Chapter Text
The morning sun spilled over the eastern mountain peaks like molten gold, slipping through the narrow gap where the great lake sat cradled between two cliffs. By the time the light reached the valley floor, it had softened into a warm, honeyed glow that touched everything with gentle fingers—the orchards heavy with blossoms, the neat rows of winter wheat already knee-high, the stone walls of the manor house that had stood for three generations.
Euijoo had been awake since before dawn.
He moved through his morning chores with the ease of long practice, his bare feet silent on the worn stone paths that connected the various buildings of his home. The manor itself was a thing of beauty—three stories of grey stone quarried from the mountain itself, its corners carved with intricate patterns that his paternal grandmother had designed. Vines climbed the eastern wall, their white flowers just beginning to open. The windows were large and rectangular, fitted with glass that had been brought across the ocean in his grandparents' ship, and they caught the morning light like mirrors.
Behind the manor, the water tower rose against the sky—a great cylinder of fitted stone, nearly forty feet tall, with a heavy iron weight visible through the arched openings near its top. The weight had been rising slowly all morning as water from the mountain lake fed into the chamber below, storing power for the day's work. From somewhere inside the tower came a deep, rhythmic breathing sound—the piston moving, the pressure building, the quiet heart of the valley's hidden industry.
Euijoo paused at the edge of the kitchen garden to breathe it all in. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of wet soil from the fields he had watered an hour ago, the sweetness of fruit blossoms from the orchard beyond the barn, and the faint mineral tang of the waterfalls that cascaded down from the mountain lake. He could hear those waterfalls even now—a distant, soothing roar that had been the lullaby of his entire life.
The garden before him was a patchwork of green. Rows of early carrots and beets pushed through the dark soil. Peas climbed their wooden trellises. The herb spiral near the kitchen door overflowed with rosemary, thyme, sage, and the first tender shoots of basil. Everywhere he looked, there was life growing, thriving, waiting.
He had planted most of it himself.
Not bad for one pair of hands, he thought, though the thought carried no pride—only a quiet acknowledgment of necessity. There was no one else to do it.
*
The animals were waiting for him at the barn.
The barn itself was a long, low building of stone and timber, its roof peaked and covered in slate. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the smell of hay, manure, and animal warmth. The cows lowed when they heard his footsteps— over sixty of them, mostly Holsteins and Jerseys, descended from the four cows his grandparents had brought from the new continent. Their stalls were clean and freshly bedded with straw, their water troughs full from the pipe that fed directly from the aqueduct.
"Easy, easy," Euijoo murmured as he moved among them, his hands running over warm flanks and broad backs. He checked each one quickly—eyes bright, coats glossy, hooves sound. The cows leaned into his touch, and he smiled despite himself. Animals, at least, were honest. They did not pity him or wonder at his solitude. They simply accepted his presence and asked for food, water, and the occasional scratch behind the ears.
The pigs were next—a snorting, rooting chaos of pink and black that surged toward him when he opened their pen. There were nearly three hundred now, far more than he could ever use, but they bred so quickly and seemed so happy that he couldn't bring himself to cull them as ruthlessly as he should. He slopped them with a mixture of whey from yesterday's cheese-making and spoiled vegetables from the root cellar, and they devoured it with furious gratitude.
The sheep regarded him with their usual mild indifference as he moved through their pasture, checking for any signs of illness or injury. Their wool was thick and heavy now, ready for the spring shearing he had been postponing for lack of motivation. The fleeces from last year still filled half the storage room in the barn's upper floor—clean, carded, and waiting to be spun into yarn he would never use.
I could clothe an entire village, he thought, and the thought was not new. If there were a village to clothe.
The chickens and ducks were last, a flurry of feathers and indignant clucking as they spilled out of their coop and into the fenced run. Euijoo scattered grain for them and collected the eggs—two full baskets, far more than he could eat before they spoiled. He would preserve some in isinglass, give some to the pigs, and try not to think about the waste.
By the time he finished with the animals, the sun had climbed above the eastern peaks and the valley was fully awake. Euijoo stood at the barn door for a moment, wiping his hands on his leather apron, and looked out at his home.
The valley spread before him like a painting. To the north, the mountain lake glittered blue-white under the morning sky, its waters feeding the aqueduct that ran along the cliff face in a graceful arc of stone and mortar. The aqueduct was one of his grandfather's greatest achievements—a channel wide enough to walk beside, supported by arched pillars that marched down the mountainside like the legs of a giant. Water rushed through it constantly, singing a song that changed pitch with the seasons.
Below the aqueduct, three water towers stood sentinel over the village. And beyond that, clustered around the manor like children around a parent, were the other buildings of his inheritance: the creamery where he made butter and cheese, the laundry with its water-powered agitators, the textile mill that had not run in years, the forge where his grandfather had once shaped iron, and the long, low storehouses carved into the base of the western cliff.
The storehouses were full. So full that Euijoo had started stacking overflow in the manor's spare rooms, the guest chambers where no guests ever slept, the library where he read by lamplight until his eyes grew heavy.
He was twenty-two years old. He was the last wolf of his line. And he had more than he could ever use.
The thought should have brought comfort. Instead, it sat in his chest like a stone.
*
The rest of the morning passed in a rhythm of small tasks.
He watered the kitchen garden, using the hose connected to the hydraulic pump, watering the seedlings that would become his summer vegetables. The pump was connected to the hydraulic network. A century ago, such a thing would have seemed like magic. To Euijoo, it was simply how the world worked.
