Episode 2

Ten years had passed since the night the emperor’s blade drank the blood of his beloved.

The palace had long since changed. Ministers aged, soldiers were replaced, and new banners decorated the courts. Yet within its towering golden walls, one thing never faded—the ghost of Seo Yun-woo.

Kim Jae-hwan ruled with the iron hand of an emperor, his face as cold and unreadable as the gilded mask of authority. But behind the veil of power, he carried a wound deeper than any war could inflict. No one dared speak Yun-woo’s name, yet his presence lingered in every chamber, every breath of incense, every silent night where Jae-hwan sat alone with his guilt.

Sometimes, when the wind rustled through the red curtains, Jae-hwan would swear he could still see it: golden hair spread like sunlight across silk sheets, eyes wide in betrayal, blood blossoming like petals across white fabric. That night replayed endlessly, a punishment carved into his soul.

And then, far from the palace, in a quiet mountain town, a boy with hair as white as freshly fallen snow awoke from a dream he could never remember.

Seo Yun-woo’s new life was unmarked by the shadows of the past. He grew among simple folk, his laughter bright as spring water, his smile free of sorrow. His hair, once golden, was now pure white, catching the light like winter frost. Some whispered he was touched by the heavens, others called him a blessed child—but Yun-woo himself never thought much of it.

He did not know why his heart sometimes clenched at the sound of temple bells, or why he disliked the scent of sandalwood incense. He did not know why his dreams were always painted in red, filled with curtains that billowed like rivers of blood, or why he woke with tears he could not explain.

The past slept deep within him, sealed away by fate’s cruel mercy.

One spring morning, Yun-woo carried a basket of herbs through the bustling town streets. The wind tugged at his white hair, scattering loose strands across his face. He stopped by a stall, smiling warmly at an old woman who placed chrysanthemums in his basket. “For good fortune,” she said.

Yun-woo thanked her, his voice gentle. Fortune. He did not know how much of it he truly had.

Far away, in the imperial court, Kim Jae-hwan sat on his throne, his gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the palace gates. His ministers spoke of taxes and treaties, but his mind wandered. His heart, though he buried it beneath layers of duty and cruelty, remained chained to the memory of one man.

Ten years, and the ache had not faded.

But fate had never been kind. Where Jae-hwan had tried to bury the past, destiny chose to unearth it.

Whispers traveled through the empire of a boy with snow-white hair and eyes that shimmered like glass under moonlight. A boy who looked like no other, who carried an ethereal grace despite his humble origins.

At first, the emperor dismissed it as idle talk. Yet when the rumors reached his ears again and again, something inside him stirred—hope, fear, desperation. Could it be? No… it could not. Yun-woo was dead. His blood had stained Jae-hwan’s very hands. He had seen the light leave those eyes.

And yet…

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, painting the palace in hues of crimson and gold, Kim Jae-hwan rose from his throne with a command.

“Send men,” he said, his voice low but edged with authority. “Bring the boy to me.”

The courtiers bowed, unaware of the storm raging behind the emperor’s calm mask.

Far from the palace, Seo Yun-woo closed his eyes under the twilight sky, unaware that the strings of fate were tightening around him once more. He lived in peace, untouched by memories of betrayal and blood. But the man who had once loved and killed him was reaching out again.

The wheel of destiny turned, petals of the past scattering into the wind—leading him back to the emperor’s shadow.

— To be continued.

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