Yeonhwa's POV
Before chains. Before poison. Before the king's chamber and the storm of betrayal, there was only me: Yeonhwa, daughter of Min the potter and Hana the herbalist.
I was born beneath the flowering wisteria behind our home, a quiet place on the outskirts of Daseong village. Life was not grand, but it was full. My days were marked by the thud of my father's wheel shaping clay and the sweet, sharp scent of herbs strung up to dry by my mother.
We were not wealthy, but we had peace. And love.
From the time I was small, villagers would glance twice in my direction. At first, I didn't understand why. It wasn't until I was old enough to run errands alone that I started hearing the whispers.
"Too pretty for a village girl." "Her face will bring trouble."
I hated those whispers. I hated that they made me ashamed of something I hadn't chosen.
But I ignored them. I had chores to do, clay to knead, roots to grind. I loved sitting by my mother's side as she prepared her medicines, watching her work with such patience. She said I had a steady hand and a healer's spirit. My father said I had his stubbornness. I wore both traits with pride.
"Yeonhwa," my mother would say, stirring herbs into boiling water, "you must always listen before you speak. The body tells its story before the mouth does."
"And what if it lies?" I asked her once.
She smiled, brushing my hair back. "Then you listen harder."
Sometimes, I would watch my father throw clay on the wheel, shaping it with practiced ease.
"Steady hands, daughter," he'd call out without turning. "You'll never make a good pot if your heart is jittery."
"I'm not jittery!" I'd laugh.
"Tell that to the bowl you cracked last week."
Those days were golden. Small joys filled our lives. The market bustle on festival days, the scent of rain on stone, the way my father hummed when glazing pots. I knew the rhythm of that life like the back of my hand.
But things began to change that spring.
My mother's cough came more often, harsher, and left her breathless. She brushed it off at first, saying it was just the changing weather. But I noticed her movements slowing, her hands trembling when she picked up her mixing bowls.
One afternoon, as I ground deer root into powder, I asked her, "Is it worse today?"
She paused, then nodded slowly. "A little."
"Should I fetch Healer Woo from the temple?"
She shook her head. "No. I know my herbs. I'll be fine."
But I could see the shadow in her eyes. And I could feel the weight in the air between us.
That spring, I began taking on more. I sold the ointments at the market. I handled deliveries. I helped my father load heavy clay jugs and fire the kiln. I did not complain. I was proud to ease their burden.
"Yeonhwa," my father said one morning as we shaped new bowls together, "your hands are no longer clumsy. You've grown into them."
I glanced up. "Maybe they've just grown tired."
He chuckled. "Then they'll be wise hands. Like your mother's."
Later that night, as we ate, I asked my mother softly, "Will you get better before the Lotus Festival?"
She hesitated. "Perhaps not," she said, then took my hand. "But that's alright. You'll light a lantern for me, won't you?"
"I'll light ten," I whispered.
The next morning, I walked alone to the riverbank to gather sweet flag roots. I stood there for a while, looking at the water. A breeze caught the ends of my braid, and for a moment, I felt like the wind was trying to tell me something. A warning. A beginning.
I didn't know it, but something was already stirring beyond the village walls.
That night, I dreamt of wisteria petals falling like snow. In the dream, my parents stood far away, their hands outstretched, but I could never reach them. I woke with my heart pounding.
I thought those days would stretch endlessly before me…simple, small, safe.
But fate, as my grandmother used to say, comes quietly and never alone.
And from that moment, everything changed.