Winter had wrapped the capital in silver and silence. Snow fell in slow, deliberate spirals, coating the roofs and the merchant stalls of the royal market like powdered jade. The world outside the palace was alive — filled with laughter, steam rising from teapots, and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting through the air — a chaos far removed from the suffocating stillness of the throne room.

And for the first time since the coup that drenched the royal court in blood, King Ji-won had left the safety of the palace gates. He was young still — barely in his twenties — but already the people whispered his name with a mix of awe and fear: the boy-king who survived his own family.

At his side walked the Empress, his newly chosen wife — a match forged by the demands of his ministers, not his heart. She moved quietly beside him, her breath forming soft clouds in the cold air, her white fur mantle gleaming like frost. Their union was a duty, a seal of political convenience — and until now, he had spoken to her only in formality, never warmth.

Yet that morning, without counsel or reason, Ji-won had stood from his throne and said in a voice that brooked no argument. No one disobeyed, and now the sight of the king walking among commoners spread like fire through the streets.

They stopped at a jewelry, where delicate rare and common gems, were stacked in neat rows, The Empress paused, her gloved fingers hovering near a display of jade hairpins, each carved with blossoms and phoenix wings. A flicker of childlike wonder crossed her usually composed expression.

Ji-won noticed. He always noticed. Then, breaking the fragile silence, his voice came low and smooth, cutting through the snow-filled air

Did you like them? The shopkeeper froze. His head snapped up, eyes wide — as if caught in a crime. Ji-won’s gaze shifted to him, calm but sharp enough to draw blood.

My wife liked these, he said simply. Wrap them all up. We’ll take them.