THE KING WHO COULD NOT TASTE
471 Words
Ara discovered three things within her first week in the palace.
First, she was no longer in her own time. The language, the clothes, the hierarchy carved into every bow and breath… this was Joseon. Not a film set. Not a dream. A living, rigid, dangerous era where one wrong word could cost her head.
Second, escape was impossible. She had searched the royal gardens for the strange flash of light that had swallowed her whole. She had traced the stone walls, studied the guards, counted the watch rotations. Every gate led to soldiers. Every corridor led back to the throne. The palace was not merely a residence.
It was a fortress.
And third, the king could not taste food.
That truth reached her in whispers among the kitchen maids.
“A curse,” one muttered.
“Since Her Majesty died,” another said, glancing nervously toward the courtyard.
After the queen’s death, His Majesty had lost his sense of taste. Not gradually. Not medically. As if grief had burned his senses to ash. Physicians were summoned. Shamans prayed. Exotic ingredients were imported. Nothing changed.
Meals became ceremony.
He ate because a king must eat.
He swallowed because a body must survive.
But there was no pleasure. No reaction. No hunger.
Food had become meaningless.
And when Ara heard that, something deep within her stirred.
She had built her life around flavor. Around the way heat bloomed at the back of the tongue. Around the way salt could sharpen memory and sweetness could soften sorrow. She had once believed food could save her failing restaurant. Maybe… it could save a king.
She requested an audience.
The ministers protested loudly. She was an outsider. A possible witch. A political liability.
The king allowed it anyway.
The royal dining chamber was vast and hushed when she entered. Silk screens painted with cranes lined the walls. Incense drifted lazily in the air.
She knelt before him.
King Lee Hwan regarded her with detached curiosity, his posture flawless, his expression carved from restraint.
“I can restore your appetite,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her pulse.
Silence.
A court official inhaled sharply.
The king leaned slightly forward, studying her as one might examine an unusual artifact.
“You?” he murmured. “The strange woman who fell from the sky?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened faintly. Not anger. Interest.
“And if you fail?”
Ara lifted her gaze fully to his dark, unreadable eyes that had not sparkled with pleasure in years.
“If I fail,” she said, “then you may execute me.”
The room froze. Even the incense smoke seemed to still.
A long moment passed.
Then, slowly, the king smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
But with unmistakable intrigue.
“Very well.”
- Writer
