THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

THIRTY SEVEN

Three Days After the King's Death — The Palace

The palace had become a tomb.

Three days had passed since the King's death, and still the halls lay shrouded in silence. Tomorrow, the coronation would take place. The servants had been preparing since dawn polishing the throne, hanging fresh banners, laying out the ceremonial robes that Jungkook would wear when he became king. But the work was done in whispers, in shadows, in a silence that felt less like reverence and more like grief.

The white mourning banners still hung from every pillar, every gate, every doorway. Tomorrow, they would be replaced. Tomorrow, the palace would pretend to move forward.

But today, the silence remained.

Yoon-ah's parents had departed two days ago, their carriages rolling through the palace gates with the finality of a door closing. They had lingered as long as propriety allowed, offering condolences, exchanging meaningful glances with those who remained, calculating the shape of the future.

Yoon-ah had not gone with them.

She remained in her chambers, emerging only to make inquiries about the Crown Prince's health, to request updates on the coronation preparations, to position herself—always, carefully, unwaveringly as the devoted betrothed waiting to comfort her grieving husband-to-be.

Jungkook had not spoken to her since the day of the funeral.

---

Taehyung's Quarters — Afternoon

Taehyung lay on his mat, a damp cloth pressed to his forehead, his body aching with fever. He had not meant to fall ill. He had not meant to be weak, not now, not when Jungkook needed him. But the rain had soaked through his clothes at the grave, and the cold had settled into his bones, and his body already worn thin by years of hardship had simply given out.

Tomorrow, Jungkook would become king.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

And here he was, useless, burning with fever, unable to even stand without the room spinning.

Mr. Song, the elderly physician who had tended to servants for decades, finished wrapping the medicinal herbs and set the packet on the small table beside the mat. His hands were gentle, his movements slow, his face lined with the particular weariness of a man who had seen too much death and too much grief.

"Drink this after you eat," he instructed, his voice soft. "It will bring the fever down. Rest. Do not push yourself."

Taehyung nodded weakly. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Song hesitated by the door. His weathered face creased with something that was not quite concern or perhaps concern that went beyond Taehyung's fever.

"The Crown Prince," he said quietly. "He has not eaten in two days. He will not see anyone. The elders have called him three times, and still he will not speak of tomorrow." He paused, his eyes meeting Taehyung's. "I am certain he has told you everything. We are all... worried. About what comes next."

Taehyung said nothing.

Mr. Song's voice dropped lower. "He will listen to you. If you speak to him, if you tell him—"