Chapter 1: The Silent Blossom

Chin-sun Pov:

I had always lived quietly.

As a child, I often sat by the latticed windows of the estate, watching the petals fall from the ancient cherry trees beyond the walls. While other noble daughters attended lavish banquets and ceremonies, my world was made of silk curtains, medicine bowls, and whispered reassurances.

It wasn't because I wasn’t wanted. My parents—the Duke and Duchess—cherished me in their own quiet ways. Yet sickness clung to me like an invisible chain, pulling me back each time I tried to step forward. My voice never came as it should have. Words stayed trapped behind my lips, even when my heart wished to shout or sing.

And then, there was Hyjung-Hee.

The daughter adopted into our family, born from a lesser house fallen to ruin, Hyjung-Hee was everything society praised: vibrant, talkative, ambitious. Even though I rarely set foot beyond our gates, even though I never stood in grand halls or paraded through festivals, Hyjung-Hee always sought to outshine me.

When I embroidered simple patterns in the sewing hall, she stitched elaborate dragons.

When I practiced calligraphy quietly in the mornings, she invited scholars to watch her ink bloom on paper.

When I stayed curled in bed with fever, she paraded through the corridors in new gowns, laughing loudly.

I never understood her.

I never wished to compete.

There was no need.

Yet it was never enough for her. Somehow, my existence alone was a thorn in her side.

The early spring wind stirred the curtains gently now, bringing the scent of plum blossoms into my private chambers. I shifted slightly, my hand resting against the swell of my belly. Seven months now. Each movement of the child inside me was like a fragile whisper of life against my palm.

There was a soft knock against the wooden frame. Before I could respond, Gyung-Hui stepped inside.

"Chin-sun," he murmured warmly. He approached carefully, his dark blue robe trailing on the polished floor, a steaming cup cradled between his hands. "I thought you might like some tea."

I nodded slowly, offering a faint smile.

He set the cup carefully beside me and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs in a casual, familiar way. We sat together in comfortable silence for a long while. He didn’t mind when I didn’t speak. That, once, had been why I believed him to be kind.

"You look tired today," Gyung-Hui said after a moment, glancing at my lowered eyes. "Has the little one been keeping you awake again?"

I shook my head softly, pressing my hand against my belly. The baby had been restless last night, but I had grown used to the discomfort. It was the whispering...the tension that had filled the estate these past few days, that gnawed at my peace.

Gyung-Hui reached out hesitantly and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. His fingers were warm, careful.

"Don't worry yourself," he whispered. "Whatever happens...I’ll be by your side."

I wanted to believe him.

Before I could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. My chamber doors slid open again, and Father—the Duke— entered, a scroll in hand, his face grave.

He paused, his eyes moving from me to Gyung-Hui, then back again.

"We have received a royal decree," Father said solemnly. "A proposal."

Gyung-Hui stiffened beside me.

The Duke unfurled the scroll slowly, the crimson seal of the imperial court glinting at the top. His voice was steady, but I could sense the ripple of emotion beneath his noble mask.

"By the command of His Imperial Majesty," he read aloud, "House Yi is honored with a proposal for the hand of Lady Hyjung-Hee, to be wed to His Majesty, Emperor Kang-Dae."

I felt my breath hitch.

The room seemed to hold its breath along with me.

Across from me, Gyung-Hui's expression became unreadable.

The Emperor himself...offering marriage to our family. To my sister.

Despite everything—despite the sharp memories of Hyjung-Hee’s spite, despite the loneliness she had carved into my childhood—I was happy for her.

Truly.

A slow, genuine smile curved my lips. I lifted my hand and placed it gently against my heart, a silent gesture of joy.

Father’s face softened at the sight, a rare warmth touching his stern features.

Hyjung-Hee, who must have been waiting outside the hall for the announcement, swept into the room moments later. She was radiant in a sea-green robe embroidered with cranes, her cheeks flushed with triumph.

She bowed theatrically before Father, and then, quite deliberately, turned her head to look directly at me.

Her lips curved into a small, victorious smile.

I smiled back, my eyes soft.

I meant it.

I had no envy in my heart.

If anything, I prayed silently—for her to find happiness, for her to be embraced by someone strong enough to match her spirit.

Hyjung-Hee's gaze flickered uncertainly, as if my reaction confused her.

As if she had expected...something different.

Gyung-Hui rose to his feet beside me, his hands tightening into fists at his side. I could feel the tension crackling from him like a brewing storm.

"Congratulations," he said stiffly, bowing toward Hyjung-Hee. "You honor House Yi."

Hyjung-Hee laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

"I have always known I was destined for greatness," she said sweetly. "It was simply a matter of time."

