Then,
someone’s hand settled quietly on Bido’s shoulder.
It was not heavy.
And yet the moment that hand touched him,
Bido realized he was still in the training ground.
He knew without lifting his head.
It was Miryeong.
Miryeong had been there from the beginning.
Beside the pond,
at the edge where the firelight reached.
Without a word, she had been watching Bido all along.
“Are you all right?”
Miryeong’s voice was low.
Bido tried to answer, but swallowed a breath first.
His throat was tight, and no proper sound came out.
He nodded, very slightly.
For a while, Miryeong said nothing.
She simply did not remove the hand resting on Bido’s shoulder.
Only after Bido’s gasping breaths had settled a little
did Miryeong speak briefly.
“You did well.”
That one sentence was less praise
than confirmation.
“You’re doing well.”
Miryeong did not pat Bido on the shoulder.
It was not a hand meant to console him,
but one that drew a line, saying, “Don’t be impatient.”
When Bido felt that line,
he found himself able to breathe even more.
Miryeong did not nod.
And yet it was clear.
She was simply telling him not to collapse.
Bido almost lowered his head further at those words,
but barely held on.
As if that hand were telling him
that struggling was nothing to be ashamed of.
The sounds in the training ground returned.
The distant clash of equipment.
The sound of someone catching their breath.
Aslo and Kallen, too,
were there without saying a word.
It was then.
Footsteps approached from the entrance.
It was the gatekeeper.
He swept his gaze once over the inside of the training ground,
then walked straight toward Miryeong.
“Lady Miryeong.”
The gatekeeper took an envelope from his breast.
It was tied with a cord.
A crescent-shaped knot.
The knot was not a simple decoration.
The cord had been wound around twice,
then the end bent once to make it look like a “hook.”
So that no matter who saw it, it would look like a crescent moon.
It was not a shape that would come from tying it by mistake.
Which meant it had been made deliberately.
Miryeong’s gaze lingered on that knot for a moment.
And Miryeong did not open the envelope.
She held it out toward Bido as it was.
“Bido, will you read it?”
Bido hesitated for a moment.
No, rather than hesitation,
it was the face of someone who had lost the judgment to decide whether he should accept this hand now.
Miryeong did not say it again.
She merely kept holding out the envelope.
In the end, Bido accepted it.
His fingertips still remembered the presence of that heat.
Bido untied the knot.
The cord slipped loose, revealing the creases in the folded paper.
The handwriting was neat and unadorned.
And yet the first line seized his throat.
Bido looked at Miryeong’s face for a moment.
Miryeong nodded.
Bido soon read the letter aloud.
“White Weasel.”
For the briefest moment, the training ground fell silent.
Bido read the next line.
“Let us face each other again, formally.”
That single sentence.
The words that might have been written at greater length
remained only as the weight of the folded paper instead.
Bido read the final line.
“I will be waiting in the village on the northern road of Arku.”
That was all.
Bido looked down at the paper and swallowed another breath.
His voice had trembled not because of fear,
but because of the way this sentence “summoned” them.
Formally.
Let us face each other again.
I will be waiting.
It was neither an order nor a request.
Instead, it sounded like a very old promise.
Someone’s hand brushed a scabbard.
Metal rang out, very faintly.
Bido did not turn the paper over.
It felt as though he had already read everything there was to read.
A brief silence passed.
The sound of someone swallowing could be heard.
Kallen’s gaze shifted to Miryeong for the briefest instant,
then fell back to the floor.
And at the end of that silence,
Muryeong, who had been standing against the wall, said in a low voice,
“Ignore it.”
His words were short and firm.
“Preparing for the operation comes first right now.”
Muryeong’s words were not simply cold.
In this place, “emotion” became a variable.
Variables tore plans apart.
And when plans were torn apart,
people died.
That was why Muryeong always spoke briefly.
Because the longer words became, the more the heart leaned toward them.
Bido knew that,
and yet the first line of the letter kept rising in his mind.
White Weasel.
That name sounded far too light, making it all the more ominous.
Miryeong gave no answer.
She did not even look at the paper Bido had folded.
Instead, she groped inside her breast.
And took something out.
A fibula.
A small, old piece of metal.
Miryeong placed it on her palm,
then rubbed it once, twice with her finger.
The cold sensation caught at her fingertip.
As if tracing the scratches,
as if confirming again the lines that had already passed.
Muryeong spoke again.
“You don’t need to entertain it.”
Miryeong was still silent.
