Chin-sun Pov:

I had always lived quietly.

As a child, I often sat by the latticed windows of the estate, watching the petals fall from the ancient cherry trees beyond the walls. While other noble daughters attended lavish banquets and ceremonies, my world was made of silk curtains, medicine bowls, and whispered reassurances.

It wasn't because I wasn’t wanted. My parents—the Duke and Duchess—cherished me in their own quiet ways. Yet sickness clung to me like an invisible chain, pulling me back each time I tried to step forward. My voice never came as it should have. Words stayed trapped behind my lips, even when my heart wished to shout or sing.

And then, there was Hyjung-Hee.

The daughter adopted into our family, born from a lesser house fallen to ruin, Hyjung-Hee was everything society praised: vibrant, talkative, ambitious. Even though I rarely set foot beyond our gates, even though I never stood in grand halls or paraded through festivals, Hyjung-Hee always sought to outshine me.

When I embroidered simple patterns in the sewing hall, she stitched elaborate dragons.

When I practiced calligraphy quietly in the mornings, she invited scholars to watch her ink bloom on paper.

When I stayed curled in bed with fever, she paraded through the corridors in new gowns, laughing loudly.

I never understood her.

I never wished to compete.

There was no need.

Yet it was never enough for her. Somehow, my existence alone was a thorn in her side.

The early spring wind stirred the curtains gently now, bringing the scent of plum blossoms into my private chambers. I shifted slightly, my hand resting against the swell of my belly. Seven months now. Each movement of the child inside me was like a fragile whisper of life against my palm.

There was a soft knock against the wooden frame. Before I could respond, Gyung-Hui stepped inside.

"Chin-sun," he murmured warmly. He approached carefully, his dark blue robe trailing on the polished floor, a steaming cup cradled between his hands. "I thought you might like some tea."

I nodded slowly, offering a faint smile.

He set the cup carefully beside me and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs in a casual, familiar way. We sat together in comfortable silence for a long while. He didn’t mind when I didn’t speak. That, once, had been why I believed him to be kind.

"You look tired today," Gyung-Hui said after a moment, glancing at my lowered eyes. "Has the little one been keeping you awake again?"

I shook my head softly, pressing my hand against my belly. The baby had been restless last night, but I had grown used to the discomfort. It was the whispering...the tension that had filled the estate these past few days, that gnawed at my peace.

Gyung-Hui reached out hesitantly and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. His fingers were warm, careful.

"Don't worry yourself," he whispered. "Whatever happens...I’ll be by your side."

I wanted to believe him.

Before I could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. My chamber doors slid open again, and Father—the Duke— entered, a scroll in hand, his face grave.

He paused, his eyes moving from me to Gyung-Hui, then back again.

"We have received a royal decree," Father said solemnly. "A proposal."

Gyung-Hui stiffened beside me.

The Duke unfurled the scroll slowly, the crimson seal of the imperial court glinting at the top. His voice was steady, but I could sense the ripple of emotion beneath his noble mask.

"By the command of His Imperial Majesty," he read aloud, "House Yi is honored with a proposal for the hand of Lady Hyjung-Hee, to be wed to His Majesty, Emperor Kang-Dae."

I felt my breath hitch.

The room seemed to hold its breath along with me.

Across from me, Gyung-Hui's expression became unreadable.

The Emperor himself...offering marriage to our family. To my sister.

Despite everything—despite the sharp memories of Hyjung-Hee’s spite, despite the loneliness she had carved into my childhood—I was happy for her.

Truly.

A slow, genuine smile curved my lips. I lifted my hand and placed it gently against my heart, a silent gesture of joy.

Father’s face softened at the sight, a rare warmth touching his stern features.

Hyjung-Hee, who must have been waiting outside the hall for the announcement, swept into the room moments later. She was radiant in a sea-green robe embroidered with cranes, her cheeks flushed with triumph.

She bowed theatrically before Father, and then, quite deliberately, turned her head to look directly at me.

Her lips curved into a small, victorious smile.

I smiled back, my eyes soft.

I meant it.

I had no envy in my heart.

If anything, I prayed silently—for her to find happiness, for her to be embraced by someone strong enough to match her spirit.

Hyjung-Hee's gaze flickered uncertainly, as if my reaction confused her.

As if she had expected...something different.

Gyung-Hui rose to his feet beside me, his hands tightening into fists at his side. I could feel the tension crackling from him like a brewing storm.

