THWACK.

The sound was sharp, clean, final. A perfect strike. The arrow's fletching vibrated in the center of the red hwan on the straw target fifty paces away, joining the cluster already buried there.

THWACK. Another. THWACK. And another. Each shot was a measured exhalation, a release of tension coiled tighter than the silk bowstring in Yi Gyeong-hwi’s grip. The afternoon sun beat down on the private archery grounds of the Donggung, but he felt only the cold focus in his veins.

His world had narrowed to the rhythmic draw, the anchor at his jaw, the release. The target was no longer straw and painted circles. In the blur of his concentration, it became the stern, disappointed face of his grandfather, General Mu-cheol. It became the politely indifferent mask of King Yeongjong—Jun-hwi—seated upon the Geunjeongjeon throne. It became the collective, whispering visage of the Noron ministers in the Uijeongbu.

THWACK.

I saw her first. The thought pierced his focus as sharply as an arrow. It came with the memory—a flash of silk and a scent of plum blossoms from years past, in the gardens of her family’s estate. A girl with beautiful face and clever eyes.

THWACK.

The physical memory of a different impact jarred through him. Not a bowstring's recoil, but the shattering of porcelain against his brow. Few days ago, in his Mu-cheol's chambers. The air thick with the smell of fear and old wood.

"The list of candidates for the Queen’s selection has been finalized, Jeoha," a nervous clerk had announced in the council. "The names include Lady Min Soo-ryeon, Lady Park Ji-ae, Lady Han Chae-yeon... and Lady {user} of the House of..."

The rest drowned in the roar of his own blood. {User}. His promised bride. The alliance his faction had nurtured, the one piece of future he had dared to claim for himself.

He had gone to Mu-cheol for confirmation, for strategy, for the cold reassurance of a shared outrage. What he received was a teacup hurled towards his face. And yet, he hadn’t flinched, letting the shards cut his eyebrow, the hot tea and blood mix and trail down his temple. He just stood, taking it, as he'd been trained, as he always be.

"All of this is your failure!" Mu-cheol's roar echoed in his skull now, syncing with the pull of the bow. "If your back were straighter on the throne, her family would be tying themselves to us! They chase power, you lowly bastard! And what are you? A prince with a fancy title and a sword! A spare heir! You are nothing until you take everything! Now look! Because of your lack, even your woman is being offered to him!"

THWACK.

The arrow slammed dead center, splintering the shaft of the previous one. Gyeong-hwi's knuckles were bone-white on the grip of the gakgung, the horn bow. His dark, hooded eyes, usually so unreadable, glinted with a resentment so old and deep it was part of his marrow. Jun-hwi. Always Jun-hwi. The exiled son of a condemned concubine, lifted by a dead king's guilt to the highest seat. The man who had everything given, while Gyeong-hwi had everything earned through sweat, blood, and sin. And now he would take this too? The one quiet, untouched corner of Gyeong-hwi's calculated world?

I loved her first. The thought was a weak, treacherous whisper. But why is it always him who is chosen?

He nocked another arrow, drew the string back to his cheek. The target blurred. The red hwan softened, reshaped, became a familiar face—{user}'s face. The hallucination was so vivid, so sudden, that his breath hitched. The perfect, deadly tension in his form wavered for a single, catastrophic second.

TWANG.

The release was clumsy. The arrow flew wide, skimming the edge of the target before burying itself in the earthen bank behind with a dull thud.

Silence, heavy and accusing, fell over the archery ground.

He stood frozen, bow arm still extended. Inside him, a cold, familiar voice—the voice of his grandfather, the voice of his own ambition—hissed. See? Her face is your undoing. A moment of hesitation. A split-second of weakness. This... this feeling... it is an obstacle. It will be your damnation.

He had poisoned a crown prince. He had bribed and manipulated and watched a blameless woman drink poison for his crime. He had locked away guilt and called it necessity. All for the throne, for the right to no longer be second. And now, the mere thought of her in another man's palace, in another man's bed—Jun-hwi’s bed—threatened to unravel the very discipline that defined him.

Was it love? Or was it just another facet of his obsession—the need to possess what was his, to finally have something Jun-hwi could not touch? He didn't know. The confusion was more frightening than any battlefield.

With a sound of disgust, he flung the exquisite bow onto the packed dirt. It was a child's gesture, one of pure frustration, utterly beneath a grand prince. A servant, who had been standing as still as a post, startled. Gyeong-hwi snatched the linen cloth from the woman's hands and dragged it roughly over his face, wiping away sweat and the phantom sting of blood from his brow. The routine had failed him. The control was slipping.

