After the guard departed, the air seemed to thicken. Though the sky glittered with countless stars and the moon shone above the roofline, Haneul felt a chill that did not belong to the night.
She looked toward the trees encircling the property, certain unseen eyes watched from the dark, as if she were marked prey. Another gust of wind carried something harsh—a discordant note that crawled down her spine.
"Inside," she ordered her momjong, voice taut. "I must give this to my father at once."
They walked the corridors in sepulchral silence, broken only by the whisper of silk against wood. Behind them, two sibi followed like mute shadows. Her momjong hurried closer, unable to swallow her dread.
"My lady… are you well? Do you know what the message says? That man— I did not like the way he looked at you."
Haneul kept her gaze forward, fingers crushing the paper. "I don't know who Min Seok-ryeon truly is," she confessed, a knot tightening in her throat, "nor what that specter is to him. I don't know what they want with my father… but my instinct tells me nothing good is coming."
At the astronomer's chambers, the eunuch announced her presence. After the proper bow, Haneul entered with her attendant, leaving the maids to guard the doorway. Her father waited within, candlelight trembling and stretching his shadow across the walls.
"Father, this arrived in your name," she said, extending the sealed letter. "Min Seok-ryeon's guard delivered it just now. Strange—he did not ask to see you, did not follow protocol. He simply placed it in my hands and said it was a message from his master."
The silence after her words was heavier than night itself. Haneul watched her father's hands tremble as he accepted the seal, knowing that once it was broken, the world they knew might collapse.
He looked at her with tenderness, wearing a smile that barely hid exhaustion.
"Have you been busy these days, Haneul? You hardly come to greet this old man anymore."
"Forgive me, Father," she replied, her voice breaking as she lowered her head beneath the weight of her secrets.
He approached slowly. His hands—knotted, ink-worn from a lifetime of holding the brush—settled firmly on her shoulders and lifted her gaze to his.
"You know I love you more than anything in this world," he whispered, and for an instant his eyes seemed to travel somewhere far away. "Forgive me if I have not been the father you deserved."
The words fell like a verdict—like a book closing too early.
"Father… why would you say that?" she asked, searching for an answer that did not come.
He did not respond. Instead, he turned to her momjong with calm authority.
"Take my daughter. Prepare a bath with fragrant herbs. Tomorrow… tomorrow I will be waiting to drink tea with her."
"Yes, sir," the woman answered, bowing.
Haneul forced herself to step back, though her feet felt heavy as lead. She looked at her father one last time—standing there, wrapped in shadow—and left the room with a fear so deep each step felt like battle.
The bath awaited her. Herbal steam floated through the air, but her thoughts were far away.
"My lady, your bath is ready."
She sank into the hot water, lowering herself until only her forehead remained above the surface—seeking refuge in the silence beneath. Her momjong leaned closer, her whisper threaded with worry.
"My lady… is something troubling you? Lately, you no longer confide in me."
Haneul surfaced abruptly, gasping as if she were drowning in her own secrets.
"Leave me," she snapped. "I don't want to speak to anyone."
"As you wish. If you need anything, I will be outside," her momjong replied, retreating with obvious concern.
Alone, Haneul listened to the faint crackle of candle flames.
Then a voice—soft, almost woven into the wind—spoke her name.
"Haneul."
She glanced around, certain it was imagination, and fixed her eyes again on the dancing light.
"Haneul."
This time, firmer.
She stiffened, water dripping from her shoulders as she searched the shadows behind her.
"Do you hear me?"
"Who's there?" she demanded, heart hammering.
"It's me… Kang-dae."
Her breath vanished.
"Kang-dae? The Bujang?"
"Yes. I'm waiting at the cliff. Come alone."
"Why? What are you doing here at this hour?" she asked, desperate—but silence reclaimed the room.
He was gone.
The warmth of the bath seemed to evaporate from her skin in an instant, replaced by an electric cold that raised the hair on her arms. She sprang to her feet and reached for her darkest hanbok—the one she wore to vanish into the observatory's shadows.
Her fingers trembled so violently that the silk ties felt impossible.
"This is madness," she whispered to the empty air.
She pressed her ear to the door. Beyond it, her momjong's murmur with the maids was the only barrier between safety and ruin. The front door was impossible. The eunuch would raise an alarm before her feet touched grass.
Her eyes fixed on the small side window that opened to the rear garden, where brush and wild growth swallowed the path toward the cliff.
Heart pounding like a war drum, she gathered cushions and blankets, arranging them beneath the covers. With practiced hands, she shaped the silhouette of a sleeping body and pulled the heavy curtains closed so no one could glimpse the empty bed.
"I don't need you anymore!" she called toward the door, forcing her voice steady. "I'm going to sleep."
"My lady, let us help you change—" her momjong insisted.
"I said no," Haneul cut her off, firm. "I'm exhausted. Don't come in."
The silence that followed told her they had retreated, confused but obeying.
She extinguished the candles with a single breath.
Darkness took her whole.
She knew she had crossed a line with no return. If discovered, there would be no excuse that could save her honor—or her father's. They would be branded traitors, or worse.
But if she did not go, the mystery of Kang-dae's voice would haunt her to the end of her days.
With a swift, silent movement, she slipped through the window.
Night air struck her face, cold and sharp—
reminding her that she was no longer merely the protected daughter of an astronomer,
but a shadow running toward the unknown.
That night, when she would later flee to the cliff to cry unseen, it would not be Kang-dae who stepped from the trees. It would be the man behind the blue veil. And his voice would bury her hope with one sentence:
"The stars cannot change what has already been written on the earth."
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