Ha-ru's footsteps were soft against the slick stones, each one measured, careful. The cloak he wore was plain, the hood drawn low over his face. A servant's disguise meant to hide more than just his features.
He paused at the edge of the main courtyard. The silence of the night pressed down on him, a weight that made the hairs on his neck rise. Ha-ru had walked these paths before in memory, though not in body, he knew the palace's secrets like the back of his hand.
Just then he saw him.
Crown Prince Seong-jin.
He stood alone at the far end of the courtyard, robes dark as ink against the lighter stone, posture rigid, shoulders squared. Even in the faint torchlight, his presence was like a blade: sharp, cold, unyielding. His eyes, dark and measuring, seemed to pierce the very air, and for a moment, Ha-ru froze.
He lowered his hood slightly, letting just enough of his face remain visible, though he dared not meet the prince's gaze. Even in the cold rain, a single drop of sweat slid down his cheek.
The prince moved then, slowly, with a predator's grace. He walked along the edge of the courtyard.. an umbrella held over his head by the Eunuch, not speaking, not calling for guards. His gaze flicked toward Ha-ru once, twice, and then turned away as if dismissing him entirely.
Ha-ru's heart beat faster, though he kept his face calm. He adjusted his posture and moved forward, silent as a shadow, letting the stone beneath his feet swallow his steps. The gates loomed ahead, Beyond them lay the inner palace, where power lived, and danger breathed.
He entered, bowing to the nearest guard with a quiet, measured step. They barely glanced at him... just another servant passing through.
The inner palace was a world within a world.
By dawn, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the heavy gray sky pressed down on the tiled rooftops. Thin mist crawled along the courtyards, swallowing the tall gates and curling around the lanterns that still flickered weakly. For a moment, the palace seemed like a sleeping beast.
Ha-ru walked among the rows of servants, his head lowered, his hands clutching the wooden bucket pressed to his chest. His posture was meek, his steps careful. To anyone who looked, he was only another lowborn brought in from the outside, another shadow to scrub floors and polish brass.
But inside, his thoughts moved like sharp blades.
He had memorized the layout the night before: the servants' quarters near the eastern kitchens, the storerooms lining the narrow alleys, the path that wound toward the inner court. Each corridor, each turn of stone, each hidden guard post, he held them all like a map in his head.
The palace had once been his father's enemy. Now it was his cage. And his battlefield.
"New one." A sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
Ha-ru bowed quickly. An older maid with thin lips and cold eyes stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back. She looked him over, her gaze stripping him bare.
"You are assigned to the west wing. Do not wander. Do not speak unless spoken to. If you disobey, your tongue will be cut."
Her words were as blunt as the knife at her waist. Ha-ru lowered his head further.
"Yes, ma'am."
The maid sniffed, unimpressed. "See that you mean it."
She walked away, her robes dragging against the wet stones.
Ha-ru straightened only when her shadow vanished. His grip on the bucket tightened until his knuckles turned pale. The threat did not frighten him; he had heard worse before.
He turned toward the west wing, the drizzle soaking into his hair, plastering it against his skin. Each step he took sank deeper into silence.
By the time he reached the long wooden hall of the west wing, the mist had thinned. He placed the bucket down and began wiping the polished floor, his motions steady, unhurried. Around him, other maids moved like shadows, their eyes fixed on their chores.
Suddenly...
A hush spread.
It began at the far end of the hall, rolling like a wave. One maid stilled, then another, then all of them knelt, their foreheads nearly touching the floor. Ha-ru noticed the shift, the way the air grew sharp, the way silence deepened into fear.
He bent down as well, lowering his head until his face nearly touched the cold wood.
Footsteps followed. Slow. Precise. Heavy not with weight, but with power.
The Crown Prince.
Ha-ru did not need to raise his head to know it was him. The air itself bent toward him. A coldness clung to each step, a pressure that pushed against the chest. Even the rain outside seemed to hesitate.
Seong-jin walked past them, his robe brushing the floor like a tide. His presence was not loud, yet it swallowed all sound.
Ha-ru's hands trembled against the floor. Not with fear. With rage.
He kept his face hidden, but his heart thundered. This was the man... this cold figure, who stood at the center of everything. The one who had ordered blood. The one who sat beneath the throne that should have been stained by justice long ago.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to look.
Just a glimpse, as the prince's shadow passed.
Sharp jaw. Pale skin. Eyes like steel, unmoving, unfeeling, unreadable. The face of someone carved not from flesh, but from stone.
Seong-jin did not glance down. He walked past without a word, his footsteps fading into the misted air.
The silence remained long after he had gone.
When the maids finally rose, whispers trembled between them, voices barely louder than breaths.
"He looks colder than ever…"
"They say even the ministers fear his gaze…"
"Do not speak of him here."
Ha-ru returned to scrubbing the floor, his motions calm. But inside, his chest burned.
He had seen the face of his enemy.
For Ha-ru, the day had just began. After he was done with his first chores, he went to rest in the servants quarters..
