Chapter Text
My Dearest,
Less than a month past, as you gazed upon me stirring from a dream in which you appeared, you asked of me: "What if we were torn apart?" To which I replied that I could not endure life without you. That moment remains engraved upon my memory, as vivid now as if it transpired but a fleeting instant ago. I yet feel the warmth of our shared bed, the solace of your presence, and the boundless adoration I have always borne for you. These sensations linger as though I had merely returned to slumber and that this cruel reality were naught but a horrifying nightmare. But alas, it is no illusion. And, as I confessed then, I did not survive. Though my heart continues to beat and my body persists in motion, my spirit and every tender feeling have been interred alongside you in that vile pauper's grave—disgracefully chosen by those who once called us family or friends.
These same people whom, without hesitation or remorse, condemned you, discarding your memory with the abhorrent certainty that your soul was bound to fall into the ninth circle. And for what grievous sin were you punished? For refusing to slay creatures deemed monstrous, those wretched beings who were once as human as we, condemned to eternal torment? They, who take such pride in their humanity, who vaunt their moral supremacy—these are the ones who betrayed you, who sullied your name, and spat upon the very essence of humanity they so fervently revere.
All that remains within me now is an unquenchable and burning fury, my love, and I shall harness it to retrieve you. We shall be reunited; I vow it. No effort shall be spared to achieve what we so ardently desired: justice. Yet know this—where once we sought equity for those afflicted, where once we strove to grant demons a fair trial, my purpose has shifted. Now, I shall devote myself wholly to condemning those who wear the guise of humanity while revelling in its betrayal.
Trust in me, Seonghwa. I will prevail. I shall not rest until we find each other again, I yearn for the hour of our reunion in the depths of hell.
Yours eternally,
– Your other half.
P.S. Forgive the tears that have stained this letter, my dearest; I am mindful of how you despised seeing me weep. I shall withhold them henceforth until we are reunited. On this, you have my solemn promise.
-
Those were the words once etched in exquisite calligraphy on soft, cotton paper—now soaked and warped, casualty of the relentless rain that seemed to mourn the death of Seonghwa. Amid the billions of cold, indifferent raindrops, a single one fell, warm and salty, betraying its origin. It landed on the letter, blending with the ink as it dissolved into oblivion—a final, fragile tribute from the deceased's lover.
Beneath the old tree—a place that had once been witness to murmured love words and secret passion, whispered confessions and stolen kisses—a lone figure knelt, frail and unmoving. The human silhouette could have been mistaken for a withered tree, stripped of its branches and vitality. The paralysis of death had taken upon the man, its shadow stealing his young soul, draining the life that should have been his to savor, had fate not turned so cruel.
The petrichor hung heavy in the air, sharp and bitter, even to those who usualy found comfort in its scent. Perhaps it was the bitterness of memory that made the man grimace—a blurred vision of himself and his lover lying in wet grass beneath this ancient tree haunting his mind.
The young man swallowed the sob rising in his throat, his chin trembling as he vowed, silently, that this tear would truly be his last. He had made a promise - now lost in the mess of ink that bled and merged with water and paper - and he had to keep it. He was a man of his words.
"I will find you, Seonghwa," he whispered. The wind seized his words, carrying them away, while heavy rain drowned their fragile echo.
A ragged exhale escaped his lips, filled with pain, forcing a fit of coughing as though his body sought to expel the weight of his burden. His arms, heavy with despair, fell limp at his sides, and the crumpled letter slipped from his hand, landing with a graceless, wet thud in the mud. He grimaced at the sight, feeling a fragment of his heart sink with the paper as it dissolved into the earth.
The sting of the heavy rain upon his shoulders felt like he was being punished, every drop striking him like a stone hurled by a cruel hand. It was as though fate mocked him, sending nature itself to bruise and break him.
The pain was arresting, paralysing, suffocating, and he yearned to vanish; to bleed and dissolve into the water as his inked words had disappeared into the drenched paper. But he could not linger. There was no time. The thought of vengeance coursed through his veins, igniting a spark of determination that urged him to rise.
He pulled his hood over his head, rain cascading down its edges, and turned toward the looming silhouette of the castle—his home, though the word tasted bitter in his mouth.
Revenge was a peculiar thing. When he had arrived, his steps had been faltering, his pace uneven. Yet now, driven by a fiery purpose, he strode with newfound confidence, each footfall scattering mud and water, staining his clothes without care.