"Congratulations," he said stiffly, bowing toward Hyjung-Hee. "You honor House Yi."

Hyjung-Hee laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

"I have always known I was destined for greatness," she said sweetly. "It was simply a matter of time."

Father said nothing. He simply nodded and turned to leave the room, the decree still clutched tightly in his hand.

Once he was gone, and Hyjung-Hee had flounced away to spread the news through the household, Gyung-Hui sat back down beside me heavily, exhaling through gritted teeth.

He reached for my hand, gripping it tightly.

"You are...too kind," he said in a low voice. "Too kind for people like them."

I squeezed his fingers gently, offering him the only comfort I could.

And yet, somewhere deep in my heart, an unease stirred.

A fragile thread, pulling tight.

A whisper of fate curling in the air, just beyond reach.

The petals of the silent blossom—my life—were about to be shaken loose by a storm I could not yet see.

And for the first time in a long while,

I wondered if I was strong enough to withstand it.

The rest of the day passed in a delicate flurry of preparations.

Silk banners bearing our family crest were hung along the courtyard walls, and the best porcelain was taken down from the high shelves, carefully polished by trembling servants. Perfumed oils were poured into golden basins, their sweet scent curling through the estate like a living thing.

The engagement banquet to celebrate Hyjung-Hee’s upcoming marriage would be held here, under the watchful eyes of every noble family in the capital.

And though I would not be presented publicly, Father insisted that I attend the ceremony quietly, seated behind a gauzy silk screen.

"You must be present," he said softly that afternoon, standing beside my bedside as the sun dipped lower in the sky. "Even if unseen."

I nodded, understanding. It was an honor for House Yi, after all.

And I... I wanted to be there. Even if my role was small, even if my voice could not be heard.

A soft knock came at the door, and a servant stepped inside, bowing low.

"My Lady...the royal physician has arrived."

Father stepped aside, and into the room came a man clad in dark robes, his hair streaked with silver, his manner precise and respectful. The royal physician, a trusted healer from the palace itself.

I tried to sit up straighter, but the weight of my belly and the dull ache in my lower back made me slow. Gyung-Hui, who lingered nearby, moved as if to help me, but I waved him off gently with a small lift of my hand.

I could manage this.

The physician bowed to me deeply.

"My Lady," he said. "Forgive my intrusion. I come only to ensure your health and that of the child before the banquet."

He kneeled beside my bedding with the grace of one used to attending royals, carefully placing a polished lacquer box beside him. Inside, he revealed delicate instruments, herbs, and a folded sheet of thin paper for recording.

Gently, respectfully, he placed two fingers against the inside of my wrist.

My pulse fluttered like the wing of a sparrow beneath his touch.

He said nothing for a long moment, only listened. His brow furrowed slightly.

He shifted his fingers to another point, then sat back thoughtfully.

Finally, he spoke in a low voice meant only for me.

"Your pulse is weaker than it should be, My Lady. You are carrying a great burden in your condition."

I nodded slowly.

I had known this. Every day, I could feel my strength fading little by little, even as the life inside me grew stronger.

The physician pressed a hand lightly against my swollen belly through the layers of my Hanbok. After a moment, a tiny kick stirred beneath his palm.

A rare smile touched the old man's lips.

"The child is healthy," he said. "Very spirited."

Relief washed over me, so fierce and sudden that tears blurred my vision.

I lifted a sleeve to dab them away, embarrassed.

The physician sat back on his heels and folded his hands together.

"You must avoid exertion," he said kindly. "You must rest as much as possible. Stress will only endanger both you and the child."

I bowed my head slightly in understanding.

He stood, bowing once again.

"I shall prepare tonics to strengthen you. They will be delivered before nightfall."

With that, he departed quietly, leaving behind a fragrant trail of ginseng and sandalwood.

As the door slid shut behind him, Gyung-Hui approached once more. He crouched beside me, his brows knit with concern.

"You must be careful," he murmured. "Promise me, Chin-sun. Promise me you will stay safe."

I looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and squeezed his hand gently.

It was not a promise, not really.

But it was all I could give.

Later that evening, I was dressed in a new Hanbok for the banquet—a shimmering garment of pale lilac and ivory, the color of distant spring clouds. The layers of fabric hid my swollen form, but even so, I moved carefully, cradling my belly instinctively with one hand as I was led to the screen where I would sit, unseen but present.

