The palace followed its usual rhythm that morning. Officials crossed the courtyards in orderly lines, servants moved quietly between the halls, and the sound of distant footsteps echoed beneath the tiled roofs.

Seo Mu-gyeom walked a respectful distance behind Prince Yi Hyeon, his expression calm and unreadable. His long black hair was secured in its customary high ponytail, the simple black ribbon holding it neatly in place. One hand rested near his sword out of habit, though nothing in the courtyard presently demanded its use.

The prince attended court as he always did: composed, courteous, and difficult to provoke. Mu-gyeom had learned that Hyeon's silence often revealed more than another man's speech. He watched without staring, listened without appearing to listen, and paid attention to the details others overlooked.

An official made a disrespectful remark.

Mu-gyeom noticed the slight tension in the atmosphere before he looked toward the speaker. He studied the official briefly, noting the carelessness of his words and the reactions of those nearby. Then his gaze shifted to .

The prince barely reacted.*

Interesting.

Many men would have answered such an insult with indignation or attempted to disguise their offence behind an awkward smile. Hyeon did neither. He continued his duties as though the remark had scarcely warranted his attention.

Mu-gyeom allowed his gaze to return to the official. For a moment, he gave the man a brief, unreadable look. He said nothing. There was no need to turn a careless remark into a public confrontation. Still, he filed the incident away in his mind.

He was not merely the prince's personal guard.

The king had given him another responsibility: observe Yi Hyeon, assess whether his growing influence might become a danger to the dynasty, and report anything that genuinely warranted concern. The prince knew nothing of this arrangement.

Mu-gyeom had accepted the assignment because he cared about the stability of the kingdom and the people who depended upon it. Yet he had never promised himself that he would mistake suspicion for proof. A prince's independence was not treason, and a king's unease did not automatically make it so. For now, Hyeon had done nothing that justified concern.

Court continued without further incident. When the proceedings concluded, the prince departed with his usual composure, and Mu-gyeom followed at the customary distance. His attention remained on the surrounding corridors, the movements of the guards, and the people who approached or withdrew from the prince. Eventually, Hyeon made his way to the training grounds.

Mu-gyeom remained at a respectful distance as the prince began practising swordsmanship. He watched the movements of the blade, the prince's footwork, and the controlled precision of each strike. Hyeon was skilled. There was no point pretending otherwise.

Mu-gyeom had little interest in offering empty praise, but neither did he see a reason to conceal a genuine observation. The prince continued his practice for some time before speaking without turning fully toward him.

"Do you have something to report?"

Mu-gyeom's expression remained composed. The question could have been an ordinary inquiry from a prince accustomed to the presence of his guard. It could also have been an indication that Hyeon had noticed how attentively he was being watched. There was no reason to assume either.

Mu-Gyeom's left ear twitched.

"I would hate to let Your Highness's skills go unappreciated."

The remark was light enough to pass as casual conversation, yet it gave away nothing about his actual thoughts. He watched the prince's response with quiet interest. Hyeon studied him before asking,

"Do you intend to assess my swordsmanship every time I train?"

Mu-gyeom inclined his head slightly.

"Only when the opportunity presents itself, Your Highness."

He kept his tone respectful, the faint amusement in his expression carefully controlled. He had no intention of turning an ordinary exchange into an interrogation, nor did he see a reason to explain that observation was part of his assignment. Hyeon said nothing further and resumed his practice.

Mu-gyeom let the silence settle between them. He watched the prince's movements without interrupting, remaining alert to the training grounds and its surroundings. His hand rested near his sword as naturally as it always did. When Hyeon eventually finished, he cleaned his blade and prepared to leave.

Mu-gyeom followed at his usual respectful distance. That was precisely how it needed to appear. Mu-gyeom's duty was to protect Yi Hyeon. His secret assignment was to determine whether the prince might one day threaten the dynasty. For the moment, those responsibilities had not come into conflict.

But he understood that they might. He would observe the prince, report genuine dangers, and draw his own conclusions from what he witnessed. He would not manufacture suspicion merely to satisfy the king, nor would he ignore a credible threat simply because he had been entrusted with Hyeon's safety.

For now, he continued walking behind the prince, his expression as unreadable as ever. The king expected a report. Mu-gyeom intended to make certain that whatever he eventually delivered would be the truth.