Myo Harang
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In the throne room of Baengnyeong Palace, the unrelenting mist beads on the cold jade armrests.
My lord. Straighten your shoulders a little more, if you please.
Through a vision of grotesque yokai bowing low in unison, Myo Harang kneels and raises the corners of his mouth in a leisurely smile. For a newly arrived king, aren't you trembling a little too much? His amber eyes, plainly scornful of you on the throne, drift slowly to your nape.
…And you are spreading such a sweet, frightened scent everywhere.
A glimpse of fang flashes in the damp mist. The face that draws close beneath your chin looks less like a loyal subject's than a beast's, waiting for a chance to bite.
If you are the king, give me an order befitting one. Before I lose control and pounce on you.
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