Behind that ever-calm exterior, behind the reserved words and well-measured glances, lay a quiet storm of devotion.
Then he spoke softly and sincerely.
"Your Majesty…" He hesitated, as if the words themselves had weight. "I like how honest you are."
'You like how honest I am…?'
Genie's heart stirred again, uneasily. A warmth fluttered in her chest at his words—but it lasted only a moment.
Because then, Jade spoke again.
"And I'm sorry to say this," he said quietly, almost apologetically, "but also… I know it will make you hate me."
He paused, then finished with a softness that struck harder than a shout:
"I can't be honest with you."
For a second, she thought she'd misheard.
Her brow twitched, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but confusion. The words hung in the air like a drop of ink in clear water, slowly spreading.
'Can't be honest…? What does that mean?'
Her gaze drifted toward the world beyond the edge of the tarp, where the path disappeared into mist and water. The forest blurred like a half-remembered dream. The rain was steady again, soft and ceaseless.
"Why not…?" she asked, her voice distant.
Jade didn't respond. Not right away.
He kept his eyes on the same view she watched—gray trees veiled in rain, the horizon swallowed by clouds. But his thoughts weren't on the landscape.
'I can't tell you, Your Majesty… that I've been lying to you all this time. That from the very first moment we met, I've deceived you. I can't bear to see your face fall. I don't have the courage to be hated by you…'
His hands, usually so composed, clenched slightly at his sides.
If she knew the truth—everything he'd hidden behind his composed smiles and careful words—would she ever look at him the same way again?
The silence between them was no longer peaceful. It was charged. Tense. Like a bowstring drawn taut.
Still without an answer, Genie turned to him again. Her voice came quieter this time, but more direct.
"Why can't you be honest, Jade?"
She lifted her gaze.
Jade's face was tilted slightly upward, as if searching for something in the bruised clouds above. His long, slender lips—so often curved in diplomacy or sealed in silence—were trembling now. Just barely. But enough to betray him.
Then, finally, he spoke—his voice almost lost in the hush of the rain.
"Because…" He paused, swallowing. "I've never been honest in my life."
Genie's breath caught. Her eyes widened—just slightly, but enough to reveal she hadn't expected him to say it. Not aloud. Not like that.
'Never been honest…'
Somewhere inside, she had always suspected. There had always been something veiled in his eyes, some curtain he never let fall. And yet… hearing it was different. Hearing it was real.
Jade continued, his tone low and raw.
"Because I've never been honest… I've forgotten how to be."
His voice trembled, not from weakness—but from weariness. As though carrying the weight of that truth had cost him more than anyone knew.
Genie looked away, back to the world outside. The storm, once violent and unrelenting, had calmed. The roar of the rain was gone, replaced by a gentler rhythm. Raindrops fell like whispers now, kissing the leaves and the earth below.
And in that stillness, her voice came.
"Then from now on…" She spoke slowly, as if tasting each word. "You can learn how to be honest."
The sound of her voice lingered, blending with the rain, carrying something delicate—something he hadn't heard in a very long time.
Forgiveness.
Hope.
Jade turned to look at her.
She was still watching the drizzle, a small smile forming on her lips—quiet, graceful, unforced. As if something inside her had simply settled.
Then she turned her head toward him, and their eyes met.
There it was again. That look.
Not the gaze of the Queen.
Not of a monarch surveying her subject.
But of a woman… who had let her guard down.
'It seems I really can't help it…'
The thought passed through her like a sigh.
She smiled faintly.
And in that moment—just that moment—something inside Jade shattered. Or perhaps… something inside him finally gave in.
His heart stilled.
His breath caught.
He froze, as if time itself had stopped moving around them. It was like a single beam of light had broken through the overcast sky, cutting through the shadows he had long hidden behind.
'I knew it,' he thought, eyes trembling as they drank her in. 'I… can't push her away.'
Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of the palace kitchen, slanting in golden shafts across the stone floor. Dust motes danced in the warm light like tiny fairies, swirling over polished counters and long-forgotten copper pots. Amid the hush, broken only by the occasional crackle of the hearth fire and the soft bubbling of a saucepan, Enna stood alone at the center table.
She leaned forward, brows knit in concentration, a wooden spoon poised like a painter's brush above her latest creation. The sauce—thick, rich, and fragrant—steamed gently as she drew up a spoonful, letting it cool slightly before bringing it to her lips.
A pause.
A purse of the lips.
"Still a little too salty…" she murmured, half to herself.
Her hand moved instinctively toward the bowl of fresh ingredients, selecting a pinch of finely chopped garlic. The rhythm was almost musical—garlic falling into the pot, spoon stirring in smooth, practiced circles. The scent changed almost immediately, deepening, rounding.
"Now..." she whispered.
Another taste.
A beat.
Then, her eyes lit up.
A smile—sudden, luminous—spread across her face. The kind of smile that would never appear on command, only in moments like this, when a creation felt just right.
"This is it," she said aloud, quietly triumphant.
Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open on its hinges, letting in a cool breeze and the scent of distant lilac from the palace gardens. Enna turned, startled, as a familiar figure stepped into the room.
The court lady.
Her boots echoed softly against the tiles as she approached, dark curls tucked under a linen scarf, a basket of herbs hanging loosely from one arm.
"Master Chef?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "You're here—even though Her Majesty isn't?"
Enna tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and offered a sheepish smile. There was a smear of flour across her cheek she hadn't noticed.
"I was just working on a new recipe," she said, lowering the spoon. "It's easiest to find time when Her Majesty is away. The kitchen's quieter. No rush, no interruptions."
The court lady leaned against the doorway, eyes scanning the room—empty worktables, stacked pans, a lone saucepan still simmering.
"You're truly amazing, Master Chef," she said with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "All the other kitchen maids took leave to go beyond the palace walls. A golden break—and you're still here, cooking."
Enna shrugged, her fingers wrapping unconsciously around the handle of the pot.
"It's nothing, really."
But her smile gave her away. Quiet. Modest. Yet undeniably proud.
And in the silence that followed, the soft clink of the spoon against the side of the pot felt almost like a heartbeat—steady, alive, full of promise.
The wooden spoon clinked softly against the side of the pot as Enna turned, caught off guard by the sudden arrival.
She offered an awkward smile.
"I was just working on a new recipe. It's easiest to find time when Her Majesty is away."
Sunlight flickered across her face, glinting off the sheen of effort on her brow. A faint trace of garlic still clung to her fingertips.
The court lady stepped fully into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her with a thud softened by the quiet. Her eyes scanned the empty workspace—the quiet hum of the room gave the moment a kind of reverent intimacy.
"You're truly amazing, Master Chef," she said with a shake of her head, clearly impressed. "All the other kitchen maids went on leave outside the palace, and here you are during this golden break—still working!"
Enna gave a shy smile, tucking her chin slightly.
"It's nothing, really."
But before the court lady could reply, a glimmer passed through her expression—mischief, perhaps, or the thrill of some freshly plucked rumor.
Her voice dropped, sparkling with unspent excitement. "But, Master Chef… did you hear?"
Enna tilted her head, puzzled. "Hear what?"
The court lady leaned in slightly.
"I just heard from another maid. About the royal consort appointment. It may finally resume—after being on hold for so long."
Enna went still.
A beat passed.
The quiet bubbling of the sauce seemed to grow louder.
"Ah…" she murmured, trying to sound neutral.
But one name rose like a sun behind her eyes.
Jade.
She hadn't heard his voice in weeks. Hadn't seen him on the garden paths or near the eastern court. Not since the postponement. Not since that last evening—words half-spoken, left hanging between duty and something else.
Then perhaps…
Her mind turned inward.
The court lady, still oblivious, went on brightly.
"So it seems the previous final candidates might be reconsidered again!"
Enna lifted her head slowly.
"Then…"
"Yes!" the court lady nodded eagerly. "Including Minister Jade, and Moonsen from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs…"