The boy stood at the edge of the veranda, where the wood met the open air, and beyond it—mountains whispered beneath the breath of dusk. The sun had long begun its descent, casting gold-tinged shadows across the courtyard stones.
"Yes, Father," Moonsen said, his voice barely above the hush of the evening wind.
His father turned slowly, the lines in his face catching what remained of the dying light. He studied his son not as a boy, but as something in between—no longer cradled by childhood, not yet forged by the world.
"No matter what others say about you," Moonho began, his voice deep and deliberate, "you must never lose yourself."
Moonsen blinked. The words, though gentle, struck with the weight of something unspoken—something ancient, inherited.
"Not lose myself…" he echoed, puzzled. "What do you mean by that, Father?"
There was sincerity in his gaze, a kind of brightness that had not yet been dimmed by disappointment. Moonsen's face—yes, that name still rang tenderly in his father's heart—shone with a rare intelligence and a softness that bordered on fragile.
Moonho exhaled through his nose, letting the silence stretch between them like a drawn bow.
"The path you're about to take," he said slowly, "will not be an easy one."
He turned back to the horizon, where the sky now bled into violet and ember.
"There will be those who try to harm you. And others… who will try to follow you, though they do not understand where you are going. They will see your light and mistake it for a destination."
He turned to his son again, eyes heavy.
"But my son…" He stepped closer, his voice quiet now, almost reverent. "If there is one thing you must never lose—it is yourself."
The words hovered between them like an invocation.
"Do you understand your father's words?"
Moonsen hesitated only a moment, then nodded.
"Yes, Father. I will keep your words close to heart."
The boy stood with a quiet dignity, his silhouette outlined by the amber light, like a young tree planted in firm soil, not yet knowing the seasons it must endure.
Moonho allowed himself a small smile—withered at the edges, yet true.
'My son…' he thought, but the rest remained lodged in his chest.
'You may have a very difficult road ahead of you… one I will not be able to walk with you.'
But he said nothing more.
Instead, he looked up at the first star blooming in the twilight sky—and said a prayer only God could hear.
The sky hung low, a ceiling of heavy black clouds stretched across the heavens, drenching the forest in a relentless downpour. The world beyond the overhang was a blur of gray mist and dripping leaves. Rain drummed steadily on the canopy above, a ceaseless rhythm that filled the silence between them.
Beneath the shelter of a worn linen tarp, Queen Genie sat cross-legged, her cloak soaked at the hem, though she didn't seem to mind. She brought a rice ball to her lips, biting into it quietly, as if the act itself required ceremony in the hush of the storm.
She glanced sideways.
"Jade, are you not going to eat?" she asked, her voice muffled through a mouthful.
Jade sat nearby, his posture still proper despite the cold dampness clinging to them both. He looked up, meeting her eyes with a soft smile, then unwrapped a rice ball from the cloth bundle in his lap.
"I'm fine," he said. "Please, Your Majesty, have more."
Genie finished chewing, then gave him a pointed look, brushing a damp strand of hair from her brow.
"You can't do that," she said, gently but firmly. "You haven't eaten anything since we left the inn. You need your strength."
She nudged the bundle closer to him, her gaze steady and expectant.
"Please," she added.
For a moment, Jade hesitated—but then, with a sheepish nod, he took a reluctant bite. The flavor—warm, savory, laced with sesame and a hint of seaweed—spoke of the kind innkeeper's hands, of a hearth and a kitchen far removed from the cold wilderness where they now sat. It tasted like home, and safety, and fleeting comfort.
But even as he chewed, he could feel her eyes on him.
Genie watched him like a hawk, not out of suspicion, but with quiet concern. It made him oddly self-conscious. He swallowed faster than he meant to, as if to prove he was fine.
"It's quite good, Your Majesty," he said, clearing his throat as he looked away—half to hide his flustered smile.
"How does it compare," Genie asked, her voice almost too casual, "to the meals prepared by Master Chef Enna back at the palace?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Jade blinked, visibly caught off guard. His eyes widened a fraction—just enough to betray surprise. Genie immediately regretted the words. She turned her gaze toward the rain, watching droplets gather and fall from the tarp's edge like tiny silver arrows.
