The palace had not been this lively in decades. Every corridor echoed with the chatter of
maids, the clatter of bronze trays, the rustling of silk robes as officials hurried past one
another. The news of Queen Saha's pregnancy had become more than a family matter—it
was a matter of the nation.
Festivals were already being planned in the provinces. Farmers promised bountiful harvests in honor of the future heir. Even the ministers, who only weeks before had dared whisper of the king's "impotence," now bowed deeply with false smiles, their words dripping with honeyed praise.
But behind the splendor, life in the royal chambers was more fragile than anyone dared
admit.
Saha sat on the veranda of her chamber, a blanket wrapped around her as the autumn
winds cooled her fevered skin. The pregnancy had not been easy. Nausea stole her
appetite, and her once energetic steps had grown slow and heavy. Yet she bore it all in
silence.
When the palace women fussed over her, she would smile faintly, reassuring them. When
her father came to visit, she raised her chin high and told him she was strong. She did not
allow anyone—least of all Younghae—to see her falter.
But when she was alone, her hand lingered over her stomach with a bittersweet tenderness.
"Little one… you are my reason to leave. If not for you my son... I might have leave this world as I'm tired of it all... Maybe you were destined to come to this world through me so that I won't lose hope.... My father ....he must be very sad if he was to hear this from me ." Queen Saha said while caressing her stomach, she was tired of the life she was living as if it was a punishment from Heavens.
She whispered it like a prayer, a promise she dared not break.
At night, Younghae would return from the endless scrolls of governance to find Saha waiting for him. Sometimes, she would fall asleep before he arrived, her breathing shallow, her face pale.Other times, she would force herself to stay awake, asking him if the ministers still pressured him, if he had eaten.
Each time, his heart swelled painfully
He wanted to tell her the truth—that the palace without her would feel hollow, that he no
longer dreamed of another. But each time he opened his mouth, he saw Seorin's face flash
before him, her last request echoing in his ears.
"One year…"
And so he swallowed his words and simply held her hand.
Lady Hanuel, ever watchful, began to notice the shadows behind the smiles. She visited
Saha daily, bringing herbs and charms to ease her queen's body. Yet what worried her most
was not the sickness of flesh, but the sickness of spirit.
She saw the way Saha looked at the palace gates when she thought no one was watching.
She saw the way Younghae's gaze sometimes drifted into emptiness, as if chasing a
memory.
And on one quiet evening, as she stood beneath the lantern light, Hanuel saw it—an omen clearer than before. The flame of the lantern flickered though the air was still. A cold wind brushed her cheek.
The palace would celebrate a birth… but at a cost.
The halls of the palace glittered with joy, but in the silences between the laughter, sorrow
and foreboding crept like unseen shadows.
The palace had not slept for days. Lanterns burned through the night, the sound of footsteps and hurried whispers never ceasing. For nine months the kingdom had waited, and now the queen's time had come.
From the inner chambers came the cries of Queen Saha, her hands clutching the silken
sheets as midwives scurried around her, offering water, herbs, and reassurances that
sounded more like prayers. Outside, the air was thick with incense and nervous expectation.
King Younghae paced the corridor like a restless lion, his heart pounding with each muffled cry he heard from within. He had fought countless battles of state, silenced ministers with sharp words, and stood unshaken before the court. But now—before the birth of his child—he was powerless.
That very night, unseen by most, Lady Seorin returned to the palace. She had changed. The
once gentle flame that flickered uncertainly within her now burned with an intensity that
unsettled even the shadows. Her robes of crimson whispered with each step as she entered the shrine dedicated to her lineage.
She knelt before the ancestral fire, her lips moving in low chants. Sparks danced unnaturally, flaring bright as though answering her voice.
Her whispers were not for the gods, but for herself.
"If I cannot have joy, then neither shall they. If I cannot be loved, then love shall burn."
The fire roared higher, licking the air, though no wood had been added.
Back in the queen's chamber, Saha's labour grew fierce. Her cries turned hoarse, her body
trembling with exhaustion. Sweat drenched her hair, and still the child did not come.
"Your Majesty, push! Just one more time—please!" the midwives urged.
Younghae stood frozen in the doorway, every instinct begging him to rush to her side, yet the
tradition of kings forbade him to cross the threshold during labour. His fists clenched at his sides as his voice broke, "Saha… hold on, just hold on."
A thunderous crack of fire echoed from the shrine, rattling the palace windows. Some
servants screamed, thinking the heavens themselves had split. Hanuel, rushing toward the labour room, stopped mid-step. Her divine senses trembled.
She knew. Seorin was back. And the flame she carried was not one of blessing.
As the queen screamed once more, a sudden silence fell. The fire in the braziers dimmed,
then flared violently. The child's cry pierced the air, sharp and loud, announcing his arrival.
But the flames in the shrine continued to burn unnaturally high, casting long, sinister
shadows across the palace walls.
Hanuel pressed her hand against her chest, her heart heavy. This birth… it carries joy, but
also a curse.
Inside the shrine, Seorin's eyes glistened as she whispered, her voice steady as the fire
roared behind her:
"Let them know that every joy comes with sorrow. That every crown carries a flame."