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Chapter Text

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.

𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥-𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘑𝘢𝘦-𝘬𝘺𝘶, 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘪𝘯 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦—𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘬-𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘯.

𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦—𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘹-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦, 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦—𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘳.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

***

The aged Queen Dowager sat upright in the Hall of Silent Petitions—a name that once referred to the commoners’ written appeals, now rendered bitterly ironic. None dared to petition now. There was nothing left to ask for, and no one left to ask. Even the Gods had turned away from the blessed land.

She had worn white ever since her granddaughter, Crown Princess Elijah, disappeared. Not funeral white—at least not publicly. The regent had forbidden any formal mourning, citing “lack of proof.” But the Dowager had been in court long enough to know that silence often heralded death surer than cries.

The officials whispered that she had gone senile, that her mind wandered into shadows. They mistook her silence for weakness. They did not see how closely she watched them, how carefully she remembered. How clearly she noticed.

Brought into the palace at a mere sixteen for the old emperor, she had lived through five decades of palace intrigue. Through the slow poisoning of her husband by imperial wine at her own hands, through the rise and fall of ministers with tongues of silver and hearts of rust, through the red veils of marital bliss and the whites of mourning grief. She had buried her own children. She had buried her youth. She would not bury the last of her bloodline. But she could not act openly. Every corridor echoed with whispers, and even the sparrows on the window sills were rumored to carry secrets. So she did what women of her station had always done best — she moved in gifts.

In names.

In letters.

Face lit by the flicker of the royal lamp, she took up her brush slowly, as if each word she planned to write cost a memory. She ground the ink herself—not trusting the eunuchs’ hands—and dipped the brush into the well like a newborn blade into oil.

She addressed it to her niece, who lived at the feet of Jirisan— but really, the letter was written for a boy with eyes as bright as stars and a tongue that promised glory to Joseon. A boy, who carried the sincerity of his father and who's smiles carried the gentle curve of his mother's lips yet betrayed a tenacity of his very own. A boy, who had been lost to time.

𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎—

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝙰 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢.

— 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗.

When she finished, her hands trembled—from fatigue. From fury held too long in her bones. From grief.

She sealed the letter not with wax, but with oil-scented cloth, knotted in a pattern that only one who had lived through the old court would recognize. It would pass beneath the regent’s gaze unnoticed—delivered in a food cart or in the scrolls of a provincial courier. A last echo from a vanishing world. She gave the letter to a eunuch whose tongue had been cut out by the regent’s men five years ago. A man who owed nothing and remembered everything.

“Deliver this,” she said softly. “And say nothing, as always.”

He bowed, eyes shining.

As he vanished down the corridor, she looked past the silk blinds to the mountain beyond the capital, half-hidden by mist.

There was an old saying: 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙬𝙠 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩.

Let Min Jungho soar for now.

For she was summoning the storm.

***

The capital appeared just before dusk, a silhouette carved in ash and gold against the bleeding sky.

Gaon lifted the silk curtain with two fingers and looked out. Hanyang—once the city of scholars and silver bells, of poems blooming in courtyards and laughter pouring from teahouses—now wore silence like a shroud. Its rooftops still curved like flowing water, but the air was still, and even the birds circled higher, as if afraid to land.

It had not changed.

And that was the most terrifying part.

The outer gates were manned by guards in black-lacquered armor, their eyes dulled from routine tyranny. The banner above the arch no longer bore the royal sigil of the Jo line—it had been replaced by the crimson hawk of the Min clan. Blood on silk.

One of the guards approached Gaon’s carriage. Before the man could speak, the courier from the palace dismounted and held out the Queen Dowager’s scroll with both hands. The guard read, blinked, then stepped aside without a word.

Power still bent the knee. Just not to the throne.

Gaon’s ride passed under the gate without resistance. Behind him, the second one followed—plain, small, unmarked. A servant girl emerged from it when they stopped before the guest pavilion in the outer court. Her head remained bowed, hands folded, posture meek.

His younger sister.

Eunha had tied her hair with a maid’s ribbon, her hanbok cut intentionally ill-fitted. But her back was too straight. Her steps too balanced. A palace hawk would know the difference. That was the risk they took.

As Gaon stepped out onto the stone courtyard, his sandals clicking softly against the polished slabs, he felt the city’s eyes on him—though none dared stare outright. He had become a stranger in the place he was meant to call home.

A servant approached with a bow so deep it nearly scraped the ground.

“Master Chwe Sihyeon,” the man said carefully, as though testing the taste of the name. “You are summoned to the Hall of the Imperial Brush after dusk. The banquet awaits your presence.”

Gaon nodded. “And my maid?”

“She will be shown to your quarters.”

The man didn’t look at Eunha again. That was good. That meant she had passed.

Gaon turned his face toward the tall white spires of the palace, rising like needles beyond the lower courts. It felt strange, being so near the place where his father had died. Stranger still to be welcomed.

The sun sank behind the western wall, casting the city in red-gold shadow. As the first lanterns bloomed along the eaves, Gaon whispered, more to himself than to his sister:

“This place eats its own.”

Eunha, walking two steps behind, murmured low, “Then we’ll let it choke.”

He didn’t smile, but something loosened in his spine.

They were here. Inside the lion’s mouth.

***

The banquet hall was dressed like a bride for slaughter—draped in embroidered silk and drowned in light.

From the moment Gaon entered through the high-arched door, he felt it: the press of eyes like insects crawling across his skin. Courtiers in satin robes sat stiff as reeds, the weight of years settling in the folds of their sleeves. Gold lacquer glistened on the pillars. Musicians played in slow, tremulous harmony—a flute line trembling like a nerve.

It was Gaon's first step into the capital in fifteen years.

And no one knew it.

They called him Chwe Sihyeon, the scroll of Jirisan, who wore the mountains and her nature like a second skin, plucked from obscurity for the beauty of his pen. A rising poet. An offering to the throne.

Not the son of the minister they executed. Not the boy who once wrote verses in the margins of court ledgers on dewy mornings as his mother cooed at his three month old sister while his father practiced calligraphy. Not the boy that sat at the empress dowager's feet while the emperor and the second prince roughoused like children, sending the newly crowned empress into titters of glee.

They had burned that name, along with everything else.

Only one person in the room knew the truth. And she was not sitting beside the Regent.

The throne platform stood tall at the head of the hall, beneath a painted canopy of dragons and moonlight. Min Jungho sat at its center, dressed in red deeper than blood, laughing with the ease of someone who had long since stopped fearing consequence.

To his right, still as a prayer stone, sat Empress Jung Sun Ah.

She wore mourning white—her veil a translucent hush of silk, her sleeves pooling like snowfall around her wrists. She was a widow three times over: to the crown, to the prince she had married, and to the truth. Her voice had not been heard in public in years.

Now, she was the kingdom’s most perfect illusion.

Gaon bowed low as the herald called his name. “Master Chwe Sihyeon of the Southern Chwe, summoned in honor of the Regent’s gracious patronage.”

A smattering of polite claps followed. Not applause—acknowledgment. The sort a new vase might receive.

Gaon straightened with care. His expression was mild. His heart beat like a drum held under water.

He took his place near the center of the hall, beneath the glow of bronze lanterns. Dancers spun to a hush. A flute note fell away.

That was all.

No grand flourish. No excess.

The silence that followed was sharper than applause. Courtiers glanced at each other, uncertain.

Later, when the meal was served—candied jujube, vinegar-seared duck, pine nut soup—the room turned to spectacle again. Eunha, in her disguise as Gaon’s maid, moved among the outer circle of servants. Small, unnoticed. Exactly as they’d rehearsed.

Gaon touched nothing. He watched.

The evening wore on in wine-stained civility until, without warning, the Empress rose.

Her movement was not dramatic—just a gentle lift of the hand, a lean forward. But the hall stilled instantly.

“May I offer a gift to the poet, in return of his service to the court?”

Min Jungho’s eyes flicked toward her—mild surprise, carefully cloaked. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

She nodded. A servant stepped forward, carrying a small object under a veil of crimson silk.

Gaon’s stomach tightened.

She removed the cloth herself.

Beneath it: a gilded cage. Inside, a nightingale, feathers dark as ink, perched silently.

“She was born in the royal gardens,” Jung Sun Ah said. “She has never seen the mountains, but sometimes she looks toward the sky.”

The bird did not sing.

The court shifted, politely confused.

Gaon approached and bowed. “Your Majesty honors me.”

He accepted the cage.

And for a moment—just a heartbeat—the Empress looked up.

Behind the veil, her eyes found his. A flash of something sinister and calculating passed her eyes, yet it was gone before Gaon could figure out what it was.

Then, in a quiet voice, he spoke:

The sky stitched shut its mouth—
but thunder keeps the memory.
Roots do not beg the soil to stay.

Just three lines. Yet they reverberated like a war drum around the walls of the court as the officials held their breath in unease.

The poem was too short. Too spare. Too layered.

Min Jungho laughed first—always the first to unarm tension. “A curious poet,” he said, raising his wine cup. “Even his praise sounds like a warning.”

A few chuckled.

But Gaon was not watching them.

He was watching her.

The Empress had not moved. Her veil made it difficult to see her eyes, but the stillness was unmistakable. Her fingers, resting against her wine cup, tapped once. Deliberately.

She had heard the message beneath the words.

Of course she had. She had made a kingdom out of what went unsaid.

The night ended without further incidents.

***

Long after the courtiers had scattered and the wine was forgotten, Gaon sat in his quarters with the cage before him.

Eunha entered silently, undoing the scarf at her throat.

“She spoke to you,” she said.

“She spoke to the room,” Gaon replied.

“But you heard her.”

He didn’t answer.

The nightingale blinked at him.

It still had not sung.

Then—something caught his eye. At the base of the cage, tucked in the straw, was a scrap of folded paper no longer than a fingernail. Sealed with no mark. Hidden from view.

Gaon unfolded it with care.

One line.

The wind remembers her own name.

He froze.

That phrasing. That syntax. It echoed something he'd once heard whispered on the rooftop tiles at dusk. Something that was shared between a tender smile on a tanned face and an empty jar of moonshine he hadn't been allowed to even touch that broke eleven-year old Gaon's heart all the same, over and over again.

Gaon looked back at the bird.

Still silent. Still watching.

Somewhere inside this cage—behind the curtain of veils and power—was a memory waiting to breathe again.

Chapter Text

The Hall of State Affairs was colder than Gaon ̶r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶e̶r̶e̶d expected.

Stone columns loomed like judgment itself, every inch of the space carved with the weight of dynasties fallen. Ministers flanked the throne like lacquered shadows, their robes a cascade of midnight, red, and ink-washed jade. And seated at the center, above the gilded lotus of royalty, was the regent king.

His Majesty Min Jung Ho did not look like a tyrant. That was his first deception.

He looked like a grieving uncle — calm, deliberate, his hair streaked with grey at the temples, eyes patient as water. But the moment he raised a hand, the hall stilled with the precision of a blade being drawn.

The accused knelt at the center. A young scholar, barely a few years older than Gaon had been when he first left the capital. His voice trembled but did not break.

“I meant only to suggest that provincial granaries be taxed less heavily, for the sake of the—”

“You meant,” the king said, gently, “to imply that this court, and by extension the regent, governs unjustly.”

The scholar flinched. “No, Your Majesty, I—”

“Such discourse,” the king interrupted, still smiling, “is unbecoming of one trained in Confucian propriety. In slandering governance, you unravel the moral fabric of the realm.”

The execution order was spoken as calmly as one might request tea.

Gaon couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure if it was the sheer audacity of the act or how easily the court accepted it — a blink, a murmur, then silence again.

The scholar was dragged out before his knees could finish collapsing.

The regent king turned to the hall. “Let us not mistake arrogance for scholarship. May the court remember: loyalty is not born of brilliance, but restraint.”

A murmur of agreement. A few well-timed bows. The performance of order.

Gaon’s hands stayed steady by force of will alone.

***

The court adjourned with the soft clatter of boots and silks. Gaon kept to the periphery, mind burning with disbelief, trying not to meet the eyes of anyone who had bowed while a boy was sentenced to die.

He had almost reached the shaded steps of the east veranda when a voice beside him murmured, “Quite the first day.”

Gaon turned to find a man in navy robes embroidered with silver cranes — Ko In Guk, Left Minister of Rites. His beard was neatly trimmed, his voice light, but his gaze was anything but casual.

“You speak with your eyes, Poet Chwe,” the minister said. “Careful they don’t betray more than your mouth does.”

Gaon bowed stiffly. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Minister.”

“We haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you before.”

Something flickered at the edges of Gaon’s memory. A summer afternoon. Pairs of amused eyes watching him struggle with brushstrokes in an open garden. His father bowing to the crown-prince and his entourage.

“I—”

“Keep your head down,” The man cut in, the warning slipping in as smooth as courtesy with a bow. “Regardless of how smooth is the ink you wield, this king has no love for those who remember.”

Before Gaon could ask what he meant, the minister had already blended back into the departing crowd like smoke.

Gaon stood alone for a long moment.

Then, as if summoned by his stillness, an attendant approached with a low bow. “Imperial Poet Chwe Sihyeon, you have been summoned to the Courtyard of Pearl Lattice.”

***

The inner palace was a world apart — softer, perfumed with incense, and heavy with unease. Plum blossoms floated in stone basins. Lanterns burned behind pearl screens. Attendants and maids stayed ghostly still, heads lowered like they were trying to dodge perception. And beyond it all, the Empress Dowager sat like a sage from the ancient scrolls, prayer beads twirling between her fingers as unintelligible chants whispered past her lips.

Gaon knelt in greeting as his presence was announced.

She waved her hand to signal him relief.

“You write in the Tang style,” she said without looking at him, voice low yet commanding the entire room. “But your brush holds the restraint of Goryeo.”

Gaon bowed low. “Your Majesty honors me.”

She gestured to the scrolls beside her. “Write me a prayer. Something fitting for the lost souls of the moon to return from the mountains to their homes where families await.”

Her eyes gazed directly at Gaon's, helplessness swirling in their depths.

His fluttered in recognition and understanding as it strayed to the empty dais by her feet—it looked strangely lonely.

With another wave of her hands, the attendants filed out. Gaon slowly walked over to kneel by her feet, her palm coming up to rest at his hair from the sheer force of habit. He could feel his eyes glassing, the touch still too familiar for the open wounds of the past to have cauterized over.

“She vanished last winter,” the Dowager said, voice shaky, barely above the hush of incense smoke. “And the court has decided not to look too hard.”

She handed him an open scroll.

“Write me a name,” she said. “So the gods may remember what the court has chosen to forget.”

He dipped his brush, his fingers ghosting over the blank paper, begging for a life.

The Dowager watched in silence, one that felt terribly fragile— not heavy like the Hall of State Affairs, but tremulous. The kind of quiet that might break under the weight of grief, or memory.

He continued to write without speaking, his mind swirling a concoction of memories and considerations.

The Empress Dowager’s face, once formidable in its stillness, now bore the quiet erosion of time. Fine lines etched themselves around her eyes, and the sharpness of her jaw had softened. She seemed thinner, more inwardly drawn — like a candle trimmed too close to its wick.

She had aged.

It shouldn’t have startled him, but it did. When he had fled the capital, she had been indomitable — an iron pillar draped in silk. Now, she looked like someone who had borne too many silences alone.

Grief, he realized, aged even empires.

When he handed her the scroll, her fingers were shaky as they brushed the edge — a small, lingering gesture.

“You have your father’s hands,” she murmured. “But your eyes are your mother's.”

Gaon looked up, startled, but she had already turned her gaze away.

A servant came to take the ink bowl. The audience was over.

***

It rained that evening.

Not the violent kind that swept away rooftiles or battered pine trees into surrender, but the slow, endless drizzle that crept into bone and breath. The kind of rain that felt more like memory than weather. Gaon sat hunched on the stone steps of the courtyard, bare feet planted in the puddled gravel. His half opened robes clung to his frame, soaked through; long hair spilling down his back like a waterfall. Scattered around him were several empty jars of moonshine — their necks shining dully in the lamplight — and beside him, still and silent, sat the caged nightingale.

She didn’t sing.

She hadn’t made a single sound since she arrived.

Her dark, glassy eyes didn’t blink. Just stared — blank, quiet, unwavering — in a way that made his spine prickle. Not fearful. Not curious. Just… unsettlingly familiar.

“Why don’t you sing?” he muttered to her, voice slurred. He lifted an empty jar in mock salute and let it tip over. “She said you would.”

The bird did not respond.

A peal of thunder rumbled far off, soft as withheld sobs. The scent of soaked wood, rice wine, and regret thickened around him.

Footsteps squelched down the corridor, urgent and light. A flash of lavender skirts appeared through the curtain of rain.

“Are you mad?” Eunha hissed, crouching beside him as she struggled to yank her cloak over his shoulders. “You’ll catch your death out here—what are you, a ghost?”

He smiled blearily. “Would be easier if I was.”

“You reek,” she muttered, though her voice softened. “You smell like the old storeroom at the back of the kitchen.”

“That’s where I found the good jars,” Gaon murmured, leaning into her warmth as the cloak draped over them both. “The ones Father used to hoard. Remember how he’d tell us he needed them for offerings, and then drink them all before the altar could?”

Eunha didn’t reply. Her hand, warm and steady, settled on his shoulder. She had no heart to remind him that those jars had long perished with their unfortunate parents.

“I remember the day you were born,” he said suddenly, slurring the words. “It was the year of good harvests. The crown prince sent a silver rattle, remember? Even though you were just the daughter of a minor adviser.”

“I used to think we were lucky,” he went on, his voice cracking faintly. “To have known them. The princes. Both of them. One like fire and the other like smoke. You remember the second prince, don’t you?”

She hesitated. “I… only a little.”

“Too little,” he muttered bitterly. “You were still crawling when he visited that spring. He fed you peaches. You smeared them on his sleeves and he just laughed.”

He blinked. Rain mixed with the tears on his cheeks, so she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Eomeoni,” he whispered. “She saved the Empress Dowager’s life. Did you know?”

Eunha’s lips parted, then closed. She didn’t answer.

“It was before you were born,” he said. “A poisoning. A servant sent by the southern clans. She saw the tray wasn’t from the palace kitchens and stopped her. She got stabbed. Just like that.”

He snapped his fingers. The sound was lost in the rain.

“Abeoji was barely a officer back then. Low-born, but clever. The Emperor granted him a title after that. Not noble, but enough to enter court.”

Eunha could hear the grief in her brother's voice.

He burrowed further into her warmth as she tugged the cloak tighter. “Do you remember the crown prince’s voice?” he asked suddenly. “When he laughed?”

Eunha blinked. “I… barely. I was only six when we left.”

“He used to call you ‘sunlight.’ Said you made the palace feel like spring again.”

Her eyes dropped. “You’ve never told me that before.”

“I don’t say the things I should. Never did.” He took a shaky breath.

“We were trusted.”

His voice turned distant, words thickening.

“The Crown Prince would send us books. Little scrolls with poems he liked. He used to say I had a scholar’s mind and a soldier’s stubbornness.”

“And… the Second Prince?” Eunha prodded gently.

“If the crown prince was all silk and silence and smiled like he knew ten things you didn’t, then the second prince—” Gaon’s voice broke into a grin, too raw to be fond. Eunha felt her heart breaking all over again.

“He was a storm in boots. Laughed like a field boy. Always spilled wine. He’d hide in our kitchen just to eat turnip fritters. Mother scolded him for stealing the entire pan once.”

Eunha’s voice was soft. “You loved him.”

His smile faltered, lips quivering.

He tilted his head upward, letting the rain wash his face like penance.

“I thought we had time,” he whispered. “I thought I’d grow up and he’d still be there.”

Gaon gave a bitter laugh. “I followed him like a shadow. Ten years between us, and he treated me like an equal. Like I wasn’t just some awkward, half-grown court boy with ink on his sleeves.”

His eyes blurred. “I think I loved him before I even understood what that meant.”

Eunha’s hand gripped his.

“I remember the last festival before the-,” he trembled, voice barely audible. “He brought me a lantern. Held it over my head so I could see the stars. Said, ‘You have the kind of gaze that turns silence into poetry.’”

“And then he was gone.”

“I waited,” he said again, more to himself than her. “I waited and waited like a fool. Thought he’d come back. And then… I ran.”

He leaned forward slowly, head falling into her lap with the weary surrender of someone who hadn’t slept in years.

“I ran,” he repeated. “Left them all behind. Eomma. Abeoji. Him.”

“I should’ve saved him. Even then,barely eleven, I knew something was wrong. That Min Jung Ho was moving pieces. That Prime Minister Jung was too quiet. That Jung Sun Ah accompanied him far too frequently.But I… I didn’t do anything.”

He slumped forward, his body slack, eyes wet with drink and grief.

“I ran,” he murmured. “I ran. I ran with you and never looked back. And now he’s—”

He didn’t finish.

Eunha said nothing. Her fingers wove carefully into his wet hair, slow, steady, anchoring.

And through it all, the nightingale watched.

Unblinking. Unmoving.

As if she had once known the kitchen with the turnip fritters.

As if she, too, had once belonged.

***

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 — 𝙨𝙪𝙣. 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙢, 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣, 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙤𝙩, 𝙗𝙤𝙬 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙠 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧 — 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 — 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙬𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙃𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨.

𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙡𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙮𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧’𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙮, 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙭 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙀𝙪𝙣𝙝𝙖 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙙.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙢 — 𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣.

𝙏𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙮-𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙛. 𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙡𝙗𝙤𝙬, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙. 𝘼𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙.

“𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝,” 𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚, 𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣. “𝙇𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙡𝙗𝙤𝙬, 𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩. 𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙙𝙨, 𝙖𝙙𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙬 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙃𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩 — 𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚, 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢, 𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣'𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙡𝙮, 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜.

“𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮,” 𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩. “𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 — 𝘼𝙗𝙚𝙤𝙟𝙞’𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩: “𝘼𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩!”

𝘼 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙯𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙨. 𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙀𝙪𝙣𝙝𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧’𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 — 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝙃𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙮.

𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚.

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 — 𝙬𝙞𝙙𝙚, 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙, 𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙨. 𝙄𝙩 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙩 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩.

𝙃𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚, 𝙗𝙪𝙩—

𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙨.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙮. 𝙉𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙮.

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙄𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣.

“𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨,” 𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙧𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙞𝙧, “𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚.”

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 — 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮, 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 — 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙨.

𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 ̶s̶a̶y 𝙙𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙥𝙞𝙙.

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙨 𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙚𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣’𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙬. “𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙖𝙮,” 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨, “𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙪𝙨. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮.”

𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣? 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩? 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩?

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙨𝙠𝙨.

𝘼𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩.

𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙, 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙩𝙝 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙞𝙧. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙.

Gaon wakes with Yohan's name on the tips of his tongue, unspoken. It hangs in the air nonetheless.

***
It only took a month.

The court had resumed its daily rituals, but Gaon had not returned to complacency. Not after the young scholar's execution. Not after the note on the bird's leg. Not after the dream of warm hands and laughter under the sun.

So he acted.

Quietly. Strategically.

He slipped subversive verses into scroll margins. Approved poetic submissions that questioned filial tyranny in veiled language. Whispered questions to fellow scribes about grain ledgers, missing provincial reports, and the silencing of scholars from Jeolla province.

He thought he was being careful.

He wasn’t careful enough.

The summons came at noon. By dusk, he knelt with his sister in the eastern pavilion of the Justice Ministry, hands bound and necks bared before the sword.

The regent king hadn’t even come in person.

Only a clerk with a scroll and a velvet voice: “By order of His Majesty, Imperial Poet Chwe Sihyeon, along with his maid, is to be put to death for sedition and defamation against the throne.”

The blade had already begun to rise when she arrived.

Empress Jung Sun Ah.

Shrouded in white like the ideal widow she so loved to perform, she entered with a slow, reverent grace that made the soldiers fall to their knees in confusion.

“He is no traitor,” she said, not loud — but commanding. “He is young. Idealistic. Let the court not shame itself with the blood of a poet.”

A calculated pause. Then, “Assign him instead to the Imperial Archives. Let him study silence, if speech is so dangerous.”

There were murmurs. Then nods. Then reluctant agreement.

Gaon said nothing. His rage simmered beneath his skin.

He knew what she was doing.

The archives were a cage. A dead end. A political burial. And it was no coincidence that he was being buried just as he was getting close to asking the right questions — about the scholar, the missing grain reports, and more than anything else… the missing princess.

Still, he bowed. He accepted. He let them shuffle him into the dust.

***

The imperial archives sat on the palace’s far western edge — a crumbling sprawl of stone and wood that once held the histories of kings, now forgotten and half-eaten by time. Rats whispered between the rafters. The walls breathed mildew.

The perfect place to bury a voice.

Gaon’s new quarters were a side chamber that still smelled of smoke and abandoned ink. No guard watched the door. No attendant came with meals. Just a single key, a leaking roof, and scrolls older than his grandfather.

Which made what he saw that evening all the more curious.

He had been reorganizing royal genealogy scrolls — old habit, old obsession — when he caught sight of a flash of movement behind one of the broken screen doors.

At first, he thought it was a servant.

But then he saw the stance. The way the man moved — precise, alert, blade-ready even without a visible weapon. And the scar that curved like a crescent moon behind his left ear.

“...Kyung-Shin?” Gaon breathed.

The man froze.

And then slowly, the servant turned — older now, but unmistakable. Slighter than Gaon remembered, but eyes just as sharp.

Once the youngest of Yohan’s personal shadow guards. Thought dead. Swallowed by the palace purge.

Now, dressed as a servant, clutching a sealed letter in one hand and a dagger hidden in the sleeve of the other.

They did not speak in the archives.

Instead that night, Kyung-Shin slipped through the back gate of Gaon’s quarters under cover of fog.

They spoke in murmurs, barely above a whisper, long into the night.

Names were not spoken carelessly. Not in a palace where walls had ears, and shadows often reported to the crown.

Kyung-Shin spoke of what little remained: smuggled maps, safehouse names written in lemon ink, and a growing silence among the old loyalists. His words felt like fading pages — stories slipping out of memory faster than they could be saved.

But there was still one thread. A flicker. A symbol no one had dared use in years.

“Someone lit a fire signal from the southern gate last month,” Kyung-Shin said, barely audible. “A real one. Not illusion. Not mistake.”

Gaon’s hand paused over his cup. “The southern gate?”

Kyung-Shin nodded once. “That was the last command he gave us, before the purge. If the light still burns at the southern gate, the bloodline remains unbroken.”

A sudden sound snapped their attention sideways.

A sharp click. Beak against iron.

The nightingale — still in her cage, still watching — had moved. Her wings trembled, puffing out as if something within her needed to be shed.

Then, clear as a bell, she spoke.

Not in birdsong. Not in rhythm.

In words.

Flat. Stilted. As if reciting from memory.

“The lantern still burns at the southern gate.”

Gaon stiffened.

She said it again, louder this time.

“The lantern still burns at the southern gate.”

Kyung-Shin stood, eyes wide. “That’s the signal phrase. The cipher from the last chain of agents under His Highness’s command.”

“She’s… reciting it.” Gaon barely breathed. “How—”

“The phrase was never written. Only spoken. Taught mouth to ear.” Kyung-Shin’s voice dropped. “Only six people were cleared to use it.”

The bird kept going, again and again, her claws twitching, her tone unchanged:

“The lantern still burns at the southern gate. The lantern still burns at the southern gate.”

Gaon stepped closer. The candles flickered, shadows warping on the walls.

“Princess,” he whispered.

The bird froze.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

The nightingale lowered her wing, tucked her beak under it, and said no more.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees.

Chapter Text

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘺— 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦.

𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯. 𝘖𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴.

𝘖𝘯𝘦.
𝘛𝘦𝘯.
𝘚𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯.

𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬.