And yet, even this strength was a fragile facade. A single moment of introspection would unravel it entirely. He would see through the illusion and recognize the truth: that this was not resolve but anger—nothing more than a response to grief. He would see that his march was not assured and menacing, but fragile and hasty, a desperate act that betrayed his quiet and discreet nature as an archer, an assassin—someone trained to remain unseen.
There was no grandeur in this reckless pursuit, no nobility in his quest. It was nothing more than a futile attempt to escape the suffocating weight of reality, and the finality of death.
They say there are as many ways to grieve as there are beings on earth.
Yeosang had chosen his: slow destruction, deliberate torture, and the intoxicating promise of vengeance.
Yeosang was drenched to the bone as he passed through the towering gates of the domain, the rain clinging to him like an unwelcome shroud. His garments hung heavily from his frame, ruined by mud and water, and his sodden shoes squelched noisily with every laborious step. By the time he crossed the expanse of the front court and set foot on the first stone step leading to the castle’s entrance, the colossal door creaked open abruptly, its hinges groaning in protest.
"Your Highness!" A woman’s voice pierced through the sound of the rain. Madam Minah stood at the threshold, waving her hands in a flurry of agitation, her shawl slipping off one shoulder as she beckoned him urgently.
Yeosang grimaced faintly but managed to keep his tone light. "Madam Minah, how many times must I insist? Call me Yeosang."
It was clear she had no intention of doing so, her concern overpowering her decorum. Ignoring his protest, she wrung her hands anxiously and leaned closer, lowering her voice as though afraid of being overheard.
"The King is already seated at the dining table. He was expecting you for dinner," she whispered. "And he is furious!" Her words trembled, laced with both fear for the young man and the lingering sting of her own reprimand earlier that evening.
Yeosang inhaled deeply, steadying himself as a faint ache pressed against his chest. "It’s alright, Minah," he replied, his voice calm despite the mounting tension. "I know how to handle his anger." His lips curved into a faint smile, one practiced enough to conceal his unease. It was disarming, warm—enough to draw Minah’s eyes to his lips, sparing her from noticing the lone tear brimming in his gaze. He blinked it away quickly, focusing instead on the mundane task of removing his shoes.
His damp cape slipped from his shoulders and landed unceremoniously beside the muddied boots. "Pay no mind to these," he said with a small nod toward the discarded items. "I’ll come back later tonight to wash them myself. You already have more than enough to tend to." His tone carried a gentle conviction, a rare blend of humility and grace.
Minah was momentarily taken aback, unaccustomed to such genuine kindness. Acts of consideration were rare within the castle’s imposing walls, especially from someone of Yeosang’s rank. His infrequent presence made moments like these even more unexpected, leaving her both touched and slightly bewildered.
"But..." she began, her voice faltering. Before she could argue further, Yeosang placed a light hand on her shoulder, the touch as steadying as it was reassuring.
Their eyes met, and Minah found herself captivated by his smile—a beacon of warmth amidst the storm, so radiant it seemed to hold the power to melt away even the harshest of winter’s chill. Despite herself, she returned the smile, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. How could she refuse him? She had watched this boy grow into a man, his integrity unwavering even in the face of his father’s tyranny.
"Thank you, Yeosang," she said at last, her voice softening with reluctant acceptance. "Now, you must go. Your father... He may not wait long before taking drastic measures." Her tone was laden with caution.
Yeosang nodded to himself, catching a shaky sigh that threatened to escape. He had to stand tall, unflinching, as he faced his father. Think about vengeance, he told himself, grasping for the confidence that seemed to waver with every passing second. Yet, with each step toward the dining room, his resolve wavered, and his heart clenched tighter.
He stopped midway down the grand hall, the cold air biting at his damp skin. His fists clenched at his sides as doubt crept in. How could I think about revenge when I can barely withstand the mere anticipation of seeing him? The thought twisted in his mind like a cruel echo. He forced himself to straighten, to push past the weight pressing down on him. I must be stronger. Forget for a second what the King has done. Focus only on what must be done to him.
Yeosang bit the inside of his cheek, a sharp pain grounding him as his thoughts spiraled. Closing his eyes, he sought clarity, a moment of peace to calm his fraying nerves. But what came to him was far from solace. Instead, the haunting image of Seonghwa’s face surged forward—his lover’s eyes wide with disbelief, his lips parting in a final, strangled scream. Yeosang saw the dagger that silenced him, piercing his heart, saw the blood when another blade slashed his throat.
