Lady Seorin let out a weak gasp, her eyelids fluttering open like moth wings in a storm. She stared—not at Seungho kneeling at her side—but past him, toward the shadowed corner of the chamber.
Then she screamed.
A raw, ragged sound tore from her throat, echoing through the room like a soul being torn in two. Her body convulsed violently beneath the silk bedding, limbs flailing as if trying to escape unseen hands.
"She's here again!" Seorin shrieked. "Do not let her touch me! Keep her away!"
Seungho recoiled, ice pooling in his chest. He turned to follow her gaze—but saw nothing.
Only the flicker of a candle struggling in a corner, its flame bending away from the shadow.
"What in heaven's name does she see?" he muttered, unease curling around his words.
Seorin thrashed, clawing through her bedding, tears streaking down her face.
"She's watching me," she cried. "Her eyes—black as ink—her dress is still soaked in blood—!"
"Lady Hae!" Seungho snapped, trying to anchor her. "Please be —"
But then he heard it.
A whisper—not of wind nor of madness—but of something ancient. A voice no human mouth should form. It slithered past his ear like smoke.
"She took what was mine…"
Seungho stiffened. His head whipped toward the shadows.
Empty. Still.
But the air grew colder.
"She bore his child…"
His breath caught. The voice didn't echo—it coiled. It was as though it lived beneath the skin of the world.
"I drowned… and now I'll have them both."
"Enough!" he shouted, clapping his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut.
But silence returned, thick as fog. And Seorin's sobs softened into whispers.
"Not the baby… please, not the baby…"
The doors creaked open.
"His Majesty the King enters!"
Seungho turned, forcing composure into his limbs as all present bowed low.
King Hyeonjong stepped in, his expression turning to alarm the instant he saw Seorin's crumpled figure and the clawed ruin of her bedding.
"What is the meaning of this?" His voice rang with sharpened anger. "What has happened to my beloved Seorin? Where is the royal physician? "
Seungho bowed again, calm but grave.
"Your Majesty, I dismissed the physician. He could not explain her affliction. No fever. No physical wound. And yet…"
He hesitated, glancing once more at the shadowed corner.
"There is something else ... going on."
King Hyeonjong's nostrils flared. He took a step closer—and immediately recoiled.
"What is this stench? It reeks of stagnant water… like a drowned well."
One of the eunuchs gagged softly behind his sleeve, while the court ladies exchanged terrified glances. No incense could mask it now—the sickly rot hung thick in the air.
Seorin whimpered.
"She followed me… from the pond…"
"Pond?" the King echoed sharply. "What pond?"
But Seorin had curled in on herself, her hands cradling her belly, her lips moving in silent, shuddering prayer.
Seungho straightened slowly, trying to control the trembling in his limbs.
"Your Majesty… this is no natural illness."
King Hyeonjong's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
Seungho's voice faltered, unsure how much to say. The whisper still echoed in his bones.
"She speaks of a woman. Bloodied. Dead. She says… she followed her."
He didn't mention the voice. The words only he had heard. The crawling cold still beneath his skin.
"So the lady is hallucinating," the King said curtly. "Then call for another physician. One who knows how to treat hysteria and frightened women."
He glanced at the attendants.
"Or perhaps this is the work of frightened minds and bad incense. What are you all standing there for? Air out this cursed room!"
One eunuch rushed to open the windows, though the curtains barely stirred.
Seorin whimpered.
"She's here… she never left…"
The King's jaw tightened. He looked down at her, his beloved consort, and for a fleeting moment—there was fear in his gaze.
Then it was gone.
"Seungho. I want this nonsense ended. If this is poison, find the one who gave it. If this is madness, cure it. But I will not have my court muttering about phantoms and drowning ghosts.
Also—double the guards around Her Highness. No one enters her chambers without my explicit permission. Not even the Queen."
He turned to the attendants, his voice cutting like a blade.
"If word of this spreads beyond this hall, I will know who let it slip—and they will pay dearly."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Seungho said, bowing low. His mouth obeyed, but his heart screamed.
Because he had heard her.
And she had not left.
---
Seungho stood unmoving even after the King had swept out of the chamber. The thick silence returned—only broken by the distant, erratic sobs of Lady Seorin.
The candle in the corner hissed as if choked.
Seungho's jaw clenched.
This is beyond hysteria. Beyond sickness. This is something else entirely…
Something ancient. Something angry.
And worse—something real.
He stepped back from Seorin's bed, hands behind his back, and exhaled slowly. His breath fogged in the chill, though there was no draft.
This is definitely something beyond control… but how do I fix this without the King knowing?
