The invitation was not private.
That alone marked the difference.
Seo Yerin learned this when the servants did not clear the inner corridors completely. They lowered their eyes, yes, and they withdrew to the edges of the household as they had been trained to do—but they did not vanish. Doors remained ajar. Footsteps passed beyond screens. Murmured voices carried faintly through the stone and wood.
The inner reception hall had been prepared instead of the drink chamber.
It was a space meant for discussion rather than indulgence, its ceiling higher, its lanterns placed wider apart. The light did not gather in one place. It spread evenly, leaving fewer shadows, fewer places to retreat from observation.
Yerin dressed with care.
Not with hesitation—she had learned better than that—but with precision. The robe chosen for her was dark and soft, tied at the shoulders and belted lightly at the waist. It covered her fully when she stood still, yet parted readily when she moved, the silk yielding rather than resisting. She wore nothing beneath it.
She entered when summoned.
Three men were already present.
Muyeon sat at the center, posture composed, expression neutral. To his right sat an elder from a neighboring sect—older, broad-faced, eyes sharp with calculation rather than appetite. The third man stood near the window, his robe plain but his presence unmistakable, a senior instructor whose influence lay not in politics but in reputation.
Conversation paused when she stepped inside.
Not abruptly.
But noticeably.
Muyeon gestured for her to stand near him, not beside the guests, not apart. In between.
"Come closer," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "Do not linger by the door. You are not an afterthought."
She obeyed.
The silk shifted as she walked, the robe opening slightly at the front with each step, then settling again when she stopped. She stood where indicated, hands folded loosely before her, chin level, gaze lowered but not hidden.
"This is my wife," Muyeon said calmly, addressing the men present. "She has been prepared to assist our household when required."
The elder's gaze moved over her without pretense. "Prepared how?"
Muyeon did not look at her when he answered. "Adequately. But refinement is ongoing."
He turned to Yerin then.
"Tell them," he said, "what your role is."
She lifted her eyes.
"My role," she said evenly, "is to serve the household's interests as instructed."
The instructor by the window regarded her more closely. "And do you understand what that requires in public?"
"Yes."
Muyeon's expression remained unchanged. "Remove the belt."
The words were spoken without emphasis.
Without warning.
They carried through the hall clearly.
Yerin did not hesitate.
She untied the belt at her waist and let it fall. The robe loosened immediately, the front parting enough to reveal bare skin beneath, the line of her stomach, the gentle curve where fabric no longer restrained shape. She did not close it again.
"Do you see?" Muyeon asked the others. "She does not resist instruction."
The elder leaned forward slightly. "Resistance would be inconvenient."
"Precisely," Muyeon replied.
He turned back to Yerin. "Now tell me—when you are addressed like this, in a room where others can hear, what do you feel?"
The question was deliberate.
She answered after a brief pause. "I am aware of my posture. Of how I stand."
"And beyond that?"
She inhaled slowly. "Of being observed."
Muyeon nodded. "Good. That awareness is useful. But you still hold yourself as if privacy might be restored at any moment."
He rose from his seat.
"You assume this exposure is temporary," he continued, stepping closer. "That assumption limits you."
He stopped in front of her and reached out—not to touch her body, but to adjust the fall of the robe at her shoulder. His fingers brushed skin briefly as the silk slipped lower, exposing the upper curve of her chest to the open room.
No one looked away.
"There," he said quietly. "Stand like that."
She did.
The air felt cooler against newly exposed skin. Her breathing deepened slightly, the movement visible now, impossible to hide.
"This is not humiliation," Muyeon said to the others. "It is alignment."
The instructor spoke for the first time. "You correct her as you would a disciple."
"Yes," Muyeon replied. "Disciples are taught in private until they are ready to be taught openly."
He addressed Yerin again.
"When you are seen," he said, "you do not shrink. You do not harden. You remain available."
She absorbed the instruction in silence.
"Repeat it," he said.
"I remain available," she said.
Muyeon stepped back and gestured toward the elder. "Approach her."
The elder did.
He did not touch her. He circled once, slowly, eyes attentive, assessing not just her body but her stillness, her breath, the way she held herself under scrutiny.
"She does not avert her gaze," he observed.
"No," Muyeon agreed. "She has learned that much."
The elder stopped in front of her. "Lift your chin."
She did.
He studied her face, then nodded. "Adequate."
Muyeon turned back to her. "Do you understand what was corrected?"
"Yes."
"Explain it."
"I was holding myself as though discretion would return," she said carefully. "I was corrected to remain composed without expecting concealment."
Muyeon regarded her for a long moment.
"Better," he said. "You are learning to listen without defense."
He gestured for the men to return to their seats.
Conversation resumed, quieter now, but not relaxed. Yerin remained standing where she was, robe open at the shoulder and waist, skin exposed, posture held by intention rather than stiffness.
No one addressed her directly again.
That, too, was part of the correction.
***
Later, when the guests had departed and the household settled into night, Muyeon summoned her once more.
This time, the chamber was small.
No witnesses.
No lanterns beyond a single low flame.
"You were corrected publicly tonight," he said. "Do you understand why?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Say it."
"Because my role must remain consistent regardless of audience."
"Correct," Muyeon said. "Privacy is a condition, not a right."
He watched her for a moment, then added, "You did not falter."
"I did not."
"That matters."
He dismissed her with a gesture.
***
In the bath later, Yerin stood beneath the water and replayed the evening—not the words alone, but their delivery. The way instruction had been spoken clearly, without concealment. The way awareness had settled into her posture and remained there without dissolving into discomfort.
When she lay down to sleep, she did not immediately close her eyes.
The memory of being addressed aloud lingered longer than it should have.
Not as pleasure.
As presence.