Brand of the Desert

The Iron Purge

The terrifying roar of swords clashing, sharp and distinct, and the merciless rain of arrows battering the outer garden’s lattice gate without respite finally began to ebb away, mercifully, at last. The dreadful tremors that had shaken the massive stone foundation blocks as a whole for hours slowly sank into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of a collapsed wooden beam somewhere in the main hall as it burned away. Inside the small, hidden shelter, a single low-burning oil lamp cast long, steady shadows over silk cushions and heavy fur blankets.

I lay flat on my back atop the thick fur bedding, my whole body trembling from sheer, heavy physical exhaustion.

The war was won, and the labor was over. Safe within the protective layers of clean cotton cloth against my bare chest was our newborn child—Yunseo. The baby was unbelievably small, breathing soft, rhythmic little breaths toward my skin. The devoted maids knelt close beside me on the bedding, still trembling at the hands, and, with their eyes filled with overwhelming, tearful relief, carefully and gently smoothed the rumpled panels of my crimson palace hanbok so they could warmly wrap the newborn baby.

At that moment, a sudden, heavy scraping sound rang out loudly along the stone wall behind the back wheel.

A solid stone bookshelf panel swung open wildly and massively, shoved roughly back into its original track, and through the gap a sharp, blinding golden afternoon sun poured straight into the chamber. The sudden brilliance stabbed my eyes, blurring my vision for a brief heartbeat, and against that light a huge, towering silhouette strode in over the threshold with urgent, heavy steps.

Hyeonjin burst in like a storm through the dust, every inch of him radiating raw, breath-stealing desperation. The emperor’s enormous, ornate golden ceremonial robe and heavy crown had already been cast aside without a trace. He stood before us in nothing but loose, baggy white undergarments, the soft cloth slashed and torn, and thickly smeared with battlefield gray ash and black dust stains kicked up from the burned-out main hall. His long black hair, disheveled and tangled, fell lightly over his handsome face, blocking the dazzling sunlight, and his frightened, sharp dark eyes frantically searched the dim shelter until they were firmly fixed, as if anchored, on the small bundle in my arms and then on my face.

The emperor’s cold, fearsome aura—the one that had just mercilessly crushed and brutally purged the entire corrupt faction in the outer court—had completely vanished without a trace in the span of a single heartbeat.

“Chaewon...” he breathed out, ragged and hoarse, his deep voice breaking lightly amid the vast waves of raw, uncontrollable, aching longing and primal homesickness that filled this narrow refuge.

He stepped deeper into my personal space and sank down, both knees collapsing fully onto the edge of the heavy fur blanket. His large hands, covered in dark ash, were trembling, and, utterly afraid of letting the dirty traces of the battlefield touch and hurt my skin, he did not dare touch me directly, letting his fingers hover anxiously in the air above my shoulder. His intense gaze was locked perfectly on the small bundle wrapped in clean cotton cloth, breathing softly, and his dark eyes widened further in complete, dazed, unblinking awe until his broad, solid chest heaved hard.

I slid one hand out from beneath the thick bedding and let out a low, soft laugh. Raising my hand, I carefully caught hold of his ash-stained wrist with my fingers, deliberately shaping my lips clearly so he could catch every syllable in the dark. I gently guided his warm palm downward and pressed it firmly against the side of the clean cotton cloth, so he could feel for himself the steady, solid thump of the heart beating inside his child.

“The counterattack formation you drew for me was carried out perfectly, without a single error, Your Majesty,” I whispered smoothly, cutting cleanly through his deep exhaustion. “The imperial bloodline is safe. Come here and hold your child.”

“It is the Imperial Princess,” one of the maids murmured softly with a smile of deep pride.

With his large fingers, he lifted the top edge of the soft cloth with the utmost care and reverence, then looked quietly down at the baby’s lovely face revealed under the wavering light of the oil lamp. The baby lay tightly bundled in his arms.

A tiny, delicate pair of dark eyes blinked fully up at him, and a tuft of black hair clung pleasantly to the baby’s small forehead. The baby let out a light, quiet first yawn between its lips, then reached out its tiny fingers beyond the cotton cloth and lightly brushed against the edge of his large thumb. The moment he looked down at those perfect, fragile features belonging to his newborn daughter, every trace of the commander’s cold composure collapsed completely and utterly.

“Princess...” he whispered, his deep voice breaking sadly amid a wave of fierce, overwhelming, protective rapture that shook his whole body. When he lifted his head, the tears he had been holding back finally spilled hotly down his cheeks, leaving clear, clean lines on his face smeared with battlefield ash. “Chaewon... we have a daughter. A tiny princess.”

He lowered his head even further and lazily buried his face among the baby’s soft cloth, his sturdy shoulders trembling with aching emotion as if he meant to guard his newborn daughter’s small heart within the deep, close hold of his own chest. His other hand, empty until then, reached out long and deliberate, and his long fingers found my hand on the thick fur blanket, closing firmly between my fingers to bind our hands into one. His grip was firm, solid, and the immovable shield of the empire. It was a steadfast seal of absolute, eternal devotion, cutting us completely off from the cruel ruins of the collapsed imperial palace outside the courtyard and sealing them beyond our own hidden refuge.