The throne room of Hwan-Jo's palace was a place of cold magnificence. Pillars of white jade climbed into vaulted ceilings painted with constellations, and the floor gleamed like black glass. The throne itself, carved from obsidian and bonewood, stood on a dais that felt more like an altar than a seat of rule. It was there, under that throne, that the secret had been buried for generations.
And Prince Jae-Hwa was about to uncover it.
He moved silently through the eastern corridor, well past midnight, when most of the palace was sleeping. Moonlight poured through narrow windows, catching the shimmer of his cloak and the quiet intensity in his eyes. The words of the old historian still echoed in his mind:
"There are doors in this palace that were never meant to be opened."
He had dismissed it then as a poetic warning. But something in the way Elara's presence disturbed the Cheonhwa on his father's neck… Something about the strange dreams that now plagued even Jae-Hwa's sleep… It was as if the palace itself was whispering.
He approached the throne dais, where two royal guards usually stood watch. But tonight, he had sent them away under the pretense of a false alarm in the archives. He had only minutes.
He knelt at the base of the throne and placed his hand against the cold marble. The sigil his tutor once described—a circle within a seven-petaled flower—was barely visible beneath the surface.
Sylara's mark.
His fingers traced the groove of the symbol, and to his surprise, the stone gave way.
There was a hiss—no louder than a sigh—and a section of the floor slowly retracted, revealing a spiral staircase made of weathered obsidian. Faint blue light pulsed from below.
He hesitated. The air that rose from the passage was old—older than the palace itself. Older than the kingdom. It carried the scent of iron, dust, and something sweeter… like decayed flowers.
But Jae-Hwa had never been one to step back from shadows.
He descended.
Each step echoed like a bell, slow and measured. The deeper he went, the more the air felt dense—charged with something ancient. Finally, the staircase opened into a stone chamber. At the center of it stood a massive door, carved from dark gray stone veined with gold.
The symbol of Sylara was etched across it.
But this one… this one pulsed.
Jae-Hwa approached, heart racing. On the door were twelve rings, arranged in concentric circles. He reached out—almost unconsciously—and touched the innermost ring.
A shiver ran up his arm. Images flared in his mind.
A garden in flames.
A woman crying in a language lost to time.
A flower torn from flesh.
He staggered back.
"What is this?" he whispered aloud.
Behind him, something moved.
He turned swiftly, hand on the hilt of his blade. But no enemy stood there. Only the walls… and an inscription that had begun to glow.
It shimmered in ancient script. Somehow, he could read it:
"Here lies the last bond between flame and root, sealed by blood not yet shed. Let none enter but the one who dreams of forests on fire."
Jae-Hwa stared at the words, his breath shallow.
Forests on fire.
He had dreamed of that. The night after he first saw Elara. Trees burning, flowers screaming, and a woman's voice calling out a name he didn't recognize.
"Elara…"
Was she the one the door waited for?
He took another step forward, this time to inspect the edges of the door. There were no handles. No keyholes. Only a shallow indentation in the center—shaped like a flower.
Like the Cheonhwa.
Like the one his father wore.
His blood went cold.
This door… this chamber… had been built for her. For Han'Lia. Or perhaps for her child. For Elara.
He thought of his father—so regal, so invincible—and yet… he had never once spoken of this place. Not in all of Jae-Hwa's training. Not even in whispers.
Why?
He backed away, the weight of truth pressing into his spine. Hwan-Jo wasn't just hiding a secret.
He was guarding a prison.
And whatever—or whoever—was sealed inside this chamber… might be the key to the kingdom's unraveling.
Or its salvation.
Jae-Hwa hurried up the stairs, heart pounding. He no longer cared about the laws he was breaking. Something inside him had shifted. Doubt. Wonder. Fear. But most of all—urgency.
He had to warn her.
He had to find Elara.
At that same hour, across the courtyard in the servant quarters, Elara sat awake, unable to sleep. The scroll Jeon-Myeong had given her rested in her lap, its symbols glowing faintly in the moonlight.
She touched her neck where the Cheonhwa had once lived on her mother's skin.
"I will wake you," she whispered, "and I will finish what he began."
Outside, a raven cawed once and flew across the blood-red moon.