The Prince of Lanterns
The morning after the performance, the palace seemed almost pleased with itself.
The princess’s marriage alliance had been secured.
The Tang envoys smiled.
The ministers congratulated one another.
The musicians were still discussing the resonance dance performed by the twelve women.
For the first time in weeks, no one was shouting.
Which made Seolhyun nervous.
In her experience, silence was often far more dangerous.
The invitation arrived shortly after breakfast.
Not from the king.
Not from the crown prince.
The younger prince.
Again.
Hanul read the invitation twice.
Then a third time.
Then sighed dramatically.
“He wishes to walk in the gardens.”
Mirae immediately groaned.
Jiho nearly broke the cup he was holding.
Taejin looked delighted.
“Excellent.”
Jiho glared at him.
“It is not excellent.”
“It is for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I get to watch you suffer.”
The prince had become a regular visitor.
Not often enough to cause alarm.
Just often enough to become annoying.
Which somehow made him more dangerous.
He never pushed too hard.
Never demanded.
Never threatened.
He simply appeared.
Smiled.
Asked questions.
And somehow learned things.
The palace servants adored him.
The ministers tolerated him.
The king was frequently exasperated by him.
And the taverns of the capital knew him entirely too well.
“He is a gambler.”
Bokjin whispered one evening.
“He owes money.”
Hanul nodded.
“He wins it back.”
“He loses it again.”
“He flirts.”
“He drinks.”
“He sings.”
“He gets into trouble.”
“He once disappeared for three days.”
The women listened with fascination.
The rumours grew stranger.
Some claimed he spent more time in entertainment houses than in official residences.
Others claimed he could recite poetry in four languages.
Some claimed he had nearly been exiled twice.
Others insisted the king had threatened to send him to Jeju simply for peace and quiet.
“Why is he still here?”
Mirae finally asked.
Hanul considered.
“Because everyone secretly likes him.”
The answer annoyed everyone because it was probably true.
The garden walks began shortly afterward.
Always public.
Always supervised.
Always proper.
At least officially.
The palace gardens remained open late into the evening.
Moonlit ponds.
Stone bridges.
Cherry trees.
Small pavilions overlooking reflective pools.
Lanterns glowing amongst reeds.
Beautiful.
And far too convenient for conversations.
The General approved the arrangement reluctantly.
Only because refusing would attract more attention.
Which meant Jiho was assigned to accompany them.
Officially as security.
Unofficially as a very unhappy observer.
The first stroll lasted nearly an hour.
The prince was charming.
Unfortunately.
Seolhyun had hoped he would be foolish.
Or arrogant.
Or unbearable.
Instead he proved intelligent.
Curious.
Funny.
And entirely too observant.
“You dislike palace life.”
The prince said it casually.
As though discussing weather.
Seolhyun nearly laughed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people paying attention.”
A dangerous answer.
The prince watched the koi beneath the bridge.
“You look at gates.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“When most people visit gardens, they look at flowers.”
He pointed casually.
“You look at walls.”
Then another direction.
“You look at exits.”
Then another.
“You count guards.”
For a brief moment, Seolhyun felt cold.
Not because he knew.
Because he was closer than he should be.
Above them, hidden in a second-storey pavilion, Jiho watched.
Miserably.
Taejin sat beside him.
Eating fruit.
Entirely too comfortable.
“You know.”
“Don’t.”
“The prince is handsome.”
“Don’t.”
“He has money.”
“Taejin.”
“He owns at least three horses.”
Jiho looked ready to commit a crime.
The older soldier laughed so hard he nearly dropped his tea.
Meanwhile, the women had developed their own system.
If they were being watched, they would communicate differently.
Hairpins.
Sashes.
Parasol ribbons.
Flower placement.
Tiny signals hidden within ordinary fashion.
The sort of language women had always used when men assumed they were not paying attention.
A blue ribbon meant:
Too many guards.
A white flower meant:
Someone is listening.
A parasol carried on the left side meant:
Do not discuss tunnels.
A red sash knot meant:
Meet later.
The prince noticed some of it.
Not enough to understand.
Enough to become curious.
Then came the question.
The question everyone had feared.
They had reached a quiet pavilion overlooking the pond.
