Three.

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“Your Majesty.”

 

Boa’s eyes flick to the mirror on her left, tensing as she catches Changmin’s eyes reflected on its surface. He looks neutral as he always does, but there is an aura of unease around his person. Boa is spared of her anxious musings for a moment as she ponders about what Changmin thinks of all this. After all, he had been the one who helped Yunho run away and elope.

 

It is a fact that makes Boa feel endlessly humbled.

 

“Colonel Shim,” she turns away from the window overlooking the Palace grounds, hands folded in front of her, hidden in the folds of her sleeves. She is immensely glad of her robes, because she cannot imagine the people being forgiving enough to tolerate a queen who trembles in the face of anxiousness and worry. Their people—her people—is used to having powerful, handsome kings. It makes her wonder when they would begin fearing for their lives; fearing that their new, female ruler would not be strong enough to defend them.

 

But it is a thought for another day.

 

“He is no longer in Incheon,” Changmin answers her silent question, handing over the parchment Sergeant Kim had sent back only moments ago. The Queen closes her hand over it and heads to a nearby armchair to lower herself onto. Her eyes shift over the parchment in quick movements, and for several drawn-out seconds, the room is engulfed in suspenseful silence. “They have reasons to believe that his mother was killed during a rebellion rampage ten years ago.”

 

Boa closes her eyes, heart dropping to the base of her stomach. With a weakened hand, she waves at the door. Changmin immediately turns around to close the door behind him, nodding at the questioning glances the guards throw him before they step out of the room. When he turns back around, the Queen is slumped in her seat, eyes troubled and pleading as they meet Changmin’s.

 

“Ten years ago?” Boa repeats, her chest aching at the thoughts of a small, ten-year-old boy, forced to make his way around the world alone. Did he get hurt during the attack? Did he witness his mother’s murder? If she was murdered? Was he cared for after? Did he ever find out who his father was? Where is he now? “He has been an orphan for ten years.”

 

“Your Majesty.”

 

“We let him be an orphan for ten years, Changmin.” Her breath catches in , and Boa closes her eyes, gritting her teeth to prevent the sob from spilling out. She feels more than hears Changmin’s presence closing in on her. A moment later, a warm hand is placed on her shoulder. “Yunho’s son. His only child.”

 

“We will find him,” he promises; his hold firm and familiar against her skin. Boa lifts a trembling hand to cover his. “I promise you. We will find him.”

 

“Yes,” she nods. Her breathing quickened, and as she looks up to Changmin, he freezes at the fiery determination in her gaze. “Yes we will. Fast. Give them his name.”

 

Changmin frowns his disapproval. “Your Majesty, we have discussed this. It is much too risky for the people to catch a whiff of this,” he reminds her, but she already is shaking her head, a hard set to her jaw telling Changmin that there is no chance of changing her mind.

 

“Yet we cannot afford to lose another minute,” Boa insists, sounding much, much calmer than she had been only moments ago. Changmin drops his hand away from her shoulder, and Boa straightens up. “Give them his name, Colonel. I shall be the one to take responsibility of the consequences, should there be any.”

 

She moves to push herself up, turning her whole body around to stare Changmin down. For a while, it seems like the Crown Shield is not about to yield. It lasts no longer than several painfully long seconds, however, and then Changmin is taking a step back, bowing down low to his queen.

 

“Right away, Your Majesty.”

 

 

*

 

 

It takes surprisingly small effort to talk Scholar Shin into allowing them to take Minho back to the Palace. After Jonghyun and Junmyeon finish explaining everything they know about the situation—which is not much, if at all—Shin immediately confirms his willingness to let Minho go. “He deserves to know his real heritage,” he had told them, arm looped around Minho’s tense shoulders.

 

Minho says nothing throughout the entire discussion, which goes well into the night. He refuses to answer any questions or voices any of his opinions. It is not until his father asks him whether he would agree to come to the palace that Minho answers: “Only if Mother lets me.”