***

Elijah remembered the scent of chrysanthemum tea. Sweet, bitter, careful. It always lingered around the Empress Dowager's chambers — as if warning that even comfort had teeth.

She had never believed in luck.

Not when her own name was spoken in whispers, as if memory could kill faster than poison.

She was raised within the inner palace, behind silk screens and sliding doors that never shut properly. A ghost of the former dynasty — and a threat to the current one.

After Min Jung Ho seized the Dragon Throne, and the remaining royal bloodlines were reduced to ash, Elijah alone remained under the Empress Dowager’s protection. Not just out of sentiment. Out of necessity. A buried ember kept close to the chest.

Within the Dowager’s wing, she was safe.

Outside, she was hunted game.

***

Jung Sun Ah came to her often. Always in mourning white. Always too kind.

She brought Elijah sweet rice cakes and honeyed ginger, patted her head with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Asked her questions. Too many questions. Questions Elijah knew better than to answer.

The Prime Minister’s daughter, widow to the missing Second Prince, had survived too cleanly. And the way she watched Elijah, it never sat right— her gaze was calculating, cold, like she was measuring how many steps remained between her and the throne.

The plot came to bloom on Dongji — the Winter Solstice. A night meant for renewal. Rebirth. Ritual.

The court was alight with lanterns, each one a wish made visible. Drummers lined the pathways with thunder. The banquet hall shimmered with golden lacquer and wine. Snow fell soft across the rooftops like powdered bone.

The Empress Dowager had insisted Elijah attend.

“Wear red,” she had said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Elijah’s ear. “Let them remember who you are. Even as they so desperately try to forget.”

So she did. A silk hanbok the color of fire, gold-threaded and proud, she dressed like a flaming oleander.

At sixteen, she looked older. At sixteen, she looked dangerous.

She sat beneath the pearls like a blooming wound.

Sun Ah raised a cup to her from beyond her veil. Elijah didn’t drink.

The shadows, when they came, didn’t fall all at once. They lengthened slowly — a flicker of movement behind the silk partitions, a silence between courses, a change in the music.

The lights dimmed for the lantern procession. Elijah rose for air, her silk skirts whispering over polished floors. She passed through the quiet gardens, past stone tigers crouched beneath snow-heavy pines.

That’s where the men found her.

They were not dressed as palace guards.

But their blades gleamed the same.

She didn’t scream for she knew there was no one to save her. Only herself.

She ran instead— swift as myth, darting through frozen courtyards and side halls, every echo chasing her faster.

Her feet led her past ornamental gardens and collapsing gates, away from the bustling banquet hall that now embraced chaos, towards memory. Towards sanctuary.

Towards the Imperial Mausoleum.

The one place that no longer had visitors. Not since.

***

The temple was in ruins, the roof cracked by storms and silence. Moonlight filtered through torn silk banners. Dust blanketed the floor like snow. Time had frozen here — or fled.

At the center of it all rested a circular edifice, etched with runes older than the current throne.

Something in it called to her blood.

She stepped forward.

The stone thrummed beneath her. A gust of wind — sharp, freezing — curled around her form. Her chest seized. The pain came all at once.

And then—

Feathers.

Feathers instead of fingers. A weightlessness where her bones had been. A cry, high and trembling, erupting from her throat instead of a scream.

A nightingale.

She did not know how long she flew — circling the roof tiles, hiding in the magnolia branches of the Dowager’s courtyard. Her mind remained, intact and screaming, locked behind the fragility of her cursed form.

She tried to sing her name.

All that came out was music.

The Empress Dowager wept for her in the Hall of Ancestors. She thought the princess had died. Perhaps, in truth, she had.

And then one day, court maids noticed the bird in the trees. Pretty, golden-throated, unafraid of humans.

A fine gift, they said. Something beautiful for the Imperial Poet.

They caught her in a net of silk and gold thread. Bound her in a cage of polished wood and filigree.

So she refused to sing at all.

When she was handed over, it was to a man with ink on his fingers and a stormlight in his gaze.

They called him Chwe Sihyeon — but she recognized that face from the missives her grandmother sometimes sent out in the wind.

Kim Gaon.

He took the cage with hesitant hands.

And she sang to him.

Not as a songbird. Not as decoration.

But as a girl who knew.

As a girl who waited.

As a girl who still hoped.

***

The archives did not sleep.

Even at night, when the palace lanterns dimmed and the stone lions yawned beneath frost, the western wing stayed restless — wind slipping between cracked eaves, paper rustling of its own accord, as if the scrolls resented their long silence.

It was here that Gaon now lived. Half-man, half-shadow, buried beneath dust and forgotten names.

After the night Elijah recited the cipher — not sang, not chirped, but recited — the air around him had changed. Something taut and brittle settled in his chest, like a poem half-remembered and stuck behind the tongue.

Kyung-Shin vanished with the fog by morning. No trace left behind. Only the sealed letter still lying untouched near Gaon’s bedside, the wax unbroken. He could not bring himself to open it — not yet. Not while Elijah’s voice still echoed inside his skull like a bell tolling just beneath the surface of thought.

The bird had not spoken again.

She sat in her cage, solemn and still, wings tucked tightly against her body. Watching. Waiting.

Gaon had not dared to look her in the eye for hours after. He feared what he’d see — or worse, what he wouldn’t.

He buried himself in the work.

He read feverishly, recklessly, the way a man drinks sea water when there’s nothing else to swallow.

Scrolls of history, royal records, court almanacs, family trees, temple donations, exile lists, treaties with the clans of the northern snow passes, medicinal journals, war correspondence, weather logs — anything that might explain what he had witnessed.

The cipher she had recited wasn’t just any phrase. It was a living password, a blood-bonded signal passed through whispers, spoken only in the deepest inner circles of the second prince’s resistance. The last command Yohan had ever given.

Elijah had known it.

And more than that — she had repeated it like a broken prayer, again and again, until her voice cracked.

Only six people had ever known that phrase. Even Gaon had not been one of them.

She had been too young. Too protected. Too far from the war room.

And yet—

The proof of her identity wasn’t written in scrolls. It was sitting in a cage no larger than a writing box, blinking at him with eyes that remembered things she shouldn’t have been alive to witness.

***

Days passed in fragments.

He rarely slept. He stopped keeping track of the time.

Eunha tried, at first, to bring him food and draw him outside — but she quickly learned the difference between grief and obsession. Gaon hadn’t crossed the southern threshold in nearly two weeks. She began leaving his meals by the outer door. Most went cold.

Elijah remained near him.

Sometimes she would perch atop the highest shelves and tilt her head at the ceiling beams, as though listening for footsteps long gone. Other times, she would trail her claw across the lattice of the cage, soft and slow, mimicking the rhythm of old court poetry.

And every so often, she would sing just enough to remind him she still remembered how.

That she still was.

***

Jung Sun Ah sent her message a week later.

It was dusk when Gaon returned from the sealed northern annex, carrying a stack of scrolls on banned religious movements. He found the door to his quarters open — ajar, like a mouth half-smiling.

And on his pillow:

A braid.

Thin, dark, ribbon-wrapped — unmistakably feminine.

Panic didn’t come in a scream. It came in stillness — a terrible, echoing silence in his skull as he stood, staring, unable to move.

Before he could even bolt toward the palace gardens, Eunha stumbled into his quarters. Unharmed. Confused.

Behind her, a servant bowed politely and whispered:

"Her Highness sends her greetings. She hopes your time in the archives is being a learning experience.”

Then left.

That night, Gaon moved Elijah’s cage into a storage chamber deep in the archive’s south wing — a room so forgotten its ceiling had partially collapsed, letting moonlight fall through the rafters like a blade. He cleared the scroll debris by hand, lit no lamps, and wrapped the cage in black cloth when he wasn’t present.

He would not risk her.

He would not lose anyone else.

***

Research became ritual.

He built a system: red ribbons for anything pre-dynastic, blue for treaties, black for records touched by the Empress Dowager’s seal. He mapped every sudden death in the royal family across five generations. Noted every birth coinciding with astronomical omens. He found repeated references to "Heaven's Silence" in the footnotes of priestly correspondence — always near accounts of missing daughters.

But never a full explanation.

Never enough.

The answer was always just beyond the last page. Torn off. Smudged. Burned.

As if the palace itself refused to let him know.

One evening, he looked up from a manuscript on Shilla-era inheritance rites and found Elijah gone.

Panic surged cold and sudden.

He stood, heart pounding — only to find her perched above him, silent, looking down from a broken rafter.

She tilted her head.

Then whistled — once, low and sweet — signalling she was safe.

Gaon sat down hard on the floor.

His vision blurred.

And said nothing.

***

The rain returned three days later — soft, silver, ceaseless.

By then, Gaon had stopped reacting to the sound of thunder. His hands moved without thought, brushing charcoal against rice paper, copying family seals from memory. Elijah slept, feathered body tucked beneath her wing. The scent of dust and ink had become his second skin.

That was when he arrived once again.

Kyung-Shin did not flinch when Gaon said the words.

“I’m going to tell Her Majesty.”

They sat in the deepest corner of the archives — the candlelight low, the walls pressed close with scrolls and breathless history. Rain tapped softly against the roof overhead, but neither man moved.

Kyung-Shin looked older by the day. He was barely older than Gaon himself but the world had settled into his bones like winter. Yet his eyes remained steady.

Gaon poured him a cup of tea.

Once the steam curled upwards into the air, Kyung-Shin reached into the folds of his soaked robe and retrieved a small scroll — not sealed, but bound in red thread.

“Before you go running into imperial jaws,” he said, “there are still names worth knowing.”

He unrolled the parchment.

Seven names. All written in a single line, each marked with the old cipher: a curling mark shaped like a flame drawn sideways.

Yohan’s inner circle. The ones who still believed in him. In his words.

One particular name caught Gaon's eye.

“Ko In Guk?”

Kyung-Shin nodded. “You've met him.”

Gaon remembered him now — the faint nod at court, the warning tucked beneath his courtesy.

A man who’d spoken like he knew something he wasn’t allowed to say.

***
It took four more days to reach the Dowager.

Her palace sat at the far northwestern quarter of the grounds — quiet, cold, and steeped in wisteria. The blooms arrived early this year, lavender against ash, a sign the servants whispered about with unease.

Gaon entered through the old mourning path — unused by most, but not by him. He had memorized its stones in another life.

He dressed as a scribe, head bowed, the cage hidden beneath layers of silk. Elijah remained quiet, her breath barely rustling the silk.

The Dowager was waiting for him.

***

The Empress Dowager studied the bird in silence for a long time. Her expression was unreadable — but her hands, folded neatly in her lap, had begun to tremble.

“I wondered,” she murmured. “When they said a nightingale had been gifted to the imperial poet. I hoped. But I did not let myself believe.”

“She spoke,” Gaon said. “She recited the cipher.”

The Dowager’s eyes closed briefly. “Then she remembers.”

She rose without effort, her silk robes pooling like shadow around her feet.

“There is a name for this,” she said, crossing to her writing desk. “A curse passed down like an inheritance no one wants.”

She lifted a box — old, black-lacquered, sealed with a carved knot. From it, she drew a scroll wrapped in gold thread.

She did not hand it over yet.

“It is called Geumyeon Juju,” she said. “The Silken Veil. A punishment that only touches those born of the royal line — when the throne is stolen, when the family breaks its own, when silence is more dangerous than death.”

“Why Elijah?” Gaon whispered.

“Because she was the last.” The Dowager’s voice cracked — just once. “And because the vow to protect her was broken.”

Gaon clenched his jaw.

“I’ll undo it.”

She looked at him then — truly looked — and for the first time in years, he saw the softness in her eyes that only Yohan and Elijah had ever earned.

“Then you must go deeper.”

She finally placed the scroll in his hands.

“There is a room in the lowest tier of the archives. Hidden from records. It holds the names of those erased. Princes who drowned without water. Brides who vanished between their betrothal and the crown.”

A pause.

“Find them. Find her. You’re not the first to try.”

“But I’ll be the last,” Gaon said.

Not a promise.

A vow.

The Dowager nodded.

And for the briefest moment, her hand hovered near the cage — not quite touching the bars, but close enough that Elijah tilted her head.

“My little girl,” she whispered. “You remember, don’t you?”

The nightingale did not sing.

But she nuzzled her little head against the cage.

***

The key was warm when Gaon touched it.

Not from fire, but age—the kind of heat that lingered from too many hands, too many secrets. The Empress Dowager had pressed it into his palm without ceremony. "Lower tier. Western wall. Behind the second ancestral shelf."

It did not appear on any map.

He found it by scent more than sight — damp stone, mold-blackened rice paper, and the faintest trace of camphor oil. The hallway narrowed to the width of his shoulders, and then again to half that. He had to crouch to reach the iron-bound door.

The key slid in without resistance.

The door groaned.

And then the darkness opened like a held breath finally released.

The chamber beyond was neither grand nor guarded. No golden scrolls. No dramatic carvings. Just rows of plain wooden drawers, stacked floor to ceiling, each marked with a single character or sigil. The air was stale. Old. Heavy with forgetting.

He lit a single lamp.

Dust stirred in the beam like ash.

It took him hours — sorting, cross-referencing, reading the faded brushstrokes aloud to himself to stay focused. Most records were names. Births that had been erased. Coronations that never happened. Infant princes written out of lineages. Brides marked dead when they had in fact fled.

He read until his vision blurred.

And then he found it.

A matching pair of scrolls.

Tied together in faded blue ribbon.

“𝘽𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙠𝙮,
𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚,
𝙎𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙧𝙮…”

It was the same curse.

Eight generations past.

The girl — unnamed — had vanished one winter night after fleeing from an attempted poisoning. The boy had been accused of treason, but disappeared before his trial. They were never buried. But witnesses had spoken of strange sightings in the gardens of the mausoleum — a bird that cried like a child, and a figure that wandered without shadow.

"𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙.
𝙏𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙.”

Gaon stared at the scroll for a long time.

The Imperial Mausoleum.

Of course.

***

The next morning, he left before dawn — disguised again, the way Kyung-Shin had taught him.

The mausoleum was a forbidden place now. After the coup, it had been sealed to all but the crown and temple priests. But that did not deter Gaon.

No guards watched the west gate.

The wind shifted as he stepped past the boundary — colder, quieter.

The gardens were overgrown, but familiar. Bent plum trees. Cracked pavilions. A stone pool that hadn’t seen water in years.

Ivy choked the gates.

The old lion statues flanking the stone bridge had lost their faces to moss.

But Gaon remembered this place.

The temple stood at the mausoleum’s heart — a low structure carved into the slope of the hill, its roof half-collapsed, its prayer bells long rusted through.

It should not have been beautiful.

But there was a melancholy stillness to it — a breathless, hollow reverence that felt older than kings. The wind shifted strangely here, curling in circles instead of gusts. Time didn’t pass the same way.

Gaon crossed the broken courtyard slowly, each footstep stirring ash and fallen blossoms. The weight of the scrolls in his sleeve felt heavier with every step.

The temple doors hung askew. One was missing. The other creaked open with a reluctant groan.

He stepped inside.

***

Shafts of grey light streamed through the fractured roof, painting the stone floor in streaks of silver and shadow. The air was cooler here — not with wind, but with presence. A chill that crawled up the spine, not from fear, but recognition.

He had never seen this temple before with his adult eyes.

And yet it felt like he had always known it.

The carved pillars. The faded murals of phoenixes mid-flight. The lingering scent of soot and old incense.

It was less a place than a memory made solid.

The altar space lay bare, emptied of its gods.

And in its place — at the very center — stood the edifice.

Rough granite. Weather-dark. Unnamed. Strewn with runes in a tongue that no longer moved.

But there, etched faintly into its front, was the second prince’s seal — a circle within a circle, stylised flames arching outward like wings.

The breath hitched in Gaon’s throat.

He took a step forward, then another, drawn to it like a needle to a lodestone. The hush in the room deepened. His heart beat louder than the silence.

The moment felt suspended — like the second before lightning touched water.

Then—

A shift.

As if the air had folded in on itself.

Gaon turned.

𝙔𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣!

***

At first, it barely registered.

A distortion. A shimmer in the half-light.

But then the shape resolved — tall, still, haloed faintly by dust motes swirling in the thin light.

A man.

Yohan.

He was not a ghost.

Nor entirely flesh.

He stood as if behind some invisible veil — there and not there, the outline of his body soft around the edges like candlelight blurred by tears. His robes moved faintly, though no wind stirred. His face was pale, but whole. Familiar.

And his eyes—

God. His eyes.

The same eyes Gaon had looked up to in his childhood. Had memorized in court, across practice fields and corridors. Eyes that had once looked at him like he was something precious.

Now they held something else.

Sorrow.

Weariness.

Knowledge.

And still, he said nothing.

Gaon couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. His legs nearly gave away beneath him.

So he stepped forward instead. Careful. Slow.

A breath between them.

Then half a step more.

Yohan didn’t move. Only watched.

Gaon reached out — hesitating, then committing — hand trembling as it hovered toward the apparition’s face.

His fingers stopped just short of touching.

There was heat there. Faint. Like a fire long buried under ash.

“…It’s you,” Gaon whispered.

But Yohan’s hand lifted too, mirroring the motion.

Their palms almost met. A whisper of space between them.

“You're alive.”

Still no sound. But Yohan’s gaze darkened, something flickering just beneath the surface — sorrow, or guilt, or longing that had no name.

“Why didn’t you—”

A blur.

A flash of steel.

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣.

***

Chapter Text

𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘺, 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨-𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯: 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘧𝘶𝘭. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.

𝘈 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘮. 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬. 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦—𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵—𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦—𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘴, 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭—𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮—𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦.

𝙎𝙪𝙟𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙟𝙞.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙧.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚'𝙨 𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙙𝙤𝙜
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙊𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙊𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙮𝙖𝙡 𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙧.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴. 𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱.

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯, 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴.

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘨𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺.

***

At first, there was nothing.

Then—

Sound, like the slow peel of temple bells beneath water. Light, fractured and flickering. A damp cloth dragging gently across feverish skin. The sharp scent of ginseng and blood.

A voice.

“Gaon.”

His name, low and urgent, broke through the murk like a match struck in the dark. Another voice followed, cooler, steadier.

“He’s burning up.”

Gaon opened his eyes.

The world swam—blurred edges and wavering firelight, ceiling beams overhead twisting like branches in a storm. Pain flared along his side, white-hot and pulsing, the kind of hurt that demanded stillness, reverence.

He gasped.

Hands caught him. One on his shoulder, the other steadying his wrist.

“Don’t move,” Kyung-Shin said, his face coming into focus. He looked younger in the half-light. Tired. Concern drawn tight across his brow. “You nearly died.”

Gaon’s lips were cracked, and when he spoke, his voice sounded nothing like his own. “The mausoleum…”

Kyung-Shin didn’t answer. He only glanced to the side.

Ko In Guk stood a pace away, arms folded, his face drawn and unreadable in the lantern glow. The gold threads of his court robe shimmered faintly, but there was no ceremony in him tonight. Only weariness. Only quiet.

“I saw him,” Gaon said. His breath shook. “Yohan. He was—he’s still there.”

Ko In Guk’s gaze didn’t waver. “You were delirious when we found you.”

“No.” Gaon struggled to sit, and pain raked through his ribs. Kyung-Shin caught him, pushed him gently back. “He spoke to me. He knew my name. He—he remembered. He hasn’t passed on. He hasn’t—”

“Gaon.” In Guk’s voice was low. Not sharp, not dismissive. Worse. It was kind. “You were alone.”

“I wasn’t—”

“There were no footprints,” The other added gently. “No signs of another soul. Only you. Bleeding out at the foot of the temple.”

Gaon stared at him.

“I’m not mad,” he said.

No one replied.

A long silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.

Ko In Guk stepped closer, kneeling so that his face was level with Gaon’s.

“You’ve carried the weight of his death for over a decade,” he said. “It’s only natural the grief might… twist itself into a shape you can bear.”

“It wasn’t grief,” Gaon whispered. “It was him.”

Ko In Guk didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. His silence said enough.

“You think I imagined it,” Gaon said,voice hollow. “That I finally lost my mind.”

“No.” They murmured softly.

Gaon closed his eyes.

For a moment, the cold marble of the mausoleum rose before him again—the broken moonlight, the ghost of a man half-alive, the way Yohan’s hand had cupped his cheek like something sacred.

He could still feel it. That touch. Not imagined. Not dreamt.

But what could he say that wouldn’t make him sound mad?

That the Second Prince had not died, but become something else? That he lived on as breath without body, memory without rest?

They wouldn’t believe it. They couldn’t afford to.

So he swallowed it.

Bit down on it like a blade between his teeth.

He let the silence settle.

Let the lie sink in.

That he was simply a man who’d seen too many ghosts.

That this one was no different.

But he knew.

He knew the truth.

***

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥.

𝘈𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘕𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘴. 𝘕𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘝𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘵. 𝘎𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴—𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘭, 𝘥𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦.

𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮—𝘯𝘰, 𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.

𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥.

𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴. 𝘓𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳—𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳?—𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴,” 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. “𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴.”

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳. 𝘈 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮.

𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘥.

𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴—𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸—𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘶𝘱, 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯—

𝘈 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥.

𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵, 𝘸𝘦𝘵. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.

𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘥.

𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘕𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘬𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘭𝘺.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯.

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

—

𝘈 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.

𝘕𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥. 𝘈 𝘣𝘰𝘺—𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦-𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴—𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘙𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘸. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴. 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘴.

𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺.

𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦?

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝘚𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.

𝘈 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘵.

𝘙𝘦𝘥.

𝘙𝘢𝘸.
𝘙𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘸——————————

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮—𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸-𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘥—𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥.

—————————

𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.

𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵, 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘈 𝘭𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 — 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘈 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦.

𝘊𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥. 𝘍𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘪 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘤—𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱—𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴. 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 — 𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 — 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥. 𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤.

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬,” 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥. “𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵—”

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥. 𝘈 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘈 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘢𝘯. 𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯. 𝘚𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘈 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 —𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦— 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦—𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴.

“𝘙𝘶𝘯! 𝘔𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺, 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘜𝘕—”

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥.

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘊𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

“𝘚𝘩𝘩, 𝘴𝘩𝘩,” 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. “𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦—”

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯.

𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧-𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘥 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘵.

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯-𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥. 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘥 — 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥. ̶𝘎̶𝘢̶𝘰̶𝘯'̶𝘴 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘩'𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘈 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘵 — 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘈 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 — 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤.

𝘈 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘶𝘮 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴. 𝘈 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘩 — 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 —
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘯.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘥.

—

A gasp.

A sudden, violent drag of breath into lungs that didn’t remember how to take in air. The sound was wet, choking — a drowning man clawing toward the surface.

Gaon lurched upright.

The room spun in greys and sickly gold. Shadows melted into walls. His mouth was dry. His skin — ice.

“Orabeoni?”

Eunha.

Her voice anchored him before his vision did. A hand touched his back — small, warm, familiar.

“You were crying,” she whispered.

He hadn’t noticed. His face was soaked.

The blankets clung to him, twisted. The pillow beneath his head had been kicked to the floor. Outside, a bell tolled faintly — one of the city temples marking dawn. He didn’t remember the night ending. Didn’t remember sleep taking him.

His chest heaved. The phantom pressure still curled around his ribs.

“…what happened?” he asked, but his voice cracked like old bone.

“You screamed,” Eunha said quietly. “You said her name. Over and over.”

He looked at her, bleary.

“Who?”

She hesitated.

“Elijah.”

The name landed like an echo of something burned into the dream, into snow, into blood.

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at the door. Then the window. Then nothing at all.

***

Gaon didn’t know how many days had passed.

Time had begun folding in on itself, curling inward like burnt paper — scorched black at the edges, soft at the center, impossible to hold without it crumbling apart in his hands.

The cold had retreated a little, but the frost clung to the corners of the windows still, as if unwilling to leave.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, parchment splayed out before him, ink drying on his fingertips, his brush long since set aside. It had been morning when the snow outside had stopped falling. He had noticed that. And then sometime in the blur of fading light, he’d looked up and realized the oil lamp was already burning low.

He hadn’t moved.

Not even when his knees began to ache. Not even when Eunha called him for rice. Not even when a draft fluttered the scrolls, carrying the musty breath of a hundred untouched years.

His eyes had stayed on the birdcage.

The little nightingale inside slept curled tight, her feathers slightly ruffled, one wing draped half open as if dreaming of flight. She looked… smaller than before. Paler.

There was something dimming inside her. Something that whispered not long now.

It startled him to realize how long it had been since the night at the mausoleum. Weeks, maybe. Perhaps more. The stab wound on his side, once hot and angry, had faded into a dull ache. A phantom burn that flared only when he turned too quickly or laughed too sharply — not that there had been much of either.

She had been shrinking.

Each day, the bird dozed longer. At first she would flit onto his shoulder while he translated ledgers, occasionally pecking at his collar or nosing her way into his sleeve. Then she stopped flying. Now, she barely stirred unless he brushed his fingers near the cage’s edge.

He had begun to fear she might never wake again.

And still — still — the feeling lingered.

That he was missing something.

Something important.

He had combed through every imperial ledger, census scroll, monk’s log, royal ritual registry. Each time he caught himself searching for names that didn’t belong on paper. Yohan. Elijah. Jung Sun Ah. Himself. Sometimes he whispered the syllables aloud just to feel them sit heavy on his tongue. Sometimes he wondered if his parents were watching.

He was going mad in there.

***

It was early evening when the quiet fractured.

The doors to his study burst open with a clatter, and Eunha stormed in, her eyes wide, her skirts askew with the dirt of haste. Behind her shuffled an elderly man, hunched, barefoot, and draped in soot-colored monk’s robes that had once been ceremonial white. His head was shaved, his face deeply lined, and where his tongue should’ve been, there was only a hollow scar, like an oath stolen from his mouth.

“Don’t panic,” Eunha said breathlessly. “He found me near the southern slope—kept gesturing to follow. Wouldn’t leave me be.”

Before Gaon could respond, the monk dropped to his knees with startling grace and grasped Gaon’s hands.

The room stilled.

His palms burned cold.

A flash.

A vision.

Flames licking the outer edges of temple doors. A crescent moon bleeding red. Lanterns floating upside down over a dark lake. A stone altar, and at its center, a crown untouched by time—floating, weeping, glowing.

Waiting.

The monk’s eyes were wide, imploring. Wordless. But Gaon understood. The images weren’t random. They were memories. The man had once stood guard at the Imperial Temple, the sacred structure no one had dared enter since the throne changed hands. The overseer—keeper of celestial knowledge, of the contracts between mortal and divine.

Celestial maps unraveled in reverse, stars dripping backward into ink. A shrine swallowed by shadow. An altar cracked in half. The sound of chanting turning into screaming.

The monk’s face, younger, resolute, holding a staff before the royal pyre. Guards slaughtered beside him. His tongue — severed.

The monk dropped Gaon’s hands and beckoned silently.

By candlelight and trembling steps, they descended deeper into the Archives than Gaon had ever dared.

The stone steps creaked as if remembering every betrayal they had swallowed. They reached a forgotten chamber where floorboards had warped from time and fire. The monk knelt and pried up a loose plank with the care of a man digging up a grave.

Underneath was a small box. Lacquered black. Sealed not with wax, but crimson thread—one for each cardinal direction.

The monk motioned for Gaon to open it.

Inside were a stack of letters, brittle and inked in Jung Sun Ah’s curling, venomous script. Correspondences with the Prime Minister. Plots detailed in fine brushstrokes—poisons, curses, betrayals like woven silk.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the onel at the top. The ribbon fell away like a whisper

"…𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝙺𝚒𝚖. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎’𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎…"

Gaon's breath caught in his throat.

A bony, wrinkled hand grabbed and toppled the box.

At the very bottom, were pages.

Half-destroyed. Barely legible. Like somebody had desperately tried to make them disappear.

