Where The Flowers Fell

Yeongdo, Capital City of Guhwan

Thud!

The sound of dropped bundles cut briefly through the noise of the street. A few passersby slowed to look, but the city was too busy to care for long. The two merchants crouched to gather their scattered goods, muttering curses under their breath.

“Aishh... look what you’ve done! These are silk bolts from Baekryun! Watch where you’re walking!” The first man scowled, a round-faced fellow in a faded blue robe, his sleeves rolled high and his hair tied with a strip of hemp.

“You walked into me!” the second man shot back, crouching to snatch his fallen bundle before the dirt clung to it. He dusted it off with exaggerated care, his brows furrowed deep. “And this—this—” he said, shaking the parcel in front of the other’s face, “is tea from Jangha! Do you have any idea how far this traveled? You can’t just drop it like a sack of grain!”

“Then keep it out of the road next time!”

“Maybe if you weren’t staring up like an idiot—”

“Says the one who’s clearly got his eyes anywhere but the road!”

Their voices rose with each word, steps closing the space between them until they were almost nose to nose, neither willing to back down. From the open windows of a roadside teahouse, a few traveling merchants paused mid-meal to watch, chopsticks dangling in midair.

Both men, by any fair measure, were equally at fault. But in Yeongdo, a merchant admitting fault was rarer than a quiet street. They only bowed to customers and even then, only to their coin.

“Go on, say it!” one snapped. “You weren’t looking either!”

“At least I wasn’t gawking like a country fool!”

“Country fool? I’ve traded more in a day than you’ll see in a month!”

“Then you can afford to buy yourself a pair of eyes!”

Laughter spilled from the teahouse, coins clinking as someone placed a playful bet on who’d throw the first punch.

​“Two silvers on the blue robe,” said a broad-shouldered man with his sleeves rolled up, grinning as his companions jeered. One was already digging for coins to match the wager.

The servant arrived with their new round of food, setting down bowls with practiced ease. “Another fight?” he muttered, glancing toward the street. “Seems the higher that tower gets, the louder the city becomes.”

The table laughed, though their eyes stayed fixed outside.

Beyond the window, sunlight flashed off the wooden scaffolds of a new structure rising at the edge of Yeongdo’s southern quarter. Its frame cut sharply against the sky—five stories high, maybe six when finished—an unusual sight in a city where most roofs barely reached the height of the second floor.

“A merchant house, maybe?” one of them guessed through a mouthful of noodles, not even waiting for the servant to finish setting down the bowls.

“Nah,” another said, waving his chopsticks toward the window. “Too tall for that. Looks more like a tavern or a gisaeng house for the nobles.”

​That sent a wave of roaring laughter through the group, a few of them slapping the wooden table in agreement.

​“Six floors of gisaengs?” someone jeered, leaning back. “The nobles’ll be lining up before it even opens.”

Even the servant chuckled as he poured their tea. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “If it’s for the nobles, six floors might not even be enough.”

“That thing’s been going up for months,” someone said, wiping his mouth. “Still no one knows what it is.”

“Seriously, it could just be a boring palace storehouse.”

“Storehouse? Bah! Who needs six floors for grain?”

Another leaned in. “Heard the workers got paid extra to keep their mouths shut. Or maybe threatened, who knows?”

“Threatened?” someone scoffed. “More like they just don’t speak our tongue. Foreigners, all of them. Saw one up close—eyes pale as glass.”

​Someone let out a low whistle, and a quiet settled over the group. Outside, the measured strike of hammers rang out once more, echoing like a slow heartbeat against the city walls.

“Whatever it is,” one of them muttered, lifting his cup toward it, “the city’s holding its breath for it.”

Past the guarded perimeter, where no commoner’s eyes could reach, the air held the rhythm of labor—and a presence that made even the tallest scaffolds feel small.

A man stood before the rising tower, sunlight spilling across the indigo silk of his robe. The fabric caught faint traces of gold thread along the seams. His hair was long, the upper half tied neatly with a bronze clasp while the rest flowed down his back, framing a face too composed to belong to a commoner. One hand held a partially opened fan, the other clasped loosely behind his back.

Beside him walked another man, slightly older, his attire less striking but of fine make, muted brown silk layered under a black sash. His eyes followed every motion of the first.

The first man occasionally hummed in approval as he moved along the platforms, eyes tracing the curve of a beam or the symmetry of a column. At one point, he asked, “What do you think, Wonsik?”

​Wonsik bowed his head slightly before offering a reply. “It is an immense undertaking, my lord. A structure as bold as the future you intend to build.”

Before the first could respond, hurried footsteps approached. A man in work-stained robes bowed low. “Your High—”

“There’s no need for that,” the first interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “We wouldn’t want to make the others uneasy.”

He reached out, clasping the man’s shoulder with a faint smile. “You’ve done well, Master Heo.”

The man straightened—Heo Gwan, the chief architect overseeing the project. Fatigue lined his face, but pride still gleamed in his eyes as he drew back slightly, giving the man room to move.

They moved through the unfinished hall, past stacks of timber and the sharp scent of wet lime. The sixth level was rising, pillars set in neat rows, beams half-placed, dust lingering in the air. Scaffolds ran along its edges, giving clear footing and a view over the city below. From here, the bustling streets looked segmented and distant, blurred behind the weave of the protective cloth draped over the framework.

“Another month, perhaps two,” Heo Gwan murmured, wringing his hands. “We lost a few days to the rains, Your—” he caught himself, lowering his gaze, “—my lord. I beg your patience.”

The man beside him said nothing at first, the silence punctuated only by the sharp, sudden snap of his folding fan. Heo Gwan froze instantly. For a moment, the only remaining sound was the creak of ropes and the wind pressing against the cloth.

Then, softly—

“It’s fine,” the man said, a small smile curving his lips. “Beautiful things should take time.”

​He turned, stepping closer to the scaffold edge. With the edge of his fan, he brushed the hanging cover aside, letting a sudden spill of sunlight illuminate his face as he looked down into the source of the street’s distant murmur.

“Go on,” Wonsik said to the architect, who bowed and took his leave.

The man remained still, his gaze tracking the chaotic flow of the crowd below before he broke the silence.

​“Tell me, Wonsik,” he said, “how does one take the cub from the tigress, when her every instinct is to tear the throat from the hand that encroaches?”

​Wonsik paused, choosing his words with care. “Perhaps you do not need that cub at all, Your Highness. The others—loyal, fierce—offer their own willingly. That should be enough.”

“Enough?” The man’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “But I do not want enough. I want the one she guards with her life.”

​His eyes flicked downward, narrowing as something in the crowd caught attention. ​“Let Guhwan play at serving two kings for now. If the tigress will not yield her cub, I will dangle a rabbit in the brush. We shall see how long her loyalty lasts when the hunt begins.”

​Down below, a green ribbon woven through dark hair darted between the market stalls. The trap was set, waiting only for the prey to take the first step.