Chapter 1
Heir to the Crown
Seonghwa...
This name was known throughout the country—for good reason: he was the future king, named after his grandfather to continue the line after his own father.
From his first day on earth, he had to be ready to reign. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect manners—nothing was left to chance. Every glance, every step, every word was observed, corrected, measured. His future wife had been chosen when he was ten. He had never met her, because what if they sinned before marriage? Love had no place in the palace; duty had to come first.
When he turned five, his life at the palace brightened a little. A small human started running with him—just learning to walk—through the corridors, hiding behind the flowers in the chapel, while their mother searched for them. For the first time, he felt a spark of childhood, a moment not dictated by rules or expectations. He wished he had been more observant. He wished he had noticed his mother’s weakness sooner... maybe then he would have cherished those fleeting moments more.
After thatnight, the mask returned. He tried to be the mother his brothers needed: telling stories, putting them to bed, comforting them when they cried. He became an adult before even reaching fifteen, burdened by responsibilities no child should ever carry. Every laughter, every tear, every quiet moment in the palace halls was shadowed by the knowledge of what he was meant to become.
He never forgot that he was the future of the country. Every day of his life was dictated by that fact. Even in moments of solitude, when he thought no one was watching, he felt the weight of the crown pressing down on his young shoulders. The palace was both a playground and a prison, its golden walls echoing with expectations, whispers of advice, and unspoken commands.
Yet, despite it all, he remembered the small joys: the scent of the gardens, the warmth of a rare smile from his brothers, the fleeting freedom of running through empty corridors. Those tiny moments became treasures in a life that demanded perfection, shaping him into the man he was to become—a king before he had even truly lived.
The Quiet Years
Yeosang...
This name was something that felt light when the Queen first pronounced it at the baby’s birth.
The second child of the royal couple felt like a miracle after all the difficulties the Queen had endured during her pregnancy. The sickness grew worse with each passing month, and when the baby finally arrived, it was pure relief—she could finally be free from the pain.
His childhood was filled with books about the sea, stories of pirates, of men who lived by the waves. They were told by his mother to him and his older brother. It was his favorite part of the day, a brief escape from royal lessons and the constant need to look neat, even at such a young age. But all of that was before the drama—before thatnight, which was still engraved in his mind.
His mother screaming like hell, his brother trying to cover his ears, perhaps to protect him—who knows. The King pacing back and forth in front of the door. He was not even four; how could he understand what was happening when the doctors came out carrying a baby in their arms, their faces lifeless?
The last thing he remembered from that night was his older brother telling him to go to sleep, so that tomorrow he could say hello to his new, beloved brother.
The three of them were inseparable, never far from one another. In time, Seonghwa began telling the same stories their mother used to tell, her voice now living only through his.
On his seventh birthday, Yeosang was given the gift of going on a sort of cruise with his father. A gift that felt like gold—a moment alone with him, on the sea. What could be better than that?
They returned a month later as if nothing had changed, yet the air felt different. The second child became discreet, speaking only when spoken to. Even with his brothers, for a time, he could barely speak—only two or three words at most.
No one knows what happened on that ship during that month. It is a secret they may keep until they die.
The Last to Learn
Wooyoung...
What a cursed name for the youngest child of the family. He never had the chance to truly know his mother; he only knew that he carried a name almost identical to the memory of the Queen she had been.
He had not truly had to live through thatnight, and so his childhood had been filled with laughter, jokes, and good times in the palace. He wished it would never end. But people change... his eldest brother stopped telling him stories, and the second one no longer spoke to him.
He felt utterly alone in a place brimming with family members and people bustling all around him. To make himself seen, he had only one way: playing hard, loudly, with every ounce of energy he could summon. Attention became a game, a shield, a way to exist in a world that often ignored him.
But then, the realization struck him like a cold wave. He watched, helpless, as his brothers were punished for the mischief he had caused. The belt, the shouting, the pain—they bore the brunt of his mistakes, while he was only scolded, his punishment light in comparison. His chest tightened; guilt crawled through him like fire. Every laugh, every joke, every game he had played to be seen now felt like a betrayal. He understood, in a way a child should not have to, that his desire for attention had cost his brothers more than he could bear to see.
