The river that separated the capital from the outer lands was unlike any Elara had seen. Thick and dark, it moved sluggishly, its waters the color of ink, glinting sickly purple under the twilight sun. Locals called it the "Poisoned Vein" — a name whispered with fear, as if the river itself listened.
From the opposite bank, Elara stood cloaked and alone, watching the city rise behind the toxic waters. Its spires clawed at the sky like frozen lightning, and at the heart of it all loomed the palace — enormous and crowned with moonstone domes, pulsing with cold grandeur.
She clutched the bundle Sae-Myung had given her: a servant's robe dyed with simple dye, a forged parchment declaring her service status, and a string of ancient prayer beads. Her name was no longer Elara.
To survive, she was now Mi-Rae, a common orphan girl from the southern provinces.
She inhaled slowly and stepped onto the old bridge. The wind carried the river's acrid stench — rot and something else, something metallic. As she walked, her stomach turned. The bridge creaked under her weight, and she saw no boats crossing beneath. No one dared drink from it. They said the river had once run pure, blessed by the Sylara… until the King took the flower.
Now, it mirrored his corruption.
At the far side of the bridge, guards in lacquered armor blocked her way. Their masks were like snarling beasts — wolves, hawks, dragons.
"Halt," one said, raising a spear. "Papers."
Elara kept her head low and hands steady as she handed over the scroll Sae-Myung had forged. The guard unrolled it, eyes scanning. For a moment, he said nothing.
"Another mouth to feed," he muttered, handing it back. "The Inner Court is bloated with useless girls."
"I clean well," Elara replied in practiced tone.
He grunted. "See that you do. One stain on a noble's robe and you'll be feeding the river."
He waved her past.
She entered the city.
It was dazzling.
Towering gates of obsidian opened into streets paved in white stone. Lanterns floated in the air — not by string or oil, but magic — casting gentle golden light. Servants bustled in organized streams, all wearing simple robes in shades of gray and cream. Nobles glided past like silk phantoms, their faces painted, their voices soft and poisonous.
Elara kept her eyes down and moved with the tide.
She was ushered into the servant's registry. A steward — thin, sour, and twitching with impatience — assigned her to the Inner Garden Quarters. "Laundry duty for now," he said, not looking at her. "Keep quiet. Don't stare. Don't speak unless addressed."
The Inner Garden.
A cloistered section of the palace, where nobles and royals walked among enchanted trees and artificial ponds. A place close to power. Close to danger.
That night, as she lay on the thin mattress in the servants' hall, Elara could barely sleep. Her thoughts burned. I made it. I'm inside. Somewhere behind these walls is the Chheonhwa.
And the King.
She would see him. The man who had taken everything.
The next day, she was summoned early. A thin-lipped maid named Dami led her to the laundry quarters, where enchanted tubs washed silk in floating currents of scented water. Elara watched, fascinated, as the silk danced on its own.
"You don't speak, do you?" Dami asked.
Elara shook her head. "Not unless needed."
Dami nodded with approval. "Good. You might last longer than the others."
Later that day, while delivering folded robes to the royal dressing quarters, Elara saw him.
King Hwan-Jo.
She almost dropped the tray.
He stood across the garden courtyard, speaking to a courtier. He wasn't old — not at all. He looked no older than thirty, though she knew he must've reigned for generations. His hair was long and black as obsidian, his skin pale like polished moonstone. And his eyes — gods, those eyes — golden and burning, as if holding a dying sun.
He wore robes of midnight blue and silver, adorned with patterns of blooming flowers — a mockery, perhaps, of the Chheonhwa he'd stolen.
The air around him shimmered faintly, and every servant who passed him lowered their gaze immediately. Some knelt. Others merely froze until he was gone.
But Elara stared.
Just for a heartbeat.
And in that heartbeat, his eyes flicked to her.
Their gazes met.
Her breath stopped.
A strange chill ran through her spine — not fear, but something older, deeper. Like the cold that lives in the bones of mountains.
Then he turned, as if nothing had happened.
But he had seen her.
That night, Elara lay awake, her hands trembling. "He saw me," she whispered. "He looked right at me…"
Was it recognition? Suspicion? Or something darker?
No one lived long who caught the King's eye.
She touched her chest where her heart thudded painfully. The air in the palace was thin, sweet — too sweet — like poisoned nectar. Everywhere she looked, beauty was layered upon rot.
Later that week, she overheard two older servants whispering in the kitchen:
"They say the King doesn't sleep. That he walks the halls alone at night."
"I heard the petals on his chest move when he speaks — like a real flower, blooming from his skin."
"And he never bleeds. Not once. Even when he was stabbed during the rebellion ten years ago."
Elara filed every word into her memory.
The Chheonhwa was alive inside him.
But it wasn't his.
It never was.
And now, it reacted to her — she'd seen it glow faintly the first time their eyes met. She felt it, like a string connecting them across space, tugging gently.
You know me, she thought, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere inside you, the flower remembers me.
She clenched her fists.
This palace was beautiful — terrifyingly so. A nest of silk and lies. But she would survive it.
Because at the heart of it, beneath the robes and the spells and the stolen glory, was a truth that only she could awaken.
And she would.
Even if it meant standing before the King with a blade.
Even if it meant breaking her own heart.