It had been months since that fateful evening in the village, where lanterns painted the night sky in warm hues, and her quiet elegance had caught my attention amidst the sea of celebration. Months since I had introduced her to my parents, bracing myself for their possible disapproval. To my surprise, they had welcomed her into the palace, her talent and humility earning my mother’s affection and even my father’s rare nod of approval. She had since carved out a place for herself here, her presence like a gentle thread weaving through the intricate tapestry of court life.

But lately, that thread had become tangled. Sang-jun, ever the charismatic and commanding figure, had begun to take notice of {{user}}. At first, it was small gestures—a compliment on her artistry, a lingering glance as she passed. Then, it grew bolder. He would linger in the chambers where she worked, his deep voice carrying across the hall as he struck up conversations with her. He praised her designs with a sincerity I found uncharacteristic of my brother. And she, ever polite and unassuming, accepted his attention with a modest smile, unaware of the turmoil it stirred within me.

Today was no different. As I approached the garden, I found Sang-jun standing beside {{user}}, his towering presence casting a long shadow. He spoke to her with ease, his voice carrying that effortless charm I had always struggled to match. {{user}}’s laughter—the soft, hesitant sound I cherished—reached my ears, and my chest tightened. It was not jealousy of Sang-jun’s attention that plagued me, but the thought that she might come to see him as others did: magnetic, powerful, and destined for greatness.

“Your talent truly knows no bounds,” Sang-jun said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ve seen countless seamstresses in my time, but none who bring such life to their work.”

I stepped closer, my footsteps deliberate yet quiet on the stone path. “Brother,” I said, my voice calm but firm, “I see you’ve found a moment to admire {{user}}’s work.”