Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Celine has run out of excuses, and out of time.

It is really very simple. Rumi had called her this morning. She had relayed the night’s events, succinct as always. Celine had listened, then promised Rumi she would be back today.

And Celine may be a coward, and her word - which had once been the only currency that mattered to her - may not be worth much anymore; in terms of promises, she’s broken too many to count now, but.

For whatever reason, she finds herself loath to break this one.

She had returned.

And now she stands, here before the front door of her own house, a house which she and generations of Hunters prior had inhabited, and hesitates.

Which is rather foolish. It is too late to turn back now, she knows logically. Her car, while sleek and modern and well-functioning, is not a particularly stealthy one. No doubt the girls have heard her pull in; no doubt they are expecting her.

There is no element of surprise remaining, no stealth, no cover to slink back off to Sokcho and spend another night at the hotel minibar or desperately trying to fend off demons with a weapon that no longer flickered with so much as weak, dying starlight. No more time to sit and sulk and question.

So her next course of action, obviously, should be simple. Step forward, unlock the door, and slide into the persona of the wise, encouraging mentor the girls will need. Begin their training. Smile kindly and instruct gently and raise not just three Hunters but a team that will be able to stand before ancient evils and strike them down without hesitation. Despite… complications.

Her next course of action should be simple. But Celine stands before the front door of her own house, the house she’s spent the vast majority of her adult life in, and hesitates.

(It is really very simple. Rumi had called her this morning. She had relayed the night’s events, succinct as always. Celine had listened, then promised Rumi she would be back today.

Celine had listened, as Rumi clinically conveyed the extent of the injuries she had sustained. As she had admitted, voice still carefully even but slightly softer in tone, that Mira and Zoey had helped her with the aftermath. Had assured her, before Celine could even begin to think to ask, that Rumi’s secret had not been discovered despite that help.

And as Rumi had spoken, listing injuries as casually as if they were an itemized grocery list, the realization had come to Celine, quick and devastating as lightning, that she had not felt it.

She had not felt the injury.

Had not sensed Rumi’s fall. Had not felt echoes of any distress or pain or fear through the Honmoon, Rumi’s or otherwise, wash over her like so many waves. Would have had no idea of the events that had occurred, had it not been for Rumi informing her with this distant, concise phone call. Would have had no idea just how severe her injuries had been. How close Rumi had been to-

Celine had not felt any of it.

Even this, this simplest function of the Honmoon, this truest, most integral function - the ability to sense your fellow Hunters, and to be there should they need your protection - even this, she had lost.

So. Struck with this sudden understanding, struck with sudden cold and sudden panic, she had promised to return that same day. Perhaps hastily - Rumi seems fine now, after all; she has Mira and Zoey. And injuries are common in their line of work. It is not the first time Rumi has suffered a serious injury; it is the unfortunate truth of their roles as protectors that it will likely not be the last. Celine herself bears dozens of scars, permanent reminders of her own near-misses.

But for whatever reason, Celine had felt an overwhelming need to be there. To ensure.

(Ensure what, exactly, she does not know.)

She needed to be there.

She’d promised and felt her heart hammering too hard in her chest for long minutes after hanging up the phone. She’d promised and packed and fetched her keys and not allowed herself a minute to second-guess her decision, because she knew that if she waited one moment, she’d talk herself out of it, settle back into her isolation. Comfortable and lonely and safe.

And now here she is. Hesitating at the door.)

In the end, she does not enter of her own volition. The decision is instead made for her by the sound of approaching footsteps, the faint silhouette of a tall figure in the frosted glass, and the definitive click of the door-lock unlatching.

The door swings open to reveal Mira, pink hair bound back and face only incrementally less stony than it had been the last time Celine had seen her, after that disastrous first attempt at training weeks ago.

Celine inhales deeply, evenly, and smiles kindly. “Hello, Mira. May I come in?”

—

She and Mira have done a good job of cleaning up the living room, Zoey thinks.

Sure, they’d had to toss the small rug that had sat beneath the coffee table, and they’d had to steam the couch cushions, and mop the floors. Vigorously. Her arms are sore, which probably isn’t a great sign of her current fitness level since she’s expected to be a warrior-kpop idol pretty soon and all, and she’s pretty sure warrior-kpop idols shouldn’t get aches and pains from mopping a floor. Especially since she’s been joining Rumi and Mira in the gym more often than not now.

But whatever.

