PART 1: THE QUEEN WHO KNEELS
The snow had not stopped falling since the night she was condemned.
It clung to the black silk of her execution robes—robes that had once brushed polished palace floors, now ragged and damp, trailing behind her like a shroud. Beneath them, her bare feet crunched on the frozen earth, bruised violet at the edges. Every step was a quiet humiliation, a slow parade of disgrace carved across the wide path from the east tower to the platform below the Pavilion of Eternal Judgment.
No one spoke.
They lined the walk in two perfect rows: nobles in their fur-lined coats with eyes sharp behind jeweled masks, ministers in crimson robes that billowed like blood in the wind, and servants half-bowing but watching—always watching. Snow dotted their hair and lashes, but no one moved to brush it off. That would be improper. The Queen walked. She did not fall. She did not cry. They had all come to witness her break.
She would not give them the pleasure.
Seorin lifted her chin, letting the snow sting her cheeks. Her hands were bound in front of her with twisted hemp rope. Her once-immaculate nails were cracked, ringless, traced with old blood from yesterday's interrogation. She still smelled faintly of burnt incense and fear—though neither was hers.
At least, that's what she told herself.
"Make way for Her Disgrace," the captain barked.
The title bit deeper than the cold.
The Pavilion loomed ahead, a towering frame of dark pine wood crowned with dragon sculptures glaring down at her. Below it, the execution stage rose from the snow like an altar. One step. Two. By the third, her breath misted like smoke from an extinguished flame.
This was once my kingdom.
The thought came, unbidden and sharp.
And yet—here she was. Stripped of her power, her crown, and soon, her name.
The high chancellor stepped forward as she arrived at the platform, parchment in hand. His voice, loud and perfumed with righteous venom, echoed across the courtyard.
"Seorin of House Daeyang, once Queen Consort of Hwa-guk, you stand convicted of treason against His Majesty the King."
She did not flinch.
"You are accused of poisoning the Crown Prince, of conspiring with foreign generals, and of seeking to unseat the royal line for your own blood's claim."
The words hung like frost in the air.
One childless queen, one dead heir, and no one left to shield her. The nobles had smiled at her for years, called her clever, radiant, untouchable. Now they nodded with grim approval. She was a beast finally leashed.
"The sentence is death by the sword. This day, under the eyes of Heaven, may justice be—"
"I did not poison the boy," Seorin said.
Her voice sliced through the cold like a whip. Clear. Measured. Disdainfully calm.
The chancellor faltered mid-syllable. Then, recovering, he rolled the parchment shut and gave a curt nod. "Confessions made after the judgment are inadmissible."
Of course.
Her knees met the wood with a muffled thud. Behind her, she could hear the soldiers shifting, preparing the blade, checking ceremonial lines, ensuring history would be recorded precisely.
Let them have their rituals.
Snowflakes kissed her lashes. She did not blink them away.
A breeze stirred the scent of pine, blood, and perfumed silk—the nobles had come dressed in finery to watch her die. She could feel their stares, a thousand little knives. And worse still: pity. Quiet, poisonous pity from those who once bowed at her feet.
"I ruled beside him for ten years," she said softly, to no one in particular. "And he never knew the real traitor was the one pouring his tea."
A few heads tilted. Whispers stirred.
But no one asked who she meant.
Not the chancellor. Not the guards. Not even the King, seated above on the viewing balcony in gold brocade robes, watching with unreadable eyes.
Of course. Truth was not required here. Only obedience.
The executioner approached.
Heavy boots. Familiar gait.
Seorin's eyes lifted—and her breath caught.
It was him.
Juhwan.
She had not seen him in five years.
Once, he had been her sworn sword. Her lover. The man who whispered rebellion into her skin. The one who had vanished the night she became queen and returned now, face obscured by a black cloth mask, hand resting on the hilt of the ceremonial blade.
He did not meet her gaze.
Not even once.
And that—of all things—nearly made her crumble.
But Seorin only smiled. A slow, bitter thing. One that curved like a blade unsheathed too long.
Her voice dropped to a murmur, lips barely moving.
"Coward."
His jaw tensed beneath the mask.
A bell rang in the distance. Once. Twice. Three times.
The time had come.
Seorin bent her head, eyes closed.
And just before the blade came down, she whispered to herself:
"If I'm reborn… I will burn it all. Starting with you."
PART 2: THORNS BENEATH SILK
The first thing Seorin felt was warmth.d
Not the phantom sting of blood pooling on wood, not the distant cold of snow melting against bare skin—but the thick, stifling heat of summer. Humid, close, fragrant with camellia oil and dust from old scrolls.
Her breath hitched.
And then she opened her eyes.
Ceiling beams stared down at her, carved in the shape of cranes. Faint morning light filtered through rice-paper windows. Somewhere, cicadas cried.