He pruned the roses that climbed the western wall of the manor, collecting the cuttings in a willow basket. The blooms were just beginning to open—pink and cream and deep crimson, their fragrance sweet enough to make him pause and breathe deeply. His grandmother had planted these roses. She had told him their names once, but he had forgotten. He remembered her hands, though—soft and wrinkled, covered in the same soil that now covered his.
He checked the beehives at the edge of the orchard. The bees were active, their bodies dusted with pollen from the fruit trees, and he left them alone. Their honey would be ready to harvest in another month, and the thought of it—golden and thick, dripping from the comb—made his mouth water.
He swept the stone path that led from the manor to the barn, chasing away the leaves and petals that had fallen overnight. The path was lined with carved stone pillars, each one topped with a lantern that he lit at dusk. The carvings told stories—his grandfather hunting a great bear, his grandmother tending to a sick wolf, ships crossing an endless sea. Euijoo knew every figure by heart. He had traced their outlines with his fingers as a child, learning the history of his family through stone.
By midday, the sun was warm on his shoulders and he had worked up a thirst. He drew a cup of water from the tap in the kitchen—cold, clean, running fresh from the mountain lake—and drank it standing at the window, looking out at the valley he would someday leave to no one.
*
The sugarcane waited for him in the courtyard behind the manor.
Euijoo had harvested it three days ago, cutting the tall stalks at the base and stripping the leaves by hand. The canes were piled in a cart near the copper cauldron—a massive thing, wide as his arms could span and deep enough to stand in, its surface burnished to a dull gold by years of use. His grandfather had bought it from a trader who had crossed the ocean, and it had been boiling sugarcane juice every spring for longer than Euijoo had been alive.
He built a fire beneath the cauldron first, stacking the kindling and logs with practiced efficiency. The flames caught quickly, crackling and snapping as they grew. Then he began to work.
The sugarcane juice was already pressed and strained, stored in stoneware jugs in the cool room off the kitchen. Euijoo carried them out one by one, pouring the pale green liquid into the cauldron until it was two-thirds full. The juice smelled sweet and grassy, with a hint of something earthier underneath.
He measured the quicklime carefully—a small scoop from the ceramic jar in the storehouse—and mixed it with water in a clay bowl. The reaction began immediately: the mixture hissed and steamed, growing warm in his hands as the lime dissolved. He waited until the bubbling stopped, then poured the milky white liquid into the cauldron.
The eggs came next. He broke a dozen of them against the rim of a stoneware crock, separating the whites from the yolks with deft fingers. The yolks he set aside for later—they would become custard or mayonnaise or simply be fed to the pigs. The whites went into the cauldron, joining the juice and the lime.
He stirred it all together with a long wooden paddle, his arm moving in slow, steady circles. The mixture began to foam, a thick crust rising to the surface. This was the impurities leaving the juice, the dirt and plant matter that would ruin the sugar if left in.
The fire crackled beneath him. The cauldron began to simmer.
Euijoo worked in silence, his thoughts drifting as they often did during repetitive tasks. He thought about the leather he had tanned over the winter—fifteen deer hides, three cowhides, a handful of rabbit pelts. They were soaking in oak bark tea for the final stage of tanning, and he would need to check them tomorrow. He thought about the wool he had yet to spin, the flour mill that needed cleaning, the water-powered saw that had been making a strange noise last week.
He thought about the silence.
It was not a loud silence. The valley was full of sounds—the waterfalls, the birds, the wind in the trees, the distant rush of the aqueduct, the occasional lowing of a cow. But there was no voice but his own. No footsteps but his own. No laughter, no arguments, no whispered conversations in the dark.
It could be worse, he told himself, as he always did when the loneliness crept too close. I could be hungry. I could be cold. I could have nothing.
He had everything. Everything except company.
The syrup began to thicken as the water boiled away, turning from pale green to amber to deep gold. Euijoo skimmed the crust from the surface again and again, each pass of his paddle bringing a new layer of impurities to the top. The kitchen garden smelled of sugar now, sweet and rich, and he breathed it in.
When the syrup was clear and heavy—when it clung to the paddle and dripped in thick, slow ribbons—he knew it was ready.
He ladled it carefully through a cloth stretched over a clay pot, filtering out the last bits of scum. The liquid that emerged was the color of honey, translucent and beautiful. He poured it into the inverted ceramic cones that stood in a wooden rack near the cauldron—twelve of them, each one fitted with a stopper at the narrow end.
The sugar would crystallize over the next few days, the molasses draining out through the stopper and leaving behind pure, white crystals. He would dry them in the sun, grind some to powder, leave some as granules, and store them in ceramic jars for the year ahead.
He would not use half of it.
He would do it again next spring anyway.
*
The cake was an afterthought, but a welcome one.
Euijoo had buttermilk left over from yesterday's butter-making—a thick, tangy liquid that would sour if he did not use it soon. He mixed it with flour from his own mill, eggs from his own hens, sugar from last year's harvest. The batter came together easily, smooth and pale, and he poured it into a cast-iron pan that had been greased with butter from his own cows.
The oven was built into the kitchen wall, its iron door hot to the touch. He had lit the fire in it hours ago, using the heat to warm the kitchen while he worked, and now the coals were perfect—glowing red beneath a layer of white ash. He slid the pan inside and closed the door, then set about making tea.
The porcelain tea service was one of his grandmother's greatest treasures, brought across the ocean in a crate packed with straw and carried to the valley with more care than almost anything else she owned. It was the finest porcelain in the world, his grandfather had told him, made in a royal workshop across the sea where human craftsmen spent months on a single cup. The paste was so fine and white that it seemed to glow, and the glaze was so brilliant that the cups looked as if they had been dipped in liquid glass.
