It was a quiet early morning — the kind I’d grown used to. Most days, I woke to the sound of Eunchae snoring softly just outside my chamber.

  But today, something was different. My door was already open.

  It was my Abeonim.

  “I remember Eomeoni told me…” I thought to myself, “Father gives lessons in the morning.”

  He walked in slowly, eyes calm but alert. He stepped toward me and gently touched my cheek.

  “Did you sleep well, my dear adeura?” he asked, his voice warm.

  I wrapped my arms around him without thinking.

  “Yes, Abeoji.”

  A moment later, Sohwa came in carrying a tray of tea. As usual, Eunchae shuffled in behind her and gave it a careful taste — always taking his job too seriously, and somehow still half-asleep.

  Then the door creaked again. I looked up.

  There they were — Hana, Yura, and Mirae.

  They stepped into the chamber, heads bowed, moving in perfect unison.

  “Starting today, we will be serving Wangja-Mama,” the three maids said together.

  I couldn’t look away. My eyes stayed locked on them longer than I meant to.

  My father chuckled quietly beside me.

  “It looks like my son has his eye on someone,” he said.

  My face turned red.

  “It’s not like that…” I muttered, laughing under my breath.

  “…hehe.”

  My father and I left the chamber together, heading toward the resting shelter near the east garden. The wind brushed past us, carrying the scent of morning leaves. Some drifted down like snowflakes, soft and golden.

  As we walked, Abeonim spoke.

  “My son, there will come a day when the distance you walk feels unbearably long… but remember — you must keep moving forward.”

  We reached the shelter and sat beneath the open canopy. The world was quiet here — just the rustle of leaves and the low murmur of the wind.

  Then he turned to me again, eyes steady.

  “My son, you can’t change the past… but you can change the future.”

  He paused, watching the branches sway above us.

  “If even the strongest man can fall, then of course a normal man will. We are all driven by greed, desire, flesh, destruction… evil.”

  He looked down at his hands, then back at me.

  “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t humanity left in our hearts.”

  I said nothing — just listened.

  “One day,” he said with a proud smile, “you’ll take my place.”

  The words didn’t scare me. They just sat heavy in the air.

  “A country without a king will lead itself astray,” he continued.

  “But a country with a king — a corrupted one — will fall just the same.”

  He placed his hand gently on my shoulder.

  “But a country with a good king…”

  He smiled again.

  “…will flourish. In peace. In harmony. No evil can prevail if the people stand on the side of good.”

  Then his voice softened, just slightly.

  “And a king without God is a crown without foundation.”

  I took in every word. I knew most ten-year-olds wouldn’t understand the weight of what he said.

  But I wasn’t one of them.

  Not at heart.

  My father stood, and I followed as he led me to the palace sword training grounds. The courtyard was still shaded, the morning sun just starting to stretch across the stone floor.

  He wasn’t just a king by blood. He was a king by hand — by sword.

  I watched as he picked up a wooden practice blade. One clean motion. No wasted breath.

  One slash.

  The training dummy snapped cleanly in half, falling with a quiet thud.

  I barely breathed.

  “A blade is meant to cut down your enemies…” my father said, lowering the sword, “…but never forget — words can do the same.”

  He turned toward me, eyes steady.

  “Use both. When you must.”

  She appeared like a dream — my Eomeoni, dressed in soft morning silk, her beauty quiet and timeless.

  I rushed toward her before I could think.

  She smiled, arms open, and I sank into her embrace.

  Together, the three of us — Abeonim, Eomeoni, and I — walked out to a wide, open field behind the palace. The view stretched far, beyond the rooftops and gardens, to where the sky met the hills.

  We sat down in the grass.

  The breeze was soft.

  We watched the clouds drift above us, watched the birds rise and scatter across the pale blue.

  I leaned into her side, small and silent, letting the wind pass over us.

  It was peaceful. And for a moment, everything felt still.

  When it was time to go, we walked back together. My father returned to his court. My Eomeoni kissed me gently on the forehead.

  “You behave now, my dear Jinseo-ya,” she said, smiling.

  And just like that, I was alone again — but not empty.

  A guard came rushing toward me and my Eomeoni just as she was about to leave.

  “Wangja-Mama, two men have arrived with the items you requested,” he said.

  “Bring them in,” I replied.

  My mother smiled and kissed my forehead once more before departing.

  “You behave now, my dear Jinseo-ya.”

  I stepped back into my chamber, where my six attendants were already waiting for my orders. Calm, patient, loyal — always.

  I called out quietly, “Han, Jang. Come with me.”

  They entered with bowed heads.

  “We’ve finished the item and delivered it to the farmer, Wangja-Mama,” said Han, the carpenter.

  “And your spear,” Jang added. “I made it exactly as you described.”