 

So they turn to Gain, who looks like she wants, so badly, to say no. After a long, heavy silence that seems to stretch into hours, she sighs her agreement. She does, however, have a condition they must fulfill: Scholar Shin must be allowed to come along. After some consideration, Jonghyun decides that four of their squad members will remain at the orphanage to help around while Scholar Shin and Minho are away.

 

As soon as the discussion is wrapped, Gain ushers Minho out of the room under the guise of helping him pack. The rest of them begin counting down the long hour of pretending they could not hear Gain’s quiet sobs from the other room.

 

“It will only be few days,” Jonghyun assures Gain, once they are all standing outside; horses ready and torches lit. Gain nods distractedly, eyes flicking back to Minho, who is clutching the reins of his favored horse, Sol. Jonghyun follows her line of sight, only to find Minho staring wistfully at his adopted mother.

 

“It will be longer for him, though, wouldn’t it?” she asks Jonghyun, her eyes still glued to her son. Jonghyun swallows and forces out a smile. “He will stay.”

 

“He only has greatness ahead of him,” he says instead. The smile that graces Gain’s face is weak and terribly, terribly sad.

 

“Chief! We are set to go,” Junho calls out. Jonghyun turns to look over his shoulder where all of them, including Minho and his father, have mounted their horses, ready for the long journey back.

 

“He will not forget you,” Jonghyun tells Gain, whose eyes shine with gratitude at his words. “He will never forget you.” She comes forward to engulf him in a quick parting hug, before letting go and taking several steps back. Jonghyun takes a deep breath, nods, and mounts his stallion.

 

They begin their ride back to the city, each eager to find out what the near future has in store for them.

 

 

*

 

 

The city is already bustling with activity when their group reaches the main gates; merchants and sellers piling merchandises and fresh crops on their stalls, shop owners and keepers opening their doors for the busybodies making their way around the main road. Minho keeps his eyes as wide as they can go, taking in the sight of the city market and its regulars.

 

“First time coming here?” Donghae asks, pulling up next to him. Minho turns to look at him, embarrassment blooming on his face. It’s no one’s fault the city was so far away, and so expensive, that their parents cannot afford taking all of them there to visit regularly. “It can be overwhelming, I know, but you will get used to it. It is charming enough, if you can find all the good corners.”

 

“I’ve been before,” Minho insists defensively, looking ahead at the menacingly tall, solid iron gates they are heading towards. If the city looks like this—clean and sleek, modern and packed, as opposed to the humble, plain simplicity of the rural—Minho cannot imagine what the Palatial Ground looks like.

 

He has dreamt of coming here; into the city and eventually the Palace. He dreamt of being a part of the Elite Squad of the Royal Army. He dreamt of parading around the city at Chuseok, carrying torches so tall they paint the sky red. He dreamt of being a Crown Shield, giving his entire life to the King or Queen, being the person closest to them, the one responsible for their life; the highest form of loyalty to the Crown.

 

He has dreamt of it all, but in those dreams, he isn’t marred with scars or chased by the ghosts of his past.

 

In those dreams, he is happy.

 

 

*

 

 

King Gyungshik was a religious man. He built temples and appointed priests, recited prayers on ceremonies and celebrated religious days with shows of extravagance. He was religious and proud of it. He wanted the whole world to know of it.

 

King Yunho was, too, a religious man. He prayed at dawn and bathed at dusk, believing the ritual to be a way of ridding himself from evil. He was silent in his prayers, whispering to the Gods as he humbled himself in front of them. He would go into the temple barefooted, ridding himself of all his royal regalia. He was religious, yet unlike his father, he kept everything close to his chest. Everything he gave to and did for the Gods were his, and his alone.

 

Queen Boa is not a religious woman. She does not believe in the Gods’ all-might. She believes in the universe; Her balance, Her laws, Her gifts. She does not worship the carvings and statues her husband’s ancestors have placed around the Palace. She does not believe in them. She does not have any reason to. They were not even her people’s Gods. They were Goguryeo’s.

 

Yet, in her desperation, she kneels. At just before dawn, after a night plagued with nightmares, worry, and regret, she makes her way to the temple. She leaves the crown in her chambers, and walks barefooted into the temple, bowing her submission before the gold-crusted statues.

