The chamber lay silent, lit only by the wavering glow of an oil lamp. The silk screen quivered with each breath of wind. She, barely seventeen, sat waiting, hands clenched tightly on her knees.
The door slid open. Yi Sun-sin entered—tall, broad, carrying the shadow of his armor even though he now wore plain linen. His steps were heavy, deliberate. He spoke no word. His cold gaze fell upon her like a verdict.
He removed his tunic without hesitation, then stepped closer, his stature casting its shadow over her. His scent was of iron and salt, harsh and unfamiliar. When his hand came down upon her shoulder, she flinched—his palm was large, unyielding, almost brutal in its simplicity.
He did not caress. He seized her, as one fulfills a duty. His lips pressed to hers, dry, more command than affection. In his eyes, no passion stirred—only the certainty that he was doing what was required.
She closed her eyes, her heart racing wildly. She felt crushed beneath him, frightened by the hardness of his touch—yet in the heat of his body against hers, she glimpsed another truth of this man. Not tender. Not loving. But alive. Powerful. Inescapable.
When he pulled away, still he said nothing. He turned, seated himself as if nothing had passed, already drawn back into the weight of his general's thoughts. She, motionless, understood: it was not love, but duty. And yet her body, against her will, carried the imprint of his strength and his presence.