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Zoey is nine and her first breath of Jeju is all pines.
These are the perfect trees for the season, and this is the perfect season to arrive at this island, she decides. Nothing like the crisp autumn wind to go with the minty undercurrent pushing through the earthiness of the garden. Rows upon rows of tall white flowers she'll have to identify later grow neatly within their designated space, not a petal out of place—like ballerinas awaiting their cue. She does a curtsey before marching on.
There are neighbors, that much she knows, but not within miles. The nearest town is further still—the drive to the estate from the airport was long. Zoey isn't sure what to make of the open space, the way the sky stretches uninterrupted from horizon to horizon. Her breath in the afternoon chill raises high like a poor imitations of the imponent clouds gathering above.
All she can hear is the gravel under her—and, trailing behind her, her mother's—feet, the distant creaking and swaying of the trees in the breeze, and the local birds flitting about. No cars, no crowds.
Standing there in the middle of the courtyard, in between a rigid garden and an aging building, Zoey realizes she's never been surrounded by this kind of quiet before; not in Burbank nor Busan. All-encompasing, pervasive.
Zoey feels a pang in her chest that sours the wonder of a new discovery. Loneliness takes many shapes, and this is a new one.
"No running inside! How many times do I have to tell you?"
As if challenging her growing unease, a loud voice pierces the silence. It pops her increasingly melancholic bubble with little effort. Zoey rushes to hide behind her mother, who simply sighs and pets her gently.
"Sorry, Celine!" A second voice, younger than the first.
"Yeah, sorry, Celine," a third drawls, mocking. "Mommy's girl."
"Shut up, Mira!"
"Girls!"
The chastising is all too similar to the frustration her teachers would display. There is a tone she can't quite identify yet, much too young to know, but the lack of immediate compliance speaks volumes. Still, she clings to her mother.
Out of the main building come barreling a pair of children who cannot be much older than Zoey—a year at most. They both try going through the front door at once—a wide enough opening for two kids their age were they not squabbling—, which only results in them elbowing each other in their rush.
"Ow! You're stabbing me!"
"I'm literally just trying to walk here. Move!"
They fall into a colorful heap on the front porch, followed by a woman who seems to be the dictionary definition of exhausted. Her dark hair shines briefly under the sun, revealing the stray gray strands already growing in, and there's a reluctant fondness in her eyes as she observes the pile in front of her. The sigh that exits her lungs has all the weariness that would be expected to come out of a war veteran.
"You two, behave." She takes the victory of the kids standing and dusting themselves off before shifting her focus to their guests. "Haneul, I'm glad you could make it. I trust you had no trouble getting here?"
She greets Zoey's mother amicably, offering a hand and getting pulled into a hug instead.
"Of course not. How have you been?"
Momentarily stunned, Celine is broken out of her stupor by the snickering behind her. "Uh. I've been well, yes. Thank you." She pats Haneul's back once, twice, then steps back in order to look at the large brown eyes peeking out from behind her. "And hello to you too, Zoey. I'm glad we're meeting again."
Zoey's first time meeting Celine had been at a café in Busan, a much more familiar space. They're in her home this time, where Zoey will be staying for the foreseeable future; something about communicating with the pretty lights she sees out of the corner of her eyes, the silent rhythm she can feel deep in her chest. It's supposed to lessen her nightmares too.
But Celine knows how to do all that. She's kind and her mother likes her. Bravely—because she's been taught to be polite—Zoey peeks out to greet Celine. From behind her, two pairs of curious eyes scrutinize her intensely. She squeaks and hides again.
"Oh, darling, it's alright." Haneul, clearly masking her amusement, attempts to coax Zoey out from behind her. She pushes her forward gently. "Come out to say hi, will you?"
For her part, Celine walks behind the other kids, smacking the back of their heads—more chastising than painful. "And will you two stop staring like that? You haven't even introduced yourselves. I taught you better than this."
"Sorry, Celine," they say in unison, properly mellowed out.
The one with purple hair in a tight braid that cannot be comfortable steps forward first, shoulders squared up and thick eyebrows furrowed with determination. She walks right up to Zoey and bows, perfectly rigid.
"We apologize for our behavior. We didn't mean to scare you." She rises again and extends an arm, once again perfectly rigid and abruptly enough that Zoey is startled. "I'm Ryu Rumi. Nice to meet you."