They’d thrown out what seemed like mountains of soiled bandages and discarded plastic wrapping and rust-stained gauze; wiped down the center table with every disinfectant they could find in the house, then done it again for good measure.

So they’d done well, she thinks! There’s no evidence left of the frantic medical insanity following Rumi’s last hunt, if one doesn’t count the conspicuous absence of a few throw blankets (too ruined to salvage, to Zoey’s absolute dismay - they were so comfy) and the still-lingering smell of Lysol, citrusy and chemical, just a touch too acrid.

She and Mira had cleaned. As for Rumi, she’d been perched ramrod-straight on the couch all the while, watching and visibly antsy.

(She’d offered to help a dozen times, each request becoming increasingly more petulant, and Zoey had rebutted those offers a dozen times, becoming increasingly more impatient. Until Mira (thank god for Mira) had ordered in no uncertain terms that Rumi not help with cleaning, and instead remain sitting firmly ‘on your ass so I don’t have to redo your stitches, idiot’.

The facial expression Rumi dons next can be described as nothing other than a disgruntled pout. It’s silly and surprising and so freakin’ cute, enough so that Zoey has to bite her tongue so she doesn’t let slip something like ‘awww!!!’, which would definitely make the whole situation worse.)

So the living room is clean. Rumi, despite being possibly the worst patient in the whole entire world ever, has not torn any stitches. They did a good job.

They did a good job, and just in time, too, because right before Zoey can suggest migrating to the kitchen and starting something for a late lunch (she’s starving. She’s starting to think that something about emotional distress seems to whet her appetite rather than kill it, somehow), she hears a car pull in.

—

There is the sound of the crunching of gravel in the driveway, and Mira hasn’t seen Rumi so stiff since the very person who has just returned had left.

There’s a story there, she knows. She’s not oblivious. Not stupid, either, at least when she’s actually paying attention and not being a judgemental asshole. She recognizes what it is to be on eggshells around a guardian. She could say it’s not from personal experience, but that would be a lie, and Mira’s a lot of things, but she’s no liar.

But she also recognizes that the relationship between her and her own parents and the one between Rumi and Celine are so vastly different that it would be doing them a disservice to compare the two.

(She remembers that sterile, silent gravesite at the tree. She remembers. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that visual - of Rumi, kneeling before it, shaking but dry-eyed.

There’s a story there, she knows. Ryu Mi-yeong was Rumi’s mother. Celine is… clearly something else.)

So she stays completely calm, reminds herself to be open-minded and just a tad on her guard, and says, “I’ll go get the door.”

It’s a testament to just how tense Rumi is that she doesn’t argue, doesn’t take the opportunity to escape from the couch Mira had essentially banished her to during the cleaning process that Zoey had gleefully dubbed, in true Zoey fashion, the purge.

Mira crosses to the foyer. The rooms and hallways in the house are familiar, now, and she doesn’t quite know when that had happened. She tries not to think about it too much and instead focuses on schooling her expression into something resembling impassivity as she enters the entrance hall and spots the outline of a woman standing in the window.

Mira’s not really one for stalling. She unlocks and opens the door.

Celine looks pretty much the same as when Mira had last seen her, minus the silent disapproval that had been drawing her eyebrows together after their first and last training disaster. Graceful. Neutral. Rather unreadable, which is kind of foreign to Mira and is also enough to have her both a little wary and more than a little begrudgingly impressed.

There’s warmth in her expression, though, a certain knowing to the tilt of her mouth as she smiles. It feels earned, somehow, feels almost conspiratory, and Mira is suddenly struck all at once with a host of new questions.

If Celine had been a Hunter, is she also tuned into the Honmoon? Has she felt everything that’s been happening? Does she know-

“Hello, Mira,” Celine says, voice low and smooth and quiet. “May I come in?”

The request is absurd, of course. It’s Celine’s house, after all, and Mira’s her guest. Who is she to deny her permission to enter her own house? Mira’s just squatting here.

(Rumi would disagree. Has done so vehemently and often, whenever Mira or Zoey slip up and refer to the house as yours instead of ours. “This is your home too, now,” she’d say, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a smile equal parts indulgent and gently exasperated, “so you don’t have to ask permission for things like that.” Mira or Zoey would then nod and acquiesce and go on doing whatever it was they were doing that prompted the conversation to begin with: grabbing the bag of chips they’d wanted to open, switching the TV channel to something that wasn’t shitty American reality shows.

