The palace was quiet when Bella returned to her chamber, the kind of quiet that came only after a day heavy with decisions. Lantern light spilled softly across the corridor as she shut the door behind her, leaning her forehead briefly against the wood.
She had barely exhaled when a knock sounded.
Measured. Familiar.
She opened the door to find Ji-ho standing there, sleeping ropes loose, hair untied, holding a white ceramic bottle wrapped in cloth. The scent of rice wine drifted faintly between them and drinking snacks in the other.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, though his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.
Bella raised a brow. "You usually are."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Then I'll come in anyways."
She gave him a small smile as she stepped aside.
They sat on the floor as Bella drew a low table near, as the moonlight pierced through the open window. Ji-ho placed the snack on the table and then poured the wine carefully into two small cups.
He offered Bella a cup, as she carefully took it from him. "I didn't taking you for the drinking type."
"I just don't invite people to drink with me when I do."
That earned a soft huff from her. She drank.
Warmth spread through her chest. Relief, maybe.
After a moment, she spoke. "Why did you tell the King about your plans to bring down the Prime Minister?"
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"My father has wanted the Prime Minister removed for years," Ji-ho said calmly. "Long before I understood politics in this palace."
"And you trust him that much?"
"I trust his dis-trust," he replied honestly. "And his authority."
Bella studied him over the rim of her cup. "Hmmm. What if he warns the Prime Minister of your plans? What if he chooses stability over truth?"
Ji-ho met her gaze without flinching. "Then nothing changes. The Prime Minister already believes himself untouchable."
He poured again.
"He was the one who placed my father on the throne," Ji-ho continued. "That's why he feels powerful. But legitimacy cuts both ways. If the King stands against him publicly, with evidence at hand of his treacherous deeds in past and present, then the court, the nobles, the military… they follow."
Bella nodded slowly, understanding now how he played at this wicked game. "You needed the crown."
"I needed the weight of it," he said. "And so do you."
As he spoke, Bella found herself studying him more carefully. Not the title, not the silk or the crown that weighed too heavy on a man so young, but the way his words were chosen. Measured. Deliberate. Like pieces set on a board she hadn't realized he was learning to play.
So this is how it begins, she thought. Not with open defiance or reckless courage, but with patience. With observation.
The palace had been schooling him in cruelty the only way it ever knew how, through example. Through betrayals whispered behind screens, loyalties traded like coin, power wielded not by strength, but by timing. They had mistaken his quietness for dullness, his restraint for weakness. A dangerous miscalculation on their part.
He was not slow-witted. He was listening. Watching. Absorbing.
And perhaps, if his gods were cruel or kind enough, he would be the one to walk out of this labyrinth crowned in more than just gold.
Victorious.
She smiled faintly. "You're gambling."
"I learned that from you."
Their cups touched lightly.
The Morning of Celebration
The palace woke before the sun.
Drums echoed faintly from the inner courtyards as servants rushed through corridors carrying bolts of silk, lacquered boxes, trays of fruit, trays of sweets. The kitchens blazed with life—steam rising from cauldrons, spices crushed, knives flashing as chefs prepared dishes from every corner of the kingdom.
It was the Queen Dowager's seventieth birthday.
A sacred milestone.
Courtyards were draped in crimson and gold. Lanterns swayed like captured stars. Musicians tuned their instruments while dancers rehearsed beneath watchful eyes. Noblewomen arrived in layered hanbok, colors rich as autumn leaves. Princes, ministers, generals, all gathered beneath banners stitched with symbols of longevity and fortune.
Bella stood at the edge of it all, watching it all unfold.
She planned a play. One not of silk and flower petals, but of movement.
Her swords lay before her, polished until they reflected the sun light. She flexed her fingers once, breathing steady as she steady her breathing form.
This is not combat, she reminded herself.This is art.
The Celebration Begins
The Queen Dowager entered to thunderous applause, supported by attendants, her posture straight, her gaze sharp despite her years.
The King bowed deeply.
The Queen followed.
