As the carriage rolled steadily along the uneven road, their destination, the capital, Tae So leaned against the wooden frame of the window, his eyes restless, his mind a turbulent storm. The monotonous rhythm of the horses' hooves against the dirt should have been soothing, but it only deepened his unease. His exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his sleepless nights weighing heavy on his body.
"Why do you have bags under your eyes?" Song Joo asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, yet there was an edge of scrutiny beneath it. The prime minister sat with an air of detached ease, his shoulder slightly shaking with the movement of the carriage, but his keen eyes never missed a thing.
Tae So blinked at the unexpected question. He hadn't realized how visible his exhaustion was. "Oh, yes. Apologies." He lowered his gaze, bowing slightly, though he himself did not understand why he apologized. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps because he knew Song Joo rarely spoke unless he had a purpose. That alone was unsettling.
To his relief, Song Joo did not press further. Instead, he lifted the book he had been reading, a text on the art of war, and resumed his quiet study.
The real reason behind Tae So's exhaustion was something he dared not speak aloud. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the ghostly sound of a pipa, its melody threading through his thoughts like a whisper of fate. He had spent countless hours in the village searching for the mysterious woman, perhaps the other pipa player had been mistaken, perhaps she hadn't merely passed through but was still here, resting at an inn or gathering supplies in the marketplace. He clung to that possibility, unwilling to accept that she had already slipped beyond his reach, but she remained just beyond his grasp, like a dream slipping through his fingers upon waking.
And now, with Woong's sudden return, there had been no chance to question him before Song Joo ordered them to depart for the capital. It was infuriating. He felt like a blindfolded man being led down an unknown path, powerless and lost. His only solace was that, once they reached his estate, he would dispatch his shadow guards with a single mission, find the pipa woman. Everything else, even the affairs of the capital and the looming shadow of war, could wait.
His heart clenched at the thought of her. It was foolish, he knew. She was a stranger, a mystery, yet she had awakened something inside him, something he had long thought buried. Something close to the overwhelming feeling of love. Or perhaps something darker, something desperate and consuming. If she had a husband, would he…? He cut off the thought before it could fully form. It didn't matter. He had already decided, he would find her. And he would take care of her for life.
Song Joo's presence in the carriage only made the journey more unbearable. Tae So had spent most of their travels trying to initiate conversation, but today he lacked the energy. He suspected Song Joo knew that and was merely waiting for him to ask about the village. Perhaps he even expected him to probe deeper into the real reason for their visit.
Tae So hesitated, then spoke. "About that village..." The words felt uncertain even as they left his lips.
Song Joo did not look up from his book. "I went to visit my grandmother. She used to live in that village."
Tae So almost raised a brow but held himself back. He did not doubt that Song Joo had a grandmother, but what bothered him was the secrecy surrounding it. Song Joo had never once invited him along to pay respects, never mentioned bringing gifts. It was odd, unsettling even.
"How is she?" Tae So asked, his tone gentle, though he already knew the next question would be about her lineage, whether she came from his paternal or maternal side.
Song Joo turned the page of his book, his tone unchanging. "She is dead."
Tae So opened his mouth, then closed it. He repeated the action a few times, uncertain of how to respond. "I am sorry."
"No need. She died a long time ago."
A strange chill crept down Tae So's spine. He struggled to piece together why they had stayed in the village for so long if Song Joo's grandmother had been gone for years. Had he truly been paying respects at a grave? Or had something else kept him there?
Song Joo spoke of his grandmother in the past tense, yet Tae So had foolishly asked how she was doing, failing to put the pieces together. The house they had arrived at had likely belonged to her, yet something felt off.
Now that he thought about it, he had never once seen Song Joo performing any rites for the dead. Each time he caught him on his way out, he was empty-handed, no offerings, no incense, nothing that suggested mourning. His personal guards, fiercely loyal, were impossible to question, and even the few guards he had brought along struggled to find their place among the Prime Minister's men. The more he considered it, the clearer it became, there was something hidden beneath the surface, something Song Joo wasn't telling him.
