Chapter – 15
Her voice, stripped of all pretense of gentleness, sounded foreign—as if it belonged to someone else—sharp and edged with steel. Yet she herself did not notice.
Soran clung to his arm.
“Please. Help me. I beg you.”
“…Help you with what?”
Gyoheum wondered what on earth could be driving her to such an emotional state. Only one possibility came to mind.
The Minister of the Secretariat.
Just as his gaze cooled, Soran spoke again.
“I’ll prepare breakfast! So please—send Yeonsan-daek back home.”
“……”
He still couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“No—I’ll do all her work. I’ll cook, do the laundry, clean—everything. Just… please allow Yeonsan-daek to go and hold her child’s funeral.”
“……”
“I’m begging you.”
Ah. Only then did realization seem to settle in, and Gyoheum’s expression hardened.
So Yeonsan-daek’s child had finally passed away.
The hand gripping his arm trembled like an aspen leaf. With her head bowed, Soran whispered faintly, as though sighing.
“She’s so… pitiful.”
Gyoheum cast a sunken gaze over her shoulder.
“…Please.”
The pitch-black edge of the sky was beginning to brighten blue. All of a sudden, he felt an urge to pull her into his arms.
“……”
Gyoheum clenched his fist tightly.
Grinding his teeth, he endured the moment—just to keep himself from reaching out to her.
“Someone has come?”
At Gyoheum’s question, Jaegwan glanced back, his face pale. His voice carried urgency.
“It’s—the Minister of the Secretariat, sir. Shall I invite him inside?”
Instead of answering, Gyoheum narrowed his eyes. His lips hardened.
He had been planning to visit the man soon, with Soran at his side. Yet now the minister had come first. Why?
No matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t discern the reason.
“……”
“Commander.”
Jaegwan pressed him anxiously, clearly uncomfortable with keeping such a figure waiting.
At last, Gyoheum rose from his seat. Since the tiger had come seeking him before he entered the tiger’s den, he might as well hear what the man had to say.
“I’ll go myself.”
“Yes.”
Only then did Jaegwan let out a sigh of relief and step aside.
As Gyoheum exited the building, he saw the Minister of the Secretariat standing in the courtyard.
Jaegwan wasn’t the only one ill at ease; the subordinates hovered around the minister like guilty puppies.
Descending the steps, Gyoheum offered a courteous smile.
“What brings you all the way here? You could have sent word—I would have come to you.”
“There was no need. I happened to think of you while passing by.”
“Please, come inside.”
“Very well.”
Father-in-law and son-in-law walked together with an air of warmth. Watching them blankly, one of the subordinates leaned toward Jaegwan and whispered.
“Wow. It seems the minister thinks highly of our commander. To think he’d stop by just because he thought of him. Doesn’t this mean our commander’s path to success is opening?”
“Careful. Watch your mouth.”
“What? I’m not wrong. Honestly, our commander deserves a higher post anyway. It’s only because his father was too upright to ask favors that—”
“Enough.”
Jaegwan shot him a glare. The babbling subordinate quickly slunk away.
Meanwhile, Gyoheum opened the door and gestured politely for the minister to enter first. Then he turned to Jaegwan.
“Prepare some tea.”
“That won’t be necessary. I won’t stay long.”
The minister declined with a benevolent smile. Gyoheum didn’t press further and closed the door.
“……”
The two men sat facing each other, neither speaking. The heavy silence pressed down on Gyoheum’s shoulders.
He was not naïve enough to believe the man had stopped by merely in passing. And the minister was no naïf either.
With a faint smile, the minister surveyed the office. His brow twitched slightly.
Though called an office, it was a shared space for multiple commanders—cluttered and disorderly.
His gaze moved slowly around the room before finally settling on Gyoheum’s face.
For a military officer, Gyoheum was strikingly refined. His eyes were smooth, like those of a scholar steeped in ink, and his lips were red.
Yet he didn’t resemble a civil official. He was tall, broad-boned.
“Hm.”
Letting out a low hum, the minister suddenly asked, as if recalling something.
