Dawn crept over the capital slowly, brushing pale gold across the rooftops, warming the cold edges of the night before. The rain had stopped, but puddles still glimmered like broken mirrors along the streets.
Wrapped in the too-large scholar robes of Kim Haneul, Hana pulled the wide-brimmed hat lower over her eyes and kept walking. Her ankle still throbbed from the fall. Her side burned where Yoon's strike had landed. But none of it mattered.
Pain means you're alive, she reminded herself.
And being alive was the only advantage she had left.
Ahead, the towering gates of the Hwarang Academy rose in stone and shadow. Dozens of young nobles were already lined up, chatting, laughing, adjusting their uniforms. They smelled like silk and expensive incense—nothing like the blood and dust Hana had always known.
She touched the jade plaque in her sleeve.
Kim Haneul, she repeated in her mind. You are Kim Haneul now.
She stepped forward.
A guard blocked her path with a wooden staff. "Name and purpose?"
"Haneul," she answered, lowering her tone. "Kim Haneul. Accepted candidate for this year's scholarly intake."
The guard examined her face, then the plaque… then her face again.
For a heartbeat, Hana's chest tightened. If he questioned her too deeply—if anything seemed off—she'd have to kill him before he raised an alarm.
But then he stepped aside. "Proceed."
Relief flickered through her, small but sharp.
She crossed the gates.
Inside the academy courtyard, young scholars practiced archery, debated poetry, or compared books. Hana kept her gaze downward. Her new identity depended on not attracting attention.
Unfortunately, fate never liked her plans.
A shadow fell across her face.
"You're new," a calm voice said. "And you're wearing your hat too low for morning greeting."
Hana froze.
The voice was quiet, smooth, but carried the weight of authority—someone used to being obeyed.
She looked up.
Seon Woojin.
Even the air around him felt sharper. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing scholar blue with unsettling precision, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back like a man carved from discipline. His eyes—dark, cutting—studied her with an intensity that made the back of Hana's neck prickle.
His gaze flicked to her gloves. To her lowered posture. To her stance—slightly defensive.
"Strange," he murmured. "You stand like someone who expects attack."
Her heart kicked once. Too observant.
But she forced her voice into a soft, polite tone. "I was injured on the road. My ankle still aches."
Woojin tilted his head, like a hawk watching prey. "Your ankle hurts, so your shoulders tense?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Interesting."
Hana cursed mentally.
Woojin stepped closer—close enough she could see the faint scar along his jawline.
"What is your name?"
She bowed. "Kim Haneul."
For a moment, his expression didn't change at all. Then—
"You're late," he said finally. "Your dorm assignment has already been announced. Come."
He turned sharply, expecting her to follow.
Hana hesitated. Following him wasn't ideal. But refusing would be suspicious.
She walked behind him, imitating the stiff, proper way she remembered scholars moving.
Woojin noticed that too.
"Your posture keeps shifting," he said without looking back. "As if you're forcing yourself into a mold that doesn't fit."
Hana forced a polite smile. "Long journey. My body is stiff."
"Mm."
He didn't sound convinced.
He led her through long halls, past groups of curious students whispering.
"Is that the new scholar?"
"Why is he wearing gloves?"
"Looks sick. Or strange."
Hana ignored them. Words couldn't kill her. Only mistakes could.
Woojin finally stopped at a wooden door engraved with two names.
"Kim Haneul," he said. "This will be your room."
Hana blinked.
Her room?
She hadn't considered this.
Shared living quarters meant suspicion. Living with someone meant being watched every hour.
She swallowed. "Who is assigned with me?"
Woojin slid the door open. "Me."
Her breath stopped.
"I'm the top-ranking scholar," he continued, stepping inside. "Newcomers are assigned to me for supervision."
Of course. Fate hated her.
Hana forced a bow. "I hope I won't be a burden."
"You already seem like one," he said calmly.
She stiffened, but he didn't seem to be insulting her—just stating a fact.
Woojin sat at the low table, opening a scroll. "Put your things away. Our first lecture begins in an hour."
She looked around. The room was neat, sparse. Two beds, two chests, one table, one window. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere to breathe.
She set down her borrowed satchel and quietly tested the floorboards, walls, beams. Searching for weak points. Escape routes.
Woojin watched her the entire time.
"You examine a room like someone expecting enemies," he said.
Hana forced a smile. "I suffer from… nervous habits."
"Habits come from experience."
Her heart pounded.
Woojin finally looked away. "If you intend to survive here, Kim Haneul, learn this: scholars hide daggers not in sleeves but in words. They won't cut you with blades—but reputations."
"I will remember that," she said.
"Good."
He rose. "Come. Instructor Park is strict."
She followed him into the lecture hall. Rows of scholars turned to look at her. The room buzzed with whispers.
Hana lowered her head and sat at an empty spot near the pillars.
But Woojin stopped beside her.
"Not there," he said. "Sit next to me."
She blinked. "Why?"
"So I can observe you more closely."
She nearly choked.
Woojin sat. Hana reluctantly took the seat beside him.
Instructor Park entered—stern, gray-haired, holding two thick scrolls.
"Today," he announced, "we will begin with a test. Knowledge, reading, analysis."
A test?
Hana stiffened. She could read. She could write. She knew battlefield codes, secret symbols, smuggler shorthand… but classical scholar texts?
Park distributed scrolls. Hana unrolled hers and stared at dense, flowery characters.
Her pulse quickened.
Woojin glanced sideways. "You're pale."
"I'm fine."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The first character on your scroll is upside down."
"What—"
She looked. It was indeed upside down.
Heat rushed to her face. She flipped it quickly.
Woojin's lips curved—barely—but she noticed. A small, knowing smirk.
Hana gritted her teeth and began writing. Slowly. Carefully. Copying characters she barely knew. Sweat gathered at her temples.
When the test ended, Woojin collected their sheets. As he passed her, he whispered:
"You write like someone who learned to wield a sword before a brush."
Her breath caught.
He leaned even closer, his voice a low murmur only she could hear.
"Who are you really, Kim Haneul?"
She kept her face blank. "A scholar."
Woojin held her gaze for a long moment—long enough she feared he could see the blood on her hands, the shadows in her past.
Then he turned away.
"That's what I intend to find out."