Chapter Text
OF ALL THE BLESSINGS EUI-JAE has ever petitioned the heavens for, a quiet life has always stood foremost among them. His interest lay in neither glory nor renown—and certainly not the impossible distinction of being remembered as the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth—a heavy title others insist upon draping over his shoulders as though it were a robe of honor rather than a chain of needless expectation. Greatness has never appealed to him, not even when he’d suddenly stumbled upon the great, all-knowing dragon, Gaeul, imprisoned in a dungeon under the king’s palace, where she’d called him “J” and called him Joseon’s last hope.
Legends—these things are built upon sacrifice, and Eui-jae has already surrendered more than enough. Hailed as the unsung savior of the world at birth, the priests of his village had been overjoyed that the prophesied sorcerer had finally arrived at their time of great need, some few years before the Great Purge that wiped out nearly all traces of magic.
But the first price Eui-jae had to pay for being born was his mother. Then his father. And at the tender age of seven, when he took up arms and used his given gifts to defend his village from the bandits that ransacked it in the name of King Geonwoo’s decree, the last embers of smoke and his magic had cleared to reveal himself standing at the heart of a graveyard, the bodies of both friend and foe fallen all around him, a carpet of death to swallow the earth whole.
Thus, Eui-jae left the place with all his worldly possessions on his back and found a sanctuary in his Grandma who had served the royal court since her own mother’s passing. And though there was once a time when he had relished the title—Savior of Magic—that had been etched into his sinews, written in the stars, long before his conception, the anguish that came along with it killed all hope he had left in his childhood—and now he has little patience for the vanity of etching one’s name into history, when merely surviving each passing day demands all that he has to give. After all, how could he ever dream of becoming the greatest sorcerer to walk the earth when he now lived at the heart of the very kingdom that had raised the first sword against magic, waging a bloody crusade against any soul reckless enough to so much as lay a hand upon an arcane tome?
And had fate possessed even a trace of mercy, perhaps that humble wish would have been granted. Instead, fate has decided to make a mockery of him—and thus, there before him is Prince Lee Sa-young.
And when the Crown Prince of Joseon decides that a lowly kitchen aide such as Eui-jae shall not be permitted the luxury of an uneventful existence, the matter ceases to be one of preference. His word is what carries the mighty hand of royal decree, and it is his whims that ripple through the palace, the kingdom—like stones cast into still water, disturbing every life in their wake.
Perhaps the fault lay with Eui-jae himself for expecting otherwise. After all, no man who earned his bread beneath the palace roofs had any right to dream of an untroubled existence. Four degrees of separation may have stood between him and the House of Lee—between a nameless kitchen servant and the royal blood that sat upon the throne—but palaces, no matter how large, turn out to have a peculiar talent for collapsing such distances. All it takes is the passing fancy of one prince.
There are days when Eui-jae regrets extending his hand in help all those years ago. He likes to think that perhaps that would have helped him evade this cruel destiny, though there exists an inkling in him that is adamant in its stance of this inevitability.
He had been little more than a boy of nine summers, then, scarcely old enough to carry a basket of vegetables without stumbling beneath its weight, yet carried still the ghosts of his boyhood. Grandma, convinced that idle hands invited empty stomachs, had declared him fit to work in the royal kitchens, where his days passed unnoticed amidst the warmth of the hearth’s fires and the appetite-whetting fragrance of steamed rice.
Suffice it to say, his young adolescence had been unremarkable by every measure—at least, as ordinary as life could be for the prophesied boy, magic incarnate—and it has been that way in the nineteen years that he has served the House of Lee.
Then came the twenty-third birthday of Prince Sa-young, for which the palace celebrates with silken banners draped above the hall ceilings and gilded lanterns showering them with warm, festive lights. No soul in the vicinity suspected that among the dancers and musicians walked a sorcerer carrying ill will rather than merriment.
Twenty-three years had passed since the Great Purge had stained Joseon with blood of the creatures of magic, and she had come to collect a debt from the son of the king who ordered it.
Her enchantment had brought upon a curse of eternal slumber upon the palace; courtiers slumped where they stood, guards collapsed and fell upon their own weapons, music stopped as the performers felt their lives slip away from them with each passing second.
Everyone fell victim to the curse. Everyone, except Eui-jae.
There was a strange resistance in him, borne from his own inherent abilities, and every magic cast with malicious intent recoiled from him instead. And so it was that he alone remained awake to witness the sorcerer draw her blade and raise it over the unsuspecting prince.
And so it was that he took action before he could even think twice. The blade never found its mark, and having taken by surprise, the spell she had cast upon the palace broke—and chaos thus followed.
Had fortune, once again, been kinder to him, Eui-jae might have been able to slip quietly back to the kitchens before anyone could notice. He had, after all, every intention of doing precisely that. Instead, King Geonwoo saw him standing beside the prince with the assassin at his feet, and from that moment onward, Prince Sa-young remembered his name.
From that moment onward, to Eui-jae’s everlasting misfortune, the prince never seemed inclined to forget it.
“Eui-jae!” Grandma’s voice is a cleaver that strikes at the very marrows of Eui-jae’s bones, startling him out of his thoughts. “Stop daydreaming and get back to work at once! Where are my mushrooms?”
He blinks once, then twice, before hastily reaching for the basket he had abandoned. “Right, sorry, Grandma.”
Eui-jae’s eternal well of magical powers has rendered him quite fearless in the face of many dangers. Alas, Grandma’s wrath is one of the rare things he’d never dare challenge.
The royal kitchens are in quite the hectic state today, as it usually is whenever dinner time slowly approaches. Steam curls up the rafters, carrying with it the aroma of sesame oil, simmering broth, and freshly washed rice. The cauldrons bubble steadily over open flame while the staff move like a well-oiled machine from one hearth to another, sleeves rolled to their elbows and their hands never idle.
Preparing dinner for the king is no simple affair: the surasang demands twelve carefully prepared side dishes, both white and red bean rice, clear soup, and tea. Tonight’s side dishes consist of namul, braised fish glazed in soy, crispy jeon, stews, salted seafood, pickled vegetables, and sweets. And while the palace might not yet dine for several hours, the kitchens, under Grandma’s iron fist, have long ago learned that perfection must not be rushed, thus ample time of preparation is needed to satisfy King Geonwoo.
Eui-jae shakes his head and sighs. How could he have let himself be so distracted? The kitchen is a sacred space, and in his absent-mindedness, he’d nearly tarnished it. Perhaps he should just focus on trimming these shiitake mushrooms…
Yet just as he’s finished chopping through a batch, the doors burst open, rattling the ladles hung close by. “Is Eui-jae here?” calls a voice.
Oh, hell. The man in question does what any sensible man would do: he hides behind a stack of vegetable baskets and prays for his cover to stay intact. It is, in retrospect, a poor attempt, though, for every pair of eyes in the kitchen wordlessly drift toward his hiding place with almost painful synchronization.
Bae Wonwoo, the prince’s personal manservant, follows their collective gaze without so much as breaking stride. “There you are!” he says pleasantly. If he’d noticed the tormented look on Eui-jae’s face, he makes no comment about it. “His Highness Sa-young requests your presence.”
