Chapter Text
Winter pressed heavily against the palace.
Snow lay undisturbed along the tiled roofs and courtyards, pale and endless, as if the world itself had been drained of color. The Inner Palace slept beneath the weight of frost, lanterns burning low, their light dim and fragile against the cold. Even the guards at the gates stood motionless, breath fogging the air, careful not to disturb the silence.
A cough tore through it.
It was violent, raw, and unmistakably human.
Inside the Royal Consort’s chambers, dawn had not yet broken. The sky beyond the paper windows was still ink-dark, the sun only a promise. A single brazier burned weakly, fighting a losing battle against winter’s grip. The air smelled of bitter medicine and old silk.
Jungwon coughed again, his body folding inward as if it could no longer hold itself together. A maid hurried to his side, steadying him with practiced hands, pressing a cloth to his lips. When she pulled it away, there was blood, just enough to see, never enough to stop.
“Easy, Your Highness,” she whispered, voice trembling despite herself.
Jungwon nodded faintly, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. He had grown so thin. His wrists looked fragile beneath the layers of robes meant to signify dignity and rank. What once had been elegance now felt like concealment.
The doors opened quietly.
“The King has arrived.”
The announcement carried through the chamber, formal and reverent, but the effect was immediate. The maid stepped back and bowed deeply as Sunghoon entered.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
For a moment, he could only look at him.
Jungwon, his royal consort, his husband, sat propped against embroidered cushions, dark hair loose against pale skin, his chest rising unevenly beneath layers of silk. He looked smaller than Sunghoon remembered. Changed. As if the illness had been slowly erasing him, piece by piece.
Sunghoon’s chest tightened.
“Jungwon,” he said.
The name broke from him before he could stop it, heavy with love and grief he was not allowed to show.
Jungwon lifted his gaze and smiled, weak, but sincere. He tried to sit up, the effort immediately visible. Sunghoon crossed the room at once, hands steady as he supported him, easing him upright and settling beside him.
“My King,” Jungwon murmured softly, fingers curling around the king’s sleeve. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
Sunghoon said nothing. His jaw tightened as Jungwon’s hand found his, warm despite everything, holding on as if afraid to let go.
“We both know what is bound to happen,” Jungwon continued gently.
Sunghoon’s grip tightened. He stared straight ahead, breathing carefully, refusing to let his composure fracture. A king could not cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the man who was dying.
Jungwon leaned closer, resting against him, their hands still entwined.
“My king,” he said quietly, “have you considered what I suggested last time?”
Sunghoon turned sharply, brows furrowing.
“Jungwon, no,” he said, voice firm despite the ache in his chest. “I don’t like the idea. And I don’t want to argue about it.”
Jungwon did not reply. He simply looked past the paper windows, toward the pale hint of morning beyond them. Sadness settled over his features, soft, resigned, unbearable.
Sunghoon hated that look.
He hated seeing sorrow take root in Jungwon’s eyes, and hated knowing he was the cause of it. And yet, he hated the suggestion even more.
A concubine.
Ever since the head physician had named the illness chronic and incurable, Jungwon had begun speaking of it. Gently at first. Then more insistently. The court officials echoed the idea, cloaked in duty and succession, but Sunghoon had dismissed them all. As king, he had the power to refuse.
And he had.
His loyalty to Jungwon was absolute. His love was known throughout the palace.
Until that afternoon.
Jungwon had been trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps, sweat cold against his skin. Sunghoon had dismissed the servants himself, had knelt beside the bed, holding him, wiping blood from his lips with shaking hands.
“It’s my dying wish,” Jungwon had whispered then, voice barely there. “For you to have a concubine. Someone who can be with you when I’m gone.”
Sunghoon had wanted to shout. To deny it. To refuse even the idea of a world without him.
But Jungwon had looked at him, not as a consort, not as a subject, but as the man who loved him most.
And Sunghoon nodded.
Now, as the memory pressed in, Jungwon turned back to him and smiled again.
It was the first true smile Sunghoon had seen in weeks.
“Thank you,” Jungwon said softly.
Sunghoon returned the smile, even as something inside him quietly, irrevocably broke.
Maybe a part of him had died then, too.
⋆
Jungwon had been raised to obey.
In the Yang household, obedience was not taught gently. It was demanded, reinforced with silence and expectation, with the understanding that a child’s purpose was not to question but to fulfill. His father’s word was law, and affection was conditional, given only when duty was met.
So when Jungwon was fourteen, and the announcement came that he would be trained to become the royal consort, he did not cry. He did not rejoice, either. The role was vast, heavy, far beyond what his young mind could fully comprehend, but he accepted it the way he accepted everything else.
As a duty.
The Yang clan was powerful, feared, and ruthless. Jungwon had grown up knowing that kindness was a weakness in his family’s eyes, that mercy was something other people could afford. Anyone who threatened their standing was dealt with swiftly and without remorse. Jungwon learned early not to ask questions.
Yet, in the some moments he did not allow himself to acknowledge, there was relief.
Marriage to the crown meant distance. It meant walls between him and the cruelty of his own blood. Even as a boy, he understood that leaving them, even under the weight of obligation, might be the closest thing to freedom he would ever know.
When he first met the crown prince, Jungwon felt nothing at all.
Sunghoon was composed, reserved, already carrying the gravity of his future crown. To Jungwon, he was simply another figure shaped by power, another person born into expectation and control. Jungwon treated him with the same distance he had learned to give his own family.
But Sunghoon was different.
There was warmth beneath the restraint, he loves animals, a gentleness that surfaced in unexpected ways, a question asked when no one else was listening, a hand extended of consideration. Sunghoon spoke to him as if Jungwon were a person, not just a role.
It unsettled him.
For the first time, Jungwon was made to feel that it was acceptable to live a little. To breathe. To exist beyond obligation. And yet, the guilt never left him. He had not chosen this path. He had been placed on it. The palace, the prince, even the kindness, none of it belonged to him by right.
And still, he fell in love.
Not suddenly and recklessly, but completely. Jungwon loved Sunghoon with a devotion that consumed the doubt and shame he carried, even as it deepened them. He loved him knowing that love itself was another duty, another weight he must bear carefully.
Then the illness came.
At first, it was small, fatigue, breathlessness, a cough that lingered too long. Then it became undeniable. Chronic. Incurable. The physicians spoke gently, but Jungwon heard the truth in the pauses they left between words.
There was no way out.
He accepted it, outwardly. Inwardly, it broke him.
He was too young. Too soon. He had only just learned what it meant to love, to be loved in return. The thought of leaving Sunghoon, of leaving him alone in a palace that devoured weakness, was unbearable.
Jungwon did not want to die. But he knew he would, and so the thought took root, silent, poisonous, and necessary.
The king would need someone.
Someone to stand where Jungwon no longer could. Someone to bear the long nights, the weight of rule, the loneliness Jungwon had come to understand too well. The idea of a concubine sickened him, even as he nurtured it. It would kill something inside him to suggest it.
But love, he had learned, was not gentle. It demanded sacrifice.
And if Jungwon’s life was already forfeit, then he would spend what remained of it ensuring Sunghoon survived the loss.
Even if it destroyed him to do so.
⋆
The apothecary hall was warm, despite the winter.
Low shelves lined the walls from end to end, filled with jars of every size, ceramic, glass, and wood, each carefully labeled in neat brushstrokes. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the rafters, their faint, earthy scent mingling with the sharper bitterness of ground roots and boiled medicine. A mortar and pestle rested at the center table, stained from years of use.
This was Jaeyun’s world.
He stood near the table, grinding a mixture of dried leaves and bark with steady hands. The motion was rhythmic, practiced, firm. He paused only to lift the powder slightly, letting it fall between his fingers, judging its texture, its readiness.
Too coarse, and it would not dissolve properly. Too fine, and it would lose its strength.
He adjusted it without hesitation. He had learned this long before the palace.
High in the mountains, where the air was thinner and the winters harsher, a physician had taken him in. The man had been deliberate, teaching him not only which herbs could heal, but how to listen, to breath, to pulse, to the fragile balance within the human body. Medicine was not forced, he had said. It is to understand.
Jaeyun had listened and now, it was his life.
A knock broke the stillness. Jaeyun looked up as a palace guard stepped inside, bowing stiffly.
“The Royal Consort requests your presence in the West Wing.”
Jaeyun froze, just for a moment and then he set the pestle down carefully.
“I’ll come at once,” he said, his voice soft but steady.
It had been months since Jungwon had summoned him personally.
Jungwon, the Royal Consort, was not merely a patient. Not merely a superior. Jaeyun owed him more than he could ever repay. When the world had taken everything from him, it was Jungwon who had reached back.
Jungwon who had hidden him when danger closed in.. Without him, Jaeyun would have disappeared long ago, another life swallowed by violence.
So he went when called.
Always.
The corridors were colder than the apothecary hall, the warmth fading with every step. Stone floors stretched endlessly, the silence broken only by the soft echo of footsteps. Winter clung to the palace in ways no brazier could fully drive away.
As they neared the West Wing, footsteps approached from the opposite direction.
The guard stopped immediately.
“The King.”
Jaeyun lowered himself at once, bowing deeply, his forehead nearly touching the floor. He kept his gaze down, hands pressed flat against the cold stone.
He did not breathe.
The presence passed by him, controlled, yet heavy enough to be felt without sight. Authority did not need to announce itself.
Still, Jaeyun noticed it, the faint scent of cold air and incense. The measured pace. The silence that followed in his wake.
Only when the footsteps had faded did Jaeyun allow himself to inhale.
The guard moved again. Jaeyun followed.
But something in his chest had tightened.
The room smelled of medicine, today it is stronger than usual.
Bitter herbs simmered over a low flame, the steam curling thickly into the air, clinging to silk curtains and settling into every breath. The brazier burned hot, yet Jungwon still shivered beneath the layers wrapped around him.
Jaeyun knelt at his side.
His fingers rested lightly against Jungwon’s wrist, measuring the pulse with practiced calm. He counted in silence, eyes lowered, expression composed.
Irregular and faint. Worse than yesterday.
He adjusted his grip slightly, as if that might change the answer. It didn’t.
“Jaeyun,” Jungwon said softly.
Jaeyun withdrew his hand at once, bowing his head. “Yes, Wangbi mama.”
“Is it getting worse?”
The question was gentle. Too gentle. Jaeyun’s throat tightened. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
“The winter is harsh,” he replied carefully. “Your body is weakened. We will adjust the medicine.”
Not a lie, but not the truth either.
Jungwon hummed faintly, as if amused by the evasion. “You’ve gotten better at answering without answering.”
Jaeyun said nothing.
He reached for the small tray beside him, lifting a porcelain bowl filled with dark liquid. The scent alone was enough to make most turn away. He held it out with both hands.
“Please take this.”
Jungwon accepted it, fingers brushing briefly against Jaeyun’s.
Cold, far too cold.
Jaeyun’s hand lingered a moment longer than it should have, just long enough to feel it, before he pulled back, lowering his gaze again.
Jungwon drank slowly.
Each swallow seemed to take more effort than the last. Jaeyun watched helplessly. He knew every herb in that mixture. Knew what it was meant to do. Knew its limits.
He knew it was not enough. It would never be enough.
“Jaeyun,” Jungwon said again, setting the empty bowl aside. “Look at me.”
Jaeyun hesitated then obeyed. Jungwon was smiling. It was soft, familiar and it terrified him.
“I want you to do something for me,” Jungwon said.
Jaeyun nodded immediately. “Anything, mama.”
And he meant it.
Jungwon studied him for a long moment, as if memorizing his face.
“I want you to become the king’s concubine.”
The world fell silent and Jaeyun stared at him.
For a second, he thought he had misheard. That the words had been something else, something that made sense.
But Jungwon’s expression did not change.
“No,” Jaeyun said immediately.
The answer came before thought. Before restraint.
