Seven summers passed like swift currents through the kingdom of Gyeongseong. In the royal training grounds, Master Eun-seok watched with narrowed eyes as young Prince Mu-hyeon faced three training partners, all boys nearly twice his age. The master's weather-worn face betrayed nothing, but inwardly he marveled at how a child not yet eight could move with such fluid precision.
"Again," Master Eun-seok commanded, his voice carrying the quiet authority of forty years spent training the kingdom's finest warriors.
Mu-hyeon nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Unlike the other royal children who often complained of the master's rigorous exercises, the young prince seemed to find a strange comfort in the repetition, in the discipline of martial forms that pushed his body to its limits. He reset his stance, wooden practice sword held in the traditional guard position.
The three older boys circled him warily. They had learned through painful experience that the prince's small stature belied his uncanny strength and reflexes. The tallest of them, Min-ho, son of the royal treasurer, lunged first with a downward strike.
Mu-hyeon didn't evade the attack as most would expect. Instead, he stepped forward, meeting force with force. The wooden swords clacked loudly, and despite the considerable difference in size, it was Min-ho who found himself retreating a step, his wrists stinging from the impact.
"His strength isn't natural," one of the court ladies whispered to another as they observed from the covered walkway. "They say he lifted a fallen tree from the eastern garden when he was only five."
"Hush," her companion replied, eyes darting nervously. "It's bad fortune to speak of the prince's... peculiarities."
On the training ground, the second boy attacked from behind while Mu-hyeon engaged Min-ho. Here, the young prince's movements took on that quality that so unsettled those who witnessed it—like water flowing around an obstacle, he seemed to sense the attack without seeing it. He pivoted smoothly, redirecting Min-ho into the path of the second attacker while simultaneously sidestepping the third boy's thrust.
In moments, all three opponents were disarmed, wooden practice swords scattered across the packed earth.
Master Eun-seok clapped once, signaling the end of the exercise. "Enough. You three, practice your defensive forms. I found at least seven openings in your guard stances." As the older boys bowed and retreated, Eun-seok beckoned Mu-hyeon closer.
"Your technique improves, young prince," he said, voice pitched low for privacy. "But you still reveal too much."
Mu-hyeon's brow furrowed. "Master?"
"Your true capabilities. You hold back, yes, but not enough. Those who watch carefully will notice."
The boy's eyes—those unusual eyes with flecks of river-blue that seemed to shift like rippling water—darted toward the court ladies who still observed from a distance.
"My father says the same," Mu-hyeon admitted quietly. "He says I must learn to be... ordinary."
Master Eun-seok's weathered hand came to rest briefly on the boy's shoulder. "Not ordinary, Prince Mu-hyeon. Measured. There is a difference." The old master had trained enough royals to recognize the burden of exceptional ability. It isolated the boy, though Mu-hyeon himself seemed not yet fully aware of this growing distance between himself and others.
"Tomorrow we begin training before dawn," Eun-seok said. "Away from watching eyes. There, you need not restrain yourself so carefully."
Relief washed over the young prince's features, a rare crack in his usually composed demeanor. He bowed deeply, the gesture containing genuine gratitude rather than mere formality.
---
King Baek Seon-jo stood at the window of his private study, watching his son's training session conclude. Though the distance was considerable, his eyes hadn't missed the moment when Mu-hyeon had moved with that uncanny grace that reminded him so powerfully of Gaya.
"He grows stronger each day," came a voice from behind him.
Seon-jo did not turn. Few would dare enter his private chambers unannounced, but fewer still would presume to speak so candidly. "Master Jung," he acknowledged. "I didn't summon you."
The royal shaman moved to stand beside the king, her ceremonial robes exchanged for simpler attire that belied her significant influence within the court. Min-jung had served as royal shaman since Seon-jo's father's time, and age had only sharpened her insight, both mundane and mystical.
"Some matters cannot wait for formal summons, Your Majesty," she replied. "The signs grow stronger. It's time to consider what I proposed."
Seon-jo's jaw tightened. "He is a child still."
"A child who will soon be unable to hide his nature," Min-jung countered. "The servants already whisper. Some with fear, others with awe. Neither serves him—or you—well."
The king finally turned from the window, the weight of seven years' vigilance evident in the new lines etched around his eyes. "What would you have me do? Send my only son, my heir, away from the protection of the palace?"
Min-jung met his gaze steadily. "To the Eastern Temple, where he can learn to understand his gifts under the guidance of those who have studied the union of mortal and divine for generations. You know as well as I do that his education must extend beyond what even the finest royal tutors can provide."
Seon-jo moved to his desk, lifting a small jade figurine—a river dragon, intricately carved—that he often held when deep in thought. "And if I refuse? If I keep him here?"
"Then you risk him becoming like the bamboo that doesn't bend in the storm," Min-jung said softly. "His nature contains both human and divine currents. Without proper guidance, those currents may one day clash rather than flow together."
The king's fingers tightened around the jade dragon. "She promised to return," he said, his voice barely audible. "When he was ready to understand his heritage, Gaya promised she would return to guide him."
Min-jung's expression softened with rare compassion. "The spirits of water are bound by different laws of time and promise, Your Majesty. Seven years may be but a moment to one such as her."
"Or she may have forgotten us entirely," Seon-jo replied, the bitterness in his tone revealing a wound that had never properly healed.
The shaman moved closer, lowering her voice further. "There is another matter we must discuss. The court astrologers have confirmed what I sensed months ago. The heaven signs indicate it is time for you to take a queen."