Eui-jae swallows, closing his eyes to quickly whip up whatever excuse he can scarcely grasp. “I-I’m busy,” he protests weakly, gesturing toward the mountain of ingredients still awaiting preparation, hoping the sight of it will make Wonwoo pity him enough not to leave him in the mercy of Sa-young’s clutches. “If I leave now, Grandma will skin me alive.” He turns hopefully toward the head cook. “Isn’t that right, Grandma?”
Yet, the hopeful smile on his face dies before it can even widen into a grin, for no matter how fiercely Grandma ruled the royal kitchens, her authority still ends where the prince’s begins.
She folds her arms over her chest. “Go on, dear. It seems that the prince awaits.”
“Grandma,” Eui-jae tries again, keeping his face as neutral as he can. It’s never a good thing to wear your heart on your sleeves in a place as cutthroat as the palace grounds.
A knowing smile only tugs at the corners of her mouth, and Eui-jae knows he’s lost. Traitor.
Having exhausted every avenue of escape available to him, Eui-jae surrenders himself to this fate and follows Wonwoo through the winding palace corridors. He’s been through these halls before, and this is only one of the many times he has followed Wonwoo to the prince’s quarters. But all of a sudden they take a different turn, and another, until the familiar scent of hay and horses carry over to his nose.
Eui-jae comes to an abrupt halt. “…Oh no. What are we doing here?”
“The Crown Prince wishes to go hunting.” Wonwoo glances back. “What is it? Why do you look so troubled?”
“Why don’t you accompany him?” Eui-jae says, barely able to keep the dread of an executioner’s sentence out of his voice.
Wonwoo regards him patiently, and upon his countenance Eui-jae sees the words that he does not say: Are you really asking me that?
Eui-jae sighs. Right. What a foolish question. Prince Sa-young rarely ever explains himself, and those beneath him never question him, either. He simply does what he wants, and that is the end of it.
At the royal stables, Eui-jae sees that the stablehands are hard at work in accommodating the prince’s whims, and one of them had even already helped him mount his chestnut steed. Sa-young sits on the saddle with ease, and at the sight of Eui-jae, his face splits into an eager grin.
“There you are,” he calls. “We must make haste. If the tides are in our favor, we’ll bring down a fine stag and be back before night falls.”
Eui-jae swallows the weary sigh threatening to escape his mouth. There is not a soul within the royal household who will go hungry if they returned empty-handed, so why must Sa-young be so adamant that they leave? The larders are overflowing, the cooks have more than enough to prepare a feast fit even for visiting dignitaries, and yet here they are—riding into the forest simply because a prince has decided the day requires some sport.
Of course, saying as much aloud will earn him nothing but ire and unnecessary trouble—so he bites back every complaint that crowds his tongue and busies himself instead with saddling his own horse. Only when he’s clicked the final buckle in place does he notice that Wonwoo has made no move toward any of the waiting mounts.
“You’re not coming?” he asks.
“No.” It’s Sa-young who answers, sounding almost offended by the suggestion. “Why would he? Someone has to hold the fort while I’m gone.”
Hold the fort. In Sa-young’s language, that means that while the prince spends his afternoon chasing deer through the woods, Wonwoo will shoulder every duty that Sa-young finds too tedious to perform himself. That’s always the way it’s been with them.
It is not that Sa-young lacks capability. On the contrary, beneath the guise of a frivolous young prince hides a man of strength and dignity—a truth Eui-jae only comes to recognize through the many trials they weathered together in the past two years. Rather, Sa-young possesses the unfortunate habit for carrying himself as though the smallest of tasks are beneath one born to wear a crown.
No matter. Eu-jae had secretly taken it upon himself to remedy that particular flaw. After all, how can the Once and Future King of Joseon hope to rule his people if he cannot stoop to the labors of ordinary men? If nothing else, Eui-jae considers it a modest form of retribution. Since Sa-young so delights in testing his patience at every turn, it seems only fair that he return the favor—one lesson on humility at a time.
Eui-jae pulls a face at the Crown Prince. “You merely wish to saddle Wonwoo with the tasks you would rather avoid,” he says flatly. “For a Crown Prince, Sa-young is remarkably fond of idleness. It is hardly a virtue becoming of the heir to the throne.”
Had those words fallen from anyone else’s lips—had anyone else other than Eui-jae been foolhardy enough to call the prince by name—the offender would have long since been dragged away to answer for such insolence. Yet because they came from Eui-jae, Sa-young does nothing more than lift his lips into a knowing smile before retorting, “How fortunate, then, that I have you to compensate for my many shortcomings.”
“Oh, Your Highness,” Eui-jae says tiredly, “why must it be me?”
“Why not?” is Sa-young’s only response, a scathingly impish grin on his face.
Before long, they set off on their journey—much to Sa-young’s undisguised glee and Eui-jae’s resignation. The crown prince rides as though he had been born in the saddle, his chestnut mount answering to the slightest shift in his lean and weight, every stride swift and sure beneath the glow of the afternoon sun.
On the other hand, Eui-jae might find himself comfortable on his steed now, but he had once found little reason to learn the art. Before Sa-young had barged into his life with all the subtlety of a summer storm, horsemanship had been a skill better left to guards, hunters, and royalty. The first time Sa-young had insisted they ride together, Eui-jae had scarcely managed to mount without embarrassment, much to the prince’s endless amusement. And what was meant to be an afternoon’s excursion had instead become an impromptu lesson with Sa-young circling patiently beside him, correcting his posture, fixing his grip upon the reins, until the awkwardness he felt as he sat upon his mount gradually gave way to easy confidence.
And Eui-jae is nothing if not a quick study; this trait of his bleeds into the kitchen, in his magic, in anything he ever sets his mind to. Months later, he handled his horse with a steady hand and silky grace, and now he trails Sa-young only by the measure of experience.
When they have gone far enough that the undergrowth is thick beneath their feet, Sa-young draws his reins to a halt. “We continue on foot,” he announces.
The horses are then tethered to a sturdy oak, left to crop lazily at grass while their masters disappear further into the wilderness.
Eui-jae doesn’t care much for the hunt, truly. He understands, of course, that princes are expected to master the bow as surely as the sword—hunting sharpens the eye, steadies the hand and teaches patience. Yet to him, no lesson seems worth the life of a creature who has done nothing but exist in peace.
So whenever the underbrush rustles with the promise of larger game, he becomes inexplicably clumsy, blaming his stumble at an exposed root, or a low-hanging branch, and each mishap is followed by the crashing retreat of a startled deer or a wild boar vanishing deeper into the forest.
“Honestly, hyung,” Sa-young sighs, long suffering, lowering his bow with exaggerated disappointment. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re doing this on purpose.”
“I wouldn’t ever dream of it, Your Highness,” he says, but doesn’t make an effort to keep the sardonic undertone from his voice. Sa-young’s sword at Eui-jae’s hip is getting heavier by the second, and he wishes nothing more than to return home.
“Hm.”
At the very least, if there was any comfort to be found in this excursion, it is this: that they walked beneath the endless canopy of old trees, breathing the earthy scent of petrichor and feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through layers and layers of emerald leaves.
Most people hold the false belief that sorcery is a discipline that could be mastered through enough years of study and practice. While there is some truth to that notion—with all the tomes that contain recorded spells and histories of the greatest sorcerers—the real truth is that one either possesses the gift, or simply does not.