Next goes the taller kid with a bad hot pink dye job and severe face, the one she's heard Rumi refer to as Mira. Zoey wonders if she'll have to dye her hair too.
"God, you're so weird." Zoey's heard it so many times before directed at herself with that same eyeroll Mira is doing, but never accompanied by the fond little smile, warm look and supportive hand on Rumi's shoulder. "But she's right. Sorry for startling you. Name's Mira." She doesn't reach out physically, but her relaxed stance and cool demeanor are just as welcoming.
Zoey's gaze flits between them both and something clicks, like finally finding the song corresponding to the melody stuck in her soul. Just like that, her remaining wariness fades, and she takes Rumi's hand.
"I'm Zoey. Choi. As in, that's my last name."
Rumi's eyes widen and she grips Zoey's hand with both of hers. "Oh, right! Celine said you lived in America? What's it like?"
Mira says nothing but her eyes are so intense on Zoey that she doesn't notice her mother walking away with Celine.
"Um. Yes. From California. Well, Burbank if we want to be specific. West coast, woo! Though I've spent the last little while in Busan with mom. And Seoul. She lived there with my grandma for a bit before we moved to Busan last year. But- but yeah, I'm from America." The longer she speaks, the redder her face goes and the higher her shoulders go.
There is a brief pause. Zoey wants to be a tortoise to burrow underground.
"Woah," Rumi breathes out, "you've been everywhere."
She sounds so genuinely amazed that Zoey doesn't know what to do with it. Mira just nods along, face serious.
"I-I haven't really?"
"I've never left Jeju," Rumi pouts.
"And I've never been to America."
"Can you say something in English?"
"Is that a seal?"
Only when Mira points down to her jacket does Zoey's head stop moving back and forth between the two.
"A sea lion, actually. A sea lion," she repeats in English, to Rumi's delight. "They're easy to confuse though! But sea lions have the ears like this, and seals just have a little hole. If you see one just flopping around on its belly then it's a seal, because their flippers sit on their sides, unlike sea lions who can put them under their body to walk. Their claws are also super tiny, while seals- They, uh. Have longer claws. And- and yeah."
Rumi's head tilts like a curious puppy, while Mira frowns and crosses her arms. Zoey stares stubbornly down at the ground.
"Why did you stop like that?" Mira's tone is gruff, straight to the point. Zoey is surprised to see the hint of a pout.
"I was, uh, done talking. That was it."
"But it sounded like you were going to say more. You know so much about animals, it's so cool." Zoey's hand belongs to Rumi now, it seems, with the way she still holds it like her favorite toy. "Tell me more."
She sounds almost demanding, yet there's an earnestness in her eyes that prevents Zoey from thinking the worst. Likewise, Mira's accusations seem less like actual anger and more like guarded disappointment that she wouldn't get to hear further.
"Do you really don't mind? I kind of have a hard time shutting up. I can go on for a long time. And- and then I'll lose track and start talking about something else."
"As long as we get to have snacks, I don't care." Mira shrugs nonchalantly before grunting, having taken Rumi's elbow to the side.
"What she means is we'd love to hear what you know. Do you want shrimp chips? There's some in the kitchen. You can tell us more about animals. Do you know anything about bears?"
"A little, yeah," Zoey mutters, flabbergasted.
Without waiting for an answer she's already bring dragged inside, bracketed behind by Mira.
Ouside, her mother and Celine stand by the garden, observing the interaction with equal amusement.
"They seem to have hit it off just fine," Haneul smiles, not without poorly disguised relief. "This will be good for Zoey."
Celine sighs again, more melancholic than tired. "It'll be good for all three."
Mira is twelve and utterly incapable of saying no.
It is, however, a behavior exclusive to her two best friends. Only friends, really. On any normal circumstance and with anyone else, Mira will refuse to comply or budge even an inch if she sees no point in doing so. She's a stubborn little thing like that.
Rumi and Zoey are a special case. There's little she can deny those two; more often than not she'll go along with their shenanigans. Somehow when they're together their levels of mischief seem to multiply rather than just add up. Truly a menace.
It's with that demanding tone of hers that Rumi asks her to teach them ballet one day. Zoey had shown her a presentation on TV of the Nutcracker, which in turn had made Rumi bring up Mira's past dalliances as a dancer. Now they both wanted to learn from her, and it absolutely had to be her because Zoey had looked up tutorials online and they were very wordy and slow.