Before he could dwell further, something changed.
A sound drifted into the carriage. Soft, faint, but unmistakable. The clear, sorrowful notes of a pipa.
Tae So stiffened. His breath hitched. His fingers gripped the window frame so tightly his knuckles turned white.
It was her.
His heart pounded, the sound deafening in his ears. It was faint, distant, but the resonance of the melody struck deep, calling to something primal within him. His body tensed as if ready to leap from the moving carriage, to chase after the fleeting notes.
Tae So swiftly pulled back the curtain by the window, his gaze darting toward the trees. The music drifted from a distance, too faint to pinpoint its source, but he couldn't afford to miss even the slightest glimpse of the musician. He needed to confirm who was playing. Yet, just as his eyes scanned the trees, they landed on a figure that sent an uneasy jolt through him because it was unexpected.
The person moved with an air of quiet confidence, their tall, broad frame unmistakably shaped by years of martial training. Their posture was upright, their steps unhurried, as if they had nothing to fear, an oddity when travelling where discretion often meant survival. They wore tattered warrior's robes, frayed at the edges, the dark fabric clinging to their form like a second skin. Their collar was raised high, concealing their neck and mouth, while a wide-brimmed hat cast their face in shadow, making them all the more unreadable. They looked a bit tired but it might have been Tae So imagination.
But what truly unnerved Tae So was the strange cargo they carried. In one hand, they gripped a long object wrapped in layers of weathered white cloth, bound so tightly with rope that not a single inch of its contents was visible. Yet the fabric bore the stains of a violent past old, dried blood blotched across it in deep, rust-colored patches. The other hand clutched a box, unlike anything Tae So had seen before. It was black, an unnatural, gleaming darkness, polished like a precious metal, yet carrying an eerie quality that made his skin crawl.
Tae So's pulse quickened. It was reckless, no, downright foolish for someone like this to walk so brazenly in the middle of the road, in plain view of the Prime Minister's men. They were always watching, always ready to dispose of anyone who so much as appeared suspicious. And this person, this warrior with their bloodstained burden and ominous box was more than just suspicious. They were a walking invitation for trouble.
Song Joo's sharp gaze flickered to him. "What is it?" He shifted the curtain trying to see clearer
Tae So barely heard him. His pulse drummed in his ears as his eyes darted across the landscape, searching frantically. His suspicion toward the passing figure wavered, shifting instead to the distant tune that wove through the air like a phantom's call.
"Where is it coming from?" he whispered, his voice taut with urgency. His fingers tightened against the windowsill, every nerve in his body straining, desperate to catch even the faintest glimpse of the musician.
The road ahead was empty. The village was already behind them. The music, was it real? Or had his obsession begun to haunt him even in wakefulness?
Panic seized him. He had to act. If he let this moment slip away, he might never find her again.
"Stop!" Song Joo's voice cut through the air like a blade.
The carriage jolted to a halt.
Tae So's pulse roared in his ears as Song Joo's personal guard appeared at the window, awaiting orders.
"Find that person playing the music and bring them here," Song Joo commanded.
"Yes, your excellency."
Tae So's stomach twisted into knots. He clenched his hands beneath his sleeves, hiding the tremor in his fingers. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cool air.
He had to think. Fast.
He considered every desperate option, feigning illness to delay them, distracting Song Joo with political matters, or even sabotaging the search. But it was all useless now. He could do nothing but wait.
Then, a new thought took root in Tae So's mind, a hope, or perhaps a fear. Maybe it wasn't her. The pipa was a common instrument, played skillfully in countless entertainment houses. It could be anyone. A traveling musician. A nameless performer. It might even be a man.
Yet the possibility gnawed at him, twisting his emotions into a tangled knot. Did he want it to be her? Or would it be easier if it wasn't? He couldn't decide. Hope and despair clashed within him, an unbearable war between longing and the dread of disappointment.