Father said nothing. He simply nodded and turned to leave the room, the decree still clutched tightly in his hand.

Once he was gone, and Hyjung-Hee had flounced away to spread the news through the household, Gyung-Hui sat back down beside me heavily, exhaling through gritted teeth.

He reached for my hand, gripping it tightly.

"You are...too kind," he said in a low voice. "Too kind for people like them."

I squeezed his fingers gently, offering him the only comfort I could.

And yet, somewhere deep in my heart, an unease stirred.

A fragile thread, pulling tight.

A whisper of fate curling in the air, just beyond reach.

The petals of the silent blossom—my life—were about to be shaken loose by a storm I could not yet see.

And for the first time in a long while,

I wondered if I was strong enough to withstand it.

The rest of the day passed in a delicate flurry of preparations.

Silk banners bearing our family crest were hung along the courtyard walls, and the best porcelain was taken down from the high shelves, carefully polished by trembling servants. Perfumed oils were poured into golden basins, their sweet scent curling through the estate like a living thing.

The engagement banquet to celebrate Hyjung-Hee’s upcoming marriage would be held here, under the watchful eyes of every noble family in the capital.

And though I would not be presented publicly, Father insisted that I attend the ceremony quietly, seated behind a gauzy silk screen.

"You must be present," he said softly that afternoon, standing beside my bedside as the sun dipped lower in the sky. "Even if unseen."

I nodded, understanding. It was an honor for House Yi, after all.

And I... I wanted to be there. Even if my role was small, even if my voice could not be heard.

A soft knock came at the door, and a servant stepped inside, bowing low.

"My Lady...the royal physician has arrived."

Father stepped aside, and into the room came a man clad in dark robes, his hair streaked with silver, his manner precise and respectful. The royal physician, a trusted healer from the palace itself.

I tried to sit up straighter, but the weight of my belly and the dull ache in my lower back made me slow. Gyung-Hui, who lingered nearby, moved as if to help me, but I waved him off gently with a small lift of my hand.

I could manage this.

The physician bowed to me deeply.

"My Lady," he said. "Forgive my intrusion. I come only to ensure your health and that of the child before the banquet."

He kneeled beside my bedding with the grace of one used to attending royals, carefully placing a polished lacquer box beside him. Inside, he revealed delicate instruments, herbs, and a folded sheet of thin paper for recording.

Gently, respectfully, he placed two fingers against the inside of my wrist.

My pulse fluttered like the wing of a sparrow beneath his touch.

He said nothing for a long moment, only listened. His brow furrowed slightly.

He shifted his fingers to another point, then sat back thoughtfully.

Finally, he spoke in a low voice meant only for me.

"Your pulse is weaker than it should be, My Lady. You are carrying a great burden in your condition."

I nodded slowly.

I had known this. Every day, I could feel my strength fading little by little, even as the life inside me grew stronger.

The physician pressed a hand lightly against my swollen belly through the layers of my Hanbok. After a moment, a tiny kick stirred beneath his palm.

A rare smile touched the old man's lips.

"The child is healthy," he said. "Very spirited."

Relief washed over me, so fierce and sudden that tears blurred my vision.

I lifted a sleeve to dab them away, embarrassed.

The physician sat back on his heels and folded his hands together.

"You must avoid exertion," he said kindly. "You must rest as much as possible. Stress will only endanger both you and the child."

I bowed my head slightly in understanding.

He stood, bowing once again.

"I shall prepare tonics to strengthen you. They will be delivered before nightfall."

With that, he departed quietly, leaving behind a fragrant trail of ginseng and sandalwood.

As the door slid shut behind him, Gyung-Hui approached once more. He crouched beside me, his brows knit with concern.

"You must be careful," he murmured. "Promise me, Chin-sun. Promise me you will stay safe."

I looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and squeezed his hand gently.

It was not a promise, not really.

But it was all I could give.

Later that evening, I was dressed in a new Hanbok for the banquet—a shimmering garment of pale lilac and ivory, the color of distant spring clouds. The layers of fabric hid my swollen form, but even so, I moved carefully, cradling my belly instinctively with one hand as I was led to the screen where I would sit, unseen but present.

Beyond the silk veil, the estate glittered with light and laughter. Nobles in their finest robes arrived, their voices carrying like the hum of distant bees. I caught glimpses of bright sashes, jeweled hairpieces, and silver-tipped fans fluttering in the breeze.

Hyjung-Hee was at the center of it all, radiant in her engagement finery—a brilliant red Hanbok embroidered with golden phoenixes, her hair piled high with jeweled pins. She laughed sweetly at every compliment, basking in the admiration.

I watched her with a quiet, bittersweet smile.

She was happy.

