strewn floor.
Seo Yul sat by the window, legs tucked under him, quietly observing the inkstones and brushes laid out beside him. He hadn't touched anything at first. But after a while, his fingers itched for something familiar the rhythm of brushstrokes, the feel of ink soaking into paper.
Carefully, he reached for one of the thin brushes, dipping it into the ink bowl with a trembling hand. He chose a blank sheet and began to write.
It had been months since he'd practiced. His strokes came out hesitant shaky, uneven. The characters were off-center, crooked in places.
He frowned and tried again.
Behind him, the sound of the king's brush had stopped.
Seo Yul didn't look up.
But he could feel it the gaze resting quietly on his back.
Then, footsteps. Soft, deliberate.
The king came to stand behind him, a shadow falling over the mat.
Seo Yul stiffened.
"Your wrist is too tense," Hwan Seong said, his voice low.
Seo Yul blinked, startled. His hand froze on the page.
Without asking, the king kneeled behind him, one knee pressing into the mat. Seo Yul dared not breathe.
Then...
A hand slid gently over his, guiding his fingers into a steadier hold.
Seo Yul's eyes widened.
The king's touch was warm firm, but not rough. His other hand rested lightly on Seo Yul's shoulder, grounding him without force.
"Don't fight the paper," the king murmured. "Let the brush breathe. Like this."
Together, they moved in slow strokes one character at a time.
Seo Yul could barely hear his own heartbeat over the sound of the brush gliding across parchment.
His breath hitched when the king leaned in slightly, close enough for him to feel the brush of his sleeve and the faint scent of pine and ink.
He didn't move. He couldn't.
"Better," Hwan Seong said softly, after a long pause.
Seo Yul looked at the page. The characters were smoother now still shaky in places, but the flow had returned. His hand had stopped trembling.
Only then did the king release his grip, letting Seo Yul finish the stroke on his own.
A silence followed not awkward, but tender. As if both were unsure how to step away from something so quietly intimate.
Seo Yul kept his eyes on the paper, not trusting himself to meet the king's gaze.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice barely audible.
For a moment, the king didn't say anything.
Then, just before standing, he replied quietly:
"You're welcome, Seo Yul."
The sound of his name spoken with such rare softness lingered in the air like the final stroke of a brush.
And for the first time in a long time, Seo Yul didn't feel like a prisoner or a political pawn.
He simply felt seen.