Yoon Ji twisted her waist delicately, her arms floating in the air as she leaned forward, one leg stretching out behind her. A small crack echoed from her knee. She winced but did not stop. Her legs had grown stiff from sitting too long, the joints locked just from her one visit to the Queen Dowager's palace, and she had been doing all she could to keep herself limber. Her dance tutor had advised consistent stretching, and Yoon Ji prideful and determined had taken that advice to heart.
Even now, long after her instructor had left, she remained in the open-air pavilion, letting the soft light of the late afternoon bathe her skin. She moved with grace, her silk sleeves billowing as she spun once, then twice, finishing in an elegant pose with her arms lifted skyward and her chin angled in serene pride.
Since returning from the palace, she had been in unnaturally high spirits even after the Queen Dowager humiliated her and Song Yeon had to be there but best of all she had seen him. The King. Just the thought of him now made her heart thrum in her chest. Her dance felt lighter, smoother, as if love itself propelled her forward.
But not all was well.
A part of her mind still flickered with unease like the trailing smoke after a fire. She had spoken too freely, too confidently about the oleanders. Song Yeon had been there, watching with her ever-thoughtful eyes. And the Queen Dowager, though calm on the surface, was not a woman who tolerated subtle warnings from young girls still barely budding in influence since her declaration about the oleanders must have sounded like a warning.
Still... Grandfather would handle it. He always did.
So all she needed to do now was sit still and let her grandfather handle it. It wasn't she who cultivated the oleanders, after all. That lovely, dangerous garden belonged to him, and she had merely spoken of it casually, artfully to the Queen Dowager. Nothing more. No one could prove intent. And for the time being, there was no need to confess that she had let such a detail slip, not even to her own family.
But even as she told herself it was fine, a tight knot twisted inside her.
It wasn't the Queen Dowager she feared not truly but she was a bit concerned about Song Yeon. Quiet, ever-watchful Song Yeon. If she told her father... if she repeated that brief but poisonous conversation to the Prime Minister, then things could spiral.
Her father was many things, intelligent, proud, and ambitious to a fault. And if there was even a whiff of wrongdoing that could be pinned on her grandfather, he might see it as the golden opportunity he'd been waiting for. One slip, one scandal, and he could finally step over the old lion, claim the power that had eluded him for years and probably find a way to let someone he could control in that position.
Yoon Ji had no desire to be caught between those two towering men.
So for now, it was best to pretend nothing had happened. Let her grandfather smooth the ripples as he always did. Let the garden keep its secrets. As far as she was concerned, the drama belonged to the world of old men and older grudges.
And she had more important things to think about.
Yoon Ji forced herself to believe it and twirled again, more confidently this time. She needed to focus. Her goals had shifted.
Her lips parted in a small laugh, rich with mischief. Since that encounter in the palace courtyard, she had made up her mind. She would become the King's everything, his sun, his moon, his very breath. She knew it would be impossible to claim him entirely, he was a King, after all but if she could become the one he thought of first, the one he saw even with eyes closed, that would be enough. More than enough.
She imagined his body beneath the layered robes, strong and firm like a marble statue warmed by sunlight. Her cheeks flushed, not from exertion, but from the thrill of her own ambition. To reach him, she would have to play the Queen Dowager's game, smile when needed, kneel when necessary but only for a little while. Soon, she would rise.
But she needed information. Not the kind of childish nonsense she'd gathered when he was Crown Prince - his favorite fruits, when he took his midday nap, how often he spoke to his hound, when he takes his archery lessons. All those bits of information had been useless. She was never even allowed a single glimpse of him, kept at a distance like a servant girl peering through lattice. The fruit baskets she packed with trembling, hopeful hands were never delivered, discarded before they ever reached his table and now she needed real information. The kind whispered in the dark. The kind only one person could get her.
Kang Mu and Bu-ran were the only ones nearby, stationed respectfully at the edge of the pavilion. Kang Mu stood with his back turned, always turned when she danced, ever the proper guard, eyes fixed on the gardens beyond. There was no way he would ever peak at his young mistress dance.
"The ghost informant," she said suddenly, pausing mid-turn. "How can I see him?"
The ghost informant was not a man anyone saw, only someone people heard about. He had no face, no name, no scent of rank or origin. Whispers called him "the ghost" not because he dealt with the dead, but because he moved like one, silent, sudden, and impossible to track.
Some said he was a former court eunuch, others a disgraced scholar. A few claimed he never existed at all, just a myth conjured by terrified officials looking to explain how their secrets were being sold in back alleys and tea houses. But those who had received messages from him knew better.
His answers never came directly. According to rumours. He leaves his messages in form of cryptic scroll tucked beneath a market stall. A single white pebble placed on a window ledge. Sometimes, a line of poetry etched into a mirror that hadn't been there the night before. The ghost had no allegiance. Gold meant little to him. He answered only the questions he deemed worthy and only when the mood suited him.
Even the way to contact him was shrouded in ritual and vagueness, only the powerful people and their guards know and few people deemed worthy.
And so his legend grew. Among thieves, ministers, courtiers, and concubines, he was both a curse and a lifeline. Some feared him. Some revered him. But all knew one thing:
You don't find the ghost informant.
He lets himself be found.
"There's no way you can see the ghost informant," Kang Mu said flatly. He assumed, correctly, that the question was not for Bu-ran.
Yoon Ji raised a brow. "Do you mean the people who see him are also ghosts?"
Still, Kang Mu did not turn. "Not at all."
