The silence in the room deepened.
Jade didn't blink. He inclined his head without hesitation, his voice steady, unwavering.
"I will prepare it immediately, Your Majesty."
No protest. No visible doubt. Only obedience—and something else—an unspoken understanding that flickered briefly in his eyes before he turned away to give the order.
Queen Genie stood still for a moment, her fingers curling slightly as they rested on the table. Her face, usually composed, betrayed a rare intensity. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip, a gesture she rarely allowed anyone to witness. A silent crack in the façade of royalty.
But she didn't hide it now.
'They dared…' Her thoughts roared beneath the surface. 'They trespassed on the royal tomb. Sacred ground. My father's resting place. They fired arrows meant for me— the sovereign of this land, the blood of kings, the protector of her people.'
A storm of fury and clarity welled within her chest.
'This is no longer a matter of scattered outlaws. This is an act of defiance—no, of war.'
Her gaze hardened, eyes narrowing with iron purpose.
'I will not allow this to continue.'
Whether it would end through diplomacy or destruction—she had not yet decided. But one thing was certain:
'This time, I will act. Myself.'
Late at night, the palace grounds slumbered in silence, blanketed in a hush broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze or the soft hoot of an owl perched on a distant rooftop.
But in one dimly lit corner of the foreign affairs courtyard, nestled beside the palace's outer gardens, a young girl lay wide awake—her body still, her eyes open and glistening in the dark.
Sixteen-year-old Surun tossed once, then again, tangled in the folds of her thin blanket. The room was filled with the gentle, even breathing of the other cultural envoys slumbering around her, their dreams far away. The wooden beams overhead creaked softly with the shifting wind, but inside the room, it was warm, still, and quiet.
And yet, Surun's heart would not rest.
It had been several months since she'd arrived in the capital and joined the royal cultural delegation as a ceramics envoy—one of the youngest among them. Her lodging was modest but dignified, tucked beside the palace's foreign affairs building, reserved for visiting scholars and craftsmen.
But unlike the others, Surun hadn't yet found peace in her new life.
Her fingers clutched the edge of her blanket tightly. Her eyes remained fixed on the wooden ceiling as her thoughts spiraled.
'Why hasn't a letter come today either… It's already been ten days since I sent my reply…'
She turned to her side and buried her face in her pillow, exhaling a deep, muffled sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire countryside.
Surun had grown up under the quiet care of her widowed father, a master potter known for his precision and soul-imbued clay. For sixteen years, the rhythm of the kiln was the rhythm of her life—days filled with spinning wheels, earthy scents, and her father's warm, calloused hands guiding her own.
But a year ago, that world shattered.
Bandits—merciless and greedy—descended upon their peaceful village. They killed her father, stole everything they had, and left nothing but ash and grief in their wake.
Surun had dropped out of school the very next week.
With trembling hands and raw determination, she began crafting pottery—anything she could shape, mold, and sell—just to survive and protect the one precious person she had left: her younger brother.
The village debts, the hunger, the freezing nights—she bore them all in silence. Her hands blistered. Her eyes blurred. But she endured.
Then came a glimmer of hope.
The palace had announced its annual cultural envoy selection, and among the disciplines listed was ceramics. Word spread that those accepted would be paid handsomely. Surun had barely hesitated. She traveled to the capital with the last of their coins and took the test. Her hands, honed by hardship, worked the clay with desperation and passion. And by some miracle—perhaps her father watching over her—she was chosen.
Now she lived within palace walls, surrounded by silks and scholars.
But her heart remained far away.
In a dusty little village, her younger brother was alone. And the silence from him grew louder with each passing night.
Beside her, a quiet rustle disturbed the silence. One of the girls stirred.
Akan, the envoy who shared the floor mat next to hers, groggily opened one eye, her hair mussed and her voice thick with sleep.
"Why… can't you sleep again… tonight…?"
Surun flinched with guilt.
"S-sorry…" she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Akan didn't respond right away. Her head remained buried in her blanket, but her voice floated up, faint and sleepy.