He unrolled it gently. His breath held.

It depicted two trees — one black, one gold — spiraling around a mirror moon. At their roots, a split serpent. At their crown, the faces of two children.

A boy, crowned in laurels. A girl, cloaked in feathers.

Beneath that, annotations in Sun Ah’s own hand.

"𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 — 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚂𝚘 𝙸 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍: 𝚁𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍."

Gaon sat back in horror.

It had not been planted.

It had always been there — lying dormant in the imperial line like a sleeping god — waiting for betrayal, love, refusal, anything human to wake it.

Yohan just had the courage to resist her.

The curse that bound Yohan was not cast, it was called forth.

An ancient affliction embedded in the royal bloodline, dormant and waiting. A pact sealed centuries ago with a celestial fox—royal heirs would rule in wisdom so long as their line bore the burden of sacred fire and sacrificial blood. But should a ruler be crowned by treachery, the fire would consume him, and the bloodline’s guardians—those attuned to the divine—would be split: one rendered formless, the other voiceless.

Yohan had been crowned in secret, a heartbeat before the coup. And Elijah, a year old, had been with him.

Sightless. Voiceless.

Not metaphor.

Not myth.

The curse had manifested. Not because of witchcraft, but because the crown had been taken unrightfully. The divine pact broken.

Elijah wasn’t simply cursed.

She was witness. She was the cost.

The monk looked at him—not with pity, but with recognition.

The scroll pulsed faintly in his hands. The remaining pages were torn, but Gaon’s hands trembled.

He knew they contained the cure and who exactly had taken the knowledge away.

***

The sky was stained with ochre and dusk when word of the foreign envoy’s imminent arrival rippled through the capital. The court seethed with activity—tailors stitched through the night, court musicians rehearsed until their fingers bled, and the kitchens roared with the grinding of spices and the slaughter of livestock. Opulence was a veil the regent wore like armour; bloodied silks could always be washed clean if soaked long enough in perfume.

Gaon stood by the latticed window of his modest quarters inside the Archives, fingers stained with ink and a sickly premonition. Outside, the world bustled to welcome strangers with empty smiles and gilded deceit. Inside, a caged bird dozed with its head tucked under a wing, its feathers dulled like a candle too long burnt. Elijah had been growing quieter with each passing day—less chirp, more sleep. She’d nestled into his robe’s long sleeves often, content to simply watch him with slow, blinking eyes as he pored over imperial ledgers forgotten by time.

He had stopped marking the days since the mausoleum. His side no longer ached, but the ghost of the wound remained, a dull throb beneath the skin whenever he caught himself dreaming of pale temples and a figure draped in moonlight. The letters found beneath the loosened floorboard still lay hidden under his sleeping mat—Sun Ah’s unburnt lies, inked in honeyed cruelty. And the scroll, half-torn but unmistakable in its horror, offered the first shape to the curse he could feel coiled beneath the bones of the court.

"𝘼 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙪𝙞𝙣, 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙣,
𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙙𝙞𝙢,
𝙏𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙭 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢,
𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

The curse was not born of mere sorcery—it had festered within the royal bloodline like rot. But someone had twisted it, triggered it. Not natural, no. Inflicted. The scrawl at the margin confirmed as much:

"A soul bound to the mausoleum shall see, but never touch. Speak, but never be heard."

Yohan hadn’t just disappeared. He had been erased.

***

The banquet bloomed with light and orchestras and delicate poison.

Foreign dignitaries draped in silks finer than paper lanterns bowed with practised ease, their translators murmuring rehearsed flattery. The regent, heavy in his golden robes, sat upon the throne like a man drunk on his own myth. Jung Sun Ah, veiled in sorrow and white, played the pious widow beside him. Ministers paraded around her like moths drawn to a flame they believed benign.

Gaon knelt as his name was called, offering up a roll of white silk in both hands.

"A humble verse, in honour of those who come from distant stars to witness the glory of our court."

An eunuch unfurled the scroll. The crowd fell into a hush.

"𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙨.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙩 𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙔𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙪𝙣𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙚
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨.”

The room held its breath.

A beat of silence. Then a laugh—wet and guttural—from the throne.

The regent rose, wine spilling from his sleeves. "Ah, the poet strikes again! What a strange bird we have, that chirps of blood and ghosts to honour our guests!"

He turned to the envoys. "Forgive our Imperial Poet
His mind walks among tombs, but his ink walks among stars." His eyes were cold.

The nobles laughed on cue, and the regent waved his hand magnanimously. "He shall be reinstated. Let the empire's voice rise again from his tongue.”

Gaon bowed low, the ink still damp on his fingers. Jung Sun Ah’s eyes followed him as he stood—sharp, calculating, and laced with an odd tightness. It was not fear.

It was urgency.

***

The next morning, Gaon returned to the palace not as a ghost of a poet, but as the Imperial Poet once more. He was granted a modest chamber near the eastern courtyard and assigned scrolls to recopy for ceremonial purposes. Everything about the return was staged. Quiet. Smiling.

But he felt it in the undercurrent—the glances. The sudden silences. The weight behind court etiquette, suddenly a little more rehearsed.

He was being watched.

That same afternoon, a new attendant was assigned to him by Jung Sun Ah’s personal decree. A boy no older than thirteen, too quiet, eyes like shuttered windows. The boy said little and bowed too deeply, shadowing Gaon with unnatural closeness.

Everywhere Gaon moved, he could feel the court curling around him like a noose.

He didn’t realise how much time had passed until he returned home to find Eunha pacing outside the archives building, wild-eyed.

“She’s not in the cage.”

“What?”

“The princess. She’s gone.”

Gaon’s stomach dropped.

“She was there this morning—I brought her barley. But now... now the door's ajar. She's not inside. She's not in the library, not even in your sleeves. She's—”

A beat of silence passed between them. Cold. Dread-filled.

Gaon stepped past her and entered the room. The birdcage sat silent on the table, its door swinging slightly, feather caught on the latch. He reached inside, fingers brushing the still-warm perch.

No bird.

No Elijah.

Outside, the city still roared with the dying embers of a celebration.

Gaon felt something inside him snap.

Chapter Text

The bird cage was open.
Not broken. Not jimmied. Just open. No splinters, no signs of claw or fang, not even a single bend in the gold lattice that had once shimmered with protective charm.
As if the creature inside had vanished between one blink and the next, slipping through the pine like vapor in morning light.

Gaon stood in front of it, bare feet on the cold floor, long after the candles on his writing desk had guttered into stubs. Shadows clung to the corners of the chamber, silent as mourners. Outside, the city sighed in sleep, but in the archives, time had stopped.
Where once there had been warmth—wings beating soft air, a chirp at dusk, a glint of knowing eyes—now there was only absence.

A single feather lay on the table’s edge.
Pale.
Soft as sighs.

Not white, not quite—tinged a strange, bruised grey-blue, like dusk caught beneath glass.

He picked it up with shaking fingers. Held it to the moonlight streaming through the narrow slats in the window. It glowed faintly in the dark, like it remembered being part of something whole. Something lost.

“Where?” he whispered hoarsely, fingertips curling against the carved table edge. “Where have you gone?”

But no voice answered him. Not hers. Not the wind’s. Not even his own heart, which beat now like it was made of hollow reed.

***

He didn’t sleep that night.
Or the next.
Or the one after.

He wrote instead.

Frantic, frenzied, possessed—not by ghosts, but by longing. By rage, by guilt, by love twisted raw at the edges.

Every inch of the archive became his confessional.
Silk scraps, faded ledger margins, the undersides of tax reports—none were spared.

The ink bled fast.
Faster than he could blot it.

Words poured from his brush like incantations:

“𝘼 𝙘𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚.”
“𝘿𝙤 𝙗𝙞𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣, 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚?”
“𝙄 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝.”

He signed them all as 𝕮𝖍𝖜𝖎𝖍𝖞𝖆𝖓𝖌.
醉香.
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖗𝖚𝖓𝖐 𝕻𝖑𝖚𝖒 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖘.

It was a name born of despair and grief—beautiful enough to hide the burn beneath. A pen name that sounded like it belonged to some lovesick courtier sighing about spring rain, not a hunted scholar turning poetry into rebellion.

He folded the verses into fans and bookmarks, tucked them into the sleeves of merchants, slipped them into the hands of servants, left them at tea stalls and temple doors.
No one said his name, but everyone knew the scent of his grief.

The censors didn’t notice.

Why would they? The verses were gentle, ephemeral, tender things.

But the people read between the lines.

The vendors in the lower markets copied them on slips of mulberry paper.
Palace maids folded them into origami sparrows.
A monk read one aloud and then set fire to it as incense for a prayer.

The verses traveled.
And with them, whispers grew.

***

He barely left the archives except to return to the mausoleum.

He told the guards he was cleansing the records of mildew.
In truth, he was chasing a ghost.

Some nights, Yohan appeared.
More shape than man. A glimmer of pale form beneath moonlight, as if carved from fog and regret. Never quite solid, never quite gone.

He never spoke.
He never reached out.
Only watched.

Like memory turned into stone.

Gaon begged him.
Cried until the stone beneath his knees grew slick with tears.
Recited every poem he'd ever written for him—from the clumsy ones penned in adolescence to the sharp-edged verses soaked in grief and yearning.

Yohan did not flinch.
Did not vanish.
But he also did not answer.

Gaon could no longer tell what wounded him more.

***

He took to drinking plum wine in secret.
Only a sip.
Then two.
Then more.

Enough to blur the silence, to soften the ache between his ribs, to believe—if only for a heartbeat—that he could still hear Elijah’s trill echo through the rafters. That Yohan had looked at him not with detachment, but remembrance.

He wrote drunk and copied sober.
He folded rebellion into metaphor, heartbreak into haiku.
He stitched secrets into seasonal metaphors, and the people began to hear the unspoken between the lines.

“𝘼 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚.”
“𝙎𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙤𝙪𝙨, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩.”
“𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙚.”

By day, he wore the face of a quiet scholar. A harmless poet.
Polite. Soft-voiced. Dutiful.

But he met Ko In Guk on the back paths between incense shops and medical courtyards. Never for long. Never in daylight.

A tilt of the head meant funds were moving.
A red-threaded ring meant the next drop-off was secured.
A scroll of Confucian ethics, slightly heavier than it should’ve been, carried letters meant for rebels hidden in the mountain provinces.

Kyung-Shin came and went like mist, sometimes dressed as a stableboy, sometimes as a eunuch. He never smiled, but he bowed to Gaon with a reverence that went unsaid.

“The south waits,” he murmured once, slipping a sealed pouch into Gaon’s hand. “All that remains is the spark.”

And so Gaon wrote.
And the city smoldered with it.

***

The capital wore winter like a silken noose.

Frost clung to the eaves like spiderwebs, the sky pale and tight-lipped above the distant mountains. But within the palace, beneath carved beams and lacquered doors, something deeper than cold lingered in the corridors. Something watchful.

The Regent King smiled more than usual these days.

A chilling thing.

His eyes roved through the court like a blade dipped in honey—sickening and sweet, with something poisonous just beneath the surface. Rumors crept like smoke through the capital: of unrest in the villages, of officials resigning under the guise of illness, of verses signed Chwihyang left folded inside market rice sacks.

And yet, to the public, a pilgrimage was announced.

“A royal prayer for the year’s harvest,” they said.
“A solemn visit to the outer temple in the north hills.”
“A gesture of piety from our beloved Regent and our mourning Empress.”

Even the date was auspicious—the 18th day of the twelfth month, under the waning snow moon.
But Gaon knew better than to believe in coincidence.

When the Empress Dowager’s attendants came to him with the invitation—no, the summons—to join the royal procession as a court poet in service of ceremonial rites, he said yes without hesitation.

The archive was left shuttered for three days.
And Gaon’s inkstone traveled with him.

The court moved with the grace of a funeral procession—slow, deliberate, and far too rehearsed to be natural.

They left at first light, just as the sun climbed out from behind the frozen spine of the northern hills, its rays slicing through the clouds like divine warning. The procession wound its way out of the palace gates with all the ceremonial splendor of a monarch’s pilgrimage, though the streets that lined their path were unusually still.

The people bowed, yes.
The bells rang.
The incense from the temple district sweetened the air.

But there was something brittle beneath the surface. A tension in the faces of the onlookers. A tremor in the hands of the flute bearers. An absence of cheer.

Gaon felt it in his bones.

No one trusted a monarch who prayed too loudly.

***

The journey was quiet.

Too quiet.

They rode out just past dawn, a long line of silken carriages and lacquered palanquins moving like a river of color through the grey winter woods. Hooves on frost. Wheels over brittle grass. Breath visible in the air, even through silk veils.

Jung Sun Ah sat two carriages ahead, swathed in white and silver like a mourning crane.

She did not look back.

But Gaon felt her attention like a thread pulled taut—something coiled and waiting.
She had not spoken to him since the night she gifted him the birdcage.

Not directly.

“For company,” she had said then. “You seem lonely.”

Now, with the nightingale gone and the sky heavy with snow, he wondered if she had meant to observe him.
To see what he’d do with grief.
How far he’d fall.

________

The Empress Dowager was veiled in pale blue, her age showing more in her stillness than her face. She stepped from her palanquin without a word, her hands folded in the ceremonial sleeves of mourning, the string of jade beads at her hip clinking faintly with each step.

Beside her stood Jung Sun Ah, robed in immaculate white, her features hidden beneath the heavy mourning veil of a royal widow. She held a single stalk of winter orchid in her gloved hand and looked every inch the dutiful consort—the last surviving relic of a fallen prince.

They entered the temple as one—Regent, Dowager, consorts, ministers, court scribes, and guards.

Gaon walked a step behind the Dowager’s entourage, his gaze flickering across the wooden beams of the temple, faded from age, carved with prayers whose meanings had long since been lost to time. Dust hung in the air like old incense, and the light filtering through the lattice windows cast long shadows across the stone floor.

The monks greeted them in murmurs, their robes ash-grey, their eyes lowered. An old abbot stepped forward and welcomed the Regent with a bow so low it might have snapped his spine.

“May the gods hear the prayers of the virtuous,” the old man said, his voice a whisper nearly drowned by the wind.

The Regent responded with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“I ask not for favors,” he said. “Only a peaceful year.”

Gaon’s throat burned at the lie.

***

The ceremony began at midday.

The temple courtyard was silent but for the slow beat of ritual drums—three slow strikes, then stillness. The snow had begun to fall again, gentle flakes drifting through the open roof above the incense altar, melting as they landed against the coals.

The Dowager approached the altar with hands folded in reverence. The Empress followed, her steps graceful, every inch of her movement choreographed to perfection. The Regent stood a little apart, his face tilted upward as if communing with the heavens themselves.

Gaon knelt in silence, just behind the row of ministers. The prayer scroll in his lap was blank.

He watched them, every detail—the Dowager’s trembling fingers, the way Jung Sun Ah’s veil barely moved with her breath, the faintest flick of the Regent’s wrist to signal the next step.

His skin crawled.

And then—

A sound.

Too soft to be a voice.
Too quick to be a bird.
Not wind.

It cut across the hush like the sharpest thread of silk.

Gaon’s eyes darted up instinctively, just in time to see a glint of silver arc through the air.

Not towards the Regent.
Not towards the priests.

Towards her.

The Empress Dowager.

It came like a streak of lightning, too fast to scream.
Too fast to think.
Only fast enough to feel the world slow around it.

And then—
Thud.

The man beside her—a servant in plain robes—lunged forward in a blur of motion, intercepting the arrow with the full weight of his body.

The sound was sickening as he collapsed, blood darkening the snow-dusted stone.

Kyung-Shin.

Gaon froze.

The Dowager screamed—once, sharp and hoarse. The Empress dropped her orchid. The monks scattered like leaves in a storm.

The guards reacted late—rushing forward, swords drawn, orders shouted, but the damage was already done.

Blood seeped from Kyung-Shin’s shoulder where the arrow had sunk deep, his breath ragged as he crumpled to his knees, then fell.

Gaon’s vision blurred at the edges as he pushed forward, ignoring the ministers around him, shoving past startled guards. His hands found Kyung-Shin’s body—still warm, trembling.

“Stay with me,” he hissed, pressing fabric to the wound. “Just—don’t move. You hear me? Stay.”

Kyung-Shin didn’t speak. His eyes were open, glazed, lips barely parted.

Gaon pressed harder.

Around them, the temple had erupted into motion—palace guards securing exits, archers scanning rooftops, the Regent bellowing orders in a voice that echoed against the rafters like thunder.

“Find them! No one leaves until we have the assassin!”

But Gaon didn’t look up.

He didn’t need to.

He felt Jung Sun Ah’s gaze like ice against the back of his neck.

______

An hour passed before the courtyard quieted again.

The Dowager had been ushered inside under heavy guard, trembling and pale, her prayer abandoned mid-offering. The arrow had missed her by mere inches.

Kyung-Shin was barely breathing, the shaft still buried in his shoulder, but he lived.

A healer arrived from the inner shrine, murmuring prayers as he worked. Gaon sat beside him, blood on his hands, his sleeves soaked, his mind a furnace of fury.

He didn’t notice the monk who approached. Not at first.

Only when the man knelt before him—silent, old, eyes sharp despite his age—did Gaon lift his head.

“You walk with storm in your steps, Benefactor Chwe,” the monk said quietly.

Gaon blinked, throat raw. “What?”

The monk looked down at Kyung-Shin, then back at Gaon.

“Be careful of where your words fall,” he murmured. “In temples like this, not even the gods are safe.”

***

The courtyard had fallen silent again.

Afternoon light slanted low across the stone, painting the blood-streaked tiles in fractured gold. The wind had quieted, and even the monks moved like shadows—solemn, gliding from shrine to shrine, as if afraid their footsteps might stir the ghosts now lingering too thick in the air.

Gaon sat beside Kyung-Shin’s unconscious body, unmoving. One knee tucked beneath him, the other drawn up to brace his elbow. His fingers were still stained red despite washing them. Blood darkened the cuff of his sleeve, the scent of it sharp and earthy beneath the incense smoke.

He breaths were shallow. Laboured.

Alive. But only just.

The arrow had gone deep. Too deep. And if the healer’s eyes had flickered with fear as he applied the salves, Gaon chose not to notice. He focused only on the rise and fall of Kyung-Shin’s chest beneath the bandages. On the faint twitch of his fingers when the wind shifted.

The stone beneath him was cold.
But Gaon did not move.

It wasn’t just grief anchoring him there.
It was rage.

And something more unbearable than either—helplessness.

He had seen it in Sun Ah’s eyes.
That flicker of satisfaction. The stillness of someone who already knew what the outcome would be.

And he had been able to do nothing.

It was a nun who broke the silence.

An old woman, stooped but steady, robes clean and simple. She approached without sound and knelt beside him, folding her hands in her lap. Her face was carved with lines too old for vanity, too deep for performance. She smelled of ashes and dried sandalwood.

“Benefactor,” she said softly.

Gaon didn’t look at her.

“I knew he wouldn’t let her die,” she continued, nodding faintly at Kyung-Shin. “Not after what your prince did for us.”

That caught him.

Gaon turned his head slowly. “Prince?”

The woman’s smile was faint. Not fond—just full of memory.

“Years ago. My niece and I were taken during a border skirmish. I was meant for debt labor. She…” Her voice faltered. “She was ten. They were going to sell her to a brothel.”

Gaon’s breath caught.

He didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need prompting.

“It was winter. The capital was snowed in. He found us on the roadside—my niece barely clothed, half-starved, teeth broken from fighting back.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but her fingers clenched slightly in her lap. “He put his cloak on her. Didn’t ask our names. Took us straight to the palace kitchens.”

Gaon’s throat tightened.

She tilted her chin upward, eyes going distant.

“He could’ve passed us off to charity. Forgotten us like all the other nobles. But he brought her to the inner court. Asked the Crown Princess to take her into her own household. Said the child had sharp eyes and a sharper spirit. That she reminded him of someone he once knew.”

A pause. Then, “She grew up sweeping snow from the inner courtyard. Tending herbs in the empress’ garden. She stayed quiet and watched everything.”

She glanced towards the empress’ quarters. A spark of recognition lit up Gaon's mind.

“Her name’s Soohyun. Though they no longer call her that. She’s twenty-six now, like you. She still wears her hair in the style of low servants, but she listens more than she speaks. And she remembers.”

A silence bloomed between them. Heavy, but not cruel.

Gaon exhaled. Slowly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need her.”

A pause.

“And she needs to believe that those who saved her have not been forgotten. That the heavens are not so cruel.”

The wind picked up again—just enough to stir the hem of Kyung-Shin’s robe and rustle the blood-dried leaves clinging to the corners of the courtyard.

Gaon looked up at the temple roof, where snow clung to the eaves like ash.

“I’ll find her,” he said quietly.

The nun touched his sleeve, then rose with the kind of slowness that sets with age.

She left him there—beneath the broken afternoon light, beside a friend who had nearly died to save a woman who had always known she was marked for death.

Gaon looked at Kyung-Shin’s pale face. Then closed his eyes.

***

The rain came without warning.

Gaon had barely made it halfway down the mountain trail when the first drops fell—soft as breath on his skin. By the time he reached the temple gate, the clouds had burst open. Sheets of water cascaded over the eaves, the cracked stone steps running like riverbeds.

He didn’t go inside right away.

Instead, Gaon stood at the threshold, robes soaked, fingers curled into the rough grain of the wooden beam. The moss-streaked pillars, the half-rotted offerings on the altar, even the stubborn little patch of red lilies still clinging to life at the base of the stairs—all of it felt unchanged. But he wasn’t.

The capital had carved something out of him.

Not all wounds bled. Some simply stayed open.

Gaon finally stepped into the shadow of the temple. The roof groaned above him. A crow startled from the rafters, wheeling once before vanishing into the curtain of rain. Inside, the air was damp and still, thick with incense smoke long gone cold. It smelled faintly of cedar and mold. And memory.

He shed his outer robe and laid it over a bench. His hands moved with quiet precision, but his thoughts were miles away.

The banquet.

The laughter.

The way the regent king had smiled—drunk, or pretending to be—and praised Gaon’s calligraphy with a voice far too smooth.

“I’ve always admired poetry,” the regent had said, swirling his wine. “Though yours tastes a little bitter, doesn’t it?”

A veiled warning, wrapped in silk.

Gaon hadn’t bowed. He had only smiled, eyes lowered, words careful. “Bitterness cleanses the tongue, Your Majesty.”

He didn’t know why he’d said it. Maybe he had wanted to be caught. Maybe some part of him was tired of surviving by silence.

He rubbed at his temple now, the skin there raw from where the headpiece had sat too tight all evening. There were questions now. Too many.

Gaon walked to the altar and lit a stick of incense. It caught with a soft hiss, and smoke curled upward like a prayer too fragile to speak aloud. He bowed once, slow and deep, not to the gods, but to the memories. To the burdens he carried alone.

He did not yet know what the Empress Dowager was planning.

He did not know what Sun Ah knew, or why her eyes had held the shine of someone who feared nothing—because she had already taken everything.

But he knew one thing.

The prince was alive.

***

It had been a week since they’d returned from the temple.

The days that followed their return from the temple passed like water through silk—quiet, trembling, impossible to hold.

Kyung-Shin's fever had broken by the third night, his pale face flushed with sweat and breath no longer caught in the brittle rhythm of pain. Gaon remained by his side during those early days, carrying bowls of broth, changing cloths damp with willow bark infusion, whispering half-prayers to gods he no longer believed in. Kyung-Shin would open his eyes sometimes, dazed and soft, only to fall back into exhausted sleep. When he finally spoke—"You came back"—Gaon did not answer. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t splinter them further.

The capital outside resumed its hum, as if nothing had happened. As if the sky hadn’t cracked over the mausoleum. As if a prince hadn’t reached out from the dead to tether himself back to a boy who once loved him.

And in the hall of Gaon’s quarters at the edge of the palace’s lesser courtyard, everything felt too quiet.

The Empress Dowager sent a physician to check on Kyung-Shin, and with it came a letter sealed in bronze ink. It thanked Gaon for his “accidental loyalty,” praised his “resilient virtue,” and suggested, in all but name, that he keep his attentions fixed firmly on his assigned duties.

The archives welcomed him back with a chill. The dust had multiplied, and the shelves leaned like crooked elders watching him from the corners. Eunha returned to her post without complaint, though she moved more carefully now, her eyes sharper, her silences longer.

A week passed.

Then, one morning, as Gaon poured tea into a porcelain cup chipped at the rim, a knock came—not at the screen door, but from the inner courtyard gate. It was too polite to be a servant, too deliberate to be a friend.
Eunha was already there, bowing low, her brows drawn in the thinnest shadow of a frown. Beside her stood a figure in scholar’s robes dyed the soft green of spring pine, black hair coiled into a neat sangtu beneath a modest gat. He was young—too young to carry himself with such stiff importance—but his eyes, dark and rimmed with scholarly pride, flicked toward Gaon as if already disappointed.

“This,” Eunha said, after clearing her throat softly, “is Censor Han Ji-un. He has been assigned to you.”

“To me?” Gaon echoed, wiping his hand against his robes. The ink on his fingers left faint black streaks, like spider legs. “For what purpose?”

The censor bowed shallowly, his tone brisk. “By order of the Office of Royal Press. A man whose name floats too frequently from ink wells and tongues cannot remain unsupervised. Your activities in the archives and association with foreign relics have raised eyebrows. I am to accompany you, observe your writings, and report.”

Gaon let out a soft exhale, nearly a laugh. “So, I am no longer a poet, but a potential heretic?”

Han Ji-un’s mouth didn’t twitch. “You may be both. That is what I intend to find out.”

The tea had gone cold in the cup. The bitter scent of chrysanthemum rose faintly, masking the sharper aroma of ink and parchment. Gaon stared at the young man before him and wondered if this, too, had been orchestrated by the Empress—her invisible hand, veiled by etiquette, wrapping tighter around his every breath.

The censor stepped inside without invitation, his shoes silent against the stone floor.

“You may continue your work,” he said. “I won’t interfere… unless I must.”

Gaon watched him sit cross-legged near the desk, already pulling out a small booklet bound in pale blue silk. Each page gleamed, waiting.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, Gaon turned back toward the open window, where a crane soared high above the rooftops, too white against the grey sky.

A silent watcher.

Much like the one now seated beside him.

He dipped his brush again.

Wrote nothing.

Waited.

Let the ink bloom and fade.

Let them all watch.

He had long since learned how to write thunder in whispers.

***

The wind was sharp that night, not in temperature, but in memory—it carried the scent of pine and wet stone, of forgotten incense and rotting chrysanthemums left too long at abandoned shrines.

Gaon staggered alone beneath the waning moonlight, his robes rumpled and stained with rice wine. The pale curve of the sky above felt like a lid closing on his thoughts, heavy and suffocating. He had tried—gods knew he had tried. The wine gourd at his hip sloshed as he caught himself on the twisted trunk of a ginkgo tree, leaves golden and fallen around him like forgotten memories. He paused for breath, each inhale sharp, damp with mist and regret. Behind his eyes, Elijah’s voice echoed—not her adult voice, because he had never heard it—but the imagined one, shaped from birdsong and memory, conjured in the days when the search still held hope.

It had been fourteen days since they returned from the temple.

Fourteen.

Gaon had scoured the city. The temples. The brothel alleys. The abandoned gardens where the nightingales once sang. Not a feather remained. No sign of magic or madness or the girl he had not truly known and yet mourned as though she had grown in his shadow all her life.

And now, wine-slicked and salt-eyed, he found himself once more before the crumbling mausoleum gates.

The ivy scratched at the stone lions flanking the threshold, and above, the moon watched red and low, a blood eye cast in mourning.