Beyond the silk veil, the estate glittered with light and laughter. Nobles in their finest robes arrived, their voices carrying like the hum of distant bees. I caught glimpses of bright sashes, jeweled hairpieces, and silver-tipped fans fluttering in the breeze.

Hyjung-Hee was at the center of it all, radiant in her engagement finery—a brilliant red Hanbok embroidered with golden phoenixes, her hair piled high with jeweled pins. She laughed sweetly at every compliment, basking in the admiration.

I watched her with a quiet, bittersweet smile.

She was happy.

And that, I told myself, was enough.

The Emperor himself was not present tonight.

Tradition dictated he would only meet his betrothed officially at a later ceremony.

But already, the court gossips whispered, the ministers speculated, and the wheels of fate turned just beyond my reach.

I shifted slightly on my cushion, feeling the soft, persistent flutter of my daughter beneath my ribs. I rubbed my hand soothingly over her, offering silent comfort.

"Be strong," I whispered in my heart.

"For whatever comes next..."

The night deepened.

The blossoms swirled in the courtyard.

And the silent blossom within me braced for the coming storm.

The music of the court musicians floated like mist through the grand courtyard, soft flutes and zithers painting the air with delicate sound. Lanterns swayed from the rafters, casting pools of golden light onto the polished floors.

Hidden behind the soft silk screen, I sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap, the folds of my Hanbok pooling around me like a sea of pale petals.

Gyung-Hui slipped into the seat beside me, moving with a grace born of careful practice. He wore a robe of deep sapphire, embroidered with faint silver lines that caught the lantern light when he moved.

He leaned close, his sleeve brushing mine, and from the folds of his garment, he produced a small lacquered tray. Upon it sat a simple white porcelain cup, steam rising in lazy wisps.

"The servants said you must take your medicine," he whispered, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "The physician left strict instructions."

I blinked slowly, reaching for the cup with both hands. But Gyung-Hui gently intercepted me.

"Let me," he said with a small, almost sheepish smile.

He lifted the cup carefully, tilting it to my lips with patient hands.

The liquid was bitter, thick with the strong taste of ginseng and ground herbs. I winced slightly at the flavor, but swallowed obediently, grateful for the warmth that bloomed in my chest afterward.

Gyung-Hui chuckled under his breath.

"You have always hated bitter things," he said fondly. "I remember when you were young—you used to sneak sweets into the medicinal tonics when no one was looking."

I offered him a small smile, my eyes crinkling.

He remembered such small things.

He set the empty cup aside and carefully tucked a small embroidered shawl around my shoulders. Despite the heavy layers of my Hanbok, a lingering chill gnawed at my skin, as if winter refused to fully loosen its grip.

Outside the screen, the banquet continued. I heard the clink of cups raised in toast, the rustle of silk skirts sweeping across the floor, the laughter of noble ladies behind fluttering fans.

But in my little hidden corner of the world, there was only Gyung-Hui and the steady, comforting presence of the life growing inside me.

Later that evening, after the final courses had been served and the last blessings had been spoken, the house began to settle into the peaceful hush that always followed a grand event.

Servants moved like shadows, extinguishing lanterns one by one, until only the soft glow of the hearth remained in my private chambers.

I lay reclined against a pile of silk cushions, my hair unpinned and flowing around me like a river of pale gold. The weight of the night pressed against my body, exhaustion a constant whisper at the edge of my thoughts.

Gyung-Hui sat cross-legged beside me, silent for a long time.

Then, without a word, he shifted closer, his head bowing until it rested gently against the curve of my swollen belly.

His hand moved tenderly to cradle my side, careful not to press too hard.

For a moment, there was only stillness.

Only the sound of the crackling hearth and the distant chirping of spring insects beyond the open window.

Then, his voice—a whisper so soft it seemed woven into the very air—spoke:

"Little one... can you hear me?"

I watched, my heart tightening, as Gyung-Hui closed his eyes, a small, bittersweet smile touching his lips.

"You must know," he murmured, "your mother is the kindest, gentlest soul in this empire. She carries you with a strength I can hardly comprehend."

His voice trembled slightly, and he pressed his forehead lightly against my belly as if seeking forgiveness—or courage.

"You must grow strong," he whispered. "Stronger than I. Strong enough to protect her when I cannot."

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the sight of him, the warm gold of the room.

I bit my lip, holding back a sob that wanted to break free.

