Haneul's father paced the study, his footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. In his right hand he held the note the young Bujang had delivered—crumpled now from the force of his grip. His face had become a map of shadows and worry.
When Kang-dae finally entered, his brow was beaded with sweat, his breathing uneven from the run down from the cliff.
"My lord," he managed, forcing the words out between breaths.
"Boy—why are you so agitated?" Haneul's father asked, stopping mid-stride. "Are you well?"
"Yes, sir," Kang-dae replied at once, squaring his shoulders. "Forgive me. I was inspecting the surroundings to ensure everything was secure before nightfall."
The old man studied him, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Is there danger stalking us that I don't know about?"
"No, sir… that's not what I meant," the young officer corrected quickly. "It's simply a habit. A military routine—checking the perimeter before sleep."
A small smile, edged with a sad kind of irony, appeared on the astronomer's face. "It was a joke, boy. You've nothing to fear. I know you only do your duty." His tone softened. "Relax a little. You're not within the palace walls anymore. Here, you may breathe."
At that, the Bujang's shoulders fell. A long exhale left him—relief, and something heavier beneath it. The hospitality of a man he had been ordered to spy upon weighed on his soul like lead.
"Thank you for your kindness, sir," Kang-dae said, and meant it.
"Tomorrow we'll go early to the Cheomseongdae," Haneul's father announced. "I want everyone to know why you are here. I want you to see our work with your own eyes." Then his voice sharpened with concern. "But tell me—how is the King truly? The palace must be chaos."
"It is, sir. The gates have been sealed completely," Kang-dae answered, gravely.
"Ah…" the astronomer murmured, rubbing his chin. After a pause, venom slipped out before he could swallow it. "I imagine Lord Min is in charge of everything inside." His eyes darkened. "That damned man. He's hiding something."
"What did you say, sir?" Kang-dae asked, though he'd heard perfectly.
"It's nothing," the old man cut off, regaining his composure. "Go rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Kang-dae left the study with his heart weighted, as if every step was a betrayal of the trust that man had just placed in him. When he crossed into the central courtyard, the night air struck his face—cold enough to sting, but not enough to calm his mind.
He stopped in the middle of the yard, surrounded by the shadow of the eaves, their shapes clawing across the stone like black talons.
That was when he saw her.
Haneul stood there, leaning against a wooden column, her face half-swallowed by the penumbra. She did not move; she looked like jade carved into a woman—waiting for judgment. Her eyes, bright with cold or with unshed tears from the cliff, pinned him in place.
"Have you finished speaking with my father?" she asked—her voice no more than a whisper cutting through the night.
Kang-dae didn't answer at once. The space between them felt like an abyss filled with secrets and palace threats.
"We're going to the observatory tomorrow," he said at last, forcing his officer's tone back into place. "Your father believes I should understand his work."
Haneul stepped into the moonlight, letting it reveal the anguish etched into her face. She moved close enough for him to catch the scent of pine and winter clinging to her clothes.
"Tell me the truth, Kang-dae." Her fingers clenched in the fabric of his cloak. "My father trusts you because he believes the King sent you. But I saw you on the cliff. I saw the way you looked at me…" Her voice tightened. "Is my father truly safe with you?"
Kang-dae's hands curled at his sides. He wanted to swear he would die before letting Min touch them. He wanted to confess everything.
But the words lodged in his throat like blood.
Silence stretched—dense, aching—until a cloud covered the moon, plunging them into complete darkness.
"Go to sleep, Haneul," he said finally, his voice broken into something she didn't recognize.
Haneul didn't answer.
She only looked at him one last time, and in the depths of her pupils, Kang-dae thought he saw a silent scream—desperate, pleading for one thing alone:
Save me.
Without waiting, she turned and retreated toward her chambers, moving carefully between columns, disappearing into shadow like a thief fleeing the night after stealing a piece of his soul.
Kang-dae remained motionless in the courtyard, staring into the emptiness she left behind. The weight of his sword had never felt so unbearable. The night's silence had never sounded so much like a sentence.
The next morning, Haneul was already waiting in the yard. She knew that with the Bujang present, her father wouldn't dare forbid her entrance to the observatory.
From the dim corridor, Kang-dae stopped short when he saw her.
She was adjusting her jade binyeo with a delicacy that unsettled him. Morning sun reflected across her face, bathing her smooth skin in gold, making her look like a deity descended from starlight. She wore a sky-blue hanbok with pale pink details, and her long braid, tied with a white ribbon, fell elegantly over her shoulder.
