The Portrait and the Remnant Chill

Thump, thump. His heart hammered against his ribs with a deafening roar. As Sohwa lay prostrate, the Emperor’s face—glimpsed briefly while entering the audience chamber—floated vividly before his eyes.

How he had yearned for him. How desperately he had missed him. The moment those features, which had grown sharper in just a few months, entered his field of vision, a shiver of pure electricity had coursed through him.

“Raise your head.”

Sohwa pushed himself up from the floor but kept his gaze lowered. The Emperor’s eyes swept down his body, the intensity of the stare feeling almost like a physical caress.

In an instant, Sohwa’s mouth went bone-dry. Swallowing hard, he nearly closed his eyes instinctively at the sound of the Emperor’s voice addressing the Head Eunuch.

“What was the Prince’s name again?”

“It is Wi Sohwa, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor’s low voice was as enchanting as ever. Its heavy, dignified resonance made Sohwa’s very waist feel as though it were trembling.

“Sohwa… ‘Small Flower.’ A name fit for a courtesan.”

Intoxicated by the sound of the Emperor’s voice, Sohwa only registered the meaning of the words moments later. He blinked slowly and lifted his gaze, meeting the Emperor’s eyes. Instantly, he recoiled at the sight of a crooked, mocking expression he had never seen before.

He did not claim to know the man entirely, but this was a look the Emperor had never worn in his presence. To a man who had always smiled tenderly or clicked his tongue in playful exasperation, a chilling aura now radiated from him.

A moment later, the Emperor wiped even that crooked smirk away. With a face that looked strangely angered, he tilted his chin toward Sohwa.

“I hear the Prince painted this imperial portrait himself.”

It wasn’t a question born of curiosity; it was an interrogation, as if demanding the Prince confess to a crime. Sohwa’s eyes trembled as he bowed his head again.

“Yes… Your Majesty.”

“How would a Prince of Gyeong know Our face well enough to paint it?”

Sohwa gasped, a frantic breath escaping him as he bowed even lower. In his desperate desire to give the portrait to the Emperor, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He struggled to swallow the bitter sorrow rising in his chest, unable to find an answer. That’s right. In this life, they were supposed to be meeting for the very first time.

Sohwa bit his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut. If he didn’t, the heat in his throat would surely burst forth as a sob. While he suppressed his swirling emotions and licked his dry lips, the Emperor continued.

“Do not think of telling Us lies. Did the Prince truly paint this himself?”

The Emperor’s voice grew irritable, as if frustrated by Sohwa’s silence. Why did it hurt so much? Sohwa forced the words out in a shattered, stammering voice.

“T-This servant…”

“You are not Our subject, are you?”

The Emperor’s voice remained icy. Startled by the sharp reprimand, Sohwa realized his mistake. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“G-Gyeong is a vassal state of the Great Empire… I was told I was no different from Your Majesty’s subject.”

As he stammered out the excuse, a dry chuckle drifted down from above him. Even that sound felt like the first frost of late autumn.

“Your tongue is quite silver. However, you would do well to mind your words from now on. Fine, finish what you were saying.”

Startled, Sohwa looked up at the Emperor again, his eyes wide. Could that cold voice truly belong to him? Why was he acting so frigid?

Sohwa felt a wave of sorrow at the Emperor’s coldness. Even the sight of that face, once always filled with gentle smiles but now hardened like stone, was enough to break his heart.

He knew this reaction was only natural since the Emperor didn’t know who he was, yet he felt wronged and miserable. After everything he had felt coming back to him… even though the Emperor had no reason to know, the sorrow surged uncontrollably.

‘Mok-ah, I heard you missed another meal. Since you won’t look after yourself, I suppose I’ll have to come and watch over you personally.’

‘I find the paintings you create quite to my liking. Therefore, you must take care of your health and stay by my side to paint forever. Without your art, what joy would I find in this world?’

As the memories of those words resurfaced, his eyes stung. Sohwa blinked rapidly to clear the tears before they could pool and cast his gaze downward.

Under the hem of the dragon robes, he saw the Emperor’s feet. Even the small movement of his toes—twitching as if in displeasure—made Sohwa feel wretched.

‘You were such a kind person, Your Majesty.’