 

And she prays.

 

She prays for the safety of a child she has never met. A child who have suffered. A child who has greatness written for him, yet he knows nothing of. A child born from the only woman her husband had ever loved. A child born out of love, and suffered the consequences of it. A child innocent and true, yet thrown right into harm’s way to pay for sins he did not make.

 

She prays, with all her heart.

 

She pleads and begs, body bowed to the floor so low that her forehead presses against the wooden floor. She begs to the Gods, to the universe, that this child be the answer for their Nation—that this child be kept safe and sound and whole, to carry the dynasty to its limitless glory.

 

She prays.

 

 

*

 

 

The Queen stands in the middle of the room, with chain of jades raining down her face and blood red robes trailing in her wake. Next to her feet, the chosen handmaidens kneel, back straight and head bowed; a form of willing submission. To the far left of the room sits the Queen Mother, the golden threads in her Hanfu reflecting the glint of sunlight streaming through the windows. She looks almost otherworldly in her silence; the lines of her expression betraying none of her emotions.

 

The two women stand their ground, ready to face the future of a dynasty they were not born into.

 

A dynasty they will fight with their lives to continue.

 

“Your Majesty.”

 

The Crown Shield is first to enter, followed by the four soldiers he had chosen. Behind them, two men walk in; one old and fatherly, while the other young and wary. They stop just ten steps away from her, before kneeling in a low, proper kowtow. It is a long moment until they stand, and even longer until the Queen breaks the silence.

 

“Thank you for your service. I will see to it that you are rewarded accordingly.” Queen Boa does not spare any time to look at any of them in the eyes. She could not. She does not possess the patience for ceremonials that was her late husband’s forte. “Her Highness and myself would like to speak to Choi Minho alone.”

 

She watches him closely—the young stranger standing in her presence. She watches the way his eyes widen at her request, and the way his hand trembles as the room begin to be deserted. She understands his feeling—it was her, once upon a time, when she was very young. She understands how her distant father seems like an entity bigger than life; omnipresence. She understands the way the room seems to both limitless and unbearably small in his presence.

 

She understands that he is experiencing a similar occurrence. The only difference being her—a true stranger.

 

“Choi Minho,” she tries, voice low and gentle. She never has considered herself motherly. It is simply not a word she associates with herself, despite having raised her nephew into such fine young man that he is today. She hopes it does not deter her chances of earning Minho’s trust. “Welcome to the Palace.”

 

“It is Jung Minseok, Your Majesty,” Minho answers, his voice a deep rumble that surprises Boa, for some reason. He sounds like a man. He looks like a man. He is nothing like the boy Boa sees in her nightmares.

 

“What do you mean, child?” she asks, confusion bleeding into her voice.

 

“My name,” Minho says firmly. Then he looks up, eyes boring straight into Boa in a way that would get him a sentence were he somebody less important to her. “Is Jung Minseok.”

 

“I do not understand. Are you not my grandson?” It is the Queen Mother, impatience and shock drawing her closer. Boa does not turn to look at her, instead choosing to keep her eyes trained on Minho. Minho drops his gaze.

 

“I would not know, Your Highness.” He speaks like any other young men from the villages do; plainly and with unbridled honesty. There is something else there, however, something Boa is too surprised to recognize. Something akin to a challenge. “According to Major Kim, I am.”

 

An attitude, Boa thinks amusedly. Yunho’s boy has got an attitude. She turns to glance at her mother-in-law. The glint in her eyes telling her that she shares her opinion.

 

It makes her wonder what his lover—Minho’s mother—had been like.

 

“What was your mother’s given name, child?” Boa asks carefully.

 

The muscles in Minho’s jaw tick and he seems to tense up. Another second passes, and he deflates. “Jung Siyoon, Your Majesty.”

 

So he is Siyoon’s child. Yunho’s child. She does not understand why he denied the name his mother gave him. Did his foster family give him a new name? Is there something in his past he wishes to shed?

 

Boa releases a breath. “Do you happen to have anything of your mother’s? Something she left for you?”