  He held it out carefully — a weapon of my design, balanced and sharp.

  I handed them a pouch of coins, but they tried to refuse.

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  “This is your hard-earned pay,” I said firmly. “Take it. I insist.”

  They exchanged glances, then bowed deeply.

  “Call on us anytime, Wangja-Mama. Send a letter, a word, and it will be done.”

  And with that, they took their leave.

  I told the rest of my attendants to remain behind. Only Baekho followed me — injured, but capable. Always.

  We made our way to the commoner district.

  The moment we entered, the mood changed.

  I saw the truth in plain sight: hunger, sickness, silence.

  Thin bodies. Shaky hands. Children with hollow cheeks and empty eyes. Some played quietly in the dirt, but there was little laughter — mostly from the youngest, the ones who hadn’t yet learned to feel the weight.

  I caught glimpses of figures slipping through alleys. Bandits, likely. But they vanished before I could act.

  Still, I walked. Helped where I could. Spoke when needed.

  Along the way, Daeyoung found me. Without a word, he joined us — walking quietly beside me like a shadow. Loyal as always.

  I offered advice to merchants, to children, to the weary. I listened to whispers.

  Rumors flew like leaves in the wind.

  “The young prince slayed a bear.”

  “The young prince and his father… they’re our only hope.”

  And then I saw him.

  A boy — sitting alone, knees pulled to his chest. His shirt was torn, his hair a mess, and his body was covered in scars no child should carry.

  I knelt down gently, not too close.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Where are your parents?”

  He flinched.

  “What’s your name?”

  He looked up at me — wary, tired.

  “Joon,” he said. “I don’t have any parents.”

  I turned to Daeyoung.

  “Take him to Seo Haneul,” I said. “Tell Haneul this child is to be his disciple. These are my words — from Prince Jinseo.”

  Daeyoung bowed immediately.

  “Yes, Wangja-Mama.”

  He lifted Joon carefully onto his back and disappeared into the winding streets.

  “Let’s check on the rice fields,” I said to Baekho.

  “Yes, Wangja-Mama.”

  We strolled through the district, helping people along the way — lifting, listening, guiding. The air still smelled of dust and damp earth, but the weight wasn’t as heavy here.

  From a distance, I saw him — Kim Dalsu, standing tall with a proud smile stretched across his weathered face. The moment our eyes met, he rushed toward me.

  “Wangja-Mama,” he said, bowing low.

  “You may rise,” I said gently. “You seem… happy. How are things here?”

  He grinned wider. “Ever since your visit — since you gave us the tools and advice — everything has changed. We’re not exhausted like before. The work’s still hard, but it no longer breaks us.”

  I nodded.

  “Gather the others,” I said. “I’m passing out coins — think of it as your hard-earned reward.”

  He did as told. The farmers assembled, tired but wide-eyed. Baekho stepped forward, distributing coin pouches into their hands, one by one.

  Gratitude filled the space.

  And then Dalsu looked at me with a curious smile.

  “Strange to see a prince among mud and straw,” he said. “What brings you here, Wangja-Mama?”

  I smiled softly.

  “Can I tell you a story?”

  He chuckled, expecting a child’s tale.

  “Once, in a world far away, there was a boy who lived in a kingdom made of glass and steel. He had everything — knowledge, strength, power… but he lost everyone he loved.”

  “So when he died, the stars gave him a second chance. They sent him back — not to rule, but to change things. Not to wear a crown… but to earn it.”

  Dalsu blinked, a slow breath caught in his throat.

  “…That’s a heavy story for a boy your age.”

  I looked toward the horizon.

  “It’s just a story.”

  But my eyes told the truth.

  We made our way back to Seo Haneul’s home.

  The air was quiet here. Still. Peaceful in its own way.

  Inside, Haneul was already tending to Joon — wrapping his wounds, laying out fresh clothes, preparing him for a life he never thought possible.

  I walked in slowly, then knelt beside the boy.

  He sat on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He didn’t look up, not even when Baekho placed warm food beside him.

  The scars on his skin told stories no child should carry.

  I crouched a little lower, gently meeting his eye.

  “Joon,” I said softly. “Do you want to hear a story?”

  He didn’t answer, but his gaze flicked toward mine.

  That was enough.

  “There was once a boy,” I began, “who lived in a world made of steel and glass. It was too bright, too loud. Everyone wanted something from him. They loved him — until they didn’t.”

  Joon blinked, but stayed still. Listening.

  “He lost everyone. Everything. And when the world was gone… the sky, or maybe something beyond it, gave him another chance.”

  I kept my voice low. Not for drama — for peace.

  “They sent him to a new world. One filled with mud, and pain, and broken people. But also…”

  I looked at Joon again — not at the bruises, not the mess. Just him.

