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Chapter 141 - Moonsen and His Father

Shaaahhh—

The sudden downpour hammered the plains, forcing Queen Genie and her warriors to scatter for shelter among a cluster of abandoned houses. Muddy water pooled along the narrow paths between them, and the scent of wet earth and thatch filled the air. Following her orders, the warriors disappeared into separate vacant homes, leaving a hushed space around the Queen.

Standing beneath the overhanging eaves of a small, weathered hut, Genie lifted her gaze to the dark, cloud-laden sky, letting the rain strike her shoulders and forehead. The world seemed muted, the landscape blurred by sheets of water.

Jade entered the smallest empty house alongside her, his steps quiet on the soaked wooden floor. He did not speak; he only watched the rain, tracing its path as it slipped down the eaves and splashed into puddles. His thoughts drifted back to her face earlier, streaked with tears as the first raindrops fell.

'Her Majesty… was crying…'

He longed to ask why, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he remained beside her, sharing the silence, letting the rain speak for them both. Time stretched, heavy and still, each droplet striking the thatched roof above like a metronome of unspoken grief.

At last, Genie broke the quiet, her voice low, almost fragile. 

"All of this… feels like a dream in the middle of the day."

Jade turned his head cautiously toward her, searching her calm features.

"Now that I think about it… everything feels so… meaningless."

There was no bitterness in her tone, only a sorrow he could not name, a weight that pressed against the walls of his chest. He struggled to find a question gentle enough to ask. 

"Why would Your Majesty say such a thing…?"

Genie let out a deep, shuddering sigh, eyes still lifted to the rain-darkened sky. The droplets fell upon her face, and for a fleeting moment, Jade could not tell where the rain ended and her tears began.

"What have I been running toward? And what am I running for? I no longer know."

Jade remained silent, his eyes fixed on her. The Queen looked fragile here, far weaker than the composed figure he had always known within the palace walls. The weight of her words hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside.

"Your Majesty… Did the physician say anything to you earlier?" he asked quietly, his voice careful, tentative.

Genie bit her lip, a small, fleeting gesture of uncertainty. "No… it's nothing like that…"

He leaned closer, softening his tone. "Then… is there some other matter troubling you?"

She wanted to speak, to unburden the heaviness pressing against her chest, but the words would not come. There was nothing—nothing she could confess to him honestly. Her sigh was quiet, almost lost amidst the rain drumming on the roof.

"It's just… I feel as though I want to leave everything behind."

'Your Majesty… are you truly all right?'

Jade's mind raced, searching for words, any words that might soothe her. One thing was certain—she was exhausted, utterly spent. He wanted to tell her to rest, to let someone carry her burdens for a moment, but he could not. She was the ruler of this nation. And for a ruler, true rest did not exist. No one knew that better than Jade.

Then a thought emerged, fragile and hesitant, drawn from the recent high council meeting. ㅆhe proposal to resume the Royal Consort Appointment.

'Perhaps that appointment could give Her Majesty a moment's respite. But the candidate…'

He bit his lip, troubled, thoughts tangled and incomplete.

Genie watched him quietly, noting the depth of his reflection. Her gaze softened, rain-slicked lashes brushing her cheeks. 

"What are you thinking about so intently?"

Her voice was soft, gentle, yet carried the quiet authority of one who could command attention without raising it. Jade met her gaze, those large, clear eyes framed by rain-dappled lashes. For a moment, he felt adrift, caught in the depth of her presence, the storm outside fading into the background.

"Jade?" Her voice tugged him back, grounding him in the reality of her concern.

"It's nothing, Your Majesty."

He blinked rapidly, shaking off the daze that had left him suspended between thought and feeling. Hesitation gripped him, a tension between what he longed to say and what he could not.

"What is it? Truly?" she pressed, leaning ever so slightly closer, as though she could read the conflict in his expression.

He shook his head, silent, the weight of unspoken words pressing against his chest. There were thoughts he could not voice—matters she had already rejected, decisions too delicate to disturb. Especially not the Royal Consort Appointment.

