Footsteps pounded on the earth, swallowed by the weight of night. A woman—born a commoner in Joseon, yet more than that—ran like a hunted thing, her breath ragged, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her fingers tightened around a pale blue pendant—a yeonbong maedeup lotus, intricately knotted yet hollow at its center, the missing jade mirroring her own emptiness. The damp string burned against her skin, but she clung to it—her only remaining tether. *Yeonbong maedeup is a traditional Korean knot used in decorative art, known for its intricate, symmetrical design, often crafted with colorful cords to symbolize beauty, harmony, and longevity.*
Every frantic glance behind revealed only darkness, yet she sensed them—phantoms lurking, hunting her, waiting for her to falter. She had always known this day would come. The pendant's secret was never meant for her, yet she carried it—bound by duty, by blood.
A misstep. A sharp pain. Her foot snagged on an unseen stone, sending her crashing forward with a strangled gasp. Dirt scraped her palms. She staggered to her feet, breath jagged, body screaming for relief she dared not accept.
Then they emerged—three masked figures slipping from the darkness like revenants. Their silence was the worst part. No taunts, no threats—only the gleam of their eyes, embers in a pit of black, watching her struggle.
"He didn't say what we could do to her before bringing her back," one sneered, malice curling in his voice like smoke. The others chuckled darkly, their steps closing in, tightening the trap around her.
Her hand trembled as she reached into her bag, fingers brushing cold steel. She drew the dagger free, its blade gleaming under the moon's watchful gaze. But her strength was waning—she had run too far, too long.
Her grip faltered. A step. Another. The shadows closed in.
A whisper of steel. A sudden hush.
She closed her eyes, the pendant's string still tangled in her fingers. "I'm sorry… Oreboni."
The night fractured. The world dimmed. A rush of air, the scent of iron—
And then—nothing.
The night stretched on, silent and merciless. Somewhere, an owl cried—a lonely sound against the vast emptiness. The wind carried the faint scent of blood and damp earth, a cruel reminder of survival's cost.
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Time had passed, yet the weight of that night never truly lifted.
In the quiet glow of their home, Cao Anke's voice held a familiar gravity. "I'll return late. If I'm not back by sunset, you know what to do. Keep yourself and Xian Lian safe." His words were steady, but the air between them was thick—heavy with unspoken urgency. Anke's gaze swept the dimly lit room, sharp and calculating, searching for threats only he could sense. A merchant by trade, yes—but survival had forged him into something more.
Xiu Yan's fingers brushed the yeonbong maedeup pendant, its once-simple beauty now burdened by the serpent-eating-crown brooch. A silent keeper of secrets, it held truths too dangerous to name. She and Anke never spoke of it—the weight between them said enough.
Anke moved closer, his eyes softening for a moment. His hand hovered by her cheek, hesitant—caught between the warmth of love and the cold necessity of the world they lived in. "Be careful. Trust no one. Not even those you think you know."
A shiver ran down Xiu Yan's spine. There was something in his voice—a tremor she had not heard before. A warning? Or resignation? She swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "Go safely, my husband. I'll be here when you return."
A light giggle broke the oppressive silence like a burst of sunlight through clouds.
"Baba! Promise to come back home!"
Xian Lian's voice bubbled like spring water, untouched by the storm swelling around her parents. She was their one bright thing—too young to grasp the weight of silence.
Anke's lips twitched into a strained smile, as if holding it required effort. He crouched, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I will, little one. Be good for your mother."
"I'm always a good girl!" Xian Lian declared proudly, her eyes wide with unwavering certainty.
Anke's smile faltered, sorrow settling deep in his chest. He wished—more than anything—that she could remain this way, untouched by the shadows looming over them.
He stood, inhaling deeply, as if committing the moment to memory. His eyes locked onto Xiu Yan's—something unsaid pressing between them, fragile and urgent. A plea. A promise. A farewell.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned. The golden light of late afternoon framed his silhouette, but as he stepped beyond the threshold, the warmth of home receded, leaving only the cold weight of uncertainty behind.
The door clicked shut.
And with it, the last echoes of his presence faded.
Xiu Yan exhaled slowly, willing herself to believe he would return. He always did.
But the silence he left felt different this time—dense, pressing, unshakable.
Outside, twilight deepened, stretching shadows across the floor like grasping fingers.
Xian Lian sat nearby, weaving flowers between her fingers, unaware of the silence weighing down her mother's chest. It was unlike any before—thick, suffocating, stretching the hours unbearably long.
Something was wrong.
The air had shifted. It wasn't merely still—it was waiting, holding its breath.
A beat passed. Then another. Too long.
The silence wasn't empty. It was listening.
Xiu Yan's breath caught. Her heart lurched—a sharp pull, as if something had been yanked from her chest. A whisper of knowing slithered through her bones.
Wrong.
Somewhere far away, a wind chime stirred, its brittle notes scattering like broken glass.
She reached for the wall, steadying herself. No. Not yet. Not now.
But the silence pressed in, heavier now.
Final.
And she knew.
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Miles away, beneath the same suffocating darkness, Anke's dagger glinted. The night had swallowed him whole, yet he was not alone. Shadows moved. Steel whispered.
He was ready. They were not.
Pale slivers of moonlight filtered through the trees, casting long, unnerving shadows. Anke moved swiftly through the darkness, senses sharpened. The stillness around him was unnatural—too quiet, as if something unseen lurked in the void.