His lips parted in a whispered prayer, quick, quiet, uncertain. Not for the truth, but for whatever outcome would favor him. Whatever would grant him peace.
His fingers curled slightly as unease coiled in his chest. He didn't know Song Joo to be a ruthless man, but he wasn't the type to tolerate disrespect. The possibility of him showing mercy was slim, almost nonexistent.
Tae So's gaze flicked toward the carriage entrance, his pulse quickening. Song Joo had ordered his most trusted guard to bring the pipa player. Why? Had the thought of her crossed his mind as well? Was this his way of confirming her identity or of ensuring she never played again?
A chilling thought took hold. If this truly was the woman he had been searching for, then Song Joo might see this as the perfect moment to punish her for slapping him and walking away. And if he was in a particularly unforgiving mood, he might go further.
He might silence her forever.
Tae So swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He couldn't let that happen. Not before he knew for certain. Not before he saw her with his own eyes.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Then the sound of approaching hooves broke the silence.
"Your Excellency," Do Kyung called, pulling back the carriage curtain so his master could see clearly.
Tae So barely breathed.
A woman knelt before them, her head bowed low, her face obscured by the shadow of her long hair. Her hands rested gracefully on her lap, a picture of practiced humility, as if she had performed this gesture countless times. The hem of her robes, frayed and dust-streaked from the wear of the road, pooled around her knees, the fabric torn in places as though it had been caught on brambles or rough hands. Her posture was one of submission, but there was an undeniable air of weariness about her, as if she carried more than just the weight of her garments.
"Are you the woman playing the pipa?" Song Joo asked, his voice calm, measured.
"Yes, your esteemed sir," she replied.
Tae So exhaled sharply. She could speak.
But something was wrong.
Her voice, hoarse, rough, lacked the soft, haunting cadence that had ensnared his thoughts for days. He had imagined the pipa woman's voice would be like silk, smooth and flowing, like the wind stirring through reeds in the quiet of night, delicate, mesmerizing. But this? This was nothing like he had hoped for. It was coarse, worn, unremarkable.
The voice he had imagined was a delusion, a fantasy he had wrapped himself in, because the pipa woman had clearly shown she was mute that day. Yet, despite the reality before him, he couldn't help but sit there, lost in the illusion of how her voice might have sounded.
Tae So had to shift foward and raised his head to see clearly. His gaze flicked over her appearance. Her hair was tightly braided, plain and unadorned, a stark contrast to the image of the woman he had envisioned, a phantom of elegance and mystery. And then there was her pipa. It sat by her side, thinner, darker than the one that had haunted his thoughts. The curves were wrong, the wood lacked the luster he remembered. It wasn't hers. It couldn't be.
"Where is your musical instrument?" Song Joo asked.
Do Kyung stepped forward, presenting the pipa that had led them here. The woman flinched, just barely, but Tae So caught it. A hesitation. A crack in her composure.
His heartbeat steadied as a wave of certainty washed over him. No musician carried two identical instruments. This was not her. The thought should have brought relief, but instead, a quiet frustration lingered. He wanted to command her to raise her head, to see her face, to confirm what his gut already suspected. But the Prime Minister was the one who had called for her attention, and Tae So knew better than to interrupt. He had no choice but to wait.
"If you're going our way, ride at the front and play as payment for the ride," Song Joo said, his tone final.
The woman bowed deeper. "I am grateful, your esteemed sir."
The curtain fell.
Tae So remained still, his hands clenched in his lap. Relief washed over him, but it was a shallow thing, barely enough to quell the frustration curling in his chest. His fingers twitched with the urge to lift the curtain again, to see her face fully. But he forced himself to wait.
There would be time.
And perhaps, just perhaps, this woman held answers he needed, she might know the pipa woman. A thread that would lead him closer to the one he sought.
His resolve only hardened.
He would find her.
No matter what it took.