Gaon pushed through the rusted doors.

The temple was as it had always been—broken, breathless, steeped in the residue of things long dead. He could hear the wind whistle through the ruined eaves, a song without melody. Moss clung to the cracked altar at the far end of the nave, the same where he had once dared to believe a ghost had remembered him.

Gaon stumbled up the cracked steps, the empty urns and ancient carvings blurring in his vision. His hair clung damply to his temples. In his hand, he carried the remains of the bottle, which he flung uselessly into the dark. It shattered somewhere in the trees.

And then silence.
A heavy, cavernous silence.

He dropped to his knees before the altar, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

“Is this all you left behind, Yohan?” he whispered, voice coarse. “Stone and silence?”

His forehead pressed against the base of the altar. He dug his fingernails into the carvings, into the runes now overgrown with moss, remembering how the once-prince had looked when he last saw him—not as a ghost, not as a memory, but as a man. Gaon squeezed his eyes shut.

His breath hitched in sobs, the kind he had taught himself not to cry as a boy when grief threatened to undo him.

“I would’ve given my life to follow you,” he whispered hoarsely.
The image of Yohan haunted him—eyes like clouded mirrors, voice like smoke on winter mornings. Gaon shuddered, gripping the edge of the altar to pull himself upright, only for his hand to catch on a jagged break in the stone. A thin gash opened across his palm.

Blood dripped.
Once.
Twice.
Onto the old sigils, soaking into the grooves.

And then the wind stopped.
The trees ceased rustling.
Even the night held its breath.

A low vibration thrummed through the stone beneath him, a hum like a voice remembered in dreams. Light flickered across the altar—no torch, no flame—just the shifting distortion of presence.

Gaon turned, staggered back.

There—rising from the center of the edifice like mist coalescing into shape—once again, stood a veiled figure. Cloaked in silver smoke, the edges of his form wavered between light and shadow, his feet not touching the earth. His eyes glowed faintly from beneath the veil, not with divinity, but with a bone-deep sorrow—ancient, unnameable.

Yohan.

But not the Yohan Gaon knew.

This ghost was brittle with torment. His gaze was unfixed, scanning the temple walls as though searching for chains still binding him. His lips parted as if to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse exhale.

Gaon gasped.

His legs gave out. He sank back onto the altar, staring up.

“Yohan,” he said, like a prayer.

The apparition flinched.

But did not answer.

Only the wind stirred.

“Please,” Gaon whispered, reaching up with his bloodied hand. “Look at me. Don’t you—don’t you know me?”

Yohan looked through him. Past him.

“No,” Gaon whispered. “No, no, no…”

He surged forward, desperate, hand outstretched despite the blood dripping from his palm.

Still, the ghost’s face remained blank, veiled in some fog of horror no living voice could pierce.

Gaon fell to his knees once more, this time not in drunken delirium, but in devastation. He grasped Yohan’s hand—cold as moonlight, impossibly real—and brought it to his own cheek. The touch was faint, like pressing into mist. Still, he leaned into it, eyes squeezed shut, forehead resting against the ghost’s knuckles.

“I came back,” Gaon choked. “I came back for you. Why aren’t you?”

No answer.
No comfort.
Only the scent of myrrh and ashes.

And a shift in the ties of a curse as old as time.

The runes on the floor flared gold.

A blast of heat rushed through the temple like a gust from some ancient bellows. The veils around the apparition shuddered, and the wind dragged them upward as if trying to lift him skyward and bind him there once more. His body arched violently, his head thrown back. A low, guttural keening escaped his throat—not pain, not rage, but something older—a memory tearing through the seams of an unwilling vessel.

Chains of light wound around his arms, burned into the stone beneath them, and locked into the blood-rune that Gaon had smeared unknowingly. The sujeongji stone he wore pulsed from deep within Gaon’s robe like a buried heartbeat answering a long-awaited call.

Yohan’s body jerked forward—caught—dragged by something invisible—and then stilled.

His eyes opened.

And though they were wild, confused, there was the barest shiver of response.

As if, for a breathless second, Yohan saw him.

Gaon sank to his knees again, clinging to that cold hand, tears pouring freely down his cheeks.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I never left. You—gods, please remember. If nothing else… stay. Stay here. Let me bear it. I’ll bear it all if you’ll just—just stay.”

Yohan didn’t speak. But the veils around him rippled, no longer wild. They settled in slow waves, like a storm reluctantly retreating. His other hand, pale and trembling, reached forward—not in recognition, but instinct. Something unshaped and trembling hovered in his fingertips before it brushed, feather-light, across Gaon’s cheek in mimicry of the desperate nuzzle Gaon had given him moments ago.

A pledge made.

A bond answered.

And somewhere, beneath the mausoleum’s foundation, something ancient groaned and began to turn.

The curse—sealed in wrath and vengeance—had bent to the will of sorrow instead. Not for the sake of thrones or gods, but for a single, mortal plea of a grieving man.

Gaon didn’t know what had changed.

But the wind had stilled.

And Yohan hadn’t disappeared.

***

Chapter Text

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩.
𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵.
𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘺—𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘺𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘮 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵. 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯—𝘢 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦—𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯-𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 — 𝘊𝘩𝘸𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘩𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯 — 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘳.

𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘴. 𝘙𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯.

𝘈 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴: "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦."

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘳.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦.

𝘈 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵.
𝘍𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

_____

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘪𝘭.
"𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘴. 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘥.
"𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦."

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥.
"𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦.”

____

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘴. 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘐𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵.
𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘒𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘛𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘬. 𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮.
𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦.

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𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮.

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𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴.

“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠—𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣.”
“𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨—𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨.”
“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙭 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙥 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨.”

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯-𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳.

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𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯.

𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘢, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺. 𝘖𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘴.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘹. 𝘖𝘧𝘧𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥-𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

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𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮.

𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.

𝘐𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘬.

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𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥.

𝘒𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦.

𝘒𝘰 𝘐𝘯 𝘎𝘶𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸… 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰. 𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.

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𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘴.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳.

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“𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥?” 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘦-𝘪𝘯𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘱𝘦.

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, “𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘵.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘎𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳.

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𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵 — 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵, 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘩.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘙𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴.

𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

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𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦 — 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘈 𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵.

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𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺.

𝘈 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 “𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖊.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

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“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴?” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘵, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

“𝘏𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘸𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘩𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮? 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

“𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥?”

“𝘕𝘰. 𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴.”

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 — 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵.

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𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.

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𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴.

𝘈 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴.

𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥 — 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘠𝘰—

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘍𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦.

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𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵.

“𝘊𝘩𝘸𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘩𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘵 — 𝘒𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨-𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘸.”

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥. “𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦.”

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𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

"𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥.
𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦.

𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘸𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

___

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 — 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 — 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳’𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯:

𝘚𝘪𝘩𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘸𝘦.

___

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦:

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘹 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸."

𝘎𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘴.

𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰.

𝘌𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮. 𝘛𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵. 𝘛𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺.

𝘛𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺.

____

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘺𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭.

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨,” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦. “𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

***

Yohan did not disappear.

Not when the wind returned. Not when the flames in the lanterns guttered and flared. Not even when the night shivered and shifted its weight, as if unsure what laws governed this sacred place now that death had been touched by longing.

He stayed.

Held in the half-light, tethered by blood and plea, the prince’s form remained—veiled still in shadow, but solid enough that Gaon could feel the tremor beneath his skin where they touched. He did not vanish like the ghosts Gaon had once studied in childhood tales. He did not dissolve into mist like the spirits who walked old temples asking for rites long denied.

He stayed.

The hand that had brushed Gaon’s cheek lowered slowly. Fingers curled as if in confusion, then splayed open again—as if testing the limits of flesh remembered. Yohan blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth moved, wordless. His throat worked around syllables that refused to form. There was pain in it. But more than that—something like friction. Like the soul was trying to fit itself back into the body after too many years apart.

Gaon didn’t breathe. He barely dared to blink.

If he moved too fast, if he broke the air between them, would the moment fracture?

“Yohan,” he said again.

That name, spoken aloud, reverberated differently this time. Not across stone—but through it. The mausoleum responded with a creak deep beneath the earth, the groan of roots shifting, of tombs remembering the ones they were never meant to hold.

Yohan’s head turned, slow as frozen honey dripping from a blade.

His gaze landed on Gaon.

And stayed.

It wasn’t full recognition. Not yet. But something flickered in that gaze—confused, raw, blinking back the dark like a newborn pulled from centuries of night.

His lips parted.

“…Gaon?”

The name came mangled, as if the syllables had been rusted in his throat. But it was his voice. Familiar. Rougher. Weaker. Human.

Gaon gasped.

His whole body slumped forward like a bow unstrung. “Yes. Yes—gods, yes—”

He reached for Yohan’s shoulders but stopped short. Was it too much? Too fast?

Yohan swayed, unsteady. The chains of light binding his wrists were fading, sinking back into the sigils on the stone floor. The curse, it seemed, had not broken—but shifted. Bent, as if grudgingly allowing space for something older than bloodlines and vengeance: Grief. Memory. Devotion. ̶L̶o̶v̶e.

Gaon reached out slowly, cupping Yohan’s cheek. This time, the contact didn’t pass through.

Warm.

Not fully—but enough.

Yohan leaned into it faintly, eyelids fluttering. “You’re… not a child anymore.”

Gaon laughed, broken and wet. “Neither are you.”

Silence stretched.

This one gentler. Less cavernous.

“I dreamed,” Yohan said, his voice like the scraping of wind through reeds. “So long… I dreamed the palace burned. That the lake swallowed the stars. That everyone I loved vanished.”

“You weren’t dreaming,” Gaon whispered.

Yohan closed his eyes. “Then let me sleep again. Let me go back.”

“No,” Gaon said fiercely. He pulled Yohan into his arms before the prince could resist. “No. Don’t ask me that.”

Yohan did not struggle. But he did not return the embrace.

His arms hung limp at his sides.

“I don’t remember how I got here.”

“You died,” Gaon said softly. “Or nearly. They took your name. Buried your body. Hid your heir.”

“Elijah…”

He felt the tension ripple through Yohan like a cord pulled taut.

“She was only a baby,” Yohan murmured. “I remember her curls. The way she clutched my sleeve when my sister-in-law handed her over.” He paused. “I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s father.”

“You still aren’t,” Gaon said with a tired smile.“But she doesn’t need a perfect father. She needs you.”

The wind shifted again. But it did not howl. It rustled—like breath returning to lungs.

The veils surrounding Yohan’s form had thinned. Now, only tatters remained, floating around his shoulders like mourning cloth untied.

The mausoleum was still.

And for the first time in years, Gaon felt like he could breathe.

But there was one thing he still didn’t understand.

“How are you here?” he asked. “I saw you vanish. You dissolved into smoke. I thought—I thought I’d lost you again.”

Yohan blinked slowly. “You bled,” he said.

Gaon stilled.

“You gave something willingly. You gave it to me,” Yohan continued. “A pledge. A sacrifice. The curse… listened.”

Gaon looked down at his hand, the dried blood across his palm like a forgotten promise.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You felt,” Yohan corrected. “That was enough.”

He stood then, slowly, still unsteady—but with new weight to his limbs. The spirit of a prince. The husk of a man. A vessel not yet healed, but no longer empty.

Gaon rose with him.

“I don’t know what comes next,” he admitted.

Yohan’s gaze flickered toward the sealed doors of the mausoleum. “The world has changed.”

“So have we,” Gaon said.

Their eyes met. Something passed between them—no longer recognition, not yet reunion. But something true.

“I’ll walk with you,” Gaon said. “Wherever you go.”

Yohan didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

But he didn’t refuse either.

Outside, the trees whispered.

And in the city beyond the mountains, the bells began to ring for a storm they didn’t yet know had passed over them.

***

The temple’s silence had grown familiar.

Even comforting, in its own way.

By the second week since Yohan’s reappearance, Gaon knew which floorboards creaked, which broken arch let in the moonlight just right, which corner of the altar chamber warmed faintly under sunlight’s touch during the brief hour it bled through the moss-choked eaves.

And every other evening—after court, after pretending the world outside wasn’t unraveling around him—he returned here. Quietly. Without torches. Without escort. Just Gaon and the night.

Inside, Yohan waited.

He had not yet crossed the threshold of the inner shrine. The curse, though thinned and loosened, still held his body fast to the bounds of sacred stone. When Gaon asked how it felt, Yohan had stared at the gate and simply said, "Like trying to remember a name I never realised I’d forgotten.”

Now, he sat propped against the base of the altar, half-shrouded in the pale folds of ceremonial cloth Gaon had scrounged from the archives. His hair was cleaner now, loosely tied, and the bruising around his wrists had faded. A few stubborn leaves clung to the edges of his sleeves from where he'd collapsed days ago. He made no effort to shake them off.

"Did the regent show today?" Yohan asked as Gaon unwrapped a paper parcel of dried persimmons and rice cakes.

Gaon nodded, crouching near him. “Late, and drunk. He brought a dancer into the throne room and spilled wine on the state seal.”

Yohan gave a low exhale. “And the ministers?”

“Half asleep. The other half pretended they were deaf.”

The faintest curve touched Yohan’s lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

Each evening had become like this—Gaon recounting the affairs of court: new taxes disguised as levies, another scholar exiled for seditious writing, a merchant imprisoned for speaking too freely of the former crown.

Yohan never interrupted.

Only listened, piecing together the disordered puzzle of a kingdom that no longer remembered his name.

But tonight, he spoke before Gaon could begin. “Tell me about Elijah.”

Gaon stilled.

Yohan’s gaze didn’t waver.

Gaon busied himself with the rice cakes, tearing them into pieces. “She's…okay.”

Yohan raised an eyebrow.

Gaon didn’t answer.

The silence thickened.

“I see,” Yohan said finally.

“You think I’m too fragile to know about it.”
Gaon looked up sharply. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?” Yohan’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it now. “You speak to me of court intrigue and the regent’s drunken foolishness. But every time I ask about what matters, you retreat.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Gaon said too quickly.

Yohan studied him. “You’ve never lied well.”

Gaon stood abruptly. “You need rest.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Then meditate. Or glare at the ceiling. Just—let me handle it.”

Yohan didn’t press further. But his eyes followed Gaon’s retreating form, thoughtful and unblinking.

Something was being hidden.

And Yohan had never tolerated blindfolds, even kindly meant ones.

***

Night in the capital was not quiet.

Beneath its noble rooftops and gilded tiles, it hummed—merchants counting coin, drunkards stumbling through alleys, courtesans laughing behind silkscreens, children throwing dice with fingers blackened by soot. The palace sat distant and glimmering above it all, but Gaon slipped past it like a shadow unheeded.

He moved quickly, hood drawn low.

He did not take the main road to the water market. Instead, he followed the alleys near the paper lantern district, where the buildings leaned too close together and the air always smelled of dye and wet clay.

She was already there.

Soohyun stood beneath a shuttered signboard of a tailor, eyes sharp despite the lateness of the hour. She wore a plain dark robe, her hair tucked beneath a wrapped scarf. On anyone else, it might’ve passed for invisibility. On her, it looked like a dagger waiting to be drawn.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.

“I’m cautious,” Gaon replied. “There’s a difference.”

Her gaze swept the street. “So? What is it you need that can’t be asked by day?”

He didn’t answer—just tilted his head.

Moments later, two other figures emerged from the shadows. One tall, with a limp and watchful eyes like a cat half-closed in thought. The other broader, arms crossed over his chest, lips set in a grim line.

Soohyun’s expression didn’t flicker.

“You brought ghosts,” she said.

“This is Kyung-Shin,” Gaon said, “and Minister Ko In Guk. They were part of the old retinue. The last loyal ones.”

To his surprise, Soohyun gave a faint bow.

Gaon stepped between them. “I need you to search the palace.”

“For?”

“The birdcage,” he said. “The one the empress gifted. The cage Elijah disappeared from.”

Soohyun’s brows rose slightly. “You believe there’s something left behind.”

“I know there is,” Gaon said. “But I can’t be the one to look.”

“And if they catch me?”

“Tell them you’re testing for signs of pestilence.”

Soohyun snorted. “Clever. Risky.”

“You’ve always liked risk.”

“I liked truth more,” she said, glancing at the other two. “Tell me—does the prince know?”

Gaon didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Soohyun sighed. “Then you’d best find her before he finds what you wouldn’t say.”

She turned, cloak swishing, and disappeared into the dark.

***

The skies had been unseasonably gray for days.

Not the heavy, thunderous gray of summer rains nor the clear silver of winter skies — but a strange, breathless shade, like the heavens had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. Even the wind had grown hesitant. Not a leaf stirred in the palace courtyards.

It was under such skies that Gaon stepped into court.

He had arrived early that morning, sleeves damp from the river mist, expecting nothing more than the usual grind of minor petitions and hollow praises. But the moment he stepped through the court’s front gate, a thick wall of sound greeted him — chanting.

Low and throaty. Reverberating.

Lines of ochre-clad monks lined the colonnades of the main palace hall, their eyes half-lidded, palms pressed together in a rhythm older than empires. Shafts of smoke curled upward from swinging bronze censers. Pine resin. Mugwort. Dried bones. A bitter tang in the air.

Gaon’s steps slowed.

Just behind the monks stood folk shamans in layered silks and robes embroidered with talismans. Their hair bound with red cords, their hands moving in twitchy spirals — casting, reading, whispering. Several had drawn salt lines on the stone tiles of the palace floor, scattering ashes with calligraphy brushes, muttering things not meant for polite ears.

“What—” he began.

A court attendant brushed past him, too pale, too quiet. His lips moved, half a prayer, half a tremor. Gaon turned to follow the noise toward the central throne hall.

There, kneeling beneath the imperial canopy, was the regent.

Clad in mourning white, his forehead touching the cool jade tiles. Unmoving. His voice rasped the name of the heavens over and over, but it was barely louder than the chants echoing around him. His crown sat beside him, half-tilted, forgotten.

And standing above him, lit by the eerie sunlight filtering through thick incense haze, was the Imperial Astronomer.

He was a man old enough that his skin seemed more papyrus than flesh, eyes rimmed in red from sleepless study, ink-stained fingertips trembling against his sleeves. His voice carried over the hall, sharp and reedy.

“Seven nights the stars have turned against their stations,” he declared. “The Turtle constellation weeps, and the Phoenix has hidden its wings. The river tides have reversed in their flow. A comet of blood passed above the Mausoleum Peak and vanished.”

The court stirred. Ministers muttered behind their fans. Several of the older concubines crossed themselves or pressed jade to their lips.

“It is an omen,” the astronomer said, “and it is not vague. The Heavens are enraged.”

The regent sobbed once, a dry sound like something brittle breaking.

Gaon stood among the courtiers, still and breathless. It was as though the world was folding into itself. He thought of the mausoleum. Of the lingering scent of honeysuckle and cold stone. Of Yohan, sleeping restlessly beneath the tangle of spirit wards. Of Soohyun’s pinched expression. Of Kyung-shin’s clenched fists.

And Elijah.

The thought pierced through his mind like a bell toll — abrupt, jarring. She had not returned.

Later, as the court dismissed in slow, stunned waves — no proclamations made, no petitions addressed, only fear left to fester in place of policy — Gaon retreated to the outer gardens of the Empress’s residence. A wrong turn, he told a curious handmaiden. He had needed the air.

But truly, he had followed the sound.

It had been faint — not a human voice, not even the rustle of robes — but something more delicate. A soft series of trills and clicks. Birdsong.

Yet when he arrived at the covered veranda near the Empress’s private shrine, the sound stopped.

The air was thick with the scent of orchids and crushed jasmine. Slippers shuffled beyond the silk partitions. Servants flitted through the corridors like shadows.

Gaon crouched behind a flowering shrub, mind racing. Something felt wrong. The smoke from earlier still clung to his robes, and he felt the weight of every word the Astronomer had spoken pressing into his bones.

A tray of silver instruments lay on a table. Feathers. Blood. A shallow dish of red ink.

Then—

A bird’s scream.

Short. Sharp. Cut off.

Gaon’s hands clenched around the edge of the shrub as he leaned forward, and through the fluttering curtain of moon-flower vines, he saw her.

Empress Jung Sun Ah.

Seated in front of a carved altar, her robes pristine, her expression a picture of composed grief. She held in her hands a tiny birdcage — and inside it, a still form, mottled feathers red with blood.

“Clip the wings,” she said softly. “We will offer it tonight. The heavens crave sacrifice.”

A servant bowed low, trembling.

Gaon’s breath hitched.

The bird. The size. The coloring. That familiar trill he had chased across rooms, the sudden silences when he came too close.

It was her.

Elijah.

He rose too fast, his limbs almost forgetting the weight of caution. A twig snapped beneath his heel.

One of the servants looked up.

Gaon ran.

But not alone.

Tucked against his chest, wrapped in trembling care beneath his robes, was the nightingale—Elijah. Her tiny body, warm and fragile, fluttered against his heartbeat like a memory refusing to die. Her wings were clipped but her pulse was still there—weak, terrified, alive.

He did not wait to see what came next. Did not look back at the blood-soaked altar, the chanting monks, the shadows cast by flickering lamplight on ancient stone. The smell of incense and salt, of wrongness, clung to his skin.

He ran until all of it blurred behind him. Until the chants became echoes, until the mausoleum gates disappeared into mist, until his lungs were burning and his heart hammered like a war drum.

And still, he did not stop. Not when the trees clawed at him. Not when branches tore at his robes. Not even when Elijah whimpered, a high broken chirp against his ribs.

He ran with her pressed to his chest like a secret, like a promise, like a curse he was finally willing to bear.

He ran through the corridors like a ghost, weaving between pillars and past startled eunuchs, his mind a whirlpool of horror.

She had gone to look for clues at the mausoleum. She had been trying to help. And they had found her.

Not a girl.
A nightingale.

To them, a mere omen. A beast to be sacrificed.

He reached his quarters — the small scholar's annex attached to the outer quarters of the Ministry of Rites. Shutting the doors with shaking hands, he leaned against the lacquered wood and closed his eyes.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

How long had she been trapped? How much had she understood, alone in that cage? Did she know who had her?

Could she feel the blades slicing her wings?

Gaon opened his eyes slowly. The quiet room seemed unfamiliar. Too empty. Her soft trills no longer filled the dawn hours. Her delicate feathers no longer brushed against his shoulder when he sat down to write.

For the first time in months, he felt the cold bite through his skin. Through his marrow.

His knees gave out beneath him.

***

Deep inside the mausoleum, a pair of eyes snapped open. Blazing gold.

***

Chapter Text

It began not with thunder, but with the sound of feathers breaking.

One sharp snap.

Like a bone fracturing under pressure.
Like a scream muffled against marble.
Like a name torn from the throat of time.

And in the depths of the mausoleum, a body stirred.

Not from sleep. Not from death.
From something older than either—
From a promise made before heaven had the sense to silence him.

At first, his body barely twitched.

Then, deep in the pit of his chest, something ancient shuddered.
A heartbeat—no, a summons. A divine thread pulled taut, awakened by pain not his own.

𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖏𝖆𝖍.

A jolt tore through his spine.

His eyes flew open but saw nothing—only white. Blinding white.
The pain bloomed so violently he forgot how to breathe.

And then came the memories.
Not gently.
They did not return like water over skin.
They came like knives.

***

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮.
𝘈 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺:

“𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘩𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨?”

𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.

“𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

𝘈 𝘭𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.
𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦.

___

His chest convulsed.
His ribs cracked beneath a pressure that wasn’t physical.

Yohan’s arms flailed as if trying to grasp that fleeting warmth, but there was nothing. Only cold. Only stone.

___

𝘝𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.
𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩, 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘭 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦:

“𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨.. 𝙊𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙣.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘜𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴.
𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.
𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯.

“𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙞𝙩 𝙖 𝙬𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙮 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙.”

___

He screamed.
Or tried to.

The sound came out warped—
A god’s voice, half-formed, stretched across centuries.
It echoed through the mausoleum, shaking dust from the rafters.

The altar beneath him began to glow—
lines of gold searing across the stone like veins under skin.

___

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦.
𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.
𝘌𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯. 𝘔𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯. 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵.

𝘈 𝘴𝘰𝘣.
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳-𝘪𝘯-𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘈 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭.
𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺.
𝘚𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

“𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳—!”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴.

___

He gasped.

Back in the present, back in this body that no longer felt like his own.

Fire surged beneath his skin, every vein alight.
He convulsed once, then again. His spine arched off the altar. Blood welled from the corner of his mouth.

The power was too much.

His fingers clawed blindly against the stone, searching for something—someone.

His sujeongji.
The child who once held his hand.
The child who now bore the other end of the curse.

But there was no one in the dark with him. Only stone foxes. Only silence.

The last flash came not in sight but in sound.

A nightingale’s song.
Clear. Frantic. Cut short.

Yohan’s body crumpled.

The light faded from his eyes.
His lips parted in a final, shallow breath, and his hand slid limp over the altar’s edge.

___

The door slammed open.

Ko In Guk’s voice tore through the mausoleum like a wind sent from memory.

He burst into the chamber with four rebel guards at his back, torches raised, blades unsheathed.

But all light dimmed against what they saw.

The prince.

For years, thought to be missing. Known to be dead. Entombed like a god fallen from grace.
Now collapsed, bloodied, his skin faintly luminous with a power that refused to die.

Ko In Guk dropped to his knees.

The flame of his torch bent sideways—bowing.

"𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨!"

***

The stars were still bright when Gaon wrapped the bird in silk.

He held her close, careful not to jostle the blood-matted feathers where the wing had once been. Elijah’s body radiated warmth, but her eyes didn’t open. Not once. Her tiny chest rose and fell so shallowly that he had to press his ear against her to hear the breath.

Her song had stopped hours ago.

It hadn’t returned.

Not when he whispered her name. Not when he kissed her fragile crown. Not even when his tears soaked the silk, tracing down to the crushed place where her wing had broken.

“She won’t wake up,” he said aloud, as if naming the horror might lessen it. “But she’s not dead.”

Eunha, pale with shock and fury, cradled the wrapped bundle like it was something holy and cursed all at once. Her hands were shaking. But she didn’t protest when he stepped away.

“If I don’t return by dawn,” Gaon said quietly, brushing his knuckles against Elijah’s sleeping head, “set off the smoke signal. Kyung-Shin will know what to do.”

Eunha nodded, lips pressed tight, jaw trembling.

“They summoned you,” she said. “They’ll—”

“I know.”

“Orabeoni—”

He turned before she could say more.

***

The summons came not by official scroll but by blood-streaked messenger. The man had collapsed at the outer steps of Gaon’s temporary quarters, bruised and panting, whispering that the king required the presence of the Imperial Poet.

He should have fled with Elijah then. He knew it.

But instead, he walked straight into the lion’s den. Alone.

***

The palace gates closed behind him with the finality of a tomb.

Inside the main hall, the torches burned low. The court assembled in silence. The air itself was heavy, thick with incense meant to hide rot. Or fear.

The regent stood at the center, draped in black and crimson. Behind him, the Empress Jung Sun Ah sat with a veil draped over her face, eyes gleaming like oil behind silk. The courtiers watched Gaon’s approach like wolves watching meat learn it still had legs.

“You walk quite freely for one who has mocked the throne,” the regent said, his voice high with triumph. “Shall I commend your courage, or merely your stupidity?”

Gaon bowed low.

“My Lord Regent. I was summoned. I stand ready to answer what wrong you name.”

The regent smiled—thin. Mean.

“You already know.”

He gestured to a scroll that a guard brought forward. Another. Another.

“Shall I recite them?” the regent said, plucking one open with a flourish.

“‘𝙀𝙢𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙢𝙤𝙠𝙚. 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙚.’”

A hush fell.

