THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

THIRTY TWO

The grand hall had settled into the comfortable rhythm of the evening. Nobles conversed in low, respectful tones. Court ladies refilled cups of makgeolli and soju with practiced grace. Upon the elevated royal dais, His Majesty the King nodded graciously at Minister Min's continued discourse on trade routes, while Queen Hara maintained her serene, watchful smile.

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary royal banquet.

Then Crown Prince Jungkook rose from his seat.

At first, no one thought much of it. The Prince was merely standing, perhaps to stretch his legs, perhaps to greet a newly arrived guest. Lord Min continued speaking. Lady Min adjusted her jokduri. A servant quietly refilled Yoon-ah's cup.

But Jungkook did not stretch his legs. He did not approach any noble or visiting royal.

He walked directly to the low table beside the royal dais the table that held the King's personal wine decanter and cup.

The hall fell silent.

To approach the King's table unbidden, without prior summons or formal announcement, was a grave breach of court protocol. Only the Queen and the highest-ranking ministers were permitted near the royal dais during official functions, and even they approached only when explicitly invited.

Jungkook stopped before his father's table. His posture was straight, his expression composed. But his hands, hidden within the wide sleeves of his ceremonial ryongpo, were trembling.

He knelt.

Not the deep keunjeol of earlier—this was slower, more deliberate. He lowered himself to both knees upon the cold marble, his dragon-embroidered robes pooling around him like spilled ink. He placed both palms flat on the floor before him. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the back of his hands.

The Great Ritual Bow.

A gesture reserved for the most solemn of occasions. For ancestral rites. For coronations. For moments when a subject offered their absolute, unquestioning submission to their sovereign.

Or when a prince begged a boon so great that mere words could not convey its weight.

The King's wine cup paused mid-air. His ancient eyes, hooded and unreadable, studied the bowed head of his only son.

"Your Majesty." Jungkook's voice was low, steady, yet it carried through the breathless hall like thunder across a still valley. "This unworthy son humbly petitions his King."

A collective intake of breath swept through the assembled nobles. Lord Min's jaw tightened. Queen Hara's fingers curled into the silk of her skirt.

The King set down his cup. The soft clink of porcelain against wood was deafening.

"Speak," he said.

Jungkook raised his head just enough to meet his father's gaze. His eyes, usually so carefully guarded, were laid bare—raw, desperate, and utterly sincere.

"Your Majesty has taught me that a ruler's greatest strength lies not in his sword arm, nor in his command of armies, nor even in the wisdom of his counsel." His voice trembled slightly, then steadied. "A ruler's greatest strength is his integrity. His honor. His unwavering commitment to what is just and true."