Moonlight shimmered across the water.
The prince leaned casually against the railing.
“Nari.”
Seolhyun froze internally.
Not externally.
Never externally.
The prince watched the water.
“Did she wish to leave?”
The question sounded harmless.
Which made it dangerous.
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Seolhyun answered carefully.
“Nari wished for many things.”
“Such as?”
“Freedom.”
The prince smiled sadly.
“Everyone wishes for that.”
His gaze lingered on the pond.
“I hope she found some.”
The answer surprised her.
Because it sounded genuine.
Then he said something worse.
Something far more troubling.
“You should marry.”
The words appeared from nowhere.
Seolhyun almost laughed.
“What?”
“You should.”
He seemed entirely serious.
“The court would leave you alone.”
“The kingdom would feel safer.”
“The king would sleep better.”
“Half the ministers would stop arguing.”
“And the other half?”
The prince grinned.
“They would start arguing about someone else.”
She laughed despite herself.
Which seemed to please him.
Above the gardens, Jiho witnessed the laughter.
And immediately hated everything.
The pond.
The prince.
The flowers.
The moon.
Possibly the entire kingdom.
Taejin observed all of this with great interest.
“You are jealous.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“The pond is innocent.”
Jiho stared at him.
“The pond?”
“You looked angry at the pond.”
The rest of the evening did not improve.
Yet when the prince finally departed, he left Seolhyun with one final thought.
One she carried back through the lantern-lit corridors.
One she could not quite dismiss.
Because just before leaving, the prince had lowered his voice and said:
“Everyone in this palace is watching someone.”
His smile faded slightly.
“But lately…”
His eyes briefly met hers.
“…I think someone is watching all of us.”
For the first time that evening, Seolhyun believed him.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, beyond the harbour, beyond the sea itself, the pieces continued moving toward a future none of them could yet see.
While beneath the palace, hidden behind stone and shadow, the ancient tunnel waited.
Patient.
Silent.
And very likely to become important sooner than anyone wished.
Chapter: The Questions Beneath the Questions
The palace finally quieted after midnight.
Lanterns burned low.
Musicians retired.
The Tang guests disappeared into their assigned residences.
Even the servants moved more slowly.
The endless celebration had exhausted everyone.
Almost everyone.
The twelve women sat together in their chambers.
Or at least what the palace believed were twelve women.
The illusion remained intact.
Barely.
Bokjin sat amongst them carrying the crystal hidden beneath layers of silk and fabric, still pretending to be part of the circle.
The poor eunuch looked as though he expected death at any moment.
Hanul patted his shoulder.
“You are doing wonderfully.”
“I am not.”
“You have survived.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Laughter spread around the room.
The tension eased slightly.
Only slightly.
Eventually the conversations turned serious.
The prince.
Again.
Everything seemed to circle back to him.
“He knows.”
Jiho said it first.
The room fell quiet.
Nobody asked what he meant.
Everyone understood.
“The question about Nari.”
“The way he counted everyone.”
“The way he watched the crystal circle.”
“He knows something.”
Mirae nodded slowly.
“He kept looking.”
“Not at Seolhyun.”
“At all of us.”
That observation unsettled everyone.
Because it felt true.
The prince wasn’t looking at a beautiful woman.
He was studying a puzzle.
A collection.
A formation.
A group.
Something that was supposed to remain unchanged.
The General’s warnings returned to everyone’s thoughts.
The prince had no real claim to the throne.
Not while the Crown Prince lived.
Not while the princess remained politically valuable.
Yet princes who lacked power often sought it elsewhere.
Through alliances.
Through marriage.
Through information.
Through influence.
And perhaps through crystals.
Seolhyun sat quietly listening.
The crystal resting against her collarbone hummed softly.
Not loudly.
Not urgently.
Just enough to remind her it was there.
Watching.
Listening.
Remembering.
“The problem.”
Jiho finally said.
“The problem isn’t what he knows.”
Everyone looked at him.
“The problem is what he suspects.”
That felt much worse.
The following afternoon the prince returned.
Naturally.
This time he requested tea.
Not a garden stroll.
Not music.
Not ceremony.
Tea.
