The palace was alive with music and laughter. Lanterns were strung along the courtyards,
their golden glow bathing the marble floors in warmth. Servants bustled about, preparing
delicacies to celebrate the queen's pregnancy.
But Seorin's chambers were dark.
She stood before the mirror, her reflection pale and ghostly in the candlelight. Draped in her
ceremonial robes, she looked every inch the fire deity the kingdom revered. Yet behind her
calm face, her heart felt like crumbling ash.
The memory of Younghae's words echoed relentlessly:
"Then go. But return after one year."
It should have been nothing more than a simple command, but to her, it was a
rejection—cold, merciless, final.
Her chest tightened. For the first time in centuries, her fire felt weak. And her body felt number with her mind in a mess.
"Seorin"
It was Hanuel's voice, her sister was soft as snow, entering without ceremony. Her elder sister looked at her with eyes that held both sorrow and strength.
"You are leaving," Hanuel said, though it was not a question.
Seorin nodded. "If I stay… I will burn myself to ashes."
Hanuel's heart twisted. She had always known. From the very first time she caught Seorin gazing too long at the crown prince, she had known. And though she wanted to warn her, to protect her, her fragile heart so she had let it be. Because how could she tell her sister not to love?.
"Cry, little sister," Hanuel whispered, pulling Seorin into her embrace. "Cry it all out and let it
end here."
For a moment, Seorin's lips trembled, and then the tears came—hot, scalding, unrelenting.
They soaked Hanuel's shoulder, each drop heavy with heartbreak. Hanuel stroked her hair
as though they were children again, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Forget him," Hanuel whispered, even though she knew it was impossible. "He is not meant
for you. You are not meant for him. But you… you are still my sister. Still Seorin. Still fire."
Seorin clung to her desperately, her body shaking. And then, as quickly as the storm came, it passed. She pulled away, wiping her face, her expression hardening into the mask of calm once more.
The next morning, before dawn, she left the palace. No escort, no procession—just a lone
figure walking beyond the gates, her robes fluttering in the wind like dying embers.
Hanuel stood on the balcony, watching her go. She pressed her cold hands against the
railing, her heart aching.
"Come back," she whispered into the wind. "Come back stronger. Come back free. Come
back having let him go…"
But deep down, she feared.
Because sometimes, when fire leaves, it does not return as warmth.
It returns as ruin.
The road beyond the palace stretched endlessly, winding through misty forests and
sun-parched plains. Seorin walked alone, her crimson robes dulled with dust, her once
radiant face hollowed by grief. She had left with nothing but her power and the fire burning in
her veins.
At first, she thought distance would cool her aching heart. She thought freedom from the
palace walls would grant her the clarity Hanuel hoped for. But each sunrise only deepened the wound. Everywhere she looked, she saw him—Kim Younghae. His laughter in the rush of rivers, his quiet strength in the whisper of trees. And worst of all, the image of him by Saha's side, his hands resting protectively on the woman's stomach, as they awaited the birth of a child that was never meant to be hers.
Her fire flared uncontrolled, burning the grass beneath her feet. Birds scattered from the
trees, sensing the storm within her.
It was then, under the heavy sky, that Seorin swore her vow:
"If I cannot have happiness, then neither shall he. If my heart must burn, then so too shall
his. His family will know grief. His son will inherit my pain. His bloodline will be cursed."
Her voice trembled as she spoke the words, but her eyes blazed like molten embers.
From that day on, she sought not peace but knowledge. Forbidden knowledge.
She traveled to abandoned shrines, whispering questions to cracked idols of forgotten gods.
She descended into caves where the air smelled of rot and sulfur, trading her immortal light for scraps of shadow. She bribed wandering shamans with relics she carried, demanding to know of rituals that could bend fate.
Most recoiled from her—calling her a deity gone astray, a flame tainted with darkness. But
some, greedy for power or blinded by fear, gave her what she sought. Scrolls inked with
blood. Incantations carried in hushed voices. Instructions that spoke of how to tether fire into
a curse that would cling not to land or kingdom, but to flesh and bone, passing from parent to child.
Every night, she practiced in secret, her body trembling as she tried to control the black fire
that answered her. Each attempt drained her, yet also exhilarated her, for the flame
whispered promises:
"Give me the vessel, and I shall give you your vengeance."
And she knew the vessel. The unborn heir within Queen Saha's womb.
One evening, as she sat by a ruined temple, her fire glowing faintly against the darkness,
Seorin clutched her chest.
"Forgive me, unni," she whispered, thinking of Hanuel. "But I cannot let them laugh while I
suffer. I will carve my pain into their bloodline. I will watch their joy rot into ashes."
The vow settled like iron in her soul. From that night onward, there was no return.
Seorin was no longer the fire deity who protected Joseon. She was the fire that would consume the kingdom.
The palace air had shifted. Where once the halls echoed with whispers of mockery and pity, now they hummed with celebration. Queen Saha was with child.
Every morning, the servants bustled through her chambers with trays of nourishing soups
and sweet teas brewed with precious herbs. Silk curtains were drawn wide to let in the sun,
and musicians played soft melodies to ease her restless spirit.
For the first time since her entry into the palace, Saha felt the biting words of the court dull against her ears. No one dared call her barren anymore. No one dared mock her sleepless eyes or pale face. Instead, they bowed deeper, their voices dripping with rehearsed warmth.
Yet even in the warmth of her chamber, Saha's heart was not at ease. She had not forgotten
her vow to leave once the child was born. This palace, gilded as it was, had been a cage
from the beginning. And though Younghae's eyes softened each time he saw her swollen
belly, though his hand lingered protectively over hers, she could not let herself believe it was enough. And also she can't take away a life that was supposed to be Seorin's.
" I can't let Lady Seorin get hurt... I will make sure before I leave this cage I will surely find a way to tell Seorin about Younghae's feelings for her." Queen Saha thought with determination.
But for Younghae, it was everything.
At night, when the palace slept, he sat by her side, watching her breathe. He remembered
the long, lonely months when he ruled with no heir, when the throne felt like a weight that
might shatter him. Now, here was life fragile but real resting in the womb of the woman fate
had bound him to.
Yet his heart trembled with contradiction. He had fallen for Saha, deeply and without
warning. Her strength, her sharp tongue, her vulnerability he had come to love it all. But he
knew, in the shadows of his heart, that the reason he had agreed to their union in the first
place had been to protect another. To protect Seorin.
And now Seorin was gone.
Sometimes, in the stillness of dawn, Younghae would stare out of the palace gates and
wonder where she had gone, whether she hated him, whether she thought of him at all. A
pang of guilt struck him each time he let his mind drift there—especially when Saha's hand
tightened around his.
Hanuel watched it all with quiet sorrow.
The Ice deity saw the way Saha smiled faintly when the court praised her, though her eyes
dimmed when no one was looking. She saw the way Younghae's joy seemed tethered to
invisible chains of guilt. And most of all, she worried for Seorin.
Her heart told her Seorin had not left simply to heal. Hanuel had felt the ripple in the balance
of nature, as if fire itself had turned restless. At night, she prayed under the moon, whispering
"Seorin,.. my sister.... Come back home whole..... Do not let the grief in your heart consume you."
But no prayer could stop the storm already forming beyond the palace walls.
For now, the palace blossomed with hope. But its walls did not know that a curse was being born in the shadow.