The exile is inevitable," the General's voice rang out between amused laughter. "With the King incapacitated by illness, the blame will fall entirely upon the scholar of Cheomseongdae. We will claim his flawed calculations cursed the throne."
Kang-dae's world tilted.
They were not merely conspiring against the Crown.
The man who had once been the scholar's closest friend was calmly weaving the rope that would hang him.
Rage surged through Kang-dae with violent force. His face became a mask of restrained fury and disgust. He knew he could not confront them all—not yet.
He turned to withdraw.
But agitation betrayed him.
His boot struck a decorative object. It crashed to the floor with a metallic clang.
Silence fell instantly on the other side of the paper wall.
"Who is there?" Lord Min's voice thundered, stripped of all laughter.
Kang-dae did not wait.
He ran.
Through dim corridors, past shadowed columns, heart pounding like a war drum. The sound had alerted the wolves.
He was no longer merely a spy who knew too much.
He was prey.
Marked.
Inside his own home.
The General rose with predatory speed, flinging open the chamber doors and ordering the guards to search every corner of the palace.
Lord Min, however, remained still—his gaze fixed upward, his expression darkened by a concern he did not voice.
Kang-dae knew the palace like the lines of his own palm.
He evaded pursuit and slipped into the night like a phantom, riding without rest until he reached the modest home where his mother and younger brother lived.
Before he even knocked, his two loyal guards had already spread through the surrounding shadows.
When his mother opened the door and saw him at such an hour, anguish pierced her chest.
"Are you well, my son?" she asked softly.
Kang-dae did not answer.
He fell into her embrace like a man drowning.
In that moment, the Bujang of the kingdom vanished.
There was only a frightened son.
She held him tightly, understanding without words that the world had shifted beneath his feet.
Later, while she prepared food with trembling but loving hands, Kang-dae stepped into the courtyard and began sparring playfully with his younger brother.
The boy laughed, mimicking his hero's movements.
Their mother watched from the doorway, pride and sorrow mingling in her eyes.
She felt it.
This piece was dew.
Beautiful.
Temporary.
Days later, tension settled over the observatory.
Haneul had regained the freedom to move between the study halls, yet her father's watchful presence shadowed her every step.
Freedom tasted like ash.
She returned to mapping the heavens, but her eyes no longer searched for stars.
They searched for memories.
The cliff became both sanctuary and torment.
Each night she returned, hoping the wind would whisper his name again.
The brightness that once defined her faded.
Her gaze dulled.
Her father saw it.
He understood her heart had left with Kang-dae—but chose silence, hoping time might heal what he could not.
Even her momjong read her poems beneath the oil lamps.
Haneul did not hear them.
She existed in another constellation—one where only one star burned.
Then the shadows returned.
One afternoon, she entered her study and froze.
The air felt disturbed.
Her maps lay scattered across the floor, as though frantic hands had searched for something.
"Everything appears to be in place…" she whispered, trying to steady her shaking fingers.
But instinct pulled her to the window.
In the distance, silhouetted against the horizon—
The man with the blue scarf.
Mounted.
Watching.
Like a crow waiting for carrion.
The moment he realized she had seen him, he spurred his horse and vanished into the trees.
Panic seized her.
She rode home at reckless speed, heart lodged in her throat.
But when she arrived, she found her father seated peacefully in the courtyard, sipping tea beneath a golden sunset.
The contrast nearly broke her.
"Has anyone visited you today?" she asked, breathless.
"No," he replied calmly. "Why?"
She lowered her gaze.
"No reason."
But the sun sinking beyond the horizon felt like the last warmth they would ever know.
Days later, Kang-dae stood before Lord Min.
He bowed, though the gesture felt heavy—forced by hypocrisy thick in the air.
Min greeted him with radiant false warmth.
"Sit, my boy! What brings you here? Has something happened at the observatory?"
Kang-dae met his gaze evenly.
"I wished to deliver my report personally… and visit my family."
"And how are they?" Min asked pleasantly.
"Well. My mother speaks of your generosity."
Min smiled benevolently.
"You are dear to me, Kang-dae. Like a son."
Rage flickered across the young officer's face before he suppressed it.
"Did I say something to upset you?" Min asked softly.
"No, my lord."
Then the General entered.
Kang-dae's heart twisted at the sight of the man who had once been his mentor.
Min folded his hands.
"Good. You are both here."
The General's voice was colder than steel.
"There is unrest at the border. Rebels. You will report immediately. You depart in three days."
The ground seemed to vanish beneath Kang-dae's feet.
"And my mission at the observatory?" he asked carefully.
Min's smile sharpened.
"Do not concern yourself. I will handle everything from now on."