'Why did I ask that…'
The question echoed in her mind, foolish and out of place.
"That was inappropriate," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Of course, Master Chef Enna's meals must taste far better."
Jade said nothing at first, and the silence between them thickened with the scent of wet earth and unspoken things. Feeling suddenly foolish, Genie gave a light, awkward kick at a shallow puddle beside her boot, sending ripples through the rainwater like her own thoughts—scattered, restless.
But then Jade's voice came, low and steady.
"While the taste of food matters," he said, "the person you eat it with is just as important to me, Your Majesty."
Genie turned, startled by the honesty in his tone.
He looked at her then—truly looked at her—and in the calm depths of his eyes, still and reflective like a mountain lake, she saw her own face mirrored back at her. Not the queen. Not the monarch of ten provinces. Just… Genie.
"That's why this rice ball tastes good to me right now."
And just like that, something in her chest dropped—thud—like a stone into deep water.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't sadness.
It was something unnamed. A fluttering, breathless sensation, equal parts thrill and uncertainty—like standing at the edge of a high cliff, knowing the wind could either lift you… or let you fall.
"Then…" she said slowly, her voice barely audible over the patter of rain, "are you happy right now?"
'Because you're with me?'
The words lingered behind her lips, unspoken but unmistakable.
Jade didn't answer. Not with words.
Instead, a small smile curved on his lips—gentle, but full of something quiet and meaningful. It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't royal etiquette. It was something more sincere than either.
And in that smile, Genie felt a tremor in the armor she'd worn for so long.
Emotions—long buried beneath the weight of duty and silence—rose like a tide. Her heart whispered yes, even as her mind screamed no. Somewhere inside, a part of her dared to hope. That maybe—just maybe—he felt something too.
But right behind that fragile hope came the fear. The kind of fear that doesn't announce itself with panic, but slips in quietly, wearing the face of doubt.
And worst of all… was the frustration.
'Why do you do this to me so easily?'
She could command armies, silence ministers, and sign decrees without blinking.
Yet with just one smile, he undid her.
"Ha…"
A soft, breathy sigh escaped Genie's lips, the kind that carried too much weight for so few letters. Her shoulders dipped slightly, the tension in her spine momentarily unwinding.
She lowered her head.
The rain had eased into a fine mist now, a gentle hush falling over the forest trail. At her feet, a shallow puddle had gathered—muddy but still enough to hold a faint reflection. Genie stared down at the image staring back.
Her own face, blurred by ripples. A queen. A woman. A girl trying not to feel too much.
"It's so unfair," she murmured, almost to the reflection.
"Pardon, Your Majesty?" Jade asked, startled by the bitterness in her tone.
She didn't lift her head. Her fingers curled slightly, clenched against the fabric of her wet cloak. Her voice, when it came again, was tight with unspoken emotion.
"You're never honest, Jade," she said. "I feel like I've laid all my feelings bare…"
Jade stood in silence, the words hanging between them like fragile glass. Then, to Genie's surprise, he chuckled. A low, warm sound that seemed entirely out of place in the solemn air.
Her head snapped up.
"What's so funny?" she demanded, frowning.
He raised a hand to stifle the lingering smile, though amusement still played faintly at the corners of his lips.
"Nothing, Your Majesty," he said, his tone soft. "It's nothing."
Genie narrowed her eyes at him. That answer didn't satisfy her—not in the slightest. She hated how often he disarmed her like this, how easily he made her forget the practiced poise of royalty.
'Why was it always like this with him?'
She was the Queen. The ruler of the entire kingdom. She was supposed to be distant, dignified, untouchable. And yet… here she was, pouting like a young girl whose heart had been mishandled.
What Genie didn't know—couldn't possibly know—was the way Jade looked at her in that moment.
Not like a subject gazing at his monarch.
Not like a knight admiring a noblewoman.
But like a man watching the woman he loved, aching with affection too deep and dangerous to be spoken aloud.