My deep soul

Chapter 11

The following morning, when Ahro and the newly confirmed Sunwoo were sharing a simple breakfast, laughter between them easing the heaviness of the past days, Jinyoen suddenly appeared. Without a word, she marched forward, seized Sunwoo's wrist, and dragged him outside.

"Tell me something," she demanded, her finger raised like a sword. "Something only the two of us know."

Sunwoo blinked at her, startled, but then smiled softly. "When you were six years old, you wanted to climb the old persimmon tree. Father forbade you, but you made me promise to go with you. You slipped from the branch and scraped your knee. There's still a scar on your left leg."

Jinyoen's eyes glistened as she stepped into his arms and hugged him tightly. "Don't leave me again, orabeoni."

Sunwoo stiffened at first, then his hand rested gently on her shoulder. "Never again," he whispered.

---

Later that day, as Jinyoen was sorting herbs in her modest home, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up, her instincts sharp. When the figure stepped into the doorway, her lips parted in disbelief.

"Jidiwi?" she asked, crossing her arms. "How did you find me here?"

He gave a theatrical cough, lowering his gaze with mock solemnity. "I came to see the physician. What a coincidence. I believe I have a fever. Do I not?" Gently, he caught her hand and placed it against his forehead, his touch lingering more than it should.

Jinyoen quickly pulled her hand back, narrowing her eyes. "Are you crazy? Do you want to sleep here too?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. "People usually don't say those things aloud, you know."

"Then stop saying strange things," she shot back. "What are you doing here?"

"I was worried."

She blinked, her sharpness faltering for a moment. "...About me? Why?"

Jidiwi leaned back against the wall, his eyes searching hers. "If you don't understand... then let's just say I'm sick." He let himself sprawl across the low medicine table, as if struck by some invisible ailment.

Jinyoen huffed, planting her hands on her hips. "What do you need?" she asked, her tone flat.

"Something strong," he said with a boyish grin. "Spicy. Bitter. Maybe something that will cure restlessness of the heart."

"You're impossible." She turned away to gather herbs. "I'm busy. Go away. Tomorrow is the king's birthday parade-you'll find some amusement there."

The grin faded from his lips. "Do you not feel the king is a moron? Why does he need a parade when he cannot even show his face?" His voice dropped into a quiet sorrow.

Jinyoen stilled, then turned to him with fire in her eyes. "Why would you say such a thing? You don't know how the king feels. Perhaps he doesn't wish to live that way. Perhaps he has no choice. It is not a sin to be young and weak. Every tree begins as a fragile sapling. But once grown, most trees forget that they too were once small and breakable. That is why people mock him so. But people mustn't forget their own weak beginnings."

Jidiwi's gaze lingered on her, not on her words but on the passion with which she spoke them. Something warm and unfamiliar pressed at his chest.

"Then... do you think the king will become a good ruler?" he asked softly.

"I cannot say for certain," she replied. "I've never met him. But if he wishes to be a good king, he must step out of his mother's shadow. As long as he hides beneath it, he will not be free. I... understand what that feels like. I've faced the same thing."

Her voice faltered briefly, then she gathered herself and turned away. "Now, leave. I have work to do." With that, she disappeared inside.

Jidiwi stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the empty space where she had just stood. A sigh escaped him, but his eyes lingered with something deeper than frustration.

"What did you mean by the same situation, Chang Jinyoen?" he whispered to himself. Then, with a faint smile curling at his lips, he added, "You are right. I must step away from the queen's shadow."

But in truth, his thoughts were not on the king, nor on the queen. They were on the fiery girl whose words struck sharper than any blade, and whose presence lingered with him long after he walked away.