"Up. Quickly." A hand shoved his shoulder. One of the older girls scowled down at him. "The water jars must be filled before noon. If you're late, you'll feel the whip."
Ha-ru pushed himself up. Around him, the room was filled with the rustle of fabric and the shuffle of bare feet. Dozens of servants shared the space, their lives measured by chores and punishments.
He moved quietly, carrying the wooden jar toward the well outside. The air was cold. His breath fogged as he drew water, his reflection wavering in the dark surface.
The face that stared back was not the one he had been born with.
Dirt smudged his skin, his wig uneven due to the quick nap, his clothes rough and plain. A servant's mask.. he smirked.
He lowered his gaze, lifted the jar, and walked toward the kitchens.
The steam of the kitchens clung to Ha-ru's skin long after he had carried in the water jars. Smoke curled from the firepits, stinging his eyes as he bent to stack bundles of firewood against the wall.
The head cook, a sharp-faced woman with arms like iron, barked orders at every servant within reach.
"You! Faster with those roots! And you... don't think I don't see you sneaking rice! If the stewards count less grain, I'll have your head!"
Ha-ru bowed his head lower, slipping into the rhythm of the room. Every sound was loud here, the clatter of iron pots, the scrape of ladles, the hiss of oil meeting flame. But beneath the noise, there was gossip too, words dropped like stones into water.
"Did you hear? Another minister removed this morning."
"Shh... don't speak so freely. The walls have ears."
"They say it was His Highness again. Who else could it be? That man's gaze alone can strip flesh from bone…"
The servants' whispers pricked Ha-ru's ears. He did not need their words to know the truth; he had seen the stories etched into the world himself. But still, he kept his hands moving, knife steady as he sliced through pale radish.
The disguise was everything. If one person were to look too closely, they wouldn't tell if he was a man, the trace of his old self beneath the mask hidden perfectly in this female disguise.
By midday, his back ached and his fingers stung from splinters, but the work did not cease. He was sent to scrub the steps of the west hall, a bucket at his side, a stiff brush in hand.
The stone was cold beneath his knees. With each stroke of the brush, the water ran red-brown, carrying away the grime of boots and rain.
He bent low, silent.
And then—footsteps.
Measured. Heavy with purpose. Not rushed, not careless.
Ha-ru's brush stilled against the stone. He did not lift his head. The rules were clear: servants did not look upon royalty unless commanded. But he felt it, as one feels the chill of a blade hovering near the throat.
A shadow passed over him.
The Crown Prince.
Seong-jin's robes swept across the step above, black silk embroidered with a subtle crimson sheen. His attendants trailed behind, whispering in tones too low to catch. Yet their unease was written in the stiffness of their shoulders, the way their eyes never rose to meet their master's back.
Ha-ru's gaze remained fixed on the stone. But in that heartbeat, he felt the weight of Seong-jin's presence press against him like iron. Cold. Unyielding. A storm bound in flesh.
The prince did not stop. His steps carried him past the hall, vanishing into the distance as though the world itself parted for him alone.
Ha-ru's hand tightened on the brush until his knuckles burned.
So this was the man who held the throne's shadow.
The man whose decisions toppled ministers.
The man whose silence was more feared than a general's shout.
The man he had sworn to kill.
Yet, kneeling there with suds dripping from his fingers, Ha-ru realized something that made his chest clench. Seeing Seong-jin was not like recalling the ghost of a memory. It was not like clutching hatred in the dark.
It was real.
Palpable.
Dangerous.
For the first time since entering the palace, Ha-ru's heart betrayed him, it beat too fast, too loud.
He dipped the brush back into the water, scrubbing harder, as if the act alone could drown the trembling in his veins.
The day stretched on. The hall grew quieter, the endless commands thinning as servants carried trays toward noble chambers.
When the evening bell rang, Ha-ru's body felt broken. His arms and back hurt from carrying water, scrubbing floors, and bowing too many times.
The servants' quarters were far from the grand palace halls. It was a long, dark room with thin straw mats lined on the floor, each so close there was barely any space to turn. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, and old rice.
"Find a place. Don't be slow," the steward barked, dropping a lantern inside. The weak light barely reached the corners.
Ha-ru kept his eyes down. He carried the small bundle of bedding he was given and walked to the farthest corner. The mat was rough and thin, but it would have to do.
Around him, the other servants began to whisper. Their voices were low, sharp, and tired.
"That girl from the kitchen… her face is swollen."
"She should have moved faster. That's what happens if you anger the steward."
"At least it wasn't me. I'll keep quiet and do my work."
Some laughed. Others only sighed. No one spoke kindly of her. No one offered pity. In this place, kindness was weakness.
Ha-ru lay down but could not sleep. His eyes stayed open, staring at the wooden beams above.
He pulled the thin blanket closer.
Around him, the dorm grew quiet. Servants whispered prayers, someone snored, and the lantern burned low.
Ha-ru's eyes stayed open long into the night. His first night in the palace was heavy, sleepless...