The women immediately became suspicious.
Nothing dangerous had ever begun with tea.
Yet somehow every dangerous conversation eventually arrived there.
The prince appeared relaxed.
Comfortable.
As though he had nowhere else to be.
Which was probably a lie.
Seolhyun sat opposite him beneath an open pavilion overlooking the gardens.
A parasol rested nearby.
Birds moved amongst flowering branches.
Servants remained respectfully distant.
Far enough not to hear.
Close enough to intervene.
The perfect palace balance.
The prince poured tea.
Then smiled.
“You dislike confinement.”
It wasn’t a question.
Seolhyun sighed.
“Is it still that obvious?”
“It has become more obvious.”
Wonderful.
The prince laughed.
Then leaned back comfortably.
“What was it like?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Your home.”
The question surprised her.
Not because he asked.
Because he seemed genuinely interested.
For a moment she thought of Cradle Lake.
The mountains.
The water.
The freedom.
“We were outside.”
The answer came softly.
“Most days.”
“We worked.”
“We swam.”
“We climbed.”
“We gathered things.”
“We argued.”
“We laughed.”
“We lived.”
The prince listened carefully.
No interruption.
No judgement.
Only curiosity.
“No servants?”
She laughed.
“We were the servants.”
“No court?”
“No court.”
“No robes?”
“We wore them for ceremonies.”
She gestured toward her current attire.
“This much silk would have caused an avalanche.”
The prince nearly choked on his tea.
For several minutes they simply talked.
Not as prince and priestess.
Not as potential political pieces.
Simply two people from very different worlds.
Then came the real question.
The question hidden beneath all the others.
“What do your people think about marriage?”
There it was.
Seolhyun almost smiled.
At least he was becoming predictable.
“What specifically?”
The prince considered.
Carefully.
Dangerously.
“Political marriages.”
“Marriage for convenience.”
“Marriage for alliance.”
“Marriage where affection exists elsewhere.”
His expression remained perfectly neutral.
“As long as everyone understands the arrangement.”
The audacity of it nearly made her laugh.
Somewhere above them, hidden behind carved lattice screens, Jiho nearly fell out of his observation position.
Taejin had to physically stop him.
“Did he just—”
“Yes.”
“Did he really—”
“Yes.”
The older soldier looked delighted.
The younger looked murderous.
Back in the pavilion, Seolhyun studied the prince carefully.
For the first time she understood something.
The prince wasn’t simply charming.
He wasn’t simply flirting.
He wasn’t even entirely interested in her.
He was negotiating.
Always negotiating.
Even now.
Every conversation.
Every smile.
Every question.
A prince raised inside politics could not help himself.
The prince smiled again.
“My sister has her marriage.”
The words arrived quietly.
“The kingdom has its alliance.”
His gaze settled briefly upon the pond.
“And everyone seems determined to decide everyone else’s future.”
Something sad briefly appeared behind the humour.
Gone almost immediately.
Yet Seolhyun noticed.
For the first time she wondered if the prince felt trapped too.
Then he ruined the moment completely.
“You should still consider marrying into the court.”
She laughed.
Out loud.
Immediately.
The prince looked offended.
“I am serious.”
“That makes it worse.”
The resulting conversation became so ridiculous that even the servants struggled not to smile.
Yet beneath the laughter, beneath the tea, beneath the flowers and the lanterns and the garden paths, Seolhyun understood something important.
The prince knew less than Jiho feared.
But more than anyone hoped.
And somewhere in his growing collection of theories, suspicions, and observations, she had become something dangerous.
Not a woman.
Not a priestess.
Not even a future bride.
A piece.
A very important piece.
Placed squarely at the centre of a board that was becoming more crowded every day.
And the prince, like every other player in the kingdom, had begun quietly deciding where he wished that piece to move next.
Chapter: The Game of Stones
The prince vanished.
Not permanently.
Just long enough to be noticed.
Three days.
No garden strolls.
No invitations.
No questions.
No smiling attempts at courtship.
Nothing.
“He’s playing hard to get.”
Seolhyun announced confidently.
The room fell silent.
“What?”
Mirae asked.
“Hard to get.”
Seolhyun repeated.