"It's nothing, Your Majesty."

His gaze dropped, tracing the rain-slicked ground beneath him. A truth lingered, locked away, heavy and unshared—a fragile confession he feared would never reach her. And yet, even buried, it pressed against him, a quiet ache he could neither release nor fully contain.

On the veranda of his stately home, Moonho sat quietly, the steady rhythm of rain pattering against the roof blending with the muted scent of wet earth. He lifted his spoon, pausing mid-motion as if the weight of his next words might spill over with it.

Just as his son, Moonsen, was about to raise his own, Moonho's voice cut through the gentle rhythm of the rain.

"Moonsen."

"Yes, Father," Moonsen replied, sensing the unusual gravity in his tone.

"There is something I have long wanted to ask you. Answer me honestly."

The words carried a weight that made Moonsen pause. He nodded, silent, attentive, understanding that this was no idle question.

Moonho continued, eyes fixed on the horizon where rain blurred the edges of the distant mountains. 

"I wish to ask you about Her Majesty's Royal Consort Appointment."

Moonsen's eyes widened slightly. His father, long retired from court affairs, had shown little interest in political matters for years. Even during the previous Royal Consort Appointment—when Moonsen himself had been a finalist—Moonho had waved it off, claiming there was nothing to worry about until the decision was made. That his father now brought it up so earnestly surprised him.

"Please speak, Father," Moonsen said, his voice careful, respectful, yet laced with curiosity.

Moonho's gaze softened, but his tone remained steady. "I want your true feelings. Do you desire to become the Royal Consort of this nation?"

A tense silence hung between them, broken only by the rain tapping against the veranda.

"…Yes," Moonsen said finally, his voice quiet but unwavering.

"Whatever your answer, I will not blame you," Moonho added, a small note of relief threading through his otherwise measured words.

"Yes, Father. I wish to become the Royal Consort," Moonsen affirmed, the sincerity in his tone echoing in the rain-soaked stillness around them.

Moonho's gaze wavered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He had not expected that answer.

"And why is that?" he asked, voice steady but curious.

"To be precise, Father, it is not the position I desire."

Moonsen met his father's gaze calmly, unflinching. 

"I am… in love with Her Majesty."

Moonho's eyes widened, the words striking him with the force of a sudden storm. 

'My son… loves the Queen?'

Sensing his father's shock, Moonsen continued, steady and measured. "You may think, 'How dare you love Her Majesty,' but…" He offered a faint, almost wistful smile. "I have loved her for as long as I can remember."

Moonho cleared his throat before replying, voice quieter, tinged with concern. 

"Moonsen, I never thought, 'How dare you.' It's just that…" He paused, studying his son earnestly. "I fear for your heart. To hold feelings for Her Majesty… that is…"

Moonsen's smile deepened, gentle yet knowing. 

"I understand your concern, Father. But I believe it is just as foolish to keep my distance for fear of being hurt. I will guard my own heart, so please… do not worry," Moonsen assured his father with a tender voice.

Moonho's gaze softened, a mixture of concern and trust reflected in his eyes. From childhood to now, Moonsen had never once caused trouble. Always top of his class, he had passed the highest civil service exam with honors, and as an official, had earned nothing but praise. More than that, he had always understood his parents' hearts, never giving them cause for worry.

When Moonsen was first named a royal consort candidate, Moonho had dismissed it lightly, confident that other, more influential candidates would surpass him. Yet his son had defied expectations, reaching the final candidate list—and even with the appointment now on hold, his name continued to circulate among nobles as a likely future choice.

Moonho worried. That attention—whether admiring or envious—could bring trouble, or worse, slander. Deep in his heart, he sometimes wished his son would not become royal consort. He knew the path all too well, having spent much of his own life navigating the palace's treacherous corridors.

"Moonsen, my son. Then please promise me this one thing," Moonho said at last, voice firm yet layered with care.

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