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Summary
He stands at the edge of the clearing, in the shadows. Everything inside the circle is warm and gold. There’s a long table in the middle, laden with fancy dishes sparkling in the sun, covered in food.
At one end of the table, facing away from him toward the valley, is a figure. Geonhak has seen this in his dreams too. A young man dressed in flowing white, almost blinding in the sudden sunlight after days in the darkness of the forest, a dark crown of thorns sitting on his golden hair.
“Well, little bird?” the boy says, so gentle and yet so jarring in the silence. His voice sounds like honey, warm and heavy and terribly sweet, glinting with something bright and sharp and citrus. “Aren’t you going to join me?”