Euijoo had dozens of pieces. Dozens. Plates and bowls, cups and saucers, teapots and coffee pots and chocolate pots, platters and tureens and serving dishes. They came in every color his grandmother could acquire—bleu céleste like a clear summer sky, rose Pompadour like the inside of a seashell, deep green like the forest after rain, and white so pure it seemed to reflect light. Every piece was decorated with gilded rims and hand-painted scenes: flowers and birds, landscapes and figures, sometimes so finely detailed that he had to hold a cup close to his face to see the individual petals on a rose.
Today, he chose the royal blue set.
It was his favorite—bleu de roi, his grandmother had called it, the color of kings. The cups were so thin he could see the light through them, the porcelain translucent as butterfly wings. Gold rims circled the edges, gleaming warmly, and gold detailing traced the handles and the lid of the teapot. Painted on each piece were scenes of spring—blossoming branches, nesting birds, butterflies emerging from their cocoons—done in colors so vivid that they seemed to have been painted yesterday rather than decades ago.
The teapot was round-bellied, with a curved spout and a lid topped with a tiny gold finial. Euijoo lifted it carefully, feeling its weight in his hands, and carried it to the table.
He treasured these pieces. Not because they were valuable—though he knew they were—but because his grandmother had loved them. She had run her fingers over their gilded rims, had held them up to the light to admire their translucence, had poured tea for his grandfather from this very pot a thousand times.
He could still see her hands, soft and wrinkled, cradling a cup.
He could still hear her voice, telling him the name of each color, each pattern, each scene.
"This one is called 'bleu céleste,' little one. See how it looks like the sky? Your grandfather chose this one for me. He said my eyes were that color."
Euijoo poured his tea.
The liquid steamed in the cup, dark against the royal blue, the gold rim catching the afternoon light. He added a spoonful of honey—golden, thick, from his own bees—and stirred it with a silver spoon.
The tea was hot. The cup was warm in his hands. The scent of honey and bergamot rose with the steam.
He sat alone in the flower garden, surrounded by beauty, and drank from a cup that had crossed an ocean and survived for generations.
His grandmother would have wanted him to enjoy it.
He tried.
The cake was done by the time he finished his first cup of tea, golden-brown and fragrant. He turned it out onto a wire rack to cool, and the smell of butter and sugar filled the kitchen, mingling with the lingering sweetness of the sugarcane.
He cut a slice while it was still warm, placed it on a small plate, and carried it outside.
*
The flower garden was his grandmother's legacy.
She had designed it herself, laying out the paths and beds with the precision of a painter composing a canvas. The result was a masterpiece of color and fragrance—roses and peonies, lavender and lilies, jasmine climbing the stone walls and wisteria draping from a wooden pergola. A fountain stood at the center, its basin carved from a single block of grey stone, water bubbling up from a pipe hidden in the base.
Euijoo sat on the stone bench near the fountain, setting his plate and cup on the low table beside him. The late afternoon sun was warm on his face, and the shadows of the pergola stretched across the grass like fingers.
He poured his tea. He took a bite of cake. He closed his eyes and listened.
The waterfall sang its distant song. The fountain chimed in close harmony. A thrush called from somewhere in the orchard, answered by another bird farther away. The wind moved through the wisteria, shaking loose a few petals that drifted down like purple snow.
It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was everything his grandparents had dreamed of when they built this place.
And it was empty.
Euijoo opened his eyes and looked at the manor. The glass windows caught the sunlight and turned it into fire. The carved doors—oak, banded with iron, carved with scenes of harvest and hunt—stood closed and silent. The smoke rose from the kitchen chimney in a thin, straight line, vanishing into the blue sky.
I have everything, he thought, and the words tasted like the tea—warm, bitter, and sweet all at once. Everything except someone to share it with.
He finished his cake. He finished his tea. He sat in the flower garden as the sun sank toward the western peaks, and he let the loneliness wash over him like water over stone.
It did not break him. It never did.
But it wore him down, a little more each day.
*
The first light of dawn found Euijoo already awake, though he had lingered in bed longer than usual. The silk sheets pooled around his waist, the same shade of blue as the velvet curtains that draped the four corners of his bed—light and soft, like the sky just before rain. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles from yesterday's work, and listened to the morning sounds drifting through the open window: birdsong, the distant rush of waterfalls, the low murmur of the aqueduct.
He rose and dressed simply, as he always did for the morning chores. The under-robe was white linen, soft and cool against his skin. The over-robe was cotton dyed a pale dove grey, knee-length, with only a small embroidery of bamboo shoots along the cuffs—his grandmother's touch, even on his most practical garments. He secured it with a narrow sash of woven silk in a muted sage green, then pulled on his trousers—white linen, tapered at the ankle—and a pair of soft leather slippers for the indoor work.
*
The morning chores passed in their familiar rhythm.
He fed the animals first, moving through the barn with practiced efficiency. The cows lowed their gratitude. The pigs snorted and jostled for position at the trough. The sheep regarded him with their usual serene indifference, and the chickens erupted from their coop in a flurry of feathers and indignant clucking.
He collected the eggs—two full baskets again—and carried them to the cool room, where he preserved them in isinglass, stacking the jars on shelves already crowded with last week's preserving. He told himself he would give some away someday, to someone, if someone ever came.
After the animals came the gardens. He watered the vegetable beds first, using the hose connected to the hydraulic pump—the water pressure strong and steady, carrying the cold mountain water to the thirsty roots. The early carrots were nearly ready to harvest, their orange shoulders pushing up through the dark soil. The peas had begun to climb their trellises, tiny tendrils curling around the wooden stakes. The herbs near the kitchen door overflowed their spiral, rosemary and thyme and sage and the first tender shoots of basil.