There have been no shortage of learned men who could recite every known incantation without ever conjuring so much as a spark; all the while there are others who are scarcely old enough to read that can call forth flame or rain without much effort. Magic itself cared little for scholarship. It simply is.
And Eui-jae had long abandoned the hope of understanding where such power first came from. If it had been bestowed by the heavens, or is simply a consequence of one’s lineage, he cannot say. What he does know, after about two decades of living with it, in it, is that magic has never solely belonged to mankind.
It belongs to the world.
It flows unseen in the roots of ancient trees and slumbers in the dark richness of soils and drifts upon winds that bend fields of grass into gentler waves and gathers within rivers that carve their paths, painstakingly, through mountains. It is in the clouds overhead, in every grain of sand, and sings through the wings of birds as they cross the open sky. And in the same way, it flows into the blood, breeds inside the body and blooms along the lines of one’s palm.
Mother nature and magic—one and the same.
This is why Eui-jae has always found solace beyond the palace walls. Here, where the world lay untouched by courtly ambition and human folly, the current of magic wraps around him as gently as a mother’s embrace, settles against his skin. It succeeds in silencing the endless vigilance in his mind, and fills the hollow spaces in his heart with a warmth that no hearth can ever hope to rival.
For one born with a deep well of power, as magic incarnate, there is no sanctuary quite like the wild indeed. And Eui-jae is almost dizzy with it—and if he’s not careful, he might even admit to himself that he does not regret coming along with the hunt, if it means he gets to bathe in the sheer magic of the untouched world.
He realizes it a split-second too late when Sa-young slows to a halt ahead. He crouches beside a cluster of fresh tracks embedded deep into the damp earth, his fingers grazing the imprint before lifting them to inspect the broken twigs nearby. The marks are broad enough to belong to a stag, perhaps even a bear. Whatever creature it is, it had passed through only moments before.
Sa-young glances over his shoulder, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If you happen to trip over another root, I shall have no choice but to conclude you are conspiring with the wildlife to sabotage my hunt.”
Eui-jae has to laugh at that. He hates to admit it, but sometimes he can’t help but feel that the prince’s ridiculous antics have grown on him in the two years that he has begun seeking his company, as much as he keeps from expressing it at the risk of encouraging the mischievous prince. On his best days, he regards Sa-young with something that resembles fondness, and on his worst, it is as tepid as mere tolerance. Today it is somewhere around the middle—it seems that being around nature has put him in quite the good mood.
“Now, why would I ever do such a thing, Sa-young?” he says with a roll of his eyes. “If anything, I’d like for this to be over and done with.”
“Well, can you blame me, hyung?” Sa-young needles a finger into Eui-jae’s shoulder. “You’ve always hated hunting, and you’re annoyed that I dragged you into one.”
“So you do realize that I hate it, and that I hate it even more when you do such things,” Eui-jae mutters. “A simple kitchen aide can hardly be expected to be readily available for the prince’s whims when the range of my duties lie only where the cooks are concerned. If you are to be crowned king one day, Sa-young, it would do you some good to keep that in mind.”
“Oh, but how can I resist when my heart craves your company, hyung?” Sa-young’s grin is ever-wicked. He fixes it at Eui-jae for some moments before turning on his heel and continuing the march forward. “And you are one to talk. It would really do you some good to start respecting royalty, you know. I could have you flogged for your impertinence. What would your grandma say when she hears you address me in such a rude manner, hm?”
Behind him, Eui-jae shudders at the thought, because Grandma can really be scary if she wishes to be. And besides, if Sa-young intends to be genuine in his practice of propriety, he should set the example between the two of them and stop calling Eui-jae hyung, for the sheer difference in their stations renders the hierarchy of age useless.
But he only turns his nose up at the prince and resolves to let the conversation die.
Some feet ahead, Sa-young slows once more, holding a hand up to warn the weary Eui-jae. He doesn’t turn around, only keeping his eyes peeled forward. The kitchen aide, meanwhile, rolls his eyes where the prince cannot see him. Magic has always made a mockery of ordinary tracking, and Eui-jae can very well feel the presence of every animal in their near vicinity, so he had known without having to be told that there is a stag through the foliage, only a few feet away from where they stand.
He’s just considering whether to disrupt Sa-young and save the stag or just let him have his catch so they can go home—when there is a sudden stabbing pain in his shoulder. His face drops to a grimace, and he turns to look, only to see that an arrow has embedded itself in his flesh from behind. There, too, is a slithering inside his veins, and he focuses his magic inward to investigate.
Ah, he thinks faintly as his magic whispers to him the affairs of his body, the arrow is poisoned. He falls to his knees, and the stag runs away at the sound.
Sa-young whirls around, his frown deeper than the dented earth under Eui-jae’s knees. “Hyung, what did I just—?” His eyes land on empty air where Eui-jae’s face should have been, and he looks down. “Hyung!”
The prince is at his side immediately, but before he can even touch his face, a second arrow flies from the same direction and digs into his side, and the world turns dark.
Despite Eui-jae’s insistence to keep to himself, in the two years that he has been in Sa-young’s sights, there have been some attempts to the crown that even Eui-jae had to intervene. His hand, of course, was never to be seen, and the prince remained blissfully unaware that an unseen guardian had quietly tipped fate in the House of Lee’s favor.
As it happens, the Great Purge had slaughtered most of all creatures of magic and thus bred, within those who managed to escape with their lives, to sorrow-hardened hatred—a blade they turn without fail to the royal family of Joseon, whose decree had ordered their extinction. Some attempts were thwarted by the royal guards, and for those Eui-jae felt no need to intrude. But there had been some attempts that no mortal hwando could stop, and those were the attempts that Eui-jae had quietly put an end to.
Indeed, it is quite the strange predicament, something that even Eui-jae himself would turn over in his mind in the nights that the lull of sleep evades him. How easy it would have been to simply let the House of Lee perish.
With the royal bloodline extinguished, perhaps his own kind would finally be avenged. Perhaps Joseon, a so-called haven built upon the bones of magical folk sustained by decades of persecution, would finally collapse beneath the weight of its own King’s sins.
Had he confessed his actions to a fellow sorcerer, they would have condemned him without hesitation. A traitor to magic, they would have called him. A coward. A fool who chose to shield the very dynasty that had hunted their people like prey. No one would have understood why he chooses to stand between Sa-young and every blade and poisoned cup and curse that came barreling to him when he least expects it.
Because here is a truth that Eui-jae has not yet entrusted to another soul: on the night he saved Sa-young’s life, the prince’s twenty-third birthday, the dragon Gaeul reached into Eui-jae’s mind for the second time. As she had once before when Eui-jae was but fifteen summers old, she summoned him to the cavern hidden beneath the palace, where she remained chained for as long as the Purge had first begun.
There, she praised him for protecting the prince of Joseon, and Gaeul—this ancient magical creature who had watched kingdoms rise and fall over millennia—told him the portion of the prophecy that she had long withheld. The tale, she’d said, was a burden never meant for the great sorcerer J to carry alone. Fate had spoken of two souls whose paths would become inseparable: the sorcerer, and the Once and Future King of Joseon. Together, they would usher in an age where mankind and magic would cease to regard one another as enemies, and the scars left by the Great Purge would, at long last, begin to heal.