And that, I told myself, was enough.

The Emperor himself was not present tonight.

Tradition dictated he would only meet his betrothed officially at a later ceremony.

But already, the court gossips whispered, the ministers speculated, and the wheels of fate turned just beyond my reach.

I shifted slightly on my cushion, feeling the soft, persistent flutter of my daughter beneath my ribs. I rubbed my hand soothingly over her, offering silent comfort.

"Be strong," I whispered in my heart.

"For whatever comes next..."

The night deepened.

The blossoms swirled in the courtyard.

And the silent blossom within me braced for the coming storm.

The music of the court musicians floated like mist through the grand courtyard, soft flutes and zithers painting the air with delicate sound. Lanterns swayed from the rafters, casting pools of golden light onto the polished floors.

Hidden behind the soft silk screen, I sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap, the folds of my Hanbok pooling around me like a sea of pale petals.

Gyung-Hui slipped into the seat beside me, moving with a grace born of careful practice. He wore a robe of deep sapphire, embroidered with faint silver lines that caught the lantern light when he moved.

He leaned close, his sleeve brushing mine, and from the folds of his garment, he produced a small lacquered tray. Upon it sat a simple white porcelain cup, steam rising in lazy wisps.

"The servants said you must take your medicine," he whispered, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "The physician left strict instructions."

I blinked slowly, reaching for the cup with both hands. But Gyung-Hui gently intercepted me.

"Let me," he said with a small, almost sheepish smile.

He lifted the cup carefully, tilting it to my lips with patient hands.

The liquid was bitter, thick with the strong taste of ginseng and ground herbs. I winced slightly at the flavor, but swallowed obediently, grateful for the warmth that bloomed in my chest afterward.

Gyung-Hui chuckled under his breath.

"You have always hated bitter things," he said fondly. "I remember when you were young—you used to sneak sweets into the medicinal tonics when no one was looking."

I offered him a small smile, my eyes crinkling.

He remembered such small things.

He set the empty cup aside and carefully tucked a small embroidered shawl around my shoulders. Despite the heavy layers of my Hanbok, a lingering chill gnawed at my skin, as if winter refused to fully loosen its grip.

Outside the screen, the banquet continued. I heard the clink of cups raised in toast, the rustle of silk skirts sweeping across the floor, the laughter of noble ladies behind fluttering fans.

But in my little hidden corner of the world, there was only Gyung-Hui and the steady, comforting presence of the life growing inside me.

Later that evening, after the final courses had been served and the last blessings had been spoken, the house began to settle into the peaceful hush that always followed a grand event.

Servants moved like shadows, extinguishing lanterns one by one, until only the soft glow of the hearth remained in my private chambers.

I lay reclined against a pile of silk cushions, my hair unpinned and flowing around me like a river of pale gold. The weight of the night pressed against my body, exhaustion a constant whisper at the edge of my thoughts.

Gyung-Hui sat cross-legged beside me, silent for a long time.

Then, without a word, he shifted closer, his head bowing until it rested gently against the curve of my swollen belly.

His hand moved tenderly to cradle my side, careful not to press too hard.

For a moment, there was only stillness.

Only the sound of the crackling hearth and the distant chirping of spring insects beyond the open window.

Then, his voice—a whisper so soft it seemed woven into the very air—spoke:

"Little one... can you hear me?"

I watched, my heart tightening, as Gyung-Hui closed his eyes, a small, bittersweet smile touching his lips.

"You must know," he murmured, "your mother is the kindest, gentlest soul in this empire. She carries you with a strength I can hardly comprehend."

His voice trembled slightly, and he pressed his forehead lightly against my belly as if seeking forgiveness—or courage.

"You must grow strong," he whispered. "Stronger than I. Strong enough to protect her when I cannot."

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the sight of him, the warm gold of the room.

I bit my lip, holding back a sob that wanted to break free.

I reached out and gently threaded my fingers through his hair, a silent gesture of comfort.

Gyung-Hui shifted slightly to look up at me, his eyes glimmering with something raw and vulnerable.

"If I could... I would give you the world," he said. "But even if I cannot, I swear I will do everything to keep you both safe."

I smiled weakly and brushed my thumb across his cheek, my heart heavy and full all at once.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I believed him.

Believed that somehow, this fragile peace could last.

Believed that perhaps, in the quiet spaces between sorrow and duty, there was still room for hope.

Outside, a soft breeze stirred the plum blossoms, sending a handful of pale petals dancing across the windowsill like blessings from the heavens.

I leaned my head back against the cushions, my hand cradling my belly, feeling the tiny, rhythmic kicks of life beneath my palm.

For tonight, at least, we were safe.

For tonight, the silent blossom still bloomed.

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