My deep soul

Chapter 3

Jinyeon hurried the last stretch home, the chill of the rain still clinging to her sleeves. She knew Dara’s temper—if she returned any later, her sister would be furious. She was right.

The moment the gate shut behind her, Dara was waiting in the corridor, worry carved into every line of her face. “Where have you been, Jinyeon?” she demanded as soon as Jinyeon crossed the threshold.

“Sorry, Dara— I—” Jinyeon began, coughing as a hot prickle rose behind her nose.

“You were out in the rain, weren’t you? How many times must I tell you to be careful? You behave like a child.” Dara’s voice was sharp with fear disguised as anger.

“Well, I am a child.” A weak attempt at levity slipped out; Dara did not smile.

“This is no jest,” Dara snapped. “Kyung, help Jinyeon to her room. Change her clothes. I shall return with medicine at once.” She turned and left before Jinyeon could answer.

Kyung led Jinyeon her chamber with gentle hands. Her maiden’s touch was efficient and tender, drying damp hair and replacing soaked silks with a warm robe. Jinyeon’s forehead burned; her nose was raw from the rain. Dara returned quickly, breathless with worry, and pressed cooling herbs and broth into Jinyeon’s palms.

“You must sleep now,” Dara urged. Jinyeon lay down and sleep found her like a tide—sudden and deep.

When she woke later that day, the fever had eased. Kyung had already brought food and news: Dara and Yanwoo had been called to tend to patients at the eastern clinic. The house hummed with the distant rhythm of duty.

After Kyung departed, Jinyeon stood alone in her chamber and smoothed the creases of a sealed letter she held. Her pulse quickened. “Kyung asked someone to ready a horse,” she told herself aloud. “I must go.”

“Lady, you are not well,” Kyung protested when Jinyeon announced her plan.

“Do as I asked,” Jinyeon said, voice steady with the stubborn resolve that never left her blood. Kyung sighed—when her mistress decided, there was no turning her back.

She changed into a plain black hanbok and pulled a thin veil across her face. The horse waited, breath steaming in the cool air. Two hours of riding brought her to a hidden cottage tucked in a cleft of the hills—no more than a shabby roof and a thin trail of smoke.

The old woman inside tried to rise when she saw Jinyeon, but Jinyeon caught her wrist gently. “Hea—please, lie still,” she urged, smoothing the woman’s hair with the tenderness of a daughter.

“Princess,” Hea whispered, surprised and relieved. “I did not expect you at this hour.”

“How are you feeling?” Jinyeon asked, removing the medicines from her satchel. She checked Hea’s pulse with a practised hand. “I brought herbs. Let me see.”

“You are too kind, princess—like your father.” Hea’s smile faltered into something soft and sorrowful.

Jinyeon sat down and clasped Hea’s hand in both of hers. “I have made my decision,” she said simply.

Hea’s eyes closed a moment. “I knew you would, my princess. You will refuse the throne?” Her voice was not surprised—only tired, as if she had been bracing for this choice for years.

“Yes.” Jinyeon’s fingers tightened. “The throne is stained with blood. Father had the right, and still he refused to take it by force. Power cost us everything we loved. I cannot sit upon a chair built by tears. I am a healer—my hands are for mending lives, not for taking them. I want a quiet life. I want to marry for love and watch children grow. I cannot be the center of a court that breeds only grief.”

Hea’s breath came shallow, but a proud light came into her eyes. “You are your father’s daughter. You speak with the courage of one who has seen too much sorrow.” She hesitated, then added in a whisper, “The truth of your birth—only you and I shall carry it to our graves.”

“We will keep it,” Jinyeon vowed. Tears prickled hot and sudden at the corners of her eyes. Hea reached out, as if to soothe them, and squeezed her hand.

“It is time,” Hea said. “I have done what I could. Accept my blessing and go—live the life you choose.”

Outside, dusk was settling. Jinyeon rose, heart heavy and resolute. For a moment she stood in the doorway and looked back at the frail figure who had been mother, tutor, and keeper of her secrets. Then, with the quiet steadiness of someone who must bury grief to protect what remains, she set down the clay jar she had brought and lit a wick.

She walked to the threshold, drew a breath that trembled more from sorrow than from the cold, and set the rag aflame. The house caught quickly; smoke curled like black prayer ribbons into the sky.

Hea did not cry out. She had known. She had given everything.

Jinyeon watched the flames lick the eaves until the rooftop glowed like a wound. She could see Hea’s silhouette in the doorway, small and upright, accepting the end. A single sob escaped Jinyeon—half grief, half a promise—and she turned away.

“I will be careful, Hea,” she murmured to the smoke and the embers. “I will not let your sacrifice be forgotten.” Tears fell, and she wiped them away with a hand that already wore the steadiness of her choice.

Mounting her horse, she rode into the dark, the glow of the burning cottage shrinking behind her until it was no more than a memory and a vow.