And there, Gaeul revealed the name of this so-called Once and Future King.
And there, she revealed that it was Prince Sa-young all along.
So Eui-jae accepted the burden laid before him, and from that day onward, he watched over Sa-young just as faithfully as the prince watched over him. Their vigilance of one another is almost comical in its symmetry—one born of fascination, the other of duty. Sa-young keeps him close because he finds the quiet kitchen aide interesting; Eui-jae stays close because the fate of the land had somehow come to rest upon this mischievous prince’s future kingship.
Admittedly, it is a delicate balance that he must maintain, for he never forgot what he truly is: the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth hiding in the body of a mere servant, living under the very banner that would order his execution without hesitation should the truth come to life. Every spell he casts in this place is a risk—so if ordinary guards can handle a threat, he simply lets them. It is only when mortal hands proved insufficient does Eui-jae rely on his magic to fix the problem.
And death and danger, at times when they are one and the same, henceforth have long ceased to be unfamiliar companions. He has brushed with them often enough to recognize their face, to feel their breath at the nape of his neck without flinching. It has stalked him through forests and moonlit corridors alike, and somehow he has always managed to slip from its grasp.
Of course, Sa-young knows none of this. As far as the prince is concerned, Eui-jae is but a kitchen aide he had somehow dragged into this whole mess and is therefore his responsibility to bring back alive.
“Stay calm, hyung,” Sa-young says when he wakes. Though his own wrists are bound behind the wooden post, the prince offers him an easy smile. “I’ll get us out of here.”
Eui-jae remains silent, resisting the urge to sigh. If anything, he is glad that they have their backs to each other—this way, if the need arises, Sa-young will not have to see the way his eyes would glow blue with magic. If his truth were to be followed, he had, in fact, awoken well before Sa-young and had since assessed their surroundings.
They are bound back-to-back against a thick wooden post driven into the earth, one roll of rough hemp rope digging into their wrists. Being in a tent, with the air smelling of old canvas, woodsmoke, and crushed herbs, they cannot see what is happening outside.
But Eui-jae does not need to see the outside to know where they are, for the answer surrounds them all the same. Across the inside of the canvas are ancient runes painted in faded charcoal. There, too, are similar symbols carved into the wooden post they are tied to. Some glow under Eui-jae’s gaze, reacting to the dormant magic resting within him. Containment spells, no doubt, written in druidic script. Which means that their captors are likely to be druids.
This confuses him, for his knowledge of druids and their teachings depict them as peaceful people. But there is no other explanation, for druidic script is a well-kept secret within their ranks, and not even the most well-established scholar of their culture—if there even are some left—can replicate their writing.
“Sorcerers,” Sa-young hisses bitterly. “It must be. Who else can be so cruel as to maim two unsuspecting men that mean them no harm?”
Eui-jae would sooner bite off his own tongue than confess it aloud, for doing so would only inflate the already insufferable prince’s ego beyond salvation: somewhere over the course of their strange companionship, the line between duty and affection had begun to blur. Somehow, Eui-jae finds himself starting to care for Sa-young even without the edict of prophecy hanging above their heads.
And to make matters worse, this begrudging care he holds for Sa-young is so… effortless. It is as easy as breathing—so easy, in fact, that Eui-jae sometimes forgets the simple immutable truth that the blood flowing through Sa-young’s veins belonged to the dynasty that had butchered his people.
Indeed—it is a dangerous thing, forgetting. Yet Eui-jae can never bring himself to fully blame the prince.
Sa-young had been born into a palace that rewrote history as they know it. From the moment he was old enough to read, he had been taught that sorcerers were monsters disguising themselves as humans, that magic is a corrupting force that devours every virtuous heart it touches. That anyone who wields it willingly has surrendered themselves to evil long before they ever cast their first spell. These lessons were repeated by his tutors, by his father, until they became the sole, unquestionable truth in Sa-young’s mind.
How can Eui-jae resent him for believing the only story he has ever been allowed to hear?
Still, whenever fate presents even the smallest opportunity, Eui-jae would try to loosen another brick from the walls built around the young prince’s heart. After all, is it not his duty to guide the prince into the path he is destined? The path to becoming the Once and Future King?
The devil is in the details, as they say, and Eui-jae would plant his seeds in a passing remark that magic can perhaps coax barren fields back to life after a drought, that healing is a form of sorcery, too. That magic can be used for growth rather than just destruction, for life rather than just death.
And Sa-young never argued. He would simply fall quiet, and fix him with a strange, faraway look. Then he would smile and shrug, and that would be the end of it.
Now, though, Eui-jae cannot very well find another possibility to present to the prince, to challenge his certainty that sorcerers are to be blamed for their current predicament.
“Don’t be so certain,” Eui-jae says, only barely managing to keep the ire from his tone. “There is no more savage beast than man, whether they have magic or they don’t.”
“Hm,” is all Sa-young can offer in response.
With his back against Sa-young’s, Eui-jae is free to roll his eyes in irritation, before shifting his body to angle his ear closer to the tent—as close as the bounds around him would allow, at least, though it is not much. Druids often speak with each other through their minds, so he has little hope of hearing what they might have planned, but he expects to at least hear what they’re doing outside.
Eui-jae has only some shuffling and murmuring to go by, which is not a lot, but his magic tingles and urges that it be used. Glancing behind him briefly as a precaution, he whips his head back when he’s certain Sa-young’s attention is elsewhere, and allows his magic to guide him.
It takes little effort for him to glean into the heads of these people. After all, he shares their powers—or rather, his powers are shared among them. This is how he deems himself privy to their plans, and he finds that this certain camp is a rotten fracture of a benevolent whole: vengeful druids who have deserted from their clan to take matters into their own hands, unwilling to abide by the peaceful teachings of their people.
This will teach those villains, surely, he hears someone say. Especially that wretched prince, that throne of bones he sits on, that crown of blood atop his head. It will stain us forever, but it is a price I am more than willing to pay.
Indeed. The clan will never accept us again for what we are about to do, yet still we do this in their name. Is there not a greater display of love than this?
They are preparing for a sacrificial ritual, Eui-jae later discovers, and he has no heart to relay his findings to his prince—neither does he know of a way to even share it without putting suspicion on himself. Then the best course of action, he supposes, is to find a way to get out of these ropes without magic; Sa-young is quite the hunter and would no doubt be skeptical of their escape were he to use his gifts.
As he struggles against the rope, a question itches at him. Why are these druids so keen at killing Sa-young? Though he holds no allegiance for such violent campaigns of revenge, he can at least understand the birth of the movement. Yet what he does not understand is why the vexation is thrust upon Sa-young, who had scarcely been welcomed into the world when the Great Purge began. Of course, there are those who wish harm upon Sa-young to cause Geonwoo great anguish—yet these druids speak as if Sa-young himself was the cause of their losses. How can that be?
Eui-jae’s memory serves him well enough, but he cannot seem to remember anything about Sa-young encouraging the massacre of magic. His neutral stance is just as harmful, of course, but…
His fingertips tingle.