“No—please, don’t say that.”
His hands clenched against his robes, breath unsteady. “Mama, I—anything else. I will do anything else.”
Jungwon did not look surprised.
“Jaeyun—”
“No.” His voice broke. “Please.”
This was wrong, cruel and unbearable.
“I am your attending physician,” he said, the words trembling despite his effort to steady them. “I am meant to keep you alive. Not—” His voice faltered. “Not take your place.”
Jungwon’s gaze softened.
“You already know, don’t you?”
The words struck deeper than anything else. Jaeyun froze.
Silence stretched between them.
Jungwon tilted his head slightly. “About my condition.”
Jaeyun’s vision blurred. His training told him to remain composed. To be steady. To never let emotion interfere with duty.
“I am trying,” he whispered. “I am still trying.”
“I know.”
Jungwon’s voice was gentle and kind.
That made it worse.
“I don’t want to die,” Jungwon continued quietly.
Jaeyun’s breath caught. The confession shattered whatever fragile control he had left.
“I know,” he said again, but it came out broken this time.
“I really tried, Jaeyun,” Jungwon said, almost apologetically. “I took everything you gave me. I followed every instruction.”
“Then keep trying,” Jaeyun said desperately. “Please—just a little longer. The weather will change soon. Your body may respond differently—”
“Jaeyun.”
The name stopped him. Jungwon reached out, taking his hand.
Jaeyun stilled.
“You cannot save me,” Jungwon said softly.
The truth, spoken aloud.
Jaeyun shook his head, tears slipping free despite himself. “Don’t say that.”
“I have accepted it.”
“I haven’t.”
The words came out raw and honest.
Jungwon smiled faintly, squeezing his hand.
“That’s why I’m asking this of you.”
Jaeyun couldn’t breathe.
“No,” he whispered again. “Please don’t do this to me.”
“I will die soon.”
The sentence landed quietly and irrefutable.
“I cannot leave him alone,” Jungwon continued. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? When he thinks no one is looking.”
Jaeyun said nothing. Because he had. In passing moments. In silence. In the way the king lingered too long, said too little.
“He will endure it,” Jungwon said. “Because he must. But enduring is not the same as living.”
Jaeyun’s grip tightened unconsciously.
“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I have no right. I am no one.”
“You are the one I trust.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is to me.”
Jaeyun’s chest ached. This was not a request.
It was a burden.
A final command wrapped in love.
“I spoke to the king,” Jungwon said quietly. “He agreed.”
That broke something.
Jaeyun’s head dropped, his shoulders trembling as he tried and failed to hold himself together.
“You should hate me,” he whispered. “For even hearing this.”
Jungwon shook his head. “I could never hate you.”
Jaeyun laughed weakly, the sound cracking apart. “Then I’ll hate myself enough for both of us.”
Jungwon squeezed his hand again.
“Please accept it,” he said softly. “As my last wish.”
Jaeyun wanted to refuse. Every part of him did.
But beneath his fingers, Jungwon’s pulse trembled, faint, fragile, slipping further away with every passing day.
And Jaeyun, who had spent all this time trying to keep him alive, could not deny him now.
His voice barely existed when he spoke.
“Yes, mama.”
Jungwon smiled, relieved and grateful. As if something heavy had finally been set down.
Jaeyun bowed his head and felt that this was the moment he had truly failed to save him.
⋆
Jungwon could no longer go outside in winter.
The cold settled too deeply into his lungs, stealing his breath before he could take it fully, so Sunghoon brought the world to him instead. The royal consort’s chambers overlooked the inner garden, enclosed and sheltered, where even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Now, the branches stood bare.
Snow clung to them in silence, each limb weighed down, waiting.
Inside, warmth lingered faintly. Sunghoon sat at the low table, unfurling scrolls one by one, eyes scanning reports from the court. His brush moved steadily, precise, and controlled.
Across from him, Jungwon held his own.
He was sketching again, plum blossoms, delicate and unfinished. His hand trembled, but he did not ask for help.
Between them, untouched tea had long gone cold.
“He accepted.”
Sunghoon’s brush stilled.
Ink gathered at the tip, darkening the paper where it had paused too long.
He did not look up.
“We are not speaking about this,” he said.
Jungwon dipped his brush again, as if the conversation were no more than passing weather.
“We will need to make the announcement before spring.”
“Jungwon.”
This time, Sunghoon’s voice carried a warning. Still, Jungwon continued, calm and unyielding.
“I have already chosen.”
Sunghoon set the brush down.
“From which clan?” he asked.
It was the only version of this conversation that made sense. Someone suitable. Someone the court could accept. Someone he could tolerate.
Jungwon did not answer immediately. He finished the stroke he had begun, completing the shape of a petal that would never bloom.
“Choi Jaeyun.”
The name settled into the room.
Sunghoon looked up.
For a moment, there was no reaction at all, as if his mind had refused to process what it had heard.
“What?”
Jungwon met his gaze.
“Choi Jaeyun. The medical attendant.”
Sunghoon let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
“You mean the physician’s aide?” he asked. “The one who attends you?”
Jungwon nodded.
Silence.
Then something in Sunghoon’s expression hardened.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Jungwon smiled faintly.
“Why him?” Sunghoon demanded, the restraint in his voice thinning. “Out of everyone in this palace, why him?”
“He is capable,” Jungwon said simply. “He understands the inner palace. He knows its dangers.”
“He knows medicine,” Sunghoon cut in sharply. “That is his place.”
Jungwon’s gaze did not waver. “He is more than that.”
Sunghoon stood abruptly. The legs of the table scraped softly against the floor, the sound sharp in the room.
“The court will never accept this,” he said. “A common-born medical aide? You are asking me to place him in the inner palace as my concubine.”
“They don’t have to accept it,” Jungwon replied.
“No.” Sunghoon shook his head. “Choose someone else.”
“It’s him.”
The certainty in Jungwon’s voice made something twist in Sunghoon’s chest.
“You are asking me,” Sunghoon said slowly, “to be with the man who—”
He stopped.
Jungwon tilted his head slightly. “Who what?”
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.
“The man who attends you day and night,” he finished instead, voice colder now. “The one who brings you medicine. The one who—” His breath caught, just briefly. “—cannot even cure you.”
The words hung between them. So sharp and unforgiving.
Jungwon did not flinch.
“He has done everything he can,” Jungwon said quietly.
“It is not enough.”
The answer came too quickly, too harshly, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jungwon set his brush down.
“Do you think I chose him because he is a physician?” he asked gently.
Sunghoon said nothing.
“I chose him because he is kind,” Jungwon continued. “Because he does not seek power. Because he understands loss.”
“That is not a qualification for the inner palace,” Sunghoon replied.
“It is,” Jungwon said softly, “if you are the one who must live there.”
That struck deeper than it should have. Sunghoon looked away first.
“You are not thinking clearly,” he said. “You are ill.”
“Yes,” Jungwon agreed.
The calm acceptance of it made Sunghoon’s chest tighten.
“I am ill,” Jungwon repeated. “And I am dying.”
“Don’t.”
The word was immediate. Jungwon’s expression softened.
“I cannot leave you alone,” he said.
“You won’t,” Sunghoon replied, too quickly. “You’re not—”
Jungwon coughed.
The sound tore through the room, deep, and violent. Sunghoon was beside him in an instant, steadying him, one hand at his back, the other reaching for the cloth already stained too many times before.
“Enough,” Sunghoon said under his breath. “Stop talking.”
Jungwon’s fingers caught his sleeve. He is so weak but insistent.
“Don’t argue with me, please my King,” he whispered.
Sunghoon froze.
“I have already decided,” Jungwon continued softly, breathing unevenly. “And you already agreed.”
And that was the cruelest part. Sunghoon closed his eyes briefly.
He had. In a moment of fear of desperation and not being able to refuse the man he loved.
When Jungwon’s breathing steadied, Sunghoon helped him sit back, his movements careful despite the tension still coiled in his chest.
“He will be good to you,” Jungwon said.
Sunghoon let out a quiet, humorless breath.
“I don’t need someone to be good to me.”
Jungwon smiled faintly.
“Yes, you do.”
Sunghoon said nothing.
Because he could not deny it.
And he hated that Jungwon had chosen someone who might prove it.
⋆
The sound of coughing would not stop.
It tore through the chamber without pause, raw and relentless, each breath catching before it could fully form. The attendants moved quickly, quietly, trained to keep order even in moments like this, but there was no disguising the urgency beneath their composure.
Jaeyun knelt beside the bed.
“Careful—lift him slowly,” he said, his voice low, controlled, though his hands trembled faintly beneath his sleeves.
An attendant moved at once, supporting Jungwon’s shoulders as Jaeyun brought a cloth to his lips. Blood spread across the white fabric, too quickly, too much.
Jaeyun’s chest tightened, but his expression did not change.
“The decoction,” he said. “Prepare another batch.”
“It was already administered—”
“Then prepare it again.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The attendant bowed and hurried away.
Jungwon’s body curled inward with each cough, fragile, unsteady. Jaeyun placed a steadying hand against his back, grounding him, counting each breath without meaning to.
Too shallow, too weak, and not enough.
“Jaeyun...” Jungwon managed faintly.
“I am here, Wangbi mama,” he answered at once.
Jungwon’s fingers found his sleeve, barely holding on. Jaeyun stilled at the touch, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.
“I am here,” he repeated, softer.
Slowly and painfully, the coughing subsided. What remained was a strained stillness. Jungwon’s breath is uneven but continuing.
For now.
Jaeyun adjusted the blankets with care, every movement precise, controlled, as though precision alone could make up for what medicine could not.
Only then did he feel the shift in the room. The stillness.
Jaeyun turned.
The king stood at the doorway. He had not heard him enter.
Sunghoon’s gaze moved first to Jungwon, pale, weakened and barely conscious, then to the bloodstained cloth in Jaeyun’s hand.
Then, slowly, to Jaeyun himself.
Jaeyun lowered his head immediately, bowing deeply.
“Your Majesty.”
No answer came and the silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
“Leave us.”
The command was firm. The attendants bowed at once and withdrew, one by one, until the chamber fell still, the doors closing softly behind them.
Jaeyun remained where he was.
Kneeling and waiting. Jaeyun did not even lift his gaze.
And he heard footsteps approaching. It was measured and unhurried.
They stopped just short of him.
“How long?”
Jaeyun’s fingers tightened slightly around the cloth. He understood the question. He also understood that there was no answer that would not wound.
“His condition has been delicate for some time,” he said carefully, voice lowered.
“That is not what I asked.”
The interruption came without force, but it cut cleanly through the air.
Jaeyun lowered his head further. A brief pause passed before he spoke again.
“It has worsened, gradually, through the winter months.”
“How long.”
There was no avoiding it. Jaeyun closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
“Since before the first snow, Your Majesty.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Sunghoon did not respond at once.
“And you did not inform me.”
Jaeyun’s grip tightened, the dried blood rough beneath his fingers.
“I adjusted the prescriptions accordingly,” he replied. “I remained in attendance and—”
“You did not inform me.”
The repetition left no space for explanation.
Jaeyun bowed lower, his forehead nearly touching the floor.
“I am sorry your Majesty for I did not speak of it.”
Silence followed. But not empty, never empty, but filled with something that pressed against the walls of the room, waiting.
“You attend to him daily,” Sunghoon said at last. “You see what others do not.”
Jaeyun did not answer.
“You measure his pulse. You prepare his medicine. You watch his condition decline.”
Each word fell, measured and deliberate.
“And yet he stands before me as though there is still time.”
Jaeyun’s chest tightened painfully.
“He wished to ease Your Majesty’s worries,” he said quietly.
The moment the words left him, he stilled. He had spoken too much. The air shifted.
“And you presume to interpret his intentions.”
Jaeyun bowed deeply at once.
“I had spoken out of turn. I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness.”
The silence that followed was long.
