Footsteps pounded against the earth, swallowed by the weight of the night. A woman—born a commoner in Joseon, yet more than that—ran like a hunted thing, breath ragged, heart slamming against her ribs. Her fingers tightened around a pale blue pendant—a yeonbong maedeup lotus, intricately knotted yet hollow at its heart, the missing jade reflecting 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, characterized by its intricate and symmetrical design, often made with colorful cords to symbolize beauty, harmony, and longevity.*
Each frantic glance behind revealed only darkness, but she felt them—phantoms lurking, hunting her, waiting for her to fall. 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 caught on an unseen stone, sending her crashing forward with a strangled gasp. Dirt scraped her palms. She staggered up, breath jagged, body screaming for relief she dared not allow.
Then they emerged—three masked figures, slipping from the darkness like revenants. Their silence was the worst part. No taunts, no threats, just 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 fading—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.
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
Time had passed, but the weight of that night had 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 an 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 made him 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 briefly softening. 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 the 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 understand the weight of silence.
Anke's lips twitched upward in a smile, but it was strained, as if holding it in place 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 with him, leaving only the cold weight of uncertainty in its wake.
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 behind 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 pressing down on 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 just 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—like 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. No, not yet. Not now.
But the silence pressed in, heavier now.
Final.
And she knew.
🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙
Miles away, beneath the same suffocating darkness, Anke's dagger glinted. The night had swallowed him whole, but 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, his senses sharp. 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 cut 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 was steady, but his limbs ached. Fear—raw, suffocating—kept him moving.
One attacker rushed forward. 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 thundered 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, but he was slowing. Another strike—barely deflected. The assassin pressed forward, relentless. 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 weight pinning him down. 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.
But 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.
🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙
In the stillness of their home, Xiu Yan shuddered. A coldness seeped into her bones, nameless and cruel. No wound, no pain—just an absence where Anke's presence had always lived.
The window rattled. The night hissed.
She knew before she knew.
The night felt wrong. The rhythm of time–stretched too thin, as if time itself had faltered. She pressed a trembling hand against the wooden frame, her gaze instinctively moving 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 of the room.
The air thickened, a creeping chill settling over her like an omen. Her skin prickled, the sensation familiar, but this time, it was different. Unavoidable. Inevitable.
Her pulse pounded in her chest, the tension in her body drawing tight like a bowstring. Instinct took over. Without a second thought, she moved.
Xian Lian. She needed to get her to safety.
Her hands, trembling, reached for her daughter, lifting Xian Lian without hesitation. The girl stirred but did not wake, nestled in her mother's arms. Every second felt like an eternity as Xiu Yan rushed toward the hidden room—a place she had prepared for moments like this.
The rooms were far apart, each step carrying a weight that pressed down on her chest, but she kept moving, the urgency of the situation spurring her forward. 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, the silence felt wrong. It was the very thing she feared, the stark reminder of the danger drawing near.
Xian Lian barely stirred as Xiu Yan laid her down, her fingers brushing the child's soft cheek. The urge to pull her back into her arms was almost overwhelming, but Xiu Yan forced herself to step back. The danger loomed too close, too real.
She pressed the pale blue pendant into Xian Lian's small hand—a silent promise, a fragile hope.
With a final, lingering glance, she shut the hidden door, sealing her daughter away from the coming darkness.
She pressed the pendant into Xian Lian's hand—a silent vow. Survive.
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.
Xiu Yan's heart skipped a beat. She sprinted toward the master room, her thoughts focused on one thing: the sword.
The footsteps grew louder, closer, but Xiu Yan didn't 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 was on 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 on her. His grip was like iron, squeezing the breath from her lungs. The sword slipped from her hand, clattering uselessly to the floor.
Panic surged through her, cold and sharp. Her body twisted, struggling to break free, but his hold was suffocating, immovable. The terror that clawed at her throat intensified, but she refused to give in.
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
She fought.
She fought because Xian Lian was hidden safely beneath the floorboards. After all, Anke had fought for them. After all, the pendant now rested in their daughter's hand, and she would not let it be for nothing.
Even as terror gripped her heart, she did not stop.
"Let me go!" Xiu Yan gasped, desperation creeping into her voice. But his grip tightened, unyielding.
The assassin's hands were slow as he removed his mask, revealing a face Xiu Yan never thought she'd see again. Yi Hyun Yeol. The King of Joseon. The sight of him hit her like a punch to the gut, memories of a life she'd fought so hard to escape flooding her in a rush.
Her breath hitched. "Your Majesty..." The name "Hae-ju" surfaced like a ghost—sharp and bitter. She had escaped that life, but now it loomed before her, a trap closing in.