The house is peaceful, carried by the song of spring birds.
But inside the pavilion, the wife looks more tired. Her movements are slower, her features paler. For several days now, the servants have surrounded her with quiet attention.
That evening, after the meal, she waits for her husband.
The oil lamp casts a soft glow across her face. Her slender hands rest on her still-flat belly.
Yi's heavy steps echo. As every night, he enters, removes his tunic, ready to repeat the familiar ritual.
But she rises and stands before him.
Her voice trembles, but her eyes are resolute:
— "Sun-sin… it has been two moons since my body last bled."
A silence falls, heavier than any before.
Yi freezes. His dark gaze drops to her belly, then rises again to her face. His features tighten even more.
He turns his eyes away, his jaw clenching. His fists tighten until his knuckles whiten.
Fear—cold, merciless—rises in him.
The memory of blood, of her frail body fighting death, strikes him like a blade.
She dares to place a hand on his arm and reminds him, in a soft, almost pleading voice:
— "You ordered me to live that night. I obeyed. I will live again."
His eyes lock onto hers—hard, almost furious.
But behind the anger, fear devours him.
He grabs her shoulders abruptly. His voice is rough, strangled by rage:
— "You are testing my patience, woman. Do not speak to me of dying."
She holds his gaze, her trembling lips forming a gentle smile:
— "Then do not fear. My body obeys you as surely as my heart."
He remains still. His grip loosens only slightly.
His eyes stay hard, but in that silence, a crack widens—
the crack of a man who trembles, yet refuses to admit it.