“You published this. Under the pen name *Chwihyang.’ We traced it through the paper trails. The poems you sold under different names. The printing house boy you bribed to pass them along. Did you think your metaphors clever? Did you think your rebellion subtle?”

Gaon stood silent. Still.

The regent’s voice rose, choked with fury:

“You wrote that the crown dripped filth. You called me a usurper. You spoke of the lost bloodline as if it were sacred—treasonous filth!”

He hurled the scroll to the floor. The guards stepped forward.

“I name you traitor.”

***

The blow came fast. A backhand across Gaon’s face that split his lip. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Another scroll hit the ground.

The courtiers stood frozen, unsure whether to cheer or pray.

Sun Ah said nothing. Her eyes flickered toward the regent, then toward Gaon. And when their gazes met, Gaon saw something there—not surprise. Not rage. Satisfaction.

He was dragged from the chamber like a criminal.

But as he passed through the outer corridor, lined with shadows—

A figure stepped forward. Soohyun.

She looked like she’d been slapped. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her mouth opened, closed.

He locked eyes with her. Blood trickled down his chin.

He mouthed a single word.

“Mausoleum.”

Her breath hitched. Then she turned and vanished into the dark.

***

The dungeons beneath the palace were cold and damp. They never stopped echoing.

Gaon was thrown to the stone floor, and the cell door clanged shut like a funeral bell.

He couldn’t remember how long he was alone.

Not until they came for him.

They didn’t ask questions.

There was no trial. No audience. No formal torture chamber.

Just fists, blades, boots. And the silence of men who obeyed too well.

He bit his tongue until the blood pooled down his throat, until pain became color, became time, became prayer.

And still, he did not speak.

YohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohanYohan-

He chanted in his head like a madman.

Days passed. Or maybe only hours. Time in darkness was not time at all.

His ribs were cracked. His wrists shredded. His face bloated with bruises that pulsed with every breath. The walls blurred. His skin burned with fever.

Still, the court did not kill him.

Yet.

***

She came to him at night.

A lantern. Soft footsteps. The swish of silk against stone.

The cell door opened, and for the first time since the screaming stopped, light returned.

The Empress Dowager.

Her face was tired. Older than he remembered. But the steel in her eyes had not dulled.

She knelt beside him where he lay on the floor.

“Can you hear me?”

He blinked. Barely.

“I have hidden them,” she whispered. “The princess. And Eunha.”

Gaon tried to sit up. Failed. He slumped back, a choked sound escaping his throat.

“She won’t wake,” the dowager added softly. “The princess sleeps, and we cannot rouse her.”

She brushed a lock of hair from his temple, like a mother to a child not her own.

“I think she is waiting. For him.”

Her fingers tightened. A warning.

“You must live long enough to see what comes next.”

And then she was gone.

***

Later that night, a hand wrapped around his throat.

Gaon hadn’t heard the cell open. He hadn’t felt the presence slide into the room. No footsteps, no warning—only the sudden, suffocating press of flesh against windpipe, cold steel against ribs.

The body above him moved with precision. No fury, no sloppiness. A killer’s silence. The kind sent not to punish—but to erase.

His limbs were too heavy to fight. Muscles torn, nerves screaming. All he managed was a wheeze, lips parting around a breath that never came.

This was it.

This was how it ended.

Not in court. Not with honor. But here—forgotten beneath the earth, in a hole that stank of blood and rot and stories no one would ever tell again.

The blade pressed in.

A heartbeat away from piercing flesh.

Then—it happened.

No sound. No flash of light.
No divine thunder or splitting of skies.

Just—

A pause.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭.

And in the space between breaths, the air around Gaon shimmered.

Faintly. Like heat rising from stone. Like mist curling where it shouldn’t.

The assassin’s hand jerked. Their grip faltered—
And their mouth fell open, wide, wider, eyes blown in silent horror.

Because something—something unseen—was staring back at them.

Through Gaon’s eyes. From his wounds.

From deep within him.

Not a man.
Not even a martyr.
A vessel. A flame. A presence older than fate.

The Sujeongji.
An anchor to an awakening.

And though Gaon had no name for it, no memory of being chosen, the power stirred.

Not in violence. Not in defense.

𝓘𝓷 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰.

The blade dissolved.

Not broke—dissolved—into silver dust that hovered for a moment in the stale dungeon air before vanishing altogether.

The attacker stumbled back. Choking. Clutching their hand as if it had been burned from the inside.

Gaon fell forward with a gasp, the pressure gone from his throat.

The light—whatever it had been—dimmed instantly. As if it had never happened at all.

His vision flickered. Pain flooded back in.

He blinked once—

—and the shadows swallowed everything whole.

***

He floats.

Not upward. Not down.

Just—floats.

On breath. On blood. On something that pulses like a second heart carved into the marrow of his spine.

The altar clings to him like a child about to be abandoned to their mother.
___

“He’s burning.”

Voices through water.

“No fever should be this cold.”
___

He tries to move. Fails.

His bones are too long. Too sharp. His fingers ache like they’ve been broken and reset by something not human.

He opens his eyes. The ceiling is spinning. Or the sky. Or someone’s face.

A girl.

Her hands are damp with blood and night mist.

She wipes his brow with something soft.

Cloth? Hair?

He can’t tell.

Her face flickers in the torchlight.

𝙂𝙖𝙤𝙣?

He reaches—no, twitches—toward her cheek.

“Stay.”

The word slips out, dry and cracked. She freezes.

Her hand catches his. Warm.

“I’m not him,” she whispers.

But he’s already falling again.
___

The dreams are wrong.

Too many thrones. Too much gold. Blood in cups. Blood in scrolls.

Jung Sun Ah smiling, mouth full of honey and rot.

The night she cursed him, he bit down on his tongue and tasted her name like poison.

He screams again.

Or thinks he does.

The stone beneath him glows.

It speaks in a language without words.
___

He wakes to chanting.

Not monks.

Not court.

The air itself.

Chanting in time with the beat of his heart.

Or maybe that’s not a heart anymore.

Maybe it’s a bell.
___

Eunha’s voice comes once—sharp, shaking.

“Don’t die. You’re the only one left. The only one who can save him. ”

He wants to laugh.

He is not alive. Not as men are.
___

The third day, he awakens. He sees his reflection in a bowl of water. The surface trembles.

Eyes not his own.

Long hair silvering at the ends like something burned clean.

The scent of cedar. The flicker of wingbeats. Smoke under his skin.

He breathes—and the walls of the temple shudder.

He is not a man anymore.

Not only.
___

Outside, something howls.

Far away, in a cell choked with rot, someone bleeds.
He tastes it on his tongue.

His fingers curl.

The altar hums.

He opens his eyes—and this time, they stay open.

Blazing gold.

***

It happens in the space between two heartbeats.

Between the hush of exhale and the thunder of breath drawn in again.

Between one blink and the next—

The world shifts.

The prison walls seem far too easy to shatter all of a sudden.
___

The ground does not tremble. The air does not split.

But something vast unfurls inside him, ancient and bright and limitless.

A name, unspoken, crawls like fire up his throat.

He doesn’t say it.

He knows it.

He 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓼 of it.

___

Light, not of torches, not of sun, but of something older, bleeds through the seams of his skin.

The heat doesn't burn.

It warms.

Cradles him in its arms like precious gold.
___

Far away—something awakens.

Something immense. Boundless.

A God, once sundered, now returned.

The world arches its back and gasps.

Gaon falls to his knees—

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

From the unbearable weight of recognition.

The divine in him—dormant until now, patient, waiting—rises like a tide to greet its sovereign across time and stone and blood.

A thousand wings beat in his ears.

A bell tolls deep within the marrow of his chest.

He hears it.

The summons.

The acknowledgement.

The belonging.

And the name of what he is—what he has always meant to have been—burns itself into the hollow between his ribs like a second soul awakening.

𝙎𝙪𝙟𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙟𝙞.

Not just a vessel.

Not just a marked child.

He is 𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙚.
___

He stumbles forward, trembling with something too large to name.

The shadows scatter before him. The light follows at his heels.

***

The court reeked of incense and blood.

Braziers burned bitter herbs to ward off spirits, but the smoke curled along the floor like warning serpents. Night had not lifted from the palace—the halls were cloaked in black drapery, and the courtiers wore mourning whites though none dared name what had been lost.

The Regent's eyes were bloodshot, his lips pale and cracked as he clutched the golden phoenix seal like a lifeline. He had not slept. He had not bathed. Fear oiled his skin and made his words unsteady.

“The boy,” he spat, “was nothing more than a scribbler. A poet with ink-stained hands. He bleeds red like any man—he is no divine.”

He looked around the emptying throne hall as though daring someone to contradict him.

No one did.

Even the ministers, those who had once whispered loyalty at his feet, now exchanged glances like rats before a sinking ship. They had heard the monks chant. Had seen birds fall dead from the sky. Had heard rumors of blood boiling in basins and scrolls that caught fire by themselves.

And they knew Gaon’s words.

The verses. The poems penned under a pseudonym but unmistakably his—the ones calling fire upon false crowns, songs thick with metaphors of rotted lotus thrones and the stench of corrupted incense.

It wasn’t just treason. It was prophecy.

“It is divine retribution,” the Empress Dowager intoned from behind the veil.

She sat on the ceremonial dais draped in funereal blue, a single lotus blooming beside her seat. Her hair had been tied in a widow’s knot, her face pale and resolute, the beads on her wrist clicking softly as she leaned forward.

“It is not Poet Chwe who brings it,” she continued, her voice soft but terrible, “but your own sins. The gods have opened their eyes. Even now, they rise.”

The Regent snapped his fan shut with a violent flick. “I won’t have this mysticism in court! I want answers, not omens!”

“And I offer them,” purred Jung Sun Ah from where she stood by the side, clad in rich silk that shifted between gold and swan white.

Unlike the others, she looked rested. Composed. Her mourning pin was crooked—intentionally so, as if mocking the grief she was expected to wear.

“If he has committed treason,” she said, “then surely his household knows more than they let on.”

The Regent narrowed his eyes. “They’ve already taken his belongings, seized his papers.”

“I speak not of his scrolls,” she replied, taking a languid step forward. “I speak of his maid. The girl who follows him everywhere. Too poised. Too quiet.”

A hush fell.

“You mean the child,” murmured one of the ministers.

“She is no mere maid,” Sun Ah said, lips curling faintly. “She calls herself that, but her bearing is of the court. She writes, she speaks in riddles, she keeps secrets. You must see it.”

“And what would you propose?” the Regent asked slowly.

“A quiet conversation,” she said, tone breezy. “Of course. Not in the dungeons, heavens no. She is delicate, after all. A gentle talk behind closed doors. To coax out what else she knows.”

The Empress Dowager’s eyes turned sharp beneath her veil.

“You would interrogate a girl you yourself know is harmless?” she said, soft with steel. “You would harass the only kin left to a man not yet sentenced?”

Sun Ah’s smile never faltered. “It is precisely because of the delay in sentencing that we must act. Before others do.”

A pause. Measured. Tense.

From behind the pillars, the whispers began—servants rushing past, messages exchanged in hems and sleeves.

Somewhere, a bell tolled. Low and distant.

The Regent gripped his fan until his knuckles cracked. “Very well,” he said. “You may proceed.”

But his voice trembled.

And the Empress Dowager did not blink.

***

The corridor to the apothecary chamber was lit only by the dim pulse of lanterns, swaying in the midnight hush. Eunha moved ahead with measured purpose, her soft-soled steps soundless against the stone. Behind her, Yohan followed like a shadow returned to its body—uneven, uncertain, breath held tight in his chest.

His cane tapped once against the threshold, and then the hush thickened, cloaking them.

Inside, the air was perfumed with sandalwood and dried plum blossoms. A shrine lamp burned low. Scrolls lined the walls in silent testimony, as if the walls themselves were keeping vigil.

In the centre of the room, veiled by gauze and shadow, sat a gilded cage.

A nightingale lay within, her feathers pressed close to her frame like a child curled inward. Her chest rose with each small breath, soft and slow. Around her were scraps of silk, crushed berries, and offerings left by unseen hands. Someone—likely Eunha—had placed a single strand of red thread beneath her feet.

Yohan stood still. His hand gripped the cane tight enough to splinter the lacquer. For a long time, he said nothing. The only sound was the faint rasp of his breathing and the soft rustle as Eunha moved aside.

“I was there,” he murmured, voice rusted from disuse, from grief. “The night she was born. The rain wouldn’t stop. The court said it was an omen—some whispered it was a curse.”

He knelt.

“She screamed like she was already fighting fate.”

His voice cracked around the words, thin and hoarse as wind in a ruin. His eyes were glazed, not just with the remnants of fading light—but with something far older. Something festering.

His soul knew her. The blood did. The sorrow did.

“I should have been there.”

A silence, long and full. Then—

“I was there,” he corrected, bitterly. “Alive. Watching. Useless.”

His jaw clenched. A shudder rippled through him. “She was just a baby. And now—now she’s…”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t call her this. Couldn’t name her as a thing caged in gold and feathers.

She stirred faintly, a twitch of her wingtip. Not enough to rouse. Just enough to break his heart a little more.

“I don’t even know what her voice sounds like,” he said, softly. “I don’t know if she liked the moon, or hated poetry, or ever smiled with her teeth. I’ve never heard her laugh. I’ll never hear her laugh.”

He bowed his head, and the rage bled out of him like ink in water—slow, staining, inescapable. His shoulders shook.

Eunha turned her gaze away, hands clasped tightly before her.

Yohan wept quietly. Not with the wild sobs of a man seeking comfort—but the silent, wretched trembling of one who knew he had no right to be comforted.

“I would have traded places with her,” he said. “Gladly. Eagerly. I would have borne the sacrifice a hundred times over.”

The cage glinted dully in the lamplight.

“And yet she waits,” he whispered, voice breaking on the edge of a prayer. “Still. Even now. She waits for us to bring her back.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was full of unsaid things.

𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢. ℑ 𝔡𝔦𝔡𝔫’𝔱 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴. ℑ 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

The night deepened around them.

***

Chapter Text

The twilight bled slowly into the halls of Phoenix Pavilion, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers through the open latticework. The sun had vanished behind a thick veil of clouds hours ago, but the rain still refused to fall. The air pressed heavy on the palace like a held breath.

In the innermost room of the pavilion, lit only by a pair of rose-glass oil lamps, Empress Jung Sun Ah sat before a wide jade-inlaid table, hands resting lightly atop its surface, perfectly composed. Every motion of hers seemed designed for silence—ornamental, yet calculated like a blade in a sheath.

The chamber was quiet, save for the soft crackle of incense and the occasional drip of condensation from the eaves outside. Behind the screens, her ladies-in-waiting stood as still as carved wood, their gazes fixed forward, unblinking. Even in stillness, this court was a battlefield.

Jung Sun Ah did not sip her tea. It had long gone cold.

A scent of rain-soaked chrysanthemums drifted in from the corridor just before the chief court lady arrived—her steps rapid but contained, breath barely audible. She knelt without being asked.

“Your Majesty.”

Jung Sun Ah did not look at her.

“Speak.”

“A message from the garden quarters. From the third-ranking physician’s wife’s cousin—one of our eyes among the Empress Dowager’s servants.”

Now she looked up. A faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.

“And what has that bird whispered?”

“The Empress Dowager has taken to leaving the palace alone. Unaccompanied. No footmen, no guards. Only one maid follows her, and she returns only after dusk. It has been observed three times this month.”

Jung Sun Ah turned her gaze toward the burning lamp. The oil danced inside the glass like molten gold. She breathed slowly.

“Where does she go?”

“A cottage. Old, disused until recently. It sits in the southern woodlands, near the base of the monk’s mountain. Formerly owned by the temple’s winter caretaker.”

A long silence.

Jung Sun Ah set her hand against the edge of the table, gliding her finger along the lacquer with quiet precision.

“And who waits there?”

The court lady hesitated. That was mistake number one.

“There are... conflicting accounts.”

“Meaning?” The Empress’s tone did not rise, but the room chilled.

“Some say it is a convalescent—an orphaned girl the Empress Dowager rescued. Others speak of an ill child, never seen clearly. One servant mentioned a... bird. A caged nightingale, kept in the shade of the prayer alcove.”

“A nightingale,” Jung Sun Ah repeated, voice soft as gauze.

“Yes, Your Majesty. The girl tends to it as if it were a child.”

Jung Sun Ah closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled through her nose. For a heartbeat, the room pulsed with stillness.

Then she stood.

She rose like a figure stepping out of lacquer—unmoving one moment, all presence the next. Her robes swept the floor like a red tide.

“Three men,” she said. “No more. No colors. No sigils. I want silence and ash.”

“Shall they retrieve the girl?”

“No.”

She turned slowly.

“Retrieve nothing. If the bird is touched, burn it in its cage. And if the Empress Dowager is there—leave her alive. Her mourning will do the work for us.”

The court lady bowed lower.

Jung Sun Ah stepped to the balcony, hands clasped loosely behind her back, gaze sweeping across the palace roofs.

The dusk had deepened into storm-shadowed indigo. Lamps lit one by one across the courtyards like fireflies trapped in glass.

“Do you smell it?” she asked softly.

The court lady didn’t answer.

“The stink of sentiment. Of things left behind, festering. The Second Prince used to wear it like perfume.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to the wind.

“It lingers in this place. I thought I had flooded the halls deep enough to drain it all, but now I wonder…”

Lightning flared somewhere beyond the hills. No thunder followed. Only silence, as if the sky itself were holding its breath.

“There are too many ghosts in this court,” she murmured. “And too many fools trying to resurrect them.”

A long pause. The chief court lady remained still, head bowed.

Jung Sun Ah’s voice shifted—no louder, but now it carried the tone of command carved in steel.

“Send the order tonight. I want fire at dawn.”

Outside the royal courtyard, wind stirred in the open streets. Chrysanthemum petals blew like pale ghosts across the stone. In the shrine at the edge of the city, a bird stirred in her sleep. And not far from her, a dead man’s soul began to glow brighter in the dark.

***

It began with the silence of owls.

The tiny cottage, nestled deep within a thicket of flowering peach trees and ghost-quiet reeds, was a place the court had long forgotten. Even birds sang softer here, as though nature itself conspired to conceal it. Tonight, however, no wings stirred. The cicadas had vanished. And when the breeze came, it brought with it the smell of ash and the whisper of leather boots on loam.

Inside, the hearth crackled low. A pot of barley porridge hissed faintly over coals. The nightingale—Elijah—rested on a silk-cushioned perch beside the fire, chest faintly rising, feathers tucked like a sleeping child’s breath. Beside her, Yohan sat with his legs folded beneath him. No longer a ghost tethered to the mausoleum, he breathed now—shallow and unsure—but his presence held weight. He had become flesh.

His hands trembled around the lacquered bowl he lifted, offering barley water to the bird’s tiny beak. The movement was tender. Reverent.

Behind them, Eunha paused at the threshold, a water pail in one hand, stilled by a sound only she seemed to catch—the muted shift of a branch under weight. Too heavy to be a deer. Too careful to be a traveler.

She set the pail down silently. “They’ve found us.”

Yohan lifted his head. His eyes, once filled with fog and fury, now flickered with clarity—green fire tempered into coals. “How?”

Eunha didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped out into the moonlight, arms loose at her sides, breath shallow. The peach trees around them stood like solemn witnesses. Their petals trembled. The first arrow landed just past her foot, burying itself into the dirt.

Three figures emerged from the trees, dressed not in the uniforms of royal guards but in traveler’s leathers stained with oil and mud. Their blades were curved—not Joseon make—and their eyes glinted beneath black scarves. Assassins, not soldiers. No herald. No name. Only death.

“Move,” one hissed, voice raspy with a northern accent. “We only want the girl.”

Eunha’s spine straightened. “Then you’ve found her.”

From the cottage, a breath caught. Yohan moved to rise—but her hand flicked behind her in warning. Stay.

The moon caught her cheek as she turned her face fully to them. “You’re late.”

For a moment, the lead assassin seemed confused. “You knew?”

“I dreamed of you,” she said softly, with such eerie calm that even the killers hesitated. “The regent’s birds fly lower these days.”

Another arrow loosed—this one meant to graze, not kill. Eunha didn’t flinch as it nicked the sleeve of her robe, slicing through embroidered silk.

But from within the cottage came a noise—brief, guttural. Yohan had moved too close to the door. The wooden floor groaned.
All three assassins turned.

Eunha’s heart sank. No.

One assassin broke off immediately, sprinting toward the cottage with a curved blade raised. Another pulled free a vial from his belt, poised to hurl it.

Eunha didn’t think. She moved like water torn from a still pond—fluid, fast, and unrelenting. Her hands reached down, scooping a fistful of powdered lime from the pouch hidden in her robe, flinging it into the attacker’s face. As he staggered back screaming, she spun, shoulder-checking the second into a tree trunk with a sickening crack.

The third had already reached the door.

She shouted, “NOW!” not to him—but to Yohan.

And just as the man raised his blade to strike, the air within the doorway shimmered—heat without fire. A ripple. A whisper of divinity. The man’s body halted mid-lunge, spine locking, weapon clattering to the floor.

He collapsed in a heap, eyes wide open. Dead.

Yohan stepped out, his bare feet touching earth for the first time since his ascension. His breathing was shallow, skin pale, and veins faintly aglow. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of becoming something vast—and breaking under the weight of it.

The remaining two assassins stared, struck dumb not by fear, but confusion. Something about the air around him had shifted—too still, too charged, like the hush before a lightning strike.

Eunha whispered, “You must go.”

“No,” Yohan said, voice gravel-soft. “They’ll return.”

“That’s why I must stay.”

She turned to face the one assassin still conscious. “Go ahead,” she told him. “Take me.”

A beat passed.

Then the man lunged, this time not with killing intent but with a set of iron shackles pulled from beneath his cloak. Yohan made to intervene—but his knees buckled.

She caught his fall with one hand, whispering too fast for the assassins to hear: “You are not ready. You’re still becoming. If they take you—he wins.”

Yohan looked at her as though she’d ripped out his heart.

And yet he said nothing more.

When they dragged Eunha away, there was no blood.

Just a broken teacup on the floor. Just the wind stirring the petals of the peach trees, spinning them like prayers cast into the dark.

Back in the forest clearing, a figure in hunter’s garb watched the scene through a spyglass. When Eunha vanished into the trees, bound and silent, he lowered it.

A shadow moved beside him. “Will the Empress be pleased?”

The man smiled faintly. “She gave orders for her death. But it seems His Majesty preferred otherwise.”

“Why?”

The spyglass man didn’t answer. Only slid the brass tool into his sleeve and said, “The Empress forgets. Power shared is power diluted.”

And in the stillness behind him, a second squad began their silent retreat—not to the Empress, but to the palace dungeons below the regent’s own wing.

***

In the cottage, Elijah stirred.

Yohan remained kneeling where he had fallen, his hands dug into the earth. The power in him hummed like a wound barely closed. The memory of the assassin’s death replayed in his mind—not out of guilt, but out of terror.

He had not meant to kill.

He hadn’t even spoken.

Didn't mean he regretted it though.

Just—

Helplessness was not a pretty feeling regardless of how long he sat with it. He never liked not being in control after all.

It was the godhood within him—wild, newborn, instinctive. It had protected him without consent. He felt it still, slithering beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. And he hated it.

A soft rustle drew his gaze.

The bird was awake.

He reached out, fingers trembling, brushing the curve of her wing. “She did it for me. They did it for me. ”

The nightingale tilted her head, eyes wide and sorrowful.

Yohan whispered, “I won’t let it be for nothing.”

And somewhere, in the dark stretch of forest that now held Eunha captive, the winds stirred again—carrying with it the scent of old incense and betrayal. The game had changed. The players had moved.

And the gods were no longer sleeping.
***

The prison beneath the capital was quiet that night, quiet in the way of rot and resignation—its silence thick with unsaid things, unshed tears, and the distant drip of water through old stone. The guards outside the main hall slumped half-asleep over their posts, lulled by rice wine and boredom. One of them jolted up as a figure moved through the torch-lit corridor, the scent of clove and camphor clinging to her sleeves.
Soohyun walked like shadow—half-light, half-memory.
The warden at the door recognized her by the flash of the sigil she carried, forged under the seal of Minister Ko. He made no protest. One did not argue with a tiger just because it wore a scholar’s robe.

Inside, Gaon sat with his back against the farthest wall, knees drawn up, hair loose and unruly over his collar. His hands were blood-crusted where the shackles had rubbed raw. Yet he sat with the same quiet composure that had defined him in court. No theatrics, no pleas for mercy. Just that bone-deep silence like frost at the edges of a pond.

“You’ve grown pale,” Soohyun remarked, as if commenting on the weather. Her voice echoed through the empty cell.

He lifted his head slowly. “Soohyun.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“I thought you were smarter.”

She cracked a rare smile, barely a curl at the corners of her mouth. “Apparently I’m not.”

The wry spark in her faded as she knelt beside him, reaching under her robes to pull out a cloth packet. She unwrapped it wordlessly—two sesame-stuffed rice balls, barely warm, and a folded scrap of parchment sealed in wax.

He blinked at the food. “Smuggling in comfort now?”

“You’re no use to us dead.”

Gaon reached for the rice ball with shaking fingers. She did not help him. It was a quiet test, and he passed it—barely.

“Eunha has been captured,” she said, once he’d eaten the first one in silence.

His hand stilled mid-bite. A beat passed. Then another.

“Alive?”

“For now. The Regent's men dragged her out of the old shrine the Dowager placed her in. She’s been questioned in secret.”

He swallowed slowly, each muscle in his throat moving like stone.

“Elijah?”

“Safe. Hidden again.”

She didn’t say Yohan’s name. Not aloud. Not here, not in this prison where stone might grow ears. Gaon understood anyway.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He missed Yohan. Achingly.

“Why would the Regent move against his own allies?”

“He suspects sorcery. He thinks Eunha can divine the heavens and crown his name under the stars. And he grows tired of sharing power with the Empress. Eunha’s presence was his excuse.”

Gaon opened his mouth to speak but Soohyun cut him off.

“She’s holding fast. Hasn’t said a word, not even her name. Not even yours.”

He let out a slow breath. “She’s braver than any of us.”

“Braver than you, clearly. You could have run.”

He said nothing.

Soohyun placed the folded parchment on his knee. “My aunt has passed. But she said something. Before she-. She was half-mad with incense and fever, but she spoke of a blood-bound name. A ritual that might return a spirit to its rightful body.”

“Elijah?” His voice cracked, sudden, raw.

Soohyun nodded. “If what you say is true—that bird isn’t just a curse or enchantment but a full soul displacement—then the ritual needs the name that bound them at birth. The name sung under blood and stars.”

Gaon frowned. “But Elijah’s real name—”

“—was never recorded in the palace registry. She was a baby when it happened. We need to find someone who knows it. A wet nurse, an old midwife, a court scribe.”

“Or…” he said slowly, the beginnings of dread and hope mixing like ink in milk. “…Yohan.”

“He might know. If he saw her birth.”

They both fell silent for a moment. Then Soohyun added, “But you must understand—if the ritual fails, her soul might scatter. Not die. Be unmade.”

Gaon’s throat bobbed. “And if we do nothing?”

“She’ll remain trapped. A voice in a cage. Forever.”

He looked at her sharply. “Would you risk it?”

Soohyun’s eyes flickered. “I already am. Every day. Just being here.”

A pause. The prison murmured around them—the groan of wood beams, the shuffle of vermin in the corners. Soohyun stood, brushing dust from her knees.

“I’ll leave now. The guards think I’m bringing tea to the Confessor.”

“You’re risking your life.”

She snorted. “So are you. Except you’re doing it sitting on your ass.”

