Blood makes no sound when it falls on wood.And yet the eunuch Choi thought he heard thunder when the king's life faded before him.His knees buckled.His lips parted, voiceless.His eyes, wide with shock, could not tear themselves away from the scene: the masked assassin still gripped the blade that had pierced the monarch's heart.
A heart Choi had helped clothe, shelter, and protect for years.
The darkness of the chamber folded in on him like a cage. The assassin turned his head slightly and looked at him. At first, Choi wasn't even aware of his voice when, with a finger pressed to his shrouded lips, the assassin uttered:
"No mourning."
It was a command.And Choi Seung, like a dog obeying the will of the stronger, fell silent.
The figure moved without a sound, without a trace. His steps made no noise upon the frozen floorboards. The king's blood still stained the royal chamber, but Choi did not look. He had already seen. He had seen too much.His eyes were dry, but his soul—drenched.
He passed by the king's lifeless body, shrouded only in a mist of cold. No one could see him there. It was up to him to alert the royal guards. But first, he needed to be ready.
He bowed—just slightly—as though reverence might be his final refuge.
And then he walked.Not to the outer world, not to the night that already echoed with the sound of betrayal.He turned instead to the adjoining room, that small and unassuming space where he had slept every night, mere steps from the monarch. That room, always present and invisible—like him.
He crossed the threshold like a ghost.Closed the door with both hands, trembling, as though shutting himself in might halt time itself.
And then he knew.
The king was dead. On the other side of the door, his corpse lay without care or witness.
Choi slid to the floor beside the door. He did not light a lamp. He didn't need to see—every image had already been etched into his mind like blades: the jade sword, the fading face of the king, his final, frozen breath. The breaking silence.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and, for an instant, thought he too had died that night.He did not cry. Not yet. He simply sat still, waiting for his pulse to calm.For the memory to dissolve like mist.
But it didn't.
***
The cold rose slowly in the sealed chamber. Mist coiled like a bodiless spirit, climbing the wooden slats that groaned under the weight of winter. Eunuch Choi had been there for hours. He did not speak. He was a dismantled thing beneath the icy shadows, breathing only faintly—as though he feared that the echo of a single word might be fatal in a world ruled by silence.
Not only that, but he was alone.Or so he believed.
After a long while, he dared to open the door leading back to the king's quarters. The candles had long since died out. Darkness licked at his face. Soon it would be dawn, and he would need to prepare his greatest performance.
I can do this, he told himself.
His hands still trembled. They were clean of blood, but he felt the glacial chill that had clung to his skin ever since the assassin had left him behind. As though his life no longer mattered.
And then he heard it.
At first, a breeze.Then, the scrape of a boot against the floor.He did not need to turn. He already knew.
"It's time," said a low, cutting voice.Familiar as a nightmare that never ends.
Choi clenched his jaw.The king's assassin stood in the corner, shadow-like. He did not move closer. He didn't need to.
"Get up. Raise your voice. Scream."
Choi closed his eyes."I know."
"Everything depends on you," added the figure, emotionless. "To the world, I let you live."
Choi turned his head, just slightly.
"No one will believe me," he whispered, as though speaking tore something within.
"That is why I've returned," the man replied.
"Who… are you?" Choi Seung dared to ask, catching a flash of silver in the dark.
"Grey of the North."
Then silence.A silence too long.Broken only by the eunuch's choked gasp as the assassin—swift as a predator—drove a dagger into his belly.
And then he was gone.
Choi Seung felt the steel's cold seep inward, spreading with slow agony. And though it cost him everything, he yanked the dagger free and cast it to the floor. Then, with one hand pressed to the bleeding wound, he staggered into the king's chambers, drew breath from the depths of his being, and cried out:
"The king has been murdered! Guards!"