  “…also kindness. Even in the dark. Even after the pain.”

  Joon shifted slightly. His breathing slowed.

  “What did the boy do?” he asked.

  I smiled faintly.

  “He chose to stay. To fight. Not as a prince of stars… but as a king who walks among ashes.”

  Joon didn’t say anything more. But I saw something in his eyes —

  Not hope.

  Not yet.

  But something close.

  The sun was dipping low now, shadows stretching across the rooftops of the district. The air smelled of smoke and drying rice husks.

  I walked beside Baekho, our pace steady. His steps were heavier than usual — the wound still not fully healed — but of course, he didn’t say a word.

  He never did.

  “You shouldn’t be walking around like that,” I muttered, eyes forward.

  He grunted in response.

  Classic Baekho.

  I smiled to myself, then let the silence return. We walked in step, the rhythm of our boots the only sound between us.

  After a moment, I said, “Want to hear a story?”

  Baekho gave me a side glance. “You never tell stories.”

  “I do. You just don’t listen.”

  He rolled his eyes, but said nothing more. That was his way of saying yes.

  So I told him.

  “There was a boy once,” I began, “born with everything — intelligence, strength, ambition. But he was cursed. No matter how much he gained, he lost even more. One by one, the people he loved disappeared. Until he stood alone. A ruler with no kingdom. A warrior with no one left to protect.”

  Baekho didn’t interrupt. He never did when he knew it mattered.

  “But fate wasn’t finished with him,” I said. “It pulled him into a new life — one with a crown, a palace, and more responsibility than any boy should carry. And now…” I paused. “…he walks the line between past and present, trying to protect people who don’t even know who he really is.”

  Baekho stared ahead, silent.

  I didn’t expect a reply. I just needed him to hear it.

  After a while, he asked quietly, “It’s not just a story, is it?”

  I looked at him — didn’t hide it this time.

  “No. It’s me.”

  Baekho stopped walking for a moment, then nodded once.

  That was all I needed.

  We kept walking — two shadows heading back to the palace. One carrying a sword.

  The other, the weight of two lives.

  We returned to the palace just as night began to settle.

  Outside my chamber, I saw them — Hana, Yura, and Mirae — sitting near the door with Sohwa and Eunchae, waiting for me. When they spotted us, they stood and bowed.

  I nodded. “Come in,” I said. “All three of you.”

  Inside, the room was dim. Only two candles lit the space, flickering softly. The brazier crackled nearby, casting long shadows across the floor.

  I sat cross-legged against the wall, arms resting in my lap.

  They sat across from me — the three girls who would one day rule beside me… though none of them knew it yet.

  Hana leaned against the frame, one leg folded under her, eyes sharp but curious. Mirae sat closest to the fire, lazily playing with a thread on her sleeve. Yura knelt quietly between them, serene as ever, her gaze locked on mine.

  None of them spoke.

  But I could feel the question in the air.

  So I told them a story.

  “There was once a boy who lost everything.”

  That caught their attention.

  “He lived in a world that moved too fast, spoke too loud, and loved too little. He was strong. Brilliant. But it didn’t matter.”

  I leaned forward, watching the candlelight dance in Mirae’s eyes.

  “Everyone he loved… died. One by one. Until the world around him was hollow.”

  “That’s… sad,” Mirae whispered.

  “It was,” I said. “But the stars saw him. Or something beyond them did. And they gave him another chance. A second life — not in the world he came from… but in this one.”

  Yura’s voice was gentle. “What kind of world?”

  “This one,” I said quietly.

  Hana leaned forward now.

  “The boy was born again. Not as a hero. Not as a noble. Just a child. With memories he couldn’t share… and a pain no one could see.”

  “Why hide it?” Hana asked, voice softer than usual.

  “Because he didn’t want to lose everything again,” I replied. “He wanted to protect the people he hadn’t even met yet.”

  The fire popped in the brazier. No one spoke.

  They didn’t know the story was about me.

  Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  But they listened like it mattered.

  And for me… that was enough.

  Later that night, after they returned to their chambers, I stepped outside alone.

  The breeze was cool. The palace is quiet.

  And then I saw it — a falling star.

  Or… no.

  Not a star.

  A meteor.

  It fell faster than anything I’d seen, crashing just outside the palace walls.

  Smoke rose, small at first… then large.

  Fire flickered into flame.

  And then — screams.

  Before the guards at the front gate could react, I was already moving. I struck them down quickly — no time for panic.

  Baekho followed behind me as I opened the gate.

  And there, in the distance, through the fire and smoke…

  I saw it.

  A shadow.

  A roar.

  One single inhale — and the flames were gone.

  One single cry — and the ground shook.

  The worst fear…

  Had come true.