The idea hadn’t occurred to Eui-jae until recently, but now he is seriously considering it. Perhaps one of the reasons why he finds it so easy to care for Sa-young is because his magic seems to be fond of him. The notion is ridiculous, of course, and the mere mention of it to his kin would incite a riot, but there really is no other way of putting it. Even now, his magic yearns to touch him, to shield him, rescue him. To care for him.
Should he?
Should he listen to his magic, the very heart of his being, and use it to set them free?
“These sorcerers,” Sa-young grumbles, projecting all the venom he can muster into the word. “Once I am free of this place, I shall deal with them myself. You will see. It will be no different from years ago, when I led the raid.”
“Raid?” The echo leaves Eui-jae’s lips before he can stop it, and all of a sudden, the anticipatory dread stirring in his gut turns sour and heavy.
Sa-young nods. “My father entrusted me with it. There was a druid settlement hidden deep within the eastern woods. I was but thirteen then, serving as Father’s second in the absence of my mother.” A wry smile ghosts his lips. “He deemed me worthy of the command, and I would sooner have died than disappoint him.”
Thirteen. Eui-jae must have still been stuck in the kitchens, then, too busy with his day-to-day to care about much else, but he had heard of this in passing, when but a handful of years had passed since the Great Purge, and the fresh wounds still had not healed, and Geonwoo had still been proactive in his campaign. His mouth goes dry, and the image of it comes to him: a child draped in royal silks, riding at the head of armored men toward an encampment whose only crime is to have magic. He doesn’t want to ask, fearing the answer, but he knows he should.
“And… what befell them, sire?”
For a long while, Sa-young says nothing. A shadow falls over his face, and slowly the anger drains from his eyes. In its place is something Eui-jae recognizes as thinly veiled grief. “…So much death,” he whispers, more to himself than his servant. “The soldiers… I ordered them to spare the women and children, but they did not listen.”
He shuts his eyes. “I thought… I thought being prince meant they would obey me despite my youth. And I thought being head of command would give me the courage to punish them for their insolence. Instead I just stood there, watched them burn. Watched them run. I did nothing, in the end.”
Eui-jae wishes they aren’t so tightly bound, if only so he could see the pain in Sa-young’s eyes and share its weight.
“Then one of the druids came for me.” He shifts. “He struck me on my side before I could defend myself.”
“Is that why you hate sorcerers, then?” Eui-jae’s voice comes out garbled, and he knows Sa-young is deep in thought, because if they had been in any other scenario, he would have made fun of him for that.
“I don’t know, hyung,” he says quietly. “I don’t know.”
Eui-jae’s magic tingles again, a gentle warmth dancing along his fingertips—but it is no longer with the frantic urgency that had seized him before. It still longs to be set free, but not with desperate insistence. He closes his hand around the feeling and lets it ebb away. This is neither the time nor the place to show his true nature to the prince.
There would come a day when he would learn that this mere kitchen aide had been born with the very power Joseon and its cruel King had sworn to eradicate, but today is not that day.
The hours slip by with agonizing slowness. The ropes remain unyielding around their wrists, the tent no less suffocating than before, and beyond the canvas walls the camp continues its daunting bustle. Even Sa-young’s earlier restlessness had burned itself into embers. The fire that had once flashed in his eyes now lay buried beneath exhaustion, shoulders sagging against the pole. Eui-jae supposes there is only so long a man can rage in captivity before weariness claims him.
So they keep waiting.
Then, the rear flap of the tent moves, catching Eui-jae’s eye. His body tenses at once, years of living as a hidden sorcerer having taught him to heed even the smallest disturbances. He shifts as much as his bonds allow and nudges Sa-young with his shoulder clumsily.
It’s enough to wake Sa-young from his clumsy stupor, and he straightens to alertness, while Eui-jae stares at the flap, bracing himself. If someone were to enter with a blade or any such ill intention, he would have no choice. Rope or no rope, promise or no promise, he would reveal his magic if it means keeping the prince alive.
The canvas lifts at once, and instead of an elder druid, a small head cautiously peeks through. It’s a tiny girl, no older than seven or eight summers, with wide, uncertain eyes that dart nervously about the tent before settling on the two captives. She is hesitant to approach, clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle closely to her chest.
“Hello,” she says, staring at Eui-jae.
He regards her with cautious eyes; she’s frightened, of that he has no doubt, but it doesn’t seem like she has any cruel intentions. Whatever it is that she carries inside the cloth in her arms, he doubts it’s meant to harm them.
“Hello,” he returns, inclining his head. “And who might you be?”
“I mean you no harm,” she says, eyes darting around, but whether she is cautious of the captives or of her people, Eui-jae isn’t sure. Dragging a tongue across her dry lips, she shuffles forward until she is mere inches away, before kneeling down to be at his eye level.
“Have you come to gloat, then?” Sa-young snarks, and Eui-jae has never heard him sound so cruel. “Ogle at us as though we’re a pair of unusual animals?”
“Sa-young,” Eui-jae hisses. “She is only a child.”
To his credit, the prince comes to his senses and bites his tongue, albeit against his will, huffing and grumbling.
Wordlessly, the child kneels in front of Eui-jae and opens the clothed bundle in her arms, which turns out to be a loaf of bread. “It’s not much,” she says, “but I wanted to help.”
“Thank you,” he says, “that is very kind of you.”
The girl’s eyes widen, looking up in alarm, and only then does Eui-jae realize that her lips had never moved as she spoke. She stares at him as though seeing him for the very first time. You… can hear me?
Damn. A knot tightens itself in Eui-jae’s stomach. He hadn’t meant to reveal himself to anyone, least of all before a child, but there is no use pretending now. Besides, she can’t possibly endanger him, can she? If anything, he can get her to help untie them at least. He gives her the smallest of nods.
Please. Do not let the prince know.
She stares at him, still in shock but also with a hint of astonishment. You’re J, she says with all the reverence of a devout follower. My lord… I— I never imagined—
Don’t call me that, he says quickly, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. To the druids, it may be a sacred title, one to honor the warlock destined to usher in a new age for their people. But to him, the prophesied name is only a burden. He is not that savior yet, no saint worthy of their devotion.
He is simply a man who had survived where countless others had not.
“I’m Eui-jae,” he says aloud, offering her a gentler smile than his thoughts had conveyed. “And you are?”
“…Jisoo, my lord,” she murmurs.
Eui-jae winces, exasperated. I just asked you not to call me that.
Her cheeks flush crimson. I’m sorry, my lo— orabeoni.
“My lord?” Sa-young can’t resist questioning, eyebrows drawing together in suspicion.
Eui-jae pointedly ignores him, instead narrowing his eyes at Jisoo, whose fingers still clutch the cloth bundle tightly. “Jisoo,” he says lowly, “would you help us? You need only untie these ropes and nothing more. We shall see to the rest ourselves.”
She blinks, eyeing the coarse hemp keeping them bound, then to the prince behind him. “But… I…” She swallows hard, eyes glistening with mounting distress. “Orabeoni… you know I cannot.”
Eui-jae knows, even if she doesn’t say it, that she cannot bring herself to betray her people, even for the prophesied J. “Please,” he tries again. “No one ever need know.”
Jisoo lowers her head, and for a moment he thinks his plea had worked, and he watches as she steps close, hands lifted—only to place the bundle of bread upon his lap.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and before either man can speak, she turns and flees the tent.
