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Baek Saheon does not believe in gods; this is something he has repeated often enough, both to others and to himself, that it has hardened into something like principle, though if pressed he might admit that it is less belief and more refusal, a quiet, stubborn rejection of anything that would dare to claim ownership over his life.
Jisan village is built on belief.
That is its rot.
Everything here bends toward the mountain; every prayer, every offering, every carefully cultivated fear dressed up as reverence, and Saheon has spent years learning how to exist within it without letting it touch him, how to slip through the cracks of expectation without being caught.
But escape has always been theoretical.
Until now.
The attic is not meant for him. It had always smelled faintly of rot; Baek Saheon had noticed it as a child and learned, quickly and without ceremony, to ignore it, the same way he ignored most things in Jisan.
He hates it here. That is the simplest truth, the one that settles at the center of his chest and refuses to be softened no matter how many times he tries to justify it, because there is nothing here worth staying for, nothing that does not come with a cost disguised as tradition, nothing that does not eventually circle back to that mountain and the quiet, waiting thing beneath it.
So when he finds the text, it does not feel like discovery so much as inevitability.
It is hidden beneath a loose plank, wrapped in cloth gone brittle with age, the ink inside dark and stubborn as if it has refused to fade out of sheer spite; the script twists in ways that make his eyes ache, lines curving too sharply, letters pressed together as though they are trying to conceal themselves even as they are read, and yet he understands enough, enough to piece together intent, enough to recognize what it is offering him.
A way out.
Not a clean one, not a safe one, but he has never been naive enough to expect either.
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The ritual takes longer than he expects; the circle must be exact, the chalk unbroken, the sigils carved into the wood floor with a blade that splinters slightly under pressure, leaving shallow grooves that catch at his fingertips when he runs his hand over them again and again, checking, correcting, ensuring that nothing has been left incomplete, because he knows—knows with a certainty that settles somewhere deep in his bones—that mistakes here will not be forgiven.
He has no intention of becoming another story told in hushed voices.
Still, there is a flicker of arrogance beneath the caution; he has done everything correctly, every line precise, every mark accounted for, and the circle is whole, closed, protective, and so whatever answers him will remain contained.
It will have to.
He begins.
The air shifts first, a subtle thing, the kind of change that might be dismissed if he were less attentive, if he were anyone else; the dust in the attic lifts slightly, trembling as though caught in a breath that has not yet been exhaled, and the shadows deepen, not lengthening but thickening, pooling at the edges of the room like ink seeping into paper.
Then the temperature drops.
He feels it along the back of his neck, a slow, creeping chill that slides beneath his skin and settles there, patient, waiting.
The circle holds.
He watches it, eyes fixed, pulse steady in a way that surprises him, because he has always thought himself practical rather than brave, but perhaps the two are not so different when there is nothing left to lose.
The thing arrives without spectacle. There no thunder, no rupture of space, only a gathering, a condensation of something that should not have shape and yet insists upon it anyway, smoke thickening into form, black and shifting, the suggestion of limbs unfolding from it, of a body that refuses to remain still long enough to be fully understood.
Antlers rise from it, first as shadow, then as substance, branching wide and uneven, sharp at the tips as though they have been honed for violence rather than display.
It does not step beyond the circle.
It cannot.
Saheon feels a flicker of satisfaction at that, brief and sharp, the kind that comes from being proven right.
Then the thing turns its attention to him.
The room tilts, just slightly, as though the world itself has been nudged out of alignment; he feels it in his bones more than he sees it, a subtle wrongness that makes his breath catch before he can stop it, and for a moment—only a moment—he considers the possibility that he has miscalculated after all.
Words form in the air between them, not spoken but written, smoke curling into letters that hold their shape just long enough to be read.
I will fulfill your request.
The letters dissolve, reform, shifting with a patience that feels deliberate.
Will you pledge yourself as my guiding companion in this world?
Saheon does not answer immediately; he is not reckless, no matter how it might seem, and yet he can feel the weight of the question pressing against him, the way the air itself seems to pause, waiting.
Jisan offers him nothing but a slow, inevitable death disguised as tradition; the lottery, the mountain, the quiet, smiling acceptance of a fate he has never agreed to, and here—here is something else, something that might be worse, yes, but at least it is different, at least it is his choice.
He nods.
It is a small movement. Deliberate and final.
The pain is immediate.
It burns along his arm, a sharp, searing line that splits the air from his lungs, his body jerking despite himself as he looks down, watching the skin blister and split, the mark carving itself into him with efficiency as though it has been done a thousand times before.
Socius.
The word settles into his skin, dark and unyielding.
When he looks up again, the thing in the circle is changing.
The smoke collapses inward, folding, compressing, until it is no longer smoke at all but flesh, pale and smooth and entirely, impossibly human; the antlers vanish last, dissolving into nothing as the shape stabilizes, resolves, becomes—
A man.
No, not just a man.
Saheon stares.
He is beautiful in a way that feels almost aggressive, as though beauty itself has been sharpened into something that can cut; his hair falls soft against his face, dark and slightly damp as though he has stepped from water rather than smoke, his eyes a vivid, unnatural red that catch the low light and hold it, reflecting it back in a way that makes them seem almost luminous.
His mouth is soft, lips full and faintly flushed, the kind of pink that suggests warmth even when everything else about him feels cold, and below that—
Saheon looks away, abruptly, heat rising in his face before he can stop it.
He is naked.
Entirely, unapologetically naked, his body lithe and lean in a way that draws the eye despite Saheon’s best efforts, long lines of muscle beneath pale skin, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that feels almost deliberate, as though he is aware of being watched and does not mind it in the slightest.
His thighs—
Saheon swallows, hard, dragging his gaze upward again with something that feels suspiciously like irritation.
“Put something on,” he snaps, already moving, already grabbing at the nearest piece of clothing he can find, because this—this is absurd, this is not how this is supposed to go, there are rules, there should be rules, and he has followed them, he has done everything correctly.
The man—no, the god—tilts his head, watching him with a quiet, curious expression that borders on amused.
“You summoned me,” he says, and his voice is soft, smooth in a way that slides easily into the spaces between words, “and yet you seem dissatisfied.”
Saheon throws the clothes at him.
“I didn’t summon you for—this.”
The god catches them easily, unbothered, unhurried, as though time moves differently for him, as though he is not bound by the same urgency that presses against Saheon’s ribs, the same need to fix, to control, to understand.
“Then what did you summon me for?” he asks.
Saheon hesitates.
Escape, he wants to say; power, safety, anything but this place, anything but the quiet inevitability of Jisan and its waiting mountain, anything but the slow suffocation of a life that was never meant to be his.
Instead, he says nothing.
The god smiles.
It is not a kind expression.
As Saheon watches him pull the clothes on—slowly, deliberately, as though the act itself is something worth savoring—he feels a cold, creeping realization settle into him, heavier than the mark still burning along his arm, heavier than the knowledge of what he has done.
He has escaped nothing.
Not yet.
When the god finally speaks, voice soft, almost gentle—
“I am yours,” he says, “and you are mine.”
—it does not sound like a promise, but certainty.
Saheon stands there, clutching the edge of the attic door, heart beating too fast in a body that suddenly feels far too small, and he cannot help but wonder if he has just traded one kind of doom for another.
Escape, he knows, is never given freely.
And gods—
Gods do not bargain without intent.