THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

FIFTY TWO

The Royal Chambers

Your Excellency?

The voice came from far away, distant, muffled. Taehyung blinked, the world swimming back into focus. Two maids stood before him, their heads bowed, his formal robes draped over their arms. They had been waiting. How long had they been waiting?

"Oh, yes." His voice was hoarse, unfamiliar. "I am sorry."

He rose, his limbs heavy, his mind still elsewhere. The maids followed him to the bathing chamber, their steps soft, their faces carefully blank. They had learned, in the days since the king left, not to react to the consort's silences, not to comment on the way he stared at nothing, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.

The water was warm, scented with jasmine, steam rising from the surface in soft curls. Taehyung sank into it, letting the heat seep into his bones, letting it wash away the tension that had taken up residence in his shoulders, his neck, his chest.

It did not help.

He closed his eyes, and the questions came, as they always came, unbidden, unwelcome.

Where is he? What is he doing? Is he eating? Is he sleeping? Does he think of me, the way I think of him? Does he miss me?

He did not know. He could not know. The letters had stopped three days ago, the same day the army had moved beyond the second base. The messengers said the roads were dangerous, that the enemy had patrols in the area, that it was not safe to send riders through. They said it with faces that were too careful, too composed, and Taehyung had learned, in his years in the palace, to read the fear behind the calm.

He stayed in the water until his fingers wrinkled, until the steam had faded, until the maids knocked on the door, their voices anxious.

"Your Excellency, are you all right? Is everything all right? Do you need help?"

He pulled himself back, forced his voice to steady. "I am all right. I will be out in a moment."

He rose, dried himself, wrapped himself in the robe that had been left for him. The maids were waiting in the bedchamber, their backs turned, his clothes laid out on the bed. He dressed quickly, efficiently, not looking at his reflection in the mirror that hung on the far wall. He did not want to see his own face. He did not want to see the fear that lived there now, that had taken up residence in his eyes, in the lines around his mouth, in the hollows beneath his cheeks.

The maids turned, adjusting his collar, smoothing the fabric of his robes, setting his hair with gentle, practiced hands. He stood still, letting them work, his eyes fixed on the window, on the grey sky beyond.

A thought came to him then, unbidden, unwelcome.

Do I belong here? Am I worthy of this—the title, the robes, the palace that was never meant for someone like me?

He pushed it away. He had to. If he let himself think it, if he let himself believe it, he would drown. He would sink into the doubts that had been planted in him years ago, by people who had wanted to break him.

He was not nothing. He was the king's consort. He had earned this place, had fought for it, had suffered for it. He would not let the silence, the waiting, the fear, take it from him.