They left after the second bell.
Not openly.
Not in haste.
Seo Yerin waited until the inner corridors settled into their shallow night rhythm—servants retiring, lanterns dimmed to their lowest safe glow, the outer gates guarded more by habit than attention. She changed nothing about her appearance that would draw notice at a distance: a dark cloak over a pale robe, the hood loose enough to shadow her face.
Han Jisoo was already waiting where the stone path narrowed into trees.
He stood straight when she approached, as though bracing himself against something he could not see. Moonlight filtered through the branches above, catching on the edge of his shoulder, the curve of his jaw as he turned.
"My lady," he said, voice low.
"You may drop that," she replied quietly. "We are not within the halls."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yerin."
It was the first time he had spoken her name without a title.
She let it pass.
They walked without speaking at first. The path dipped gently downward, the stone giving way to packed earth, then to leaf-littered ground that softened each step. The forest thickened around them, branches knitting overhead, the scent of damp bark and night flowers settling into the air.
"You know this way well," she said after a while.
"Yes," he answered. "Few choose it after dusk."
"Why?"
"Because it feels like leaving," he said. "Even before you do."
She smiled faintly beneath the hood.
They moved deeper.
The sect lights faded behind them, replaced by the silver wash of moonlight that threaded through the trees. The sound of water grew clearer with every step—slow, steady, unhurried.
The river.
They reached the clearing and stopped.
It was as he had described: the forest opening just enough to reveal a broad curve of water, dark and reflective, moonlight breaking into it in long, trembling lines. Mist clung low along the bank, drifting lazily where the current slowed.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "It is."
He watched her rather than the river.
She slipped the cloak from her shoulders and folded it over a low rock, revealing the robe beneath—light silk that caught the moon easily, the fabric pale against the dark of the forest. It was tied simply at the waist, sleeves loose, neckline modest by day but softened by night.
She did not look at him when she did it.
That was deliberate.
"You said this place was quiet," she said.
"It is," he answered. "No patrols. No paths worth marking."
She stepped closer to the water, the hem of her robe brushing the damp ground. She lifted it slightly to avoid soaking it, exposing her ankles, then her calves as she moved.
Han Jisoo's breath caught.
She heard it.
"Stay there," she said gently, not turning. "I don't want you slipping."
"Yes."
She knelt near the river's edge and dipped her fingers into the water. It was cool, clean. She let it run over her skin, then lifted her hand slowly, watching droplets fall back into the current.
"Do you ever come here alone?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"And when you do," she continued, "what do you think about?"
He did not answer at once.
"About how far it is from the sect," he said finally. "About how quiet it is when no one is watching."
She turned to face him then.
The moon caught her fully—hair dark against pale silk, the robe clinging faintly where the night air cooled it, the line of her body clear without being revealed outright. She did not hide the way she looked at him.
Not boldly.
Intentionally.
"You're watching now," she said.
"Yes."
"Does that make it less quiet?"
He shook his head. "No."
She stepped closer.
The distance between them thinned to a few paces, then fewer. The forest seemed to draw inward around them, the river's murmur filling the spaces words did not.
"Come here," she said.
He did.
He stopped a respectful distance away, hands at his sides, posture rigid with effort.
"You don't need to hold yourself like that," she said softly. "You're not on duty."
"I know," he replied. "I just—"
She lifted a hand.
He fell silent immediately.
She reached out and adjusted the fall of his sleeve, fingers brushing his wrist briefly. The contact was light, fleeting—but it carried weight in the open air, unprotected by walls or rules.
"You brought me here," she said. "That was your choice."
"Yes."
"And you stayed," she continued. "That was another."
He swallowed. "I didn't think you would come."
"I did," she said. "Because I wanted to see what you would do."
He met her gaze then, uncertainty and desire warring openly now.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She considered him for a long moment.
"I want you to stay exactly where you are," she said. "And I want you to tell me if that becomes difficult."
He nodded. "It already is."
She smiled—not warmly, not cruelly. Simply knowingly.
She stepped closer again, until there was barely space for breath between them. The river reflected their silhouettes, two dark shapes leaning toward each other without touching.
"Good," she said. "That means you're paying attention."
She lifted her hand once more and rested it lightly against his chest, feeling the steady, uneven rhythm beneath her palm. She did not press. She did not linger.
She removed it just as slowly.
"We should sit," she said. "The ground is uneven here."
They sat side by side near the water, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She drew her knees up beneath her robe, the silk shifting, catching moonlight in soft folds.
Neither spoke for a time.
The quiet returned—but it was no longer empty.
When she finally rose, brushing her hands clean, she picked up her cloak and draped it over her shoulders again.
"We should go back," she said. "Before the night deepens."
"Yes," he replied.
They did not move immediately.
Then he stood and offered his hand—not to pull her up, but to steady her.
She took it.
For a single breath.
Then let go.
They walked back the way they had come, slower this time, the forest less silent now, as though it had taken note of them.
Behind them, the river kept its secrets.
For now.