Ban did not offer his hand.
But he opened the gates of Gwangha Fortress, and for Ji-hwan, that was enough.
They spoke little during the first day. Ji-hwan studied the northern defenses, passed along coded orders from the king, and slept with his dagger beneath his pillow.
On the second night, Ban cornered him at the training grounds.
"You're not just here to check supplies."
Ji-hwan did not deny it. "There is a message that we intercepted. A border group intends to foment war. Someone within the palace is giving them intel."
Ban's eyes slanted. "Treason at court?"
"Perhaps," Ji-hwan said. "And they would have the north do it."
Ban snorted. "Naturally. If the king were to perish during the anarchy, the court would rip itself apart. Again."
Again.
The word lingered in the air.
Ban moved closer, his words low and biting. "You allowed him to die once. I saw him bleed as you were nowhere."
Ji-hwan didn't react. "I died too, Seok-woo. Just gradually."
Ban glared at him for a long, charged moment—then walked away.
"I don't believe in you," he said. "But if the king's keeping an eye on you… perhaps I should do the same too."
Ji-hwan permitted a narrow smile. "Then observe carefully. I'm not here to let him down again."
That evening, Ban provided him with access to the secret paths of the fortress.
It wasn't friendship.
It was cooperation born of war.
And at a distance, the light of torches moved along the northern ridges—a warning that betrayal was already afoot.