The Sixth Prince arched an eyebrow slightly.

“Hm. I think I saw you yesterday…”

“Yes, Your Highness. I am Iho, steward of the greenhouse estate. I’ve come to speak on behalf of my master.”

The prince had already found it strange that none of the hosts were present to greet him in the dining hall. Now a flicker of irritation crossed his mind.

‘Was last night so eventful that they completely neglected their guests?’

“Speak.”

“The truth is, my lord left at dawn to hunt animals as a gift for Your Highness. He was unable to greet you in person, but I’ve received word that he will arrive shortly. We ask for your understanding.

In reality, this was nothing more than a hastily arranged cover story.

San-gyeong hadn’t gone hunting to offer a gift – he had left because his condition was still unstable.

The medicine he’d taken was only a temporary measure.

If he couldn’t get rid of the fever through intercourse, the only way to control the madness caused by the Twenty-Four Dreams of Fire… was to shed blood.

The more blood he shed, the more the madness subsided.

This was the real reason why San-gyeong could never turn his back on the battlefield.

At the mention of hunting, the Sixth Prince’s eyes lit up.

“Hunting? There’s a hunting ground in Doha?”

Iho had anticipated this reaction and smoothly recited the lines he had prepared.

“Yes, Your Highness. Doha is sparsely populated and known for its abundant wildlife. While hunters have worked hard to keep things under control, wild animals still roam freely in the more remote regions.”

“Ah, is that so? Had I known, I would have brought my own equipment.”

“Oh! Your Highness enjoys the hunt? That explains the gallant air about you. With your permission, we’d be honoured to prepare whatever you need. What do you think?”

The Sixth Prince nodded without a moment’s hesitation.

“Do so. While I’m here in Doha, I might as well make use of my hunting skills.”

Mujin let out a small sigh.

‘Judging by the way this is going, I’ll join in as well.’

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

Just then, a soft, rhythmic tapping echoed across the floor, gradually coming closer.

Everyone turned towards the sound – and there it was.

Dan Woo-hye entered, her presence like morning mist drifting across a still lake.

Ethereal, serene and impossibly distant – yet impossible to ignore.

“……”

In an instant, the entire room fell silent.

Furious to learn that San-gyeong had neglected Woo-hye, Hyang-eum poured all her skill, taste and years of experience into preparing her mistress.

To her, adornment wasn’t about extravagance or gaudiness – it was about harmony, balance and subtlety.

In that respect, the two young ladies from Akyang had dressed tastefully enough. Their bright clothes, coordinated in colour and tone, didn’t seem gaudy or inappropriate.

But they lacked something deeper – an aura, a presence.

Today, Woo-hye wore a soft white skirt paired with a pale blue-grey outer robe, its surface delicately embroidered with delicate floral patterns.

The ensemble exuded serenity without dullness, elegance without pretension. It was quietly impressive – cool and sophisticated, yet full of grace.

A simple jade hairpin, though far from the finest quality, sat in her hair and somehow gave her an ethereal, almost ascetic beauty.

She looked like a figure from a painting, untouched by the world, mysterious and serene.

Even as she tapped gently on the floor with her wooden stick, there was a quiet dignity about her.

It was impossible to look at her lightly.

It was a very different presence from the bright and flashy beauties of Akyang – deeper, rarer and far more captivating.

Led by Hyang-eum, Woo-hye approached the sixth prince. The prince, visibly moved by the sight of her, rose slightly as she greeted him.

“I greet Your Highness, the sixth prince. I was delayed on an unfamiliar road – please forgive my lack of courtesy.”

She bowed her head gracefully, and the prince waved his hands hastily, as if the very act of receiving her deference made him uncomfortable.

“Think nothing of it. A delicate flower must be protected even from raindrops – how could I not understand?”

The guests who had seen Woo-hye the day before hadn’t noticed that she was blind.

Her face had been veiled, and San-gyeong had carried her in his arms throughout the event.

Now standing on her own, Woo-hye turned to the assembled guests and nodded gracefully.

“I hope everyone had a restful night.”

Jarim looked ready to complain again, but a sharp look from Mujin made her close her mouth, her expression sour.

Mujin stepped forward, his tone calm and courteous.

“We have rested well. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Despite his calm demeanour, Mujin felt uneasy inside.

‘Baby Dumpling.’

That had been Woo-hye’s nickname when she was a child, named after the way her hair had always been styled – two little buns like round dumplings.

And now, standing before him as a poised and elegant woman, she still had the same quiet presence.

But something about her – graceful, reserved and aloof – left Mujin feeling strangely conflicted.

When they first got engaged, Mujin was eleven and Woo-hye was only five.

They were both so young then, and to him she was just a sweet, wide-eyed little sister.

But as the Dan family’s circumstances began to change dramatically, their engagement had quietly faded into the background, and so had their bond.

The last he heard, Woo-hye had lost her eyesight and had been sent to Doha to recuperate.

Years had passed. And now, standing before him, she was no longer the little girl he remembered. She was a woman.

Mujin pushed down the strange feeling in his chest and spoke with the calm politeness of a nobleman.

“And… yesterday, I didn’t get the chance to greet you properly. It’s been a long time, Lady Dan. I’m not sure if you remember me – Gyeon Mujin.”

Woo-hye remembered.