He pulled a few weeds, pinched back the mint before it could overtake the corner bed, and checked the beehives at the edge of the orchard. The bees were already active, their bodies dusted with pollen from the fruit trees—peach and plum and apple and pear, all heavy with blossoms that promised a good harvest.
By the time he finished, the sun had climbed above the eastern peaks and his stomach was growling.
*
Breakfast was a quiet affair, as all his meals were.
He ate at the small table in the kitchen rather than the grand dining room—a round oak table with a pietra dura top, its surface inlaid with lapis lazuli flowers and malachite leaves, framed in gold leaf that caught the morning light. The table had belonged to his maternal grandmother, who had loved beautiful things. Euijoo had eaten at this table every morning of his life, and he no longer saw the jewel-bright stones or the shimmering gold. He only saw the table.
His plate was silver, engraved with a pattern of overlapping vines. His fork and knife were silver as well, their handles chased with tiny flowers that his grandmother had designed herself. He did not think about the fact that in the outside world, a single silver spoon would be a treasure worth killing for. He had been told, of course. His grandfather had explained it to him when he was young, sitting him down in this very kitchen and showing him a bronze coin and an iron coin and a silver ring.
"Most wolves have never seen silver except on the fingers of chiefs," his grandfather had said. "And you eat from it every day. Do you understand how strange that is, little one?"
Euijoo had nodded, because his grandfather expected him to. But he had not truly understood. He still did not, not really. The silver was just... there. It had always been there. It was as ordinary as the stone walls of the manor or the water that ran from the tap.
He ate his eggs—fried in butter from his own cows—and his bacon and sausages from the pigs he had slaughtered last autumn. The bread was fresh from yesterday's baking, still soft, and he spread it with butter and a thin layer of honey from his own bees. The vegetables were pickled—cucumbers and carrots and tiny pearl onions, preserved in jars that lined the cool room shelves. The fruit was dried—apple rings and pear slices and clusters of grapes, chewy and sweet.
It was a good meal. A plentiful meal. A meal that would have fed a family of six for a day, and he ate it alone.
*
When he finished, he washed his plate and fork and knife in the stone sink, using soap he had made from animal fat and lye. The water ran hot from the tap—heated by the back-boiler behind the kitchen stove, circulating through copper pipes that snaked through the walls. He dried the silver with a soft cloth and returned it to the drawer, where dozens of matching pieces lay in velvet-lined compartments, each one engraved or chased or embossed with patterns that told stories he had long since memorized.
Then he thought about fish.
He had been craving trout for days—the clean, delicate flavor of it, fresh from the river, cooked over an open fire with herbs from the garden. His grandfather had taken him fishing when he was young, teaching him to cast the net and read the water and recognize the shadowy shapes of fish beneath the surface.
"The best trout are in the river beyond the woods," his grandfather had said, pointing southwest, toward the mountains and the forest beyond. "You have to leave the valley to find them, but it's worth the journey."
Euijoo had not left the valley in months. He did not need to—everything he required was here, within the shelter of the mountains. But the craving for fresh trout would not leave him, and the day was warm and the sky was clear, and he found himself wanting to feel the sun on his face beyond the valley walls.
He decided to make an occasion of it.
*
He went to his bedroom to dress.
The room was beautiful, though he rarely stopped to notice. The walls were paneled in light, warm-colored wood, each panel carved with intricate scenes of flora and fauna—vines curling around tree branches, birds in flight, foxes hunting rabbits, fish swimming through reeds. His grandmother's hands had not touched this carving; it had been done by craftsmen in the new continent, brought over on the ship with the rest of the treasures. But the skill was unmistakable. The leaves seemed to rustle in the firelight. The birds seemed poised to take flight.
His four-poster bed dominated the room, its curtains of light blue velvet hanging straight and still. The sheets were pure silk in the same shade of blue, soft as water, cool against the skin. He had slept in this bed every night since he was five years old, when he had come to live with his paternal grandparents after his parents died. It had felt too big then, too empty. It still did.
He opened the lacquered wardrobe—black lacquer with mother-of-pearl inlay, flowers and butterflies shimmering in the dark surface—and considered his options.
Something beautiful, he decided. The day deserved it.
He chose a robe of purple silk, so deep and rich it seemed to glow in the morning light. The embroidery was extraordinary: colorful flowers tumbled down the sleeves and across the back—peonies and chrysanthemums and plum blossoms—while birds with long tails and spread wings flew among them, their feathers picked out in threads of gold and silver and copper. The robe fell to his knees, and the sleeves were wide, and when he moved, the silk whispered against itself like wind through grass.
The sash was even more remarkable. It was woven from spider silk—not the rough, common silk of silkworms, but the finer, stronger, more luminous silk of golden orb-weaver spiders. The color was not dyed; it was natural, a pale, gleaming gold that seemed to hold light within its threads. His grandfather had told him that people in the past, seeing such fabric for the first time, had thought it was made of real gold.
What Euijoo did not know—what no one had ever thought to tell him—was that even if the fabric was not gold, it would still cost a fortune to buy. A fortune that would feed a clan for a year. A fortune that clans would go to war to possess.
He wrapped the sash around his waist and tied it in a simple knot, the ends falling to his knees, finished with tiny gold tassels.
His trousers were white silk, plain but lustrous, and his boots were black leather that reached mid-shin, soft and supple from years of wear. He had owned these boots since he was sixteen, and they had molded to his feet like a second skin.
*
The jewelry came last.
He opened the smallest of his lacquered boxes—this one dark red, decorated with flakes of gold and mother-of-pearl butterflies—and lifted out the pieces his grandparents had given him when he came of age.
