The throne room erupted in outrage. Ministers cursed that a woman would dare interrupt the king's council, their voices rising like angry crows.
Young Hoon's eyes flicked toward her in both shock and fear for her—the daring woman who had just knelt before the king. At first glance, she didn't fit the world of silk and ceremony he thought the Minister of War would keep around. Her skin was lightly sun-touched, not pale like noblewomen who spent their days under the shade sipping tea. Small scars on her fingers—maybe she worked with her hands. Her posture lacked the effortless poise of court ladies.
"Your Majesty!" the Minister of War thundered, stepping forward to shield her. "My daughter, Ha Ran, has spent too long in the countryside, lacking both education and respect. Please forgive her impudence!"
The king lifted his hand. Silence fell.
"Ha Ran…" he said slowly, his gaze cutting through the air. "Stand and speak. A woman of great emotion, but no control. Let us hear what you are so desperate to convey, then."
Ha Ran rose confidently, though she felt her legs shaking. Her eyes were fixed on the marble beneath her feet. "Your Majesty, thank you for granting me this chance. I mean no disrespect." She quickly steadied her voice. "This discussion will never end if we debate only the betrothal itself. The problem is not the marriage, but the lack of the people's faith. If Lady Yu Na and the Crown Prince were to court publicly—with her virtue protected by chaperones—it would show sincerity. The Crown Prince's image would soften, and the people would grow to support him."
The king let out three sharp bursts of laughter.
"What have you been doing in the countryside, child?"
"I lived with my grandmother, who oversees the merchants and houses of Hae Jeong. She taught me business."
"Business?" His brows arched. "And is that where you learned to speak out of turn?"
Ha Ran bit the inside of her cheek, but she felt her blood boiling. "I may be uncouth, Your Majesty, but in business, no one cares for the way I drink my tea. What matters is what I can bring to the table."
The king's lips curved. "Then tell me—what do you bring to this table?"
"A solution. To end the council's quarrel, restore the Crown Prince's image, and safeguard Lady Yu Na's reputation."
The king's laughter deepened. "You're quite the curiosity, Moon Ha Ran. It seems you've not changed since your youth." His smile darkened. Ha Ran's face fell even lower than where it was.
"Your Majesty!" cried her father, bowing deeply. "It is my failing that my daughter has forgotten her place."
"No, no," the king murmured. "How could I forget such a spirited rascal?"
Ha Ran felt her cheeks burn with challenge. She met his gaze, something defiant flickering behind her fear. "Then allow me a deal, Your Majesty."
"A deal?" His tone turned mocking. "Wagers are for commoners."
"This is a proposal," she countered. "Not every venture succeeds—and isn't that the same for every war the Crown Prince fights?"
A murmur rippled through the court. The king's eyes glinted along with a smirk that teased a dare. "Very well. A wager, then."
"In one year," Ha Ran said, voice louder now, "I will turn the Crown Prince's image completely around. Until then, the talk of betrothal stays within court."
"And if you succeed, what will you ask of me?"
"I wish to establish Moon trade routes through the capital, under royal sanction."
"And if you fail?"
Ha Ran bowed low. "Then exile me for my insolence."
The hall buzzed with disbelief.
The king thought for a moment. "Let it be so," the king said at last. His smile was all teeth.
-----
Ha Ran's hands trembled as they left the hall. Her heart still pounded in her ears, her fingers twitching as though to shake off the king's gaze.
When they reached the small pagoda in the palace garden, her father seized her arm.
"How dare you, you insolent girl!" he hissed. "How dare you speak before the king—before me! Do you realize what you've done? You've mocked our name and shamed your sister!"
"I only wished to mend—"
"Stop!" he barked, then caught himself, lowering his voice. "You are a disgrace. The king hasn't forgotten what you did eighteen years ago, stealing those documents."
Ha Ran's throat tightened. She looked toward Yu Na, silently begging for some small defense, but her sister said nothing.
"I'll make it right," Ha Ran whispered. "I'll fix everything. I promise, Father. Please… don't give up on me."
He muttered under his breath, turned on his heel, and left with Yu Na.
Ha Ran sank onto the stone seat. The garden blurred before her eyes. Her body went still, like a small creature pretending not to exist.
Hidden behind the columns, Young Hoon had watched the exchange. He followed them, hoping to take a better look at her, the daughter of the Minister of War's concubine. He clenched his jaw until it ached.
The woman who had stood up to the king with clear eyes now sat hunched, silent under her father's scorn. Her voice was so small compared to the defiant one she used to declare to the king just moments ago. The contrast twisted something in him.
He remembered that day again—the woman begging with tears in her eyes, his shaky hand on the blade, a lesson to be learned, a lesson taught to another. Her mother. His heart felt heavy then. It felt heavier now.
He had long since learned to live with blood on his hands ever since, but seeing the daughter defiantly speak with the king who ordered the kill and kneel before the father who should have cherished his child—seeing her shaky legs and trembling voice yet still fight for him—made his blood boil.
He had recognized her earlier: the stranger from the previous day, disguised as a man, scolding him for standing idle. She was that bold even then.
Now she had drawn the king's eye—the most dangerous attention of all. She hadn't realized yet the dangers she'd put herself in.
Young Hoon exhaled slowly, eyes darkening. You fool, he thought. You should have stayed in the countryside. Why hadn't you learned your lesson?
But as she sat alone in the courtyard, small and shivering beneath the weight of her own family's disdain, he found himself thinking—not of politics, not of war—but of how much he wished she hadn't looked so breakable. He couldn't involve himself with her. But their pasts were already stained with the same blood. Now, it seemed, their futures had been tied together as well.