The Spring Festival commenced with petals descending like gentle snow over the capital.
Lanterns glowed in red and gold hues in the palace courtyard, music drifted through the air, and nobles sported silk smiles and sterner secrets.
Ji-hwan strolled alongside Seong-min, dressed in ceremonial white—a color of grief made anew.
The court murmured. The Choi family observed.
And Ji-hwan permitted them.
Lady Choi emerged, her voice honey-sweet. "Your Majesty does us the honor of his presence. And Lord Yoon… It's an unexpected sight to see you so near the throne once more."
Ji-hwan bowed deep enough. "Surprises are what keep the court alive, my lady."
Her smile didn't extend to her eyes.
Seong-min's voice sliced sharp through the courtesy. "Lady Choi, I think you like tea. Let Lord Yoon pour it for you personally. He's acquired a taste for it."
A momentary flash of confusion danced on her face.
Ji-hwan poured the tea himself—from a pot he'd changed seconds before he'd come into the pavilion.
Lady Choi lifted her cup. "To loyalty," she said.
"To truth," Ji-hwan answered.
They sipped.
A minute later, her hand shook. Her smile faltered.
And her eyes went wide with panic.
Guards intervened—not Seong-min's detail, but personally selected loyalists.
Lady Choi fell to the ground. "What—what have you done?"
Ji-hwan knelt in front of her. "It wasn't poison," he replied calmly. "It was an elixir of truth. Uncommon. Costly. Agonizing, when lies are uttered."
Seong-min's voice bellowed out: "Speak, Lady Choi—who in your residence conspired the king's death?"
She attempted to struggle. Her lips parted.
And the truth seeped from her lips, reluctant, inevitable.
Names. Dates. Secrets.
The disguise was shed.
The trap had been sprung.
And Ji-hwan stood at the king's side—not as bait, but as blade.