I reached out and gently threaded my fingers through his hair, a silent gesture of comfort.

Gyung-Hui shifted slightly to look up at me, his eyes glimmering with something raw and vulnerable.

"If I could... I would give you the world," he said. "But even if I cannot, I swear I will do everything to keep you both safe."

I smiled weakly and brushed my thumb across his cheek, my heart heavy and full all at once.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I believed him.

Believed that somehow, this fragile peace could last.

Believed that perhaps, in the quiet spaces between sorrow and duty, there was still room for hope.

Outside, a soft breeze stirred the plum blossoms, sending a handful of pale petals dancing across the windowsill like blessings from the heavens.

I leaned my head back against the cushions, my hand cradling my belly, feeling the tiny, rhythmic kicks of life beneath my palm.

For tonight, at least, we were safe.

For tonight, the silent blossom still bloomed.

The banquet had ended in a glorious blur of laughter and silk.

I should have been satisfied.

I should have been ecstatic.

I wore the most brilliant Hanbok, I stood at the center of every gaze, and the entire nobility of the empire had whispered my name with reverence.

The emperor's bride.

The future Empress.

But no matter how many compliments I drank in, no matter how many smiles I returned, I could still feel it.

Her.

That silent shadow behind the silk screen.

That sickly, fragile thing who didn’t even need to try, didn’t even need to open her mouth to steal the sympathy of everyone around her.

Chin-sun.

Even hidden, even nearly forgotten, she always stole the softest gazes, the deepest concerns.

Even without a voice, she spoke louder than I ever could.

I ground my teeth silently as I swept down the candlelit halls toward the private garden behind the estate, my skirts hissing against the floor like snakes.

The night air was cool, the scent of plum blossoms sharp and sweet.

The garden, once our childhood sanctuary, now felt too small to contain the storm gathering in my chest.

I found her there—Eunji, the emperor’s precious little sister—seated beneath the gnarled old willow tree, trailing her fingers through the moonlit pond.

She looked up at me with a soft, curious smile.

"Lady Hyjung-Hee," she greeted, her voice gentle and familiar. "Congratulations again. Your house must be so proud."

I forced a smile across my face, bowing slightly.

"Thank you, Princess."

We were supposed to be allies now.

Family.

Eunji patted the bench beside her.

"Sit with me. It’s such a beautiful night. I imagine your heart must be so full right now."

I sat, smoothing my skirts around me carefully.

For a few moments, we simply watched the water ripple, disturbed only by the occasional falling petal.

And yet, even as Eunji spoke about the court, about the upcoming ceremonies, I heard something else in her tone.

Pity.

The same pity Chin-sun received without effort.

The same poisoned sweetness.

I felt it claw at my gut like a living thing.

Finally, Eunji tilted her head slightly, her innocent words cutting sharper than any blade.

"You know... I once heard the Duke speak of his real daughter. Lady Chin-sun. They say she is a treasure of quiet strength. Perhaps, in another life, she would have been Empress."

My hands clenched in my lap, hidden beneath the folds of my gown.

My nails bit into my palms.

Still Chin-sun.

Always Chin-sun.

Even here, even now, on the night meant to be mine.

I smiled—tight, brittle.

"Chin-sun... is delicate," I said, voice trembling with false sweetness.

"And yet...she is so loved."

Eunji nodded, oblivious to the rage blooming behind my lashes.

"It’s a tragedy she’s too frail to stand at court. I would have liked to have a sister like her."

Something inside me snapped.

A thin, sharp crack, like porcelain shattering under pressure.

Before I could think, before I could reason, I was moving.

My hand lashed out, fingers curling cruelly into Eunji’s hair, wrenching her head back.

The princess gasped in shock, her hands flailing to defend herself.

"You think she's better than me?" I hissed, the words hot and poisonous against the cold night air. "You think that broken, sickly ghost should rule over me?"

Eunji struggled, crying out, but I pressed harder, shoving her down against the bench.

Her ornate hairpins clattered to the ground, forgotten among the grass.

"You look at her with those eyes," I snarled, shaking her. "Just like all of them. Just like him!"

I could end it.

Right here.

Right now.

One twist of the wrist.

One hard push.

And no one would ever look past me again.

But fear lanced through me—cold and sharp.

No.

Not here. Not now.

Too risky.

I released her roughly, and she tumbled to the ground with a broken sob, clutching at her disheveled hair.