The vivid memory sent a jolt through him, and he opened his eyes abruptly, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His cheek throbbed where his teeth had broken skin. Drawing in a shaky breath, Yeosang steadied himself. This time, his steps were firmer, his chin lifted higher, though his heart refused to slow, its rapid beat a relentless drum in his chest.
When he reached the dining room, he pushed the massive doors open with a thunderous crack. The sound echoed through the cavernous room, but the King did not flinch. Seated at the head of the long table, he remained still, the noise seemingly beneath his notice.
"I expect you to be on time," the King’s voice rumbled, deep and rough, filling the silence like a threat. As if to punctuate his words, the doors slammed shut behind Yeosang.
"I didn’t realize tonight was so special that you needed my company," Yeosang replied with a sharp snort, sliding his hands into his pockets. It was a deliberate gesture, equal parts insolent and practical—a way to hide the trembling of his fingers.
The King’s head snapped toward him, his piercing gaze cold and unforgiving. "You know well that this is no pleasure," he growled. His eyes raked over Yeosang’s rain-soaked figure with disdain. "And what, pray tell, are those rags you’re wearing? Have you fallen so low that you feel the need to dress like a peasant?"
Yeosang held back a sigh and walked to his seat, pulling the chair out with little care before dropping into it unceremoniously. Ignoring his father’s glare, he waited for his plate to arrive, letting his gaze linger on the man before him.
The King was as imposing as ever, his angular features carved with severity. His broad shoulders and square frame were emphasized by the deep black of his uniform, meticulously tailored to project power and authority. Ornate golden shoulder pads rested atop his frame, intricately designed and polished to perfection, as if to remind everyone of his status - as if anyone would need this to remember that he is the King. On his chest, a row of military medals gleamed under the chandelier’s light, each one a testament to victories celebrated by his people—but Yeosang knew better than to believe in their righteousness.
Scars marked the King’s large, calloused hands, and a jagged line across his forehead added to his already formidable appearance. His height alone gave him a commanding presence, but it was his cold, unyielding demeanor that made him truly intimidating. He towered over all, not just because of his physical stature, but because of the sheer weight of his authority, wealth, and calculated ruthlessness.
To the outside world, the King embodied strength, dignity, and unshakable trustworthiness. Yeosang nearly rolled his eyes at the thought. Strong? Perhaps. The memory of his father’s slaps—the force that had once loosened his infant teeth—was proof enough. But dignified and trustworthy? That was a farce, one his subjects would soon see for themselves.
Yeosang exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts. They will know.
"Well, I do think peasants are respectable, and I wouldn’t mind dressing like them, Father," Yeosang said in a mocking tone, watching the vein in his father’s temple pulse as his eyes darkened with anger. "But no, these are mine. I didn’t realize this was a formal dinner. Tell me, who exactly are we trying to impress?"
Before the King could respond, a waiter approached and set a plate before Yeosang. He turned to the servant, offering a warm, polite, "Thank you," before shifting his attention back to his father. His raised brow and casual posture were a deliberate act of defiance.
The King’s composure cracked as his voice dropped into a sharp, controlled growl. "Are you going through some late rebellion, or is this still about your friend?" He spat the word as though it left a foul taste in his mouth. "Whatever it is, I will not tolerate you speaking to me this way!"
His voice exploded in a roar, thunderous and unyielding. The servants jumped in fright, some clutching their trays while others froze in place, their eyes darting to the ground as if to avoid the King’s wrath.
Yeosang’s body stiffened, his breath shallow as anger surged within him. His heart pounded like a war drum, and before he could think better of it, he slammed his fists onto the table. The sharp crack echoed through the dining hall, slicing through the tense silence.
"He wasn’t just my friend!" Yeosang shouted, his voice raw with pain and fury. "He was my lover! And you murdered him!"
The room stilled, suffocatingly quiet. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, like a blade poised to drop. Yeosang’s chest heaved as he glared at his father, his gaze daring the man to deny it, to refute his words. But the King didn’t react in the way Yeosang had hoped or feared.
Instead, the man began to laugh.
At first, it was a low, muted sound, a rumble that barely escaped his throat. Then it grew, spreading through the room like a creeping shadow. The servants exchanged uneasy glances, some shifting uncomfortably as the laughter deepened, richer and sharper with each passing second.