It’s become more and more true, as time has gone on. The acquiesences have gotten easier, feel less like placation and more like acceptance.)

It’s that particular thought that has Mira stepping aside to let Celine in rather than just shooting her an incredulous look. (If one of her eyebrows twitches up into an expression just slightly disbelieving, well, who can blame her? C’mon, it’s a dumb question. ‘May I come in?’ It’s your house. What the hell am I gonna say, no?

Whatever.)

Celine enters, a small carry-on tucked under her right arm. Mira closes the door and locks it. She gives herself a second to breathe before turning and following Celine to the living room.

—

Rumi is not nervous to see Celine, contrary to popular belief.

By that she means this: Zoey has been not-so-subtly shooting her looks of poorly disguised worry since Mira had left to open the door, and Rumi knows the only reason Mira had done such a thing was to act as some sort of buffer.

The thought of it makes something warm spread in her chest, even as she does feel a bit of defensiveness rise in her at the thought - Celine is her guardian, the woman who had raised her, and although some of that raising had been unorthodox at best and unfortunate at worst, Rumi is not afraid of her. Does not need protection from her.

(It’s complicated, her and Celine. It’s always been complicated. She doesn’t think much about the old days, the days of her early childhood. She thinks Celine probably doesn’t either, apart from the occasional offhanded remark, referencing an old memory or something similar.

It’s not the best to dwell on, not when her whole job these days is to remain level-headed and focused. No use in looking back. Her goals are before her, and they are what matter.

It’s complicated, her and Celine. It’s not bad, per se, not anymore at least, not as she might have once described it, but Rumi has always known that in Celine’s eyes, she is a Hunter before she is her ward. Which is perfectly fine. She’s never really needed anything otherwise.

Liar.)

And so it is with a fond sort of exasperation that she shoots Zoey a look like hey, stop freaking out, please and stands when Celine finally enters the room. Zoey follows her lead, shooting to her feet with a little less grace but a boatload of enthusiasm, as is rather typical for Zoey. Rumi tamps down on a smile before addressing her mentor.

“Welcome home, Celine,” she says, perfectly polite, perfectly steady. Celine inclines her head.

“Thank you, Rumi,” she says, equally polite and steady. “It is good to see you.”

(It’s not bad, per se, not anymore, at least. But it’s a little awkward, when they’re not training or sparring or doing something Hunter related. A little stilted. Rumi has always known that in Celine’s eyes, she is a Hunter before she is her ward.

Rumi has also always known that Celine had never wanted a ward.)

Celine looks like she normally does. Put-together. Elegant. Somewhat unimpressed. But there’s a sort of weariness at the corner of her eyes, in her less-than-perfect posture, that speaks to a specific kind of exhaustion. Not physical.

Despite herself, Rumi can’t help but feel a pang of something adjacent to concern.

Mira follows a few heartbeats after, entering the room with keen eyes darting between the three of them. At her appearance, Zoey blurts (a few moments too late to be entirely natural), “Yes, uh, welcome home! Or. Welcome back. Not that this isn’t home. It is! I guess. I- Mira, don’t you agree?”

Rumi does not smile, no matter how much she wants to. She does glance over at Mira to watch the older girl exhale slowly through her nose, a long-suffering, subtle sigh. “Sure,” she says flatly, but Rumi can hear the amusement coloring her tone.

(She can hear that now. Because she knows Mira now, the intricacies of her steadiness and the cracks in her impassivity, knows her passion and her worry and what she sounds like when she laughs. She knows Zoey, knows her nervous chatter and her fun facts and her knee-jerk reaction to pull someone else into a conversation when there’s an awkward stall, as she’d just done.

She knows them. And judging by their behavior the last few hours-days-weeks, even, they might be starting to know her.

The thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. She doesn’t dwell on it long.)

“Did you encounter any problems during your travels?” she asks Celine instead, ignoring the way Zoey is wincing at herself and the way Mira is shaking her head disbelievingly, lest she fail to contain her laughter and risk earning a stern eyebrow-raise from her mentor.

Celine shakes her head, and her gaze is firm and knowing when it meets Rumi’s. The exhaustion is still there, but so too is awareness. She’d observed all the micro-interactions the same way Rumi had; has drawn her own subsequent conclusions. “I did not. It seems as though most problems in my absence were centered around this area.”

