The morning brought with it a gentle mist that clung to the palace rooftops, transforming the familiar architecture into something dreamlike and indistinct. Mu-hyeon woke before the palace servants arrived with their usual ceremonial greetings, a habit formed from years of rising early to practice in solitude. Today, however, anticipation rather than discipline had pulled him from sleep.
He dressed simply, choosing riding clothes that would not immediately mark him as royalty. The gesture was perhaps futile—the quality of the fabric alone would betray his status to any discerning eye—but it pleased him to imagine, even briefly, that he might be just an ordinary boy embarking on an adventure with his father.
When the soft knock came at his chamber door, Mu-hyeon had already been waiting for nearly an hour.
"Enter," he called, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.
King Seon-jo appeared wearing similarly understated clothing, though the jade medallion at his belt—the royal seal of Gyeongseong—remained as a necessary concession to protocol. His expression softened at the sight of his son already prepared, recognizing the barely contained excitement behind the boy's carefully composed features.
"You've been awake since dawn, haven't you?" the king asked with a knowing smile.
Mu-hyeon straightened his shoulders. "A prince should always be prepared, Father."
Seon-jo's laugh was warm, unburdened by the weight of court affairs that so often clouded his demeanor. "Today, perhaps we can set aside what a prince should be." He crossed the room and knelt before his son, adjusting the boy's collar with an uncharacteristic attention to such a mundane task. "Today, I would have you simply be my son."
Something in his father's voice—a note of vulnerability rarely revealed—made Mu-hyeon study the king's face more closely. Behind the smile, he glimpsed apprehension, as though his father both longed for and feared what might await them at the northern falls.
"Will you tell me about her now?" Mu-hyeon asked softly. "Before we leave?"
Seon-jo's hands stilled on his son's collar. "Some stories are better told in places where they first began," he replied after a moment. "But I promise you this—by sunset today, you will know why the sound of running water has always called to your heart."
The boy nodded solemnly, accepting this answer with the patience he had cultivated through years of careful observation. As the king's only acknowledged son, he had learned early that silence often revealed more than questions.
---
They departed through the eastern gate, where the morning guard was thinnest and ceremony could be minimized. Four royal guards followed at a distance, as promised—close enough to respond to danger, far enough to create the illusion of privacy. Their horses moved at an easy trot along the river road, passing farmers and merchants who bowed deeply when they recognized their king despite his simple attire.
As they rode beyond the capital's immediate outskirts, Mu-hyeon felt a subtle weight lifting from his shoulders. The careful mask he wore within palace walls—the constant awareness of watching eyes, of expectations both spoken and unspoken—began to loosen. His posture relaxed, and he found himself smiling at simple pleasures: the way sunlight dappled through autumn leaves, the startled flight of pheasants from roadside brush, the earthy scent of the forest as they entered the wooded foothills that marked the beginning of the northern territory.
"You seem different beyond the palace walls," Seon-jo observed as they paused to water their horses at a small stream.
Mu-hyeon looked up from where he'd been studying the clear water running over smooth stones. "Do I?"
"More yourself, perhaps," the king said. He watched thoughtfully as his son's fingers traced patterns just above the water's surface, not quite touching yet somehow causing minute ripples to form. "Has that happened before?" he asked quietly.
The boy withdrew his hand quickly, eyes widening with the realization that he'd revealed something he usually kept hidden. "I..." he hesitated, uncertain whether to deny or admit to the small manipulations of water he'd been experimenting with in secret.
"You need not fear my reaction," Seon-jo assured him. "There is nothing about you that could diminish my pride in who you are becoming."
Relief washed over Mu-hyeon's features, quickly followed by a cautious excitement at finally being able to share the strange abilities he'd been discovering. "It started last spring, during the heavy rains. I was watching water collect in a courtyard basin, and I felt..." he struggled to find words for the sensation. "I felt as though the water recognized me, somehow. As though we were... kin."
Seon-jo nodded slowly, his suspicions confirmed. "And since then?"
"Small things," Mu-hyeon admitted. "I can feel water nearby, even when I cannot see it. Sometimes, when I'm very calm or very focused, I can make it move. Not much, just ripples or small drops." He hesitated, then added with a hint of frustration, "I've tried to do more, but I don't understand how it works."
The king's expression remained carefully neutral, though his eyes reflected complex emotions. "That understanding is part of why we journey today."
They continued northward, the terrain gradually growing steeper. The well-maintained river road gave way to narrower paths that wound through increasingly dense forest. By midday, they could hear the distant thunder of the falls—still unseen but announcing its presence with sound and the fine mist that hung in the air.
