The royal study was quiet except for the sound of parchment being unrolled across the polished table. Lady Seorin stood at Crown Prince Younghae's side, her voice steady as sh
read aloud the ministers' reports.
"The northern provinces demand increased grain allocation. If we send more supplies there
the southern villages will suffer famine. A balance must be struck," she advised, her tone
clipped, her posture rigid.
Younghae nodded, fingers brushing his chin thoughtfully. "Your counsel is sound, as always.
Perhaps if we.."
The doors of the study slid open.
A flood of light entered with the woman who stepped gracefully inside. Lady Saha. She
carried no scrolls, no weight of counsel, only her effortless brightness. Her silk skirts whispered against the floor as she moved, her laughter already bubbling even before words
left her lips.
"Your Highness. Lady Seorin," she greeted, bowing lightly. There was a gentleness in her
tone, but the air itself seemed to warm at her presence as if the sun had descended into the
hall in human form.
For a fleeting heartbeat, Seorin saw the corners of Younghae's lips curve upward in a smile.
A smile that came too easily, too naturally.
"Saha," he said softly, as if her name itself was familiar comfort. Then, turning to Seorin, he
added, "Leave us for now. I will resume our discussion later."
The words struck like a blade. Seorin's chest tightened, but she bowed. She wanted to ask,
Why must I leave? Have I not always stood at your side? But her throat refused to release
the question. With quiet dignity, she turned and walked from the hall.
Behind her, as her footsteps faded, another sound rose to replace them: laughter.
Bright, unrestrained laughter that filled the royal study as if mocking her retreat. The Crown
Prince's voice mingled with Saha's, lighthearted and warm, a sound Seorin had once thought
belonged to her alone.
What Seorin did not know what her pride would not allow her to imagine was that the
conversation within the hall was not about state affairs, nor frivolous amusements. It was
about her.
Younghae leaned back, exhaling as if relieved. His voice, hesitant and low, reached Saha's
ears. "She… Seorin. I value her more than words can say. But she sees me only as a
companion, does she not? If I confess, I fear I will lose even that."
Saha, ever playful, tapped her finger against the table, eyes gleaming with mischief. "So the
great Crown Prince, feared by ministers and praised by scholars, trembles before a lady's
gaze?"
Younghae's ears flushed red. "It is not so simple…."
"It is exactly that simple," she teased, cutting him off with a laugh. "Confess. If you remain
silent, she will never know. Do you wish to grow old at her side as only a 'friend'? Truly, Your
Highness, you are hopeless."
Her tone was light, but her heart carried a different wish. Though Saha herself had become close to Younghae, she had never mistaken his affections for hers. She had seen the way his eyes softened in Seorin's presence, how his tone changed when speaking her name.
Even the playful and curious Saha hoped one day he would gather the courage to tell Seorin
the truth.
And so, she teased him mercilessly, pushing him toward the very woman who, at that
moment, walked away with fire and fury churning silently within her.
The heavy doors closed behind her with a dull thud, but to Lady Seorin, the sound was
deafening.
She walked down the empty corridor, her hands clasped tightly in her sleeves, her steps
steady though her heart trembled. Behind her, the echoes of laughter spilled into the silence,
each note a cruel reminder of what she had left behind.
It was not just laughter. It was his laughter Younghae's, the sound she had once thought was hers alone to draw forth. She had been with him through the long nights of study, through the harsh rebukes of court, through the lonely hours when the burden of crown and kingdom weighed too heavily on his shoulders. She had been the one he trusted, the one who
steadied him when doubt crept in.
But now? Now she was the shadow at the edge of the hall, dismissed with a simple
command.
"Leave us for now."
The words repeated in her mind, sharp as shards of glass. Why? Why could she not remain?
Was her counsel so easily set aside?
Seorin stopped at a lantern-lit pillar, her chest rising and falling unevenly. The fire within her,
usually a source of strength, now raged with something she dared not name. She pressed
her fingers to the cold wood, grounding herself, but the sting in her eyes betrayed her
control.
She wanted to turn back, to demand an answer. To lask—Why her? Why Saha? Why must
your smile burn brighter when she walks in?
But pride held her tongue still. She was Seorin, fire deity of the royal line, not a jealous girl in
the shadows.
And so, she forced herself forward, her steps stiff, her back straight.
Yet in her heart, the cracks had already begun to spread.
She could not know—she refused to imagine—that behind those doors, the conversation
was not of politics, nor of laughter's trivialities, but of her. She could not hear how
Younghae's voice had faltered with unspoken love, nor how Saha had teased him to confess
what he carried so deeply.
To Seorin, all that remained was the sound of their joy, echoing down the corridors like a
cruel hymn.
And for the first time in all her years of loyalty, she felt replaced.