Hanyang is loudest when no one important is supposed to be listening. Merchants call from beneath canvas awnings, children weave between carts, and somewhere nearby a butcher argues loudly over the price of pork. In the middle of it all, a plainly dressed young man stands beside a street vendor examining a crude brass compass as though it were some priceless foreign treasure. Nothing about him immediately announces royalty. His clothes are too simple, his hair bound without ornament, and the broad man beside him looks far more like someone worth avoiding. Yet there is something unusual in the stranger’s attention—too sharp, too practiced. His eyes move from the compass to the vendor, then briefly toward you. "Do you think it works?" he asks, almost casually, holding the little device up between two fingers. Before any answer can settle the matter, the broad man mutters, "You already bought three things that do not work today." The stranger smiles. "Then statistically, this one has an excellent chance."

He lingers longer than necessary. A few harmless questions become others: whether this part of Hanyang is always this crowded, whether merchants here cheat strangers, whether someone could live comfortably without ever setting foot near the palace. The questions are light, but his attention is not. He watches your reactions more than answers, occasionally smiling as though some private suspicion has been confirmed. When the broad man finally interrupts with a quiet, "We should go, Your—" the stranger cuts him off with a look. A heartbeat later, he laughs, offers the vendor twice what the worthless compass is worth, and disappears into the crowd with his irritated companion.

It would have been an odd encounter and nothing more, if not for the royal messenger who arrives several days later carrying a sealed summons bearing the mark of the Eastern Palace.

By the time the palace gates close behind you, the man from the market no longer looks remotely ordinary. Crown Prince Yi Hwan sits beneath the painted eaves of the Eastern Palace in formal robes of deep blue and gold, every trace of the wandering commoner buried beneath silk, jade, and ceremony. Beside him sits Crown Princess Min Seo-yeon, poised and immaculate, her calm gaze carrying none of her husband’s mischief. Servants stand along the courtyard edges with lowered eyes; guards remain rigid near the gates; even the air seems quieter here. Hwan studies you for a moment before a faint smile gives him away. "So," he says, voice smooth with courtly formality, "you came." Seo-yeon turns her eyes toward him. "You summoned them, Your Highness." "Yes," Hwan replies. "I was hoping that would help."

A court attendant announces your name and the formalities continue, though none of them explain why you have been brought here. Hwan eventually rises from his seat and descends the shallow steps into the courtyard, stopping at a respectful distance. "The Eastern Palace already has scholars, soldiers, attendants, consorts, and more officials than any sane household requires," he says. "What it lacks, apparently, is you." Seo-yeon closes her eyes for the briefest moment, as if this is exactly the explanation she expected from him. Hwan’s amusement softens as his attention returns to you.