THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

FORTY NINE

The Village — Dawn

The morning light was soft, filtering through the mist that clung to the fields. The village was quiet, the way it always was at this hour the farmers not yet in the fields, the wives not yet at the market, the children still dreaming in their beds. Some homes had candles burning in their windows, the first signs of waking, but most were still dark, still sleeping, still wrapped in the peace of the night.

Then the scream came.

It was a man's voice, loud and raw, tearing through the silence like a blade through silk. It was not a cry of surprise or fear it was a scream of horror, the kind of sound that came from a place deeper than the throat, from the gut, from the soul.

Doors opened. Faces appeared at windows. Men grabbed whatever weapons they had hoes, axes, knives and ran toward the sound. Women pulled their children inside, barred their doors, pressed their hands over their ears to block out the screams that had not stopped.

The village square was where they found him. The man who had screamed a farmer, they recognized him, a quiet man who kept to himself was on his knees, his hands pressed to his mouth, his body shaking. And in front of him, lined up neatly on the cobblestones, were three bodies.

They had been placed side by side, arranged with care, their hands folded across their chests. But their heads were gone. The necks ended in ragged, bloody wounds, the blood still wet, still seeping into the cracks between the stones.

The men who had gathered stared some whispered prayers, some turned away and vomited into the gutters. The women who had followed their husbands screamed and fled, dragging their children with them, their faces white with terror.

The guards arrived minutes later two of them, young men who had never seen anything like this before, who had only been assigned to patrol the village. They dismounted slowly, their hands on their swords, their faces pale.

One of them knelt beside the bodies, his hand shaking as he searched the blood-soaked clothing. His fingers found something a piece of paper, folded small, pinned to the chest of the man in the middle.

He opened it. He read it. His face went grey.

"We have to get this to the palace," he said, his voice hoarse. "Now."

He mounted his horse and rode, leaving his companion to deal with the bodies.

---

The Palace — Morning

The palace was waking slowly, the way it always did. Servants moved through the corridors with trays of tea and rice, their footsteps soft, their voices low. The sun was climbing over the walls, painting the windows in shades of gold, and the world, for this one moment, was at peace.

The guard rode through the gates at a gallop.

He dismounted before his horse had fully stopped, his boots slipping on the wet stones, his legs unsteady beneath him. He ran toward the main hall, his eyes wild, his breath coming in gasps.

"Where is the advisor?" he shouted. "I have something important. I need to speak to the advisor!"

Maids stared at him, their trays forgotten, their faces blank with confusion. Servants stepped out of his way, pressing themselves against the walls. No one answered. No one seemed to understand.