She stepped toward the gate but paused one last time. “They’ll present Eunha in open court tomorrow. As your accomplice. Public questioning.”

Gaon stiffened.

“She’s still pretending to be your maid. But Jung Sun Ah is starting to suspect who you really are.”

“And you?”

“I knew the first time you corrected the judge’s scroll with your left hand.”

He blinked.

“You write like the Chwe family scholars did. But you think like the son of the Crown’s Keeper. You never stood a chance of hiding from me.”

She smiled one last time, then was gone.

The door clanged shut behind her.

And Gaon sat in silence again. But now, it was a silence threaded with things yet to come.

A ritual that might return a princess to her body.

A court session that might expose a royal fugitive.

And a single name—lost in the blood and stars—that might save or destroy them all.

***

The Seonghwa Hall brimmed with silence too thick for breath.

A line of palace guards flanked the marbled colonnades, motionless as the stone lions etched into the pillars. Courtiers stood tense, eyes flicking between one another—none dared whisper. Somewhere behind the throne, a court musician plucked a single string in error, and the note died as soon as it was born. Even the scent of incense had curdled into something colder than ash.

At the center of the hall knelt a girl in plain hemp robes, arms bound behind her back. Her head was bowed, shoulders stooped, hair loosened in a wild tumble. She looked too young, too small, too bruised to be here.

But Eunha was not trembling.

She had not trembled when the regent’s boots crushed the stones outside her cell. Not when his personal eunuchs had dragged her into the candlelit belly of some forgotten room deep beneath the citadel. Not when his voice—dry and amused—had demanded she "read the stars" for him, and predict who would die first: his enemies, or himself.

He’d pressed a bloodied fan to her throat when she didn’t answer.

Now, in front of the court, she was little more than Gaon’s discarded shadow: a maid, a servant, a footnote.

She counted on that.

The regent sat high on his ceremonial throne, draped in black silk embroidered with golden dragons. His fingers toyed with the jade ring on his thumb, tapping against the throne’s lion armrest like a death drum. He watched her without blinking. Cold. Measuring. Possessive.

“State your name,” he said, voice a low blade.

Eunha didn’t raise her head.

“I am—” her voice cracked from disuse, the hoarseness of water withheld “—I am the servant of Scholar Chwe Sihyeon.”

“Chwe Sihyeon,” the regent murmured, loud enough for the court to hear. “And where, pray, is your master now?”

“Imprisoned,” she said, with a faint smile. “By your orders.”

A ripple of nervous laughter coursed through the ministers before dying again under the weight of the regent’s stare.

He stood.

“And what of the child who was with you? A crippled girl, wounded, perhaps of royal descent. What was her name?”

The question was a poison, offered sweetly.

“I served no child,” Eunha lied, gaze steady now.

The regent stepped down from his throne, robes trailing like liquid ink.

“Perhaps you mistook her for a bird,” he said softly. “You fed it from your hand, didn’t you? Whispered secrets into its feathers?”

Eunha did not respond.

Behind the crowd, Empress Jung Sun Ah observed, expression unreadable.

It was her eyes that betrayed her.

The slight narrowing. The split-second flicker. She had not expected to see Eunha alive.

Eunha saw it too.

She had been dead in the empress’s eyes already—slain by knives in the dark, discarded without fuss or guilt. But someone had intervened. Someone had snatched her from that ending and thrown her into another.

She thought of the regent’s smirk as his men hauled her through the secret tunnels of the palace.

“Why kill a tool?” he’d said, flicking ash from his sleeve. “When I can wield it better?”

She had said nothing. She had bitten through her cheek instead of screaming.

Now the regent took another step forward.

“You were found on the outskirts of the city,” he said, voice rising slightly so the court could hear.

A pause.

“Do you know what that makes you, girl?”

“A fugitive?” Eunha offered, soft and almost amused.

The regent smiled.

“A conspirator.”

“Against what, Your Highness?” she asked.

That gave him pause.

He turned slightly, sweeping the court with his gaze. “Against the peace we have built,” he declared. “Against the restoration of this fractured land. You served a man who preached poison in the form of poetry. You harbored a girl whose bloodline may yet stir traitors to rebellion.” He circled her now.

“Should I tell them what I learned beneath the citadel?” he asked the court.

Jung Sun Ah’s hand curled ever so slightly on her lap.

“You don’t remember your own birth, do you?” he whispered.

Eunha said nothing.

“Not the shrine. Not the fire. Not your real name.”

She blinked once. Slowly.

The regent had taken the bait. Comfortable in his own vapid ego, he'd overlooked the obvious gaps in the lore fed to him about her origins.

He smiled again. “But I do.”

A moment passed.

He rose to his feet and signaled the guards.

“This girl is not just a maid,” he announced. “She is a practitioner of forbidden arts—brought up among ghosts, trained to speak with shadows. She will remain in custody under my personal seal, pending divine judgment.”

Gasps broke through the silence. The ministers whispered, aghast. Sorcery. Divination. The words carried centuries of fear.

Jung Sun Ah’s face remained impassive. But her nails dug into her palms.

She knew.

Not who Eunha was. But what this move was.

A challenge.

The regent had publicly seized a prisoner she meant to kill. Claimed her. Paraded her like a trophy. He’d exposed her assassination attempt without naming it and dared her to counter it.

And she could not.

Not without exposing herself.

So she rose.

“Your Majesty,” she said gently, gliding across the floor like moonlight on snow. “If this girl is indeed capable of conversing with the divine... perhaps she could answer one simple question.”

The regent tilted his head.

“Go on.”

Jung Sun Ah’s voice was cool and bright.

“Ask her where the Second Prince's bones lie.”

Gasps again. The court murmured—uncomfortable, uncertain.

The regent studied her. “You would accuse her of withholding sacred burial rites?”

“I would accuse her of pretending to know things no mortal should,” she said.

Eunha lifted her head for the first time.

“Would it ease Your Majesty’s mind to know,” she said, “that your husband died cursing your name?”

The smile that graded her lips was eerie in its conviction.

The hall went still.

It was a whisper. A scratch on marble.

But it cut deeper than any blade.

Jung Sun Ah’s lips parted—but she said nothing.

The regent’s smile vanished.

He signaled the guards.

“Take her back to the dungeons. No visitors. No food. No sound.”

Eunha’s knees scraped the floor as she was dragged away, but she did not scream. She looked only once—up, at the sky framed by carved rafters and golden dragons coiled in stasis.

She prayed Yohan had not seen this.

***

The old shrine behind the disused Temple of Nine Pearls had long since fallen into rot, its incense bowls now nests for rats, its stone fox guardians lichen-skinned and eyeless.

Ko In Guk stood with his arms crossed, glancing at the moonlight leaking through the cracked beams. “He should be here,” he muttered to no one, though he wasn’t alone.

The guard he’d dragged there trembled where he knelt, bound and bleeding, a tooth knocked clean from his jaw. His tongue swelled with secrets, but fear held it back.

Until the shadows stirred.

A breeze slithered through the broken wood lattice—and the flame of Ko In Guk’s lantern bent toward the shrine door. It opened, though no one touched it.

The man who entered had no echo to his step. No warmth to his breath. His clothes were half-worn ceremonial robes, his hair tied in a prince’s knot, but his feet were bare, caked in grave-dirt.

The guard screamed.

“Stop your wailing,” Ko In Guk growled, though his own pulse stuttered. “You said you saw something by the Emperor’s Vault the night the black crane landed. This is what you saw.”

“I-it wasn’t human—”

“It isn’t,” a voice said, low and bitter.

Yohan stepped forward, or rather—emerged, like smoke blooming from coals. His eyes were colorless in the dark, his face paler than bone.

Ko In Guk pressed the barrel of his sword hilt against the kneeling prison guard’s throat. “Speak, and you live.”

The man was trembling. “I told you—I just followed orders. A bird came to the palace, and the Empress wanted it caught. The girl, too. She said they were both harbingers. Tied to the S-suujeongji.”

“You know who the Sujeongji is?” Yohan hissed.

“You—you're the Second Prince—you're dead!”

“I was,” Yohan said, voice controlled. “But death, it seems, has a short memory.”

Ko In Guk didn’t flinch. He bowed his head in submission. “We found them. The ones moving under the Empress’s name. But not all of them answer to her.”

Yohan crouched before the prisoner. “Who gave the order to use royal blood for a cleansing ritual?”

The man choked. “I—I don’t know the name—just that it was old blood. Hidden. Bird-born.”

Yohan’s eyes flicked up. “Elijah.”

Ko In Guk added, “They also said there was a second. Male. Connected to the throne but never named.”

The prisoner opened his mouth again—and collapsed.

Neck twisted. Mouth still open.

Ko In Guk hissed. “A death seal. Jung Sun Ah bound him. If he said too much…”

Yohan stood. “Then I’ll tear the rest from her dreams.”

Yohan turned toward the altar, where a cracked mirror still sat amid crumbling lotus petals. For a moment, his face flickered within it—whole. Crowned.

But the image bled into shadow.

***

Soohyun's eyes were sharp with ink and insomnia when the screen door creaked.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I never am,” Yohan said.

She didn’t look up. “Your niece is being held beneath the lotus halls and raven feathers. Your Suseongji is bound and bloodied. Subdued. And still you haunt corridors like a shadow.”

Yohan’s gaze was sharper than any blade. “How did you?”

For just a second, something flickered across her face—hesitation, awe, grief.

“Because when the Regent’s astrologers burned his name from the imperial scrolls, I saw what was left behind. A constellation that doesn’t exist. A hollow where something holy used to be.”

Yohan didn’t move.

“I thought it was a curse,” Soohyun continued. “Until his eyes glowed every time he spoke of you tonight.”

“You’re saying the land remembers him,” Yohan said, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I’m saying the heavens do.”

Her voice dropped further. “He bleeds too much like you did.”

“What else am I?” Yohan asked. “You told the court I was dead.”

“I told the court you were sacrificed.”

Silence.

He stepped into the flickering candlelight.

“So did you send him to die?”

Soohyun’s voice trembled—just once. “I sent him to be seen. And remembered.”

Yohan stared. “You’re playing a long game with broken pieces. And children are bleeding for it.”

“They were always going to bleed,” she snapped. “The only question was who’d be left to mourn them.”

A long silence.

“Will you mourn him, then?” she asked. “If he dies?”

Yohan looked away. “I mourned him once already.”

***

𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘥—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥: 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩. 𝘙𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘴, 𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥,” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. “𝘐 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

“𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥,” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦.”

“𝘐 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦.”

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘴.”

𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥.

𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘈𝘩 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.

***

It began not with a decree but with silence. With ministers excused early from court. With walls too quiet for summer cicadas. With ink that smelled faintly of iron.

The Hall of Eastern Deliberations, ordinarily humming with bureaucratic flurry even at twilight, now throbbed with a strange stillness. Ko In Guk stood at the edge of the latticed corridor, watching the clouds thicken over the rooftops like bruises gathering beneath the skin of the sky. Scrolls lay untouched on the lacquered table behind him, the wax seals still fresh. His hands, clasped behind his back, were steady—but his thoughts were not.

A young clerk stumbled through the threshold. “Minister Ko.”

“What is it?”

“The Chief Scribe sent this—urgent—said it’s from the Regent’s private archive. It wasn’t logged by the official recorder.”

In Guk’s eyes sharpened. He took the scroll and cracked the seal open, careful not to tear it. The script was scrawled in haste. And fear.

‘𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙗𝙟𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙢. 𝙏𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙧𝙮. 𝘾𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙙.’

Below the words: a symbol he hadn’t seen in years. The imperial blood sigil, half-erased and overwritten with the Regent’s own seal.

A quiet fury stirred in his chest. So it was true.

The blood cleansing had begun.

***

The scroll didn’t stay secret for long.

By nightfall, temple monks whispered it to each other between prayers. The midwives in the lower quarter pulled their aprons tighter, crossing out the family names of nobles born with even a whisper of royal descent. Palace eunuchs refused to deliver food trays to quarters that hadn’t been inspected. Someone claimed the regent had summoned a fire-diviner from the western isles. Someone else said the regent was gathering holy men to rewrite the celestial registers.

In the perfume district, the wind carried the fear between painted lips and trembling hands. In the slums, lanterns were snuffed earlier than usual. Even the wild dogs barked less.

But not everyone stayed afraid.

Later that night, In Guk met two others in the Inner Garden Pavilion, where the stones were carved to echo footsteps in four directions.

“This is no longer about Gaon,” said Kyung-Shin, folding his arms. “This is a coup. The Regent means to gut the nobility from the inside.”

“He’s planning a reset,” In Guk muttered. “The blood cleansing is only the first move.”

The third man, a younger court scribe named Ban Wook, paled visibly. “He’s rewriting the succession rites. The Empress Dowager’s name was removed from three ceremonial plaques this morning. Quietly. It’s already begun.”

In Guk set the scroll down on the polished stone.

“Then we need to make the ghost visible.”

Kyung-Shin frowned. “What ghost?”

“The one they tried to burn out of the imperial records.”

He didn’t have to say Yohan’s name. The silence that followed tasted of ash.

“He can’t lead,” Wook said softly. “He’s—”

“He is the last,” In Guk said, his voice cold. “And if he doesn't rise, the regent will murder every child ever born beneath the crescent stars. This isn’t succession. It’s sacrilege.”

By morning, the whispers had changed.

“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩’𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.”

“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙡𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛𝙛. 𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡.”

“𝘼 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨.”

Vendors muttered it over steamed rice. Blacksmiths pounded it into iron. Mothers whispered it between lullabies. Even the scribes who carried messages from the palace dared not look one another in the eye.

Some said the Regent was trying to call the star spirit back to the capital—to seal his rule through ancient rites forbidden since the early dynasties. Others believed he was preparing for open slaughter.

But the truth was far worse.

That same day, In Guk dispatched a coded scroll through an old flower vendor who once served the Dowager’s tea house.

It reached the cottage outside the capital before dusk, passed quietly through the latticed window to Yohan’s waiting hand.

The scroll bore no greeting, only a single, sharp sentence:

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

Yohan didn’t speak for a long time. His hand trembled slightly as he folded the message. Elijah, curled beside the brazier in her bird form, let out a soft, distressed chirp as though sensing the darkness in him.

Back in the palace, the Regent stood before the hidden chamber beneath the throne dais—a room no one but the sovereign and his chosen prophet had entered in a hundred years. The old scripts had been unearthed, the forbidden rites prepared. A blade soaked in star-oil rested on a cushion of silk.

He would make the heavens listen.
Even if it meant silencing every tongue that carried the memory of Yohan's blood.

***

Chapter Text

The prison was quiet tonight.

No rats scurried. No jailers paced. No other condemned souls moaned into the dark. It was as if the earth itself held its breath. Even the moon, swollen in its blood-red bloom, chose not to shine down upon the solitary figure shackled to the wall.

Gaon lay curled on the stone floor, sweat dampening the fabric at his neck despite the cold, iron biting deep into his wrists and ankles. He’d long lost feeling in his fingertips. His lips were cracked, throat too raw for prayer. And yet, beneath the veil of pain, something deeper stirred—a pull from within, older than thought, more sacred than rage.

It began in his chest. A bloom of heat. A shudder behind his ribs. A breath stolen not by injury, but by the invisible hand of something ancient.

He closed his eyes.

***

He stood not in his body, but somewhere between form and wind, bone and starlight. Not alive, not quite dreaming. Remembering.

The world around him was red.

Red sky. Red mountains. Red sea blooming with lotuses the color of blood. And above it all stood a mansion—not one of wood or stone, but something breathing, shimmering, divine. Its windows pulsed like the eyes of gods; its corridors shifted like serpents. At its gates, a pair of golden lions watched him with mournful stares.

He stepped inside, barefoot on glass, the floor beneath him whispering with voices that once belonged to him. The air shimmered with incense—lotus and rain, ash and love. Paintings stared back from every wall, and in each of them, he saw himself.

But never alone.

A boy stood beside him in every brushstroke. Tall. Luminous. Crowned in silver or flames. Always with the same eyes. Always reaching for him.

Yohan.

Only the names changed.

***

One room bled into the next like paintings from a scroll unfurling—

A battlefield of snow, where soldiers lay like torn dolls. Gaon stood in the wreckage, covered in wounds, and knelt beside Yohan’s broken body. Wings torn. Divine blood staining the earth. His scream rose like thunder, rupturing the sky.

Another door: a cliffside temple, where a mortal Gaon lit incense daily, unaware that the god he worshipped lived among the mountains. One day, he wandered too far, and the mist parted to reveal Yohan—this time as a storm deity, clothed in rain and silence. They spoke only once. But it was enough.

A third door: a scholar’s study, where calligraphy lined the walls. Gaon, older now, dipped his brush in ink laced with memory, writing poems he couldn’t explain. Outside, a prince watched from afar. Never daring to speak. Yohan again.

Every room held a different ending.

Always the same loss.

Always death. Always exile. Always forgetting.

In one, he cradled a dying body and cursed the gods.

In another, he was burned at the stake while a masked deity watched from the crowd.

In yet another, he jumped into a river believing his lover already drowned—never knowing Yohan had been searching for him too.

And then the last door.

This one resisted him.

The air around it warped, heat pulsing at its frame. Not red now, but gold.

He pressed a palm to the door.

It opened like breath.

The chamber beyond was silent. No furniture. No walls. Just a glowing altar of stone and obsidian, and behind it—

A mirror.

It was cracked in the center.

He stepped toward it and saw himself not as he was now, but as he had been first. Before everything. Before curses. Before exile. Just a boy—barefoot, smiling, mortal—gazing at the sky with wonder.

And beside him, again, was Yohan.

But this Yohan did not wear robes or armor. He had no divine markings, no crowns of starlight. He was soft, ordinary. Human.

The memory twisted, revealing the two of them lying under a tree. Laughing. Fingers entwined. Watching fireflies drift above them like fallen stars.

“I don’t want heaven,” Yohan had said, voice trembling with tenderness. “I want this. Just one life. One life with you.”

“But you’ll lose everything,” Gaon whispered back. “They’ll cast you down.”

Yohan had only smiled. “Then let them.”

The vision fractured.

Gaon stumbled backward.

The mirror turned black.

And then—a thunderous voice.

Not a man’s voice. Not a god’s. Something older. Woven with sky and flame and judgment.

“𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣. 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝.”
“𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤, 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜.”
“𝙀𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢.”
“𝙀𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧, 𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚.”

The mirror shattered.

The altar burst into light.

Gaon sank to his knees in the dream, hands trembling.

His chest was alight. Glowing. He looked down.

A sigil now blazed across his sternum—curved and ancient. The mark of the Sujeongji. It pulsed with every beat of his heart.

“Yohan,” he whispered, and the name felt like both prayer and sin.

They had been lovers once, at the edge of the world. The divine and the mortal. A god who fell for a boy with calloused hands and curious eyes. The world was not ready. The heavens raged. And when the god died by decree—struck down for the sin of love—it was Gaon who shattered.

He had cursed the skies. Crushed altars. Broken seals. He had willed ruin into being.

The world bled for him.

And the heavens, terrified of what love could become, bound him.

They had made him the first Sujeongji—the one who could never rest. Who could never die. Who would carry longing as a chain through eternity.

The blood-stained scribe.

The stone-hearted immortal.

Cursed not for hating—but for loving too much.

Gaon awoke to the sound of bells.

Not real ones—no one had come to the prison.

But in his head, the memory of ritual bells tolled with the fury of storms.

His body was broken. But his soul had awoken.

He looked down at his hands.

They were still shaking.

And on the inside of his wrist, faint as moonlight, the sigil glowed for just one moment more—before vanishing into skin.

***

The Full Moon rose like an omen that night—low, heavy, and red as fresh blood. The people of Hanyang lined the streets with lanterns anyway, their faces drawn tight with forced joy, hands steady as they lit the wax wicks of tradition, pretending not to see the signs in the sky. The last full moon of the year. 𝓣𝓪𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓾𝓶.

What was meant to be a night of firelight, rice cakes, and prayers had become something else entirely.

A night of reckoning.

Inside the Imperial Court, the festivities unfolded in uneasy grandeur. A Banquet of Shadows.

Golden braziers bathed the hall in wavering light. Silk banners the color of ash and dusk hung from the ceiling like mourning robes. Peacocks made of bronze perched above the pillars, and a line of musicians played eerie, restrained court music—flutes low and nasal, drums that sounded like distant thunder.

Perfume clung to the air. Too sweet. Too heavy. It masked the smell of incense, and under that, the stench of fear.

The court was full.

Nobles in embroidered finery bowed in silence. Ministers whispered behind wide sleeves. Monks and shamans from distant provinces knelt at the perimeter, heads low but eyes sharp. Even the mountain lords had sent delegates cloaked in wolf pelts, drinking nothing, speaking less.

In the center, seated beside a wide-lipped wine jar carved with dragons and black jade, was the Regent King.

Draped in indigo robes edged with iron thread, he wore no crown—only a strip of black silk tied across his brow, like a man in mourning. But the thinness of his smile, the tightness of his grip on the lion-armrest, betrayed a fury barely leashed. A twitch of muscle near his jaw. An eye that flicked too quickly from guest to guest.

And beside him—Jung Sun Ah.

Ever the pitiful widow in sorrowed white and pastels, her lips painted to match, her hair gleaming like lacquered onyx. Her smile could have sliced the room in half.

She poured the wine for the regent herself.

She did not drink.

The court had barely begun to eat when the doors opened again.

Chains clinked.

A ripple of silence passed through the room like a shudder.

Chwe Sihyeon was led in—not dragged, not carried, but walking, somehow. His hair was loose, shoulders bloodied from the iron yoke he bore. But his spine was straight. His eyes—too dark, too calm—were the eyes of someone who had already seen the end.

Behind him, torches flickered as if afraid.

He had dreamed of red mansions.

Now, he walked into a red trap.

“Bring him forward,” the regent said, voice sharp enough to cut silk.

The guards hesitated—then pushed him ahead. The court floor was made of polished jade; Gaon's feet left smudges with every step.

He was brought before the throne.

No cushion. No honorifics. No water.

The regent stood slowly. The hall seemed to lean toward him.

“This man,” he said, addressing the court, “has not only defied the crown, but dared to sully the sanctity of our palace with lies, with poison, and with the tongue of the devil.”

A murmur of agreement. Or was it discomfort?

The regent turned his gaze upon Gaon like a blade.

“Kneel.”

Gaon did not move.

Someone—a court minister—choked on breath.

The regent’s eye twitched again.

“I said—”

“Do you ever think of birds?” Gaon asked, his voice soft, like the beginning of a poem.

The hall froze.

The regent blinked. “What did you say?”

“Birds in cages,” Gaon murmured. “They forget the shape of the sky after a while. But they never forget how to sing.”

Jung Sun Ah’s eyes narrowed.

He tilted his head. “Do you ever wonder how many of them have been singing to you all this time, begging to be released?”

The courtiers stiffened.

The regent’s hand twitched at his side. “You speak in riddles. As always.”

“No,” Gaon replied. “You just no longer understand metaphors that don't paint you as god.”

He looked directly at the nobles. “Tell me, honoured ministers. Have the rivers not run slower this year? Have the crops not died in silence? Have your sons not woken screaming of ghosts? We are not haunted by spirits.”

His voice sharpened.

"𝙒𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙨."

***

***

The silence that followed was not still. It vibrated. Like the pluck of a zither string too tight to hold.

Jung Sun Ah leaned forward, smiling faintly.

“And what would you know of sin, Poet Chwe?” she purred.

Gaon met her gaze.

“I know now.”

Something changed in her face. A flicker. Panic? Rage? She crushed it quickly beneath a smile.

“You know so many things, don't you?” the regent sneered. “You’re no longer a scribe, but a prophet. Perhaps next you’ll call yourself divine.”

“I would not insult the divine by claiming their name,” Gaon said. “But I have walked through their memories.”

He turned slowly, addressing the room.

“Do any of you know what it means to be the Sujeongji?”

No one answered.

“Stone turned soul. Bound to time. A curse made flesh. I have seen what this empire truly is—a throne raised from blood and lies. And you,” his eyes met the regent's, “are its sharpest lie.”

The music stopped.

A single cup shattered somewhere behind him.

The regent’s voice dropped, almost gentle. “Enough.”

He turned to his right, where the High Priest sat rigid.

“Let us begin the ceremony.”

***

Musicians returned to their instruments. But the sound that followed was no courtly tune. This was not music meant for celebration. It was ritualistic—discordant—built from five-tone scales that made the bones ache.

Dozens of monks in saffron filed in, heads shaven, their mantras weaving beneath the flutes. Shamans entered in trances, eyes rolled back, faces painted with symbols of wind and fire. Dancers in blood-red robes moved in spirals, barefoot, their skirts trailing ash.

In the center of the hall, a ritual circle had been drawn.

Gaon stared at it.

Its lines pulsed. Familiar.

He had seen it once in a dream.

At the edge of a river of blood.

The regent stood.

“Tonight,” he declared, “we cleanse the empire. Of rot. Of ghosts. Of curses.”

He gestured to the shamans.

“Begin.”

They began to chant.

The temperature dropped instantaneously.

Wind curled inside the sealed hall.

The torches guttered.

The bells of the mountain monks began to tremble on their own.

***
The smell of incense thickened, clawing into the lungs.

At the edge of the ritual circle, court monks and folk shamans swayed in trance, their mouths foaming with mantras they no longer understood. Blood-red banners rose in the heatless wind. Drumbeats echoed without rhythm, the sound collapsing in on itself like a heartbeat faltering beneath water.

Somewhere behind the altar, the High Priest began to wail.

This was not a purification.

This was not peace.

This was a massacre.

And everyone knew it.

The Regent, face pale beneath his black silk headband, had left the throne. He stood now in the shadows behind the altar, eyes darting from the circle to the crowd.

“Begin the severing,” he hissed.

A masked shaman stepped forward, lifting a sickle carved from tiger bone.

Inside the circle, a trembling monk held a white fowl by the neck, whispering hymns in broken tones. A basin of jade waited beneath it.

The intent was clear: blood, invocation, sacrifice.

But nothing about this rite felt clean.

Not the crooked runes. Not the way the fire bent sideways. Not the way the drums choked on their own rhythm.

The court felt it.

This was no exorcism.

This was an attempt to silence the curse by feeding it.

***

Then—

The sky split.

No thunder. No lightning.

Just light.

Golden, searing, and wrong.

And in the center of it—

Not the ghost they’d intended to banish.

Not some flickering memory.

But a god.

***

Yohan stood beneath the altar flame, barefoot and unmoving.

He did not wear a crown, but his hair lifted as if suspended by the breath of the stars. His robes, scorched at the hem, rippled with something not quite wind. His eyes glowed like mirrors reflecting past and future simultaneously.

He had not stepped into the circle.

The circle had bent to include him.

The High Priest dropped to his knees, shaking.

The Regent stepped back.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “You—you're dead.”

Yohan did not answer. He did not need to.

The air bent around him.

And in that moment—

Everyone saw.

Not the mortal boy the Second Prince had once been.

Not even the vengeful spirit whispered of in frightened corners of the capital.

They saw the truth.

A divine being, newly awakened.
Formless, ancient, contained in a fragile vessel, his power leaking in waves that made even the seasoned generals sweat and grip the hilts of their swords.

The dancers screamed.

The monks fell silent.

One shaman began clawing at her eyes.

And when he spoke-

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥.

“You've fed the curse far too long.”

The brazier at the altar exploded. Ash rained from the rafters like falling snow. The jade basin shattered into seven pieces.

The Regent stumbled back, spitting, “This isn’t real—”

But then—

The temple bells rang.

All of them.

Even the ones that hadn’t been touched in years.

Even the one sealed in the ancestral tomb.