“As in pretending not to be interested.”
The women stared.
Jiho stared.
Hanul stared.
Even Bokjin stopped breathing.
“That is not a thing.”
Hanul finally said.
“It absolutely is.”
The older eunuch looked offended.
“The palace has existed for centuries.”
“So have men.”
Taejin laughed so hard he spilled tea.
For the next several days the palace attempted to improve Seolhyun.
Not that anyone had asked.
Teachers arrived.
Music masters.
Poetry instructors.
Court etiquette tutors.
Calligraphy scholars.
Players of the gayageum.
Flute masters.
Go instructors.
Apparently if a prince showed interest, the palace immediately decided one required education.
The irony was that Seolhyun already knew half of it.
Some from memory.
Some from instinct.
Some because music never truly changed.
Only the instruments did.
To the horror of several instructors, she learned too quickly.
One music teacher spent a week preparing a lesson.
Seolhyun mastered it before lunch.
Another attempted poetry.
She accidentally quoted something from another century.
Then spent twenty minutes pretending it was a profound mountain proverb.
The instructor wrote it down.
By the end of the week several scholars were beginning to suspect she was either gifted.
Or impossible.
Jiho simply watched.
Amused.
Because these teachers never saw the other version.
The real version.
The version who rolled bedding aside at night.
Who turned open floors into training spaces.
Who practiced forms.
Stretches.
Balance exercises.
Breathing drills.
Movements nobody in the palace recognised.
The women joined her.
Especially during quiet evenings.
The palace believed they were praying.
Which technically wasn’t entirely wrong.
Breathing mattered.
The women of Cradle Lake had always trained differently.
Diving.
Swimming.
Holding breath.
Endurance.
Patience.
The lake demanded it.
And if a journey south truly awaited them…
Those skills would matter again.
One evening Jiho found Seolhyun balancing on a low beam.
Arms spread.
Eyes closed.
“What are you doing?”
“Training.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
That somehow felt like a genuine answer.
She opened one eye.
Then smiled.
“You know.”
“What?”
“If we ever get on that ship.”
“Yes?”
“I’d bet half the people involved don’t know how to swim.”
Jiho laughed.
Unfortunately she wasn’t joking.
The prince returned on the fourth day.
As though nothing had happened.
As though disappearing for several days was perfectly normal.
The invitation arrived shortly before sunset.
Another garden walk.
Jiho immediately regretted existing.
Taejin found this endlessly entertaining.
The gardens glowed beneath lantern light.
The prince waited beside the pond.
Exactly where he knew she would find him.
“I wondered if you were avoiding me.”
Seolhyun said.
The prince smiled.
“I was giving you time.”
“To think?”
“Exactly.”
The answer irritated her immediately.
They walked slowly along stone pathways.
The pond reflected stars.
Lanterns drifted upon the water.
The prince seemed unusually quiet.
Which worried her.
Then came the question.
“The soldier.”
Her heart nearly stopped.
Not visibly.
Never visibly.
“The one assigned to your protection.”
The prince continued casually.
“Jiho.”
Danger.
The prince wasn’t guessing.
He was testing.
“Very loyal.”
He observed.
“He is a good soldier.”
“He is.”
The prince agreed.
“But loyalty is expensive.”
A dangerous statement.
They continued walking.
The prince stopped beside a flowering tree.
Then looked toward the palace.
Toward the distant lanterns.
Toward the kingdom itself.
“You know.”
He said softly.
“Everyone assumes power belongs to kings.”
Seolhyun remained silent.
“But information.”
His smile returned.
“Information is much more valuable.”
There it was.
The truth.
Not romance.
Not affection.
Not entirely.
Curiosity.
Power.
Knowledge.
The prince wanted answers.
About the crystals.
About Nari.
About the women.
About the dreamscape.
About her.
Most of all about her.
“I’ve been speaking with monks.”
He admitted.
That got her attention.
“They tell fascinating stories.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“They say the crystals accepted a replacement.”
There it was.
Finally.
The question he’d been circling for weeks.
The prince looked almost pleased.
“What happens.”
He asked softly.
“If all twelve are replaced?”
Silence.
The night breeze moved through the garden.
For a long moment Seolhyun said nothing.