 

Hesitation flashes over Minho’s eyes, before he visibly steels his resolve and reaches into the top of his tunic. He pulls out a thin, white gold necklace and loops it over his head. Several long seconds pass as he hesitates over whether he is allowed to approach or not. In the end, Boa is the one who takes several steps closer. She holds out her hand for Minho to drop the necklace onto.

 

A ring is attached to it. Boa closes her hand over it before bringing it closer to her eyes, inspecting the ring. She twirls the band slowly; the familiarity of its shape and design tickling the back of her mind, as if a memory is trying to claw its way back out into her consciousness.

 

Images of Yunho flood her mind. She remembers watching him do calligraphy while she plays the lyre, both of them engrossed in the mindless tranquility. She remembers the way he liked to use his hands when he spoke to her in private, gesturing and pointing, and she remembers rejoicing the fact that Yunho is comfortable enough in her company that he let his guards down. She remembers his hands; the ones grasping hers in his last moments. She remembers him, as life gradually seeps out of his form—

 

“Bury this with me,” he had rasped, showing Boa the sapphire-encrusted ring he always had on his right ring finger. “Nothing else. Just this. Promise me.”

 

Boa looks down at the ring standing between her fingertips.

 

“Promise me.”

 

The pain that floods into her at that moment is so great it takes her breath away. She feels as if her whole body is on fire. The grief and regret that come crashing down on her form seems too much to bear for a second, and she grits her teeth. Closing her palm around the ring, she clutches it closely to her chest. It is the very last physical reminder Yunho had of the love of his life.

 

The only thing he knew tying him to her.

 

Boa wishes, harder than she ever wished before, that Yunho could have seen this. Could have gotten this closure. This chance.

 

She wishes he could have been here to witness another solid proof of his love to Siyoon. She wishes he could have been here to meet his son.

 

“Their wedding ring,” Boa hands it over to the Queen Mother. Her hand trembles and her lips are stiff, but she manages to pull herself upright.

 

The Queen turns back to Minho, whose eyes are steady as they meet hers. She gathers all her power and sends him a hard-earned smile.

 

“Welcome home.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Lee Jinki,” the man with slanted eyes offers; his smile kind and warm. He stands in the middle of the room with hands behind his back, stance well-calculated. Around him, the room seems to have grown in width, as if his presence is enough to drown the unimportant details and forces Minho’s attention to zero on him. “Royal Advisory Council. At your service, Your Highness.”

 

An itch seems to grow at the back of Minho’s mind while he silently observes the way Lee Jinki is bowing his respect, seemingly thinking nothing of it. Minho wonders if it is strange to him, being forced to be of service for someone who previously did not exist in the Royal family tree. Minho wonders if he has questions; if he would ever ask them.

 

He wonders how he is supposed to treat Lee Jinki.

 

“What do I call you?” Minho asks, eyebrow rising at the sight of the amusement coloring his advisor’s face.

 

“’Jinki’ is the most obvious and appropriate choice, Your Highness.” A grin breaks out across Jinki’s face, and suddenly Minho realizes that he isn’t old at all. In fact, he might only be a couple of years older than Minho himself. “In formal situations, I am referred to as ‘Sir Jinki’.”

 

“This isn’t a formal situation,” Minho tries. Jinki’s grin grows into a small huff of laughter. Minho feels his tenseness unraveling by a fraction.

 

“No, Sire, it is not,” he agrees; standing still as Minho’s eyes rake over his form. Minho takes in the deep blue fabric of Jinki’s robes, punctured with silver threads that form chains of floras up his sleeves and down the front of his chest. The formal attire Jinki wears is utterly foreign, made of materials that seem otherworldly. Minho has never seen anything like it—the stiff, structured fabrics that made out the Queen, the Queen Mother, and the advisor’s robes.

 

It makes him feel terribly insignificant.

 

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here.” The moment the words spill out of his lips, Minho feels the sharp sting of regret in his chest. He should not have said that. He should not have shown weakness in front of a stranger. His father had warned him against it—had told him about how careful he needs be, if he were to live in the Palace. Minho wants to take it back; to take it all back and start over.