“How is married life?”
“Thanks to your concern, it is more than satisfactory.”
“I failed to teach her many things, having kept her too close. I worried she might cause you inconvenience, but hearing that puts my mind at ease.”
Kept her too close.
Gyoheum repeated the phrase silently and recalled Soran’s face—clumsy, inexperienced, hardly what one would expect of the minister’s daughter.
Her tearful face from that morning, clutching his arm, was still vivid.
—I’ll cook, do the laundry, clean—everything. Just let her go hold her child’s funeral. She’s so pitiful.
What had he said then?
No matter how he searched his memory, he couldn’t recall his answer.
Only the image of Soran wiping her tears with her sleeve and running into the kitchen remained deeply etched in his mind.
Was that, too, an act meant to lower his guard? To weep so bitterly over the death of a mere maid’s child?
In this age, seven out of ten children never reached adulthood.
Four died at birth, two before their first birthday. If they were lucky, they might barely reach ten.
Yet Soran had genuinely mourned Yeonsan-daek and her child.
The daughter coddled by the minister. And the woman who grieved a dead child.
Which was her true self? Or did she even have one?
Lost in thought, Gyoheum felt a gaze upon him and forced a smile.
“On the contrary. She already oversees the servants and manages the household herself. Thanks to her, I can focus entirely on my duties. Where could I find a more perfect wife?”
“Is that so.”
The minister knew the words were not wholly true. Gyoheum knew the minister knew.
They exchanged well-worn pleasantries, each hiding his true thoughts.
After a few rounds of formal conversation, the minister asked casually, as though probing.
“Did the girl say anything else?”
“About what?”
“About life in my household… No, never mind.”
Shaking his head as if it were nothing, the minister continued.
“By the way.”
Lowering his voice meaningfully, he went on.
“How long do you intend to remain a mere commander?”
“What do you mean?”
Gyoheum looked at him with feigned innocence. The minister clicked his tongue.
“If you’re stuck patrolling the capital, what will people say? It reflects poorly on me.”
“It’s not as though I can be promoted simply because I wish it.”
The minister’s gaze lingered, measuring him.
Gyoheum needed the man’s trust. The closer he was, the nearer he would come to the truth behind Sahum’s death.
Perhaps it was time to reveal a hint of ambition. Lowering his voice as if wary of eavesdroppers, Gyoheum said,
“Of course, if an opportunity arises, I’ll seize it. I have no intention of staying in this position forever.”
“That’s more like it. A man should have that much spirit.”
Satisfied, the minister nodded, then suddenly grew serious.
“What if I were to give you that opportunity?”
“……”
Gyoheum remained silent. In the still air, his thoughts raced.
Why was the man offering this? Did he need him? Why? To replace my brother? Or for another reason?
Unanswered questions swirled.
“You are my son-in-law now. Should you not accomplish great things for His Majesty?”
Son-in-law.
The minister’s intentions were transparent.
He deliberately emphasized the powerful bond tying them together—family. Perhaps he expected a pledge of loyalty.
But whenever Gyoheum closed his eyes, Sahum’s final 모습 was vivid.
The wrinkled brow. The tightly shut lips. The thick rope marks around his neck.
The face twisted in agony felt unfamiliar—almost as if it weren’t Sahum at all.
He had called out to him.
—Brother.
No response.
—Brother!
Only the servants’ sobs answered.
Gyoheum clenched his jaw and swallowed his shaking breath. His tightly clenched fists trembled.
His vision went white. The world turned upside down.
It was the first time he had ever known helplessness.
He wanted greater power. Greater authority.
Not for wealth or glory—but to uncover the truth of that day.
To do so, he needed to enter the palace. To meet more powerful men. To gather allies.
To stand as an equal before the man sitting opposite him.
If the minister wished to use him as a chess piece, he would allow it.
But at the decisive moment, he would seize the king.
Not the king in the enemy’s camp—but the king in his own.
With a smile the minister would find pleasing, Gyoheum bowed his head.
“How could I refuse?”
“Good. Before long, the palace will grow restless. Do you know why?”