But, as he said, it was a memory from so long ago that it had faded with time. And now, unable to see his face, even his voice was unfamiliar.

‘We didn’t keep in touch, but… he and my brother Joo-hyuk stayed close.’

She vaguely remembered the image of Mujin crying softly at her brother’s funeral.

Woo-hye replied with a gentle smile,

“I remember. And as you said, I was busy with the wedding yesterday and didn’t get a chance to greet you properly. It’s been a long time, Young Master Gyeon. You were my brother Joo-hyuk’s dear friend, so please feel free to talk to me.

“Thank you for saying that.”

Mujin was touched by her warmth and grace. A small smile crossed his face – but he quickly turned away, unable to meet her eyes.

Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he feared that if he looked at her for too long, he would lose his composure.

The first person to notice this subtle change was Iho.

With growing amusement, he watched Mujin from the side.

‘Wow… the power of a truly stunning woman is no joke.’

In Akyang, women were known as ‘peerless beauties’, each with her own unique charms – so different, in fact, that it was almost impossible to compare them.

When people debated who was more beautiful, the conversation often turned to personality or accomplishments to tip the scales.

But with Woo-hye, none of that was necessary.

Her beauty alone was enough – so striking that it left little room for comparison.

Grinning to himself, Iho casually stepped closer to Woo-hye and murmured under his breath,

“You’ve arrived, my lady. I suppose you’ve heard – the master has gone hunting?”

She had indeed been informed of this while being dressed.

‘He skipped the wedding night… to go hunting?’

It was more than strange.

Still, she was well aware of the Sixth Prince’s passion for hunting wild beasts.

‘Which can only mean… Cheong-un must have known as well.’

Well, anyone with the slightest interest in royal affairs would have known – it wasn’t exactly a secret.

The Sixth Prince had always been flamboyant, his actions laced with theatrical flair.

If San-gyeong had decided to placate such a difficult guest in order to prevent misfortune from befalling the household, it wasn’t an entirely unreasonable decision.

Still, Woo-hye didn’t believe for a moment that this was the real reason he had left the bridal chamber.

“Yes, Iho. You have handled things well on your own.”

“You honour me, my lady.”

Iho replied with a humble bow.

Just then, a servant approached quietly and whispered something in Iho’s ear before withdrawing.

As the words sank in, a broad smile spread across Iho’s face. He turned to face the room, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

“Perfect timing – my master has returned. The hunted animals he caught this morning has been laid out in the courtyard. Would Your Highness like to have a look?”

The Sixth Prince, who had been trying (and mostly failing) to sit still out of courtesy, instantly lit up.

“Oho! Yes, let’s go at once – I’m dying of curiosity!”

***

San-gyeong dropped the freshly hunted animals on the courtyard floor as if to throw it away, then washed his hands in a brass basin brought by the servant.

The water, once clear, was now red with blood.

His face was emotionless, utterly cold, as if the heat of the previous night had never existed.

Now that the medicine had taken full effect and the hunt had produced a sensation similar to that of the battlefield, he felt stable again.

As his head cooled, San-gyeong realised that he had handled things badly simply because he had been faced with unfamiliar situations.

‘How do you deal with a woman?’

No, that wasn’t the right question.

He just wasn’t someone who got on well with people in general.

He had never felt the need to, nor was he someone who was ever meant to live that kind of life.

Because of that damned elixir, San-gyeong had lived a life of forced isolation.

He had gone to war at an age when he should have been under the care of his parents, forbidden to form any attachments.

He had to stay in places where no one could find him, delaying the side effects of the medicine through endless bloodshed.

It had been an inevitable choice.

As a result, he had never had any real friends.

Even the one person who could be considered a friend had only become one because that person insisted on staying close to him for over ten years, forcing the friendship into existence.

The only person San-gyeong had ever taken the initiative to approach was Joo-hyuk.

They were the same age and both preferred silence to noise.

It wasn’t unusual for them to spend hours together in complete silence, each lost in a book, without exchanging a single word.

“Your Highness, do you like this book?”

It might seem trivial, but in such moments there was a quiet, unspoken bond between them.

Joo-hyuk had a gentle way of drawing people in – warm and inviting, but never overbearing.

That was why everyone in Prince Ye’s house adored him.

For San-gyeong, Joo-hyuk was… ideal.

Someone he deeply admired.

Someone who had given him rare, precious memories – and emotions he never thought he could feel.

And that was why San-gyeong had wanted to treat Woo-hye with the utmost care.

He remembered what Jooo-hyuk had asked him to do, back when things were still whole:

“If anything should happen to me… please, Your Highness, take care of my younger siblings. Just a little. That’s all I ask.”

It was with this promise that Joo-hyuk had first brought Dan Joo-seop to Prince Ye’s house.

The next step was to help Woo-hye.

But everything had gone wrong.

If he wanted advice on what to do now, Iho would probably have something to say. He always did.

But San-gyeong didn’t want to ask him.

He didn’t trust him.

Nine times out of ten, Iho would come up with some bizarre, overly dramatic answer just to get his attention.

San-gyeong’s gaze shifted to Samho, who had accompanied him on the night hunt.

“Is there something you want to ask me, sir?”

Samho asked quietly.

“No.”

San-gyeong turned away, his voice cool and distant.

Samho wasn’t the right person either.

No matter how loyal he was… he just wasn’t.