Then she looked directly at him.
“Do you think we’re objects?”
The prince blinked.
“What?”
“Pieces.”
She continued.
“Tools.”
“Containers.”
“Things to be moved.”
The prince remained silent.
“You ask what happens if you replace all twelve.”
She said.
“As though nobody matters.”
The prince’s expression shifted slightly.
For the first time.
A crack.
“You misunderstand.”
“No.”
Seolhyun replied.
“I understand perfectly.”
The crystal at her throat glimmered softly.
“I’m a priestess.”
She said.
“I know things.”
“What things?”
“Future.”
A pause.
“Past.”
Another pause.
“Present.”
The prince smiled.
“That tells me nothing.”
“Exactly.”
For the first time in their conversations.
The prince looked frustrated.
And Seolhyun quietly enjoyed it.
Because for all his questions.
For all his cleverness.
For all his games.
There remained one thing he still could not understand.
She wasn’t a piece on his board.
And every time he tried placing her there.
She simply stepped somewhere else.
Far above the gardens.
Watching from the pavilion.
Jiho finally relaxed.
Just slightly.
Because one thing had become very clear.
The prince might be interested.
The prince might be dangerous.
The prince might even be brilliant.
But Seolhyun had absolutely no intention of becoming anyone’s prize.
And that realization brought Jiho more peace than he had felt in weeks.
Even if he suspected the real storm was still waiting beyond the harbour.
Whispers Beneath the Palace
The catacombs had become their second world.
Above lay the palace.
Below lay the truth.
At least that was how Jiho had begun thinking of it.
⸻
Most nights he slipped down into the tunnels after the palace slept.
The old passages no longer frightened him.
He knew the turns.
The hidden stairways.
The forgotten chambers.
The cracks where candlelight could not be seen from above.
⸻
Tonight he was not alone.
⸻
Waiting in the shadows stood the General’s planted scout.
Officially a eunuch.
Unofficially one of General Hwan Ryuk’s most trusted intelligence men.
The replacement had settled into palace life surprisingly well.
Almost too well.
⸻
“You are late.”
Jiho muttered.
⸻
“I was gathering information.”
⸻
“You mean gossip.”
⸻
“Information sounds more professional.”
⸻
Jiho rolled his eyes.
⸻
A second figure emerged from the darkness.
A servant girl.
One of the palace slaves assigned near the younger prince’s household.
Nervous.
Alert.
Looking over her shoulder every few moments.
⸻
The scout immediately softened his voice.
A skill that seemed to come naturally.
⸻
Jiho suspected the man could charm information out of a stone wall if necessary.
⸻
“What did you learn?”
⸻
The girl hesitated.
Then spoke.
⸻
“The prince lied.”
⸻
Neither soldier appeared surprised.
⸻
“The monks?”
Jiho asked.
⸻
She shook her head.
⸻
“He visited one monastery.”
“Briefly.”
“Only briefly.”
⸻
Then her expression darkened.
⸻
“The rest of the time…”
⸻
“Taverns.”
⸻
The scout nodded.
Expected.
⸻
“Gaming houses.”
⸻
Expected.
⸻
“Entertainment houses.”
⸻
Also expected.
⸻
The girl lowered her voice further.
⸻
“He has been paying for information.”
⸻
That caught their attention.
⸻
Not pleasure.
Not entertainment.
Information.
⸻
“What kind?”
Jiho asked.
⸻
“The women.”
⸻
Silence followed.
⸻
“The crystals.”
⸻
Worse.
⸻
“The caravan.”
⸻
Worse still.
⸻
“The missing woman.”
⸻
That one made Jiho’s stomach tighten.
⸻
The servant girl glanced around again.
⸻
“He asks questions differently.”
⸻
“How?”
⸻
“He never asks directly.”
⸻
That sounded exactly like the prince.
⸻
“He listens.”
She continued.
“He lets other people talk.”
“He buys drinks.”
“He plays games.”
“He loses money on purpose.”
⸻
The scout smiled.
⸻
“That’s expensive.”
⸻
“He’s a prince.”
The girl replied.
“As far as I can tell, he thinks money grows back.”
⸻
Even Jiho laughed at that.