I stood over her, breathing hard, my heart pounding loud in my ears.

Cursing Chin-sun's name internally with every ragged breath.

"You will regret ever comparing me to her," I spat.

Without waiting for a reply, I turned on my heel and fled into the shadows, the heavy folds of my gown whispering in the darkness behind me.

I didn't return to the banquet.

I didn’t return to my room.

I hid.

Deep within the twisting servant corridors of the estate, I found a forgotten storeroom and pressed myself against the cold stone walls, my breath hitching in my throat.

Think.

Think.

The Princess had seen my face.

She would tell her brother.

The Emperor would destroy me.

Everything I worked for—gone.

Unless...

Unless I found a way to shift the blame.

To weave a new story.

A new villain.

And who better than Chin-sun?

Already sickly.

Already silent.

Already hidden away from the eyes of court.

It would be so easy.

So perfect.

After all, what was another weight upon her frail shoulders?

She was born to bear sorrow.

Born to be pitied.

Born to lose.

A slow, trembling smile curved my lips.

Yes.

Yes, it could work.

But I had to be careful.

The right timing.

The right whispers.

The right evidence.

I pressed a hand to my racing heart, steadying myself.

This would not be the end of Hyjung-Hee.

This would be my true beginning.

Somewhere above, the moon slipped behind the clouds, plunging the estate into deeper darkness.

And in the silence, I began to weave my web.

The palace bells had barely finished chiming the midnight hour when the entire estate erupted into a storm of confusion.

Word of the attack on Princess Eunji traveled faster than wildfire.

Injured though she was, the princess had managed to reach her guards—her torn hair and tear-streaked face speaking volumes before she even uttered a word. The imperial court was already buzzing before dawn, and the Duke’s household, once so careful, so dignified, stood trembling on the edge of ruin.

I was summoned to the family hall before the sun could rise.

Dragged from my hiding place by cold, merciless hands.

I knelt now on the hard stone floor, my skirts pooling messily around me, my palms pressed flat against the ground in a mockery of obedience.

Before me, seated high upon the judgment platform, was Father—the Duke himself.

His face, usually stern but controlled, was a mask of barely contained rage.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrests of his chair.

Beside him stood Commander Jae-hyun, clad in his dark military uniform, the ceremonial punishment stick clutched in his gloved hands.

He looked down at me with cold, blistering contempt, as if I were something filthy crawling at his feet.

The other two brothers—silent, grim—stood watch at the edges of the room, closing me in.

There was no escape.

Not now.

"You will explain yourself," the Duke growled, his voice echoing through the empty hall.

"You will tell us who attacked the Princess. Who dared bring shame upon this house?"

The words were heavy, suffocating.

Every breath felt like swallowing knives.

I bowed lower, pressing my forehead against the floor, hiding the flicker of hatred in my eyes.

Think.

Think.

A trembling breath left my lips.

"I..."

I made my voice small, trembling, pathetic.

"I did not mean to see it happen. I did not want it to happen. But I... I saw it with my own eyes."

Father leaned forward sharply.

"Who?" he barked.

A single heartbeat.

A single breath.

Then I said it.

The lie that would change everything.

"Lady Chin-sun," I whispered. "She...she grew jealous of the Princess. Of my engagement to His Majesty. She..."

I forced a sob into my voice.

"She could not bear it. She attacked the Princess herself. I tried to stop her, but she was too overcome with envy."

The words slipped from my tongue like poison from a snake’s fang.

For a moment, the hall was utterly silent.

Father's eyes widened—first in shock, then in cold disbelief.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Jae-hyun moved first.

Slowly, deliberately.

He approached the platform steps, the punishment stick clutched tightly in his hands, his boots striking the floor with deliberate weight.

He stopped directly in front of me.

And without a word, he brought the stick down against the back of my legs with a sickening crack.

Pain exploded through my body.

I gasped sharply, my hands scrabbling uselessly against the cold stone, tears instantly springing to my eyes.

But I did not cry out.

I dared not.

Another strike.

Another jolt of white-hot pain.

Jae-hyun’s face was carved from ice—expressionless but for the storm raging behind his eyes.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous.

"You filthy snake," he said, every word heavy with contempt.

"You think we would believe that Chin-sun—our Chin-sun—would raise a hand against anyone?"

He struck again, this time against my calves, and my body curled instinctively, trying to shield itself.

"You dare spit your filth at her name?"