"Then what are you saying?" she asked coolly. Of course she knew the ghost informant wouldn't be easy to reach. Kang Mu likely thought she couldn't afford the fee. But she knew where her father hid his silver not that she'd ever admit it. If she squandered enough to last six moons, he might not even notice.
"I can deliver young mistress message," Kang Mu offered. "But the informant chooses the meeting. Time. Place. If they choose to respond at all."
Yoon Ji tilted her head stiffly, her long hair brushing her back, then let her body relax once more. "Face me," she commanded.
Kang Mu turned, his expression unreadable.
Yoon Ji twirled again, her sleeves fluttering like butterflies before settling. "His Majesty has always been my goal," she said, her eyes glinting with an eerie calm. "I want to know what he likes in a woman."
She looked directly at him, waiting for a flicker of reaction. But as always, Kang Mu was made of stone. Everybody tells her she must be perfect to win his heart but she would need more than that to beat someone like Song Yeon.
"Everyone knows His Majesty rarely leaves the palace," he said. "It's unlikely he's... explored pleasure or passion."
"You believe that?" she asked, curious.
"No."
She smiled at that. "Neither do I. They say he is pure. That may be true. But it doesn't mean he hasn't... mingled." She waved a hand. "In any case, the question is not for you. Deliver it to the ghost."
"Yes, Young Mistress."
Yoon Ji moved, her silk hanbok trailing like petals behind her. The wide sleeves of her jeogori fluttered as she turned, arms poised, each step light and precise. Her chima swayed with the rhythm of her body, and though there was no music, she danced as if she could hear it in the wind then she stoped suddenly when something cause her eyes.
She exhaled slowly. "Then why are you still standing there? Leave." she had to ask because she expected Kang Mu to go on about his task instead of staring at her like he was clueless on what to do.
There was a pause. For a brief second, Kang Mu looked like he wanted to say more but then he bowed and turned, walking away.
Yoon Ji moved to descend the steps of the pavilion, she was done dancing and would like to take some cool refreshments in her room. Lost in her thoughts. Her right foot came down too close to the edge. He shoe slid. Panic surged.
She tried to catch herself, arms flailing, but her ankle twisted violently to the side. There was a sickening crack, loud and sharp. Pain bloomed up her leg like fire and she screamed, stumbling forward.
Kang Mu turned at once, eyes widening in alarm. He sprinted back but he was too far.
Bu-ran lunged toward her, hand outstretched, but it was too late. Yoon Ji hit the ground hard, her silks pooling around her. Her ankle was clearly askew, twisted at a horrible angle. The pain made her vision blur.
"Y-Young Mistress!" Kang Mu dropped to his knees beside her, reaching to assess the injury...
Pa!
Her palm landed squarely across his face, leaving a red print. The slap landed with all the force she could summon, sharp and unforgiving, a crack that echoed louder than her fury.
"Why weren't you here to help me down!" she screamed, her voice shrill with both pain and rage. Another slap followed, fiercer than the first. Her tears streamed freely now, both from agony and humiliation.
"Are you mad?! Leaving your mistress alone?!" Yoon Ji's voice cracked with fury as she lunged forward, her hands trembling with pain and outrage. She raised her hand again, breath ragged, but before the strike could land, Bu-ran rushed forward, her own hands shaking as she caught Yoon Ji's wrist mid-air.
"Please, Young Mistress," she whispered, voice barely holding together. "Please… let him help you." Her eyes darted between Yoon Ji's face and the twisted angle of her ankle, wide with panic, glistening with unshed tears. She was trembling, terrified not just of Yoon Ji's wrath, but of failing her.
Kang Mu remained bowed, cheek reddened, his voice calm. "This guard apologizes, Young Mistress. Please allow me to carry you inside."
For a moment, Yoon Ji stared at him, her lips trembling. Then, the fire in her eyes dimmed, the pain returning full force. She gave a single, shaky nod and leaned toward him, no longer strong enough to stand.
Then Yoon Ji turned sharply, as if a forgotten thought had snapped back into her mind. Her voice was cold, sharp enough to cut.
"Did you just dare to hold my wrist just now?"
It wasn't a question.
Bu-ran's breath hitched. She dropped instantly to her knees with a soft thud, forehead pressed to the ground in a trembling kowtow.
"This handmaiden apologizes, Young Mistress. Please… forgive me," she whispered, voice cracking.
The position shielded Bu-ran for now. Yoon Ji would have struck her if not for the dull, burning throb in her ankle. The pain was radiating up her leg, making her skin clammy. She needed the family healer. Bu-ran's punishment could wait.
"Just get me the healer!" Yoon Ji snapped, sweat dotting her brow, her patience frayed thin.
"Yes, Young Mistress!" Bu-ran gasped, scrambling upright with a rustle of skirts before sprinting off down the yard like her life depended on it.
Kang Mu stepped forward without a word. With calm precision, he lifted Yoon Ji into his arms, cradling her as if she weighed nothing. Her body tensed for a moment, she shot him a look full of disdain.
As he carried her back toward the residence, a breeze stirred the pavilion behind them. Paper lanterns swayed gently, their hollow frames creaking. The echo of her dancing had vanished, leaving only silence in its place.
Yoon Ji pressed her face into Kang Mu's shoulder, not because she needed comfort but to hide the storm in her eyes. The pain in her ankle was sharp and unrelenting, but the pain in her chest was worse.
What if this injury changed everything?
Would they still want her at the palace if she couldn't dance?
Would the Queen Dowager cast her aside?
Would the King ever look at her if she limped like a broken doll?
Frustration rose like bile. Hot. Bitter.
All her planning, all her effort and one misstep might have ruined it all.
All because she fell.
No!