⸻
The humour faded quickly.
⸻
“The prince believes the women are important.”
The servant whispered.
“Not because of prophecy.”
“Because of influence.”
⸻
The word hung heavily.
⸻
Influence.
Power.
Leverage.
⸻
The same thing every ambitious court figure eventually chased.
⸻
Jiho looked toward the darkness beyond the tunnel.
⸻
“He suspects.”
⸻
The girl nodded.
⸻
“He suspects one woman is missing.”
⸻
A curse escaped the scout’s lips.
⸻
“He knows?”
⸻
“No.”
She replied.
“But he suspects.”
⸻
That was somehow worse.
⸻
“He also suspects the crystals matter more than the monks admit.”
⸻
Jiho immediately remembered the prince’s questions.
The replacements.
The resonance.
The nightmares.
⸻
The prince wasn’t interested in faith.
⸻
He was interested in control.
⸻
“What about the General?”
Jiho asked quietly.
⸻
That question mattered more than all the others.
⸻
The servant couldn’t answer.
But the scout could.
⸻
“The General knows enough.”
⸻
Both turned toward him.
⸻
“He knows the women are being used as bargaining pieces.”
⸻
“He knows the king wants them hidden.”
⸻
“He knows the Tang want them close.”
⸻
“He knows neither side is entirely trustworthy.”
⸻
The scout paused.
⸻
“And he knows that if everything collapses…”
⸻
He looked directly at Jiho.
⸻
“He’ll choose the women.”
⸻
For the first time all evening, Jiho felt relief.
Small.
But real.
⸻
General Hwan Ryuk was many things.
Stern.
Uncompromising.
Dangerous.
⸻
But he wasn’t cruel.
⸻
The scout continued.
⸻
“The problem is timing.”
⸻
Everyone knew it.
⸻
The king wanted isolation.
The Tang wanted access.
The prince wanted influence.
The merchants wanted profit.
The monks wanted balance.
⸻
And somewhere in the middle sat eleven women.
One missing.
One disguised eunuch.
A handful of soldiers.
And a priestess who knew far too much.
⸻
Above them, palace bells marked the passing hour.
⸻
The servant girl suddenly looked frightened.
⸻
“I must go.”
⸻
The scout squeezed her hand briefly.
Not romantically.
Reassuringly.
⸻
“Be careful.”
⸻
She nodded.
Then disappeared back into the darkness of the palace.
⸻
For a long moment nobody spoke.
⸻
Finally Jiho looked toward the distant ceiling.
Toward the world above.
Toward the prince.
Toward Seolhyun.
Toward the future none of them could fully see.
⸻
“The prince isn’t going to stop.”
⸻
The scout shook his head.
⸻
“No.”
⸻
“Neither are the Tang.”
⸻
“Neither is the king.”
⸻
“And neither are we.”
⸻
For the first time that night, Jiho smiled.
A tired smile.
But a genuine one.
⸻
Because despite everything—
the palace.
The conspiracies.
The crystals.
The prince.
The Tang.
The missing Nari.
⸻
They were still in the game.
⸻
And somewhere above them, beyond stone and lantern light, Seolhyun sat awake beside the sleeping women.
The crystal at her throat humming softly.
Not a warning.
Not a threat.
Just a reminder.
That every path eventually led somewhere.
And soon enough, all of theirs would lead south.
Toward the harbour.
Toward the sea.
Toward whatever fate was waiting there.
Chapter: Tea, Tutors, and Other Forms of Imprisonment
The palace became comfortable.
Which frightened Seolhyun far more than danger ever had.
Danger was honest.
Comfort was how people forgot they were prisoners.
The king’s secret remained intact.
One woman missing.
One crystal reassigned.
One carefully maintained lie.
The court slept peacefully.
The ministers argued about taxes.
The princess prepared for marriage.
The musicians rehearsed.
The servants gossiped.
And nobody officially acknowledged that one of the Twelve Dreaming Women had vanished.
The palace preferred harmony.
Even when harmony was built upon fiction.
As weeks passed, the women settled into an absurd routine.
Teachers arrived.
Constantly.
Music instructors.
Poetry instructors.
Court dance instructors.