My teeth ground together as I fought to stay upright, to stay composed, even as agony burned through my limbs.

The Duke raised a hand finally, halting Jae-hyun.

The commander lowered the punishment stick, but his disgust did not fade.

He turned his back on me as if I were beneath even his hatred.

"You are lucky Father is merciful," he said coldly.

"Were it left to me, you would not leave this hall walking."

Father's voice cut through the silence.

"Until the matter is decided," he commanded, "you will remain confined. And if you are lying—"

His voice darkened.

"—you will pray the Emperor shows more mercy than I will."

My body trembled as the guards seized my arms roughly, dragging me to my feet.

Pain lanced through every step, but I kept my head bowed, hiding the furious, festering hatred inside me.

Chin-sun.

Chin-sun.

Always Chin-sun.

But not for much longer.

No.

This time, her silence would be her undoing.

As they hauled me away, the first rays of dawn broke across the eastern sky, spilling cold gold over the estate.

And in the dim, trembling light, I smiled.

The game had only just begun.

The guards confined me to a secluded wing of the estate, but they were fools if they thought walls could contain ambition.

Pain throbbed through my legs where Jae-hyun's punishment had landed, but I bore it silently, cradling my wounded pride like a dying ember, feeding it, nursing it back into a roaring flame.

I will not be discarded. I will not be forgotten.

The plan needed more than words now.

It needed proof.

It needed something tangible the court could sink its fangs into.

And so, with trembling fingers but a razor-sharp mind, I summoned one of the lesser house maids—the ones greedy for coin and easily silenced.

I paid her with a pouch of jade trinkets stolen from the estate’s storeroom, the last of my secret treasures, and whispered instructions into her ear.

By the time the moon rose again, the first piece was in place.

The meeting with Prime Minister Dae-Daeun took place under the veil of the third watch of the night, deep within the estate’s side gardens, where only the rustle of bamboo and the chirp of distant night crickets kept company.

The Prime Minister arrived cloaked and hooded, his face half-hidden in the shadows, but I knew that gait, that prideful tilt of the chin.

The man who had long resented the Duke's influence.

The man who would benefit most from shaking the court’s loyalties.

He did not greet me warmly.

Merely raised an impatient hand.

"You requested an audience," he said, voice low. "It had better be worth the risk."

I bowed deeply, hiding the venomous smile curling inside me.

"I come bearing evidence, my lord," I said sweetly.

"Evidence the Emperor himself will not be able to ignore."

From within my sleeve, I produced a carefully folded bundle:

Torn pieces of a blood-stained sash, identical to the one Chin-sun often wore.

A small, deliberate trail of poisoned powder I had smeared onto the hem of the Princess's sleeve, planted in Chin-sun’s private quarters hours ago.

And finally, forged letters, written in shaky, unsteady script, falsely hinting at Chin-sun's jealousy toward the Imperial House—fabricated confessions, so elegantly desperate that they could pass for a sick, fevered mind.

The Prime Minister took the bundle without a word.

His gloved fingers unwrapped each piece, his sharp eyes flickering with interest.

"You crafted this?" he asked after a moment, lifting one of the forged letters toward the moonlight to examine the ink.

"I simply discovered it," I said humbly, bowing my head again.

"As a loyal daughter of House Yi, I could not bear to see our family fall into disgrace. I act only in the best interests of the Empire."

A lie wrapped in the finest silk.

And he knew it.

But greed was thicker than principle, and ambition spoke louder than honor.

Prime Minister Dae-Daeun tucked the bundle back into his sleeve with a satisfied grunt.

"The Emperor is restless," he muttered. "He seeks any excuse to exert his full authority over the noble houses. A scandal among the Dukes will serve him well. And if you succeed..."

He let the thought hang in the air like bait.

Power.

Position.

Freedom from the shackles of my past.

I bowed again, hiding my triumphant smirk.

"I ask only for the chance to serve the Empire more faithfully," I said.

"And if it is within my lord’s mercy...a place where I may yet stand beside the Emperor, unmarred by shame."

Dae-Daeun chuckled darkly under his breath.

"You are as ruthless as you are beautiful, girl," he said.

"Very well. Your evidence will find its way to the court. The trial will be swift. The verdict inevitable."

He turned without another word, his dark figure swallowed by the twisting bamboo.

I stood there for a long time after he vanished, letting the cool night air wash over my burning skin.

Victory tasted cold and bitter on my tongue.

