Chapter Seventeen: A Shadow at His Heel

The palace was never quiet.

Not truly.

Even in the dead of night, whispers lingered in the corridors. Shadows stretched long beneath flickering lanterns.

The Crown Prince was used to it.

He had lived his whole life in a den of serpents, where a single misstep could mean death.

But tonight—

Tonight, something unsettled him.

A presence.

A thought.

A name.

---

"Scholar Han."

The name left his lips before he could stop it.

The prince sat alone in his quarters, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his side.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Why?

Why was he thinking of that stubborn, sharp-tongued scholar?

Why had he gone out of his way to check on him today?

Why had his gaze kept drifting to the bandage on Han's arm—his own handiwork—as if it mattered?

He had done his duty.

That was all.

And yet—

His fingers tightened around the teacup.

He could still feel the ghost of that moment.

The way Han had remained so still when he reached for his sleeve.

The way the scholar's breath had hitched—barely, but enough.

The prince set the cup down with a quiet clink.

This was ridiculous.

It was nothing.

---

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

His aide stepped in, bowing low.

"Your Highness."

"What is it?"

"There has been… an incident."

The prince straightened. "What kind of incident?"

The aide hesitated.

Then—

"Scholar Han was found outside the Hall of Records. Unconscious."

---

He moved before he could think.

Before his mind could question why his first instinct was to go to him.

By the time he reached the infirmary, his pulse was steady—too steady.

But something inside him was not.

Dan-Bi lay on a simple cot, her arm draped across her abdomen, her breathing even but pale beneath the lantern light.

A physician hovered nearby.

"What happened?" the prince demanded.

The man bowed quickly. "We are unsure, Your Highness. There were no signs of an attack, no visible wounds aside from the old injury on the arm."

His gaze flickered to the bandage.

His bandage.

The prince exhaled slowly. "Then why did he collapse?"

"Exhaustion, most likely," the physician admitted. "The scholar was likely pushing himself too hard."

The prince's jaw tightened.

Reckless.

Foolish.

The words rose to his tongue, but he swallowed them down.

He did not know why he was angry.

Only that the sight of Han—so still, so defenseless—made something sharp curl in his chest.

Something dangerous.

Something possessive.

Without thinking, he reached out.

Stopped just short of touching Han's wrist.

Then—quietly—he turned to the physician.

"Ensure he rests properly," he ordered. "And see that no one disturbs him until he wakes."

The physician bowed. "Of course, Your Highness."

The prince lingered a moment longer.

Then he turned on his heel and left.

But even as he walked away, he knew—

The shadow at his heel was no longer just the weight of the throne.

It was something else entirely.

And he did not know if he could outrun it.