"Where are you going in such a hurry, Haneul?"
His voice—deeper than I remembered—shattered the fragile spell.
"Release my arm. I don't know what you mean," I replied, forcing steadiness into my tone despite the violent turn of my heart. "You're hurting me."
Kang-dae held my gaze for a heartbeat longer before releasing me. The wooden spoon struck the table with a sharp, decisive sound.
"Sit. I want to speak with you."
Authority radiated from him—unyielding, uninviting of refusal.
"We have nothing to discuss," I answered coldly. "My father has retired. The meal is finished."
"Sit," he repeated, lower now, his voice edged with danger. "Or I will make you."
The challenge in his eyes was real.
With visible displeasure, I gathered the folds of my hanbok and sat once more. I would not retreat. I would not tremble.
"Eat," he ordered, nodding toward my bowl.
"I have no appetite. Say what you want and leave. You've eaten. Your soldiers are resting."
"I'm not finished," he replied calmly, almost leisurely, as though savoring my agitation.
"Don't you need to deliver the maps to the palace?"
"I have time," he said. "All the time in the world."
The words chilled me.
"I recall," he continued, "that a few years ago, certain women meddled in matters reserved for men. They altered information. It caused significant trouble. The father was exiled."
His gaze sharpened.
"Have you ever heard of that, Haneul?"
Something inside my chest tightened.
"No," I answered evenly. "I have not."
My hands slipped beneath my sleeves, hiding the evidence.
"Haneul… your nails are darker than when I last saw you."
I froze.
He did not look away.
"Tell me," he went on softly, "do you enjoy astronomy? I've never known a woman who did."
"Why would you assume I do?" I countered.
"Is your father not the royal astrologer?"
A trap.
So I laid one of my own.
"And does your father serve among palace soldiers?"
A faint, unexpected breath escaped him—almost a dry laugh.
He had expected fear. Not resistance.
The air between us shifted.
This was no longer suspicion.
It was war.
"You are insolent," he declared, though there was something like admiration beneath the warning.
"And you forget your place before a lady," I shot back. "What would your General say if he knew you were alone with me while my father lies ill in his sarangchae?"
Something flickered across his face—anger, perhaps. Or something far more dangerous.
Before he could respond, boots sounded against wood.
"Sir, we are ready to depart," a soldier announced.
"Wait outside. We leave at once."
The tension vanished from his tone as though it had never existed.
I stood, keeping my distance.
"Is there anything else you wish to say, Subgeneral?"
He did not answer immediately. He studied me as though deciphering sacred text.
Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it belonged to us alone.
"Even with the brush and ink in your hands?"
The words stole my breath.
"Convey a message to your father," he continued.
"Speak."
He stepped close enough that his shadow swallowed me whole.
"Tell him I have never seen the maps of an elderly man drawn with such delicacy. The strokes carry the grace of a young lady admiring flowers. They are not the lines of a man who has endured a thousand winters—but of someone who looks at the heavens with new eyes."
My pulse roared in my ears.
He knew.
He had always known.
I turned abruptly and ordered my attendants to follow.
Behind me, one of the household servants approached him.
"This way, sir."
But Kang-dae did not move at once.
He remained still, watching my retreating figure with an intensity that burned.
I did not look back.
I could not.
"What right does he have to speak to me that way?" I muttered under my breath as I strode through the corridor. "Were palace manners never taught to him? Or does he believe age strips a man of dignity?"
My words were daggers flung into the air—an attempt to convince myself he was merely arrogant, not perceptive.
At the heavy doors of the sarangchae, I stopped.
My heart betrayed me.
Slowly, I turned.
Through the mist of receding rain, I saw him mounting his horse. The animal reared slightly before settling beneath his command. Moments later, he and his men rode away, vanishing into the blurred horizon.
They carried the maps.
And with them, the fragile safety of my secret.
Inside my father's chamber, I found him reclining, exhaustion etched deeper than illness alone could explain.
"Haneul, come," he urged weakly. "Tell me—how did it end?"
"Father, are you well?" I deflected quickly. "Has the physician seen you?"
"Did they leave?" he insisted.
"Yes. They have gone."
The lie came easily.
"Rest," I urged gently. "Protocol required that I see him off properly."
Another shield.
Another defense.
I would not let my father see the battlefield I had just survived.
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