There’s something wry in her tone but also something else, gentler, newer - something inquisitive. Something almost coaxing. There’s no doubt in Rumi’s mind that Celine is referring to her last hunt, but why the tone?

She doesn’t get the chance to prod, though, not as Mira clears her throat and says, “Yeah. Rumi handled it, though.”

Celine hums. It’s non-committal but light. “Indeed.”

There’s a beat. Rumi fights the urge to narrow her eyes at her mentor. Something is different, and she doesn’t yet know if she should be troubled or not; doesn’t know if it’s merely on account of Zoey and Mira’s presences, or something deeper. Something more serious.

She doesn’t ask. Knows better than that. Knows that if something is wrong, Celine will give her some sign, will signal for a private meeting or something of the sort. This, at least, she can always say for her mentor - Celine makes her displeasure known quickly and succinctly, no matter the source, and doesn’t hesitate to confront the reason for it head-on. Rumi likes this about her. That way, Rumi knows. And if Rumi knows, she can fix it.

But Celine does not hold Rumi’s gaze meaningfully; does not tilt her head to prompt Rumi to follow her out. She does not indicate that Rumi should do anything at all.

Celine takes her leave after a moment with a murmured excuse regarding rest, adding that she would see the girls again for dinner. Zoey nods along eagerly; Mira steps out of the doorway to allow Celine out. It’s all rather typical. Somewhat stilted but typical.

There’s silence in the living room. The gradually-fading sounds of a suitcase rolling away, and then those of footsteps up stairs, echo emptily.

Rumi blinks.

Only once she is certain Celine is in her room does she sit again. Mira and Zoey follow her lead.

“Is… everything, uh, good?” Zoey asks tentatively. Mira says nothing, but watches her carefully.

Rumi smiles, and to her own surprise, it doesn’t feel very forced.

Celine had come home. She’d come home, and they’d spoken, and it had been tense and a little weird but it had been fine. Mira and Zoey had been there and it had been fine. She should be pleased. She should be ecstatic.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

She’s not lying, not really.

Still, something sits wrong and cloying in her gut. She swallows against the feeling and feels like she is waiting. For what, she does not know.

—

Zoey’s not entirely sure what’s going on. Like, with Celine. And Rumi. With Celine and Rumi. Whatever.

She’s not sure, and a glance at Mira tells her that Mira’s not sure, and honestly? By the look on Rumi’s face right now, she’s pretty sure Rumi doesn’t have a clue, either.

Which probably should be more worrying than comforting, since Rumi seems to know most things, but somehow it feels alright that they’re all clueless. At least they’re all in the dark together.

(Ooh, there’s something to that. That’s going in a notebook later for sure.)

Anyway. It’s weird but then Celine leaves and Rumi’s smiling and there’s not as much tension in her shoulders and she honestly seems fine. Everything seems fine, and Rumi says it’s fine, and it doesn’t sound like it usually sounds when she says that just to try to stop Zoey from worrying, like she’s trying to convince herself as well as Zoey, so. It seems like it really is fine.

Mira doesn’t look entirely convinced but she seems to accept Rumi’s assurance the same way Zoey had, so it’s fine.

Except now it’s super quiet and everyone’s just kinda glancing sideways at each other, which is fine (stop saying fine) but also a little strange, and makes it seem like maybe everything’s not fine (stop saying fine)?

Awesome.

“Your stitches okay?” Zoey asks, just for the sake of asking something, for the sake of breaking the silence. (She always does this. It’s, like, not even a conscious thing anymore. She’d done it a few minutes ago when greeting Celine and then fumbled entirely, determined she was gonna shut up for the rest of that interaction, and had to do some breathing exercises to keep from bolting into the kitchen and cutting her own tongue out.)

Rumi looks like she knows that, because her glance is a little amused as she says, “Yeah, they’re good.” Uh, duh. Why wouldn’t they be? Mira checked them, like, twenty minutes ago. Preeetty sure infection can’t set in in twenty minutes. Unless, like, you’re swimming in a sewer or something. Mira would know. She’s a battlefield medic, somehow, apparently, at the ripe old age of sixteen.

Said medic has an eyebrow steadily creeping up her forehead as she contemplates the other two. “Why are you guys being weird.”

Rumi protests, tone a touch affronted, “I’m not-” at the same time that Zoey starts to say, “I’m always-” and they both stop.

Mira snorts. “Yeah, okay. Believable. I’m convinced, guys.”