Instead of bringing up their weekly dance classes and the very expensive professional instructor Celine had hired for them, Mira agrees.
A couple days later they gather at the dance studio—a repurposed warehouse, according to Celine. Mira sets up a few diagrams to jog her memory, an online guide for beginners, and the music she had chosen—including some Tchaikovsky, of course.
She looks wistfully at the forms, itching to stretch her muscles and mimic them as she once did. The structure and rigidity is a distant yet fond memory of the few truly happy moments; almost half a lifetime away. It all seems so far now, having had such a short time on earth.
Still, she wouldn't exchange the new freedom that modern techniques bring. Never before has she felt so connected to the protective fabric of the Honmoon; a soft blanket that has kept her warm and safe for the past few years.
Her finger hovers over the play button, but her focus is elsewhere; Zoey is in the other extreme of the building, sat on the ground and reciting facts about her latest discoveries.
Mira has heard this preamble before, all the different kinds of bears in the world. She also knows this is their leader's favorite rant. While Zoey's knowledge spans not only animals but movies and music and many other different topics—she had once spent an afternoon teaching them about cars—, and both Mira and Rumi enjoy hearing about them all, they have their predilections. Mira is a goner for any sort of fashion talk, while Rumi has a very clear fixation on bears.
Mira had found out shortly after arriving at Jeju, during the brief period where she didn't know what to make of Rumi's awkwardness, given her own wary demeanor. Celine, bless her soul, had thought to find common ground between them, and ended up revealing Rumi's stuffed bear collection. The poor girl had been mortified and immediately complained to her guardian that Mira would now find her lame. Mira however had just ended up laughing at the situation as a whole, and offered to make some clothes for them. To this day she would never let Rumi live it down.
Zoey had latched onto the fact the second she found out. She'd purposefully go on rabbitholes to find new information she could talk about with them both. Rumi was delighted at the prospect of learning more about her favorite topic in such a fun way, while Mira was rather flustered at being paid such close attention.
Now, hearing them both go back and forth on the topic, she can't help but think this is her favorite sound in the world. What a sap.
The music marks the start of the lesson. Mira has always been the most gifted at dancing, given her experience and a natural leaning towards physical expression rather than verbal. She enjoys having such precise control of her body and movements, and it translates perfectly to her technique.
That said, Rumi and Zoey aren't far behind. The latter runs on her own metronome, imperceptible to the ear but perfectly in tune with any beat she needs to follow; all she does is translate it to her limbs. Rumi, on the other hand, has a natural poise to her that elevates her stance as she gracefully transitions between positions.
They are, however, inexperienced in this particular field. Zoey cannot for the life of her handle the rigidity and stillness of the exercise, while Rumi gets caught multiple times by her limited flexibility.
It's nothing Mira hasn't seen before, but she hesitates in her instructions. Perhaps she should have started out simpler, or explained better, or maybe her tone hadn't been right. She remembers her classes, the way kids would become frustrated and envious, sneering at her for supposedly showing off in the face of their struggle. Even more than ever, her friends' irritation would be her fault and she'd have to deal with the fallout.
For a brief moment, she remembers her parents.
But Zoey has made a game of it. She pouts and groans and sticks her tongue out, but every time she stumbles out of position, she tries again and has Rumi count the seconds she can hold still. On every attempt she lasts a little longer, struggles a little less.
Rumi's furrowed brows and prissy foot stomp make knots twist in Mira's stomach. She's sure she'll quit, seeing her walk towards the door, but she just drinks some water and then sits down in order to go over her stretch routine again. She enlists Zoey's help to act as a spotter and push her just a little further. Once she's ready, she tries the transition again and it goes a bit better.
They spend the whole time asking for Mira's input, for tips and fun facts; they ask the name of positions, about songs, about outfits. They make plans to ask Celine to go to Seoul, to visit a theatre and watch ballet live. Rumi notes she'll ask their physical education tutor to include working on flexibility in the future, and Zoey brainstorms about working classical music into a modern beat. She even asks Mira for her favorite song.
Mira isn't sure what to make of it all. They work at it long enough to end up tired and sprawled out on the floor, where Mira just stares up at the ceiling as she tries to process the surprising amount of fun she had during the whole thing.
"Mira, you're like, the coolest person I know. Sorry, Ruru."