“…Ah.” Eui-jae stares at the bread—he can’t even reach for it despite it being on his lap. What cruel parallel to their predicament; so close had they been to freedom. Frustration prickles at him, though he cannot truly find it in himself to resent her. She is only a child, after all, asked to shoulder a burden she cannot bear.
“You know her?” Sa-young breaks the silence first.
“I do not,” Eui-jae says, but the prince doesn’t seem to believe it.
“She called you my lord, hyung,” he points out wryly. “Care to explain that?”
“She might have mistaken me for someone she knows,” is Eui-jae’s neutral answer.
“Do you truly expect me to believe that?” The prince sighs. “I try not to pry, you know. I have always assumed you had your reasons. You are my hyung, after all. If there were things you did not wish to tell me, even if I were your better, I thought it discourteous to press. But it’s in times like these that I realize how very little I know about you.”
Eui-jae swallows, his heart beating wildly, but does not speak.
“You appear from nowhere,” Sa-young continues, “and disappear just as easily. A child from a hidden druid camp greets you as though you are kin. Tell me honestly, Eui-jae. Who are you?”
“…I am your kitchen aide, sire.”
Sa-young snorts. “A kitchen aide whom I have caught sneaking through the palace grounds in the middle of the night. Several times, might I add.”
“I run errands, sire.”
“At midnight.”
“Yes, for Grandma.”
“At midnight.”
“You cannot fault a servant for wanting a drink or two after a long day of work, Sa-young,” he declares, rendering Sa-young into a stunned, disbelieving silence.
“I am inclined to believe it, had it come from anyone else,” Sa-young snaps. “But you?”
“What of it?”
“You do not drink, and you are lying to me after I have given you the chance to be truthful!” Sa-young hisses. “You are lucky I am a merciful master. Do you not realize that were I any other, I would have had you jailed long ago for such insolence?”
The threat is nothing Eui-jae hasn’t already heard from him, but this time, something tells him that part of Sa-young means it. He sighs. “My lord, perhaps we can instead devote our efforts to escaping before our captors return? I hardly think this argument will prove itself fruitful. Unless, of course, you would rather be at the mercy of these sorcerers just to prove a point.”
“Fine!” Sa-young huffs. “What do you propose we do, then? But just so you know, this matter is far from closed.”
“Cease this argument, for starters,” Eui-jae mutters, “and think in silence. That girl, Jisoo, we must convince her somehow.”
“How?” Sa-young says dryly. “She isn’t even here.”
“She will come.” Eui-jae will make sure of it. He simply needed the right angle to use in persuading her, and he knows exactly how to handle devout druids like her. Closing his eyes, he channels his magic outward, past the tent and into the surrounding camp, searching for her. In his mind’s eye, he sees the druid elders huddled around, hears snippets of their discussion with regards to the prince’s fate, and his loyal servant. Farther still, he can see the gatherers—mostly children—foraging the forest for fruits and herbs. Among them, Eui-jae can see Jisoo, knelt next to a shrub, lips pursed in worry.
Jisoo, he says in his mind, and watches as she startles, the basket at her hip knocked to the ground. Tell me. What have your elders taught you of the prophecy?
That you are magic itself, my lord. That you are J, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth, the one who shall restore what was stolen from us and usher in an age of peace and prosperity for all who bear the gift of magic.
The words are nothing he has not heard before, and he does not bother to correct her disregard of his wishes to be called by name. For this to work, he needs to be J, not Eui-jae. That is indeed what they say, he agrees. But is that all?
He watches her brows furrow. What do you mean, my lord?
There it is, the omission he had expected. He can scarcely blame the child—she knows only what had been entrusted to her, and children rarely question the stories given to them by those he loved.
Nor, he supposes, are the elders entirely at fault. Men who had lived through persecution often clung to only those pieces of hope that promised survival, no matter how slim of a chance. If the prophecy spoke of a prince descended from the very dynasty that had ordered the slaughter of their people, Eui-jae isn’t surprised that they’d rather pretend that part of the prophecy hadn’t existed.
The prophecy… he tells Jisoo. It is older than any of us. Older than the Great Purge, than even the kingdom itself. It speaks not only of J, child, but of a king.
He watches Jisoo blink, stupefied. A king?
Indeed. The Once and Future King of Joseon. Even spoken in the mind, the title seems to reverberate in his throat. It is said that he and J shall stand together, and that together they will mend what years of fear and hatred have broken. Neither can bring forth the golden age alone.
The elders have not taught us such a thing, my lord…
It does not surprise me, he says with a sigh. They only told you part of the prophecy that gave them hope, and not the one that demanded forgiveness.
Jisoo lowers her head, and it breaks his heart to see her so heartbreakingly young. Then… who is this king the prophecy speaks of?
The prince, he says. Crown Prince Lee Sa-young of Joseon.
Her eyes widen, brimming with tears. Truly? she implores. He is… the Once and Future King?
He is, though I doubt he would believe it himself, Eui-jae says, smiling faintly before wiping it away. He is a stubborn bastard, impatient and entirely too fond of speaking before thinking. But… he has a kind heart, Jisoo. Kinder than he allows others to see.
She does not speak. The image she had undoubtedly carried of the Crown Prince—a ruthless heir to the dynasty that had nearly erased her people—must now contend with the man Eui-jae had described.
Your elders wish to protect your people, Eui-jae says, and I do not doubt their sincerity. But you must know, dear child, that sincerity alone does not make one right. Fear has guided them for so long that they are no longer able to remember the path that hope has meant to lead them.
He continues, Magic has endured because generation after generation chose to preserve it, even when it seems that all hope is lost. Even when its people live in a land that despises their existence. Now, magic asks something greater of us, and it is not vengeance that it wants, but faith. If the prince—if we—die here, the prophecy dies with us. With him. And if the prophecy dies… then so, too, does the future your elders have spent their lives praying for.
Eui-jae watches as she sits there, motionless, the wind stirring the loose strands of her hair. In the distance, there is birdsong through the trees, amplified in Eui-jae’s mind as he has tapped into all of magic itself.
At last, Jisoo draws in a long breath and nods. I’ll help you.
In his mind’s eye, he watches her straighten her shoulders with all the determination a child can muster. She stoops to retrieve her fallen basket, brushes the dirt from her skirts, and begins walking at a brisk pace towards the tent.
Only then does Eui-jae withdraw from their shared current of thought, and he allows himself the smallest imperceptible smile.
“…Hyung, are you even listening to me?” Sa-young is saying, unaware of the wordless conversation Eui-jae just had with her. “Is that what your brilliant plan is about, to fall asleep and wait for the girl to return? What even makes you so certain she’ll come? Of all your plans, hyung, this is by far the worst.”
If Eui-jae were not bound, he would have knocked the prince out so he can have some peace and quiet. “Hadn’t we agreed upon silence, Sa-young? How am I to think if you are jabbering away at my ear?”
“Watch your tone, kitchen boy,” Sa-young snarks, though it does not have the bite it had when they’d been arguing. “The better question is, how are you to think if you fall asleep at the first second of silence?”
“I was not asleep.”
“Then, pray tell,” he says, and Eui-jae does not need to see him to know that he has a brow arched and a smug grin on his face, “what was it I had just said? Go on. You cannot answer, can you? Just as I thought; you were fast asleep the entire while.”