And that’s enough for the weirdness to dissolve, because she’s right - they are being weird. Rumi smiles, Zoey laughs, Mira shakes her head at the two of them. It is funny, kind of. Zoey doesn’t know exactly why it’s funny, but it is.

They settle after a few moments. Rumi cracks her neck absentmindedly (something she does frequently and freaks Zoey out, like, so bad, but whatever) and asks, “Are you guys hungry?”

“I could eat,” Mira says with a shrug. “Do we need to cook?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Zoey says, shifting from foot to foot as she tries to remember what they’d eaten yesterday. Had they had food leftover? She thinks so. The last twenty-four hours are a whirlwind. “We have stuff in the fridge we should finish before it goes bad, so leftovers sound good for lunch?”

Rumi and Mira nod, so they migrate to the kitchen. Their meal is uneventful and easy, as has been normal for weeks. Not for the first time, Zoey thanks whatever power is out there (the Honmoon, maybe?) for how easily the three of them fit, now. It feels so right.

She hopes Celine’s return only accentuates that easiness. Hopes that whatever just happened in the living room is a one-off. Even if it’s not, she resolves, they’ll figure it out. They got through the initial fight and Rumi’s most recent near-death experience and Mira’s grumpiness after an involuntary all-nighter that one time. She’s sure they’ll be fine.

—

Mira feels like she keeps ending up on Zoey’s floor these days.

Zoey’s offered everything from her desk chair to her bed every time Mira’s in here to hang out, but for some reason she just keeps refusing. The floor is comfortable. She can stare at the ceiling fan while talking about whatever Zoey wants to talk about, and gets to level unimpressed looks at her, like, twice as effectively, since Zoey’s usually staring down at her from the edge of her bed. Kind of a win-win.

So here she is, on Zoey’s floor. Rumi’s supposedly on her way - she’d told them as much in the group chat, citing a quick stop to Celine’s room to “check in” as an excuse for her lateness. ‘Five minutes, max.’

That’d been twenty minutes ago.

Mira’s not exactly worried. She’s sure everything’s alright, but.

Rumi is almost obsessively punctual. So it’s a little weird.

Zoey hasn’t mentioned it, though, hasn’t indicated that she’s thought about it at all, actually, so Mira’s trying to follow her lead and be chill. She can be chill. She’s normally chill.

She follows Zoey’s example and listens to her rant about her game playthrough (??) and contributes as best she can manage (there were no videogames in her household. Such a thing was considered frivolous. And unbecoming. And honestly, Mira, wasn’t her time better spent elsewhere, anyway?) until there’s a knock at the door. Zoey calls out some affirmative and Rumi pokes her head in.

Mira tries not to straighten too visibly. Scans Rumi’s frame for clear discomfort or injury, as subtly as she can; Rumi heals unbelievably fast, they’ve discovered, but the wound in her abdomen had been grisly. It’s an absolute medical miracle that she’s up and moving at all, but Mira had quickly learned that Rumi was not going to allow the alternative. Even relegating her to the couch for an hour while she and Zoey had cleaned the living room this morning had been like pulling teeth.

Anyway. Rumi seems fine; there’s some stiffness in her movements but that’s to be expected, given, y’know, last night. She smiles at the two of them and says, “Hey, guys.”

“Hey!” Zoey says brightly. “What are your thoughts on this man.” She turns her console to show Rumi the side profile of a pixelated character wearing a green jacket.

“Um,” says Rumi, blinking. “Cool?”

“Zoey’s wondering if she should marry him,” Mira adds dryly, just to see Rumi’s bewildered expression deepen.

“Uh, no, Mira, I’ve already married Harvey. I’m just wondering if Alex’s gifts long-term are better than Harvey’s. Like, for next time.”

“Right. My bad.”

Rumi huffs a little laugh, gingerly taking a seat on the floor beside Mira. “Is this a new video game?”

“Not, like, brand new, but yeah, I still haven’t explored a lot of features. I think-”

Zoey essentially re-starts the conversation she’d just had with Mira, explaining mechanics and her specific dilemma. Rumi looks rather engrossed, if a little confused.

She looks alright; she laughs along with Zoey and her smiles seem relaxed, genuine. It’s not the stiltedness of pre-Celine leaving.

(It’s not quite the ease of the last few weeks, though. It bothers Mira a little more than she’d like to admit.)

It’ll be an adjustment. They’ll get through it. Whatever.