***

“Stop him!” the regent barked, frothing now.

But none of the monks moved.

Not even Jung Sun Ah, who watched with parted lips, eyes wide like she was witnessing prophecy writ in flesh.

The regent grabbed the golden talisman at his waist and hurled it toward Yohan.

The charm caught fire mid-air, turning to ash before it landed.

And that was when the ground began to bleed.

Dark lines spread across the jade floor—calligraphy carved in a language no one living could speak. Each stroke shuddered, glowing. Forming a single, ancient sigil.

The Sujeongji’s Mark.

***

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳—𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴.

𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯.

𝘉𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘋𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘦𝘰-𝘳𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴. 𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘉𝘢𝘦𝘬𝘶𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮. 𝘈 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘈𝘮𝘶𝘯, 𝘢 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘭𝘺. 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵.

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵.

𝘕𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮—𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴.

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘎𝘢𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘺𝘳𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵.

***

Gaon stared at Yohan from across the room.

He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

But Yohan saw him.

And for a moment—just one—they looked at each other across lifetimes.

“𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎?” Gaon thought, ancient agony clawing at his chest.

And Yohan, through the storm in his eyes, nodded once.

***

From behind the far screen, a screech pierced the chamber.

A golden birdcage was being dragged forward on a lacquered cart.

And inside—

The Nightingale.

Jung Sun Ah stepped into the light again, no longer composed.

Her sleeves were rolled up. Her mouth was painted too red.

“Even gods bleed when their hearts are torn,” she said calmly.

She held a thin ceremonial dagger in one hand.

And in the other—

Elijah. Tiny, flightless. Held by the throat.

Gaon—still shackled, still bruised—screamed.

“No!”

But she only smiled at him.

“She sings too much. Let’s see if she screams, too.”
The moment froze—

The guards moved—

And then Gaon moved faster.

He had no sword. No strength left.

But rage broke what iron could not.

The shackles at his wrists cracked with a sound like thunder. The skin tore. Blood spilled. But his body rose.

Not by will.

By purpose.

As if destiny had come home.

***

He ran.

Every step splintered the sigils drawn on the floor.

Every breath ignited his skin.

A symbol began to burn on his shoulder—curved, divine, molten.

𝓐 𝓟𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓷𝓲𝔁.

Jung Sun Ah turned too late.

Gaon collided with her mid-incantation.

The dagger clattered away.

The cage toppled—

Into the pyre.

And Gaon—without hesitation—dived in after it.

***

The fire screamed.

The crowd did too.

But inside the flame, everything slowed.

He held her in his arms—not a bird, not feathers.

But a girl.

Thin. Pale. Burned and reborn.

Her eyes opened for the first time.

Not bird eyes.

Human ones.

“Gaon,” she whispered.

And fainted against him.

The fire did not burn them.

It crowned them.

The symbols along Gaon’s back lit. Every mark from every life. Wings carved in ash. Names written in light.

Around them, the fire surged—then stilled.

They did not rise.

The flames curled around their forms like mourning silk. The court gasped. Even Jung Sun Ah had fallen silent.

Above the altar, a great hush passed through the heavens.

And somewhere in the sky, the blood moon pulsed once.

And then again.

***

Chapter Text

It began not with fire, but with silence.

A silence so vast it seemed to consume sound itself — the kind that follows a scream too great for human lungs to hold. When Gaon leapt into the sacrificial flames, cradling the nightingale that was Elijah against his chest, the world held its breath. The fire, meant to destroy, did not roar or crack. It accepted him — swallowed him whole in a bloom of silver-gold light so blinding, so still, it left the court frozen in stunned, horrified awe.

And in that stillness, something ancient broke.

Yohan’s body moved before his mind could register what he had lost. One hand outstretched, as if to pull Gaon back from the edge of divinity. His mouth formed a name — Gaon — but no sound came.

Then the silence shattered.

A gust of wind exploded through the throne hall, snapping banners in half and blowing silk drapery from the rafters. Incense turned bitter mid-air, raining ashes. The drums along the dais split open with deafening cracks.

A monk near the outer doors collapsed in convulsions. Yohan’s power, unshackled by grief, surged outward in every direction — not as magic, but as presence, as fury, as divinity that had been denied for too long.

His eyes glowed white. His breath came in fire. The stones beneath him trembled.

The court watched, paralyzed, as the Second Prince—long dead, long forgotten—rose to his full height, godhood unfurling from him like wings spun from fury and sorrow.

Those closest to him dropped to their knees, blood seeping from their ears.

Yet not all were afraid.

From where she had been thrown by Gaon's push, Empress Jung Sun Ah stood slowly, her robes rustling like leaves in flame. There was no shock on her face. No panic. Only hunger.

She raised both arms high — and the shadows beneath her flickered unnaturally.

“Tianji be damned,” she whispered. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

The talismans sewn into the lining of her hanbok ignited one by one, revealing blood-woven glyphs etched into her skin beneath. They pulsed with dark magic — the kind long forbidden, passed only in whispers from cursed lineages and foreign envoys burned for heresy.

Yohan turned toward her, eyes unfocused. Grief pulsed through him in waves — violent and without direction. The palace’s protective wards strained, splintered.

Jung Sun Ah stepped into the space between him and the pyre, her voice rising in an incantation older than the court itself.

Her shadow split into three behind her — a trinity of clawed silhouettes.

Chains of spirit fire lashed outward, forming a net of cursed sigils around Yohan, each etched in ghostbone and jade.

“I do not need your love,” she hissed, voice vibrating with power. “Only your power.”

The net closed in.

And shattered.

Yohan’s power exploded outward, vaporizing her magic in a shockwave that threw half the court from their feet. Even Jung Sun Ah reeled back, blood trailing from one nostril, her lips drawn tight in rage.

Still — she pressed forward.

***

That was when the outer gates burst open with the clang of rebellion.

A cry rang out through the burning incense — a voice that rose like thunder across the crimson sky:

“Protect His Highness!”

And the hall erupted into war.

Ko In Guk led the charge, his sword flashing in the torchlight, carved with the imperial seal of the fallen lineage. Beside him came Kyung-Shin, bloodied but unbent, wielding the banner of the old dynasty — tattered, but still upright. Behind them streamed monks from the southern temples, shamans bearing ancestral brands on their foreheads, and foot soldiers with armor marked in ash.

The court dissolved into screams, the banquet overturned. Silver goblets clattered to the floor. Officials fled. Soldiers drew steel.

The Regent, momentarily dazed, bellowed for guards that would never come.

In the chaos, Jung Sun Ah stood tall in the eye of the storm.

“If I cannot take your power,” she whispered, her pupils dilated wide, “then I will bind myself to your curse.”

Her hands shook as she drew a dagger — carved from the bone of a nine-tailed fox, its blade stained with king’s blood. She turned the point to her own heart.

“I offer my blood. I offer my body. Make me eternal—”

The dagger came down.

But a hand intercepted it.

Soohyun.

Her voice was a gasp, her body a blur — one she should never have moved quickly enough to make. But loyalty does not obey time, and Soohyun had always been watching.

The blade sank deep into her side.

She made no sound, just clutched the Empress’s wrist and whispered, “You were never meant to touch glory. ”

Her knees gave out. The floor drank her blood. The dagger fell.

Yohan moved at last — eyes blazing with something no longer human.

With a single gesture, Jung Sun Ah flew backward, her body striking the marble pillar with a sickening crack. She slumped down, jade beads scattering across the floor like broken prayer.

And one — just one — rolled into the still-burning sacrificial pyre.

***

The flames turned gold.

Then white.

Then a radiant blue.

They did not rise — they opened.

From the center of the celestial blaze, a figure stepped out.

Gaon.

His robes were half-burned, scorched at the edges, but the light around him made him appear untouched. His body glowed with divine markings — script that pulsed like veins down his arms and throat. His eyes were not human. They were the stillness between lightning strikes. Behind him came Elijah, her body trembling as it reformed — no feathers now. No beak. Just skin, flesh, breath, and eyes wide with returning memory.

She staggered forward, fell — and Yohan was there, catching her before her knees touched the floor.

She clung to him weakly, her voice rasping, “Yohan…?”

Yohan’s hands trembled around her, cradling her like something too precious to hold.

He did not see Gaon.

He did not see the pyre fade, the light die.

He only knelt, weeping, whispering apologies into her hair, broken and whole at once.

***

And in that brief stillness, the Regent moved.

He saw the ceremonial dagger still on the table — meant for the blood offerings of the night.

He moved like a desperate animal, teeth bared.

He screamed — wordless, guttural — and charged Yohan with the blade raised high.

But it never reached him.

A hand closed over his wrist — strong, inhuman.

And then the Sujeongji turned his head.

It was Gaon, no longer merely Gaon.

He stood taller now, the divine script burning across his skin, his expression unreadable. The sacrificial smoke clung to him like a mantle.

The Regent looked into his face — and saw the end.

Gaon took the dagger.

And wrenched his hand apart.

It was almost gentle, at first.

Then came the crack.

Bone snapped beneath his grip, a sickening pop of cartilage and splintered marrow as the Regent’s sword-arm twisted backward at an unnatural angle. The blade fell. The Regent howled, stumbling — but Gaon did not release him.

His eyes were white now — not glowing, not lit — but bleached, as if his soul had been burned hollow by divine fire.

The hall shook around them.

In the periphery, the battle raged on.

Ko In Guk struck down the last of the royal guards at the eastern doors, blood dripping from his chin as he called for the rebels to close the exits. Kyung-Shin had taken a blade through the thigh but still roared as he led monks in sealing the sacred scrolls from the treasury. Above, talismans flapped like torn wings, setting off magical traps that burst like firecrackers.

Soldiers bled into the golden floor tiles, nobles ran screaming, and through it all, Yohan knelt behind Gaon — unmoving, protecting the unconscious form of Elijah with one trembling arm.

And in the eye of the storm, Gaon dragged the Regent forward.

***

The Regent gasped and twisted, trying to scream for help — but no one came. There were no guards left loyal to him. Only the cracked pillars and the stink of burnt flesh.

“P-please,” the Regent stammered, spitting blood. “You— you’re the Sujeongji. You were meant to purify, not—”

Gaon’s hand closed around his other arm.

The Regent screamed again — high and thin — as Gaon tore it from the socket with a wet, horrifying rip. Blood fountained upward in a vicious arc, spraying across the ruined tapestry of the second prince’s crest.

Gaon didn’t even blink.

He stepped forward as the Regent crumpled, crawling on his knees, sobbing now.

“Mercy,” he choked. “You— you don’t understand. I did it for the kingdom. The gods. The—”

The Sujeongji knelt beside him.

And whispered.

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙂𝙤𝙙𝙨."

The next blow crushed the Regent’s jaw with a crunch that echoed off marble.

A moment later, Gaon ripped out his tongue.

The Regent gurgled, twitching in a spreading pool of his own blood, mouth working soundlessly.

He tried to crawl away.

He didn’t get far.

Gaon lifted him by what remained of his spine and drove his fist into the man’s chest — past silk, bone, and sinew — and pulled out his heart. Still beating.

He held it up like an offering, red and steaming.

And then crushed it in his fist.

The silence that followed was unnatural.

Even the fighting halted — the rebels and soldiers alike turning, one by one, to look upon the boy now bathed in blood and holy fire.

The boy who stood before the royal throne, chest rising and falling, body trembling.

And then—

He spoke.

Not loudly.

Not for spectacle.

But for clarity.

𝓜𝔂 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮…”

A breath. A pause.

“…𝓲𝓼 𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓖𝓪𝓸𝓷.”

“𝓢𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓻 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻, 𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓙𝓪𝓮-𝓚𝔂𝓾 𝓸𝓯 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓭 𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓸𝓻.”

“𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓯𝓾𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼.”

Gasps rippled through the court like thunder.

Some nobles sank to their knees in horror.

A minister covered his mouth with shaking hands.

A concubine dropped the incense stick she'd been clutching in prayer.

Even the rebel ranks faltered for a moment, unsure whether they stood in the presence of a man or something far beyond.

Behind him, Yohan finally looked up.

Gaon stood at the foot of the dais, hands covered in blood, chest heaving.

Their eyes met — and the hall fell quiet.

The body of the Regent lay in pieces at their feet.

And for the first time since the fire that stole everything from them both…

No one else dared speak.

***

Yohan rose slowly.

He had held Elijah close through the chaos — shielding her from shards of glass, from bodies falling near. His hands shook as he adjusted her in his arms, the weight of her light, too light, against him. She was still unconscious but breathing — soft, shallow, and steady.

As he stood, one hand cradling the back of her head, he looked at Gaon.

Not the Sujeongji.

Not the revenant, or the cursed.

But the boy he had lost.

The boy who had just torn an empire apart with his bare hands — and now stood amidst the ruin, looking like he might break under the weight of his own fury.

Their eyes met.

It was unbearable.

Gaon opened his mouth — but no words came.

He looked down at his hands. Saw the gore. The cracked skin. The flakes of burnt silk melted to his palms. His throat convulsed.

“𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝…”

His voice was hoarse. Barely there.

“𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘—”

He swayed.

His knees buckled.

And Yohan was there, crossing the distance in a blur.

He didn’t hesitate.

Not even for a moment.

He caught Gaon before he could fall, pulling him into his arms, blood and all. His grip was firm, shaking, but sure — like he had been waiting a decade for this exact collapse. Gaon clutched at his robes like a lifeline, gasping, eyes wild.

“You’re alive,” Gaon whispered.
“You’re really—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Kim Gaon had started to cry.

Silently, at first. Then with a full-body shudder. And then, like a dam breaking, he buried his face into Yohan’s shoulder and sobbed, the sound ripping out of him with a child’s raw grief. He clung to Yohan’s front, fingers knotting the fabric, body convulsing with the force of everything he’d held back — for years, for lifetimes.

Yohan held him through it all.

And a single hand, shaking, brushing through Gaon’s blood-matted hair the way he might’ve done when he was still a child, long before any of this nightmare had begun.

Behind them, the court still knelt in stunned silence.

Ko In Guk stepped forward at last, his voice rough as gravel.

“The Regent is dead.”
“His line ends with him.”

Some tried to rise. Others just wept.

The monks began to hum prayers — low and slow — like a dirge wrapping around the bones of the palace.

The palace moaned in its bones.

Ash drifted from the ceiling like falling snow.

The blood moon, heavy and exhausted, began to lower from the sky.

The court watched.

Here knelt the Sujeongji — the butcher and the savior.

And he wept in the hands of a God destined for doom.

The symbolism was unmistakable.

It would be sung in poetry, retold in children’s tales, reshaped in myth.

But none of that mattered now.

Because for a few brief, tender seconds, the nightmare stilled — and there were only three survivors, clutching each other like lifelines in a burning world.

***

The sheets were too clean.

That was the first thing Eunha noticed, even before her eyes opened.

She lay still, suspended in a hush so thick it rang in her ears. Her body, still as stone, pulsed with dull pain — not the searing, immediate agony of torture, but the heavy, echoing throb of something that had happened long ago and only now reached her bones.

The smell told her she was no longer in the dungeon. Camellia, barley starch, incense — and underneath that, the lingering iron of blood not quite washed away. Her blood.

A breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes opened.

Above her, not a prison ceiling of stone and rot, but lacquered wood painted with phoenixes rising through smoke. Gilded beams gleamed in the slant of late afternoon sun. The bedding beneath her was silk — not the rough, lice-ridden straw pallet she’d half-died on.

“I must be dead,” she whispered. Her voice cracked — rasped.

She tried to sit up.

Pain sliced through her ribs. A groan escaped her lips.

“Don’t.”

A voice — old, calm, layered with steel and sorrow.

Eunha turned her head, breath catching again.

The Empress Dowager sat beside her, dressed not in regal silk but in the plain, bleached robes of worship. Her silver hair was bound in a simple knot, face bare of any pigment. In her lap rested a bundle of prayer beads. Her eyes — usually cool and sharp — were soft with something Eunha could not name.

“Orabeoni…?”

The name left her like a gasp, a reflex more than a thought.

“He lives.”

Eunha’s throat closed.

The Empress Dowager confirmed. “He lives. He broke the curse that had plagued the bloodline.”

Eunha blinked fast.

“The Regent?”

“Dead. Torn apart by a thing that used to be a boy. And yet—”

She paused.

“—that boy returned to himself before the last breath left his enemy’s lungs.”

Eunha’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She tried to rise again, ignoring the cry of her muscles.

The Empress Dowager didn’t stop her this time.

Instead, she moved slowly, deliberately, to help her upright. She tucked a cushion behind her back, poured tea into a porcelain cup, and held it to her lips.

Eunha drank — the liquid was sweet with pear and herbs, but bitter with something darker underneath.

The Empress Dowager spoke gently.

“We found you in the dungeons. The flames had already reached the outer wings. Most of the guards fled. Some… did not survive the collapse.”

Eunha’s hands trembled. She remembered screaming, chained to the stone. The heat blistering the walls. The blood in her mouth. The sound of her own voice breaking.

“He… found me?”

The Empress Dowager didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she set the teacup down and whispered, voice soft:

“You were pulled from the wreckage by monks loyal to the old line. They said a voice — not human — told them where to dig. And in the ash, beneath the broken stones, they found you… still breathing.”

Eunha stared at her.

“So he wasn’t there.”

“No. He wasn’t. Not physically.”

The silence between them filled with things unspoken.

“But he knew,” the Empress Dowager said at last. “He knew you were alive. And that knowing — that hope — is what kept him from tearing down the world.”

Eunha turned her face away.

The knot in her chest swelled. She remembered the last time she saw Gaon — dressed in rags, eyes hollow, walking straight into a trap with her name on his lips. She remembered thinking it would be the last time.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice brittle.

“That depends,” the Dowager said. “The court is shattered. The Regent’s allies lie dead or disgraced. The blood cleansing has been halted. The people cry out for peace. For reckoning. For justice.”

Eunha looked down at her own hands — bruised, healing, calloused. Not the hands of someone from a noble's lineage. Neither those of a maid's.

“I’m not nobility,” she said. “Not even in name. I was hidden in a village. Then I was a maid. A prisoner.”

“And yet,” said the Dowager, “you are the only one whose word your brother will still heed. The only one who has seen the rot from the bottom to the top.”

She rose slowly.

“You asked what happens now. I ask: what do you want to happen?”

Eunha was silent.

The Dowager turned toward the window, her voice a little rougher.

“The Regent feared you more than he feared Gaon. You know that, don’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because you lived.”

The Empress Dowager looked back at her — eyes alight now, not soft.

“He feared that a girl locked in a cell would still speak. That a boy called a monster would still return. That someone who had lost everything might still remember the truth.”

Eunha closed her eyes.

She saw the burning court.

The dead judges, the scorched banners, the broken blade in her brother’s hand.

She saw a throne — empty, bloodied — and yet the light had filtered through its columns as though it were morning.

“I want to see him,” she said finally. “I want to see my brother.”

The Empress Dowager bowed her head.

“You will. When you’re strong enough to walk, I will take you to him myself.”

She paused at the door.

“And Eunha?”

“Yes?”

“Your name is not lost. Neither is your blood. You may not wear a crown, but you hold the heart of this kingdom in your hands. Do not forget that.”

As night fell over the palace, candles flickered in every window. Eunha sat propped up, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars appear one by one beyond the carved wooden shutters.

Somewhere in the distance, bells tolled for the dead.
And somewhere else, she imagined Gaon walking alone through the ruins of the capital, unaware that she had lived — just as she had believed he was lost.

But they had both survived.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The palace dungeons were deeper than Elijah remembered—if she had ever truly remembered them at all. Memory was a delicate thing, frayed and scorched by divine fire, folded by magic, rewritten with lullabies. For sixteen years, she had sung songs with no verses, remembered names without faces, and dreamed of firebirds in a room with no windows.

Now she walked through the passage of stone like a blade drawn from a sheath.

The corridor twisted like a serpent beneath the throne, narrow and slick with mildew, carved from ancient stone that had once echoed with whispered prayers and quiet executions. Now it groaned under the weight of prophecy and penance. Chains hung from the vaulted ceilings, rusted with disuse, pendulous like broken clock hands marking time long lost. Her steps made no sound, but the flames in the sconces recoiled as she passed, shrinking from her presence.

A pair of guards stepped aside when they saw her. No title was spoken. None needed to be.

Her hand brushed the walls, feeling the grime, the salt, the coldness of stone that had once held her ancestors and their enemies alike.

She reached the last cell.

There was no lock on the door. There was no need. The woman inside had nowhere left to run.

Jung Sun Ah sat in the furthest corner of the chamber, back to the wall, hair coiled like thorny roots about her face and shoulders. The elegant widowhood she had once worn like a crown was gone—torn and stained, her skin a patchwork of bruises and burned welts. Her fingers twitched as she noticed the footsteps. Her gaze, fever-bright, flicked upward.

“You,” she hissed, dragging herself upright with the jagged grace of a dying viper. “The songbird returns.”

Elijah stood at the threshold.

“I was never your songbird,” she said, voice quiet and unyielding. “And I never belonged to you.”

Sun Ah laughed, and the sound caught in her throat like broken glass. “Didn’t you? You slept in a cage of gold, wore silk spun from lies. You sang when I told you, wept when I allowed it. You made such a pretty little pet.”

Elijah didn’t flinch. “You kept me caged because you feared me. You feared what I would learn.”

“I protected you,” Sun Ah spat. “From the truth. From him. From yourself.”

Elijah took a step inside the cell.

“There is no truth you could shield me from. Only the ones you buried. Like the boy whose name you never dared speak.”

Sun Ah stiffened. Her breath caught.

Elijah knelt.

“Kim Gaon,” she said softly, and the name moved through the air like thunder behind a closed door. “He was the first thing you tried to destroy. Before even me. He was eleven when you marked him for death.”

Sun Ah’s lips trembled. “He—he was a danger—”

“He was a child,” Elijah whispered. “A trembling, brilliant, kind boy who dared to write poetry about truth. Who mourned the execution of a scholar when no one else blinked. He never once raised his voice at you. And you told your father to kill him because Yohan looked at him like the sun had returned.”

Sun Ah’s eyes snapped to hers. “Shut up—”

“Even then,” Elijah said, “you knew you’d never be the one Yohan wanted. Even then, you blamed a boy for your failures.”

Sun Ah’s hands clawed the air. “He burned—I watched him burn—I—”

“Yes,” Elijah said. “You watched him burn to save me. And still, it wasn’t enough. Because he lived. Not just in body—but in memory. In silence. In every letter he carved into palace scrolls, every poem he etched in moonlight. And even presumed dead, he mattered more than you ever did alive.”

The words cracked something inside Sun Ah.

She let out a strangled wail—an animal sound, raw and wounded—and collapsed to her knees. Her nails dug into the stone. Her breath came in rasps. Blood bloomed beneath her skin as she clawed at her temples.

“He wasn’t supposed to win—” she whispered, rocking back and forth. “He was supposed to vanish. He was supposed to be nothing. I erased him—I erased him—”

“But he never let go of Yohan,” Elijah said. “And Yohan never let go of him. He wrote poems for him in his chambers. He whispered his name in his sleep. Even blind, even broken, he still reached for him first.”

Sun Ah’s body began to shake violently.

“Stop it—stop—”

“You wanted to be Empress. You married the crown in your head. But you were never more than a shadow cast by a light you could not reach.”

Sun Ah surged forward, nails bared—but her legs gave out. She fell, sobbing, retching onto the floor.

“I was the one who stayed,” she wailed. “I waited. I followed the rituals, I endured the court, I gave my life—” She grabbed Elijah’s robe with one hand, smeared in tears and dirt and madness. “He should’ve married me. He should’ve loved me.”

Elijah looked down at her, the hollow ruin of a woman who had shaped an empire around her envy.
Her voice was quiet now. Final.

“You were never his Empress.”

Silence dropped like a curtain.

Sun Ah’s face twisted into something unrecognizable. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She began to laugh—high-pitched, staccato bursts that morphed into a low growl, then into sobs that shook her shoulders until she collapsed fully to the floor.

Elijah stepped back, peeling her robe from Sun Ah’s grasp, and turned without a word. Behind her, the screams began again—bitter, guttural, feral. And then, silence. The dungeon swallowed her howls, as if the stone itself had grown weary of her voice.

The guards didn’t speak when Elijah emerged. They only lowered their heads.

The corridors above were still as a temple. Light streamed in from a latticed window as she ascended the final steps, her robes catching the golden shimmer. The blossom on her neck—the divine lotus tattooed into her skin by curse and legacy—flickered faintly, as though breathing.

Outside, the imperial bells began to toll. The first day of restoration had begun.

***

Chapter Text

The year was new.

Though the plum blossoms had not yet bloomed, and the snows still clung to the shadowed ridges of the northern palace walls, there was spring in the air that morning—not of weather, but of will.

The roads leading up to the palace gates glittered beneath pale morning sun, strewn with frost and footprints—monks, scribes, foreign emissaries, barefoot peasants and exiled nobles, all summoned back to bear witness to a beginning that had taken fifteen years and a thousand deaths to reach.

That morning, at the changing of the hour of the dragon, the court assembled beneath the vaulted eaves of Yeongheon Hall, where the throne once occupied by traitors now stood wreathed in gold brocade and phoenix sigils. The hush was absolute as the iron-bound doors opened, and she entered—not veiled, not led, but walking alone.

She was not even eighteen.

Yet her step did not falter.

Kang Elijah, daughter of a flame, child of a murdered line, rose-blooded heir to an empire nearly razed—ascended the Jeweled Throne with the silence of snowfall and the gaze of a storm.

Her robes were not the usual crimson of a sovereign’s coronation, nor the blue of imperial mourning. She wore instead a brilliant, arresting white—the colour of peace, of glory, of beginnings. The gold embroidery glinted in the morning sun as if the cloth itself breathed.

The old families of court, those who had once turned their faces from her mother’s corpse, now pressed their brows to the stone in reverence. And above them all, on the raised platform carved with lotus, vine, and flame, she sat—not heavily, not meekly, but as one who had carried a crown before it ever touched her head.

“I will not wear a veil,” she had said the night before. “Let them see my face. Let them remember the one who lived.”

***

The first decree of Her Imperial Majesty, Sovereign of the Eastern Skies, Keeper of the Phoenix Seal, was not to her ministers.

It was to the dead.

A hush fell across the hall as the royal memorial plaques were carried in—once stolen and defaced, now restored and washed in sandalwood water. The names of the former Emperor and his Empress, her parents, were etched anew in red lacquer and gold. She rose to her feet and bowed deeply before them—once, twice, thrice—her brow kissing the cold floor.

“Let them be remembered,” she said. “As rulers. As parents. As the first to die for truth.”

Tears were not shed openly in court, but several ministers turned their faces. The Chief Ritual Officer’s hands trembled as he lit the final incense. It was said the smoke curved like wings.

Her second decree was death.

“For orchestrating the massacre of the imperial family, for treason, deceit, and the erasure of our people’s future, Jung Byung-Ho, the former Prime Minister, shall be stripped of his office, rank,title and whatever material may he be in possession of. He is to meet the sword before the Hall of Justice at dusk.”

She spoke not in fury but in stillness, and it was that stillness—so complete, so untouched by performance—that silenced the court more than any shouting could. There was no trial. There was no appeal. His guilt was no longer a question, but a ruin.

“Let his house be cast from the noble registries. Let his name be buried in dust. Let no record of honour remain.”

The execution bell tolled twelve times that evening.

It was said his blood steamed against the stone.

His kin—sisters, sons, distant cousins—all were scattered to exile. No tomb was built. No funeral permitted. The household that had ruled the empire like a clenched fist vanished, unmarked, into the snows of the northern provinces.

