Not So Cinderella ► T.K

Chapter Three

❛Firewood and sprints❜

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The capital market of Kimansa was alive in the way a well loved melody is—chaotic, familiar, and full of stories tucked into every corner.

Sunlight streamed between swaying banners strung overhead, casting patches of color over cobbled streets that had felt centuries of hurried footsteps. The air was thick with the scent of cardamom, fresh dough, sweet citrus peel, and something vaguely burnt from the old chestnut vendor's stall who always forgot his own fire.

Stalls bloomed in a riot of color—silks in rich crimsons and ocean blues fluttered beside humble woven baskets filled with pomegranates and star—shaped peppers. Children darted through the crowd with sticky fingers and stolen sweets, dodging between the legs of tired mothers and grumbling merchants. Laughter and haggling blended into a constant background song, punctuated by the sharp clink of a coin and the occasional squawk of a chicken who'd rather not be dinner.

Everywhere, life spilled like an overfilled cup of wine. A flower-seller spun daydreams with every petal, convincing a shy stable boy that the right bouquet could win the baker girl's heart. A potter loudly blamed the "cursed humidity" for his cracked glaze, scaring away his customers while his wife muttered something about cheap clay under her breath. A tired mother dragged her child by the collar away from the candy stall while he kicked and screamed and begged for one. It was chaotic—the domestic life of people with their own stories, but as much as it was annoying at times, it was also something timeless and beautiful to witness.

And at the very center of it all, like a painting slightly tilted but charming anyway, stood a boy with curly brown hair and raised eyebrows as if he had just witnessed a murder.

For once, he wasn't draped in rags but in decent clothes—thanks to an unexpected act of kindness from his dear stepbrother. A crisp white cotton shirt, sleeves full and modest, paired with plain black trousers. They were simple, nothing grand, but comfortable enough for housework and dignified enough for errands. When he'd slipped into them that morning, fresh from a rare warm shower, he'd almost dared to believe that perhaps the gods above held a sliver of pity for him—just enough to keep him breathing, not enough to call it mercy.

But now, standing at a stall that sold nothing but bundles of dried cedarwood and kindling, sleeves rolled past his elbows and a scowl carved deep across his face, nudged every now and then by the bustle of the morning crowd, Jungkook was fairly certain of one thing-he wasn't chosen or special, just another piece in whatever cruel game the gods above were playing for sport because being ripped off the first thing in the morning surely wasn't meant for the dignified. Good thing bargaining had always been one of his stronger traits.

"Seven silvers?! For this?", Jungkook held up a bundle of firewood with both hands, lifting it like he was weighing a chicken. "What is it—cursed to burn for eternity? Are you selling wood or ancient relics?"

The shopkeeper, a fat elderly man (Jungkook had known him for three years now), with one eye and no patience, crossed his arms. "Cedar burns clean. You want the good smoke or you want to choke on ash like a city rat?"

"I want to not starve because I spent my week's coin on fancy kindling," Jungkook muttered. "Three silvers.", he held up his thumb, index and middle finger.

"Five."

"For these bundle of twigs?! For five I should at least be allowed to marry the tree it came from.", Jungkook began rolling the bundle around on the old table in front of the stall, looking for something.