Her lips—wildflower-colored—completed a beauty so clean it made his thoughts fracture.
He was lost. Absorbed in her.
"What are you doing, Kang-dae?" he scolded himself in a harsh whisper, shaking his head. "You're here to report to Lord Min—not to admire any woman."
"My daughter is beautiful," a low, serene voice said behind him, making him jump.
It was Haneul's father.
"She is like the wildflowers," the old man continued. "All she needs is someone who knows how to recognize beauty when he finds it."
Kang-dae went rigid, unable to respond—unable to hide his turmoil.
At that moment, Haneul looked toward the corridor, and when she saw them, she offered a radiant smile to her father and the officer. Without thinking—automatic, clumsy—Kang-dae lifted his hand and waved back.
The instant he realized what he'd done—smiling like a distracted boy—his face snapped serious again. He dropped his hand behind his back and forced a cough, scrambling for composure.
Haneul's father burst into a warm, delighted laugh. Still chuckling, he walked to his daughter, leaving Kang-dae standing behind, embarrassed and bewildered.
"Are you coming with us," the old man called, "or will you stand there all morning?"
Kang-dae hurried after them, trying to recover his soldier's dignity.
The moment we arrived, I couldn't hide my impatience. I entered the Cheomseongdae before either of them crossed the threshold.
My heart tightened at once.
The place was drowning in neglect. Because it was a space where only men worked, the carelessness was obvious. A thin layer of dust coated the tables; measurement instruments lay scattered instead of resting on their shelves.
"This place is a disgrace," I blurted, forgetting prudence entirely. "Does no one understand the importance of what happens here? Or the value of hanji and the sago?" My voice rose. "Nothing is where it belongs—what is wrong with you all?"
My father stiffened, visibly embarrassed in front of the Bujang. His stare pinned me.
"Daughter… what are you doing? Come here."
The moment I saw his reproach—and felt Kang-dae's gaze—I realized my outburst had exposed too much.
I forced a smile, wrapping my frustration in a mask of domestic devotion.
"Father, you're far too careless," I scolded lightly, pretending the concern of an obedient daughter. "If I didn't bring women to clean from time to time, you'd never worry about anything. You must be more careful. Knowledge cannot bloom in disorder."
My father exhaled, relieved by my shift in tone.
But Kang-dae didn't look away.
His eyes followed the instinctive way my hands drifted toward the brush and paper.
And I knew—my excuse was not convincing him.
He saw beyond surfaces.
Inside the Cheomseongdae, the air was different. It wasn't only the scent of old ink and dry paper.
It was loyalty.
The trusted scholars—those who had aged beneath my father's guidance—knew the truth. I was the one who drew the maps sent to the palace. They were my silent accomplices, bound by respect for my father and a nearly familial affection for me.
In that place, my secret wasn't a burden.
It was a treasure guarded by many.
One of the scholars approached with an exaggerated bow, drawing Kang-dae into technical questions about the palace. I seized the perfect distraction and slipped away.
My father kept my tools in the same corner of his private office, honoring my space even when I wasn't there.
I slid inside and closed the door behind me.
My desk waited—my wolf-hair brush, my hanji—everything as I'd left it.
But as I stepped closer, my heart stopped.
On my table, directly atop the sky map I was finishing, lay an object that should not have been there.
An official inspector's plaque—one used by the very men who served under Councilor Min's authority.
It wasn't hidden.
It was placed there openly.
A message.
A warning.
I felt a presence behind me.
Before I could turn—before I could hide my instruments—the door opened again.
It wasn't my father.
It wasn't one of the scholars.
It was Kang-dae.
He had torn himself free from the distraction, and now he watched me with a gaze that was no longer admiration—
but cold, wounded understanding.
His eyes traveled from my hands… to the map… to the plaque.
"So it's true," he whispered, and his voice sounded like the metallic click of a trap closing.
His fingers closed around the emblem as if he could hide it by force.
"If I hadn't come today…" His voice cracked, barely. "None of this would exist."
The cold that flooded Haneul did not come from the wind.
It came from fate.
The air in that small office grew heavy, unbreathable.
The secret that had bound them in silence had revealed itself—
and with it, the certainty that their refuge no longer existed.
Councilor Min Seok-ryeon's hunt had reached the heart of the Cheomseongdae.
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