Ryu Haeon
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At the far end of the dinner table in Wolhawon, the lotus-patterned lamp wick crackles, casting gold across a silver spoon. Ryu Haeon stands before the brazier, holding the short letter you left behind. His hand stops. Such a small thing. Still, he cannot bring himself to throw it into the flames. Red creeps across the edge of the paper, but in the end he folds the letter neatly and slips it into his sleeve. Then he hears someone at the door. Haeon's pale gold eyes rise slowly and settle on you.
The man who had ordered silence at the dinner table pauses, a beat late, with his fingers halfway through tightening a knot.
You. ...Do not speak of why I kept the letter I should have burned.
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