The earrings were gold, each one a delicate flower with five petals and a tiny pearl at the center. The necklace was gold as well, a thin chain that held a pendant shaped like a blooming flower, its petals detailed with tiny engraved veins. His grandparents had told him the designs were meant to match his honeysuckle scent, though neither the earrings nor the necklace actually depicted honeysuckle. It was the thought that mattered.
He put them on, the cool metal warming quickly against his skin.
The bracelet was thick gold, heavy on his wrist, its surface chased with a pattern of overlapping leaves. He had three rings: one simple engraved band on his right hand; one set with a faceted emerald, deep green and gleaming, on the same hand; and one set with a faceted yellow diamond, pale as morning sunlight, on his left hand.
He looked at himself in the mirror—the gilded frame carved with vines and flowers, its gold leaf catching the light—and saw a stranger. A prince of a lost kingdom. A fool who dressed for a court that no longer existed.
He smiled anyway.
Then he gathered his fishing net, two knives, a short sword, and a wooden bucket, and he set out.
*
The valley was beautiful in the late morning light.
He walked past the three water power towers that stood sentinel over the workshops—great cylinders of fitted stone, their iron weights slowly rising and falling as they stored and released energy. Each tower served a different purpose: one powered the textile mill, one powered the woodworking shop, one powered the forge and the sawmill. All of them hummed with contained power, the deep breathing of pistons and the soft rush of water through iron pipes.
He passed the smallest of the three manors—his parents' home, located on the far side of the valley, closer to his paternal grandparents' manor where he now lived. The stone walls were grey and solid, the windows dark, the doors closed. He had not been inside in years. The dust would be thick, the air stale. He told himself he should clean it someday, but someday never came.
He passed the largest manor, the one that had belonged to his maternal grandparents' pack. It was the grandest building in the valley—three stories of pale stone, with a portico of carved columns and a roof of dark slate. The windows were tall and arched, fitted with glass that had been brought across the ocean. The doors were oak, banded with iron, carved with scenes of harvest and hunt. Treasures filled every room: lacquered cabinets, pietra dura tables, silver tea services, gold jewelry, porcelain of every kind, silks, and velvets, and brocades from across the sea.
It had been a month since he last cleaned it. He should go soon, he thought. The dust would be accumulating.
He walked on.
*
The cave entrance was hidden at the western edge of the valley, tucked into the base of the mountains, almost invisible if one did not know where to look. The opening was narrow—barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side—and the rock walls were damp and cool, covered in moss that glowed green in the dim light.
Euijoo paused at the threshold, as he always did.
Beyond this point was the outside world. The forest, the river, the wolves he had never met. He had been beyond the cave many times—his grandfather had taken him hunting and fishing and foraging—but he had never gone alone without purpose. Today, he had purpose.
He stepped through.
The forest beyond the mountains was dense and old, the trees tall and thick, their branches weaving together to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into green-gold beams. The air was cooler here, heavy with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves and the sharp sweetness of pine resin. Euijoo moved quietly, his boots silent on the soft ground, his eyes scanning the shadows between the trees.
He kept his hand near the hilt of his short sword, though he did not draw it.
The river was a twenty-minute walk from the cave, following a game trail that wound through the forest. He had walked this path a hundred times with his grandfather, and his feet remembered the way even when his mind wandered. The sound of rushing water grew louder with each step, and soon he could see the glint of sunlight on the surface through the trees.
The river was wide here, the water clear and cold, running fast over a bed of smooth stones. The banks were lined with ferns and moss-covered rocks, and in the deeper pools near the far bank, he could see the shadowy shapes of fish.
Trout. His mouth watered.
He found his grandfather's favorite spot—a flat rock that jutted out over a deep pool, where the current slowed and the fish gathered. The rock was warm from the sun, and he sat down cross-legged, arranging his bucket, his net, and his knives within easy reach.
The first cast took him a moment to remember—the swing of the net, the flick of the wrist, the timing of the release. But the muscle memory returned quickly, and the net flew out over the water, spreading wide, sinking into the pool.
He waited.
When he pulled the net in, there was one trout—a good size, plump and silver, its scales flashing in the sunlight. He removed it carefully, placed it in the bucket with some water, and cast again.
The second cast brought two trout, both smaller but still worth keeping. He added them to the bucket and sat back, satisfied.
That's enough, he thought. No need for waste.
He already had more than enough of that.
*
The sun was past its zenith when he finished, the afternoon light warm and golden. He had gathered his net and was about to pick up his bucket when a thought occurred to him—or perhaps it was not a thought but a feeling, a restlessness under his skin, a longing that he could not quite name.
It had been a while since he had shifted.
He could not shift in the valley. The animals at the farm got startled and scared when he did—the cows lowed in distress, the pigs squealed and scattered, the chickens refused to lay for days. So he had learned to keep his wolf contained, to let it sleep, to ignore the itch beneath his skin.
But here, in the forest, far from the farm, there was no one to frighten.
He looked around, checking the riverbank for any sign of danger. The forest was quiet—birds singing, insects humming, the water rushing over the stones. No strange scents on the wind. No unfamiliar sounds.
He set down his bucket and began to undress.
The purple silk robe came first, folded carefully and laid on a clean rock near the water's edge. The golden sash followed, draped over the robe. His white silk trousers, folded and placed on top. His boots, set side by side on the ground, the leather warm from walking.
The jewelry came last. He removed the earrings and placed them on the silk of his robe, then the necklace, then the bracelet. The rings he slipped off one by one—the simple band, the emerald, the yellow diamond—and set them in a small pile, gleaming in the afternoon light.
He stood naked at the edge of the river, the cool breeze brushing his skin, and let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
Then he shifted.
