The morning after her official accusation, Yena wasn't summoned....she was dragged.
Two guards escorted her to the Office of Royal Records, an unexpected location for an interrogation. She had imagined chains, perhaps a dimly lit chamber, not shelves of dusty scrolls and bored scribes sipping ink-watered tea.
The lead scribe, a wiry man with brows that looked permanently skeptical, slid a parchment across the table.
"State your name," he said flatly.
"Seo Yena. Palace maid. Shaman-in-training. Regular breakfast enthusiast."
He blinked.
"And your relation to the late Phoenix Consort?"
Yena leaned forward, lowering her voice dramatically. "She's haunting me."
The scribe stared.
She sighed. "I mean, I don't know. But she seems to like showing up in my mirror."
"Noted," he said, without emotion, scratching it down with a flourish.
A second scroll was unrolled. This one bore ancient calligraphy, crimson ink faded but unmistakably the royal mark.
Joon stepped in from the side hall, ignoring protocol.
"You're not showing her that," he said, voice tight.
The scribe ignored him. "It's public record now. A bloodline ritual was attempted. Her aura registered a match."
Joon's fists clenched. "The ritual was incomplete. And she wasn't told."
"Doesn't matter," the scribe replied. "The mark's been made."
Yena frowned. "What mark?"
The scribe slowly turned the parchment around.
There, burned faintly into the surface of the page, was a sigil....one that hadn't been visible before. A phoenix in flight, curled around a crescent moon. It glowed faintly… then pulsed.
Yena blinked. "I didn't do that."
The scroll burst into flames.
The room erupted into chaos. Scribes fled, guards drew weapons, and Yena just stared at her hands as if they'd betrayed her.
Hours later, hidden behind the library's stone stacks, Joon found her again.
"They think you activated a blood seal," he said, voice low.
Yena looked up, exhausted. "I didn't even sneeze on it."
"It doesn't matter." He sat beside her. "They'll want to test your blood. Officially."
"And unofficially?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just handed her a pouch of herbs, a folded robe, and a silver token etched with his crest.
"What's this?"
"Proof you're under my protection."
"Won't that make things worse?"
"They already want your head," he said. "Might as well give them a reason to hesitate."
That night, Yena stood before the Moon Gate, her robe drawn tight, the wind whispering secrets she didn't want to hear.
Behind her, the palace shifted, shadows watching.
In her hand, the token burned cold.
Ahead of her, the path to the Forbidden Wing...where the Phoenix Consort once lived creaked open.
She stepped forward.
And the gate… closed behind her.
The Forbidden Wing hadn't been opened in over two decades.
Cobwebs laced the archways like lace veils at a ghost's wedding. The corridor smelled of old incense and forgotten secrets. With each step, Yena felt like she was being watched.....not in a menacing way, but more like the hallway itself was curious.
She lit the small oil lamp Joon had slipped into her satchel. It flickered violently, casting strange, twitching shadows on the walls. Every portrait she passed seemed to lean in slightly..... eyes following, lips pursed in perpetual gossip.
One painting in particular stopped her cold.
A woman with silver-lined robes, a crescent-moon hairpin, and… Yena's nose.
She leaned in, squinting. "Well. That's either my great-great ghost-aunt or someone's playing a very elaborate prank."
Just below the frame, someone had scribbled in old ink:
"The Flame that sleeps will awaken in her shadow."
Before she could contemplate that unsettling poetry, a gust of wind slammed the window open.
The lamp died. So did her calm.
Then.....a whisper.
Not behind her. Inside her ear.
"She wore your face too."
Yena yelped, spun around, and nearly knocked over a dusty ceremonial urn.
"Nope. Absolutely not," she hissed. "This is ghost behavior and I do not have time today."
She grabbed the nearest tapestry and wrapped it around herself like armor.
Ridiculous? Yes.
Comforting? Also yes.
Then she noticed something strange.
The fire urn which hadn't been lit in years was glowing faintly.
As she approached, the ashes began to stir.
From within, a single red feather floated up, completely unburned. It hovered… then drifted toward her chest and stuck gently to her robe, just above her heart.
The mark of the Phoenix.
Behind her, the mirror beside the Consort's dressing table cracked clean down the center.