She blinked once. Then again.
She knew this room.
Not from her final days, but from girlhood. Her real girlhood. This was her chamber in the Daeyang manor—soft gold drapes, braided tassels, faded tapestries of her great-grandfather's victories on the northern steppes.
She had not seen this ceiling in twenty years.
She bolted upright.
Pain shot through her ribs—shallow, growing bones, not the broken frame of a woman weeks starved in a dungeon. Her limbs were light, thin. Her hands, small. Smooth. No calluses from years of archery or knife training. No ink stains from secret missives.
A mirror stood near the latticework screen.
Seorin stood on shaking legs and stumbled to it.
What stared back was impossible.
Her face. Younger. Rounder cheeks, no shadow of cruelty in the mouth. No evidence of late-night plans or cold-blooded deals. Her eyes wide, dark, afraid. Unlined skin. A faint scar still fresh beneath her chin from falling during a court dance practice.
Sixteen. She was sixteen again.
Her fingers brushed her jaw. Her pulse raced like a war drum.
A voice outside the screen called, "Lady Seorin? You overslept. Your father's waiting for you at the shrine."
Father. She nearly laughed.
Baron Daeyang—strict, proud, obsessed with lineage and alliances. At sixteen, she had lived under his thumb, preparing to marry into the royal family as a docile pawn. He had chosen her robes. Her tutors. Even which songs she could hum in public.
She had obeyed back then. Meekly. Eager to please.
Not this time.
Seorin stepped back from the mirror, heartbeat slowing.
This wasn't a dream.
Nor heaven. Nor hell.
She remembered the blade. Juhwan's silence. Her whispered vow.
And somehow, impossibly, the vow had been heard.
If I'm reborn… I will burn it all.
A knock on the door. "My lady, shall I bring the combs? They sent new ones from the capital for your engagement portraits."
Engagement.
To the Crown Prince. The very boy she was later accused of killing.
The one whose mother had hated her from the beginning.
Seorin's lip curled.
That boy had died young in the first timeline. Poisoned, they said. She had known the truth—the cup had not been meant for him. She had even suspected who had done it, but said nothing.
Now, she could say everything.
Or better yet—change everything.
She turned from the mirror.
"Bring the combs," she said, voice crisp, "and my oldest shoes."
"My lady?"
"I want to go walking after the shrine."
"…yes, my lady."
She heard the girl scamper away. Probably the same maid from her first life, whose name she never learned.
This time, she would learn it.
Names. Faces. Loyalties.
She had ten years until her execution.
Ten years to unravel every thread
of betrayal before it was sewn.
Ten years to become something more than a queen who knelt
PART 3: THE BOY IN THE RIVER PAVILION
The shrine smelled the same.
Cedar incense. Old paper prayers curling at the edges. Damp stone and dried mountain lilies. Seorin knelt without complaint, bowing as the priest droned through the invocation to her ancestors. Her father stood tall beside her, arms folded like a blade still in its sheath.
She knew not to speak during the rites. But her mind was already leaving the temple.
The river pavilion should still be open. If I walk fast, I'll reach it before the court tutor arrives.
She tilted her head slightly to study her father out of the corner of her eye.
His profile was carved from stone—Baron Daeyang never blinked during ceremony. Even now, she could predict his thoughts: pride in her stillness, relief that his disobedient daughter wasn't flinching or fidgeting, and likely irritation that her engagement announcement had been delayed by the Crown Prince's visit to the provinces.
She would use that.
After the rites ended and servants handed them cooled barley tea, Seorin waited for her father to sip first. Then she spoke:
"Father, I'd like to walk through the orchard before returning."
He glanced at her. "It's summer. You'll sweat through your robes."
"I'll take off the outer layer."
He considered. "Twenty minutes."
She bowed. "Yes, Father."
He waved her off like she were no more than a dove flitting from his shoulder.
But as she stepped past the old bell tower and down toward the side path that veered from the manor grounds, a small thrill flickered in her spine.
She wasn't going to the orchard.
She crossed the northern ridge behind the shrine, passed the old tangerine grove, and reached the worn stone steps leading to the river pavilion. In her old life, she used to sneak here when court lessons made her ill. By seventeen, the Queen Dowager had forbidden her from ever leaving the palace gardens unescorted.
But today, she was no queen.
And the pavilion was just as she remembered.
It jutted out over the wide Han River, raised on carved stilts. A tiled roof shaded it, and vines tangled the posts. She ducked through the low hanging branches, her thin shoes slick on moss.
And then she saw him.
A boy.
Sitting on the ledge with his feet dangling above the water, skipping stones in long arcs. His hair was pulled into a loose noble's knot—messy. His robes, fine but wrinkled. A sword lay beside him, lacquered black with silver inlay.