The change was smooth and familiar, a ripple of heat through his bones, a stretching of his limbs, a blurring of his vision as the world shifted from human colors to wolf. Where a lean, tall young man had stood, now stood a red-furred wolf—lithe and elegant, with long legs and a narrow chest and eyes the color of a stormy sky.
He shook out his fur, relishing the feel of the wind in it, and then he ran.
Along the riverbank he flew, his paws silent on the soft ground, his body moving with a grace and speed that he rarely allowed himself. The trees blurred past. The water rushed beside him. The sun warmed his back, and the air filled his lungs, and for a few precious moments, he was not lonely. He was not the last of his line. He was simply a wolf, running because he could.
He ran until his sides ached and his tongue hung loose, and then he turned back.
Halfway to his fishing spot, he shifted back to his human form. The change was just as smooth in reverse, and he continued walking naked through the forest, letting the afternoon breeze brush his skin, letting the sun warm his bare shoulders.
Nudity had never truly bothered wolves the way it did humans. His grandfather had told him that once—told him that humans got very upset when wolves walked down the street naked after shifting back, that humans had made laws requiring wolves to shift only in designated areas. Here, in the forest, there were no humans. There were no laws. There was only Euijoo and the trees and the river and the sun.
He walked without hurry, enjoying the feeling of freedom, the simple pleasure of being alive.
*
He reached his fishing spot and stopped.
Someone was there.
A stranger hovered over Euijoo's things—his purple silk robe, his golden sash, his jewelry piled on the rock. The stranger had not heard him approach. He was bent over, one hand reaching toward the pile of gold rings, his face half-turned away.
Euijoo froze.
The stranger was a few inches shorter than him, with grey hair that fell to his shoulders in soft waves. His skin was pale, almost luminous in the afternoon light. He wore a coarse woolen robe in beige, secured with a reddish-brown cord that had seen better days. His trousers were brown wool, patched at the knees, and his leather boots were scuffed and worn, the soles thin, the laces frayed.
From his scent—peony and red apple, sweet and warm—the boy was an omega.
But not only that.
Euijoo's nose caught other scents clinging to him, overlaying his own—alpha musk, strong and unfamiliar, multiple alphas, all male. The boy was not alone. He was part of a pack, and that pack was somewhere nearby.
Euijoo's heart thumped hard in his chest, so loud he could hear it in his ears.
The stranger looked up.
Dark green eyes met bluish-grey.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The river rushed past. A bird called somewhere in the trees. The afternoon sun continued to warm the world, indifferent to the two wolves staring at each other in shock.
Then the stranger dashed away.
He ran fast, disappearing into the trees before Euijoo could even think to chase him. And Euijoo did not chase. He was naked, unarmed, his short sword still lying on the rock with his clothes. And the boy had others with him—alphas, strong ones, somewhere in this forest.
If they attacked, Euijoo would not survive.
He dressed quickly, his hands shaking as he pulled on the silk robe and tied the golden sash. He stuffed the jewelry into the bucket with the fish—no time to put them on properly, no time for care—shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his net and his knives and his sword, and ran.
He ran through the forest, back toward the cave, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding in his throat. The trees blurred past. The ground slipped under his feet. He did not look back.
The cave entrance appeared through the green gloom, and he ducked inside, the cool darkness enveloping him like a shroud. He kept running until he emerged into the valley, into the sunlight, into the place that was his and his alone.
He stopped at the threshold, panting, and considered the cave walls.
He could scent them. He could mark the entrance with his own smell, announce to the world that this territory was claimed. Alphas did it all the time—scenting their borders, warning intruders to stay away.
But his grandfather's voice echoed in his memory, clear as if he were standing beside him.
"Never do that, little one. Wolves will stay away from territories claimed by alphas. But if they smell a beta or an omega marking a territory, it will only tempt them to invade."
Euijoo was a beta. His scent would not warn intruders away. It would invite them in.
He left the cave unmarked.
*
The rest of the day passed in a blur of fear and restless pacing.
He put the fish in the cool room, though he no longer had any appetite for them. He washed the bucket and set it aside. He returned his jewelry to the lacquered box, the gold rings and bracelet and necklace and earrings clinking softly against each other as he laid them back in their velvet-lined compartments.
He tried to eat dinner, but the food tasted like ash in his mouth.
He tried to read, but the words swam before his eyes.
He tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.
He lay in his four-poster bed, the silk sheets cool against his skin, the blue velvet curtains drawn closed around him, and stared at the carved wooden canopy above his head. The birds and flowers and vines seemed to mock him with their tranquility.
They know where the cave is, he thought. The omega saw me. He saw where I came from. He knows.
And he has alphas with him. A pack of alphas.
They will come.
He did not sleep that night. He lay awake, listening to the sounds of the valley—the waterfalls, the aqueduct, the distant hum of the water towers—and waited for the attack that he was certain would come.
*
What he did not know was this:
In the forest, hidden among the trees, a pair of dark green eyes watched the cave entrance long after the red-haired wolf had disappeared inside. The grey-haired omega crouched low, his heart still racing, his mind still reeling from what he had seen.
The gold. The silk. The jewelry.
And the wolf—naked, unafraid, beautiful—walking through the forest as if he owned it.
The omega had never seen anyone like him.
He waited until the sun set and the stars came out, watching the cave, that hidden entrance that led to who knew what. Then he turned and slipped back through the trees, back toward the camp where his pack waited, back toward the alphas who would want to know what he had found.
*
Euijoo woke the next morning with his heart already racing.
The fear from the day before had not faded with sleep. If anything, it had settled deeper into his bones, a cold weight in his chest that made every breath feel like a struggle. He lay in his four-poster bed for a long moment, staring at the carved canopy above his head, and tried to convince himself that he was being foolish.
