Back in the palace walls, Ji-hwan moved differently.
No longer simply sidestepping Seong-min's overtures, he now watched the king's every step—searching for openings, for cracks where trust could grow again.
He started with small gestures.
A silent correction of a minister's lie before it hit Seong-min's ears.
A subtle report left on the king's desk—one that derailed a small coup in a northern province.
He left no name. No evidence. Only actions.
But Seong-min was no fool.
Afternoon, in court, the king's eyes swept the hall.
"Strange," he said carelessly, "how bad luck seems to shun me these days. As if fate's become bashful."
Ji-hwan maintained his face impassive, but the edges of Seong-min's mouth twitched—he knew.
Later that night, Ji-hwan received a note in his chambers, stamped with gold wax:
"If fate won't speak to me, I'll chase the shadow it hides behind. Come to the pavilion. Midnight."
Ji-hwan closed the note, heart thudding.
He knew what this was. A test. An invitation. A snare.
And yet—he went.
The pavilion was quiet under moonlight. Seong-min waited alone, arms crossed.
"You're very skilled," the king said, without turning. "Too skilled to be harmless."
Ji-hwan stepped closer. "I never claimed to be harmless, Your Majesty."
Seong-min spun, eyes bright and inscrutable. "Then why assist you?"
Ji-hwan looked him straight in the eye. "Because last time… I didn't."
Seong-min froze.
For one gasping second, time warped backwards.
Something flashed across the king's face—pain. Memory.
Then he breathed softly, "You recall."
Ji-hwan remained silent. He needn't say a word.
They both did now.