The council reconvened the next morning with fewer courtesies.
No incense was lit. No tea was poured until late. The elders gathered with the unspoken understanding that this meeting would not end the way the others had—with hesitation disguised as caution.
Elder Heo spoke first.
"We have delayed long enough," he said. "The outer halls are beginning to ask questions. Not loudly yet—but they will."
"They already are," another elder replied. "We simply pretend not to hear."
"That luxury will not last," Heo said. "We need a solution that can be explained without apology."
Several elders nodded.
"What we need," one said, "is continuity that does not fracture the sect."
"And authority that does not provoke challenge," another added.
Seo Yerin sat slightly apart from the central table, hands folded neatly in her sleeves, gaze lowered. She did not speak. She did not need to.
Elder Gwon cleared his throat.
"There is a way," he said slowly, as though reluctant to voice it. "But it is not a comfortable one."
All eyes turned toward him.
"Comfort is not our priority," Elder Heo said. "Speak."
Gwon hesitated just long enough to seem uncertain.
"The problem," he said, "is not the absence of bloodline. It is the absence of a structure that others will accept while that bloodline remains… unsteady."
Murmurs followed.
"Meaning?" someone asked.
"Meaning," Gwon continued, "that elevating a single figure without support invites resistance. But binding authority distributes it."
"How?" another elder pressed.
"Through alliance," Gwon said. "Through obligation."
The room fell quiet.
Elder Heo leaned back slightly. "You are suggesting a consolidation of legitimacy."
"Yes," Gwon replied. "One that preserves lineage while preventing collapse."
Several elders exchanged glances.
"This would require sacrifice," one said cautiously.
"All stability does," Gwon answered.
"And who," another asked, "would be asked to bear that sacrifice?"
No one spoke immediately.
The question did not need an answer yet.
"What matters," Elder Heo said slowly, "is whether such a solution would be accepted."
"It would," Gwon replied. "Because it would look like preservation, not ambition."
A pause.
"And because," he added, "it would come from us."
Seo Yerin did not lift her head.
That mattered.
"If such a path were chosen," Elder Heo said after a moment, "it must appear necessary, not forced."
"Agreed," Gwon said. "And it must involve someone already bound to the sect's fate."
The silence that followed was heavier this time.
Not uncertain.
Deliberate.
Finally, Elder Heo spoke again.
"This council will consider the matter," he said. "Discreetly."
Gwon inclined his head. "That is all I suggest."
---
The meeting adjourned without vote or declaration.
But the tone had changed.
Discussions afterward were no longer circular. They narrowed, sharpened, took shape. Elders who had avoided one another now spoke quietly in pairs. Others withdrew to consult records and precedent, searching not for alternatives—but for justification.
Seo Yerin rose when the others did.
Several elders looked at her, then away.
She had not offered herself.
She had not been named.
And yet the solution they now carried with them required her existence.
---
That night, alone in her chambers, Seo Yerin removed her outer robe and sat by the window, the sect grounds dim beneath the lanterns.
She allowed herself one slow breath.
Elder Gwon would carry the idea forward.
Others would refine it.
By the time it returned to her, it would no longer be a suggestion.
It would be a decision.
And she would be expected to accept it.