Seorin froze behind one of the pillars.
It's him.
Yi Hyang.
The Crown Prince.
Younger than she remembered. Fourteen, maybe. Still with that stubbornly tilted jaw, but none of the calm coldness that he would grow into. His profile held boyish petulance—sharp, proud, but not yet cruel.
And, if she recalled correctly, he wasn't supposed to be here yet.
Not in this city. Not at this river.
She stepped lightly onto the platform.
"You throw like a servant boy," she said.
He turned.
Sharp eyes. That startled expression, half ready for a fight. His fingers twitched toward the sword before he stopped himself.
"You shouldn't be here," he said automatically.
"You're not the guard of this place, are you?"
His eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
"I asked first."
There was a long silence between them. Wind off the river. The sound of a cicada falling silent in the trees.
Then he frowned. "You're Baron Daeyang's daughter."
"You do throw like a servant boy."
A flicker of something crossed his face. Amusement, or disbelief. Then—he threw another stone.
It spun perfectly, skipping five times before sinking.
Seorin folded her arms. "Beginner's luck."
"Beginner?" He scoffed. "I could sink you with a peach pit."
"I'm sure that'd be the greatest military victory in your brief career."
Now he smirked. Just a little. "You're mouthier than I was told."
Seorin stepped closer. "You've been told things about me?"
"Enough to know you're meant to sit straight and nod when men speak."
"Oh no," she said, peering down at the water beside him. "That was my twin. I drowned her in a lotus pond last spring."
He stared at her.
Then he barked a laugh.
A real one.
The boy who would be Crown Prince.
The boy who would die too young, too alone, from a cup of poisoned tea.
And she—she had never told him she knew.
Back then, she had been playing court politics. She'd had no time for kindness.
But now…
Now, she might have ten years to prepare. Ten years to outplay everyone. Ten years to save the only soul in the palace who might've once tried to save her.
"Do you want to see something?" she asked him suddenly.
He raised a brow. "Does it involve stabbing me?"
"Only if you talk again during my dramatic storytelling."
"…I'm listening."
She grinned and stepped around him, toward the old stone basin carved into the far side of the pavilion. It was hidden behind a low screen—used once by the royal guards as a lookout post. When she crouched and pulled aside the old reeds, the view opened wide: a full panorama of the lower river bend.
No one else ever came here. Not even servants.
Yi Hyang crouched beside her, peering through.
"I didn't know this was here."
"That's the point."
He studied her now. Closely.
"Why are you showing me this?"
Seorin smiled faintly.
"Because if you're going to be Crown Prince," she said, "you should know the parts of the world people don't want you to see."
She stood.
Then paused.
"And if you're going to die young," she added under h
er breath, "someone should make sure you live while you can."
He didn't hear her. Or pretended not to.
But he looked at her differently after that.
PART 4: THE FOX SERVANT
The manor looked different now.
Not in its shape—she still remembered the curve of every corridor, every patterned floor tile. But it was in the way people moved through it. Like ghosts. Or insects. Harmless-seeming things that might carry poison beneath their wings.
She watched the servants closely.
Two maids laughed in the courtyard, but one glanced over her shoulder too often. A steward paused outside her father's office a beat longer than needed. Even the boy who stoked the lanterns bowed too deeply, eyes too still.
Perhaps they had always behaved this way.
Or perhaps she had never cared enough to notice.
Seorin's return from the river pavilion had been uneventful. Her father barely looked up when she passed him at the front veranda. A messenger arrived that evening bearing silk from the palace—colors chosen for the engagement announcement. Her mother beamed. Her sisters whispered.
But Seorin was not thinking of embroidery.
She sat in her personal study, a room too large for her at sixteen, and said calmly, "I want Yeonhwa to serve me from now on."
Her lady-in-waiting blinked. "Yeonhwa?"
"She works in the laundry quarters."
"She's barely trained in upper-service etiquette. She's not even—"
"I didn't ask for her qualifications," Seorin said, still watching the garden. "I asked for her name to be placed on my service list."
"…Yes, my lady."
The woman bowed herself out.
It was a test.
She remembered Yeonhwa clearly now—quiet, precise, always walking with her eyes to the floor. The kind of girl who moved like shadow and watched like fire. Yeonhwa had been her personal maid in the final months, assigned after Seorin dismissed her old household staff one by one.
And Yeonhwa had been there the day of the arrest.
She'd been the one who dropped the tray in shock. Who knelt without question. Who had mouthed something as the guards dragged Seorin away.
I'm sorry.
Seorin had barely noticed her then. But she would now.
If she saw something… if she knows something… I'll find it.
A soft knock came the next morning.
Seorin waited a beat.
Then two.
Then said, "Enter."
The door opened, and there she was.