They were just as scared as I was, he thought. The omega ran. He didn't attack. He didn't call for his pack. He just ran.
But the omega had a pack. And that pack had alphas. And those alphas would want to know what their omega had found.
Euijoo forced himself out of bed and went through his morning chores, but his hands shook as he fed the animals, and he nearly dropped the basket of eggs, and he forgot to water the vegetable garden until the sun was already high in the sky. The familiar rhythm of his day offered no comfort. Every shadow seemed to hide a watcher. Every sound seemed to herald an attack.
He ate breakfast without tasting it, the silver fork heavy in his hand, the engraved vines on the handle catching the light. He washed the dishes and put them away. He stood at the kitchen window and stared out at the valley—the orchards, the gardens, the water tower, the stone walls of his home—and felt, for the first time in his life, that it was not a sanctuary.
It was a trap.
If they found the cave entrance, there was no way out except through the cave. And if they blocked it, he would be sealed inside his own valley, surrounded by mountains too tall to climb and forests too dense to escape.
He needed to do something. He needed to move. He needed to stop standing still and waiting for the attack that might never come.
He decided to clean.
*
His maternal grandparents' manor was the largest building in the valley, three stories of pale stone with a portico of carved columns and a roof of dark slate. It had been a month since he had last cleaned it, and the dust had accumulated in a fine grey film over every surface.
Euijoo spent three days there, working from dawn until dusk.
He swept the stone floors of the great hall, where the walls were paneled in dark wood carved with scenes of hunting and feasting. He dusted the lacquered cabinets—black and red and dark green, decorated with mother-of-pearl and flakes of gold—and polished the silver tea service that sat on the pietra dura sideboard. He washed the windows, thirty of them, each one fitted with glass that had crossed the ocean in his grandparents' ship. He beat the rugs and hung them in the sun to air. He scrubbed the kitchen counters and the stone sink and the cast-iron stove that had not been lit in years.
He worked until his muscles ached and his mind went quiet. There was no room for fear when he was scrubbing a floor or polishing a silver candlestick. There was only the task, the movement, the simple satisfaction of making something clean.
The manor had thirteen bedrooms, each one frozen in time—beds still made, clothes still folded in wardrobes, jewelry still lying in lacquered boxes on dressing tables. Euijoo had not touched his maternal grandparents' possessions since they died. He could not bring himself to move them or use them or give them away. So he dusted them instead, running a soft cloth over gold rings and silver combs and silk robes that would never be worn again.
On the third day, as he polished the last of the mirrors—a tall, gilded thing in the grand foyer, its frame carved with flowers and fruit—he realized that his hands had stopped shaking.
The fear was still there, buried beneath his ribs. But it no longer controlled him.
*
The next day, he decided to clean his parents' manor.
It had been years since he had set foot inside it. The building stood on the far side of the valley, closer to his paternal grandparents' manor where he now lived, its stone walls grey and silent, its windows dark. He had avoided it for so long that the path to the front door had become overgrown with weeds.
He spent the first hour just opening the windows, letting the stale air out and the fresh spring air in. The dust was thick—years worth of it, settled over every surface like a second skin. His mother's silver hairbrush still sat on her dressing table, her strands of red hair resembling his own tangled in the bristles. His father's boots still stood by the door, the leather cracked and dry.
Euijoo worked in silence, as he always did when he was here. He dusted and swept and scrubbed and polished. He washed the silk curtains and hung them to dry in the sun. He beat the velvet cushions and aired the feather beds. He cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom and the small library where his father had liked to read.
His parents' manor was smaller than his grandparents', simpler in its layout, but just as luxurious. The walls were paneled in warm wood, carved with vines and birds. The furniture was inlaid with marquetry—flowers and butterflies and scenes of forests and rivers. The silver was kept in a cabinet in the dining room, tarnished but still beautiful, waiting for hands that would never use it again.
It took him five days.
By the end of it, the manor gleamed. The windows sparkled. The floors shone. The silver hairbrush was clean, though he could not bring himself to remove the strands of red hair from its bristles.
He stood in the doorway of his parents' bedroom and looked at the bed where they had slept, the wardrobe where their clothes still hung, the small lacquered box on the nightstand where his mother had kept her jewelry. He did not open it. He could not.
But he had cleaned it. He had honored them. And for the first time since he had seen those dark green eyes in the forest, he felt like he could breathe.
*
A week passed. Then another.
The attack did not come.
Euijoo began to relax, little by little. He stopped jumping at every shadow. He stopped sleeping with his sword beside his bed. He went back to his regular chores—feeding the animals, watering the gardens, preserving the eggs, churning the butter. He even went fishing again, though he chose a different spot on the river, farther from the cave, and he did not shift.
Two weeks after the encounter, he had almost convinced himself that he had imagined it. That the grey-haired omega had been a ghost, a trick of the light, a fever dream born of loneliness.
He was wrong.
It happened on the fourteenth night.
Euijoo was preparing for bed. He had bathed in the marble tub, the hot water steaming in the cool evening air, and had dried himself with a soft linen towel. He wore only his under-robe—fine white linen, so sheer that it was nearly translucent—and short underpants that barely covered his privates. His feet were bare on the cold stone floor. His hair was still damp, curling at the ends.
He was about to blow out the lamp when he heard it.
Rustling. Outside his window.
He froze, his hand hovering over the flame.
The sound came again—soft, deliberate, the whisper of fabric against stone. Someone was outside. Someone was moving along the wall of the manor.
Euijoo's heart leaped into his throat. He turned slowly, his eyes fixed on the window, his ears straining for any other sound.
Then the scents hit him.