“Raise your head.”
Jaeyun obeyed. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Sunghoon was looking at him fully now, in deliberate attention.
“You are the one he chose,” the king said.
Jaeyun’s breath caught, though his expression remained composed.
“For the position of concubine.”
Jaeyun lowered his gaze again.
“I was given the order by Wangbi-mama.”
“And you accepted.”
It was not a question.
Jaeyun’s fingers curled slightly against his robes.
“I—I could not refuse him, I tried to refuse his order, your Majesty."
A long pause followed.
“Of course,” Sunghoon murmured.
Something unreadable passed through his expression, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Then he stepped closer.
The distance between them closed, though Jaeyun did not move.
“You have attended him for months,” Sunghoon said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You have administered every treatment available to you.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“And still,” Sunghoon continued, his voice lowering just slightly, “he weakens.”
Jaeyun’s vision blurred.
“I’ve done all within his knowledge and ability,” he said, carefully, steadily.
“It is insufficient.”
The words fell without hesitation. Jaeyun’s throat tightened. He lowered his head once more.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
It was the first time he had allowed the truth to stand without resistance. It settled heavily in his chest. Between them.
“And this,” Sunghoon said quietly, “is the man he entrusts to me.”
Jaeyun flinched.
Almost imperceptible.
“I do not presume to be worthy of such trust,” Jaeyun said softly. “Nor do I expect His Majesty’s approval.”
“You misunderstand.” The King answered.
Jaeyun fell silent.
“I have already given my consent.”
There was no pride in the statement. No authority and only something that could not be undone.
“This is no longer a matter of approval.” A pause.
“It is a matter of consequence.”
Jaeyun bowed his head.
“I understand, your Majesty.”
A beat.
“Do you?”
Silence followed. Jaeyun did not answer. Then Sunghoon stepped back and the distance had returned.
Cold.
“Continue attending to him.”
Jaeyun bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Do not fail him again.”
The words were final but they struck deeper than anything else. Jaeyun’s hands trembled faintly against the floor.
“I will do everything within my ability.”
It was not a promise. Not one he could make.
“Leave.”
Jaeyun bowed once more, then rose with care, his movements controlled despite the weight pressing down on him.
He did not look toward the bed. Did not look at Jungwon. If he did, he would not be able to leave. So he turned, and walked out.
The doors closed softly behind him. Inside, the king remained. Standing between what he could not save, and what he could not yet bear to lose.
⋆
The announcement was made before spring.
Snow still clung stubbornly to the palace roofs, thick and unyielding, when the court was summoned to the audience hall. Ministers gathered in ordered rows, their layered robes brushing softly against the floor as they knelt. No one spoke, yet the tension was unmistakable, sharp, expectant, waiting.
At the head of the hall, Sunghoon sat upon the throne.
Alone.
The absence at his side did not go unnoticed.
“The court is hereby informed,” the chief eunuch announced, his voice carrying cleanly through the chamber, “that His Majesty has approved the appointment of a royal concubine.”
The reaction was immediate.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, restrained but unmistakable. Heads lifted slightly, glances exchanged in quick succession. This, at least, had been anticipated.
What came next had not.
“Choi Jaeyun,” the eunuch continued, “of the Inner Palace Medical Hall, shall be instated as His Majesty’s concubine.”
Silence at first and then it shattered.
“A medical attendant?”
“This is improper—”
“A common-born physician’s aide?”
“Your Majesty—!”
The protests rose all at once, no longer contained. Ministers who had remained composed at the mention of a concubine now broke formation, voices overlapping, disbelief turning quickly into opposition.
“A man of the medical court cannot enter the inner palace in such a capacity!”
“The Royal Consort is still under treatment, how can his attending physician be removed at such a time?”
“This disrupts the order of both court and protocol!”
Sunghoon did not move and let them speak. Let the unrest crest, voices rising just short of disorder.
Then he stood.
The hall fell silent at once.
His gaze swept across them, cold and unyielding, settling over each minister in turn.
“This is not a matter for debate,” he said.
His voice was not raised. It did not need to be.
“It is a decree.”
The words landed cleanly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
A senior minister stepped forward regardless, bowing deeply, though his voice did not waver.
“Your Majesty, this decision concerns more than personal preference. The individual in question is of low birth and serves within the medical hall. His position—his proximity to Wangbi-mama—”
Sunghoon’s expression sharpened.
“Choose your words carefully.”
The warning was firm and immediate. The minister hesitated only briefly before continuing, more measured now.
“The stability of the inner palace must be considered. To elevate a medical attendant to such a rank will invite disorder. The clans will not accept this.”
“They are not required to.”
The response came without pause and the minister faltered.
Sunghoon stepped down from the throne.
Each step echoed softly against the stone floor, measured, deliberate, until he stood before them, unmistakably present.
“I have heard your concerns,” he said. “And I reject them.”
Silence pressed in again.
“He serves within the palace,” Sunghoon continued. “He understands its structure. It's discipline. Its demands.”
“He is a servant,” another minister interjected, unable to restrain himself. “A subordinate within the medical court—”
“And now,” Sunghoon said, cutting him off cleanly, “he will serve elsewhere.”
The minister fell silent.
“The position of concubine is granted by the throne,” Sunghoon went on. “Not by the approval of the court. Not by the favor of the clans.”
His gaze hardened slightly.
“And not by your consent.”
No one spoke. No one dared.
“This decision stands,” Sunghoon said. “Any further objection will be regarded as insubordination.”
The word settled heavily in the chamber.
A warning. A line drawn.
The ministers bowed, one by one, their resistance forced back into silence, though it lingered, thick, unresolved, waiting for another moment to surface.
The decree had been made.
And it would not be undone.
Later that day, the head of the Yang family requested a private audience.
Sunghoon granted it.
The moment the doors closed, the man spoke without preamble.
“This is a grave mistake.”
Sunghoon did not respond immediately.
“If Your Majesty insists on appointing a concubine,” the Yang patriarch continued, “then he should at least be chosen from a proper lineage. The Yang clan would be more than capable of—”
“My royal consort is Yang.”
The interruption was calm.
“And this decision was made at his request.”
The patriarch’s expression tightened.
“Wangbi-mama is unwell. His judgment cannot be relied upon in such matters.”
Sunghoon’s gaze lifted slowly.
“I will not have you speak of him in that manner.”
The words were quiet. But the warning beneath them was unmistakable.
The patriarch straightened slightly. “I speak only for the stability of the court. A medical attendant—”
“Is no longer one.”
Sunghoon rose to his feet.
“Or have you forgotten whose decree this is?”
The man fell silent.
“This matter is not open for negotiation,” Sunghoon continued. “Not by you. Not by your clan. Not by anyone.”
A pause.
“Leave.”
The patriarch hesitated.
“Your Majesty—”
“Before I forget,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping just enough to chill the air, “that the Wangbi mama once called you family.”
That was enough. The man bowed stiffly and withdrew.
⋆
The morning after the announcement, Jaeyun returned to the Inner Palace Medical Hall for the last time.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs, familiar and comforting, yet every corner felt impossibly strange. The trays of dried roots, the neatly labeled jars of powders, the faint steam rising from simmering decoctions, all of it belonged to him, yet would not remain.
Master Choi Seungcheol stood near the main counter, expression carefully composed but his eyes shadowed with grief. Jaeyun bowed immediately. “Yes, Master Choi.”
“You will no longer serve in the Medical Hall,” Seungcheol said softly, each word deliberate. “All duties, all instruments, must be relinquished. His Majesty has ordered it.”
Jaeyun lowered his head, voice tight. “I understand, Master Choi.”
Seungcheol stepped closer, resting a heavy hand on Jaeyun’s shoulder. “You have been more than an assistant to me, Jaeyun. You have been like a son. From the moment Jeonghan brought you to me, I knew your heart, your hands, were meant for this work. You have never failed in care or devotion.”
The words tore through him. His throat closed. He pressed his hands to his knees, hiding the tremble in his fingers. Every patient he had tended, every herb he had ground, every sleepless night, it had all been for purpose, for meaning. And now it was being wrenched away.
“I am grateful,” Jaeyun whispered, barely able to breathe. “For everything, for everything you and Master Jeonghan have given me.”
Seungcheol’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a long moment, neither moved. “Go,” he said finally, voice low, almost breaking. “Go and do what you must for the King. It is not your fault, Jaeyun. It is the path you must walk.”
Jaeyun bowed his head once more, hiding the tears that fell anyway. Every step to the doors felt like leaving a piece of his soul behind. He pressed a final hand to the counter, inhaled the familiar scent of herbs one last time, and walked out.
That night, Jaeyun was led to the South Wing.
The corridors were long and cold, lanterns flickering faintly against pale stone. Servants whispered his new title as he passed, and he answered dutifully, “Yes, Your Majesty,” each word stiff, measured, though it scraped against his chest.
The chamber awaiting him had beautiful, warm floors, carefully arranged furnishings, silk screens embroidered with distant mountains and cherry blossoms. Every detail was deliberate, refined, a palace slice carved just for him.
And yet, it felt unbearably empty.
He knelt in the center of the room, hands folded in his lap, taking in the quiet. There were no herbs to grind, no patients to tend, no hands to steady. He could make nothing, heal nothing. His purpose, his life’s work, had been erased, even as the palace had granted him a new title.
He pressed his palms to his face, lowering his forehead to the floor in a bow that felt more like surrender than respect. The silk under his hands was cool. The silence pressed in, heavier than any patient’s illness, more suffocating than any winter night in the apothecary.
He thought of his Master Seungcheol and Master Jeonghan.
The man who had found him near the mountains, trembling and full of bruises, and the man who had protected him ever since. He remembered his Master Seungcheol, the way he had always believed Jaeyun could survive, could belong somewhere. He remembered his Master Jeonghan’s hand, steady, guiding, fatherly.
And now, he was alone. Stripped of his tools, his duties, his family. Stripped of the one life that had truly been his, again.
He allowed himself one silent vow, he should not fail.
Not the King. Not Jungwon. Not the bond Seungcheol and Jeonghan had entrusted to him.
But for now, he stayed kneeling, alone in the South Wing. The silk screens reflected the moonlight over his bowed head. His hands itched, uselessly, and his heart ached unbearably.
Spring had not yet arrived, and neither had hope.
⋆
Jungwon remained in the West Wing, wrapped in warmth and medicine.
Sunghoon stayed in the North Wing, where kings were meant to reside alone.
The distance was intentional.
Yet today, Jungwon requested Jaeyun’s presence.
The herbalist moved through the corridors, hands folded in front of him, robe sleeves brushing lightly against the floor. He did not dare breathe too loudly, for the West Wing was alive with the soft hum of servants and the faint scent of steaming herbs.
“Jaeyun,” Jungwon said, voice gentle, yet firm. “I need you to prepare the decoction for my night fever. And bring it to me while His Majesty is present.”
Jaeyun’s heart clenched. He had been warned this day might come, the King himself would observe. He bowed low, forehead nearly touching the floor. “Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered. “At once.”
The North Wing’s envoy arrived promptly. Sunghoon entered the chamber with measured steps, eyes scanning the room before settling on Jungwon.
Jaeyun’s pulse quickened. He moved slowly, carefully, carrying a small tray of steaming herbs, the faint scent of ginseng and chrysanthemum rising in delicate spirals. He lowered himself before the king with a bow so precise, it was almost ceremonial. “Your Majesty,” he said softly, head bowed. “I am at Jungwon’s service.”
Sunghoon’s gaze flickered. He did not smile. He did not acknowledge the trembling in Jaeyun’s hands, or the fear in the young man’s voice. Instead, he watched. Still. Testing.
Jungwon reached for the tray. “Do not be afraid, Jaeyun,” he murmured, his hand briefly brushing the herbalist’s. “He is learning. As am I.”