Shorter than Seorin remembered—but that was expected. The girl couldn't have been more than fifteen here. Her robes were worn but clean. Her sleeves too long. Her eyes downcast.
But the moment she stepped in and bowed, Seorin saw it.
A flicker.
Not surprise. Not fear.
Recognition.
Yeonhwa said, "Lady Seorin. I was told to report for personal service."
"You were."
She didn't look up.
"Have you served in the noble quarters before?"
"No, my lady."
"Do you know how to lace ceremonial ribbons?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Do you speak often?"
"No, my lady."
Seorin smiled faintly. "Good. You may speak freely when I ask you to."
"…Yes, my lady."
She gestured toward the comb set.
Yeonhwa moved silently, standing behind her and beginning the long, careful process of combing through Seorin's hair. The soft tugs, the scent of pine oil, the tiny clack of lacquered wood.
But Seorin wasn't thinking of the hair.
She was thinking of the way Yeonhwa's hands trembled—not with fear, but with control. As if she were stopping herself from saying something.
"Yeonhwa," Seorin said softly, eyes half-closed, "do you believe in fate?"
The hands paused.
Then continued.
"…I believe in habits," the girl replied. "And the people who hide inside them."
A strange answer.
And an old one.
Seorin tilted her head slightly.
"Where did you learn that?"
"My mother said it once. Before she died."
"Wise woman."
"I think she lied a lot," Yeonhwa murmured. "But sometimes, she was right."
Seorin smiled again. Her eyes met the mirror—and for a moment, she thought she saw something behind her reflection.
A second shadow.
But when she turned, the room was empty.
---
That night, Seorin dreamed of the Pavilion of Eternal Judgment.
She stood there alone this time, barefoot in the snow, wearing a mask she could n
ot remove. But when she looked to the executioner… it was not Juhwan.
It was herself.
Cloaked in black, blade in hand, smiling.
PART 5: A GHOST IN HER OWN COURT
The palace hadn't changed.
That was the most unsettling part.
Its lacquered gates still gleamed with black resin and golden phoenix crests. The main courtyard was still a sea of stepping stones too smooth to be natural, bordered by blood-red plum trees not yet in bloom. Servants bustled like mice in silk, the scent of jasmine water and morning ink thick in the air.
But Seorin no longer belonged to it.
Not yet.
Officially, she was just the second daughter of Baron Daeyang—invited for a tea ceremony to honor her impending engagement. She wore layered silk in peony pink and dove-gray, modest but expensive, her face powdered and hair coiled with gold pins. An honor for any girl.
In truth, it felt like walking into her own grave.
She remembered this hallway—where she'd once ordered two court ladies flogged for gossip.
That veranda—where she first kissed Juhwan in secret.
That corridor—where Baek Hae-ryun had whispered in her ear, "You've already won."
And now? She was just a girl. Not even seventeen.
The guards didn't recognize her yet.
But they would.
The Queen Dowager's court maid met her at the White Jade Pavilion and offered a shallow bow. "Lady Seorin. Please wait here until your name is called."
Seorin returned the bow with perfect grace and stepped into the waiting chamber.
And froze.
Across the room, seated at a low table surrounded by pillows, tea bowls, and scrolls…
Was herself.
Not a reflection.
Not a memory.
But her.
The Queen.
Seorin.
Crowned. Ruling. Alive.
The woman wore royal indigo with bone-white embroidery in the pattern of cranes mid-flight. Her hair was heavier, bound high in ceremonial braids, the weight of jade pins curling slightly behind one ear. Her eyes were sharp, turned toward the open shoji panel beside her, half-absorbed in the early sunlight.
Her hands were steady. Her lips untouched by paint. Her face calm.
And yet—
Something was wrong.
She flinched.
Just once.
A single involuntary twitch in her left hand, as if something cold had brushed it.
Then she turned her head. Slowly. Deliberately.
And her gaze fell on Seorin.
No.
Not on Seorin.
On her.
The younger version. The guest. The shadow.
Their eyes met.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then the Queen blinked and turned back to her scroll.
But her fingers clenched the paper slightly too tight.
As if she'd seen a ghost.
Seorin's throat went dry.
The court maid stepped back in with a smile. "Lady Seorin, please come with me. The tea ceremony is ready."
She followed.
But her mind burned.
She looked at me.
She saw me.
Or had she?
Was it possible that some part of her—some flicker of that soul still buried in that older body—had sensed what had changed?
She didn't know.
But something had shifted in that room.
As the ceremony began, and Seorin bowed to the Queen Dowager, to the Crown Prince, to the endless line of courtiers murmuring and sipping and pretending to be at peace, her gaze drifted again to the woman she used to be.
The Queen sat still.
But her eyes were no longer calm.
They flicked toward her only
once.
And when they did, for a breathless second, there was something there.
Recognition.
Or something like it.