Yeosang’s breath quickened, his chest tightening. "What’s so funny?" he demanded, his voice shaking as he clenched his fists.
The King didn’t answer. His laughter swelled, rolling through the air like waves crashing against the shore. It echoed off the walls, filling the room with a sound that was both mocking and unnerving. It wasn’t joyful, nor was it derisive—it was something darker, a sound designed to unnerve, to belittle, to crush.
"Enough!" Yeosang bellowed, slamming his fists onto the table again. The impact jolted the plates, but the King remained unshaken.
Finally, the laughter faded, though its lingering echoes seemed to taunt Yeosang further. The King wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, a faint smirk curling his lips.
"Oh, Yeosang," he said, his tone dripping with false pity, "do you truly believe you have the right to take a witch as your lover?" He chuckled again, the sound softer now but no less venomous. "You really are a fool."
Yeosang’s nails dug into his palms, his knuckles white as he struggled to contain his rage.
The King leaned forward, his voice dropping into a cold, authoritative tone. "Do you think yourself above the law? The law that has governed this kingdom for centuries? Anyone who collaborates with demons is destined for the same fate as the monsters themselves. It’s simple, Yeosang. Your so-called lover—" he sneered, "—was a danger to this realm. A deluded fanatic who schemed with demons and put our people at risk. He deserved his fate, as does any other who chooses the path of treason."
Yeosang’s body trembled, his mind racing. His father’s words sliced through him, but it was the sound of that lingering laugh that haunted him most. It echoed in his mind, louder than the King’s accusations, mocking him, taunting him, as though it would never leave him.
"You don’t even regret it," Yeosang whispered, his voice barely audible, his throat raw with emotion.
The King’s smirk deepened, his tone unrepentant. "Regret? For doing what is right? For upholding the law? Never."
Yeosang’s vision blurred with red. His chest heaved as his heart pounded in his ears. That laugh, that damned laugh, reverberated through his memory, fueling the fire raging within him. His hand twitched, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of his rage and grief consumed him. A single, damning thought surfaced, unbidden and undeniable: End that laugh. End him.
Yeosang, however, sought to offer his father one final opportunity—a chance to amend his answer. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a simmering tension. “IThen hhy did you not kill me too? I was with him. I went to see demons, converse with them. I followed the exact same ideology as Seonghwa so why did you not kill me too?” He screamed loud enough to irritate his throat, making the servants jump yet again.
The King leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. “Because I have no wife to bear me another prince, that’s why,” he said with cutting indifference. “Your punishment was to watch the witch die. Was that not enough for you? Shall I summon every friend you’ve ever known in your twenty pitiful years and execute them, one by one, before your eyes?”
To an outsider, the King’s words might have sounded like a theatrical threat, one too vile to act upon. But Yeosang knew better. He knew the full scope of his father’s ruthlessness—and this was but a fraction of it.
For a moment, Yeosang froze. The weight of his father’s cruelty threatened to crush his resolve. He had to regain control, if only enough to escape and prevent the man from making good on his threats. Slowly, he drew in a steadying breath, forcing his trembling hands to still. Straightening his posture, he adjusted the folds of his tunic and spoke, his voice firm despite the bitterness that burned in his throat.
“You are right, Father,” he said, each word deliberate and sharp, like glass on his tongue. “I was wrong. It seems I still struggle to grasp the full extent of my duties as the sole heir to your throne. To witness and bear death, I’ve come to realize, is the price of being born a prince. I will accept it.” He paused, feigning a sigh of reluctant understanding. “I will spend the summer at my cabin to reflect on this matter. On the eve of the new academic year, I will return to finish my scholarity. By then, you will see a new man—an heir molded to your liking. The prince you’ve always wanted.”
His voice did not waver, but his body betrayed him, rigid with the weight of his own words. Never before had he uttered such detestable lies.
The King chuckled, low and satisfied. “That’s a good boy,” he said, the condescension dripping from his tone. “I’ve trained dogs that obey faster than you, but I suppose it takes twenty years for a human to learn his place.” He waved a dismissive hand and reached for his goblet. “Go. Meditate in your woods. Return with a clearer mind—or not at all.”
Without another word, Yeosang turned and left, his steps measured though his heart pounded in his chest. His shoulders slumped under the weight of humiliation, and his brow furrowed as he crossed the threshold and shut the heavy doors behind him.
Through clenched teeth, he muttered a quiet vow. “He’ll be the first to pay.”