Sohwa lowered his head, repeating the words he could never say aloud. The Emperor’s gaze remained fixed on the back of his bowed neck, so cold it felt as if it might slice right through him, making his body tremble uncontrollably.

In the small kingdom of Gyeong, located at the western edge of the continent’s southern tip, lived King Wi Yeon, famous for his benevolence; Queen So-ryang, renowned as the greatest beauty in the land; and their three sons.

The eldest was Wi Yul, the Crown Prince, who excelled in both literary and martial arts. Though he was known for a cold temperament and a strict adherence to law, rumor had it he was helpless when it came to his youngest brother, Sohwa, who was six years his junior. Stories of the Crown Prince’s doting affection for his brother reached even the common marketplaces of the capital.

The second son, Wi Yeon-gyeong, was no different. Possessing extraordinary martial talent, he had entered the military at thirteen and, at twenty-two, was now the commander of the Royal Guard.

Despite his massive frame and stoic expression, he smiled as softly as a spring breeze only for his younger brother. It was whispered throughout the palace that those who witnessed this transformation felt a strange fluttering in their chests. There were even rumors that he smiled more for his brother than for the consort he wed at fifteen, and no one in the palace—including Yeon-gyeong himself—denied it.

The third son, Wi Sohwa, who monopolized the love of such formidable brothers, had only recently celebrated his twentieth birthday. Inheriting his mother’s quiet nature, he preferred reading books or painting in the pavilion of his palace to physical activity.

At this moment, Sohwa was seated at a desk in a pavilion cooled by a fresh breeze, moving a brush laden with pigment.

As the brush passed over the white paper, vivid flowers bloomed as if swaying in the wind. With the next strokes, butterflies fluttering toward the flowers and a white cat with golden eyes crouching in wait filled the page.

The movement was so lifelike it seemed the glittering dust from the butterflies’ wings might fall at any moment. Behind them, the cat’s slitted eyes watched the butterflies’ every move.

“Haa.”

A small sigh escaped Sohwa’s lips as his steady arm moved the brush. It was a long, heavy sigh, unexpected from a face that shared his second brother’s stoicism. He placed the brush gently on the pigment dish and turned his gaze toward the pond.

In the small pond built of stacked granite, schools of goldfish played, their tails fluttering like red petals. Sohwa leaned against the railing, staring blankly at the surface where the fish were gasping for air.

When he stretched his arm out over the railing, the goldfish, perhaps mistaking the gesture for a feeding, swarmed beneath his hand. Watching them follow his long, slender fingers, Sohwa let out another thin sigh.

“Eunuch Jeong, are you there?”

Eunuch Jeong, who had been waiting below the pavilion, climbed the stairs and bowed.

“Yes, Your Highness. Please give your command.”

Sohwa straightened from the railing and waved his hand. His elegant, jade-like hand moved, and the light blue sleeves of his robe fluttered with the motion.

“The brush does not follow my will today, so I must stop. Clear the materials and bring some tea.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

At Eunuch Jeong’s signal, several court ladies ascended the pavilion to tidy the painting and pigments. Soon, tea and simple refreshments were placed before Sohwa: Gyeong’s specialty flower tea, boasting a vibrant red hue, and traditional sweets (dasik) currently popular in the Great Empire.

As he looked at the colorful sweets made of grain or pine pollen pressed into decorative molds, sorrow clouded Sohwa’s eyes. He let out a quiet sigh and lifted his teacup. While he emptied the cup, he purposefully avoided looking at the sweets, staring only at the pond instead. He was afraid of the useless nostalgia they might trigger.

There was no reason for a Prince of Gyeong to feel nostalgic over sweets from the Great Empire, but the soul inhabiting the Prince was not the original Sohwa—it was the imperial painter of the Great Empire.

The painter, Ha Jin-mok, was lowly by birth, but his artistic talent was among the best in the land. He had made a living selling paintings made with pigments he ground himself from flowers and stones.

As his fame grew, rumors of his talent reached the Emperor, who summoned Jin-mok to the palace. Recalling the day he first had an audience with the Emperor, Jin-mok let out another long, heavy sigh.

That day, overwhelmed by the aura radiating from the Emperor—who had once been a brave general—Jin-mok had nearly soiled himself. Yet, that was the day he became the Emperor’s personal painter. Not a member of the Bureau of Painting, but a painter belonging solely and entirely to the Emperor.