"No no, you're right. You're so good at explaining, Mir. It's insane."
"Right?! She could totally be a teacher."
"Yes! You're super clear and talented, and you're so patient too!"
"Rumi has a point. We messed up so many times and you didn't lose your cool once! Even Jeong-seonsaengnim gets on my case whenever I get distracted."
"Oh!" Rumi sits up before crawling towards Mira, covering her view of the ceiling. "You have to do a full routine for us sometime. Show us how it's done."
"Oh my god, yes! Mimi, you have to." Now Zoey is crowding her too, gripping her arm and shaking her. "Please say you'll do it, unnie. Pretty please. With a cherry on top!"
"How do you put a cherry on it? And what does that have to do with anything?"
"It's a way of speaking!"
They continue to bicker as Mira slowly turns as pink as her hair and visibly fights off a dorky grin from spreading across her face. Her carefully crafted nonchalant demeanor and unaffected persona is at stake here, all because this is the most sincere praise she has ever received. The most recognition she has faced of her work. The most loved she has felt in her entire life.
How dare they make her feel so seen. How dare they slither between her ribs, past the cage guarding her heart, and squeeze it so gently. How dare they make her such a sap.
Try as she might to contain it, she breaks out into embarrassing giggles that soon have the three of them collapsed in a heap and laughing to their hearts' content on the studio floor. Celine finds them there hours later, napping in the most uncomfortable position possible on the hard surface. She has no words of comfort when they complain about sore muscles, but does commend them for their hard work.
As for Rumi, well—she never lets Mira live this one down.
Rumi is fifteen and far more conflicted than she should at that age.
Slowly but surely the weight of the world has been deposited upon their small shoulders. Their days are still filled by regular schooling, but more and more of their previous free time is consumed by new obligations. It's not just the idol training—singing, songwriting, dancing, performing, media management; the list is endless—, but also their responsibilities regarding the Honmoon. It's upkeep, harnesing its power, and most importantly, its protection from the forces that seek to destroy it.
Age brings clarity to a number of things they had taken for granted by now; their connection to the Honmoon, the way they had been drawn together, and the nightmares that had plagued them since childhood.
Their art is what is supposed to reach the souls of the masses, whose energy in turn would keep the barrier between Earth and Hell strong. They'll channel that energy, restore the Honmoon as needed, and use the weapons it would provide them to fight off any stragglers that managed to rip their way through it. Fairly simple, all things considered.
Rumi is fifteen and finally understands that she has inherited her parents' sins.
Her mother had forgotten her mission and got herself killed for her troubles. Her father had failed to resist the allure of the demon king and lost his humanity for it. She was the result of a long series of bad decisions and the Honmoon had chosen her to fix them, reminder included.
It takes time for her to finish wrapping her mind around this information—Celine's lack of tact aside. Beyond what she had assumed to be an odd birthmark that had grown along with her, Rumi couldn't think of anything particularly demonic in her person. Sure, her hair was unnaturally violet—which Mira had never believed she was born with, logically—and her canines were rather large and sharp—Zoey said they were very bear-like, to her delight—but nothing in her demeanor suggests the mindless want for death and destructions that demons possess. She's never felt compelled to consume any souls, of that she's certain.
Becoming older was supposed to make her understand better the severity of her and the world's situation, but all it has brought has been bitter resentment. It hasn't helped that Celine has taken a rather aggressive approach to the matter. The years have turned her strict and distant, irritable and considerably less lenient than when they were younger.
Mira has noticed, of course, and has started giving their guardian a wide berth when possible, like handling a bomb about to go off. Zoey instead seems to be mostly gunning for staying on her good side, and swearing up and down that it'll pass. Her friends' distress is Rumi's own; seeing them so skittish and walking on eggshells does little to endear her to Celine's methods.
Her own talks with their guardian have also taken a turn for the worse. Her patterns had always been a touchy subject that never went beyond hushed reminders to keep them covered; Rumi can barely remember what excuse Celine had cooked up for it. Since the revelation of their significance, the comments had turned into harsh reprimands behind closed doors—to watch what she wears, how she moves, and most importantly, to keep her secret from her friends.
It's the hypervigilance and secrecy that tips the glass over; something's gotta give, or Rumi isn't sure how she'll bear two more years of this.