Calling a shaman into the palace—especially now—would not only be seen as superstition, but treasonous disobedience. King Hyeonjong had outlawed all court shamans since his ascension, calling them "leeches on the state."
He would not forgive me if I even whispered the word 'mudang' within these walls.
But no physician, no learned Confucian scholar, no monk had answers for what Seorin saw. For what he had heard.
I can't allow this to fester. If that ghost takes root here… if she claims Seorin, or worse—
He swallowed.
The child.
He turned sharply to the nearest eunuch.
"Have the incense in this room replaced. Nothing with jasmine or lotus. Only sandalwood. And bring me the maid who attended to Lady Seorin last before her collapse."
The eunuch scurried off.
Seungho walked out of Lady Hae's quarters, his boots soft against the polished stone floor. The hush of the palace corridors wrapped around him like a shroud. A few passing court ladies lowered their gazes and scurried away. Rumors would bloom by morning, no matter what the King threatened.
He stopped at the threshold of the long colonnade, hand resting on a lacquered pillar.
A flicker of movement—just at the edge of his vision.
He turned swiftly.
Nothing.
But the chill persisted.
"She bore his child…"
What did it mean by that? Whose child?
---
Seungho was just about to step forward into the corridor when movement caught his eye.
Chorae stood at the far edge of the walkway, where the golden afternoon light bled through the wooden lattice. Her clothes marked her as a palace maid, but not from Lady Hae's quarters. Her jeogori bore the pale green sash of the Water Palace Hall.
Seungho frowned.
What is a maid from the Water Palace Hall doing here at this hour?
Chorae wasn't moving. She stood still as a statue, staring intently at the doors to Lady Hae's chambers.
Another scream rang out from inside—high and ragged, tearing through the quiet afternoon like silk caught in thorns.
Chorae didn't even flinch.
Instead, she tilted her head, wrinkled her nose, and muttered to herself—
"Ugh. The smell. Brimming with vengeance and spoiled incense. Yuck."
Chorae's eyes briefly narrowed —as if she caught a glimpse of something just out of reach. A shape. A woman. Cloaked in rot and reeds. But when she blinked, it was gone.
'Ah, I see...so that's what is going on.' she thought as she smiled.
Seungho's expression sharpened. He approached, his tone level but edged.
"You there. This area is restricted. What business brings a Water Palace maid to the Consort's quarters?"
Chorae's smile disappeared as she turned slowly. Her eyes landed on him—dark, clear, and unsettlingly calm. Not the kind of calm bred from training, but the eerie stillness of someone too familiar with screams. Someone who might sleep just fine beside corpses.
She blinked once. Her gaze dipped over his uniform—not lasciviously, but appraisingly. Like one might examine a suit of armor, or a sarcophagus.
Then she thought,
Hmm. Handsome. Broad shoulders. Nice body. Probably the kind ladies throw themselves at.
Her eyes lifted back to his face.
Not me, though. What would I do with that?
A bright, innocent smile spread across her lips. "Ah! I got lost," she chirped. "One moment I was fetching fresh water, and the next—bam! Here I am, in stenched corridors."
Seungho's brow twitched. "You got lost?"
"Yes! This palace is like a maze when you have short legs and a terrible sense of direction." She patted her own head lightly, as if that explained everything.
He didn't move. Didn't smile.
There was something… wrong about her. Most servants in his presence trembled, stammered, bowed until their spines creaked. But she just stood there, swaying slightly like a reed in idle wind.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice low.
"Chorae," she replied without hesitation. "Like the sacred beads. You know—rattle rattle, spirits scatter." She mimed shaking something invisible beside her ear.
Seungho's eyes narrowed.
That name wasn't on any of the recent servant rotations. And the mention of spirits—coincidence?
Or mockery?
"You shouldn't be here," he said flatly.
Chorae nodded with theatrical solemnity. "You're right. I shouldn't."
She didn't move to leave.
Another scream from inside.
Seungho turned his head—just for a moment.
When he looked back, she was already walking away, arms swinging loosely like a child after chores, humming something tuneless.
Odd girl, he thought. Too bold. Too strange.
---
Chorae walked along the sunlit corridor, her straw shoes making gentle tok tok sounds against the stone. The shadows cast by the courtyard lattice shifted as clouds drifted across the afternoon sky.
She didn't look back.
But she smirked.
"That man was interesting. Tense like a coiled rope. I bet he gets headaches from carrying so much duty on those wide shoulders."
She laughed under her breath.
"And those eyes—sharp, watchful. He probably thinks I'm a spy. "
She paused beneath a shaded awning and glanced over her shoulder.
"…But that energy just now…"