Baekjoseon, Year of the Tiger, Nineteenth Winter
"That night, the throne began to wither. And with it, all who desired it." —Thoughts of King Yi Hwan
The snow would not stop falling. Like white ash from a long-dead fire, it settled over the curved rooftops of Second Prince Yi Myeong's residence, painting the world in silence. It was just before dawn, and the outer palace slumbered beneath the thick mantle of winter. But in the central pavilion, the light of paper lanterns still burned — trembling behind wooden lattices.
Yi Myeong was not asleep.
Dressed in a dark hanbok of coarse linen, cinched at the waist with a belt embroidered in silver thread, he stood alone in his library. His eyes — sharp and cold, ravenous like those of a starving crow — followed the shifting shadows that danced across the columns. He had not slept all night, as if sensing that the world's balance was about to shatter.
Upon a low table rested a baduk board. The black and white stones lay motionless in an unfinished match. In front of him, a bowl of plum wine, untouched.
Then, the hooves of a horse shattered the stillness. Yi Myeong looked up, something anxious glinting in his eyes.
A servant rushed to open the doors. Snow entered in a breath of spirit — cold and voracious. A rider, rimmed with frost, dismounted with trembling limbs, his legs nearly frozen. Hanging from his horse's neck was the seal of the Royal Palace, glinting with the form of the imperial phoenix.
"Wangja…" gasped the messenger, collapsing to his knees on the threshold. "It's… the king."
Yi Myeong said nothing. He held out his hand, rigid as forged steel.
The servant took the sealed message and placed it in the prince's palm.
Yi Myeong broke the seal with his thumb. The paper crackled. The ink was still fresh, and it smelled of iron, of urgency — and conspiracy.
To the attention of Royal Prince Yi Myeong, His Majesty, King Yi Gyeong, has passed away tonight in his private chamber. The Court shall soon prepare for the funeral. All members of the royal bloodline are to present themselves before the Council of Ministers upon the declaration of mourning. This message is sent in haste, before word spreads through Baekjoseon.— GREY OF THE NORTH
Yi Myeong folded the letter slowly. His lips remained sealed, yet a shadow crept across his face like a crack forming in stone. His eyes — cold mirrors — betrayed no emotion. However, his right hand, the one holding the letter, twitched. Just once. A spasm shorter than a blink.
"Was it natural?" he asked at last, without raising his voice.
"It is not specified, Your Highness…" whispered the messenger.
Yi Myeong nodded, as though that omission spoke louder than words. Then he turned, hands clasped behind his back.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
"Prepare my horse," he ordered the servant. "And tell the scribe to bring me the records I asked him to conceal." And he thought: Let's see what that cunning old man was trying to hide.
"The ones concerning Grand Councillor Yun?"
"Yes. Yi Hwan is to ascend the throne, as was ordained since his birth," Yi Myeong said, his voice calm — with the sharpness of an ancient blade. "I must be ready… if I am to dethrone him."
The servant bowed and withdrew.
Yi Myeong was alone again.
And deep within his chest, veiled beneath silk and years, something stirred like a slumbering beast. It was not grief. It was not guilt.
Likewise, it was longing.
The longing for power. For what had been denied him. For a throne that should bear no other name.
Yi Myeong finally lifted the bowl of liquor and drank alone, without raising it in toast. He emptied it in one breath.
"So the new reign…" he murmured to himself,"Begins with blood."