“Some flowers bloom in the dark, not despite the shadows—but because of them.”
The morning in the widow village was hushed, like the breath before a scream.
Mist coiled low along the forest edge, curling through the jagged lattice of bamboo. The silence wasn’t peace—it was the kind that meant something had shifted. And Raon, now more alert than ever, felt it gnawing beneath his ribs.
He sat beneath the faded paper window of his temporary home, rewrapping a minor cut on his arm from yesterday’s rooftop tumble. His mind, however, wasn’t on the wound. It was on Lira.
The widow who wielded her silence like a blade.
Who caught knives with her hands like she was born of shadow.
Who looked at him last night with both warning and concern.
---
Lira stood at the small garden’s edge, feeding a pair of foxes that visited every morning. Her fingers moved with gentle rhythm, slicing sweet radishes and laying them in delicate piles. Her hands—capable of killing—were now feeding life.
Raon stepped outside and watched her for a moment.
“You don’t strike me as someone who likes animals,” he said casually.
She didn’t turn.
“I don’t like people. Animals are simpler.”
He gave a soft chuckle.
“Then I must be quite a problem to have around.”
She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable.
“You’re a walking sword in a silk robe. The problem isn’t having you around—it’s waiting to see when you decide to cut.”
There was a silence.
Then, her tone softened. “Come. I want to show you something.”
---
They walked beyond the village walls for the first time together, through a winding trail cloaked in damp leaves. Lira carried a wrapped cloth in her hands. Raon followed, careful not to reveal the dagger still tucked in his sleeve.
They arrived at a half-buried shrine, long abandoned, its stone face broken by moss and time.
Lira knelt before it and unwrapped the cloth—revealing an old silver blade, curved like a crescent moon.
“This was my mother’s,” she whispered.
“She was a dancer. Not with silk or bells, but with knives.”
Raon tilted his head.
“A killer?”
Lira shook her head.
“A protector. She guarded women who had no one. Who were hunted, discarded, or forced into silence. This village was once a sanctuary.”
Her voice faltered. “But one night… they came. Men in black hoods. Not for loot. For revenge.”
Raon noticed the slight tremble in her jaw.
Lira’s usual armor—the sarcasm, the steel—was lowered now, and beneath it was a scarred girl who once watched her world burn.
“She died saving a child. The only survivor was me.”
A long silence hung between them, heavy as thunderclouds.
Then Lira looked up, eyes sharp once more.
“Now you tell me—why were you being chased that night? Why the wounds? Why the lie?”
Raon didn’t flinch.
“Because the man who ordered my mother’s death is my father.”
Lira froze.
The wind stopped moving for a moment.
He stepped forward slowly, voice quieter now.
“My real name… is Raon of the House Saeyun. I was born into a world of blood-coated silk. I ran because I wouldn’t become like them.”
Lira looked at him, every inch of her trying to decide whether to trust.
Then, behind them—a branch snapped.
---
Within a blink, both had knives drawn.
Three men emerged from the fog. Disguised as beggars but too clean. Too tall. Spies.
“Well well,” the leader sneered, “Looks like the prince has made a nest with a little bird.”
Raon shifted into stance.
Lira’s eyes never left the leader.
“Leave now,” she said coldly, “or I’ll show you how birds bite.”
The fight was fast.
One lunged toward Lira—she dodged, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and drove her blade upward into his side.
Raon parried a blow meant for his throat, spun low, and knocked the second attacker unconscious with a brutal knee to the jaw.
The last one ran.
Lira raised her arm to throw a knife.
“No,” Raon stopped her.
“Let him run. Let them know we’re not hiding.”
Their breathing was heavy. Blood glistened on leaves. But somehow, in the middle of all this violence, something unspoken sparked between them.
Not lust. Not yet love. But something sharper—respect.
They looked at each other.
Raon stepped closer.
“You were right about me.”
He smiled faintly.
“I am a sword. But maybe, just maybe… I want to be wielded by the right hand.”
Lira didn’t smile back—but her eyes softened.
“Then sharpen yourself. Because I don’t hold dull blades.”
---
As they walked back together—silent, blood-splattered, breathing hard—a fox trailed behind them.
Watching.
Waiting.
In the woods, someone else had watched the entire fight unfold.
A figure cloaked in white. Face hidden.
And in her hand… a letter sealed with the royal insignia.
---
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