But it was victory all the same.

Soon, Chin-sun’s name would be dragged through the mud she had always been too delicate to tread upon.

Soon, her silent world would crumble around her.

And from the ashes, I would rise.

Kang-Dae Pov:

The court matters dragged on longer than expected.

Kang-Dae sat upon the golden throne, the heavy silk of his black imperial robes pooling around him, his long hair neatly bound with a silver crown at the top of his head. The ministers bowed low before him, presenting grievances and petty disputes, each one more tiresome than the last.

He listened in silence, his sharp eyes cutting through each speaker like blades.

His face, unreadable. His demeanor, still as a mountain.

But beneath the stillness, impatience stirred.

I should not be here dealing with these fools, he thought coldly.

Tonight should have been spent preparing for the new alliance with House Yi.

Marrying into the Duke’s family would secure another branch of loyalty under the Imperial Banner. That was all this was to him.

A calculated move on a blood-soaked chessboard.

He had little interest in the girl they had promised him.

Hyjung-Hee.

A name without meaning.

A face he barely recalled, seen only briefly from afar.

He valued loyalty and strength.

Whether she possessed either remained to be seen.

A minor noble was currently droning on about a border dispute when the great hall’s side doors burst open without warning.

The Prime Minister flinched visibly.

Several ministers gasped aloud.

Only Kang-Dae remained perfectly still, though a flicker of irritation crossed his mind.

To interrupt court proceedings without permission...someone’s head would roll for this.

A guard in full black armor stormed across the polished floor, falling to one knee before the Emperor’s dais.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty!" the guard cried, his forehead pressed hard to the marble.

"But urgent news...grave news...the Princess—"

Kang-Dae’s body went still, his fingers flexing once on the gilded armrest.

He didn’t need to hear another word.

The shift in the guard’s voice.

The naked fear in the court’s silence.

Something had happened to Eunji.

The room around him faded into meaningless shadows.

"Speak," Kang-Dae ordered, his voice low and deadly.

The guard swallowed hard, his helmet trembling slightly as he lifted his head just enough to report.

"The Princess was attacked, Your Majesty. Within House Yi’s estate."

Gasps echoed through the court like ripples across still water.

"She was found injured, disheveled, but alive. She was able to reach her guards."

A ringing filled Kang-Dae’s ears, louder than the court's whispers, louder than the crackling of the great torches.

He rose slowly, the heavy sleeves of his robe falling like storm clouds around him.

"Where is she now?" he demanded.

"At the palace infirmary, Sire. Under the care of the royal physicians. Her wounds are...superficial."

Superficial.

The word did not calm the fire now roaring through Kang-Dae’s blood.

It only fanned it higher.

Someone had dared touch her.

Someone had dared harm the only family he truly cherished—the fragile light that kept the colder parts of his soul from consuming him entirely.

He turned to the Prime Minister sharply.

"Summon the full Council," Kang-Dae said.

"Seal the estate of House Yi. No one enters. No one leaves."

Dae-Daeun bowed deeply, his face carefully blank, but a glint—something too quick to catch fully—flashed in his eyes.

Kang-Dae did not trust him.

Kang-Dae trusted almost no one.

His voice dropped to a growl.

"And find me the one responsible. Now."

The ministers bowed hastily, scattering like frightened birds.

Kang-Dae descended the dais himself, black boots striking hard against the marble floor, each step a promise of ruin.

He did not wait for ceremony.

He did not wait for permission.

He would see Eunji with his own eyes.

He would hear the truth from her own lips.

And whoever dared raise a hand against her—be it noble or servant, woman or man, he would rip their world apart piece by piece.

As he strode down the gilded corridors toward the palace infirmary, the memories pressed against him.

Eunji as a small child, following him around the gardens, tugging at his sleeve for stories.

Eunji laughing, slipping flowers into his armor when he prepared for battle.

Eunji crying, clutching him the night their mother died, her tiny hands fisting in his robes, as if he alone could keep the world from crumbling.

She was all he had left of those softer days.

He had crushed enemies, buried traitors, razed entire clans for lesser offenses.

For her, for her smile, he had tempered his iron heart into something barely resembling mercy.

And now someone had dared—dared—to mar that light.

The physician bowed low as Kang-Dae entered the private wing.

"Your Majesty. The Princess rests within. She has been sedated. Her injuries, while not life-threatening, are..."