Jaeyun’s hands steadied at Jungwon’s touch. He placed the steaming cup carefully on the low table in front of Jungwon, bowing again. “The temperature has been monitored,” he said, “and the herbs prepared according to the prescribed ratio. You should take it slowly, Your Highness.”
Sunghoon leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing. “And if the prescription is incorrect?” he asked quietly, voice even but sharp.
Jaeyun did not flinch. He lowered his gaze further. “It is correct, Your Majesty. Master Choi supervised the preparation. I followed every instruction exactly.”
The King studied him for a long, silent moment. His chest tightened, not with anger, but with something heavier, unspoken. The loyalty, the skill, the humility before him, it was impossible to ignore.
Jungwon’s hand squeezed Jaeyun’s lightly, a subtle anchor. “He is capable,” Jungwon said softly, looking at Sunghoon. “Do not doubt him.”
Sunghoon exhaled slowly, straightening. He did not speak again, though his eyes lingered on Jaeyun. There was acknowledgement there, yes, but also restraint, calculation, an unspoken question, could this man truly serve the King as Jungwon desired?
Jaeyun remained kneeling, hands folded neatly, head lowered, heart pounding beneath the weight of both titles, herbalist, assistant, concubine-in-waiting, and the unrelenting presence of the King.
The silence stretched. Then Jungwon tilted his head, sipping the decoction. “Thank you, Jaeyun,” he murmured. “You may leave for now. Rest in the South Wing. The night is long.”
Jaeyun bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Highness.”
As he retreated toward the South Wing, his steps careful and measured, Sunghoon’s eyes followed him. Neither man spoke, yet the chamber held the tension of a fragile truce, one built on grief, respect, and the weight of obligations that neither fully wished to bear.
Outside, the West Wing’s lanterns flickered softly, and the herbs’ steam lingered in the air, a faint reminder of what Jaeyun had lost, and what he must now carry.
⋆
Spring came quietly.
The snow melted without ceremony, slipping away from the palace roofs and garden stones as if it had never been there at all. The air softened, and the sky turned pale and open, washed in the gentle blue Jungwon had always loved. The windows were finally open.
Jungwon lay near the veranda, wrapped in layers of silk and blankets. The scent of medicine lingered faintly, a reminder of Jaeyun’s attention over the months, though now, as always, he remained dismissed when the King was near, waiting in his own chamber unless summoned. The Royal Consort had requested Jaeyun’s presence only sparingly in these final weeks, and Sunghoon had honored it.
Now, it was just the two of them.
Jungwon leaned weakly against Sunghoon’s chest. His body was impossibly light, trembling with each shallow breath, as if the air itself betrayed him.
“I didn’t get to see them fully bloom,” Jungwon murmured, eyes fixed on the plum trees outside. “That’s unfortunate, my king.”
Sunghoon did not answer. He could not. He tightened his hold around Jungwon, arms shaking as if his own strength might somehow tether him to life, as if his hands could stop the cruel pull of time.
Jungwon shifted slightly, his head tilting against Sunghoon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “My king.”
Sunghoon’s chest tightened painfully. He could not catch his breath. Tears fell unchecked, dripping onto Jungwon’s robes. “No, don’t, don’t say that,” he croaked, voice breaking, shaking with something more than grief, something like guilt, helplessness, despair.
Then, faintly, almost swallowed by the air itself, Jungwon whispered the words he had never spoken before, and would never speak again. “Sunghoon…”
It was the first time. And the last.
Sunghoon felt it first in his hands, the weight. The lightness that was not light but absence, pulling through every fiber of his being. He held Jungwon tighter, rocking gently, unwilling to acknowledge the silence, unwilling to let go.
The room seemed to still around them. The wind outside stopped. The plum trees waited, indifferent. Every heartbeat in Sunghoon’s chest throbbed with unbearable clarity.
And then Jungwon’s head sank fully. His breath stilled, a fragile exhale lost to the spring air. Sunghoon pressed his lips to Jungwon’s hair, clinging, shivering with sorrow, with disbelief, with the quiet, unbearable knowledge that this was the end.
He did not call for anyone. He did not move. He only held him, whispering apologies, confessing love, shaking as the life of the man he cherished slipped away in his arms.
When the servants finally arrived, when the physicians knelt and murmured their formal condolences, when the bells began to toll, Sunghoon was still there, unmoving, unwilling to release the weight of what he had lost.
Spring has arrived. But someone had left forever.
The plum blossoms bloomed days later. White petals scattered across the garden stones, fragile and fleeting. Jungwon never saw them.
⋆
Spring arrived with mourning.
The bells rang before dawn, slow, measured, heavy. Their sound traveled through the palace corridors, across courtyards and tiled roofs, carrying a message that needed no words.
The Royal Consort was gone.
Black mourning banners were raised along the inner palace walls. Silk curtains were replaced with plain white cloth. Officials dressed in subdued colors, their voices lowered instinctively, as if the palace itself might fracture under too much sound. Every step, every breath, seemed quieter, more careful.
Jaeyun knew the news before it even reached him. Yet nothing could prepare him.
“Sir Jaeyun,” Euijoo’s, his personal attendant, voice broke the silence as he appeared at the doorway of the South Wing chamber. His eyes were red, hands trembling slightly as they clasped together.
“It’s… it’s Wangbi-mama,” he said, hesitant.
Jaeyun’s breath caught. The room seemed to tilt, the walls pressing in. His hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. The world narrowed to the sound of his own heartbeat, each pulse screaming in his ears.
Gone.
He pressed his fist to his mouth, bowing his head. The control he had spent months cultivating, the discipline learned through grief, through years of silent service, slipped from him like sand. He did not cry aloud, but the trembling that ran through him was no less real.
“May I…may I see him?” Jaeyun asked hoarsely, voice breaking despite himself.
Euijoo hesitated. “Officially, you are not permitted,” he said gently.
Jaeyun had expected this answer. Still, it cut him deeper than he anticipated.
He nodded, swallowing back a raw sound. Grief did not respect rules, did not care for rank. Not now. Not ever.
That night, after the palace had quieted and the lamps burned low, Jaeyun wrapped himself in plain robes and left his chamber. He did not go to the inner hall. That would have been impossible.
Instead, he walked alone to the garden.
The plum trees had bloomed. White petals clung delicately to the branches, some already drifting to the stones below like fragile remnants of snow. The air smelled faintly of spring, and yet, it was impossibly heavy.
Jaeyun knelt beneath the trees, pressing his forehead to the cold, damp ground. The petals brushed against him, weightless and cruelly indifferent.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Jungwon-ah.”
No one answered. No one would.
By morning, the palace would move forward with its rituals. The coffin would be sealed. The procession would march. The kingdom would mourn properly.
But Jaeyun mourned alone. Again.
He had lost someone irreplaceable, someone who had shaped his life, who had been like a sibling, a confidant, a guide.
Spring has come. And Jungwon was gone.
⋆
Everything happened too fast.
Jaeyun had not yet learned how to exist in a world without Jungwon, and already the palace demanded his presence, not as a mourner, not as a healer in the usual sense, but in a role fraught with new, unwelcome responsibility.
He was summoned to the king.
The formal request arrived at dawn, carried by an attendant. Master Choi himself had sent word, Jaeyun was to tend to His Majesty. The head physician’s hands were failing him, and he could not risk passing illness on to the king.
Jaeyun dressed in his plain robes, his hands steady only because they had learned discipline through grief. He carried the carefully prepared herbal decoction, wrapped in a small porcelain jar. Each vial had been measured, every leaf and root weighed, blended, and boiled under his precise hands.
When he entered the chamber, Sunghoon was already there.
The king wore mourning robes, black edged with white. He looked thinner, paler than before. Something essential had been carved out of him, leaving a hollow that no protocol, no silk could fill.
Jaeyun knelt immediately, lowering his head.
“Jaeyun?” Sunghoon’s voice was softer than expected, tinged with surprise. “I didn’t expect you.”
“Your Majesty,” Jaeyun said, bowing deeply. “Master Choi requested I see you. He is unwell and did not wish to risk sending the medicine himself.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flicked to the jar in Jaeyun’s hands. “And you?” he asked carefully. “You do not look well either.”
Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, but he kept his expression neutral. “I… I am saddened by the passing of the Royal Consort, Your Majesty. That is all, sir.”
Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and assessing. “Then perhaps you should drink it yourself first. You look paler than I do.”
Jaeyun hesitated, a faint tension threading through his posture, but he did not speak disrespectfully. “Your Majesty, I—”
“Drink it.” Sunghoon’s tone brooked no argument.
With a slow motion, Jaeyun lifted the cup, eyes lowered, and drank. The warmth spread through him, familiar yet biting, the herbal scent clinging to his throat. He set the cup down and offered another, freshly poured from the same mixture, to Sunghoon.
“How can I be certain it’s not poisoned?” the king said, a faint edge of mistrust or worry threading his voice.
Jaeyun bowed again. “I drank from the same batch, Your Majesty. The medicine is safe.”
Sunghoon’s eyes softened, ever so slightly. He lifted the cup, accepting it without another word. Jaeyun watched him, silent, every breath measured.
For a moment, the room held only the sound of liquid tilting in porcelain, the subtle aroma of herbs, and the heavy silence that followed grief.
Even in mourning, even in distance, they existed together in that fragile, suspended space.
The first memorial rite was held at dawn.
The palace was dressed in white. Incense smoke curled in thin, endless spirals, carrying the scent of ceremony and farewell. Bells rang in slow, measured intervals, each chime marking a step, a prayer, a moment of remembrance.
Jaeyun stood among those permitted to attend, small and still. His hands were folded, his head lowered, the pale silk of his mourning robes brushing the floor. He did not speak. He did not move unless required. He existed only as a shadow among the ritual, a witness to a grief he could not fully voice.
Sunghoon stood at the front. The king’s robes were black, edged in white, the fabric heavy with the weight of authority and loss. He performed each gesture with precise care, pouring wine offerings, bowing, repeating the prayers, the rites of the royal consort executed flawlessly.
Jaeyun watched. Every motion of the king, every measured breath, every ritual performed, it reminded him of what had been lost, what could not be reclaimed.
When the final prayer was spoken and the attendants withdrew, the hall emptied, and the sounds of the ceremony faded, Jaeyun remained. He knelt where he had been placed, forehead near the polished floor, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
He felt it then, the absence, the ache of someone who had left forever.
From the corner of his eyes, he glimpsed Sunghoon. The king did not approach. He did not speak. The space between them was filled with silence, formality, and grief. Jaeyun did not look up. He could not.
For a moment, he imagined Jungwon standing beside him, pale and small, but alive. Smiling faintly, brushing back a lock of hair, murmuring some quiet command or request. But the image vanished before it fully formed. The room was empty. Jungwon was gone.
Jaeyun exhaled softly, letting the tension in his body loosen just enough to feel the weight of his sorrow. He bowed again, deeper this time, forehead nearly touching the floor, as if the act itself could honor the one he had lost.
And then he rose, folded his hands over his chest, and left the hall. The palace continued its rites, its mourning, its orderly rituals. But Jaeyun carried his grief with him, unspoken, unshared, a shadow of loss lingering in every careful step he took.
⋆
Inside the palace, nothing stayed secret for long. Jaeyun moved carefully through the corridors, footsteps softened by the thick carpet. Though he no longer held a title beyond his role in the medical hall, whispers followed him. Some were curious, some resentful, but all carried the same question, why would the herbalist, the one who had tended the late Royal Consort, still linger near the king?
He did not answer them. He had been summoned once more, by Master Choi, who was too ill to oversee Sunghoon himself. Jaeyun had been tasked to bring medicine, to ensure the king did not fall further into sickness, and perhaps, unknowingly, to bear the weight of grief with him.
The North Wing was colder than the rest of the palace, sunlight slipping through the tall windows in pale, cautious streaks. The doors to Sunghoon’s chamber were slightly ajar. Jaeyun paused outside, taking a measured breath, steadying his hands.