The ceremony began.
As the performers for the Jeongjae displayed their move, followed by the Heonseondo – Immortal Peach Offering Dance and Yeonhwadaemu – Lotus Pedestal Dance, and a Hyangak. A Court Poetry where offered by ministers, royal women, and scholars. As palace women display embroidered screens, and presented also new ceremonial robe.
Then came the gift presentation from the royal house.
The hall shifted the moment he rose.
It was subtle at first, the faint straightening of spines, the quiet pause of breath, but Bella noticed it immediately. The Grand Prince Seo Yuhan and how well he carried himself. This was Bella's first time seeing him. She had heard a little about him through the gossip channels in the palace. He was elegant, not merely in height, though his shoulders had broadened and his robes now fell with natural authority, but in presence. He moved with a composure too deliberate for boyhood, each step measured, each gesture refined as though the palace itself had been shaping him in secret.
Whispers rippled softly among the ministers.
"So young, yet so composed."
"He carries himself like one born to command."
"Graceful. Demure. He knows the weight of his blood."
The court announcer cleared his throat to give way for the announcement.
"Presenting his offering to Her Majesty the Queen Dowager—
The Grand Prince, Seo Yuhan ."
At the sound of his name, the boy stepped forward, robes of muted silk whispering against the stone. He knelt with flawless precision, neither rushed nor timid, and raised the gift with both hands.
"A humble offering," he said, voice steady, clear. "In celebration of Your Majesty's longevity."
The attendant unveiled it carefully.
Rare jade, deep green, the Queen's Dowager's favorite color, cool and luminous, carved with ancient symbols of prosperity, longevity, and Heaven's favor. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Not extravagant. Thoughtful.
A murmur of approval spread through the hall.
"The symbolism is well chosen."
"Jade of that quality is remarkable."
"He understands restraint."
The Queen Dowager regarded the gift in silence for a long moment. Then she smiled, not broadly, but with unmistakable approval.
"You grown well, Grand Prince and have thought carefully," she said. "This jade carries a good wish."
She gestured, and he rose just enough for her to reach him. Her hand lifted, resting briefly against his cheek, an intimate gesture, maternal and possessive all at once.
"Thank you, Seo Yuhan," she said softly. "You have grown well."
The words landed heavier than praise. They were acknowledgment.
The Grand Prince bowed again, deeper this time, and stepped back into place. The court exhaled as one.
Bella watched him return to his seat, face composed, eyes lowered, but not uncertain.
Not shy.
No, she thought.
The palace was already teaching him how to wear power.
And the Queen Dowager had just claimed him in full view of everyone who mattered.
Ministers followed next with treasures: scrolls, jewels, silks, relics of history.
Even the Prime Minister stepped forward, serene, smiling, offering a golden screen etched with cranes.
Longevity.
Silence descended upon the hall as Ji-ho stepped toward the grand altar.
Even the musicians stilled.
Behind him, palace attendants advanced in careful unison, bearing a golden cage so ornate it caught the light like a living thing. It upper half entirely veiled in white silk, living the other half open for the wondering eyes, fine linen embroidered with lotus blossoms, their petals unfurling in gold and pearl thread, stems curling gracefully as if floating upon unseen water. Each stitch was deliberate, reverent, the kind reserved for sacred rites and royal blessings.
Through the silk, the faint gleam of gold shone through.
The cage itself was a marvel, wrought of pure gold, its bars engraved with delicate cloud motifs and longevity symbols. Tiny jewels were set along its frame, jade, garnet, and crystal, catching the lantern light in soft, reverent flashes. Even covered, it radiated wealth, care, and intention.
A murmur stirred among the court.
"What could require such reverence?"
"That embroidery alone is priceless."
"A gift fit for Heaven."
At a single gesture from the Crown Prince, the attendants drew back the silk.
A collective breath was drawn.
Within the gilded cage perched a creature no one had ever seen before.
