“Your Majesty,” said a quiet voice from the shadows.

“Father,” the boy whispered, “the king fears you more than the Tang.”

“You remind me of my father,” he said. “He once told me, ‘A king’s duty is to protect his people, even from himself.’ But you, Gaesomun—you would protect the kingdom from everyone, including its king.”

Then the king did something unexpected. He smiled—a sad, old man’s smile.

In the great hall of the royal palace, King Yeongnyu sat on his throne, fingers trembling over a silk scroll. On it was an edict from Tang China—an offer of alliance, but beneath the gilded words, a noose. The Tang wanted Goguryeo’s northern forts dismantled. They wanted the king’s loyalty, not as a ruler, but as a vassal.

The king’s hand shook harder. “You speak treason.”

Lightning split the sky. In that white flash, the boy saw his father not as a man, but as a fortress—unbending, ancient, and destined to either save Goguryeo or burn it down trying.

The king looked away. “You speak of war as if it were a game of go . But I see the faces of our farmers, our children. I cannot lead them into fire for pride.”