Morning arrived with the sweet sound of birds... and the loud snoring of my servant echoing across the chamber.

  It was Saturday morning—the perfect time to sneak out again. But not before—

  “Jungjeong Ma-ma!!”

  A chorus of voices rang from outside my chamber just as the doors opened. I quickly shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  Then came a voice—sweet, warm, and impossible to resist.

  “Jinseo-ya, have you woken up yet, my precious boy?”

  I leapt up and wrapped my arms around my beautiful Eomeoni.

  “Aigoo, my cute boy—you’re already awake,” she chuckled.

  “Eomma,” I said with wide, pleading eyes, “I want to go outside the palace today.”

  “Of course you can,” she smiled, “but first, you have writing lessons this morning.”

  “Eomma, can’t I do it later?” I asked, eyes glowing with my most innocent look.

  She sighed with a smile. “Of course, my precious Jinseo-ya.”

  “It worked like a charm.”

  “Thank you, Eomeoni,” I murmured, snuggling close.

  “But you must come back this afternoon for your lesson,” she added gently.

  “Jungjeong Ma-ma, I brought some tea,” said Sohwa as she entered quietly.

  As always, Eunchae was three steps ahead. He took a cup, sipped it quickly, and nodded.

  “It is safe to drink, Jungjeong Ma-ma,” Eunchae said with a bow.

  Just then, a guard called from outside, “Jungjeong Ma-ma, five boys request an audience with the young prince.”

  “Let them in,” said my mother.

  As the boys entered, their faces struck a familiar chord. I remembered them well.

  One of them stepped forward and handed my mother a coin pouch.

  “Jungjeong Ma-ma, I’ve brought this coin pouch back for Wangja Ma-ma,” he said.

  “What are your names?” my mother asked.

  “With a courageous voice, the first said, “My name is Daeyoung.”

  “Minjae,” said the second with a calm voice.

  “Sungho!” shouted the third, energetic and bright.

  “Jisoo,” said the fourth, his voice soft.

  And finally, “Harin,” said the youngest, composed but warm.

  Daeyoung then turned back to my mother. “Jungjeong Ma-ma, I want to tell you something. The prince—he saved us fro—”

  I cut him off. “Mom, I’m going to head out now. My servant and I will be going with Daeyoung and his friends.”

  “Don’t come home late, my dear Jinseo-ya. You still have writing lessons.”

  “Yes, Eomeoni,” I replied.

  “Would you like to take the horse carriage, Agissi?” Baekho asked.

  “No, we’ll walk.”

  Just as we stepped out, the three maids—my “soon-to-be wives,” hehe—appeared.

  “Wangja Ma-ma! We brought you some breakfast!”

  “We made this miyeokguk soup just for you,” Yura said brightly.

  We made our way to the picnic area, accompanied by the soft rustle of the breeze and the distant call of birds. I sat down ready to eat.

  Eunchae, ever vigilant, stepped forward. “Agissi, I must taste the soup first.”

  Before he could stop me, I grabbed the bowl and began eating.

  “Nooo—!” Eunchae lunged toward me. “Ahhh! If something happens to you, Agissi, I’ll be guilty for the rest of my life!” He threw himself dramatically to the ground, tears in his eyes.

  I smiled and thanked my maids, then finally made my way out of the palace with my servants and the five boys.

  Once we passed through the palace gates, I took a deep breath, stretched my limbs to get the blood flowing, and made Baekho and Eunchae do the same. They grumbled—Eunchae the loudest, of course.

  We strolled down into the commoner district. I saw many elderly and sickly people, and pain twisted in my chest.

  As we passed through the market, I noticed the crowd was thin. The air was filled with a mixture of unfamiliar scents—sweet, salty, sour.

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  I turned to Daeyoung. “Show me where the rice fields are.”

  “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma,” he replied.

  When we arrived, I saw many struggling farmers—thin, shaking, weary.

  One old man caught my attention. His clothes were ragged, his hands rough with calluses, his voice trembling like leaves.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Kim Dalsu, Wangja Ma-ma,” he replied.

  I gazed out over the rice field. It was dry and stunted. The growth was poor.

  “Gather the farmers,” I ordered Kim Dalsu. “I will share what I know.”

  Once they assembled, I stood before them and began.

  “Land selection and leveling are key. Rice grows best in flat, low-lying areas. You must have reliable access to water. Proper leveling ensures water is distributed evenly, preventing floods or dry patches.”

  I paused and looked around.

  “Any questions?”

  Kim Dalsu raised his shaking hand.

  “Wangja Ma-ma… what should we farmers do—”

  “To maintain a flat, low-lying area,” I explained, “if you have a cow, attach a wooden or metal plow to it. Use large, flat wooden boards to smooth the muddy surface.”

  “How do we find such items?” asked one of the farmers.

  “I will help you build everything you need for the rice fields,” I said firmly. “The people here are starving. I must do everything in my power to keep you healthy and strong. You are the foundation of this kingdom.”

  The farmers lowered their heads and thanked me, tears slipping down their weathered faces.

  I turned back to kim dalsu. “Do you know any blacksmiths?”

  He straightened with pride. “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma,” he said with a big smile.

  “I’ll lead the way, Wangja-Mama!” Daeyoung replied without hesitation.

