Baekjoseon, Year of the Tiger, Nineteenth Winter
"Blood does not inherit right. Only one's will can."—Thoughts of King Yi Hwan
The road back to Seohan lay glazed in frost. Distant hills rose like sleeping beasts under the snow, and the dawn-gray sky promised neither warmth nor solace. The imperial standard snapped in the biting wind, as if protesting its tether to the world.
Prince Yi Hwan rode at the head of his royal escort, clad in ceremonial armour with sombre dark plates edged in bronze dulled by battle. His stance was tall, poised, each movement deliberate yet it was the patch covering his left eye that drew attention, and now, too, a white streak had begun to show in his sleek ebony hair.
"A curse," his guards muttered, keeping their distance, even though their duty was to protect him. That white strand had not been there on departure for the North. Something was changing in Yi Hwan, and they could sense it.
Rumours swirled. Some blamed Queen Consort Yun Min. Others believed he had fallen victim to an incurable sickness. The truth was, no one had seen his left eye since. At court, he was referred to in whispers as "the Winter Heir, with a heart of steel." In Ming, the great exorcists called him "the Tenth Calamity": the prince who condemned the nation to endless winter, the tenth to unleash ice upon a realm destined for oblivion.
Yi Hwan heard it all and cared not.His thoughts galloped ahead of his horse. The northern rebellion had been crushed not with glory, but with iron and terror. He had seen villages in ashes, mothers pleading for children who would never return, men fighting not for betrayal but for hunger. That was no victory: that was a warning of what was to come.
As the gates of Seohan swung open before him, the city did not roar. There were no cheers. Only a hushed procession beneath paper umbrellas, citizens bowing briefly before lowering their gaze. None wished to see too clearly.
Snow still fell tiny icy spears on the soldiers' shoulders. In the distance, the royal palace loomed like a shadow against the mountain.
***
Upon entering the central complex, Yi Hwan felt something was terribly wrong.No ceremonial officials greeted him, nor the eunuch who normally received his return. Instead, a line of pale-faced servants stood silent, afraid to speak. A dense, funereal atmosphere enveloped everything. It was not just the cold, it was a terror-laden silence.
A young officer approached with downcast eyes."Your Highness… the king… the protector of this realm has died last night."
The wind stilled. For a moment, even the snow froze in midair. Yi Hwan did not reply, did not ask how or why. He simply nodded, as though he had been waiting for that message for weeks.
"Where is my mother?" he asked at last, voice composed and without tremor.
"The Queen is in the Retiring Chamber with the council ministers. The funeral rites are being prepared in the Hall of the White Lotus."
"And the eunuch Choi Seung?"
The officer hesitated:
"…He has not left the royal quarters since the king's passing; he is apparently wounded. It is said he struggled with the assassin, but..." he stopped himself, sensing he had said too much.
Yi Hwan gazed upwards a single white eye behind silk, and a black eye, Yin and Yang in his face. Snow drifted over his long hair, tied at the waist and fanned behind him by the wind. He made no move to cover the white strand the cold served him; it helped maintain his mask: the son who could not weep, the prince who must not falter, the king he must now become.
He turned toward the pavilion where his father fell. There, at Death's threshold, the game began.
A thought pierced him like a concealed dagger: This had to be the deed of a hired assassin, sent to hasten his rise. He had always felt it down to his bones. His father was not taken by illness alone, he had been killed before his son's return. Someone had forced the schedule of his ascent.
From that moment, Yi Hwan knew every step in the palace would be a dance with betrayal. As he advanced toward the inner halls, the echo of his boots on frozen stone sounded like a sombre omen and still the snow fell.
***
The palace was shrouded in oppressive solemnity. The snow had paused, yet the sky remained as grey as the corridors. Celebration banners had been replaced by silver-embroidered drapes. Eastern pavilions filled with incense and prayers; senior officials dressed in linen bands of mourning.
In the centre of the Hall of the White Lotus lay King Yi Gyeong's body in a paulownia wood coffin, draped in white silk. A ceremonial sword —not the one of his death— rested beside him as a symbol of eternal peace. The public was not permitted near. On this day, mourning was reserved for royal blood and court alone.
Ministers murmured gently, a hum like winter insects too timid to fly.
Yi Hwan knelt before his father's memorial plaque, the patch burning softly beneath his closed eyelid. He had not moved since entering. Only his hands remained steady, pressed together, bearing the weight of the emptiness within.
Behind him, other members of the royal family stood at attention. Tension crackled in the cold air between them.
Then his brothers entered.
First, Yi Myeong in full ceremonial attire, hair arranged with military precision, eyes sharp as a spear's blade. He walked as though the ground owed him his path. He kneeled methodically, never glancing at Yi Hwan.
Then Yi Seok, merely eleven, with a round youthfulness and tear-stained eyes. He staggered across the ceremonial carpet, aided by a servant. His grief weighed thicker than his mourning robes. He knelt awkwardly one step behind his brothers, glancing from the coffin to Yi Hwan respect, helplessness… fear flickering in equal measure.
In a secluded corner, behind screens of mourning, stood Queen Yun Min. Dressed in mournful regality, slender but statuesque, she did not weep or tremble. She held a closed fan in pale hands; her lips pressed as if sealed with poison.
Beside her, the eunuch Choi Seung watched silently. No one had heard him speak since the king's death. His dark eyes scrutinised every gesture, every glance of the assembly as though memorising the faces of traitors.
Grand Counsellor Yun, however, fixed his gaze only on the heir apparent. He showed no sign of surprise at the flash of white among Yi Hwan's hair.
The Ministers of War and Rites whispered in low tones, the funeral presence emboldening them to conspire under the shadow of death.
Then the officiant rose donning plain robes and lifted the royal censer high:
"Today we farewell to the monarch of the Joseon line, the twenty-fourth in the Celestial succession. May his spirit cross the jade rivers, and may the royal bloodline endure under Heaven's decree."
Yi Hwan lifted his head.Under Heaven's decree? he thought. And who decides that, but those who plunge swords in the dark?
He did not weep, he could not. But a tremor ran down his back.
He recalled the words whispered to him before entering the hall:"He died alone."
An hour later, the princes were dismissed from the hall. The Queen Dowager remained in the Retiring Chamber to receive the ministers' condolences. High officials moved in hushed silence, eyes calculating in an ancient language.
Yi Hwan crossed the frost-covered courtyard alone. His cheeks stung with cold. He had always walked alone.
Yi Myeong caught him as they exited the pavilion.
"Hwan-ah," he said quietly, matching pace, "it seems your accession approaches."
Yi Hwan glanced sideways.
"Is that so... now?"
"I wonder if, perhaps, you have reconsidered."
Yi Hwan remained silent.
"Are you eager to take my place, brother?"
Yi Myeong smirked, teeth hidden, voice silk and steel:
"That might be a wise choice, Hwan-ah. We both know you are not yet ready to lead this nation." He tapped Yi Hwan's patch with a finger. "The people fear you. You are the one who banished spring and summer from these lands, are you not?"
Yi Myeong continued forward, smile broad, insolent. Behind them, Yi Seok only watched.
***
When his brothers drifted away, Yi Hwan remained alone along the north corridor. Lanterns hung like extinguished moons. The scent of mourning incense still clung to the wood and dried blood. The silence stuck in his chest like an ice spike.
He turned once more toward the pavilion where his father lay. Then whispered, to himself:
"Father… who did this?"
But the falling snow offered no answer. Instead, a formal voice brought him back:
"Your Highness."
Yi Hwan looked to see a eunuch bowing some yards away brought by a messenger from Grand Counsellor Yun, his maternal grandfather.
***
Soon dusk would dye the palace halls with muted gold through paper latticework. Yi Hwan stepped eastward with measured strides, hands clasped behind his back, jaw fixed.
The eunuch accompanied him to a heavy door carved with sober motifs.
"Grand Counsellor awaits."
Yi Hwan inclined his head.
The chamber they entered was among the oldest in the imperial complex: the Black Chrysanthemum Room. Exiles, royal weddings and silent executions had all been decided here. The air held the scent of dried petals and burning sandalwood incense in a bronze brazier.
Grand Counsellor Yun Daechang sat upon a low throne, clad in mourning robes that draped like shadow. He did not raise his gaze from the closed book before him, words hidden.