It truly is a blessing that the immense power of J had fallen into the hands of a man whose patience, though wearing thinner with each passing day, remains sturdier than most. One may shudder to imagine such magic bestowed upon someone with a shorter temper; the prophecy would have died long before it had the chance to be fulfilled.
Sa-young, unfortunately, seems rather determined to discover exactly where the limits of that patience lay. Before he can utter another provocation, however, the flap of the tent is thrown aside, and in comes Jisoo once more.
“I’m here,” she whisper-shouts, hurrying over to them and nearly stumbling over her own feet in haste. Dropping her knees beside the post to which they had been bound, she sets to work at the ropes with trembling fingers, fumbling once before finding the confidence.
Sa-young gives a long, dramatic sigh. “Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I have not said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not, Sa-young.”
“You were. I can see it on your face.”
“We are tied back-to-back,” Eui-jae deadpans, unimpressed.
“I can see it on your face!” the prince insists.
Jisoo gives the bindings a final tug, and they fall away at last. She retreats a respectful distance, the poor child still thinking they might strike her the moment they stand. Yet there is no terror in her expression, only wonder.
It is Sa-young who rises first, rolling his shoulders until several satisfying cracks echo through the cramped tent. “Ahh… it is good to be free.” He stretches lazily, flashing Jisoo a crooked grin. “Excellent work, child. I am still rather cross with you, but credit should be given where it’s due.”
Eui-jae smiles at her. “Thank you, Jisoo,” he says gently. “Your bravery will not be forgotten. Go now, and make certain no one sees you.”
She nods at once, her lips parting as her bright eyes glimmer with a hundred questions she wished to ask—or perhaps words of reverence she wished to offer. In the end, she decides to swallow them all down, and with one last bow, she slips silently from the tent. Only after it's settled behind her does Sa-young rub his hands together in glee.
“So!” he says, a dangerous look in his eyes as he cracks his knuckles one by one. “What shall we do about those bastards?”
Eui-jae is already disliking where this is going.
“I am generally opposed to decapitation,” he continues thoughtfully, “but I am willing to make an exception this time.”
“No,” Eui-jae interjects firmly. “We leave. Now.”
Sa-young blinks, looking positively offended. “That’s it? We leave unseen and without a fight? Have you gone mad? They deserve at least one thorough beating!”
“The druids are peaceful people, my lord,” Eui-jae sighs.
“They certainly have an odd way of showing it.”
“Forgive me, but I will not allow you to deepen the divide between them and Joseon.”
“Divide?” Sa-young gestures wildly toward the entrance of the tent, where the rest of their ragtag group are gathered outside. “In any case you have already forgotten, they ambushed us. Captured us. Tied us to a pole. And for all we know, hyung, they intend to sacrifice us before sundown!”
Eui-jae does know that they intended to sacrifice them in a ritual, but he decides to omit that piece of information. “And in any case you have already forgotten, sire, one of their own is also the reason we are standing here unbound.”
Silence falls between them, which Sa-young later breaks with a click of his tongue, looking away with all the petulance of a child forced to admit defeat.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But only because the little one has earned my goodwill.”
“A rare and fleeting honor,” Eui-jae says dryly.
“Oh, do not even start, hyung.”
But just as they are about to sneak out the way Jisoo came, fortune turns her face away from them, and at the other end of the tent, the canvas is pulled aside from the outside, one of the druids stepping through as he carries a shallow wooden fragrant with crushed herbs. His gaze falls first upon the empty post where the two prisoners ought to have remained bound, and upon the frayed ropes discarded on the ground, and finally upon the two men standing before him.
“They’ve escaped!” he shouts. “There!”
Without so much as another glance, Eui-jae seizes Sa-young by the sleeve and runs to where the forest swallows them whole. Branches whip against their robes as they flee under the canopy of ancient pine and oak, and behind them comes the pounding of boots, the cries of pursuit multiplying until they seem to echo in every direction.
For a while, Eui-jae allows himself to believe that they’ve managed to get ahead, but deep down, he knows it’s only a matter of time before the druids catch up to them. After all, these people know the mountains, this forest, as wholly as they know the lines upon their palms. It doesn’t stop him from trying though, spreading his magic out in all directions to determine the best path to take.
Alas, the fantasy comes to an end, and they burst into a seemingly-empty clearing, only to be ambushed by about a dozen robed figures.
“Still think they’re peaceful people?” Sa-young mutters. Instinctively, he reaches for his waist, but his hands close around nothing but empty air. Right. His weapons are still back inside the tent, abandoned in their hurried flight. He hisses a curse under his breath.
Eui-jae eyes the druids. There are seven of them that he can see, and they all seem to be rather strong, though no more powerful than him. They are formidable as a collective, but that means little in the face of J’s raw power.
One pulse of unrestrained magic would have been enough to knock them unconscious. The forest already sings in his skin, every tree and blade of grass awaiting his move. He can feel the roots of the earth stretching toward him in greeting of an old friend, can hear the wind whispering his name through the leaves.
But Sa-young stands only an arm’s length away, and Eui-jae cannot bring himself to betray him.
The crown prince rolls his shoulders, not once taking his eyes off their enemies. “I suppose we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
An elder druid stretches her hand, and roots erupt from the soil like massive serpents, winding around tree trunks before snapping toward the two men. Vines lashed through the air at startling speeds, gusts of wind hurling fallen branches as though they weigh no more than feathers.
Sa-young—fool or brave or both—charges forward anyway, ducking beneath a whipping vine. He catches one druid squarely in the jaw with the heel of his palm and drives another into the ground with a shove.
“We are not your enemies,” Eui-jae tries to reason with the younger druid that comes barreling at him, but he is not having it, and sends a blast of magic his way, manipulating tree roots to ensnare his ankles.
None of their efforts is ever enough, and won’t ever be—not unless he uses his magic. An invisible force slams into Sa-young’s chest, sending him crashing backward across the forest floor. Eui-jae manages to tear free from the roots around his ankles to reach him, only for another wave of magic to force them apart.
There are far too many druids, and only two of them.
When at last, they are overpowered, they are not bound gently this time. Hands seize their arms from every direction, and they are forced on their knees as they are dragged through the forest, back toward the heart of the encampment. Their robes snag upon roots and stones alike, gathering dirt and pine needles as they go.
They reach a clearing which resembles an ancient sanctuary, great circles carved into the earth, each line filled with crushed herbs and white ash. There are torches surrounding the place, burning with flames that the breeze cannot make waver. The ritual is ready, it seems. All that remains are the sacrifices.
“What do you hope to gain from this?” Eui-jae asks in an attempt to stall for time.
Someone steps forward, and he recognizes her as the elder druid who had attacked first. “We have waited decades, boy,” she says. “And in those years our people have hidden, our children forgotten the old tomes, the prophecy that had promised salvation. In those years, we have come to realize that this salvation cannot ever arrive while the blood of the House of Lee continues to poison this land.”
“Prophecy,” Sa-young scoffs. “What sorcerer rubbish is that?”
She turns sharply, glaring at him. “Ignorant fool,” she spits. “It is your blood that corrupts this world. And you shall pay for the sins of your father.”