Seon-jo's head snapped up, eyes flashing. "I will not."
"You must," Min-jung insisted. "The kingdom requires stability. Prince Mu-hyeon requires a mother's guidance, and—"
"He has a mother," the king interrupted sharply.
"A mother who exists between worlds," the shaman countered. "The court ministers grow increasingly vocal about the need for a proper queen. One who can provide additional heirs, should..." She hesitated.
"Should my river-born son prove unsuitable?" Seon-jo finished coldly.
Min-jung bowed her head slightly, neither confirming nor denying the implication. "I have consulted the oracle bones. The signs point to the Han clan's eldest daughter. Lady Soo-yeon is both educated in court matters and sensitive to spiritual concerns. Her brother's position as commander of the northern forces would also strengthen your military alliances."
The king turned back to the window, his reflection in the polished glass revealing the conflict within. Below, he could see Mu-hyeon walking across the courtyard, Master Eun-seok at his side. Even from this distance, the boy's solitude was palpable—servants bowed as he passed, but none approached him with the casual familiarity that other children might experience.
"Three months," Seon-jo said finally. "I will give him three months of normal childhood before we discuss sending him to the Eastern Temple. And I will meet Lady Soo-yeon, nothing more."
Min-jung bowed deeply, knowing better than to press further when the king used that tone. "As you command, Your Majesty."
After the shaman departed, Seon-jo remained at the window long after his son had disappeared from view. He placed his palm against the cool glass, remembering the touch of Gaya's hand—cool at first, then warming to his touch. Seven years, and still the memory remained as vivid as the moment it occurred.
"Where are you?" he whispered to the empty room. "He needs you. Perhaps more than he needs me."
As if in answer, a faint breeze stirred the curtains though the windows were sealed against the autumn chill, carrying with it the subtle scent of river water.
---
In his private chambers, Prince Mu-hyeon sat cross-legged on the floor, defying the servants who insisted he use the elevated sleeping platform appropriate for his station. The polished wood beneath him felt comforting—solid and reliable in a way that the elaborate silk cushions never did.
Before him lay an unusual object: a simple clay bowl filled with water. Any servant entering would have thought little of it, perhaps assuming the young prince was thirsty after his training. But Mu-hyeon had dismissed all attendants, using for the first time his authority to demand privacy.
He stared at the water's surface with intense concentration, his small hands resting palm-up on his knees. For weeks now, he had been practicing in secret, attempting to recreate something he had experienced by accident during the summer rains—a moment when the water in a similar bowl had seemed to respond to his thoughts, rising into a perfect sphere before collapsing when his concentration broke.
"Please," he whispered to the water. "Show me again."
At first, nothing happened. The water remained still, reflecting his frustrated expression. Then, as he exhaled slowly and allowed his mind to quiet—as Master Eun-seok had taught him during meditation exercises—he felt something stir within him. Not a physical sensation, but a connection, like remembering a forgotten melody.
The water's surface trembled slightly. A tiny ripple formed at the center, spiraling outward. Mu-hyeon held his breath, afraid that any movement might break this tenuous connection. The ripples continued, forming patterns too orderly to be natural disturbances.
A smile broke across his face, the rare uninhibited expression of a child rather than a prince. He leaned closer, and as he did, a single drop of water rose from the bowl's surface—hovering momentarily before his widening eyes.
The sound of approaching footsteps shattered his concentration. The water droplet fell back with a tiny splash as Mu-hyeon hurriedly pushed the bowl aside and scrambled to his feet.
A sharp knock preceded his father's entrance. King Seon-jo paused in the doorway, noting his son's flushed face and the bowl of water hastily moved aside.
"Father," Mu-hyeon bowed formally, hoping the king hadn't noticed anything unusual.
Seon-jo's gaze lingered on the water bowl before shifting back to his son. For a moment, it seemed he might ask about it, but instead, he smiled gently.
"I thought we might ride to the northern falls tomorrow," he said. "Just the two of us. Would that please you?"
Mu-hyeon's composure fell away, replaced by genuine excitement. "Without the royal guard?"
"A small escort only," the king conceded. "Far enough behind that we might pretend they aren't there at all."
The boy nodded eagerly, then caught himself, attempting to restore his princely demeanor. "That would be most agreeable, Father."
Seon-jo crossed the room and knelt to his son's level—a gesture that would have shocked the court ministers who insisted on proper royal protocol. He placed a hand on Mu-hyeon's shoulder, his eyes searching the boy's face with unusual intensity.
"There is something I must tell you about the northern falls," the king said softly. "Something about your mother."
Mu-hyeon went very still, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. In seven years, his father had spoken of his mother only in the briefest terms, deflecting questions with promises of explanations when he was older. Now, looking into his father's eyes, he sensed that the moment for those explanations had finally arrived.
"Is she..." the boy hesitated, afraid to give voice to the hope that had sustained him through countless nights of wondering. "Will she be there?"
Seon-jo's expression held a complex mixture of emotions—hope and doubt, love and lingering pain. "I do not know," he admitted. "But if there is anywhere in the kingdom where she might reach across the boundaries that separate us, it would be there, where the veils between worlds grow thin."
The water in the forgotten bowl behind them rippled once more, though neither the window nor the door was open to cause such movement. This time, the ripples formed a perfect circle, expanding outward until they touched the clay rim, like an invisible finger had touched the center of the water's surface.
Outside, clouds gathered on the horizon, bringing the promise of rain to a kingdom unaware that its future was balanced as precariously as a drop of water suspended in mid-air—destined to fall, but its landing place not yet determined.