Calligraphy instructors.
Tea instructors.
Etiquette instructors.
Flower arrangement instructors.
One afternoon Seolhyun discovered there was apparently an official way to hold a teacup.
She stared at the instructor.
The instructor stared back.
“This is important.”
“It is a cup.”
The instructor nearly fainted.
The women laughed about it for three days.
Jiho enjoyed these moments immensely.
Because the palace only ever saw Priestess Seolhyun.
He knew Claire.
The Claire who whispered modern sayings under her breath.
The Claire who rolled her eyes at nobles.
The Claire who called ministers “professional worry merchants.”
And most of all—
The Claire who had begun making observations about the prince.
“He disappears.”
She announced one evening.
The women looked up.
“Princes disappear.”
Mirae said.
“No.”
Seolhyun replied.
“He disappears strategically.”
Nobody knew what that meant.
Jiho did.
Unfortunately.
“He shows up.”
She continued.
“Creates interest.”
“Disappears.”
“Creates mystery.”
“Returns.”
“Acts charming.”
The women listened carefully.
Then she sighed.
“He’s basically courting three people at once.”
Jiho almost choked on his tea.
“What?”
“The palace.”
She counted on her fingers.
“The Tang.”
Another finger.
“And me.”
Taejin laughed so hard he had to leave the room.
The next time the prince arrived for tea, Seolhyun was ready.
Far too ready.
The prince settled comfortably into the pavilion.
Servants poured tea.
Lanterns glowed.
Birds chirped.
The entire scene looked absurdly peaceful.
“You disappeared.”
Seolhyun observed.
The prince blinked.
“I was occupied.”
“Of course you were.”
The prince smiled suspiciously.
Something about her tone worried him.
“You know.”
She continued.
“You only appear often enough that people don’t forget you.”
The prince nearly dropped his cup.
Across the garden, hidden behind a screen, Jiho began enjoying himself for once.
The prince recovered quickly.
“You’ve been thinking about me.”
“No.”
The answer arrived too fast.
The prince looked delighted.
Jiho looked delighted too.
For entirely different reasons.
The prince spent the next hour trying to regain control of the conversation.
He failed repeatedly.
Every marriage proposal eventually found itself redirected.
Every compliment returned.
Every attempt at charm examined like a suspicious merchant contract.
At one point he asked:
“What would convince you to marry into the court?”
Seolhyun considered carefully.
“The court leaving me alone.”
The prince laughed.
“That defeats the purpose.”
“Exactly.”
For a brief moment they simply sat watching the koi.
Then the prince surprised her.
“You still intend to leave.”
Not a question.
A statement.
The air changed instantly.
Seolhyun’s eyes narrowed.
“What makes you say that?”
The prince smiled.
“Because every time you look at these gardens…”
He gestured around them.
“…you admire them.”
Then he looked toward the palace walls.
“But every time you look beyond the walls…”
His gaze met hers.
“You miss something.”
For once neither spoke.
The prince knew.
Not everything.
Not nearly enough.
But enough.
The conversation shifted afterward.
Lighter.
Safer.
Yet when he finally departed, Seolhyun found herself thinking.
Because beneath all the games and flirtation, the prince had become something unusual.
Not an enemy.
Not a friend.
A problem.
And problems could sometimes be useful.
That night she sat beside Jiho near one of the open pavilions.
Moonlight spilled across the courtyard.
The women slept.
The palace hummed quietly.
“He’s not going away.”
Jiho said.
“No.”
“He still wants to marry you.”
“Probably.”
Jiho sighed.
“That should bother me more.”
Seolhyun laughed.
“Why?”
“Because.”
He muttered.
“Every time he proposes, you look more annoyed.”
The laughter that followed echoed softly through the courtyard.
For the first time in weeks, the future seemed almost manageable.
The prince played his games.
The king hid his secrets.
The Tang prepared their ships.
The General prepared contingencies.
The monks watched.
The crystals hummed.
And somewhere far to the south, Nari and Minseok continued building their own uncertain future.
The board remained set.
The pieces remained moving.
But for now, for just a little while, the palace settled into a strange and fragile peace.
The kind of peace that everyone secretly knew could not possibly last.