It resembled a phoenix, yet was something older, its feathers shimmering in layered hues of deep emerald, sapphire, and molten gold. Long tail plumes cascaded downward like living silk, each movement catching firelight. Its eyes burned bright and keen, lit from within, as though touched by flame and wisdom both.
The air itself seemed to shift.
Some swore the hall felt warmer. Others felt suddenly lighter.
Whispers rippled, urgent and awed.
"A spirit-beast…"
"No—an omen of Heaven."
"They say such creatures grant longevity merely by their presence…"
The Crown Prince bowed before the altar.
"A bird from the southern reaches," Ji-ho said calmly. "It is said to live two hundred years. To remain with one chosen companion through every season of its life. To bring vitality and long years to those it serves."
The Queen Dowager leaned forward, her gaze fixed upon the creature.
To its magnitude and wonder.
"A creature of loyalty and life," she murmured.
Approval stirred openly now.
"How thoughtful…"
"To gift such rarity. such care…"
"He must love Her Majesty deeply to bestow something so precious."
The value of the gift was no longer measured in gold.
It was measured in meaning.
The Queen Dowager smiled then, slow, genuine, unmistakably pleased.
The phoenix-like bird lifted its head, eyes burning softly, and let out a low, melodic cry that echoed faintly through the hall.
And in that moment, everyone understood:
The Crown Prince had not merely brought a gift.
He had brought longevity, devotion, and a quiet declaration of where his loyalties, and his future, lay.
Applause followed, measured, reverent, inevitable.
Yet Bella's eyes were no longer on the gilded cage.
They drifted instead to the Queen.
And then to the Prime Minister.
The Queen's smile remained fixed, flawless as lacquered porcelain, but it did not reach her eyes. There, just for a breath—something dark flickered beneath the approval.
Calculation. Annoyance.
The Prime Minister did not bother to hide it at all.
His lips had thinned, his fingers tightening slowly around the armrest of his seat.
He whisper to one of his councles, "Is this a gift," he murmured, "or a challenge?"
But they did not answer.
Bella watched it all as she felt a chill crawl down her spine.
Only she seemed to notice how the Queen's fingers flexed once against the silk of her sleeve before she rose. When she stepped forward, her composure returned in full, graceful, benevolent, untouchable.
She reached out and tapped the Crown Prince lightly on the arm, a gesture meant for all to see.
"Well done," she said warmly. "Well done, son."
Her smile widened, court-perfect.
"You have outdone yourself."
Laughter and praise rippled through the hall, the moment sealed in gold.
But Bella caught the Prime Minister's expression as he looked away.
The Crown Prince bowed, respectful as ever, yet as he straightened, there was no triumph on his face. Only composure.
The kind learned in palaces where winning was never without consequence.
Bella lowered her gaze into her cup.
So, she thought, this is how wars begin in silk and smiles.
Music swelled.
Dancers moved in graceful arcs, sleeves flowing like water. Drummers thundered. Masks appeared, spirits, beasts, ancestors brought to life. The court laughed, clapped, breathed, as they made merry at the Queen Dowager's birthday.
Then the music stilled.
The sudden silence struck harder than sound ever could.
Bella's breath caught as she stepped forward, the echo of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears. This was not home. There would be no forgiving applause, no gentle laughter to smooth a mistake. Here, a single misstep could be read as insolence. Or worse, failure.
Failure, in this palace, had a way of ending lives.
She felt the weight of every gaze, the King, the Queen, the Queen Dowager, the ministers who smiled with their mouths and sharpened knives with their eyes. This court was famous for its cruelty, for how beauty and blood often shared the same breath.
The Crown Prince stiffened.
For a heartbeat, he thought he had misunderstood what he was seeing.
Bella.
Stepping forward.
Alone.
What is she doing?
His fingers tightened against the armrest as unease crept in. They had not spoken of this. There had been no plan, no warning. This palace devoured the careless, and she was walking straight into its jaws.
Does she know where she is?
Does she know what a single mistake could cost?
His gaze searched hers, sharp with alarm.
And then she looked at him, her hands trembling once.