"I will see her," Kang-Dae cut him off.

He pushed open the door himself.

Inside, the room was dim and heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs.

Eunji lay upon the bed, her hair unpinned, dark smudges under her eyes, a faint bruise along her temple.

Seeing her so still, so broken, a rage unlike anything he had ever known seared through Kang-Dae’s chest.

He crossed the room silently and knelt beside her.

His hand hovered over her bruised forehead, clenching into a tight, trembling fist.

"You will tell me who did this," he whispered, so low it was almost a growl.

"And when you do..."

He closed his eyes briefly, battling the surge of bloodlust threatening to overtake him.

"...I will destroy them."

No law would protect the guilty.

No title would shield them.

No lies would save them.

The Emperor's wrath had been awakened.

And soon, the empire itself would tremble.

I stood at the window of the infirmary chamber for a long time, watching the faint rise and fall of Eunji’s breathing.

Her fragile form barely disturbed the heavy embroidered blankets covering her.

Outside, the palace grounds stirred in nervous silence.

Even the wind seemed to know that the world had shifted.

There would be no peace until I had an answer.

Until I had a name.

Until I had blood to match it.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

I did not move.

"Enter," I said quietly.

The Prime Minister, Dae-Daeun, slipped inside with all the subtlety of a shadow.

His hands were folded neatly inside his sleeves, his face a mask of solemn concern.

"Sire," he said, bowing deeply. "We have gathered testimony and...evidence."

"Already," I said.

A statement, not a question.

He hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat—enough.

I saw the careful glint in his eyes.

The calculation.

I turned fully toward him, my arms crossed behind my back, forcing him to meet my gaze.

"Speak," I ordered.

Dae-Daeun bowed again, slower this time.

"Multiple servants present at House Yi reported seeing unusual behavior before the attack. Suspicious movements near the Princess’s quarters. Strange mutterings. Fearful gestures."

I said nothing.

My stare alone was enough to make lesser men tremble.

He continued.

"The evidence, too, points toward one individual. A young noblewoman residing within the estate. Ill, often secluded. A temper said to be hidden behind a...delicate facade."

He unfolded a small lacquered box in his hands, producing a strip of bloodied cloth and a sealed letter.

I did not glance at them.

I did not need to.

Objects meant nothing.

Only truth mattered.

"And this woman’s name?" I asked, my voice low, sharp as a drawn blade.

Dae-Daeun hesitated again.

"Lady Chin-sun of House Yi."

The name struck no chord in my memory.

It fell flat, like a stone into a bottomless well.

"Who is she to me?" I asked.

My voice remained calm, but inside, the fury coiled tighter.

Dae-Daeun bowed his head.

"She is the Duke’s natural daughter. The sickly elder sister of your intended betrothed, Hyjung-Hee."

I narrowed my eyes.

"I have never seen her," I said flatly.

It was not a question.

It was a fact.

I would remember if I had.

"Few have, Sire," Dae-Daeun said smoothly. "She was never properly presented at court. Hidden away, kept from public scrutiny due to her...condition."

Hidden.

Ill.

Silent.

It sounded convenient.

It sounded...planted.

I said nothing, allowing the heavy silence to stretch between us.

Letting him squirm.

Letting him wonder if I would rip his lies from his throat here and now.

Finally, I turned away from him, back toward the window, the night pressing cold against the glass.

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"Confined to her chambers under guard, awaiting Your Majesty’s judgment," he answered.

"No resistance. No protest."

Of course not.

If she were sickly, if she were silent, what protest could she offer?

Something about this twisted my gut in an unfamiliar way.

A cold unease settled over my shoulders.

Still...

Eunji’s bruised face burned in my mind.

If this Lady Chin-sun was guilty...

If she had raised a hand against my sister...

I would deal with her myself.

No matter how weak she appeared.

But if she was not...

I clenched my fists behind my back, the silk of my sleeves tightening around my arms.

I would not allow an innocent to be crushed for convenience.

I was not my father.

I was not a fool led by whispers and false tears.

"Prepare the court," I said.

"My judgment will be given at first light."

Dae-Daeun bowed low, his hands trembling slightly.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

He withdrew like a spider retreating into the shadows.

Alone again, I stared out over the darkened gardens.

Lady Chin-sun.

A name without a face.

A shadow without a voice.

And yet soon, our fates would be bound together by chains neither of us had chosen.

The storm was already gathering.

And I would stand at its heart.