"We're close now," Seon-jo said, slowing his horse as they approached a natural stone archway covered in moss and delicate ferns. "Beyond this point, we continue on foot. The guards will remain here."
After dismounting and securing their horses, the king exchanged quiet words with the captain of their small escort. The man nodded, though his expression betrayed concern at allowing the king and prince to proceed unaccompanied. Seon-jo's firm tone suggested the matter was not open for debate.
"This way," the king said to Mu-hyeon, leading him through the stone archway. The path beyond narrowed further, requiring them to walk single file through dense vegetation that seemed to part just enough to allow passage before closing behind them.
"Have you been here before, Father?" Mu-hyeon asked, noting how confidently the king navigated the seemingly unmarked trail.
"Once," Seon-jo replied, his voice carrying a weight of memory. "Eight years ago."
The implication was not lost on the boy, who quickened his pace slightly. As they walked, he noticed unusual flowers growing among the ferns—blossoms with translucent petals that seemed to contain tiny droplets of water at their centers. When he reached to touch one, his father gently caught his wrist.
"Best not to disturb what grows here," Seon-jo cautioned. "This place exists in balance between worlds. Some things may appear harmless but carry influences beyond our understanding."
Mu-hyeon withdrew his hand, suddenly more aware of their surroundings. The forest had grown quieter, the normal sounds of birds and insects fading until only the distant roar of the falls remained. The light, too, had changed—still bright but somehow diffuse, as if filtered through water rather than air.
"We're crossing a boundary, aren't we?" he asked, instinctively lowering his voice. "Not just of territory."
Seon-jo glanced back at his son with newfound respect. "You sense it, then. Yes—the northern falls mark not just the geographic boundary of our kingdom, but a threshold between the mortal realm and... other domains."
Before Mu-hyeon could ask more questions, the path widened suddenly, opening onto a scene of breathtaking beauty. The falls cascaded down a sheer cliff face at least a hundred feet high, splitting into three distinct streams before reuniting in a deep pool of startling clarity. Surrounding the pool, stone formations created natural terraces covered in those same unusual flowers they had seen along the path.
But it was the water itself that captured Mu-hyeon's attention. Unlike any water he had seen before, it seemed almost luminous, with shifting colors that defied simple description—at once blue, green, silver, and somehow none of these.
"It's beautiful," he whispered, feeling an inexplicable tightness in his chest, as though his heart recognized something his mind could not yet comprehend.
"This is where I met your mother," Seon-jo said quietly. "Where you were conceived."
Mu-hyeon turned to his father, finding the king's eyes fixed on the falls with an expression of such longing that it seemed almost physical pain. "Was she..." he began, not certain how to frame the question that had haunted him for years.
"Human?" Seon-jo finished for him. "No, not as we understand humanity. Gaya is a river spirit—a guardian of waters that flow between realms. Her existence spans both our world and others that intersect with it at places of power like this."
Instead of disbelief or confusion, Mu-hyeon felt a profound sense of recognition—as though pieces of a puzzle that had never quite fit together suddenly aligned, revealing a picture that made complete sense.
"That's why I can feel the water," he said softly. "Why it responds to me."
Seon-jo nodded. "You carry her essence within you—divine waters flowing through mortal veins. It makes you unique among men, but also..." he hesitated.
"Different," Mu-hyeon supplied. "Separate."
"Not separate," came a new voice, melodic and fluid, seeming to originate from the falls themselves. "Never separate from what you truly are."
Both father and son turned toward the sound. At the edge of the pool, where moments before there had been only stone and water, stood a woman of otherworldly beauty. Her hanbok appeared woven from the water itself, constantly flowing yet never losing its form. Her dark hair moved as though underwater despite the still air, and her eyes—Mu-hyeon felt his breath catch as he recognized those same river-blue flecks that he saw in his own reflection.
"Gaya," Seon-jo breathed, a wealth of emotion contained in those two syllables.
The woman—the river spirit—smiled at the king with genuine warmth before turning her attention to the boy who stood transfixed between recognition and uncertainty.
"My son," she said, her voice carrying currents of joy and sorrow intermingled. "You have grown strong in body, but your spirit still seeks its true nature."
Mu-hyeon found himself unable to speak, overwhelmed by the moment he had imagined countless times yet never quite believed would come. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, drawn by an instinct deeper than thought.
Gaya extended her hand, and when Mu-hyeon reached to take it, he found her touch cool but not cold—the exact temperature of the water in the pool beside them. The contact sent a jolt of awareness through him, awakening sensations he had never experienced before—suddenly he could feel every drop of water within miles, from the thundering falls to the morning dew still clinging to leaves in shadowed places.
