Chapter Text
Choi Jisu wished she didn’t wake up today.
But the palace never cared for wishes.
A soft knock tapped against the wooden door of her inner chamber.
“Gongju-mama,” Minjeong’s voice called gently. “It is morning.”
Jisu didn’t move. For a moment, she let herself pretend she hadn’t heard. Pretend she could stay in the warmth of her blankets, hidden from the world that demanded so much of her.
But the palace did not wait for anyone—not even its princess.
The door slid open with a quiet shhhk. Minjeong stepped inside, bowing her head before approaching the bedside. She carried the faint scent of fresh rice powder and morning air.
“Your tea is ready,” she said softly. “Shall I open the windows?”
Jisu forced her eyes open. “Yes.”
Minjeong crossed the room, sliding open the paper windows. Cool morning air drifted in, carrying the distant sounds of servants beginning their day—footsteps, hushed chatter, the clatter of pots from the kitchens.
Jisu pushed herself upright. Her hair fell in loose, tangled waves around her shoulders. Minjeong was already at her side, offering a warm cloth.
“You slept late again, Gongju-mama,” Minjeong murmured, her tone gentle.
“I know.” Jisu pressed the cloth to her face. “I… couldn’t rest.”
Minjeong didn’t ask why. She never did. She simply helped Jisu rise and guided her toward the dressing table.
Minjeong brushed out Jisu’s long black hair with slow, steady strokes. She tied it back with a simple ribbon for now; her formal hairpiece would come later.
Jisu stared at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror. Pale skin. Tired eyes. A princess who looked more like a ghost of herself than a living person.
“Your schedule today is full,” Minjeong said quietly as she fastened the ties of Jisu’s under-robe. “Jeoha has requested your presence at the morning assembly. There will also be your hanbok fitting for the Seja-mama’s upcoming coronation. And the Seja-mama will be presenting the new trade reports.”
Jisu’s expression tightened. “Of course he will.”
Minjeong paused. “You do not wish to attend?”
“I never wish to attend,” Jisu said, her voice flat. “But I must.”
Minjeong’s eyes softened. “You carry more than they see.”
Before Jisu could respond, the outer door slid open again. A Sanggung entered, bowing deeply.
“Gongju-mama, preparations for your attire for today are ready.”
Jisu straightened instinctively, her posture shifting into the rigid elegance expected of her.
Minjeong stepped back, her gaze meeting Jisu’s for a brief moment with a small smile that instantly reassured Jisu.
Jisu rose to her feet and followed the Sanggung.
Minjeong followed a step behind as the Sanggung guided Jisu into the adjoining dressing chamber. The room was quieter than it would be later in the afternoon—only a few lower-ranked gungnyeo were present, each bowing deeply as the princess entered.
Today’s hanbok lay neatly arranged on a long wooden table: a soft peach jeogori with delicate white lining, paired with a flowing cream chima. Elegant, but not ceremonial. Comfortable enough for a long day of obligations, yet refined enough to remind everyone she was royalty.
“Gongju-mama,” the Sanggung said, gesturing toward the garments, “this is your attire for the morning assembly and the day’s appointments.”
Jisu nodded, stepping forward so the attendants could begin dressing her. There were practiced hands lifting layers of fabric, smoothing seams, tying ribbons with quiet efficiency.
Minjeong stayed close, ready with whatever was needed: a sash, a hairpin, a steadying hand when Jisu swayed slightly from fatigue.
As the final layer settled over Jisu’s shoulders, Minjeong stepped in to adjust the collar, her touch gentle and precise.
“You look beautiful, Gongju-mama,” she murmured.
Jisu gave a faint, humorless smile. “Beauty is the easy part. Everything else is…of less ease.”
Minjeong’s gaze softened, but she didn’t respond. Comfort was a luxury they could only offer in silence.
A palace guard’s voice echoed from outside the chamber.
“Gongju-mama, the morning assembly will begin shortly.”
Jisu inhaled slowly, letting the breath steady her. Her expression shifted, the exhaustion tucked away, the mask of serene composure sliding into place with practiced ease.
Minjeong stepped forward one last time, smoothing a wrinkle from Jisu’s sleeve. “I will be right behind you,” she whispered.
Jisu nodded.
Then she turned toward the doors, her posture perfect, her face unreadable, her heart heavy beneath the silk.
Her day had begun.
~
Shin Ryujin wished she could sleep for five more minutes.
But the market never cared for wishes.
A loud thud shook the thin wooden wall beside her head—Yuna, no doubt, dropping something again.
“Unnie! We’re going to be late!” her sister’s voice rang through the small house, far too energetic for this hour.
