Rumors were fickle things...loud in the cities, quiet in the fields...but this one refused to die.
"The scouts reached Baekju. Five girls taken, one of them from a merchant's house."
"They're in Sangseong now. I heard they closed the schoolhouse and turned it into a testing chamber."
"They came to Soji and left empty-handed. Said none of the girls were worthy."
I listened. I always listened. Whether at the market stalls or temple steps, the talk only grew louder. The king's scouts moved like wind...seen only when the red banners unfurled above quiet rooftops. Every village they touched left behind silence, and more fear.
A potter's daughter in Cheorwon was chosen. A farmer's niece in Nariyang. A healer's apprentice from a forest village who hadn't even worn shoes before that day. No one was too poor. No one was too far. No one was safe.
In the evenings, I sat on our doorstep, grinding lotus seeds as dusk curled over the rooftops. The scent of the clay kiln and crushed herbs blended in the air. My mother still coughed, though she tried to hide it. My father's hands were stiff from the cold.
"I don't like the sound of it," my father muttered one night, pouring water over the wheel. "The way they come and take without asking."
"They say the palace feeds them. Clothes them. Honors their families," my mother added, though her tone was thin.
"Honors them?" he scoffed. "The palace doesn't honor. It consumes."
I remained quiet. But I felt something turning inside me. Dread...or worse, curiosity.
That same week, a stranger came to the village.
Not a scout. Not a noble. Just a tired traveler in a gray cloak who stopped at the tea stall and asked if there were any girls of age in Daseong.
The shopkeeper hesitated. Then lied. "No. All married or promised."
The man smiled thinly. "Pity. The scouts will be disappointed."
And just like that, he left.
Word spread quickly. Faster than the wind.
At the riverbank, girls washed their hair in cold water and whispered, "Do you think they'll take you?"
At the temple, mothers lit incense not for protection, but to make their daughters invisible.
Two girls fled to a neighboring province under the guise of visiting cousins. One was dragged back by her uncle. The other returned on her own, weeping, when the roads grew unsafe.
I tried to pretend nothing had changed.
I helped my mother grind roots. I cleaned our stalls. I restocked the ginger jars and stacked new firewood. But even our family rhythm faltered under the weight of the unknown.
Every knock at the door made us jump.
Then came the messenger.
It was late morning. The sun was high, the sky a polished blue with no cloud in sight. I was kneeling in the garden, trimming lemon balm, when I heard the hoofbeats.
A man on a dark horse thundered through the village gate. His cloak bore a gold clasp in the shape of the phoenix seal. People stopped what they were doing, frozen like statues.
He dismounted with practiced grace, his boots dusted with travel.
"I bring word from Lady Hyerin, Chief Matron of the Royal Court," he announced. His voice rang out, clear and sharp. "Daseong village is to present its eligible maidens in two days' time. Preparations are to begin at once."
Gasps echoed through the square. An old woman clutched her chest. A young girl burst into tears.
I stood, herb scissors clenched tightly in my hand.
The man continued, unfazed by the reaction. "The Lady expects order, discipline, and dignity. Those found lacking will be dismissed without consideration."
The village headman stepped forward, bowing low. "Yes, honorable envoy. We will see it done."
The rider nodded once, mounted, and galloped away, the sound of his horse fading into silence.
It was done.
The wind had changed...and it had finally blown toward us.
That night, our home was quiet. Too quiet.
My father poured rice wine into a chipped clay cup and stared at the flames in the hearth. My mother stitched quietly by the window, her needle trembling just slightly.
"I don't want to go," I said aloud.
Neither of them answered immediately. Then my father exhaled. "We don't want you to go either."
"But you will," my mother whispered. "Because if you don't, they'll come for us."
I understood. It wasn't just about selection. Refusing the crown's command was treason.
"Maybe they won't pick me," I tried.
My mother gave me a look I couldn't read. "You look like the stories, Yeonhwa. The ones where beauty brings either crowns or cages."
I wanted to protest, but I didn't.
The truth was, I felt it too.
Somewhere deep inside me, under the dread, there was something else. A pull. A whisper.
Not ambition. Not vanity.
Fate.
And I was afraid of it.