Inside, Sunghoon sat at the edge of the bed, his back rigid, shoulders taut. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the walls, though Jaeyun felt the intensity of it on him the moment he entered. The herbalist carried the small tray of medicine, carefully prepared, the faint scent of herbs trailing behind him. Every step toward the king felt heavier than the last.
Jaeyun lowered himself into a formal bow, eyes cast modestly downward, hands steady as he placed the tray on the table beside Sunghoon’s bed. For a heartbeat, the king did not move. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand twitched, a subtle shift of his body, a flicker of a glare aimed at Jaeyun, curious, wary, and restrained.
Jaeyun’s gaze flicked briefly upward, catching that motion, acknowledging it silently. No words were exchanged. None could be. Everything that needed to be said, caution, grief, distance, and unspoken understanding, hung heavy in the room, filling the space between them.
He rose slowly, keeping his back straight, and stepped back. Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on him, a calculation in the pause, but he did not speak. Did not move to reach out. The moment stretched, fragile as thin ice over water, and then Jaeyun, bowing once more, turned and left.
The doors closed softly behind him. The silence remained, thick and charged, the weight of both absence and presence pressing into the chamber. Even alone, Sunghoon did not relax.
⋆
The summons came without a pattern. At first, Jaeyun believed it would be a single request, an exception made in Master Choi’s absence. But it came again. And again. Sometimes twice a week. Sometimes three nights in a row. Sometimes not at all. He learned not to anticipate it. He only learned to answer.
The North Wing was always colder than the rest of the palace. Even in spring, warmth did not seem to settle there. The corridors were quieter, the servants fewer but more palace guards were around the area and the lamps dimmer. It was a place meant for solitude, for a king who ruled alone.
Jaeyun entered each time the same way, quietly, head lowered, and his steps measured. He carried the medicine prepared under Master Choi’s direction, the herbs chosen carefully for exhaustion, for sleeplessness, for a body worn thin by duty rather than illness.
Sunghoon was always awake. Sometimes he was seated at his desk, scrolls unrolled but unread. Sometimes he stood by the window, gaze fixed beyond the courtyard. Sometimes he appeared to do nothing at all. Jaeyun did not question it. He knelt, placed the tray within reach, and waited.
At first, Sunghoon did not touch the medicine. Not immediately. There was always a pause, a long stretch of silence. Jaeyun kept his gaze lowered, hands resting neatly over his robes, unmoving. He could feel the king’s attention. It was not warm, not welcoming, but it was present. It was measuring. Jaeyun remained still until the cup was taken. Only then did he allow himself to breathe.
There were no words exchanged. None were needed. The routine settled into something precise, almost ritualistic. Jaeyun would arrive. The medicine would be placed. The king would drink. Jaeyun would bow and leave.
On some nights, the visits were brief. On others, the silence stretched longer than expected. Once, Sunghoon did not reach for the cup at all. Jaeyun waited. Minutes passed. The oil in the lamp flickered softly, the only movement in the room. Still, Jaeyun did not speak. It was not his place to begin with. It was not his place to insist. He simply remained. Eventually, the cup was taken. The sound of porcelain against wood was quiet, but in the stillness, it carried. Jaeyun bowed deeper than before.
The routine continued, unchanged, unspoken, and necessary. Jaeyun did not think of it as closeness. It was duty. It was an obligation. It was the only reason he was permitted to stand within the king’s chamber without question. And so he fulfilled it, precisely, carefully, and should be without error.
Even so, the visits became familiar. Not comfortable. Not yet. But known. And in a palace where everything shifted, titles, loyalties, lives and that alone was something.
The nights did not change, but Jaeyun began to notice. The untouched meals left to cool on the low table, the ink that dried too long on unfinished scrolls, the way the lamps burned until dawn as if sleep no longer belonged in the North Wing. Sunghoon did not rest. Jaeyun never asked, and yet he adjusted the herbs.
Sunghoon noticed too, though not at first and not consciously. Over time, it became unavoidable, the faint tremor in Jaeyun’s hands as he poured the medicine, the way his sleeves hung looser than before, the pallor that no longer left his face even under lamplight. Exhaustion, worn thin, and still he came, still he knelt, still he waited.
It had been one of those nights. The hour of his usual summons had long passed, yet Jaeyun remained in the chamber. The medicine had to be taken by the king, that alone was reason enough to stay. He knelt beside the low table, hands folded neatly in his lap, posture straight despite the fatigue settling into his bones. The lamps burned low, the chamber still, and time passed, too much of it. At some point, without meaning to, Jaeyun leaned slightly against the wooden pillar beside him, and sleep took him.
The doors opened quietly.
Sunghoon stepped inside, already removing his outer robe, the weight of the day clinging to him, court matters, endless voices, duties that did not cease for grief or exhaustion. He stopped the moment he saw him. Jaeyun was there, as expected, but asleep.
For a moment, no one moved.
Behind him, his head eunuch halted at once, lowering his gaze. Across the room, Euijoo stiffened in alarm. “Your Majesty—” he dropped into a deep bow, voice urgent but hushed, “forgive him, I will wake my lord at once—”
“No.”
The word was immediate. Both attendants froze.
Sunghoon’s gaze had not left Jaeyun. “Do not wake him.”
Silence fell again, deeper this time. Even the servants seemed to stop themselves, careful not to disturb the fragile moment. Jaeyun slept lightly, his head tilted against the pillar, breath slow but uneven, as though even rest did not come easily to him. His hands remained loosely folded in his lap, disciplined even in sleep.
Sunghoon stepped closer, slow and measured, and looked down at him.
Up close, it was clearer, the exhaustion, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tension that had not left his body even now.
“What occupies him?” Sunghoon asked quietly.
Euijoo hesitated, still bowed. “Your Majesty, my lord has been attending to his duties.”
“His duties are here.”
A pause. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Euijoo said carefully, “but Master Choi remains unwell. My lord has been sent in his place more frequently and outside the palace as well.”
That made Sunghoon look at him.
“There are those who cannot afford treatment, Your Majesty. My lord, he does not turn them away. He goes himself, even when he is not required to.”
Silence settled once more.
Sunghoon’s gaze returned to Jaeyun, to the man who said nothing, who asked for nothing, who remained where he was told to be, and beyond it, unseen.
Jaeyun stirred.
A faint shift, a change in breath, and then suddenly he gasped, sharp and broken. His body tensed, hands clutching at his robes as if grasping for something no longer there. “No—” the word came out hoarse, barely audible, but filled with something raw.
Sunghoon moved without thinking. He was at Jaeyun’s side in an instant. Euijoo followed, alarmed, “My lord—!”
Jaeyun’s eyes flew open. For a moment, he did not see them, his breath uneven, his gaze unfocused, caught somewhere between past and present. Then it settled on Sunghoon.
Everything stilled.
Jaeyun froze, and then, as if the world had snapped back into place all at once, he pushed himself upright and bowed immediately, too fast, too deeply. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I did not mean to—”
The words faltered. There was nothing he could say that would undo it.
The silence returned, but it was no longer the same.
Jaeyun remained bowed, his breath still unsteady. Sunghoon did not tell him to rise. He did not say it was all right. Instead, he simply stepped back.
“Prepare it,” he said.
Jaeyun blinked once, then immediately straightened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The shift in the chamber was swift. Euijoo moved at once, reaching for the tray, while one of the king’s eunuchs stepped forward to assist, relighting the small brazier to warm the medicine properly. The chamber stirred with urgency, but no one spoke beyond what was necessary.
Jaeyun’s hands steadied again, or at least, he made them so. He worked quickly and efficiently, measuring, pouring, adjusting the temperature with practiced precision. Every movement was controlled, as if the moment from before had never happened at all.
Sunghoon watched, as he always did. But this time, his gaze lingered longer. Jaeyun felt it.
When the cup was finally ready, he lowered himself once more, presenting it with both hands. “Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon took it. There was no pause, no hesitation. He drank.
Jaeyun’s eyes lifted before he could stop himself. It was brief, but enough. Sunghoon noticed.
“Why,” he asked quietly, “are you looking at me like that?”
Jaeyun stilled. Then, immediately, he lowered his gaze and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
No explanation. No excuse.
Sunghoon said nothing. The cup was set aside. The silence returned, familiar now, but carrying something faintly altered beneath it.
After a moment, Sunghoon spoke again. “You may leave.”
Jaeyun bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He rose, his movements precise despite the weight pressing behind his eyes, and stepped back. At the threshold, he paused briefly, lowering himself once more.
“My apologies for earlier, your Majesty.”
Then he left.
The doors closed softly behind him, and the chamber fell still. For a long moment, Sunghoon did not move.
“Come here.”
The voice was low, directed toward the shadows near the far pillar. A figure stepped forward at once, bowing. Not a servant. Not quite a guard. Something quieter, more deliberate.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
Sunghoon did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the place where Jaeyun had been.
“The medical provisions outside the palace,” he said. “The ones funded by the court.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Look into them.”
A pause.
“I was told they were sufficient.”
“They are meant to be, Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon’s expression did not change.
“And yet,” he said, his voice colder now, “there are those who cannot afford treatment.”
The man bowed deeper. “I will investigate immediately.”
“Discreetly.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
He withdrew without another word.
Silence returned to the chamber. Sunghoon remained seated, the empty cup still resting at his side. For a moment, his hand moved, just slightly, before stilling again. Jaeyun’s face lingered in his mind, pale, exhausted, and watching him.
Sunghoon exhaled slowly, his gaze lowering. He did not call for anyone else. But something unseen had already begun to shift.
⋆
The summons stopped.
At first, Jaeyun thought it was only a matter of time. A night missed. Then another. The pattern had never been steady, so he told himself it meant nothing.
But the days stretched.
And no one came.
The tray remained untouched in his chamber. The herbs he once prepared regularly began to dry where they were stored, unused, their scent fading slowly into the air. The North Wing felt farther away than it had ever been.
It should not have mattered. It was not his place to expect anything. And yet, it unsettled him.
Jaeyun found himself listening for footsteps that never came, glancing toward the door at hours he had come to associate with quiet summons. Even in rest, his body remained half-aware, waiting.
For nothing.
His duties, however, did not cease.
If anything, they lessened.
One morning, while tending to a villager just beyond the palace grounds, Jaeyun noticed something strange. The medicines he had once rationed carefully, simple herbs, dried roots, salves he prepared by hand, were now being distributed more freely.
Not by him.
Another herbalist approached, carrying supplies far more abundant than before. The quality was better. The preparation, refined.
Jaeyun paused. “These…where did you receive them?”
The man hesitated, then bowed slightly. “From the palace, my lord. We were instructed to provide care where needed. Payment is not required.”
Jaeyun stilled.
“By whose order?” he asked quietly.
“I was not told,” the herbalist admitted. “Only that it came from above.”
Jaeyun lowered his gaze. He did not ask further. But something in his chest tightened.
And softened.
At least, he thought, they will not be left unattended. At least, he does not have to worry.
And yet, his thoughts returned, again and again, to the same place.
The North Wing.
The King.
It happened without warning.
A servant arrived breathless at the South Wing, bowing deeply, voice urgent. “My lord, please come at once. His Majesty—”
Jaeyun did not wait to hear the rest.
He was already moving.
The corridors blurred.
He did not remember how he crossed them, only that his chest tightened with every step, something sharp and unfamiliar rising beneath his ribs. Fear, he realized distantly.
For the king. For Sunghoon.
By the time he reached the North Wing, his breath was uneven, his composure fractured in a way it had never been before. The guards stepped aside at once, the doors already open, the chamber filled with quiet urgency.
Master Choi was there.
Relief struck him first, sharp and immediate, but it did not last.
Sunghoon lay upon the bed, unmoving.
Pale. Too pale.
“What happened?” Jaeyun asked, already moving closer.