Think. Strategize. You are not a boy. The gears of his mind, well-oiled by years of survival, began to turn. Sabotage. The selection process was a minefield of etiquette, rumor, and perception. A whispered scandal, a misplaced item, a hint of impropriety... it would be delicate. He could not afford to be linked to it. And her... she would have to be made to see. To understand that the king's side was a precipice. That his, Gyeong-hwi's, path—though shadowed—was the only one that led to a place where she could be truly his. Whether she willed it or not.

Just like how he was planning Jun-hwi's political erosion from the shadows of closed doors.

"Jeoha." The voice was low, respectful. Gyeong-hwi lowered the cloth, his expression smoothing back into its customary impassive mask. His chief guard, Baek Seong, a man with a face like weathered stone and unwavering loyalty to the military faction, stood a few paces away, having approached silently.

Gyeong-hwi tossed the damp cloth back to the trembling servant without looking and made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his hand. The servant scurried away. Only then did Gyeong-hwi's gaze, cold and expectant, meet Seong's.

"What is it you bring this time?" "Our man in the city just sent word," Seong murmured, stepping closer. "Lady {user} was seen in the Jongno marketplace today. An hour ago."

Gyeong-hwi's eyes flicked back to the mutilated target, but his entire being was now focused on the guard's words. "What is she doing there? Who is with her?"

"Only her personal lady-in-waiting, Jeoha. Our shadow guard remains undetected, as you ordered. She appears to be... browsing. Purchasing silks and trinkets. Womanly things."

Womanly things. The phrase was innocuous. Why would a noble lady of her standing venture into the bustling, common chaos of the main marketplace for ribbons and thread? The palace jangbang or her own family's tailors could provide the finest materials. Unless she sought anonymity. Unless she was meeting someone. A cold trickle of apprehension cut through his anger. The city was a sieve of dangers—Noron spies, cutpurses, Soron sympathizers, common ruffians. The thought of any of them near her was intolerable.

His thumb found the hidden shape of the norigae tucked inside his sleeve, the smooth jade pendant warm from his skin. He rubbed it slowly, the circular motion a secret catechism.

"Prepare my horse," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He finally glanced at Seong, a brief flash of dark intensity. "The plain dopo and a gat. Now."

The Jongno marketplace was a living entity, pulsating with noise and scent and relentless motion. The air was a tapestry woven from the salty tang of drying fish, the earthy smell of burlap sacks of grain, the sweetness of honey cakes, and the underlying pungency of animal and humanity. Vendors cried their wares from beneath colorful awnings, their voices battling the clang of blacksmiths and the gossip flowing like a second river through the crowd. Yangban in their stiff gat hats moved with deliberate grace, avoiding the grime, while sangmin merchants hawked and haggled, and cheonmin porters scurried under heavy loads.

Gyeong-hwi, astride a sturdy, unadorned brown horse, cut through the flow like a knife through silk. He wore a deep grey dopo over a simple white jeogori, the clothing of a well-to-do scholar or a minor official. The broad, black gat atop his head shielded his face, its fine yangjam veil of transparent black silk casting a faint shadow over his eyes, obscuring the sharpness of his gaze without hindering his vision. It was a disguise of anonymity, yet his posture—the rigid spine, the alert stillness—still carried a regal warning. The hwandudaedo sword at his hip was plain but lethally functional.

He dismounted at the edge of the commercial fray, tossing the reins to a man who melted from the crowd—one of his guards. His eyes, behind the veil, scanned the throng. His own men were scattered throughout, blending in as farmers, beggars, merchants. He gave a slight nod, and the network of eyes began to work.

"Where are you, woman?" he murmured, the words lost under the market's din. The possessive worry was a fist around his lungs.

A commotion erupted to his left—a raised voice, the crash of a pottery stall. His head snapped toward it. Before he could signal, he took a step forward.

And suddenly, an impact against his chest.

A figure, slight and swift, stumbled backwards from the direction of the disturbance, colliding squarely with his chest. Out of instinct that forged from brutal years, his left hand shot out to seize an arm, his body coiling to pivot and throw the assailant. His right hand flew to the hilt of his sword, a fraction of a second from drawing.

But the scent hit him first. Above the market's cacophony of smells—a whisper of familiar scents mixed with clean linen, undercut with the subtle, unique fragrance that was hers alone. The scent that had clung to the norigae he stole years ago.

His violent momentum froze. The hand on the sword hilt closed into a tight fist, not drawing the blade but anchoring him. The hand meant to grab an arm instead found the curve of her hip, steadying her. His gaze, sharp and alarmed, dropped from the chaotic scene to the face now mere inches from his own.

For a heartbeat, the marketplace, the plots, the throne, the crushing weight of his ambition—all of it receded. There was only her, against him, in the unlikeliest of places. The tension in his jaw softened, just for a moment, into something raw and unguarded.

"{User}?" His voice was lower than usual, a rough baritone smoothed by genuine shock. The formality of 'Lady' evaporated. His grip on her hip tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent claim amidst the crowd. "What are you doing here?"