The air in the Queen's chambers didn't just feel cold; it felt static, charged with the lingering residue of a ritual that had gone horribly wrong. Outside, the unnatural blue lightning of the Myeong-Wun Dynasty sky finally began to fade, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. Inside, the labor had reached its agonizing conclusion.
Queen Seol-Ran lay against the blood-stained silk pillows, her chest heaving. Her light green eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were now glazed with a mixture of exhaustion and profound terror. She had felt it—the moment the Nun-ui-jeoju (Snow Curse) had settled into the infant's soul. She had felt the warmth of her own womb turn into a cavern of ice.
"It is a Prince, Your Grace," the head nursemaid whispered, her voice trembling. She didn't mention the child's hair—black with midnight blue highlights that seemed to shimmer even in the dim candlelight. She didn't mention that the baby hadn't cried. He had simply opened his eyes, revealing a pair of light green orbs that mirrored his mother's, but with a terrifying, frigid depth.
"Take him," Seol-Ran gasped, her voice a mere ghost of itself. "Clean him. Take him to the nursery... away from me."
The nursemaids, sensing the Queen's fragile state, hurried the infant into the adjoining washing chamber. They whispered amongst themselves about the "blessed" arrival, unaware that they were carrying a living calamity.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut. Queen Seol-Ran was finally alone.
The silence of the room was a physical weight. Every corner of the chamber reminded her of her misery. She looked at the ornate carvings on the ceiling, the same ones she had stared at while King Kim Dae-Hyun whispered lies of devotion. She thought of the mistress, the betrayal, and the monster she had just birthed in her quest for vengeance. She had tried to curse the King, but she had only succeeded in ruining an innocent soul.
He will be a threat to the kingdom, the thought looped in her mind like a funeral dirge. He is the winter that never ends. And I am the one who invited the frost.
Her hand drifted to the side of her bed, brushing against the small, ceremonial jade-handled dagger she had dropped earlier—the one she had intended to use on her own womb. Her fingers closed around the hilt. It was cold, welcoming.
She didn't hesitate. There was no prayer, no final words for the man who had broken her heart. With a single, fluid motion born of desperation, she slit her wrist.
The blood that poured out was not the vibrant red of a healthy Queen; it felt dark, steaming against the icy temperature of the room. She watched it soak into the white and golden silks of her bedding, a final masterpiece of crimson and gold. As the world began to blur, her last thought was of the child in the other room. I am sorry, Seol-Hwa. Mother is so sorry.
She died instantly, her hand falling limp, the dagger clattering softly against the floor.
The scream that shattered the palace peace came minutes later. The head nursemaid had returned with a basin of warm water, only to find the "Sun of the Kingdom" extinguished. The basin hit the floor with a deafening bang, water splashing over the Queen's cooling hands.
"The Queen! The Queen has fallen!"
The panic was instantaneous. It spread through the corridors of the Myeong-Wun palace like a wildfire in a dry forest. Eunuchs scrambled, scholars dropped their scrolls, and the heavy atmosphere of the birth was replaced by the frantic energy of death.
By the next morning, the palace was draped in the white hemp of mourning. A grand portrait of Queen Seol-Ran was placed in the Great Hall. In the painting, she looked ethereal—her midnight blue hair perfectly coiffed, her light green eyes looking out with a wisdom she never truly found in life. But beneath the portrait, the air was thick with the one thing no King can truly execute: gossip.
In the hidden corners of the servant's quarters and the quiet libraries of the scholars, the whispers grew like weeds.
"Did you hear?" a young maid whispered, her eyes darting toward the door. "They say she took her own life. That the King's cruelty finally broke her spirit."
"I heard he hasn't visited her chambers in months," a scholar replied, leaning in close. "He was with that mistress even while the Queen was on the mountain performing the rites. They say she died of a broken heart, and the blood on the sheets was a message to the King."
"And the baby..." another maid chimed in, her voice shaking. "He is beautiful, almost too beautiful. Pale skin like porcelain, and that hair—black with blue like the deep ocean. But he has her eyes. Those green eyes... they look right through you. Is it a blessing or a sign of the tragedy to come?"
"They say the King abused her," a senior eunuch murmured. "That the 'Great King' is a man of glass and shadow. She didn't die for her country; she died to escape him."
The rumors reached a fever pitch as the court gathered for the official mourning announcement. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the muffled sounds of weeping.
Then, the heavy doors of the throne room swung open.
The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. King Kim Dae-Hyun entered, his presence a dark shroud that smothered the whispers instantly. He did not look like a grieving widower; he looked like a predator who had just smelled blood. His eyes swept over the bowing crowd, landing on the scholars and maids who had been the loudest in their speculation.
Everyone hit the floor, their foreheads pressing against the cold stone. "Long live the King," they chanted in a terrified unison.
Dae-Hyun stood before the portrait of his late wife, his face an unreadable mask of stone. He didn't look at her painted eyes. He turned to the court, his voice echoing with a terrifying, metallic edge.
"I have heard the wind carrying foul things today," he began, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Lies. Filth. Rumors that insult the memory of your Queen and the dignity of your King."
He stepped down from the dais, walking slowly between the rows of trembling servants.
"Let me be clear," he hissed. "My Queen died of a sudden, tragic illness brought on by the strain of giving this kingdom a Prince. Anyone—and I mean anyone—who suggests otherwise, who speaks of mistresses or 'broken spirits,' will be silenced. You will be killed on the spot. Your parents will be executed. Your children will be erased from the records. The Myeong-Wun Dynasty does not tolerate traitors of the tongue."
He stopped in front of the scholar who had been gossiping earlier. The man was shaking so violently his teeth were chattering.
"You," the King commanded. "You should be sorrowful of my wife's death. You should be weeping for the mother of your future King. Are you not sorrowful?"
"I... I am, Your Majesty! I am!" the scholar sobbed.
"Then show me," the King whispered.
The King turned back to the portrait, a cruel, cold light in his eyes. He didn't care about Seol-Ran's death, nor did he care about the child's cursed eyes. He only cared about control.
"The Prince shall be named Seol-Hwa," the King announced to the silent room. "The Snow Flower. He will be kept in the Eastern Pavilion. And the world will know him as the light of this dynasty."
As the King walked out, leaving the court in a state of paralyzed terror, a lone snowflake drifted down from the blue-tinged sky outside, landing on the Queen's portrait.
The era of the Nun-ui-jeoju had truly begun.