More importantly, Celine being here means they’ll start training soon. That is something Mira can get on board with, even if there’s a little awkwardness over the next few days. She’s enjoyed herself the last few weeks, but if last night had done anything at all for her, it had been cementing her determination to begin training. Seriously. She can’t handle being useless again, not without knowing that she’s actively working towards not being so anymore.

So she’ll take it. If it’s a little weird, if there’s another short period of not-quite-right, she’ll take it. So long as it means she never has to watch Rumi go through what she’d gone through last night again, she’ll take it. In the meantime, she’ll keep an eye out.

(Zoey giggles quietly at something Rumi had said and Rumi smiles that soft, slightly too-wide smile of hers. The two look to Mira; she plasters on a more neutral look and nods along with whatever Zoey had said. Ease balloons in her chest, heat spreading through her, warming her inside out. The feeling is becoming more and more familiar. It should scare Mira but it doesn’t.)

In the meantime, she’ll keep an eye out. Awkwardness is mostly harmless. She intends on making sure things stay that way.

Mira’s newly resolved by the time dinner comes around. She doesn’t know quite where that’ll get her, but she’s got a purpose, for pretty much the first time since getting here. It’s comforting. It’s grounding. It’s something, after a whole lot of amorphous everything-else since arriving.

It’s something.

She’ll take it.

—

Celine stands a few feet from the entrance to the kitchen and cannot shake the feeling that something here has changed.

She had noticed the differences in the living room immediately after entering; of course she had. She’d renovated the space herself not ten years ago, had bought the blankets and small rug that are now conspicuously absent, the cleaning supplies she smells lingering in the room. This is her house, after all, no matter the new inhabitants, and she knows her house.

She notices. Celine notices everything.

There is something that has changed in the kitchen, too, though she can’t quite identify the reason so concretely. It’s much harder to put her finger on it; more than the disappearance of something-or-other, more than the echo of an attempt to sterilize.

There is something that has changed in the kitchen, and she thinks maybe the change is warmth.

The girls - Mira, Zoey, and Rumi, that is - converse as they move from station to station, working together to microwave and set and prepare; there is quiet laughter and snippy retorts and a sense of camaraderie that has been gone from this estate for many, many years.

There is a small piece of paper held crookedly to the otherwise-gleaming fridge with a magnet. There is food, homemade food, in the fridge, stacked high and packed neatly away in Tupperware.

There is a smile on Rumi’s face.

Rumi is smiling. Not broadly, perhaps, not with the unfettered joy of one who has not known hardship nor with the enthusiasm of the optimist. But she is smiling, quietly, gentle and happy, smiling in that passive way one smiles when they are simply enjoying something. An expression of content.

Rumi is smiling, and Celine stands a few feet from the entrance to the kitchen and cannot shake the feeling that there is something that has changed in the kitchen. In this house. Irrevocably.

She feels, abruptly, nervous.

(She is being foolish. Imagine, the feeling of being nervous to enter a room in one’s own house, to engage in conversation with those who are to be her wards. Imagine, a seasoned artist and former idol, a shrewd businesswoman and vicious Hunter; a woman who, for many years, rubbed elbows with the elite of her country and was herself considered as such: nervous for a simple dinner.

Imagine.)

Something has changed, and the girls bicker and tease and laugh and laugh and laugh, and it hurts. God, it hurts.

There is warmth, here, warmth that has been gone from these halls for many years, and Rumi is smiling, and Celine is not ready. She had known she wasn’t ready but she had not realized just how much.

It burns, a bit. A lot, actually. She blinks against it like too-bright sun, weathers it like waves of dry, uncomfortable summer heat, battering. Her skin feels too warm, too tight. Something in her chest churns.

She is not ready. It is far easier to be distant, distant and cold; cold with the absence of those who had once brought her the same joy she sees reflected on Rumi’s face.

Joy, pure and gleaming, on Rumi’s face. That the expression is so foreign to Celine, that it shocks her so deeply, is only added testament to just how thoroughly she has failed.

It hurts, and she is not ready, but the heat comes regardless, relentless and stifling; such is the way of the world. Her soulmates had gone, her career had all but ceased; her life as she’d known it had shattered and ended. And still the world had carried on. Time had marched forward and dragged her unwillingly along with it, graceless and ceaseless and unforgiving.

She is not ready, but it does not matter. It does not matter that it hurts. She must be strong, now more than ever.