The fibula turned very slightly between her fingers.
Quietly, without even the sound of metal fitting against metal.
Bido looked at Miryeong.
What this person was thinking right now,
Bido still did not properly know.
But he could tell one thing.
This letter was one that brought up again something that had ended.
The training ground regained its sounds.
Aslo made a short gesture,
and Kallen sheathed his sword and began steadying his breath.
Yeonhwa and Taejin also returned to their places.
As if nothing had happened.
But Bido knew.
It was not that nothing had happened.
It was only that they had to pretend nothing had.
In the end, Miryeong did not look at the letter again.
She slowly tightened the hand holding the fibula,
then opened it again.
And without a word, she turned away.
Muryeong threw out one more line as if following after her.
“Just focus on preparing for the operation.”
Miryeong did not answer.
Bido folded the paper.
The creases became sharper.
Not knowing whom he should hand it back to,
he simply held it in his hand for a moment.
—
That night.
The quietest hour of the Silver Moon Order arrived.
The lights dwindled,
and the footsteps ceased.
The training ground, the dining hall,
all sounds sank down into a place one layer deeper.
Bido could not fall properly asleep.
The more he tried to sleep,
the more the things he had dragged down during the day rose again.
Not the heat left in his palm,
but the sensation that would come after it.
The omen of the burning beneath his eyes spread first through his mind.
Unconsciously, Bido clenched his fingers beneath the blanket.
The self that had been unable to let go of the sword
still remained exactly as it was.
His body was heavy.
When he closed his eyes, the heat in his palm came to mind.
The sensation of the area beneath his eyes growing hot as well.
The sound of the sword ringing.
And—
the first line of the letter.
White Weasel.
Bido stared at the ceiling for a long while,
then sat up.
It was not because he had resolved to do something.
He simply could not stay still.
The air in the room was damp,
and the blanket felt heavy, as if it were holding on to his body.
When he closed his eyes,
the heat of the day spread again through his palm.
Bido sat at the edge of his bed and bent and straightened his toes once.
Only then did his unmoving heart belatedly begin to beat after him.
The thought that he “had to sleep” only drove sleep further away.
So Bido rose from his place.
And found it.
Miryeong’s bed was empty.
—
Bido came out into the corridor and walked on.
Quietly, keeping even his breath low.
Then he stopped.
Ahead, in the passage leading to the emergency escape route.
There was a shadow there.
It was Miryeong.
Miryeong was not merely standing there;
she had stopped while “hiding” her presence.
Choosing the darkness between wall and wall,
a place where the outline of her body broke apart.
Seeing that, Bido knew.
This was not impulse, but preparation.
A movement made on the premise of not being discovered.
In other words,
something she had already done many times.
The air seeping through the crack in the door was cold as ice.
That coldness held the scent of resolve.
Miryeong had already opened the door.
Darker air leaked out through the gap.
Without making even the sound of footsteps,
she was about to slip her body through that opening.
The moment Bido took one step closer,
Miryeong stopped.
Then slowly looked back.
“······.”
Their eyes met without words.
Before Miryeong sighed,
she first spoke briefly.
“The bathroom isn’t this way.”
Bido closed his mouth for a moment,
then finally said,
“You’re going to that knight… aren’t you?”
Miryeong’s eyes did not waver.
It was neither denial
nor admission.
It was merely a gaze asking, “Why did you follow me?”
“It’s my business.”
Miryeong said.
“Go back. Sleep.”
Even after hearing that, Bido did not turn around.
“I’m going with you.”
Miryeong said in a low voice,
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my business.”
Miryeong tried to turn away.
Bido took another step closer.
“Then…”
Bido’s throat caught for a moment.
He hated having to say something like this.
But he could not stop either.
“Then… I’ll shout.”
Miryeong’s movement stopped.
Bido felt his face redden.
It was not so much that he truly meant to do it,
but that if he did not go that far, he felt he himself would not stop.
“If people… wake up, everyone will find out.”
Miryeong looked at Bido for a long while.
In the quiet passage,
only their breaths collided faintly.
Because it was dark, he could not see Miryeong’s face clearly,
but it felt like an expression that was wondering what to do.
Miryeong let out a short sigh.
Then said very slowly,
“…Follow me.”
Bido’s eyes widened.
Miryeong immediately added,
“Only watch.”
Bido swallowed a breath.
He nodded.
Miryeong said no more.
She simply walked into the darkness of the passage.
One step behind,
Bido followed, trying not to lose sight of that shadow.