"Why did you leave?" he asked, the question escaping before he could consider its wisdom.
Sorrow flashed across Gaya's perfect features. "The boundaries between realms are not easily crossed, and less easily maintained. Had I remained, the balance would have been disturbed, drawing attention from powers better left undisturbed." She glanced at Seon-jo, who had moved closer. "Your father understood this, though it brought him pain."
"I understood," the king said quietly, "but I never accepted it."
Gaya's expression softened as she looked between father and son. "I have watched you both, even when I could not reach across the veil. I have seen your struggles, your triumphs, your moments of doubt." Her gaze settled on Mu-hyeon. "And I have seen you discovering your heritage, bit by bit, like a river finding its course."
"Can you teach me?" Mu-hyeon asked, gesturing toward the water. "To understand what I can do, what I am?"
"That is why I called you here," Gaya replied. "The time approaches when you must know your full nature—not just for your own sake, but for the kingdom's future."
She led them to a flat stone beside the pool, gesturing for them to sit. When they were settled, she knelt at the water's edge, trailing her fingers across its surface. The water rose to meet her touch, forming shapes and patterns that hung suspended in the air.
"The blood of river spirits grants many gifts," she began, her voice taking on a cadence that suggested ancient knowledge being passed down. "You will live longer than ordinary men. Your strength and speed will exceed human limitation. Wounds that would kill others will heal quickly in your flesh." The water shapes shifted, illustrating her words with images of flowing power and resilience.
"But the greatest gift—and the greatest responsibility—lies in your connection to water itself." The suspended droplets coalesced into a miniature representation of Gyeongseong, complete with its river systems and coastal boundaries. "Water flows through all things living. It connects all places, all people. With training, you can perceive these connections, influence them, even use them to travel between places physically distant but connected by flowing water."
Mu-hyeon leaned forward, fascinated by the implications. "Is that how you move between realms?"
"In part," Gaya acknowledged. "Though the boundaries between worlds require more than mere physical movement to cross." She looked at him with sudden intensity. "You straddle those boundaries by your very existence, Mu-hyeon. Half mortal, half spirit. You belong fully to neither realm, yet have access to both."
"A blessing or a curse?" Seon-jo asked quietly.
Gaya's expression grew solemn. "Both, as with all things of true power." She turned back to Mu-hyeon. "There will be times when your dual nature causes you pain—when you feel the pull of two worlds that cannot fully reconcile. But there will also be moments when that same duality grants you perspective and abilities no one else possesses."
She gestured, and the water shapes collapsed back into the pool. "I cannot remain long in this form. The effort of manifestation strains against natural laws. But I can teach you the foundations of water-craft before I must return to my realm."
Rising, she extended both hands to Mu-hyeon. "Come. Stand in the pool with me."
The boy looked to his father, who nodded encouragement despite the hint of melancholy in his eyes. Slipping off his boots, Mu-hyeon stepped into the water—and gasped at the sensation. It was unlike any water he had felt before, seeming to welcome him, to recognize something in his blood that resonated with its own nature.
"Close your eyes," Gaya instructed. "Feel the water not as something separate from yourself, but as an extension of your being. Your blood flows like a river through your veins. The water surrounds you, knows you, answers to the call of its own essence within you."
Mu-hyeon obeyed, closing his eyes and reaching for that elusive connection he had glimpsed in his private experiments. Here, in this place between worlds, with his mother's guidance, the sensation came more easily—a humming awareness that expanded outward from his core, connecting with every drop of water around him.
"Now," Gaya said softly, "open your eyes, but maintain that connection. See with both mortal sight and water-sense combined."
When he opened his eyes, the world had transformed. He could still see the pool, the falls, his father watching from the stone—but overlaid on these physical forms were flowing currents of energy that connected everything. He could sense the water within the plants surrounding them, the moisture in the air, even the blood flowing through his father's veins.
"This is how I see the world," Gaya explained. "Every living thing connected by the waters that sustain it. This is the foundation of your power, Mu-hyeon—not control over water, but communion with it."
For the next few hours, as the sun arced across the sky, she guided him through exercises that helped him harness this new awareness. He learned to extend his senses through water, to feel distant places connected by flowing streams. He practiced moving small amounts of water with his thoughts, not by forcing it but by suggesting pathways that the water eagerly followed.
From the shore, Seon-jo watched with complex emotions evident in his face—pride in his son's swift learning, wonder at abilities beyond mortal understanding, and beneath it all, a current of grief for the family that could never truly be whole.
As the afternoon waned, Gaya finally led Mu-hyeon back to shore. "You have learned more quickly than I dared hope," she said, genuine pride warming her voice. "There is much more to teach, but this beginning will serve you well."
