The moonlight spilled faintly into the royal chambers, brushing across the silken drapes. The candles had nearly burned low, yet Kim Younghae still sat before a mountain of scrolls, his brush scratching quietly against parchment.
Saha entered, her steps soft but steady. She stood by his side for a long while, watching his
hand move without pause. At last, she broke the silence.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, her tone tinged with exhaustion, "must you burden yourself so
late into the night? Even the king requires rest."
Younghae set down his brush, but his eyes lingered on the scroll before him. "These matters cannot wait. Every decree, every seal… they weigh upon the kingdom's fate."
Saha folded her hands before her and lowered her gaze. "Or perhaps," she said carefully,
"you drown yourself in scrolls so you may not face what lies within your heart."
Younghae turned to her sharply, his breath caught. Saha's eyes glistened beneath the
lantern's dim light, but her voice remained steady.
"You have not spoken it aloud," she continued, "yet I am not blind. You do not wish me here,
Younghae. My presence in this palace is a crown of thorns upon your head. If it will ease
your burden, then dethrone me. Write the decree and let me leave."
Her words struck like thunder in the quiet chamber.
Younghae's throat tightened. He rose swiftly and took her hands, his grip trembling.
"Saha… no," he pleaded. "Do not speak such words so lightly. You do not know how much
I…" His voice faltered, unable to complete the thought. "…How much I depend on you."
"Depend?" she repeated softly, bitterness touching her lips. "Dependence is not love. Do you not long for her instead? Seorin—the deity whom your heart cannot abandon?, Even she.... has left the palace unable to bear this marriage. Maybe she also had always loved you. I mean you've never confessed to her."
Silence pressed heavy between them. Younghae's eyes closed, as if hiding the truth might erase it.
At last, he spoke, his tone breaking.
"You are right. My heart… it betrays me. But what you ask is not so simple. The throne binds us both, and if I act rashly, it will tear the kingdom apart. Please, Saha… give me time. Time to find a way that will not destroy us all."
Saha's hands trembled in his grasp. She wished to pull away, to scream, to curse the
heavens for such cruelty. But instead, she only gave a faint, sorrowful smile.
"Time," she echoed. "Very well, Your Majesty. I will grant you time. But remember this… each
day I remain in this palace, my heart withers. And when the last of it is gone, there will be
nothing left of me to save."
With that, she withdrew her hands gently from his and turned away, leaving Younghae
staring helplessly at her retreating figure.
The king who ruled a nation could command armies, move ministers, and silence
rebels—yet before one woman's sorrow, he could only beg for time.
A full month had passed since Queen Saha had spoken to her husband in the quiet of their
chambers, urging him to act quickly—either to release her from the throne or to find a way to
end her gilded cage. She had agreed to wait, but every day since, she watched the walls of
the palace close tighter around her.
Now, the pressure was no longer confined to whispers. It reached the court.
"Your Majesty," one minister said during morning council, bowing with false humility, "the kingdom cannot remain in uncertainty. It has been months since your marriage, yet the
queen has not conceived. This is a matter of grave concern."
Another voice chimed in sharply, "The people wonder if heaven frowns upon the throne.
They say… His Majesty may be unfit as a man."
The words stabbed through the chamber. Even the most loyal officials lowered their heads,
unwilling to meet the young king's burning gaze. Kim Younghae clenched his jaw, his
knuckles white as he gripped the armrest of his throne.
And though no one said it aloud, their eyes shifted to Saha. Every glance, every whisper in
the corridors carried the same sting.
Each day became a trial for her. The once carefree daughter of a minister, who used to
laugh with the sun in her heart, now walked the palace halls under the shadow of scorn. The
courtiers who had once admired her brightness now questioned her worth with veiled words and lingering stares.
She endured it with a raised chin, but when night fell and she returned to her chambers, her laughter was gone.
Younghae would reach for her hand across the table. "Just endure a little longer," he
whispered. "Once the time comes, I will free you."
But his voice trembled. The king who once laughed freely with her was now caged by duty,
and she—his partner in the ruse—was trapped with him.
Meanwhile, far from the courts, Lady Seorin remained within her chambers. Her sister Lady
Hanuel often visited, urging her to take walks, but Seorin refused.
Every day she stared from her window at the palace rooftops in the distance. She did not
know of the ridicule that Saha bore, nor the shame the court flung at Younghae. She only
nursed her own wound, believing that her first and only love had chosen another willingly.