Eui-jae cannot take it, and barks a bitter laugh. “You are druids, are you not?” he questions. “I had thought your people were wise, if not all-knowing. Why do you believe yourselves above the gods you serve? Why do you think you have the birthright to take this prophecy into your own hands?”
Sa-young arches a brow at his words, but Eui-jae ignores him.
“Our quarrel has never been with you, boy.” She is at least kinder to him, which reassures Eui-jae that these people have not fully lost their fair and just ways. “If you swear not to interfere, we will release you. We require only the prince’s sacrifice.”
For the first time since his capture, genuine anger flashes across Eui-jae’s face. “You ask me to abandon him?”
“The blood of his father runs in him,” she insists. “He must be sacrificed to appease the gods.”
“He is not his father,” Eui-jae seethes, “and he is under my protection.”
“Protection—?” Sa-young chokes, but nobody pays him any mind.
“You would choose to shield their cruelty over your own freedom?” She frowns. “Boy, we are not the enemy of the people. It is those who sit comfortably upon their bloody thrones and order the deaths of many a people with a single wave of their hand.”
“I would choose what is right,” Eui-jae says. “And you are no different from the King, if you are to so ruthlessly murder a man with no sin.”
“No sin! That monster you so fiercely protect is no different from his father!” she roars angrily. “He has led raids and slaughtered our kind without mercy!”
“Hyung,” Sa-young says urgently. “You must go. One of us has to live and tell the tale of what happened—and it won’t be me.”
“I will not.”
“But—”
“What a pity,” the druid sighs wearily. We truly wished to spare you, but it seems there is no changing a mind that has been made. If you wish to die alongside your wretched master, who are we to deny you your wish?”
She raises her arms, and they all start to chant. The ritual circle comes alive with light as the magic embedded in the runes is invoked.
Eui-jae’s heart hammers violently in his chest. He can stop this. He can save them both.
But still—he hesitates. Because when he does, there would be no returning to the nameless kitchen servant he once was, and in his place would stand only J, the man he had spent his entire life thus far trying not to become.
And of course…
Beside him, Sa-young laughs mirthlessly. “…What a foolish choice, to stay here and die with me. And yet…” His smile softens, stripped at last of all mischief and princely arrogance. “Hyung, I am glad you are here so I do not have to face this alone.” He sighs, and it is the sound of defeat if Eui-jae has ever heard it. “If reincarnation truly exists, then I hope we meet again. Perhaps we shall be farmers and live a humble life, you and I.”
“I cannot imagine you willingly toiling in the fields beneath the searing sun, Sa-young.”
He snorts. “Well, of course not. You will be doing all the work, and I will simply eat whatever you grow. If I am feeling generous I might help maintain our home to pass the time.”
“How generous of you indeed.” As the chanting swells in the background, Eui-jae holds his gaze for a long while—long enough to memorize the curve of his smile, to wonder whether this would be the last time the prince ever looked at him without fear. “Forgive me, my prince, for what I am to do. It is only my hope that you do not think so differently of me, at the end of all things. Know that everything I do and have done is all for you.”
“Here we are, about to die, and still all you can do is make one of your many cryptic declarations.” Sa-young laughs, despite himself. “I suppose it is only fitting, and comforting, in a sense, that you never change. Indeed, I may always nag you and argue with you, dear hyung, but I had always thought you the bravest man I’d ever known.”
And now you will think me a traitor, Eui-jae muses. He turns his gaze upward, at the vast, eternal stretch of the heavens, clouds drifting lazily across it. The wind kisses his face, carrying with it the promise of pine and rain-soaked earth. Of the blooming wildflowers and the creatures birthed from the homely belly of nature, frolicking just beyond this clearing.
Magic—it is everywhere. It flows through the roots beneath its feet, coating every stone, dancing upon every blade of grace. For as long as Eui-jae knows how to speak, he has always known the truth of his identity: that he is the incarnation of it. That he is magic, and magic is him. Both blessing and curse.
Very well.
If there is to be no turning back, then let there be none at all.
Closing his eyes, he reaches for the tendrils of his magic, of all magic, this endless current that lives in him, older than kingdoms and older than the prophecy.
Enough, he wills it—and because he is magic itself, it listens to him when he calls.
The leaves hang motionless in the air, caught mid-fall. The flames atop the ritual torches extinguish themselves one by one, until only thin ribbons of smoke can be seen, and so, too, do the runes fade away in their brilliance and die out. The chanting breaks apart, faltering one voice after another, and soon every druid stands frozen, mouths hanging open as the trees bend forward in a reverent bow.
Sa-young is the first to find his voice, eyes darting wildly through the now-silent clearing. “What… what happened?”
The ropes binding their wrists loosen of their own accord, and Eui-jae rises from the earth. His robes billow from behind him although there is no wind, and when he opens his eyes, they flash blue.
“I should strike you where you stand,” he says, and though the words are spoken merely under his breath, his voice booms and echoes throughout the clearing. “For believing yourselves better than your gods, of the tales of old that have dictated the ways of your lives since the dawn of time.”
A gasp ripples among the druids. “It’s him!” someone shouts, falling to their knees. “It is J!”
“You speak of a golden age,” he continues, eyes still a brilliant blue, “yet you have forgotten the heart of your precious prophecy. You choose only to believe the part that brings you comfort and peace, and not that which requires you to forgive.”
He spreads his arms and each step that he takes forward, the druids take one back. “There is no J without the Once and Future King,” he says. “You sought to usher in peace by sacrificing the very man the fates—your gods—have chosen to stand beside me. You forget, children, that prophecy is not a thing to be forced.”
Children. Eui-jae doesn’t know where the words are coming from. It feels as though he is looking at himself from the outside, a spectator of his own spectacle, and he feels dizzy from the unstoppable rush of magic that seems to burn him from the inside out.
“It is a path. And no matter how desperately you would wish otherwise, I would never walk it without him. And so, too, should you, for it is I that you cannot walk without.”
There is little time to waste for shock, and the elder lowers her head until it touches the ground. “We…” she says in a garbled voice, and the others follow quickly. “We have sinned against our savior.”
“You have sinned against your kind,” Eui-jae corrects. “Against magic. Learn from this—and do not repeat it.”
“Forgive us, J!” the druids cry in unison.
“Take our horses,” she says. “Our provisions! And shall you see it fit, we will send an escort to guide you safely through the mountains. Spare us, o great J!”
At this, Eui-jae finally lets go of his hold on their magic, and the blue in his eyes dies with it. “No,” he says. “We require nothing. Only that you return to your clan at once and serve your penance without complaint.”
Their heads stay bent low. “Of course, my lord.”
“Spare your children,” he says as he tugs gently at Sa-young’s wrist, helping him up. “They have done nothing but carry out your own wrongs. Come, my prince.”
But Sa-young remains rooted where he stands, staring at Eui-jae with eyes that have never seen him before. Questions wage their wars in him, and his sheer disbelief steals every word before it can lift off his tongue.
“I will explain everything,” he promises. “But first we must go.”
With the faintest sigh, he tightens his grip on the prince and begins walking. Like a man waking from his slumber, Sa-young stumbles after him, still knee-deep into his shock that he allows himself to be led from the clearing without resistance.
Behind them, the entire forest still remains bowed, and before them lies a road from which neither of them can ever turn back.