The first weeks of Saha's new life in the palace glittered with gold. The court praised her
beauty, her laughter filled the royal halls, and every noblewoman whispered of her fortune.
She, the minister's daughter who once wandered the palace freely, now wore the title of Crown Princess.
But soon, the weight of that title began to show its thorns. Every morning, Saha was woken before dawn by palace maids, her carefree habits pruned away like weeds. Lessons in etiquette, long hours receiving foreign envoys, memorizing names of ministers, and always — always — the eyes of the court upon her.
"Your Highness should sit straighter."
"Your laughter is too unrestrained."
"Such casual words do not befit a Crown Princess."
At first, she tried. She listened, endured, and smiled. But behind her chamber doors, she
wept quietly, yearning for the days she could roam freely, unburdened by politics.
Her only relief was when Younghae visited her in the evenings. He would dismiss the maids,
sit with her, and tell her stories from his day — sometimes about court politics, sometimes
about trivial things. With him, she could still laugh without restraint.
Yet she could feel the distance between them. He bore a tension now, a restlessness, as
though the crown already pressed against his brow though it was not yet his.
One winter morning, the court assembled before the king. The old monarch's face was pale,
his voice weaker than before. The ministers pressed again, more relentless than ever.
"Your Majesty, you must not delay. The Crown Prince is married, the heavens have blessed
us with stability. For the kingdom's strength, let the prince bear the mantle of governance."
The king looked at his son long and hard. In Younghae's steady eyes, he saw both hesitation and resolve. At last, the king nodded.
"…Very well."
The court erupted in bows and acclamations.
That night, the old king summoned Younghae alone.
"My son," he said, his voice carrying the weight of decades, "I have borne this kingdom with
both pride and regret. I lost your mother to fate's cruelty, and I swore I would never remarry.
My life has been one of sacrifice. Now it is your turn".
Younghae bowed, his throat tightening. "Father, I am not yet—"
"You are ready," his father interrupted gently. "Not because you know all things, but because
you will learn them. You have strength enough to lead, and a heart enough to endure. That is
all a king can be."
The following week, the abdication was announced.
The kingdom thundered with celebration. Lanterns filled the skies, drums echoed across the city walls. And in the heart of the palace, Crown Prince Kim Younghae became King Kim
Younghae, ruler of the realm.
Beside him, Saha became Queen.
The night after the coronation, Saha stood on the balcony of her new chambers. The
moonlight washed over her as cheers still drifted from the streets below.
But her heart was heavy.
The carefree girl who once skipped through these same halls was gone. In her place stood a queen — bound by duty, watched by all, and tied forever to a king who, though he promised
to set her free one day, seemed further and further from that promise with every step he took into power.
And far in the western gardens, unseen, Seorin watched the glowing palace. Fire flickered
faintly in her eyes, a storm she kept buried deep within.
At first, the crown had seemed only a title. But now, every waking moment pressed against
Saha like an iron chain.
Her mornings began with petitions from court ladies, each one weaving subtle schemes
behind honeyed smiles. They bowed deeply, but their words stung.
"Her Majesty is still young… inexperienced."
"Her laughter is charming, but perhaps too unrefined for a queen."
"She was merely a minister's daughter. What wisdom could she bring to the throne?"
Saha would sit still, her smile faint, her fingers hidden within her sleeves so no one would
see them tremble.
By night, when she returned to her chambers, Younghae would often be absent, buried
beneath scrolls of governance. She told herself she understood — he was king now, the kingdom needed him. Yet loneliness curled itself around her heart like an unseen serpent.
The palace halls, once filled with her laughter, now felt like gilded cages.
Far from the bustling court, Lady Seorin sat in her chambers, her fire dim, her spirit restless.
Every celebration of Younghae's reign was a dagger. Every whisper of Saha's grace was salt
upon her wound. And though she tried to convince herself to forget, to bury the love that had consumed her since youth… it burned brighter with every denial.
One evening, Hanuel entered, bearing a tray of tea. She paused when she saw her sister
sitting motionless, eyes fixed on the lantern flame.
"Seorin," Hanuel said softly, "do not lose yourself to this sorrow. The world is larger than the palace. You were never meant to chain your heart here."
Seorin smiled faintly, but her voice was brittle. "Unnie… do you ever wonder why we were
born deities? Why must we serve endlessly, while others live and laugh as they wish? My life has been nothing but chains."
Hanuel placed a firm hand on her sister's shoulder. "We were given power to protect, not to covet. Let not envy corrupt you."
But Seorin's gaze did not waver from the flame. In its flicker, Hanuel saw a storm she could not still.
The court soon began whispering of heirs. It had been months since the coronation, and
already pressure fell upon the queen's shoulders.
"Why has Her Majesty not conceived?"
"Could it be ill fortune?"
"A queen who cannot bear children brings weakness to the throne."
Saha heard every whisper, though none dared speak it to her face. At night, she pressed her
hand against her stomach, praying silently for an answer, for strength she did not yet have.
Younghae, too, heard the whispers. He would comfort her when he could, holding her hand,
assuring her that time would grant them blessings. But as king, his hours were claimed by endless matters of state, and Saha learned quickly that love could not silence court politics.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of her chambers, Seorin's pain deepened.
She had once dreamed of standing beside Younghae. Now that dream belonged to her
sister.
The laughter, the joy, the glances that once warmed her were no longer hers to cherish.
And deep in her heart, fire twisted into something darker.
That winter, Hanuel stood upon the temple steps, looking at the palace in the distance, her
breath a prayer in the frosted air.
"One sister bound by chains she does not see. The other consumed by chains she cannot
break. May the heavens grant me strength… for I fear both will meet ruin if this path
continues."
Her words drifted skyward, vanishing into the cold night. But the heavens remained silent.