"When will I see you again?" Mu-hyeon asked, already dreading the answer.
Gaya's expression grew serious. "The crossing becomes more difficult as certain forces in both realms grow stronger. I cannot promise when, but..." she glanced at the falls, "if you come here at times when the veil thins—during solstices, equinoxes, or when the blue moon rises—you may find passage easier between us."
She turned to Seon-jo, who had risen to join them. "There is something more you must both know. A shadow approaches Gyeongseong—one that has long waited for an opportunity to extend its influence from my realm into yours."
The king's expression hardened. "What manner of shadow?"
"One that seeks imbalance," Gaya replied, her voice taking on an otherworldly resonance. "There are those in the spirit realm who resent the boundaries between worlds, who hunger for the vitality of mortal existence without understanding its fragility."
She looked between father and son, her next words carrying the weight of prophecy. "A time comes when you must make a choice, Seon-jo—one that will echo through generations. You will be offered power for your bloodline, influence beyond ordinary kings. The price will seem small at first."
"What price?" the king asked.
"A second marriage, to one who is not what she appears." Gaya's form seemed to shimmer slightly, becoming less distinct as she spoke. "I cannot see all paths clearly, for the future branches like a river delta. But this I know—Mu-hyeon must be prepared. His blood makes him both shield and sword for Gyeongseong in the coming storm."
Mu-hyeon straightened his shoulders, feeling both the weight of responsibility and a surge of determination. "I will train harder. Master Eun-seok says I already exceed the skills of boys twice my age."
Gaya smiled, though sadness lingered in her eyes. "Physical training alone will not be enough. Seek the Eastern Temple when you return. The monks there understand the confluence of mortal and divine better than any in your realm." She turned to Seon-jo. "They will guide him when I cannot."
The king nodded, finally accepting what the royal shaman had advised. "It will be done."
"My time grows short," Gaya said, her form becoming increasingly translucent. She knelt before Mu-hyeon, her hands—cool and somehow both solid and fluid—framing his face. "Remember this, my son. Water finds its way around obstacles, but never surrenders its nature. It may freeze, evaporate, fall as rain, flow as river—but always it returns to itself. So too must you remain true to both sides of your heritage, even when the world would have you choose between them."
She pressed her lips to his forehead in blessing, the touch leaving a brief coolness that seemed to sink beneath his skin. "I have given you something that will remain dormant until needed—a connection that not even the thickest veils between worlds can sever."
Then she turned to Seon-jo, rising to her full height. For a moment, they simply gazed at one another, years of separation and longing crystallized in a look that Mu-hyeon found almost too intimate to witness.
"The kingdom needs stability," she said softly. "Do not let grief for what cannot be blind you to what must be done."
"You ask much," Seon-jo replied, his voice rough with emotion.
"I ask only what destiny already demands," Gaya countered gently. She reached out, her fingers barely touching his cheek. "Your path lies firmly in the mortal realm, Seon-jo. Mine cannot cross it save in these rare moments. But what grew between us created something precious—a bridge between worlds that may yet save both when darkness comes."
Her form was little more than mist now, her voice fading. "Watch the waters. When they run black without cause, when fish die in clean streams, know that the boundary weakens. Prepare yourselves."
With these final words, she dissolved completely, her essence returning to the falls in a swirl of luminous mist. For a moment, Mu-hyeon thought he could still see her face in the cascading water, but then it too was gone, leaving only the natural beauty of the falls.
Father and son stood in silence for a long moment, each processing what had occurred. Finally, Mu-hyeon spoke, his voice small but resolute.
"I will go to the Eastern Temple," he said. "I will learn what I must to protect Gyeongseong."
Seon-jo placed a hand on his son's shoulder, studying the boy's face as though seeing him anew. "Yes," he agreed quietly. "And I..." he glanced toward the capital, invisible beyond miles of forest, "I must ensure the kingdom's stability, as your mother advised."
They began the journey back in thoughtful silence, each step taking them further from the liminal space of the falls and closer to the responsibilities that awaited. By the time they reached their horses and the waiting guards, Mu-hyeon could feel the water-sense his mother had awakened beginning to recede—not disappearing entirely, but settling into a quieter awareness that he could access with concentration.
As they rode toward the capital, now gilded by the setting sun, the boy found himself changed in ways both subtle and profound. He was still Prince Baek Mu-hyeon, heir to Gyeongseong—but he was also something more, something not quite defined by the boundaries of ordinary existence.
Behind them, unseen, a single drop of water from the northern falls began a journey southward, flowing against the current toward the heart of the kingdom—a harbinger of forces being set in motion that would one day remake the realm.