“A ceremonial powder,” Master Choi replied, his voice tight. “Burned during an offering. The smoke was not clean. Something was mixed into it.”
Jaeyun’s expression hardened. He leaned closer, observing, his fingers hovering briefly before settling lightly against the king’s wrist.
The pulse was there. But weak.
The king’s breathing is shallow.
“Open the windows,” Jaeyun said immediately.
Servants moved at once.
The chamber shifted as fresh air poured in, cool and steady. Jaeyun reached for the pouch at his side, withdrawing crushed leaves and herbs, grinding them quickly between his fingers before placing them near Sunghoon’s nose.
“To clear the lungs,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
He prepared another mixture, this time steeping it quickly, the scent sharp and bitter as steam rose into the air.
“Lift him slightly.”
Master Choi assisted without question.
Jaeyun brought the medicine carefully to Sunghoon’s lips, guiding it slowly, patiently. Not forcing.
Time passed. Too slowly.
A breath.
Deeper than before. Jaeyun stilled.
And then another. The tension in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
“He will recover,” Jaeyun said quietly, only then did he step back.
One by one, the attendants withdrew.
Master Choi lingered briefly, his gaze resting on Jaeyun with something unreadable, before nodding once and leaving him behind.
Jaeyun remained. He did not ask for permission. He simply stayed.
The room was quiet now.
The windows remained open, letting in the cool breath of spring. The curtains stirred gently, brushing against the wooden frames with soft, rhythmic movement.
Sunghoon slept. Peacefully, this time.
Jaeyun stood beside the bed for a long moment before finally allowing himself to sit.
Not close. Never too close and just enough.
Jaeyun's gaze drifted. Toward the window. Toward the garden beyond.
The plum trees.
Blooming.
White petals clung to the branches, delicate and fleeting, catching the light as they shifted in the breeze. Some had already begun to fall, scattering across the stones below.
Jaeyun stared at them. He did not need to be told.
He knew.
This was what Jungwon had seen. What he had waited for.
What he had loved, and his chest tightened.
He looked back at Sunghoon.
At his calm expression. At the faint color that had begun to return, just barely, to his face. At the man Jungwon had loved.
And suddenly it hurt. Deeply and quietly.
Jaeyun lowered his gaze.
He understood then, in a way he had not allowed himself to before. He would never be that. Never stand where Jungwon had stood, not truly. Not in the way that mattered.
That kind of love, that kind of trust, it had already been given, completely and irreplaceably.
And Jaeyun, he was only here because of it.
A physician’s aide.
A concubine by request.
A presence allowed, but never chosen
Still, his eyes lingered, just for a moment longer on Sunghoon. On the calm rise and fall of his breath. And something within Jaeyun softened, even as it broke.
He looked away first.
Jaeyun stayed. He did not move. He remained at the edge of the bed, watching the slow, uneven rise and fall of the king’s chest, the faint color returning to his cheeks, until the stirrings of breath became steadier, until he was certain that Sunghoon would continue sleeping without danger. Only then did he lower his hands, unclench his jaw, and allow himself the smallest exhale.
He turned to the king’s eunuch, who had lingered silently by the door, and said softly, “His Majesty is stable now. He will wake soon.”
His voice carried no triumph, no pride, just the calm of duty fulfilled, the exhaustion that weighed on him in waves.
He was about to go, but the eunuch stepped closer, voice hesitant, almost trembling.
“Sir, you are leaving already? Will you not wait for His Majesty to awaken?”
Jaeyun smiled, but it was small, sad, a curve of lips that did not reach his eyes, a shadow that felt heavier than any burden he had carried that day.
For him, the king did not need him in that way.
He was only a concubine, only a physician, only a presence allowed but never chosen, and he had long since learned that the safest place for his heart was quiet obedience and careful restraint.
“No,” he said gently, almost to himself.
“The head physician will come soon to tend to His Majesty. He will stay. I will go back now.”
His hands brushed lightly over the corner of the bed, over the linens as if saying farewell, though he would not allow himself to name it.
The eunuch opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to speak words of thanks or concern, but stopped himself, bowing instead, his nod small but respectful, the silence that followed heavier than any declaration.
Jaeyun moved toward the window, pausing just before he left. He gestured toward the open sash of wood and the cool spring air that slipped inside, brushing against the blankets, brushing against the king, and said, “Close the window before His Majesty awakens.”
The maid simply nodded, moving without question.
Euijoo, standing behind him, furrowed his brows slightly, his voice soft and uncertain. “Why close it, sir? The air is fresh….”
Jaeyun’s lips curved faintly, but only for a heartbeat.
He lowered his voice to a whisper so soft that it seemed meant only for the wind and the chamber itself. “Because the king might be sad looking at it.”
Euijoo looked at him, silence stretching between them, long and taut, heavy with understanding and unspoken knowledge.
Euijoo did not ask further. He did not need to.
He simply nodded once, the smallest acknowledgment of what had passed, of what he could feel in the unguarded tilt of Jaeyun’s shoulders, in the lingering ache in his eyes that carried more grief and care than words ever could.
Jaeyun gave one last glance toward the bed, toward the sleeping king, toward the bloom of white petals outside that mirrored a memory too painful and too tender to name, and then he turned away, letting the door close softly behind him, carrying with him the weight of both the past and the careful, fragile hope of what the present allowed him to be.
⋆
Sunghoon woke to the soft light of mid-morning slipping through the curtains, his head heavy, his body still sluggish from the fever that had gripped him. His first coherent thought, almost automatic, was of the head physician.
“Where is Master Choi?” he asked, voice hoarse.
The eunuch bowed deeply before replying, and within moments, Master Choi appeared, slightly bent with age but sharp-eyed as ever, explaining in calm tones what had happened, how a careless inhalation of a powdered herb had almost caused harm, and how, despite the danger, it was Jaeyun who had tended him first, applying knowledge and remedies so precise that the king’s condition stabilized before any real damage could take hold.
Sunghoon nodded, gratitude folding into the corners of his chest, but even as he listened, a question formed, unspoken yet pressing, why hadn’t Jaeyun stayed?
The room emptied slowly, as servants and aides returned to their duties, leaving only the eunuch at the edge of the bed.
Sunghoon’s gaze fell toward the window, noticing a subtle change in the way it had been opened, the sash tilted just enough to let a breeze pass without disturbing the blankets.
“Did someone open this?” he asked quietly.
The eunuch bowed again. “Your instinct is sharp, Your Majesty. It was opened, yes, and left as instructed by the concubine.”
Sunghoon frowned, curiosity rising. “And now?”
The eunuch hesitated for only a heartbeat. “He asked that it should be closed before Your Majesty awoke.”
Sunghoon’s brow furrowed deeper, a spark of interest and wonder threading through the fatigue in his chest. “Why?”
The eunuch only shrugged slightly, eyes careful, respectful, knowing the limits of what could be said. “He said… for the air, Your Majesty. For comfort. Nothing more.”
Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on the window, then slowly he commanded, “Open it again.”
As the panes swung wide, the breeze swept into the chamber, carrying the soft scent of plum trees in bloom from the palace garden below. The fragrance was delicate, almost fragile, yet sharp in its clarity, and Sunghoon inhaled sharply, the aroma stirring something deep within him. The plum blossoms, white and perfect against the pale morning light, struck a chord in his chest.
Suddenly, it was Jungwon, he was everywhere, in the scent of petals, in the memory of mornings like this, in the weight of longing that had never truly left him.
Sunghoon’s fingers tightened around the edge of the window, eyes fixed on the blooms, imagining how Jungwon would have loved this moment, how he would have leaned against him and whispered about the beauty of life continuing despite grief.
He did not move from the window, did not turn to speak, yet for the first time, the presence of Jaeyun’s intentions lingered in the air like a pulse, like a memory that was not yet his own, but might be someday.
The morning after, Jaeyun was summoned to the palace. His chest tightened at the thought, but beneath the anxiety, there was an undeniable relief. When he arrived, he learned that the king had awakened, his condition stabilized, his breathing steady once more.
Jaeyun lowered his head at the news, something in his chest loosening for the first time since the night before.
He was about to proceed to the king’s chamber when an attendant stopped him gently. “Walk into the garden first, sir. His Majesty awaits you there.”
Jaeyun bowed. “Yes.”
The garden is always beautiful.
Spring had fully taken hold, soft light filtering through branches now heavy with white blossoms. The plum trees stood blooming, their petals trembling faintly in the breeze, scattering across stone paths like remnants of snow that refused to disappear.
Sunghoon stood alone beneath them.
His hands were folded behind his back, posture straight, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees. He did not move when Jaeyun approached.
Jaeyun slowed his steps.
For a moment, just a moment, he forgot himself.
The king looked peaceful. The sunlight caught along the line of his profile, and Jaeyun’s chest tightened painfully.
He looks so handsome.
The thought slipped through him like something forbidden. His heart stuttered, and then ached.
Jaeyun lowered his gaze immediately and approached with careful steps, stopping at a proper distance.
“You asked for my presence, Your Majesty,” he said.
Sunghoon turned. His eyes found Jaeyun’s, and after a brief moment, he gestured. “Come closer.”
Jaeyun obeyed, closing some of the distance, though never enough to forget who they were.
Sunghoon turned back to the trees. “You know these,” he said. “Plum trees. My grandfather planted them. They’ve always been here in the North Wing and also in the West Wing.”
“Yes your Majesty,” Jaeyun said softly.
“Jungwon loved them.”
Jaeyun’s breath caught.
“When we got married,” Sunghoon continued, “I moved his chambers to the West Wing. So he could see them every morning. We had the same view.”
Jaeyun closed his eyes briefly. What kind of love was that?
“It was his favorite,” he murmured.
Silence settled, filled with someone who was no longer there.
“You attended him often.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
A pause.
“How did you meet him?”
The question was quieter than the ones before it, but it carried more weight. Jaeyun stilled. His fingers tightened slightly within his sleeves. For a moment, he said nothing.
“When my parents died,” he began, voice low, controlled, “I had nowhere to go.” He swallowed. “Jungwon found me. He let me stay with him for a brief moment. Protected me, when I had nothing.”
He did not say how.
He did not say why.
He did not say who had taken everything from him.
Only the part that could be spoken safely.
“I owe him my life,” Jaeyun finished softly. “He is one of the reasons why I am still here.”
Sunghoon watched him.
There was more there. He could hear it in the pauses, see it in the way Jaeyun’s gaze never lifted, in the way his voice thinned at the edges of certain words.
But Sunghoon did not press.
“I see,” he said quietly.
And somehow, that felt heavier than any question.
The wind stirred again.
“You attended him often,” Sunghoon said after a moment, his voice shifting again.
“Did he…suffer?”
Jaeyun’s breath caught.
“He was in pain,” Jaeyun admitted. “But he endured it quietly. He did not like others to worry.”
“That sounds like him,” Sunghoon murmured.
Another silence followed, softer now, shared. After a while, Sunghoon spoke again. “You said your parents died.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Mine did as well.”
Jaeyun’s fingers tightened. “I am sorry your majesty.”
“There is no need. It was long ago and you all know that,” Sunghoon said. Then, “But the absence does not leave.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Jaeyun replied. “It does not.”
Sunghoon turned to him then, studying him more closely.
“You speak carefully.”
“It is my place, your Majesty.”
“And if I said it was not necessary?”
Jaeyun hesitated, then shook his head. “It is necessary for me.”
“You are difficult to read.”
“I am only careful, your Majesty.”
“Careful,” Sunghoon repeated. “Or hiding something?”
Jaeyun’s breath faltered, but he steadied himself. “I would not dare to hide anything from Your Majesty.”
Not entirely true. Sunghoon noticed, but let it go.
Instead, he said, “Master Choi treats you as his own.”
“He does.”
“And yet you do not speak of him as a son would.”
Jaeyun hesitated. “He saved me. That is more than enough, and I am so grateful for that.”
“And before that?”