"Was it… again… your brother's letter… didn't come?"
Surun turned onto her side to face her. She nodded softly, forgetting for a moment that Akan likely couldn't see it.
"Mm," Akan murmured, barely conscious now. "Don't worry too much… the letter will come soon…"
Surun stared at her friend's sleepy silhouette. The warmth of her words lingered longer than the sound of them.
"…It'll come soon, right?" she whispered.
She closed her eyes.
'I just hope… nothing's wrong.'
Another sigh escaped her lips.
Early morning light spilled over the palace roofs, painting the courtyard in pale gold. The crisp air still carried the faint tang of steel and sweat from Queen Genie's dawn training. Her steps were steady, measured, as she made her way back toward the royal office.
"Your Majesty."
The voice cut through the stillness behind her. Genie halted mid-step, her spine instinctively straightening as she turned. She knew that voice.
Across the expanse of stone, Jade was striding toward her, his long shadow stretching before him in the slanted light. His expression was composed, but there was something in his eyes—hesitation, perhaps—that flickered and was gone.
He stopped before her, bowing low.
"Your Majesty, I have brought the materials you requested yesterday regarding the bandits."
From within his arm, he produced a thick stack of documents—fresh ink still faintly scenting the air. The weight of his work from the night before.
Genie took the file, her gloved fingers brushing his briefly. Her face remained unreadable, her voice even.
"Thanks. I'll review it."
No more, no less. She turned on her heel, her robes whispering against the stone.
"Your Majesty," Jade's voice came again, a note sharper this time—almost urgent.
She paused, turning her head back toward him, her gaze cool and deliberate.
"Is there something else to report?"
The question was precise, cutting.
Jade froze for the briefest heartbeat. The memory of the temple flashed in his mind—her voice that night, trembling yet resolute, confessing what she felt. His own words, firm in refusal. Since then, the air between them had grown winter-cold.
Jade had always understood why the queen kept her distance during meetings with other officials. There was no need for her to acknowledge him there—not as Jade, not as the man she had once stood beside in private.
But now, with only the two of them in the quiet morning courtyard, her frostbitten demeanor struck him like an unexpected blow.
This didn't feel like the Genie he once knew—the woman whose laughter had once warmed the chillest winter evening.
He stood rooted, the words caught in his throat, as she fixed him with that calm, glacial gaze.
"If there's more to report, do it at tomorrow's council meeting. That will be all."
Her voice left no space for argument.
Without the slightest hesitation, Queen Genie turned away, her dark robes flowing in measured rhythm against the pale stone path. Her attendants, like shadows, dipped their heads in a polite nod to Jade before trailing after her.
He could only watch her retreating figure, his hands slack at his sides.
'Your Majesty… Do you dislike me now…?'
The unspoken question burned in Jade's chest like a coal pressed to flesh, its heat threatening to rise to his lips. Yet he swallowed it down, feeling the sharp dryness in his throat. The silence between them became a wall—taller, colder—than any palace gate.
Genie, however, did not walk away unscathed. Beneath her perfectly measured steps, the composure she wore like armor felt unsteady.
'Was I too cold…?'
It was the first time they had stood alone together in months, yet she had met him with nothing but the formal mask of the crown. The weight of the moment pressed against her, but the truth remained—facing him as she once had was no longer possible. The wound he had left at the temple had not faded; it still pulsed deep within, raw and unhealed. To offer him even the shadow of a smile felt like betraying the part of herself still bleeding.
The spring sunlight poured across the palace grounds in golden streams, pooling on the white stone and catching along the curve of her cheek. Genie slowed, almost without realizing it, lifting her face toward the gentle light. The breeze swept past, soft and cool, carrying the faint perfume of distant blossoms—the first true scent of the season.
Her fingers curled faintly at her side, as if resisting the urge to turn, to speak, to bridge the distance.
'When will spring finally come for us…'
Her gaze lingered on the pale blue above, where drifting clouds moved lazily across the sky. But even as sunlight touched her skin, its warmth could not pierce the frost sealed deep around her heart.