As leader, her team's wellbeing has become her responsibility—Celine had said as much, although likely not thinking about their mental turmoil. Their latest task had been the handling of smaller rifts in the Honmoon; never too far away, nor consisting of large waves of demons. Rumi in particular had been tasked with managing their increasingly busy schedule given incursions more often happened during the night. A trial by fire of sorts, to get a taste of what they'll be handling one day without the security of their training grounds.
It wears on them, and Rumi can tell. Her irritation with their mentor grows, and that in turn begins taking more and more of her focus away.
It all comes to a head one rainy night, when the muddy ground of the forest surrounding the nearby town is the most slippery. When the darkened new moon turns its light away from the earth, enshrouding them and their enemies in darkness. Where the hunters keep each other safe, demons are relentless and unforgiving, paying little mind to each other as they close in on the girls.
They win as they always do—as they must do—but not without souvenirs. Zoey had slipped on a boulder while trying to get a clear shot of a demon and acquired a nasty bruise for her troubles. Mira had dodged an attack too slowly, and now claw marks on her calf sluggishly wept blood. Even Rumi had fallen wrong after a jump and could feel her ankle smarting. They needed to return to the compound before the adrenaline wore off.
Years ago, she'd run to Celine, weepy and whiney, and the woman would treat her wounds with a caring touch and soothing voice. Now all she expects is a reprimand and extra training, when all she wants is to make sure her friends are safe—the friends she had failed to protect.
They stand in front of her now, soaked to the bone and covered in mud, and Rumi braces herself.
"How did it go?"
"Fine," Mira mutters.
Rumi gives her a look that Celine must interpret as chastising.
"It went fine! Just, you know, really dirty." Zoey grins uncomfortably and shrugs. Bit of mud splat on the ground for added effect.
Rumi is speechless, and all she can say is: "The rift was closed without incident."
Seemingly satisfied, Celine sends them to get cleaned.
They rush to the bathroom the same way Rumi's blood rushes in her ears. They had just lied to Celine. Mira and Zoey had purposefully pretended to be unharmed. They had just given their mentor a false report of a hunt. Rumi might faint.
"Shh, stay still." Zoey winces as she dabs at Mira's wound before turning to Rumi. "Can you turn on the shower? The noise should cover this."
Mechanically she obeys this and any subsequent instructions Zoey gives her, finding purchase in clear goals to complete. Deep down, she mulls over what happened.
There is a branching path before her she had never even seen before. In a lifetime of fulfilling a legacy she was born into, of fixing mistakes she was born with, this is the first time she has been presented with the possibility of choice.
Perhaps this is the real reason why the Honmoon brought them together; the reason why it wove their souls together with its invisible strings. It's a sign, perhaps, of what she must do moving forward.
Once Mira has been patched up, they both fuss over Zoey, who keeps insisting she's fine. They wrestle her into letting them put ointment on her purpling bruise. Rumi's aching ankle anchors her down. This is what they do: protect and care for each other, but beyond that, they trust each other to do the same for them.
Rumi can trust them. Time and time again, over the years, she has put her heart in their hands and found it handled with overwhelming care. Shouldn't she trust them with the secret she's been forced to keep close to her chest?
What Celine doesn't know won't hurt her. She'll never find out about tonight's mission. She doesn't have to be aware of Rumi's secret spilling over and reaching her team.
When she asks them to sneak out of the hanok through her bedroom window, they don't hesitate to follow. The night is dark and they're exhausted, but the rain has cleared and neither girl offers much beyond performative complaints; they can feel the weight of Rumi's request, perhaps.
They trail through towering pines, past the garden and towards the graveyard. Their journey isn't enveloped in pitch black; the Honmoon glimmers in and out of sight like a loyal hound at their heels.
Rumi stands in front of her mother's grave, with Mira's hand on her shoulder and Zoey wrapped around her arm. Not a word is spoken between them as they give Rumi the space to gather her thoughts.
It's in that space that Rumi has planted and allowed to grow a seed of trust. It has taken root around her heart, inexorably threaded into her soul, and would one day come to grow into something greater, more imposing than even the Dansang tree. Not yet, but years down the line, when the Honmoon and its hunters face the Demon King Gwi-Ma himself, when both humanity and their bond are threatened most, it will be this trust that keeps them from falling apart.
It's this trust, now, that gives her the courage to take a leap of faith.
"I need to tell you something."