 

“It is why I am here, Your Highness. To assist you,” Jinki takes several steps closer with slow, certain movement, highly aware of the wariness Minho exudes. “Any questions you have, any matter you wish to be elaborated, I will provide them to the best of my ability.”

 

He stops no more than three steps away from Minho, his gaze holding Minho in place. “But I can only do so if you trust me. Therefore, Your Highness, would you honor me with a chance to prove my worth for you?”

 

Minho doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. He simply stands there, mind racing over his father’s warning, and the Queen’s welcoming words, and the claims over his heritage that no one bothered to explain to him further. Minho feels as if he is in limbo—floating between uncertainties.

 

He feels overwhelmed.

 

“Your Highness—”

 

“Don’t,” he snaps, harsher than he intended. Minho feels his knees begin to weaken and he takes a step back, lowering himself onto an armchair so plush and steady that he is again reminded of the strange world he is trapped in. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“Very well,” Jinki says, light and easy. “I will desist. Minho, is it?”

 

Minho almost wants to correct him—Minseok, he thinks, Minho is long gone—but his mouth would not cooperate. So he nods.

 

“I know you are overwhelmed. I know that you are scared,” Jinki moves closer, kneeling in front of him. Minho wants him to leave. He wants Jinki to stop talking to him like Minho’s a child, or a cornered animal. He wants Jinki to stop being able to see through him. “It is okay to be scared.”

 

“I’m not,” Minho insists, hating the way his defensiveness bleeds through, coloring his voice with blatant petulance. He’s not a child. “I’m just confused—there’s so much happening and… and nobody’s explaining anything. One minute I’m at home and the next these soldiers came and told me they were sent to bring me back to my real home; my father’s home. I didn’t know my father. I never had one besides Scholar Shin. I know nothing and they dragged me here with promises of explanation. Yet all they’ve been doing is speak of me like I’m not in the room, like I’m blind and deaf. And now I’m here. I’m here and—and…,” Minho trails off, gritting his teeth in frustration as he forces his rant to halt. His hands move up to grip at his hair, fists clenching so hard his scalp begins to throb.

 

“Now you are here,” Jinki nods, still sounding untroubled. “As am I.”

 

“And then what,” Minho grounds out, resisting the urge to punch Jinki in the face for being so unfazed. He feels the bubble of anger grows inside his chest, leaving him short of breath.

 

“You ask your questions,” Jinki answers, shrugging a shoulder. The gesture seems so uncharacteristically casual; so out-of-place in the face of his formal appearance and calculated upbringing that it warms Minho to him a tad. “And I will do my best to answer them. Deal?”

 

Just a tad. “Deal.”

 

 

*

 

 

Jinki’s mother was the daughter of a lowly landlord and shop owner; one of the most famous in the city. Her family was relatively well-off and she was well-educated—for one born with no title—but they still were only that: peasants. Until she met Jinki’s father.

 

Jinki’s father used to be a regular in her parents’ shop, a fact which he admitted he had done on purpose. Apparently, he had laid his eyes on Jinki’s mother and fell in love with her upon first meeting. Jinki’s father is the Earl of Goseong; the youngest there ever was, after Jinki’s grandfather was killed in a carriage accident. He was, and is, the most powerful man in Jinki’s birth land, and thus he had used his power to silence the scorn from the peerages after word got out that he had asked Jinki’s mother’s hand in marriage.

 

It is Jinki’s favorite star-crossed love story of all time.

 

His second favorite is less real, but no less magical. It is called The Tales of the Lost Prince.

 

It tells the story of a boy—plain and honest, humble and hardworking—who has only known one set of parents in his life; a couple living in a village so far from the city they could not see even a glimpse of the Palace. Along the way, the boy is revealed to be the lost prince; the beloved son of the King and Queen who was kidnapped as a baby. The boy is then taken to the Palace, in which he manages to impress everyone with his vast knowledge and just sense of humanity, marry a beautiful prince from a neighboring nation, and ascend the throne as a young, well-loved king.

 

Jinki has always loved that story, even today.

 

Especially today.