She looked up at him.
Not for permission.
For courage.
Just a breath of a moment, but it struck him all the same. Her eyes held fear, yes, but beneath it was resolve. The kind born not of recklessness, but of choice.
This is for you, her look seemed to say.
And for what I survived.
His breath caught.
Slowly, deliberately, he inclined his head, barely a movement, barely visible. Not to stop her.
To urge her.
Go on.
Bella's shoulders eased. The tremor in her hands stilled.
The music rose.
And she stepped into destiny.
Her attire alone drew murmurs. It was not the usual layered gown of court dancers, heavy and ornamental. Instead, Bella had reshaped silk into something freer, flowing palazzo-like trousers, long panels of linen falling from her arms and hips, edged and split so that when she moved, they unfurled like wings. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching the lantern light, trailing behind her like auroras torn from the night sky.
Clothes fit for gods, not courtiers.
Before anyone could question it, Bella lifted a vessel and poured water over herself.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Cold water soaked into silk, darkening it, weighing it, then releasing it. The fabric clung and flowed at once, alive, responsive to every breath she took.
"What is she doing…?"
"Is this part of it?"
Bella closed her eyes.
The palace vanished.
She was back in the forest.
The air thick with fear. The earth slick beneath her feet. The moment where instinct stripped her bare, kill or be killed. She felt it again: the terror, the clarity, the raw, burning will to survive. To protect. To stand between death and the one she had sworn not to lose.
She opened her eyes.
And bowed deeply.
"May you live long, Your Majesty," she said, voice steady despite the storm inside her. "May your years be many, and may your strength never fade."
She reached for the swords.
The music rang, delicate at first, then swelling.
Bella moved.
At first glance, it looked like a dance, flowing silk, measured steps, the grace expected of a court performer. But then the impossible began.
Her legs swept through the air, splits, leaps, somersaults, each landing precise and silent, as if the floor itself dared not resist her. Arms arced like brushstrokes across the space, flowing in patterns that were almost hypnotic.
She twisted midair, a turn born from gymnastics, but her strikes landed like blades of air, rooted in the discipline of Taekwondo, Kung Fu, and the poise of cheerleading tumbles. Every stance she held, every pivot, was deliberate, even as her body seemed to defy gravity in their eye.
The courtiers' whispers began, soft, unsure, questioning.
"What… is she doing?"
"She cannot be human."
"Who taught her such form?"
Her movements bent the rules of reality. Silks flared like wings, arms and legs painting invisible constellations. Spins unfolded into arcs so wide the lantern light traced them in golden trails. Each leap, each flourish, was a story—fear, survival, devotion, courage, all stitched into motion.
This was not a performance for entertainment. Not for applause. Not for survival in the usual sense.
This was a language of gods.
The Queen Dowager's eyes widened imperceptibly. Even the ministers leaned forward, unsure whether to admire, fear, or both. The Crown Prince froze, breath caught, realizing that Bella was dancing not for the hall, but for the Queen Dowager, for him, and for the memory of what she had survived.
It was like watching the tiger die again.
Her blades traced arcs that seemed impossible, slicing air with whispers of death and salvation. Yet her body was poetry, strong, fluid, exacting. It was combat, it was flight. It was worship and defiance all at once.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Even the Prime Minister leaned forward, his expression stripped of calculation, replaced by something dangerously close to awe.
The Queen Dowager never not look away.
She saw it all.
The fear that sharpened into resolve.
The devotion that drove Bella's blade.
The unspoken vow written into every strike: I will not fall. I will not fail.
Bella moved with the rhythm of gods on a battlefield, ancient, merciless, beautiful.
By the time she landed softly on one knee, silk billowing around her, the hall was silent for a single heartbeat. Then, as if the world finally caught its breath, applause erupted, thunderous, astonished, unwilling to believe what they had just witnessed.
But Bella's eyes, still damp from the exertion, drifted beyond the polished marble and gold-trimmed walls.