  As we made our way toward the blacksmith, we passed more people—thin, hunched, hungry. My heart ached with every step. The market thinned as we neared the edge of the district. The calls of merchants and laughter of children faded behind us, replaced by the crackle of fire and the faint, rhythmic ring of steel on steel.

  Daeyoung walked a step ahead, eyes scanning the path.

  “You’re sure he’s here?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma. Not many know about him.”

  We turned a corner and stopped in front of an old forge wedged between two stone buildings. The roof sagged, and smoke drifted lazily from a bent chimney. An old wooden sign hung crooked above the entrance—etched with a single character:

  Fire.

  “His name?” I asked.

  “Jang Hyukseon,” Daeyoung said quietly. “He only speaks when he wants to.”

  I pushed the door open. The heat struck me first—followed by the sound.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  The forge glowed like the heart of a beast. Steel lined the walls—blades, chisels, hammers, and tools I couldn’t even name. The air smelled of iron and smoke.

  At the center stood a man.

  Broad-backed. Slow-breathing. Covered in soot. His silver-streaked hair was tied in a knot, and when his eyes lifted, they were as sharp as the blades he forged.

  “Hey, old man Jang!” Daeyoung called out.

  Jang Hyukseon turned, startled. Then he saw me.

  “Wangja Ma-ma,” he said, quickly bowing low. “How may this old man be of service to you?”

  My gaze wandered around the forge, taking in the craftsmanship—the balance, the weight, the precision of every blade.

  “You can speak to me informally,” I said. “I’m here for something simple.”

  He looked up, surprised.

  “I want you to forge me a plow. Something sturdy. A tool that a cow can pull through the mud.”

  “…and forge me a fine spear,” I added. “Ten feet long. Fifteen inches thick. Take your time—” I paused, then smirked. “—but make it quick.”

  “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma,” Jang Hyukseon replied with a respectful bow.

  I turned to Daeyoung. “Do you know any carpenters?”

  “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma. I’ll lead the way.”

  We weaved through narrow alleys, past weavers, potters, and fishmongers. The sharp scent of brine mixed with fresh wood shavings. Eventually, I heard it—the sound of hammering. Not sharp and ringing like a blacksmith’s, but steady and warm. Rhythmic. Almost like a song being tapped into wood grain.

  We turned a corner and found him.

  A man in his late forties, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sandals worn thin. He crouched beneath a crumbling roof, tapping a beam into place with slow, deliberate care. Behind him stood a half-finished cart—perfectly balanced on uneven ground. A child sat nearby, cradling a plank in their lap, watching the man work as if it were magic.

  “That’s him,” Daeyoung whispered. “Han Seokjin.”

  The man looked up as we approached. His face was weathered, his eyes kind but sharp with focus.

  “Wangja Ma-ma,” he said, standing and bowing with rough, calloused hands. “Forgive my appearance. I wasn’t expecting royalty.”

  I stepped closer.

  “Royalty isn’t why I’m here,” I said quietly. “I need someone who can build things that last—not just walls… but hope.”

  He blinked, taken aback. Then a small smile formed on his lips.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Han Seokjin studied me for a moment—silently. Not with fear, but with understanding.

  I reached into my robe and pulled out a folded sketch I’d drawn the night before.

  “I need this,” I said. “A cow-pulled plow. Strong enough to cut through wet, uneven soil. Light enough that even the elderly can guide it.”

  He took the paper carefully, unfolding it with reverence.

  “Hm… dual handles, iron-plated edge… a rotating axle for balance…” he murmured, reading the drawing like scripture.

  His brow furrowed as he examined the angles, the joints, the depth.

  “I can build it,” he finally said. “But it’ll take a few days to find the right wood.”

  “I’ll have it delivered,” I replied.

  He looked up at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

  “You think of everything, don’t you, Wangja Ma-ma?”

  I met Han Seokjin’s gaze.

  “I have to,” I said. “My people deserve nothing less.”

  He smiled—slow and proud.

  “Then let this carpenter serve your dream,” he said. “I’ll craft it not just with my hands… but with purpose.”

  “Well then, old man Han Seokjin,” I smirked, turning away, “I’ll be seeing you around.”

  I faced my servants and Daeyoung with his four friends.

  “Today, we help the farmers—with our bare hands, and anything we can use.”

  We returned to the fields, sleeves rolled, feet in the mud. The farmers worked beside us, shoulder to shoulder. My servants joined in—reluctantly at first, but soon even Eunchae was on his knees, pulling weeds and hauling water.

  “Wangja Ma-ma, I’m tired,” Eunchae groaned dramatically, wiping his forehead.

  I raised a brow.

  “I guess that means you’re not eating today.”

  He froze. Then, as if possessed by the spirit of ten warriors, he sprang up with renewed fury.

  “I-I was only resting my eyes, Agissi!” he cried, shoveling faster than ever.

  As the afternoon sun dipped low, it was time for me to return.

  “Daeyoung,” I said, wiping my hands clean, “stay behind. Help old man Kim. I need to get back to the palace.”

  “Yes, Wangja Ma-ma,” he replied with a firm nod.

  With Baekho, Eunchae, and Sohwa beside me, we started our walk back.

  We were halfway through a narrow alley when Baekho suddenly stopped.

  His hand moved slowly to the hilt of his blade.

  “…Something is wrong.”