Ryujin groaned into her pillow. “The sun isn’t even fully up yet…”
“It is up!” Yuna insisted. “You just don’t want to get up!”
Ryujin didn’t argue. Mostly because Yuna was right.
She forced herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Their shared room was dim, lit only by the soft morning light slipping through the paper window. The air smelled faintly of rice porridge and the dragon fruit they’d prepared the night before.
Her muscles ached from hauling crates at the stall yesterday. Her back cracked as she stretched. She was twenty‑four, but some mornings she felt twice that.
“Ryujin-unnie!” Yuna called again, this time from the kitchen. “I made breakfast!”
That got her moving.
She stumbled out of the room, feet cold against the wooden floor. Their home was small—two rooms, a kitchen, and a courtyard barely big enough for a water jar, but it was warm, lived‑in, and theirs.
Yuna stood at the stove, hair tied messily with a ribbon, stirring a pot of porridge. She turned with a bright smile.
“Good morning!”
Ryujin blinked at her. “How are you this cheerful this early in the morning ?”
“Because we have a lot to sell today,” Yuna said proudly. “And because Seokjin-oppa said in his letter that he might stop by before his shift!”
Ryujin snorted. “He always says that.”
“He means it!”
“He’s a royal guard, Yuna. He barely has time to breathe.”
Yuna pouted but didn’t argue.
Ryujin sat at the low table, pulling her hair into a loose braid. Her fingers worked quickly—she’d done this every morning since she was old enough to help at the stall. Yuna placed a bowl of porridge in front of her.
“Eat quickly,” she said. “We need to set up before the morning rush.”
Ryujin took a bite, savoring the warmth. “Did you check the fruit?”
“Already packed.”
“The scales?”
“In the basket.”
“The money pouch?”
Yuna froze. “...I’ll get it.”
Ryujin sighed, amused despite herself. “You’d be lost without me.”
Yuna stuck her tongue out before running off.
Ryujin finished her porridge, stood, and grabbed her outer robe. She stepped into the courtyard, breathing in the crisp morning air. The village was already waking—merchants calling to each other, children running past, the distant sound of a dog barking.
She simply tied her robe, adjusted the basket on her hip, and called out:
“Yuna! Let’s go!”
Yuna burst out of the house a moment later, nearly tripping over the threshold as she wrestled with a basket twice her size.
“I’m ready!” she announced proudly, as if she hadn’t almost face‑planted into the dirt.
Ryujin raised an eyebrow. “Careful. If you smoosh the fruit before we even get there, we’re eating it for lunch.”
Yuna huffed. “I’m being careful!”
“You’re being loud,” Ryujin corrected, amused.
They stepped out into the street together, the morning sun finally peeking over the rooftops. The village was fully awake now—vendors hauling carts, children chasing each other between stalls, the smell of grilling fish drifting from a nearby house.
It was chaotic. Loud. Alive.
Ryujin loved it.
They wove through the crowd, greeting familiar faces as they went.
“Morning, Ryujin!” an elderly woman called from her pottery stall, already shaping clay.
“Good morning, Halmeoni,” Ryujin replied with a small bow.
“Yuna! Did you crush the fruits again?” a butcher teased from behind a row of hanging cuts.
“I did NOT!” Yuna shouted back, cheeks puffing indignantly.
Ryujin snorted. “You almost did.”
“Unnie!”
They reached their usual spot—a shaded corner near the well, perfect for catching both foot traffic and gossip. Ryujin set down her basket and rolled her shoulders, already feeling the familiar pull of yesterday’s labor.
“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands once. “Let’s set up.”
Yuna immediately got to work, laying out the cloth for their display. Ryujin arranged the fruit with practiced precision, making sure that the brightest dragon fruits were in front, the ripest pears to the side, the smaller ones grouped together for cheaper bundles. She knew exactly how to make their stall look full, inviting, and worth stopping for.
Yuna hung their hand‑painted sign that read, “The Shin Sisters’ Sweet Fruits!! :)”. The sign was slightly crooked, but charming. Yuna stepped back proudly.
“There,” she said. “Perfect!”
Ryujin surveyed their stall. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t grand. But it was theirs. Built with their hands, their sweat, their stubbornness.
The market buzzed around them, alive with chatter and laughter and the clatter of wooden wheels. Ryujin breathed in the noise, the warmth, the sense of belonging and the feeling of the tension in her shoulders easing.
This was her world.
She nudged Yuna with her elbow and said, “Let’s make some money today.”
Yuna grinned, bright as the morning sun. “Let’s do it!”
And their morning truly began.