It was faint, very faint, but he saw it, well, more accurately felt it. He’s alive and safe; he’s safe. His heart is pounding in his chest, and the fast, furious beats are vibrating in his ears.

He’s alive, and he’s safe. 

He wants to wake her, to tell her, but he doesn’t. There’ve been too many false alarms, too many near misses. Her heart has been broken too many times; he doesn’t want to get her hopes up. She mumbles in her sleep, and he moves closer, leaning in and rubbing circles into her back. Her breathing begins to even out; he smiles and lets her soft exhales soothe his over-anxious heart. 

He sits up in the too large and too ornate bed. He can’t sleep, not after that very welcomed disruption. He’s excited, nervous, and scared; what if it’s not true? What if it’s just his imagination running away with him? What if he’s let down once again? The questions are unending, and he’s not sure he’s emotionally able to withstand another heartbreak. 

Getting up, he pulls his robe tight around him as he stands to his feet. The floor is cold, and he quickly slips his feet into the slippers by his bedside. The wooden double doors creak as he opens them, and he sticks his head out and beckons to one of the two guards standing on either side of the doors frame. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the soldier says with a bow, armor squeaking with each movement.

“Have Captain Jung meet me in the cabinet,” he orders the man as he slowly closes the doors behind him. 

“Right away, Your Highness,” the guard replies, heavy armor clashing as he walks away. 

Hoseok will know what to do. Hoseok always knows what to do.

Jin walks the long hallway to the cabinet. The room is small, quaint, and his preferred meeting place for strategizing and confidential meetings. It was also his and Hoseok’s favorite place as children, often snuggling together on the faux wooden throne his father had made for him when he was five, maybe six years old. Sword-shaped handles protruding from the backrest had been the catalyst for more than a few pretend sword fights, ones that Hoseok always seemed to win. Jin chuckles at the thought of them trying to fit in the chair together now; he runs his hand over the carved birds, doves, he thinks, perched on the armrest. His heart aches as he realizes that he’s been robbed of the chance to see his son sitting in this chair with a book in hand or snuggled up giggling with his friends.

Uncontrollable anger begins to swell in his chest, burning like coal in a flame. Tears rest at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back. He’s the King; he needs to be strong, for his people and for his son.