His glorious daughter, Jung Sun Ah herself remained imprisoned beneath the old palace, silent now, her hair unbound, her mind said to wander the shadows.

***

What followed was chaos, but it was the chaos of change. Of purification. Of cleansing.

For days, the capital rang with noise—temple bells and trumpet calls, drums and ink-stained proclamations nailed to walls and posts like birds freed from cages. Prisoners of conscience—poets, scholars, even palace maids who had once refused to lie—were dragged into the light, blinking in disbelief, as their pardons were read aloud beneath imperial banners.

Elijah moved through it all like a blade parting water, never resting, never retreating. Her hair remained braided in the high knot of ascension for a full week before she allowed it to fall. Her eyes, though young, were never uncertain.

Ko In Guk led the investigation into the past.

The Prime Minister’s private study, long thought sterile and ceremonial, revealed an ossuary of stolen history: the broken hairpins of the former Empress; a scrap of the Emperor’s robe; the name plaques of a dozen assassinated ministers. They had been kept as trophies, relics of conquest mounted like hunting spoils.

But worse was found in the private quarters of the fallen consort—Jung Sun Ah.

Behind the walled panel of her wardrobe, they discovered scrolls of forbidden ink, spellbooks, and dolls sewn from blood-stiffened fabric. One bore the likeness of a young man with a mole near his eye—the second prince. Around his painted throat was a red thread, twisted and twisted until the doll’s head had snapped.

She had kept them. As memoirs of victory.

Elijah read none of the spells. She did not need to. She gave orders to have the books recorded, classified, and locked in the palace’s lowest vaults. The dolls were burned beneath full moonlight, salt and iron scattered into the flames so their curses would pass into smoke and vanish.

Jung Sun Ah remained in her prison, hair unbound, whispering only to winds.

***

Elijah’s court became a beacon for the silenced.

She abolished the Bureau of Censorship in a single stroke, the ink barely dry before its entire staff had vanished from the court records. She reopened the Royal Library, recalling its burned catalogues from memory where needed. A new archive was founded, one dedicated not to glory, but to truth.

To scholars once exiled, she sent carriages and letters in her own hand. To their families, she granted titles and reparations. “The crown has wronged you.” She wrote.

The civil service examination was reinstated immediately. That spring, over ten thousand candidates flooded the capital. She sat in audience with the highest scorers herself, asking them questions no minister had dared pose in two decades. Most left shaken. A few left inspired.

Taxes were suspended for three years across the realm. Those who had fed armies without pay were compensated in grain and land. Blacksmiths were elevated to court guilds; calligraphers commissioned for palace halls; orphanages rebuilt with imperial stipend.

Her reforms spread like green across ash.

And yet—

At night, when the court lay sleeping, Elijah often stood before her mother’s painting in the west garden, where the ginkgo tree shed its last leaves.

She would press her hand to the silk canvas, where the empress held her as a swaddled child, not knowing what would come. The lanternlight flickered over her face, and in that moment, for all her titles and robes, she was just a girl mourning a life never lived.

At night, she wandered the throne hall alone.

Despite the silver lattice windows, the polished floors, and the new silk banners bearing her emblem—a golden nightingale winging through clouded mountains—there lingered a heaviness not even justice could exorcise. She sat at her father’s old desk sometimes, where the grain of the wood still bore scorch marks from the day it had been overturned and left to rot in the western annex. She wrote new edicts from it anyway. She let it stay imperfect.

***

The gardens had changed.

It was the sort of thing only someone like Kyung-Shin would notice—not the grandeur of it, not the new marble pavilions or the silk lanterns that floated from the eaves like lazy stars, but the small things. The way the stone pathways had been swept clean every morning since spring. The sound of water again in the eastern koi pond, once drained dry to prevent assassins from hiding beneath its bridge. The smell of plum blossoms, not blood.

Most days, it still felt borrowed.

On this one, however, it almost felt like home.

He was perched atop the Hwansang tree in the northern quadrant, limbs folded like a lanky bird in repose, one arm slung across his brow to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. Below, petals rustled like silk and shadows danced beneath the leaves. The sound of footsteps—light, deliberate, too soft to belong to a guard—marked the return of the Sujeongji, balancing a lacquered tray with two cups of chrysanthemum tea.

And reclining directly under Kyung-Shin’s branch, head tilted toward the warmth with the serenity of a man just beginning to believe he might live, lay Yohan.

Once prince, then myth, then god.

It had been nearly two years since Gaon ripped the regent apart and held the line through fire and curse until Elijah could reclaim her name. Half a year since her coronation, and longer still since Kyung-Shin had thought of himself as the scrawny shadow of a boy once trained to guard a prince the world believed dead.

He had changed, too.

His hair was longer now, often tied back with a black ribbon gifted by Eunha. His sleeves were rolled up in this warmer season, his arms lean but no longer frail. He still carried five knives on his person at all times, two visible, three not. He still watched people’s feet more than their faces.

He still refused Elijah’s offer of an official post.

“Commander of the Imperial Guard,” she’d said, eyes glittering like stars over a battlefield. “You’ve more than earned it.”

He had bowed low, then turned her down without looking up.

“I already command something else.”

The court assumed it was some ceremonial office. They printed his name into the registry, affixed titles behind it, and whispered about him in the palace wings—that strange boy who once fought beside the cursed Sujeongji and now moves without escort, seen only when storms rise.

In truth, he headed the last of the Shadow Guards.

The ones who had no master, no home, no war left to die in.

The ones who had followed the second prince into the wilderness and returned from it scattered, weary, older. Some had wives now. Children. Others still wandered. But the few who remained—those bound not by orders, but by grief—they followed Kyung-Shin.

Officially, they were listed as a protection detail for the Sujeongji. Unofficially, they were what remained of a different world. They followed ghosts.

***

Below, Gaon handed Yohan a cup of tea.

He did not kneel, nor bow, nor linger. He simply sat beside him, unceremoniously folding his robes beneath him and resting his shoulder against the base of the tree trunk, so close to Yohan’s side that their knees nearly touched. The sun filtered through the apricot leaves above them, laying patterns of amber across Yohan’s pale hands.

Kyung-Shin didn’t need to look to know Gaon was watching him.

He always did.

“You didn’t sleep,” Gaon said, voice gentle but exasperated.

Yohan smiled, cradling the tea cup. He still looked a little spectral, like something between sky and skin, but his breathing was easier these days, and he no longer needed a cane.

“There was music in the corridor,” Yohan replied. “Someone was playing Eunha’s zither again. It reminded me of spring. The one with the broken bridge.”

“That was autumn,” Gaon corrected.

“You’re sure?”

“You lost your shoe that day,” Gaon deadpanned. “To a goose.”

Yohan laughed—not softly, but with that startled joy that came from remembering what hadn’t been stolen.

Kyung-Shin shifted on his branch and closed his eyes. Gods who laughed like men. Men who brewed tea for gods. It made his head ache.

***

They talked often these days.

Too often, in the opinions of several people—namely, Eunha, who claimed she could hear them through the garden walls every morning; Kyung-Shin, who could not climb a single tree in peace without eavesdropping on some tragic romance; and Elijah, who simply turned her gaze skyward and muttered about fragile men with too many feelings.

But still, they talked.

Of music. Of the time Gaon had nearly burned porridge as a child and insisted it was a culinary experiment. Of Yohan’s old flute that had survived every purge because little Eunha had hidden it in a pot of pickled radish. Of the way Gaon had inherited his mother’s recipes—and her terrible handwriting—while Eunha proudly claimed she alone had tasted the food of both her parents, unburnt and blessed.

Sometimes their words wandered into old pain—brief, like a shadow crossing water. Gaon asking, suddenly, if Yohan remembered what his father’s hands looked like. Yohan going quiet, then answering: "Like yours. When you're kneading dough."

Kyung-Shin had once asked Eunha why they kept talking like that, like memory was a garden they could dig through until it gave them back something whole.

She’d shrugged.

“Because it’s the only language they share.”

***

The tea was still steaming. Gaon had brewed it with chrysanthemum and dried apricot blossom. Yohan sipped slowly, eyes half-lidded. The bandages on his wrist had been removed a few weeks ago, and the curse no longer pulsed beneath his skin—but his body still bore the price of that night.

The blood cleansing, they called it now. The night the palace shook and the regent’s ancestral bloodlines were drowned in their own making. Kyung-Shin had stood in the halls that night, sword dripping, watching as light swallowed everything. He’d thought Yohan would disappear entirely.

He hadn’t.

Somehow—against the law of spirits and spells—he stayed.

A breeze rustled through the trees. A petal floated down, catching briefly on Gaon’s shoulder. He didn’t brush it away. Yohan leaned back further against the trunk, lips curling faintly.

“Do you remember the frog in your shoe?”

Gaon groaned.

“Why are you like this.”

“Because I nearly married a demoness and died in the process. I’ve earned some indulgence.”

“You also nearly kissed a scarecrow once.”

“He had kind eyes.”

Kyung-Shin pinched the bridge of his nose.

The empire is doomed.

***

He let the sounds drift over him—their laughter, the breeze, the faraway temple bell from the inner sanctum where Elijah was probably scolding a minister three times her age. Everything felt… full.

Not perfect. Not healed. But full, like a room finally aired after years of darkness.

There were things none of them spoke of.

The nights Gaon still woke up gasping. The way Yohan’s fingers sometimes trembled, too faint to notice unless you were watching. The haunted look in Elijah’s eyes when she stood before the old nursery.

But none of them fled from it.

They wore it—grief, guilt, wonder—like rings on their fingers. Not chains. Not curses. Just proof of survival.

Kyung-Shin opened one eye and looked down at them.

A boy and a man.

Except they were both men now.

One who had died for the world.

And one who had remade it.

He didn’t call out. Didn’t climb down. Just let himself drift, eyes half-closed, heartbeat steady in the green hush of the garden. There were other things he had to do. Routes to plan. Guards to rotate. Threats to anticipate. Always.

But for now, for this one afternoon, it was enough to sit in a tree, above a god and his keeper, and listen to them talk.

Like nothing had ever broken.

Like everything had been made whole.

***

The corridor outside the inner receiving chamber was unusually warm that morning, awash in the mellow gold of late spring. A low wind stirred the lacquered paper doors and ruffled the petals of the peonies climbing the trellises. Minister Ko In Guk moved at a brisk pace, scroll case tucked under one arm, his other hand clenched with a tension he rarely allowed himself to show. The memorial he bore detailed intelligence gathered along the northern coast—a minor lord stirring dissent, seeding old slogans among former allies of the regent. It wasn't a full rebellion, not yet, but it smelled like tinder.

He was not one to grow flustered by urgency. He had served through decades of coups, war councils, and ghosts buried beneath silk and royal gold. But something about this palace, reborn after fire, after grief, made every shadow feel like it bore the weight of another era's mistakes. It made haste a habit.

He reached the side chamber just off the Empress’s personal study, expecting to hand the scroll to an attendant and request an immediate audience.

What he found instead stopped him mid-step.

Inside, a small lacquered table stood by the open doors that overlooked the inner courtyard, flanked on either side by wide cushioned seats and a single woven mat. Gaon—long, lean, dressed in soft grey robes—stood bent over a younger figure who sat hunched over court scrolls, their face half-buried in their arms.

“Elijah,” Gaon was saying, a thread of sternness barely veiled beneath warmth, “you haven't eaten a proper meal all day. Don’t try to lie. I checked the kitchens.”

“You have spies in the kitchens?” came the muffled, defeated reply from the curled-up girl. “Traitors, all of them.”

In Guk blinked.

Elijah—Her Imperial Majesty, Empress of Joseon—was in what appeared to be a quiet and steadily escalating argument with the very man who used to storm into court hearings with ink-stained hands and revolutionary fury.

“I don’t need a meal right now,” Elijah continued, shifting to glare up at Gaon, her tone balancing on the tightrope of exasperated affection. “What I need is to finish that report before the mid-season census meeting. And these projections aren’t going to compile themselves.”

Gaon, completely undeterred, crouched beside her, his eyes narrowing. “You look pale. If your uncle were here—”

“He would let me work and not fuss.”

Gaon raised an eyebrow. “He would bribe the steward to lock this study and hide the key. I speak from first hand experience, don’t test me."

On the far cushion, Soohyun sat propped up against a bolster, her arm bandaged from a recent interception of an attempt to assassinate the empress herself, and her posture still visibly stiff. She sipped from a bowl of honeyed rice tea, her lips twitching with silent amusement.

“She’s right, Your Highness,” Soohyun chimed in, carefully setting her cup down. “We really did take turns watching you ignore meals last week.”

“You were complicit!” Elijah shot her a betrayed look.

“I was recovering from a stab wound. Diplomatic immunity.”

“You’re the worst nurse.”

“I’ll have the physician inscribe it on my tomb.”

In Guk’s hand still gripped the scroll, but he made no move to announce himself. Instead, he lingered by the entrance, quietly, as if stepping into the moment too loudly might shatter it. It wasn’t the oddness of seeing the empress being scolded like a teenager by the Sujeongji that startled him—it was how normal it felt. How effortless.

Gaon was not dressed in the formality of his ceremonial robes. His sleeves were rolled, his hair loosely tied, and his expression carried the focused concern of a man who had memorized Elijah’s limits better than she had. And Elijah—though her eyes rolled and her voice pitched in mock indignation—had allowed him to draw up a small tray beside her with a bowl of porridge and candied citron slices. She hadn’t touched it, but neither had she shoved it away.

“I’ll eat when I finish these reports,” Elijah muttered.

“No,” Gaon said with maddening gentleness. “You’ll finish these reports once you eat. Just a few bites.”

“I swear I will exile you.”

“You tried that last week. It didn’t work.”

“I’ll make it stick this time.”

In Guk stifled a chuckle. So this was the world they had carved from ash and silence: Kyung-Shin resting against shadows, a divine protector fussing like an old matron, and the Empress—just seventeen, no longer a girl and not yet unburdened by the crown—learning how to be loved without walls.

He cleared his throat softly.

Gaon turned, a touch too quickly, ever alert, his body language trained from years of displacement. Elijah looked up with wide eyes, momentarily flustered, before smoothing her features into something closer to her imperial self.

“Minister Ko,” she said, pushing herself up straighter, though she winced slightly as her back cracked from hours hunched over. “I didn’t know you had arrived.”

“I didn’t wish to interrupt,” he replied, stepping forward at last, offering the scroll with both hands. “But the matter is… time-sensitive.”

Gaon rose and quietly moved to fetch a cup of barley tea from the nearby table, setting it before Elijah without fanfare. She shot him a look but didn’t protest.

Elijah took the scroll, fingers already unfolding it as she murmured her thanks. Her eyes skimmed the contents with a quick, practiced sweep.

“From the northern provinces?” she asked, brow furrowing.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Port towns, mostly. They’re masking it as merchant unrest, but the language in their petitions is laced with familiar rhetoric. The regent’s old sympathizers, perhaps.”

She nodded, setting the scroll aside and already reaching for her brush. Gaon reached out and, with the weary patience of someone who had done this too many times, gently pressed her wrist down.

“Elijah.”

“I have to reply—”

“You will. After you eat.”

She groaned, throwing her head back.

Soohyun gave a low laugh. “Honestly, In Guk-jeong, you’ve arrived at a great time. We’ve just begun the daily theatre.”

In Guk looked between them all—Soohyun leaning a little easier now despite the injury, Elijah wrestling between duty and affection, and Gaon standing over her like a stone-faced nursemaid.

“It’s not quite what I imagined,” he admitted softly.

Elijah gave him a small smile, warm but dry. “What did you imagine?”

He paused. “You in full regalia, poised behind carved doors, receiving urgent news with unreadable grace and a court at your feet.”

“That sounds exhausting,” she muttered. “No thank you.”

“You’ll have to do that in a few hours,” Soohyun pointed out helpfully.

“Not helping.”

Gaon, meanwhile, had succeeded in coaxing her to take three mouthfuls of porridge under In Guk’s bemused gaze. She chewed slowly, eyes squinting in offense, then set the bowl down with exaggerated betrayal.

“I hope you’re happy,” she grumbled.

Gaon gave her a pleased look and took the bowl away like a victorious parent.

“She’s seventeen,” he said, mostly to himself, shaking his head. “Seventeen and thinks she can govern three kingdoms on sheer will alone.”

“You’re twenty-seven and think that worrying for a living is a personality trait,” Elijah retorted.

“I survived sixteen years of hunting from the Regent’s spies. It’s ingrained.”
“Still a mother hen.”

“A vigilant one.”

Soohyun raised a hand, only slightly shaking from strain. “Shall we take bets on whether she finishes the candied citron before sunset?”

Elijah scoffed. “I’m not that stubborn.”

All three of them turned to stare at her in unison. In Guk, now seated comfortably on the side mat, was trying very hard not to laugh again.

It struck him, then—not for the first time, but clearer now—that they were rebuilding more than just a palace or a dynasty. They were rebuilding home. In different forms, yes. For different ghosts. But the air held ease, something that once seemed impossible in the shadow of the past. Something gentle had bloomed here.

Elijah turned toward him again, more solemn now. “Thank you for this, truly. We’ll act on it by this evening.”

He nodded, rising slowly. “ I’ll speak with the generals to keep the watch tight.”

As he made his way to the door, he paused once more, looking back.

Elijah was gathering her brushes again, Soohyun now reading over her shoulder, and Gaon setting the empty bowl aside with a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

“Your Majesty,” In Guk said, his voice calm, “when you were little, you once told me you didn’t believe in peace. Only intermissions.”

Elijah looked up.

“And now?” she asked.

He offered a small bow. “Now, I believe in your kind of peace. The one that includes warm tea, scoldings, and people who refuse to let you starve for the sake of ink and empire.”
Elijah’s lips curved upward.

“I’ll try not to disappoint.”

He inclined his head and left, the warm laughter of the Sujeongji and the Empress trailing faintly behind him.

***

The imperial mausoleum lay shrouded in a hush that was almost sacred. Beneath the hush of the pine boughs, incense coiled in slow ribbons—its smoke curling like ancestral breath, silver threads woven through air heavy with memory. Time, it seemed, did not pass here—it only deepened.

The Empress Dowager sat still before the row of memorial tablets, her back straight, her hands resting gently on her lap. In front of her, incense sticks burned low in their tray, tendrils whispering upward, carrying silent prayers to those who once bore the weight of crowns and fates. Her grey robes trailed like river mist across the flagstones. Around her, the mausoleum sighed.

Once, the imperial lineage had spread like a banyan — thick, tangled, proud. Now, it was whittled to ash and wind, reduced to two living names: Kang Yohan—the prince who was content to walk in shadows and Kang Elijah, the young girl-turned-sovereign who bore her mother’s stubbornness and her father’s fire. She prayed for them both.

Outside, the divine bells murmured on the wind—soft, playful, as if tugged by an unseen child’s hand. They chimed not in warning, but in wonder. As if even the wind itself had grown tired of grieving.

Yohan approached with slow steps, his cane tapping gently against the earth. He had not expected to find her here, not this morning, not beneath these withered columns of stone. But there she was, unchanged as ever—quiet, composed, and remote as moonlight.

He hesitated, and she looked up.

“Come,” she said, her voice neither warm nor cold, only tired in the way oceans are tired of crashing against shore. “It’s time you remembered where you come from.”

He lowered himself beside her, careful with his breath, with the ghost of ache that still clung to his limbs. Even now, the cost of that final night—the night the palace drowned in fire and blood—lingered in his bones. Gaon often scolded him for overreaching. Elijah watched him too closely. Even Eunha had learned to fuss, much like her brother.

Only the Empress Dowager let him wear his weariness like armor.

They sat in silence for a time. Together, they watched the smoke drift, watched it weave through names chiseled in stone, through empires turned to ash.

“You’ve grown,” she said at last, “into the man your mother feared you’d become.”

Yohan blinked. “Feared?”

“She was afraid you’d be lonely.”

He did not answer.

The Dowager exhaled, her breath carrying memories like leaves scattered in autumn. “You are young still, but I see that look in your eyes. The ache of someone who has known silence too long. The way you look at the Sujeongji—it is not the look of one waiting. It is the look of one afraid to reach.”

Yohan swallowed but said nothing. It was true, and he hated how well she knew it.

“I have seen that look before,” she said softly, her gaze lost to the incense haze. “In mirrors. In moonlit windows. In letters I never sent.”

He turned to her then. She looked smaller than he remembered—shrunk not by age, but by memory.

“I loved someone once,” she said, her voice barely above the whisper of bells. “Before the palace. Before duty. Before blood.”

Yohan did not interrupt. The wind had stilled to listen.

“I was the first daughter of the General’s household,” she said, her tone a distant tide. “My father taught me sword forms beneath the gingko trees. My mother taught me calligraphy, poetry, the rituals of hosting, the politics of silence. I loved their house. I loved the warmth. I loved the son of the Chancellor.”

Yohan looked at her then—truly looked. And he saw not the Empress Dowager, not the matriarch of a kingdom, but a girl of thirteen, cheeks flushed, fingers ink-stained from writing love poems in secret.

“We were betrothed. He had dimples when he smiled. I was happy. Foolish. Happy.”

Her lips curved faintly, a smile borrowed from a time that had since died.

“And then the emperor saw me.”

The words hung heavy.

“He was already near fifty. He took what he wanted. Always did.”

Yohan’s hand closed over the head of his cane.

“They executed the Chancellor’s family for treason. All of them. No trial. Just fire and steel. I was seventeen. There was no time to grieve, only to survive.”

The incense had burned low now, and the smoke wavered like breath.

“Your mother,” she murmured, “was a palace maid. She had eyes like yours—dark, searching. The emperor found her drunk one night and forced her to his bed. She bore him a son and was given a passing title to preserve the illusion of grace. We were friends, in the way palace women become friends. Quietly. Desperately.”

“She died young,” Yohan said. “I never knew why.”

“Poison, perhaps. Or heartbreak. Or both. The palace eats women like her alive.”

She paused. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap before she folded them once more.

“The first Empress tried to protect me. She shielded me from the worst of it for as long as she could. But the garden was full of snakes. And I— I lost a child not long after the emperor claimed me.”

A long silence followed.

“I never held him,” she said. “Not even once.”

Yohan bowed his head.

“They called me strong. But strength is not the same as healing.”

For a long time, they sat together beneath the shadow of their dead.

And then, as the wind stirred again, she turned to him, eyes sharp with memory and gentle with warning.

“Don’t be me, Yohan.”

He looked up.

“Don’t wait until love becomes ghost. Don’t let grief write your story. Don’t leave the hand that has already reached for you trembling in the dark.”

Yohan’s throat ached.

“You still have time,” she whispered. “Use it.”

They stood together, slowly, painfully. The bells above the mausoleum rustled softly, the light turning honey-gold through the overgrown trees.

And from the East Annex, like a ripple of sunlight upon water, came the faint but unmistakable sound of Eunha’s gayageum. A song once forbidden in the royal court, now sung again in the time of peace.

The notes wound through the stones like a promise. A lullaby for ghosts. A blessing for the living.

Yohan closed his eyes.

And when he opened them, he was no longer afraid.
***

The corridors were quiet at this hour, their candle-lit arches folding over one another like hands clasped in prayer. Night had unspooled across the heavens, a velvet shawl stitched with silver threads, and the wind that wound through the palace was hushed, reverent—as though even the spirits held their breath this late into the hush of a world finally at peace.

Kim Gaon walked slowly, sleeves flecked with bits of yakgwa dough, the scent of honey and sesame still clinging to his hands. Eunha had been insistent—if their mother’s recipe was to survive, it had to be passed on exactly. No more approximations. No more scattered flour and forgotten times. They had spent hours kneading, shaping, tasting. Then burning the first batch. Then laughing.

And in between, Kyung-Shin had shown up under the pretense of delivering herbs, only to scoff at Gaon’s wrist posture when he stirred the sugar. One bickered over dough, the other over stances and stabs, until Eunha had thrown her apron at both and declared the kitchen unfit for life, let alone dessert.

It had been a long, loud day. The kind Gaon used to dream about having. The kind he had never thought he’d see again.

The guards bowed low as he passed, but he barely noticed them, his steps easing into the rhythm of the marble under his feet, the soft sound of cicadas humming somewhere in the garden. The palace was no longer haunted. Not the way it used to be. Laughter had returned to its hollows. So had mourning. And music. And the living.

He slid the door open quietly, careful not to wake anyone. But Yohan was not asleep.

He sat on the wide platform bed, pale robe loose at the collar, hair unbound. One hand rested near a closed book, the other reached slightly toward the door—as though he had been about to rise but changed his mind. His eyes, now no longer sharp with distrust or weary with despair, softened when they saw Gaon.

“You’re late,” Yohan murmured, voice low, rough with disuse.

“You say that like you weren’t waiting up.”

Gaon moved to unfasten the outer layers of his robes, but stopped when Yohan’s fingers caught the hem. A small gesture. No demand. Just that quiet reaching.

“I dreamt of your hands again,” Yohan said. “You were eleven. Flour-covered. Angry at me. Because I wouldn’t eat your dumplings.”

“They were half-cooked,” Gaon muttered, easing down beside him.

“They were yours,” Yohan replied. “I would’ve eaten rocks.”

Gaon turned to look at Yohan properly then—eyes still shadowed from the bloodletting night, still carrying the weight of a life too long denied softness. The man who had died and returned and still learned how to kneel.

“You should rest,” Gaon said gently. “Elijah expects you at council tomorrow.”

“I will. But not alone.”

Gaon blinked, then stilled.

Yohan didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. The fingers that brushed his wrist again were answer enough. The small tilt forward of a body aching for warmth not from blankets but presence. The way he leaned into Gaon as one would lean into the knowledge of being forgiven.

For a long moment, they stayed like that. Breathing. Listening to the night murmur.

Gaon smiled, tired but unguarded.

“The Empress Dowager told me not to waste time,” Yohan said. “That you wouldn’t wait forever.”

“I didn’t,” Gaon replied. “You just came before I had to stop.”

He turned then, folding into Yohan’s side like a returning tide. The two of them fit together now—not with the desperation of those who had nothing left to lose, but with the quiet reverence of those who had lost and still, somehow, found their way back.

Yohan let out a breath, long and uneven, like something unspooling from the base of his lungs. His forehead brushed Gaon’s temple.

“Will you stay?” he asked.

Gaon didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted, one hand rising to cradle the curve of Yohan’s cheek, thumb ghosting just under his eye, as if to trace the exhaustion that clung there still. The other found the back of Yohan’s neck, gentle, steady, anchoring him.

Then he leaned in.

It wasn’t urgent, or sharp, or trembling. It was a kiss that had waited sixteen years. A kiss shaped by silences and longing and the sound of Elijah’s first laugh. A kiss that tasted faintly of sesame oil and grief. Slow and uncertain, but sure.

Yohan kissed back like a man who had forgotten the shape of mercy but remembered it the moment their mouths touched.

And when they pulled apart, it wasn’t distance that lingered—it was breath, shared and warm.

Outside, the wind brushed against the lanterns, shadows dancing over walls lined with old calligraphy and new scrolls. On one table sat a folded note in Soohyun’s elegant script, informing Gaon that she was traveling to her friend in the south in two days’ time. Another bore a half-finished sketch of the new orphan school Elijah was building near the lotus banks. Peace, as always, was a work in progress. But it had begun.

Yohan’s hand curved over Gaon’s wrist, thumb resting in the hollow where a pulse beat steadily beneath the skin.

Shadows pooled quietly along the floor. The candles flickered lower. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the world stirred gently into dawn. But here—in this quiet room, in this single breathless sliver of time—the story stilled.

***

𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕—

𝙾𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜.

𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚏.

𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚞𝚓𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚒 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝—
𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎,
𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍.