The King's Secret

The golden tapestries of Gyeongbok Palace shimmered in the morning sun, but the throne remained cold and untouched. For eight years, King Dong Man had worn the crown like a chain around his neck. He spoke little, smiled less, and never set foot in Mina’s old chambers. They had long been sealed—frozen in time like the love he lost the day she died.

Until today.

General Lee stood before him, not in armor, but in quiet defiance. His eyes held something that hadn’t been seen in this palace for years—truth.

“My King,” he began slowly, “there is something you must know… about that night.”

Dong Man’s hands clenched the lion-carved arms of his throne.

“She did not die giving birth. The Queen ordered Mina’s death. And she ordered the newborn’s as well.”

Silence. Then, the sound of a breaking soul.

It was as if all the air had been stolen from the room. Dong Man rose, slow and trembling, grief in his veins turning to rage. “Why did you wait eight years to tell me?”

“I failed you once,” General Lee answered solemnly, “I needed proof before failing you again.”

Dong Man stared past the general—past the walls, the garden, the courtiers who whispered in his shadow. His son… alive. Somewhere.

“Where is he?”

“In the countryside. Raised by a good man. A former soldier turned farmer. Choi Taeha. The boy is well… strong. Kind. He knows nothing of who he is.”

The king’s eyes glistened. “Then I will not shatter his peace.”

The king made a large order of milk and fruit from Taeha's farm. Taeha understood and the next morning he left with Haesu and Gyeongho to personally deliver the order to the king.

The royal gardens were unusually quiet that morning. Not a sound beyond the soft rustle of leaves and the deliberate steps of the palace guards flanking the eastern courtyard. King Dong Man stood beneath the blossom-laced arbor, gazing at nothing, and yet… waiting.

General Lee appeared at his side. “They’re here, Your Majesty.”

Dong Man swallowed the lump in his throat and turned, composing himself. “Bring them in.”

The garden gates opened, and Choi Taeha entered with the bow of a former soldier—low, silent, respectful. Beside him stood two boys. One tall for his age, silent and observant. The other... smaller, with wild eyes and a voice that danced.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” the older one chirped, clutching a wooden basket. “Appa said I can carry it this time ‘cause I didn’t spill anything for two whole days!”

Dong Man’s heart twisted painfully in his chest.

Choi Haesu.

His son.

Alive. Talking. Smiling up at him like the sun incarnate, and not knowing.

The king knelt—not out of custom, but need—and reached for the basket. “Is that so? A full two days without accidents? That must be a record.”

Haesu puffed his chest. “Gyeongho says I talk too much and trip on my words, but Taeha says my mouth moves faster than my feet. I think that’s a talent.”

The younger boy beside him, Gyeongho, rolled his eyes with the weariness of a lifelong protector. “He also talks in his sleep, Your Majesty.”

“Do not!” Haesu gasped.

“Do too.”

Dong Man chuckled, unable to help himself. It sounded foreign even to his own ears; laughter. Real, deep laughter. He hadn’t heard it from his own mouth in years.

“And what else do you do, Haesu?”

“Oh! I help milk the cow, even though she only listens to Gyeongho. I race the chickens. I built a scarecrow last week but it looks more scared than scary. Want to see a drawing?”

Without hesitation, the boy pulled a crumpled parchment from his sleeve and thrust it forward. A crude sketch of three stick figures under a sun. “That’s me. That’s Appa. That’s Gyeongho. He’s taller, so I drew him bigger.”

Dong Man’s hands trembled as he took it. “It’s perfect.”

Taeha gave a slight nod. He knew. Of course he knew.

And Gyeongho... his eyes were on the king like a hawk. Protective. Knowing.

But Haesu? Haesu saw none of it. He only saw a kind man who smiled when he talked, and so he kept talking. He rattled about a butterfly he chased for an hour, how he named it “Monarch,” and how he was sure it winked at him.

Dong Man listened to every word like it was gospel.

When they left, the king remained kneeling, the drawing pressed to his chest, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Eight years,” he whispered to the wind. “Eight years I’ve missed this.”