Jaeyun lowered his head. “Before that, I was no one.”
Sunghoon looked at him for a long moment.
“You are not no one now.”
Jaeyun looked up without meaning to. Something raw flickered in his expression before he forced it away.
“I am only what His Majesty allows me to be.”
Sunghoon did not answer immediately.
“You saved my life.”
“I only fulfilled my duty,” Jaeyun said softly. “I could not bear to lose you as you are our King and that would have made the wangbi-mama unhappy.”
Sunghoon let out a laugh.
“Then I cannot die.”
Jaeyun looked up, startled. Sunghoon was laughing and smiling.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jaeyun said, bowing slightly. “You cannot die.”
From a distance, the attendants watched.
The king was smiling again.
And for the first time since Jungwon’s passing, it did not look like something that hurt.
Beneath the falling plum blossoms, something fragile had begun.
Not love.
Not yet.
But no longer nothing.
⋆
Months passed.
Spring softened into early summer, and the palace resumed its unyielding rhythm, as if grief itself had been folded neatly into its rituals and set aside where no one dared disturb it.
The plum blossoms had long since fallen, their brief beauty surrendered to time, leaving only green branches swaying gently in the warm air. Yet even as the seasons moved forward, something within the palace remained suspended, caught between what had been and what could no longer be reclaimed.
At first, the summons came rarely.
Then, without announcement, they became frequent.
“The King requires his herbal treatment.”
It was said plainly, without implication, without room for interpretation. No one questioned it, not aloud, not in any way that would reach the wrong ears. It was, after all, a reasonable request. The King’s health had not fully recovered since the passing of the Royal Consort, and the palace physicians were many.
And yet, it was always him.
Jaeyun began to walk the path to the North Wing as though it had always belonged to him, though he never once allowed that familiarity to show. Each step remained measured, each movement precise, each bow as deep as the first time he had entered those chambers. He came when summoned, spoke when addressed, and left when dismissed. Nothing more, nothing less.
Still, the summons continued.
There were days when he was called twice in a single day, and others when three consecutive days passed with his presence required. No explanation was ever given, and none was ever asked for. It became a quiet routine, one that settled into the spaces left behind by loss.
One evening, as the last light of day faded beyond the palace walls, Jaeyun knelt upon the polished floor of the king’s chamber, arranging the instruments needed for the preparation of the herbal decoction.
The room was dim, illuminated only by a handful of lanterns, their glow soft and unintrusive. The scent of dried herbs rose gently into the air as he worked, his hands steady despite the lingering fatigue that had yet to leave him.
Sunghoon watched him.
He had grown accustomed to doing so, though he never spoke of it.
There was something in the way Jaeyun moved that drew the eye, not in a manner meant to attract attention, but in the precision of it. Every motion was deliberate. Every gesture carried intention.
He placed the cup before speaking, adjusted its position with care, then lowered his gaze before presenting it, as though the act itself demanded reverence.
“You prepare before you speak.”
The words were spoken without warning, cutting gently through the silence.
Jaeyun paused only briefly before lowering his head further.
“It is proper, Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon’s gaze did not waver.
“Not for a physician.”
The silence that followed was not tense, but it was not comfortable either. It lingered, stretching just enough to demand an answer.
“I learned it while attending to Wangbi-mama.”
The response came softly, respectfully, and without hesitation.
But it was also incomplete. Sunghoon knew it at once.
He had seen such movements before, had grown accustomed to them in a different presence, in a different time.
These were not habits formed through observation alone. They were taught, ingrained, practiced until they became instinct.
“You do not turn your back when you leave,” Sunghoon continued, his voice even. “You step back first. You measure your distance without looking. You lower your gaze at the correct moment.”
Jaeyun’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming their task.
“It is a habit, Your Majesty.”
“And that habit was learned from watching him?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Again, the answer came without delay.
Again, it was not the truth in its entirety.
Sunghoon said nothing further on the matter, though the thought remained, settling quietly within him, unresolved and persistent.
Jaeyun completed the preparation and presented the cup with both hands, his posture unchanged, his expression composed.
Sunghoon accepted it. This time, he did not pause.
He drank the medicine immediately, without question, without the hesitation that had once existed, however subtle it may have been.
Jaeyun noticed. He could not help but notice.
Before, there had always been a moment, a silence, a consideration, something unspoken yet present.
Now, there was none.
Sunghoon lowered the empty cup and looked at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jaeyun lowered his head at once.
“There is nothing, Your Majesty.”
The answer was carefully measured, and entirely insufficient but Sunghoon did not press him.
Instead, his gaze shifted briefly to the low table beside him, where several scrolls lay open, their contents exposed in the dim light.
“You read them.”
Jaeyun blinked, caught off guard by the change in direction.
“Your Majesty?”
“The reports,” Sunghoon said. “You glanced at them.”
Jaeyun’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“I apologize, Your Majesty. I did not intend—”
“You understood them.”
It was not a question. Jaeyun hesitated. There were many answers he could give, and none that felt entirely safe.
“A little, Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon leaned back slightly, studying him once more.
“You understand court matters.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“For someone who lived in the mountains,” Sunghoon said slowly, “that is unusual.”
Jaeyun’s fingers curled slightly within his sleeves, hidden from view.
“My hyung taught me.”
The word came naturally, slipping past the careful restraint he had maintained.
Sunghoon’s attention sharpened.
“You had someone.”
Jaeyun inclined his head.
“He explained things to me when I did not understand them.”
“And where is he now?”
The question was simple but the answer was not. Jaeyun lowered his gaze.
“He is gone, Your Majesty.”
The words were soft, but they carried weight.
Sunghoon watched him for a moment longer, noting the quiet grief that did not seek to be seen.
“I see.”
He did not ask further.
The nights continued in much the same way.
Jaeyun came when called. He prepared the medicine. He spoke only when necessary.
And yet, something within those moments shifted.
The silence between them no longer felt empty. It became something shared, something understood without being spoken.
Sunghoon began to notice what he had not allowed himself to notice before. The faint tremor in Jaeyun’s hands when exhaustion overtook him. The pallor that lingered no matter how composed he appeared. The way Jaeyun remained standing, always, even when dismissal did not come immediately.
Jaeyun, in turn, saw what others pretended not to see. The untouched meals left to cool. The sleepless nights that stretched into morning. The weight that never seemed to leave the king’s shoulders.
Neither of them spoke of these things.
They did not need to.
Within the palace, such changes did not remain hidden for long.
At first, the whispers were confined to the servants.
Then to the attendants.
Then, inevitably, to the officials.
“The concubine is summoned often.”
“At night.”
“Again?”
“It has been several days.”
“A physician, is he not?”
“Then why only him?”
The murmurs spread quietly, careful not to take shape in places where they might be heard by the wrong ears.
But they spread nonetheless. By the time they reached the outer court, they had already begun to change.
“He is favored.”
“A concubine of no standing.”
“And yet, always summoned.”
Disapproval settled into the spaces between words, unspoken but unmistakable.
In the North Wing, none of this was acknowledged. No mention was made. No explanation was offered. And yet, the summons did not cease.
They continued.
And within those unguarded hours, something began to form, not sudden, not overwhelming, but gradual and undeniable.
Not love. Not yet.
But no longer distance. No longer indifferent. Something that neither of them named. But something that had begun, all the same.
⋆
A year had passed since the death of the Royal Consort.
The palace had returned to its former grandeur, its halls once again filled with color, movement, and ceremony. Silk banners no longer hung in mourning, and the sound of bells had long since ceased. To those who observed from the outside, it would seem as though the kingdom had healed, as though time had done what it always did, moved forward, indifferent to what it left behind.
But within the palace, the absence remained.
The West Wing stood occupied only by memory. And the position beside the King remained empty.
No new Royal Consort had been appointed. No additional concubines had been brought into the inner palace.
What had once been understood as grief had, over time, become something else entirely.
It was first a concern then an opposition. It was only a matter of time before it reached the throne.
The audience hall was vast and immaculate, its polished floors reflecting the steady glow of lanternlight. Officials filled the chamber in orderly rows, their robes rustling softly as they settled into place, each movement measured, each breath controlled.
At the far end, elevated above them all, sat the King.
Sunghoon remained still upon the throne, his posture straight, his expression carved into something distant and unreadable. He listened as matters of state were presented before him, reports of harvests, border conditions, trade disputes, but his presence alone was enough to keep the hall restrained, the officials careful in every word they spoke.
It was near the end of the assembly when the shift came.
“The matter of the inner palace must be addressed, Your Majesty.”
The voice cut cleanly through the hall, respectful but firm.
The Yang patriarch. A man whose authority weighs on the name he carried.
Sunghoon did not immediately respond.
He allowed the silence to settle, heavy and deliberate, before his gaze moved toward the speaker. The patriarch continued, undeterred.
“The late Royal Consort has been mourned with the utmost respect,” he said, his tone measured, his posture impeccably composed. “The court recognizes Your Majesty’s devotion and honors it. However, a year has passed, and the position of Royal Consort remains unfilled.”
A pause followed, brief but intentional.
“The inner palace stands without its proper structure.”
Before Sunghoon could answer, another figure stepped forward.
The Kim minister.
Where the Yang patriarch carried authority, the Kim minister spoke with practiced precision, his words carefully chosen to appear reasonable, even necessary.
“Your Majesty,” he began, bowing deeply before lifting his head just enough to be heard clearly, “the Royal Consort is not merely a personal position. It is a cornerstone of the court itself.”
Sunghoon’s gaze remained steady upon him.
“The Royal Consort oversees the inner palace,” the minister continued. “Manages its hierarchy, ensures discipline among its members, and serves as a recognized counterpart to the outer court. Without such a figure, the balance between the two begins to weaken.”
The words were not forceful but they did not need to be.
“The longer the position remains vacant,” he added, “the more uncertain that balance becomes.”
A faint murmur stirred at the edges of the hall before quickly dying down.
Sunghoon’s hand rested lightly against the armrest of the throne, his fingers unmoving.
“And what is it you propose?”
His voice was calm and unyielding.
The Yang patriarch inclined his head slightly.
“If Your Majesty does not wish to appoint a new Royal Consort at this time,” he said, “then it would be wise to strengthen the inner palace through other means.”
Sunghoon’s gaze sharpened, though his expression did not change.
“Speak plainly.”
The Kim minister answered this time.
“Additional concubines, Your Majesty.”
No one moved. No one spoke.
“Each concubine represents a noble house,” the minister continued. “Their presence is not merely symbolic, it reinforces alliances between the throne and the most influential clans of the kingdom. It ensures loyalty, reduces the risk of factional disputes, and strengthens the stability of the realm.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
“It is also a matter of succession. The royal line must be secured. The absence of heirs invites uncertainty, and uncertainty invites unrest.”
The Yang patriarch stepped forward once more, his voice quieter now, but no less deliberate.
“There are also perceptions, Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Speak.”
The man bowed deeper.
“It is said that Your Majesty’s attention rests too heavily upon a single individual.”
The tension in the room tightened. No one needed clarification.
“The concubine,” the Yang patriarch said.
The word fell into the silence like something carefully placed.
“A man of no clan, no political standing, and yet he alone is summoned repeatedly. He alone occupies the inner palace in a way that invites speculation.”
The accusation was veiled, but unmistakable. Sunghoon did not react outwardly but something in the air shifted.
“You question my judgment,” he said.
His voice remained even but colder now.
The Kim minister bowed deeply.
“We question the imbalance, Your Majesty.”
“The court does not deny the concubine’s usefulness,” he continued carefully. “As a physician, he serves a purpose. However, the inner palace cannot remain centered on one individual of uncertain origin. It invites instability, and it limits the court’s ability to maintain proper alliances.”
Silence followed. Long and heavy.
Sunghoon leaned back slightly against the throne, his gaze sweeping slowly across the officials before him. None dared meet his eyes fully, though none withdrew either.
“You speak of stability,” he said at last. “Of alliances. Of succession.”
Each word was deliberate.
“And yet, what you ask is simple.”
He paused.
“You wish to place your own within my walls.”
No one denied it.
The Yang patriarch lowered his head further.
“We seek only to ensure the strength of the throne, Your Majesty.”
For a moment, nothing moved.
“I will consider it.”
The words were neither agreement nor refusal. But they were enough. The officials bowed deeply, relief flickering across their faces, subtle but present.
“Your Majesty is wise.”
The tension in the hall eased, just slightly, just enough to breathe again.
But upon the throne, Sunghoon remained unmoved. His expression revealed nothing. Yet beneath the stillness, something had shifted. Not his decision. But his understanding.
The court had spoken, and soon he would have to answer them.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of early spring as Jaeyun walked through the palace corridors. He had been summoned by the King, though he already knew why. Today marked the anniversary of Jungwon’s death, and Sunghoon had kept himself busy with work, burying grief beneath matters of state. Euijoo walked beside him, careful to keep pace yet not interrupt the rhythm of his thoughts.
“Sir Jaeyun,” Euijoo said quietly, hesitating for a moment before speaking, “there’s a rumor going around.”
Jaeyun glanced at him and laughed softly, shaking his head. “A rumor? And you choose to gossip about it?”
“It is for your knowledge, sir,” Euijoo replied with a faint smile, “the Kim Clan is planning to present a selection of concubines to His Majesty.”
Jaeyun stopped mid-step, his heart tightening, but he forced himself to keep walking. He would not allow disappointment, fear, or hurt to show. He was nothing but a concubine, tasked with tending the King, and nothing more.
Euijoo chuckled softly. “I did not expect such restraint from you, Sir Jaeyun.”
“I do not mind,” Jaeyun said, his voice quiet and steady. “The King may do as he wishes.”
“Still,” Euijoo said, shaking his head with amusement, “you are the favorite concubine. It does not suit you to be so calm.”
Jaeyun did not answer. He merely continued walking, telling himself that he had no right to feel selfish. The King did not even look at him the way he once had for Jungwon, and that was the truth he would hold.
When he arrived at the King’s chamber, he found the doors closed. He entered quietly, his heart stopping at the sight of Sunghoon asleep. The memory of the King’s near-death came flooding back, sharp and raw, and Jaeyun’s chest tightened.
He instructed the eunuchs that he would allow the King a few hours of rest before waking him, then stepped outside into the night air to calm himself.
He stood alone by the veranda, gazing at the plum trees. The season had shifted, petals swelling and trembling against the branches. Spring was asserting itself, and it was the same season Jungwon had loved. His chest ached.
Today, of all days, everything felt heavy, the rumors, the grief, the memory of a life that could never return.
He remembered hearing whispers in the court that the King was expected to choose a Royal Consort, perhaps someone of noble birth, someone of comparable status to the late Wangbi mama.
Jaeyun exhaled slowly. There had been a time when such matters would have meant everything to him, a time when he had been trained to be part of the palace.
He remembered seeing the young Sunghoon for the first time when he was fourteen, the crown prince, handsome and radiant even while playing sports with the other scholars. He remembered his hyung scolding him for not taking the lesson seriously, and his mother correcting his hyung, proud of the boy who would be honored by the palace one day.
Jaeyun smiled faintly at himself for the memory, and then the tears came. The grief he had carried all year, the loneliness, and the longing for family he had never truly had, spilled over.
He blinked against them and froze, surprised to see a cloth pressed gently against his cheek. Sunghoon stood before him, quietly wiping away his tears. Startled, Jaeyun instinctively moved back and reached for the handkerchief himself.
“Your Majesty, I can do it myself,” he murmured.
The King smiled, gentle and knowing. Jaeyun bowed his head, ashamed of his weakness, and said quietly, “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”
“I have rested enough,” Sunghoon said softly, his hand lowering from Jaeyun’s face. “Come. Stay for a while.”
Jaeyun hesitated. He had planned to wake the King in a few hours, allowing him to continue resting, then administer his medicine.
“We should go back soon so Your Majesty can take your herbal remedy,” he said, his voice measured.
“No,” Sunghoon said simply, and that was enough.
Jaeyun nodded, a small sigh escaping him, and allowed himself to be guided by the King toward the plum trees.
They walked together in silence, the only sounds the distant rustle of petals and the soft wind threading through the branches.
The King gestured toward a small gazebo that had not been used in some time, its wood polished but untouched.
The eunuchs quickly moved to ready it and prepare the medicine, while Sunghoon guided Jaeyun inside.
“I rarely come here in my free time,” the King said quietly.
“I usually spend those hours with Jungwon.”
Jaeyun nodded, his mind whispering the question he had never dared ask, what it felt like to be loved this way. To be cared for so wholly. To be seen.
“It has been a year,” Sunghoon said after a pause, settling into the quiet.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jaeyun answered softly. “I miss Wangbi mama, but it is nothing compared to Your Majesty.”
Sunghoon’s lips curved into the faintest smile at that.
A moment passed, broken only when the King spoke again.
“The selection of a Royal Consort and other concubines is approaching.”
Jaeyun did not respond. When pressed, he said, “It is Your Majesty’s decision to make.”
Sunghoon chuckled, amused by the way Jaeyun had answered without answering at all.
“If I accept a Royal Consort, if I bring others into the palace, I may not summon you as often.”
Jaeyun smiled faintly. “Then I can do nothing about it, Your Majesty. But I would be sad, I must ensure you drink your herbal remedy.”
Sunghoon laughed softly, the sound warm and rare, and the attendants and eunuchs exchanged subtle glances.
“Then I will always summon you,” the King said, and Jaeyun nodded, a small acknowledgment of the blooming trust and bond between them.
When the night drew on, and the gazebo grew still, Sunghoon rose and returned to his chamber. Jaeyun bowed low. “Goodnight, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Goodnight,” Sunghoon replied, his gaze lingering just a moment longer before the doors closed.
Jaeyun stepped back into the cool night air, alone once more, yet carrying with him the faintest warmth, a trust, a laughter, and the knowledge that even in grief, something new could begin.
⋆
Jaeyun walked quietly through the North Wing, carrying a basket of carefully prepared herbs for the king.
The corridors were quiet, the air faintly scented with ink and polished wood, and he moved with the practiced step of someone who had long learned to be invisible in the palace.
At his side, Euijoo walked silently, keeping pace and murmuring the necessary details in a low voice, while attendants followed a few steps behind, ready to respond to any need.
As they rounded a corner, Euijoo leaned slightly and whispered, “Sir, this morning the candidates for the royal consort selection are meeting here. The two most prominent are from the Yang and Kim clans.”
Jaeyun’s fingers tightened around the basket. “I see,” he murmured, though his heart quickened unexpectedly. He had known such a day would come, but the reality of it struck sharply.
They stopped near the side hall, and Jaeyun carefully peeked inside. His eyes fell first on the young man from the Yang clan, Baek Yang.
He was strikingly pretty, delicate and precise, with the same kind of refined poise that the palace prized. His gestures were controlled, his voice measured, and his eyes held an intelligence that marked him as someone born and trained for palace life. Even from a distance, Jaeyun could sense the discipline and polish that made him a formidable candidate.
Beside him stood Sena Kim, the candidate from the Kim clan. Equally polished, equally poised, every movement refined as though sculpted by endless training. He carried himself with an ease that spoke of years in the palace, of knowing exactly what to say and how to appear, a presence designed to impress and command attention without effort.
Euijoo whispered again, “Sir, the Yang candidate is Baek Yang, younger than the late Royal Consort by a year. The Kim candidate is Sena Kim, trained since childhood for life at court. Both are considered excellent choices.”
Jaeyun nodded without looking away.
He felt a pang of envy he could not deny. Both of them had been groomed for a life he had once been promised, a life stolen from him when it happened to his family.
He, who had once trained to be a part of the palace, now stood at the edge of this world as a concubine and physician, tasked only with tending the king’s health.
He adjusted the basket in his hands, pretending to be intent on his task, though his chest tightened painfully as he watched them.
Every gesture, every word from the candidates reminded him of what he had lost, of what could have been his if blood and fate had not intervened.
Baek Yang bowed slightly to someone Jaeyun could not see, and Sena Kim followed suit, both speaking in soft, polished tones about protocol, the king’s preferences, and strategies for earning favor.
Jaeyun’s envy deepened, tempered by a careful restraint. He could not let them see the tumult of his thoughts.
Euijoo leaned close, lowering his voice. “Sir, the king does not yet know how the candidates compare in presence and skill. But from what I hear, both are remarkably prepared for the court.”
Jaeyun allowed a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
He had seen enough to know the court’s expectation, the competition, and the life he had almost been denied. He would not speak of it. He would not let the king see the stirrings of his envy or fear.
Instead, he focused on his duty, delivering the herbs to Sunghoon later that morning, each step a careful reminder of his role as healer and as concubine.
Yet even as he handed the medicine to the king, his thoughts lingered on Baek Yang and Sena Kim, the carefully honed perfection of their training, and the sharp reminder that some lives were crafted entirely for the palace, while his own had been salvaged from ruin.
⋆
The palace glittered with lanterns and polished floors, and the air was heavy with the scent of incense and roasted meats.
Every candidate invited to the banquet sat in carefully arranged rows, their hands folded in precise posture, eyes darting to one another, calculating, observing.
Jaeyun moved quietly through the crowd, a soft presence beside the king, his steps careful, precise.
Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on him more than the others.
When the first tray of wine was brought, Jaeyun instinctively reached for the cup before the king could, his hands steady as he checked the temperature and aroma. Sunghoon did not speak. He did not need to. He simply watched, the faintest nod of approval grazing his features, and Jaeyun’s chest tightened under the weight of the unspoken understanding.
The candidates from the Yang and Kim clans noticed. The younger Yang, Baek, whose sharp eyes had studied the king from childhood, frowned, whispering to his companion.
Sena Kim’s jaw tightened, a polite smile frozen in place, but his fingers flexed beneath the table.
The way the king allowed Jaeyun to move so freely, the way Sunghoon’s hand brushed Jaeyun’s almost imperceptibly when receiving the cup, these were gestures that spoke louder than words.
Jaeyun kept his head lowered, his movements careful, almost invisible, but the court could see everything.
He poured the king’s wine with exact precision, ensured the herbal mixture Sunghoon drank was correctly measured, and subtly adjusted the placement of a napkin near the king’s plate.
Sunghoon’s attention never wavered from him.
“You’ve done this before,” the king said, just loud enough for Jaeyun to hear.
“I observe, Your Majesty,” Jaeyun replied, bowing slightly, “so that you may be safe.”
Sunghoon’s lips curved in the smallest of smiles, and it was enough. Enough for Jaeyun to feel a warmth that had nothing to do with the food or the wine.
Across the room, the other candidates stiffened. They had been trained to impress the king, to demonstrate grace and knowledge, yet none of them could move him with a glance, a touch, or the quiet competence that Jaeyun displayed.
The Yang and Kim clans exchanged subtle glares, whispers threading through the shadows of the room. One misstep from Jaeyun, one hint of favoritism noticed by the king’s attendants, and the tension would explode.
Jaeyun’s fingers brushed the king’s hand as he adjusted the cup. Sunghoon’s eyes met him for a heartbeat, just long enough for him to recognize the bond forming in the precision, in the care.
Jaeyun felt the weight of every gaze in the room, the envy, the anger, the whispered judgments, but he did not falter.
His place was here, beside the king, in this silent exchange that spoke of trust, responsibility, and something more dangerous than affection, influence.
The banquet continued, laughter echoing over polite conversation, but Jaeyun and Sunghoon existed in their own rhythm.
The clatter of dishes and the rustle of silk could not reach the fragile, unspoken connection between them.
And in the corners of the hall, the seeds of jealousy were sown.