Wolves. Multiple wolves. In his territory.
The smells were unfamiliar—strange alphas, strange omegas, a tangle of scents that did not belong here. They were close, too close, just outside the manor walls. And there were many of them.
Euijoo did not think. He grabbed his sword from its place beside the bed—the blade was steel, well-made, brought from the new continent by his grandfather—and ran.
He flew down the staircase, his bare feet silent on the stone steps, his under-robe billowing behind him. The great hall was dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. He crossed it in seconds, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, and threw open the front door.
The night air hit him like a wave—cool and sweet, carrying the scent of the flower garden and the distant waterfalls. But beneath those familiar smells were others. Strangers. Wolves.
And there, standing in the moonlight, was an alpha.
He was the most beautiful wolf Euijoo had ever seen.
His hair was gold—pure, pale gold, like the inside of a wheat stalk or the first light of dawn. It fell in soft waves around a face that was all sharp angles and smooth planes, high cheekbones and a strong jaw and lips that curved into a smirk as soon as their eyes met. His eyes were gold too, bright and piercing, seeming to glow in the darkness.
He was perhaps an inch shorter than Euijoo, but his body was built like a god—thick with muscles, broad shoulders and a wide chest and arms that strained against the fabric of his robe. His clothing was simple—wool, Euijoo thought, though he could not distinguish the color in the moonlight—and his boots were worn, the leather scuffed and stained.
His scent was amber and musk, rich and warm and utterly, unmistakably alpha.
Euijoo faltered.
The strength and power emanating from this wolf made him hesitate, made his grip on his sword waver, made his wolf want to submit. But he pushed the feeling down, forced himself to stand tall, reminded himself that this was his territory, his home, his valley.
They had come here. They had invaded. He had every right to defend himself.
He unsheathed his sword.
The blade caught the moonlight, gleaming silver-bright, and Euijoo ran.
He charged at the golden-haired alpha, raising the sword high, aiming for the shoulder—not to kill, not yet, but to wound, to drive him back, to show him that this territory was claimed and defended.
He never reached him.
Two figures emerged from the darkness on either side of him, moving faster than he could track. Hands grabbed his arms—one on each side—and yanked him backward. His feet left the ground. His sword swung wide, missing its target by a foot. And then he was on his knees, the stone path hard and cold beneath him, his arms pinned behind his back.
The wolf on his right had pale skin and black hair that fell across his forehead, and dark brown eyes that watched him with cold calculation. His scent was oud and roses—deep, smoky, floral. An alpha. He held Euijoo's right arm twisted behind his back, his grip like iron.
The wolf on his left had pale skin as well, but his hair was cream-colored, almost white in the moonlight, and his eyes were dark amber. His scent was mahogany and leather—warm, rich, grounding. Also an alpha. His grip on Euijoo's left arm was just as unbreakable.
They both wore humble clothing—wool and linen, rough and undyed, what Euijoo would have called rags. Their boots were patched. Their robes were faded. They looked like wolves who had traveled far and slept rough and had nothing left to lose.
Euijoo struggled, trying to pull his arms free, but the alphas held him fast. The one on his right—black hair, dark eyes—squeezed his wrist so hard that Euijoo's fingers went numb. He had no choice but to let go of his sword. It clattered to the stone path, the sound impossibly loud in the silence.
Shift, he thought. Shift and fight. In wolf form, I might have a chance.
He felt his claws begin to extend, his nails sharpening into points. His canines lengthened, pressing against his lower lip. His wolf surged forward, ready to take over, ready to tear and bite and defend—
A deep growl came from the right side of the manor.
Euijoo's head snapped toward the sound.
The wolf was enormous.
It stood in the shadow of the wall, its silver fur gleaming like polished metal in the moonlight. Its eyes were icy blue, cold and piercing, and they were fixed on Euijoo with an intensity that made his blood run cold. The air carried its scent—frankincense and ylang-ylang, ancient and rich—and that scent told him everything he needed to know.
An alpha. And not just any alpha. This wolf was old. Powerful. Dangerous.
The wolf took a lazy step forward, its massive paws silent on the stone, its head lowered and its ears forward. It was the biggest wolf Euijoo had ever seen in his entire life—bigger than any wolf he had read about in his books, bigger than any wolf his grandparents had described. Its shoulders were level with Euijoo's chest even on all fours. Its jaws could close around his head and crush it like an egg.
Euijoo's wolf retreated so fast it left him dizzy.
There was no way he could defeat that. There was no way he could even survive that.
The silver wolf was followed by four figures emerging from the darkness behind it. They walked in a loose group—one alpha and three omegas, Euijoo's nose told him, though he could not distinguish their scents over the overwhelming presence of the gold-haired alpha and the silver wolf.
They stepped into the moonlight, and Euijoo's eyes nearly fell from his skull.
The grey-haired omega was among them.
He was just as Euijoo remembered—pale skin, grey hair falling to his shoulders, dark green eyes that were wide and frightened and fixed on Euijoo's face. He wore the same coarse woolen robe, the same patched trousers, the same worn boots. But there was something different about him now. Something Euijoo could not name.
Their eyes met, and the omega flinched.
The silver wolf reached the gold-haired alpha and stopped. Standing next to the alpha, the wolf's head was taller than the man's. The wolf turned its icy blue gaze on Euijoo, and its lips peeled back, revealing teeth as long as Euijoo's fingers.
Euijoo did not move. He could not. His body had frozen, his mind had gone blank, and all he could do was stare.
The gold-haired alpha stepped forward, his smirk widening. He looked down at Euijoo—kneeling, pinned, half-naked, helpless—and his golden eyes gleamed with something that might have been triumph.