 

He tucks away the memories of his parents reading him the story at night, and zeroes his attention on the young, broken, lost prince in front of him. The living, breathing proof that fairytales are just that—tales brought on from the recesses of utopia.

 

“My mother… used to tell me about my father,” Minho begins, still wary and uncertain, yet oddly determined. Jinki stays silent and motionless, not wanting to break Minho out of his trance and close him up. Jinki has a long way ahead of him, and he will not waste even one second of it.

 

He has a lost prince to seek for—the one hidden inside the mind and body of this young man.

 

“She told me they used to meet near the river, where they would play around in the water for hours on end, just talking and joking around. She told me he was the only man who could ever match her wit.” The picture Minho draws of his parents is beautiful and painfully real. So real that it lost the blurry magic of fairytales and instead painted with the bright of reality. “They would meet several times a week, for years. They met as teenagers, and married as adults.”

 

“She told me that he was from the city, born and raised, and that he knew nothing about caring for lands and animals. I remember laughing at him when she told me. I remember feeling like I knew him, even for a moment,” Minho continues on wistfully, his eyes staring past Jinki’s shoulder in a thousand yard stare. “She told me that they were happy. The happiest she had ever been.”

 

Minho blinks, then suddenly his focus is back on Jinki. “She named me after him.”

 

“Choi Minho,” Jinki supplies, tasting the words in his mouth. Minho nods. “But you do not use that name anymore.”

 

“No,” Minho admits, smiling a rueful smile that makes him look older beyond his years. “No I don’t.”

 

“Why?” Jinki asks, trying his best to keep his tone neutral. Trying his best not to put too much pressure even in his attempt to press on. Minho hesitates.

 

“I…,” he trails off, eyes boring into Jinki’s searchingly. Whatever it is he is looking for, he does not seem to find it, for he drops his gaze immediately. Jinki fights back the tang of disappointment that blooms in his stomach as he watches the prince slowly slinks back into his shell.

 

The air seems to shift as Minho drops out of his trance completely. The emotions previously swimming in his eyes are in under a hard, steely gaze. He moves to stand, and Jinki follows suit. Taking several steps back, he watches as Minho visibly pulls himself into his full height, shaking off the uncertainties clouding his form just moments before.

 

“Sir Jinki.” It startles Jinki more than he expected; the drastic change in Minho’s tone. He expects the man to take a slower route away from his previous emotional outburst, but it seems he has chosen a faster one and drives straight into the other extreme.

 

Minho is closing up completely to make up for what he had inadvertently showed Jinki, and Jinki has lost his momentum to seek for another opening.

 

So he, too, opts to return to their previous checkpoint: them standing before each other, one a Royal Advisor and another a newly-appointed Grand Duke. “Your Highness.”

 

Minho manages to swallow back his grimace at the sound of his title coming naturally out of Jinki. “I need to speak with Major Kim.”

 

Fighting back his reflexive ‘right away, Sire’, Jinki pauses. “Major Kim Jonghyun?”

 

“Yes.” Minho looks at him defiantly, as if daring Jinki to ask questions. Jinki is tempted to do so, but he manages to stop himself at the last moment. He needs to draw a clear line between himself and Minho, to make sure they do not overstep any boundaries as two people who will be working and living together for the rest of their lives. Before he is certain where he should draw said line, Jinki will keep his questions and opinions to himself.

 

Jinki is a patient man. He will get to where he needs to with His Highness. He is willing to wait.

 

“Very well, Your Highness,” he nods once, hands already clasped behind his back once again. Minho seems to relax further, as if he is finally able to find a sturdy footing. “Is there anything else you wish me to do, Sire?”

 

“No,” Minho nods his farewell. Jinki bows and waits until Minho turns away from him before taking several steps backward. He is reaching the threshold of the prince’s private chambers when Minho speaks again, this time with a clear, but kinder voice. “Thank you, Sir Jinki.”

 

“Truly my pleasure, Your Highness.”

 

 

**

 

A/N: I know, no Taemin yet. Soon, I promise. In the meantime, tell me what you think of this one. Thank you, loves!!!! xx