From the shadows, she saw them, the kitchen staff, the guards, the servants who rarely found themselves invited to witness anything beyond their duties. Their faces were wide-eyed, mouths half-open in astonishment, like owls caught in the brilliance of moonlight.
And there, at the edge of the hall, Hejin, the small, sharp-eyed girl who she had once saved, clapped furiously, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her delicate hands were barely able to keep pace with her joy, but she refused to stop.
One by one, the others joined. Quiet servants, men who spent their days sharpening blades or stirring pots, women who dusted floors and arranged dishes, they clapped, cheered, and stared in disbelief.
Bella felt a warmth bloom in her chest. Approval. Recognition. A simple, pure acknowledgment that she had done what she had meant to do: transcend the palace, even for a moment, and speak with her body what words could never carry.
The clapping rang out, louder, braver, filling the space behind her like a tide of encouragement. Even the tiniest gestures, the tilt of a head, the sparkle in an eye that said: "You did it. You are extraordinary."
And for a heartbeat, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel, to belong.
And Bella remained there, chest heaving, water dripping, the sweat of effort glinting in lantern light. Not performing for them. Performing for what she was, for what she had survived, and for the truth she carried with her into the palace.
And then, amidst the roar of the crowd, the Crown Prince moved.
He did not wait, did not linger in polite awe. He strode forward with purpose, graceful yet urgent, as if every step were drawn by gravity itself. When he reached her, his eyes met hers, wide, bright, and unguarded, awash with a wonder Bella had never seen before.
"That was… beautiful," he said, voice hushed but trembling with something unspoken. "I've never… I've never seen anyone move like that."
Bella's chest heaved, water dripping from her hair and sweat glinting along her arms. Her body still hummed with the echoes of motion, heart pounding, yet when she spoke, her voice was calm, sweet, gentle, almost melodic.
"Well," she said, eyes soft but unwavering, "you have now."
The words were simple. Unassuming. Yet they struck him with the force of a revelation.
For a long, suspended moment, the Crown Prince could do nothing but stare. His chest rose and fell, mind spinning with awe, admiration, and something far more dangerous, something like wonder, and affection.
For a moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them. The swirl of silk, the sheen of sweat, the lingering echoes of blades tracing air, all fell away, leaving only her and him.
The Queen Dowager's eyes flicked toward them. Just a subtle glance, but enough. A measuring, calculating look. A silent acknowledgment: perhaps this girl was worthy. Worthy of the Crown Prince's trust, worthy of the hall, worthy to stand alongside the bloodline.
But as she noticed, so did another.
The Left State Counsellor, seated across the hall, had watched the entire display with polite attention. But now his sharp eyes caught it, the way their gazes held, unbroken. The way the Crown Prince's breath seemed to hitch, and Bella's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly.
What is this? the counsellor thought, narrowing his eyes. What is that look between them?
He leaned slightly forward, hand brushing his chin. The connection was subtle, almost fleeting to anyone else, but not to him. He knew palace politics, knew intrigue, knew every flicker of expression could be a dagger or a declaration.
That gaze, lingering, intimate, unspoken, was more than admiration. More than courage.
It was dangerous.
To him and his plans.
—
WHISTLE.
The sound cut through the air.
An arrow streaked across the hall, flame licking its shaft.
Chaos exploded.
It struck the pillar behind the Queen Dowager, embedding deep, fire spreading instantly. Attached to it, a burning note.
Guards surged forward. Screams rang out. Nobles scrambled.
Ji-ho moved without thought, shielding his grandmother.
Bella ran to his side to protect him.
The note was torn free, flames extinguished.
WE REJECT YOUR RULE.THE PALACE WILL FALL.
Fear swallowed the celebration whole.
The Prime Minister's face was still.
Bella's gaze sharpened.
"This wasn't the rebels," she said quietly to Ji-ho.
Ji-ho nodded. "No."
An alarm was put out, shutting the palace gate, sealing every entrance till the culprit was found, as the royal member retreated to their various lodgings.
And above it all, Bella felt it,
The war had begun.