The palace woke as it always did. Curtains were drawn back at dawn. Incense burned in slow, obedient lines. Courtiers gathered in measured silence, their robes whispering softly against polished stone floors that had seen centuries of kings rise and fall. Yet something was wrong. The throne room felt… hollow. At the center of the vast hall stood the throne of Joseon golden, carved with dragons and clouds, elevated above all men. It gleamed under the morning light filtering through high latticed windows.

And it was empty. No figure sat there. No commanding presence. No sharp, watchful eyes that once silenced the room with a single glance. Ministers lined up in their usual order, bowing deeply toward the throne out of habit, their foreheads nearly touching the cold floor. The ritual was perfect—too perfect—like a performance repeated one time too many times. When they rose, their eyes lingered.