His fingers brushed the familiar hilt of his dagger, the cool metal a steadying presence. The serpent-eating-crown insignia gleamed faintly—a symbol of power, a silent promise of survival.
Then—an unnatural gust of wind.
Steel whispered through the night.
Anke ducked. The blade grazed past him, close enough to sever a lock of hair. Another attacker lunged. Pain exploded as steel found its mark—his side, his ribs—but he fought through it. His dagger sliced through the air, swift, precise.
One enemy gurgled, blood darkening the earth—another crumpled with a strangled gasp.
Four more shadows circled him.
Anke's breath remained steady even as his limbs ached. Fear—raw, suffocating—propelled him forward.
One attacker rushed. Anke sidestepped, twisted his wrist until it snapped, then ended him with a brutal thrust. Another came with a spear—Anke spun, driving his knee into the man's gut before slashing his throat.
Three down.
The last man remained still. Watching. Calculating.
Anke's grip tightened, his pulse thundering in his ears.
"You're not a merchant."
The assassin's voice was smooth, amused.
Anke said nothing.
The assassin smirked. "I'm looking for someone. The Crown Princess."
Ice flooded Anke's veins.
A Joseon.
The assassin tilted his head, studying him. "Where is she?"
Anke's silence was answer enough.
The assassin sighed. "Zhang Lei Hong wants you gone." He raised his sword. "Let's finish this."
The attack was brutal.
Anke parried, though he was slowing. Another strike—barely deflected. The assassin pressed relentlessly. Anke's grip faltered, blood seeping into his clothes.
Xiu Yan.
Her face. Her warmth. His anchor.
The assassin's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. He gasped, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight. Above him, the blade gleamed—a cold promise of finality.
"You don't deserve her," the assassin hissed. "If she bore your children, they'll die with you."
Anke's fingers fumbled for his dagger.
But the world was dimming.
The assassin's blade descended.
Time slowed.
Steel bit into flesh.
Yet Anke wasn't thinking of pain or death.
He was thinking of her—the future they would never have.
The world blurred, the weight of silence swallowing him whole.
A sharp gasp. A final breath.
Somewhere, an ember flickered before fading into darkness.
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In the stillness of their home, Xiu Yan shuddered. A cold seeped into her bones, nameless and cruel. No wound, no pain—only an absence where Anke's presence had always been.
The window rattled. The night hissed.
She sensed it before she knew.
The night felt wrong. Time itself stretched too thin, as if faltering. She pressed a trembling hand against the wooden frame, her gaze drifting toward the distant hidden compartment where Xian Lian slept, blissfully unaware of the storm gathering outside.
A quiet prayer escaped her lips—Anke, come back—but it felt hollow, lost in the suffocating stillness.
The air thickened, a creeping chill settling over her like an omen. Her skin prickled with familiarity, yet this time, it was different. Unavoidable. Inevitable.
Her pulse pounded, tension drawing her body tight like a drawn bow. Instinct took over. Without a second thought, she moved.
Xian Lian. She had to get her to safety.
Her hands, trembling, reached for her daughter, lifting Xian Lian without hesitation. The girl stirred but remained in slumber, nestled in her mother's arms. Every second stretched into an eternity as Xiu Yan rushed toward the hidden room—a sanctuary prepared for moments like this.
The rooms lay far apart, each step bearing the weight of her heartache, but she pressed on, urgency fueling her stride. She reached the hidden door and opened it with practiced ease. The small, dim space greeted her—cold, dark, and eerily silent, a perfect refuge. Yet even here, silence felt wrong—a stark reminder of the lurking danger.
Xian Lian barely stirred as Xiu Yan laid her down, tenderly brushing the child's soft cheek. The urge to draw her back was overwhelming, yet Xiu Yan forced herself to step back. The threat loomed too close, too real.
She pressed the pale blue pendant into Xian Lian's small hand—a silent promise, a fragile hope.
With one last lingering glance, she shut the hidden door, sealing her daughter away from the encroaching darkness.
A breath. A heartbeat.
Then—
Tap.
The sound was soft, deliberate—a spider testing its web.
Xiu Yan's blood turned to ice.
Too soft. Too deliberate.
A whisper of movement above. A shadow shifting across the roof.
Her heart skipped. She sprinted toward the master room, her thoughts singular: the sword.
The footsteps grew louder, closer, but she didn't dare look back. She could already hear the click of the wooden panel as she reached for her sword.
Just as the door crashed open, her hand gripped the hilt.
A shadow loomed in the doorway, tall and menacing.
Joseon.
He moved with ghostly precision, too quick, too silent. Before Xiu Yan could react, he was upon her. His grip was iron, squeezing the breath from her lungs. The sword slipped from her grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.
Panic surged, cold and sharp. Her body twisted, struggling to break free, yet his hold was unyielding. The terror clawed at her throat, but she refused to surrender.
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
She fought.
She fought because Xian Lian was hidden safely beneath the floorboards. Because Anke had fought for them. Because the pendant now rested in their daughter's hand, and she would not let it be in vain.
Even as terror gripped her heart, she did not relent.
"Let me go!" Xiu Yan gasped, desperation lacing her voice. Yet his grip tightened, unyielding.
Slowly, he removed his mask, revealing a face Xiu Yan had long feared she'd never see again. Yi Hyun Yeol. The King of Joseon. The sight hit her like a blow, memories of a life she'd fought so hard to escape surging in an instant.
Her breath hitched. "Your Majesty..." The name "Hae-ju" surfaced like a ghost—sharp, bitter. She had fled that life, only to have it ensnare her once more.