"Kneel, Your Highness," he said without looking up. "You are not king yet."
Yi Hwan knelt. One knee, then the other, and remained upright amid reverence.
"The North is a dilemma," he said quietly.
"I did not summon you to discuss that." The Counsellor's hand pressed against the volume; his fingers flattened the cover as he spoke. "There is a matter more urgent."
A long silence followed, broken only by the incense's crackle.
"Is it about the throne?" asked the prince.
The old man finally raised his eyes:
"Not exactly." He brushed a finger over the book. "The White Eye could be discovered. And that would not do."
"No one has seen it," Yi Hwan replied steadily. "Those who know are either dead or have sworn silence. Everyone believes I am blind in that eye. Unless... someone has decided to betray us."
The Counsellor studied the white streak in his hair with tired eyes.
"I suppose you cannot conceal everything. Fate is unavoidable. We cannot escape Heaven's will not even a bearer of the White Eye."
"What do you propose?"
The grandparent's gaze turned away.
"Just as I served your late father, Grand Counsellor Yun Daechang will stand just behind you, Your Highness. Not as kin, but as the root that anchors your reign in this frozen realm. I will protect the White Eye until my final breath."
Yi Hwan drew in a slow breath. The incense suffocated him.
"The White Eye," he repeated with disdain, "it seems that is all that matters."
"Your Highness!" his grandfather snapped firmly. "Your words are sharp. I trust you know to wield them when necessary and to swallow them when vital to survive."
"I will, Harabeoji."
"Now return to your quarters. You must rest, gather your mind, and prepare to be the new king."
Yi Hwan nodded obedient, yet uneasy.
"Harabeoji," he asked softly, "who was it? Who slew him?"
Grand Counsellor Yun fixed him with the calm of a coiled viper:
"A king does not die by one hand. He falls beneath the weight of many. Seek not justice in a palace where every man wields a knife."
Yi Hwan met his gaze:
"And you? Did you wield one?"
The counsellor offered a tight smile:
"I have done my part by protecting the future king. No, I have protected the White Eye that will reign. Ensured that it came to pass. That is enough."
The White Eye again.Have I ever mattered?
His words struck hard. Yi Hwan held steady, though tension coiled in his shoulders like bowstrings.
"Understood, Harabeoji: the White Eye is all that matters," he said gravely.
Grand Counsellor Yun Daechang rose for the first time.
He walked with fluid grace to stand before his grandson, gently lifted his chin, a presence too large for his smaller frame.
"I made you strong," he whispered. "Not for who you are, but because this world does not tolerate weakness. Not even in royal blood."
Yi Hwan held his gaze.
"I know. That is why I do not fear enemies but neither do I trust those who revere me."
The old man barely inclined his head.
"A sound answer. You are cunning, Your Highness."
He turned and returned to his seat.
"At dawn you will be proclaimed king. The Council may not greet it with enthusiasm they still harbour doubts over the jade blade assassin." He sighed. "They are afraid of you. Do not give them reason."
"What if I do not wish for the throne?"
Grand Counsellor's face hardened.
"That is not a choice, I am afraid. It is a sentence but you were born to reign. Embrace your divine purpose with dignity."
Yi Hwan inclined his head.
"Did you summon me merely to instruct my destiny?"
"No," the old man replied, his tone rough. "I summoned you to remind you that you have no family. Only a throne to fill. Hold to yourself. Sheath your heart in steel. Live, and destroy those who dare oppose you. Doubt not ever."
Silence fell colder than the snow outside.
No family? he thought, imprinting the words deep.
Instead, he spoke:
"I will not fail you, Harabeoji[1]."
Grand Counsellor Yun Daechang sighed, feeling the chill in the room. I am sorry, Hwan, but it must be this way. The White Eye cannot fall into unworthy hands, that would spark a greater war than any accession. Then he said:
"Rest, Your Highness."
Yi Hwan departed without looking back.
Outside, night had fully descended. Lanterns trembled in the corridors, like caged fires.
And the prince walked toward his destiny.
No prayer on his lips, only the throne's weight upon his shoulders.
[1] T: Grandfather.