The polished wood of the Gyeongbok Palace corridor gleamed faintly under the light filtering through rice paper screens. Each step Minister Min Ki-tae took was measured, his footsteps near-silent—a habit ingrained from years navigating these halls where whispers could topple giants. As Minister of War, his domain was usually the clang of steel and the rumble of marching feet, but the true battles, the ones that shaped Joseon's fate, were often fought in these silent, silk-lined spaces.
His hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, a familiar comfort, yet today his thoughts were far from the northern borders where his nephew, Crown Prince Yi Hyun, was even now riding south in triumph. Instead, they lingered on the man who was for him a object of hatred and awe, the ailing Dragon King, or perhaps feigning ailment, in the heart of this very palace: Emperor Gyeongmu.
A cruel man, Ki-tae thought, the assessment unbidden yet undeniable. Cold as the winter winds that swept down from the Manchurian plains. Gyeongmu had dragged Joseon from the brink of collapse decades ago, his iron will forging stability, his pragmatism expanding its borders and filling its granaries. Prosperity, yes. Order, undoubtedly. But at what cost? Ki-tae's jaw tightened, the phantom ache of an old wound pulsing deep within him. The cost, for the Min clan, for him, had been his beloved younger sister, Seo-yeon.
Sacrificed. A word so sterile, so devoid of the warmth of her laughter, the gentle naivety in her eyes when she'd first spoken of her impending marriage to Prince Dae-jung, her voice full of a young woman's hopeful dreams. Dreams that had shattered against the indifference of her husband and the chilling calculus of imperial ambition. His own father, Lord Min Jeong-ho, had agreed to the terms. For the good of the clan. For the promise of a Min descendant on the Dragon Throne. Ki-tae understood the brutal logic, the dynastic imperative. He was a Min, after all. But understanding did not equate to forgiveness. Not for the Emperor. Not his father.
And Hyun… his nephew. A source of immense pride, yes, but also a faint, lingering unease that Ki-tae rarely voiced, even to himself. The boy – no, the man now – had always been… different. His brilliance was undeniable, almost unnatural. Ki-tae vividly recalled a visit to Seo-yeon's sun-drenched quarters within the concubine's wing, years before tragedy struck. Seo-yeon, radiant in her simple silks, had been chattering about some courtly gossip, a slight, typically highborn vanity in her tone as she described a rival's faux pas, yet her words were always softened by an innate kindness, a gentle spirit that made her ill-suited for the palace.
He had found young Hyun, barely five years of age, not playing with carved toys, but seated before a low table, a scroll far too complex for his years spread before him.
"Ki-tae, brother, look!" Seo-yeon had said, her voice bright with maternal pride, that soft, caring nature shining through whenever she spoke of her son. "Hyun is learning his characters so quickly! The tutors are astonished."
The boy had looked up, and those dark, intense eyes – so like his grandfather the Emperor's, yet holding something more, something older – had met Ki-tae's.
"Uncle," Hyun had greeted him, his pronunciation clear, his tone serious. He hadn't just been looking at characters; he'd been discussing the principles of supply lines from an ancient military treatise with a visiting scholar moments before, a topic that had left Ki-tae, a seasoned military man himself, stunned.
"He asks such… peculiar questions, sometimes," Seo-yeon had confided later, a slight frown creasing her brow, though her love for her son was a palpable warmth in the room. "About things a child shouldn't ponder. But he is so bright, my Hyun. And so loving." She had then drawn Hyun into a hug, and Ki-tae had witnessed a rare sight: the usually stoic boy had melted into his mother's embrace, a look of pure, unguarded affection on his face, a brief glimpse of that "childlike wonder" that seemed reserved only for her. It was a tenderness that made the current coldness in Hyun, the "Wolf of the North" persona, all the more stark a contrast. That fierce, protective love Seo-yeon had poured into her son was, Ki-tae suspected, the only truly soft thing Hyun had ever known.
Even then, Hyun's mind had worked on a different plane. It wasn't just intelligence; it was a strange, almost unnerving prescience, a way of seeing straight to the heart of matters. It had made him slightly wary, this old soul in a child's body. Now, that "difference" had won Joseon its greatest victory in a century. The unease remained, a faint whisper beneath the pride, but it was overwhelmed by the urgent need to secure his nephew's position, to ensure Seo-yeon's sacrifice had not been in vain.
His thoughts were interrupted as he reached his destination: a discreet, heavily guarded chamber often used by his father for private consultations. Two stern-faced Min household guards, men whose loyalty was to their clan above all else, bowed deeply. One slid the door open.
The scent of strong tea and the low murmur of voices met him. Seated around a large table were the core figures of their faction – powerful ministers, influential scholars, men bound by loyalty to the Min clan or conviction in the Crown Prince's cause.
And at the head of the table, his silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, sat his father, Lord Min Jeong-ho. He looked up as Ki-tae entered, his sharp, assessing gaze missing nothing.
"Ah, Ki-tae," Lord Min said, his voice calm, resonant with an authority that needed no volume. "You are here. We were just discussing the preparations. The Wolf returns to his den."
A faint, mirthless smile touched the old man's lips. The game was truly about to begin.