Celine breathes in deeply and steps forward, entering the kitchen. She pretends not to notice how one of her charges stiffens; pretends not to notice the way that small, miraculous smile slips from her face. Pretends not to feel the sharpness slicing through her at the sight.

(She notices. Celine notices everything.)

—

Dinner is, well. A liiiiittle awkward.

That actually might be an understatement. Dinner is a lot awkward.

(It reminds Zoey of that first night, in an unpleasant sort of way; reminds her of sitting at the long, formal dining table in the other room and trying desperately to break the wall-thick tension that seemed to hover in the air between them. Reminds her of the way Rumi and Mira had snapped at each other, and the way Celine had merely watched, had watched and then left.)

(Deep down, subconsciously, something in Zoey stews at the thought. Celine had left. For weeks. And while that might’ve been a blessing, really, for the space it had given the three of them, for the freedom it had allowed them to learn each other, Zoey can’t stop thinking about it.

She can’t stop seeing Rumi’s face, bloodied and slack and pale, way too pale, every time she closes her eyes.

Is that crazy? It feels crazy. But it also feels crazy for a grown woman to leave the three of them - to leave Rumi - to their own defenses the way she had.

She’s sure Celine had her reasons. That’s why she’s only a little upset, and why she’s got it stuffed all the way deep down where no one could ever tell and will ever find out. Celine’s wise, and seasoned, and a bit a lot mysterious, and Zoey’s sure there was a why. She just kind of wishes she knew what incredibly important thing had made Celine leave and not so much as send a text when they’d needed her.

Of course, Celine had called Rumi. And called her into her office to talk to her a bit ago, before dinner - Zoey’s sure they discussed last night. Rumi had said Celine was checking in. That was good! Hopefully Rumi had been able to talk about what had happened, told Celine about her injuries, and, maybe, put in a good word for their teamwork! They’d worked well last night, once Zoey had gotten over her stupid, stupid indecision and unfrozen and actually acted like a person with arms and legs and a brain, instead of a worthless block of wood.)

Anyway. Dinner is a lot awkward, but maybe it’s just her. Rumi seems unfazed. She’s back to being all polite, but she doesn’t appear shocked in the slightest. And Mira’s as unreadable as ever, except when Zoey catches her glancing sideways at Rumi every once in a while, as if silently checking in. (It’d be super cute under different circumstances.)

So maybe it’s just Zoey. Fine. She’ll be the outlier. She’s pretty used to it.

Her intuition is usually pretty good, though, and something about this feels different. Not, like, wrong, or dangerous or unsafe or anything - like, this is Kim Celine, a Sunlight Sister and revered figure and, apparently, a legendary Hunter, and totally not a crazy person or anything. So nothing’s, like, bad. Zoey’s not stressed.

But she’s… aware. She’s definitely aware.

And because she is aware, she can say definitively that dinner is a lot awkward.

It’s little things mostly. Like, vibes. ‘Cuz, y’know, usually eating with the other girls involves, at the very least, some comfy silence. More often than not, they talk. Or, well. Zoey talks, and Mira and Rumi interject when they have responses to her endless stream-of-consciousness.

But it’s pretty silent now. Not comfy silence. Just, like, quiet. Still.

Which is fine! Celine is, like, an adult, and Rumi’s kind-of-mom-except-not-really-but-maybe?, and she’s obviously super important and busy, and Zoey’s idol, actually, and she’s probably tired from travelling and so she’s just eating. Eating at dinnertime is so normal! Nothing is wrong with that!

Zoey, though, is not normal. Like so not normal about this whole situation. And the silence is just making it worse.

(The other thing making it worse is the way Rumi is staring steadfastly forward at her own plate and looks like she’s eating manually. The movements of her raising and lowering her chopsticks look almost mechanical. It’s stilted and a bit robotic and something in Zoey mourns, cries this is wrong, why is it wrong? Wasn’t it just alright?)

Which is why she just can’t help herself - can’t stop herself from blurting, “So, uh, Celine-nim. Is that- do I call- you know what, yeah. I’m owning it. Celine-nim, how was your month of. Um. Travelling?”

She doesn’t have the slightest clue what Celine had been doing while she was gone at all, so the question comes off super weird, to speak nothing of her word vomit at the beginning. But what pulls Zoey out of her absolute and total mortification is the way Rumi finally looks up from her half-eaten plate. Glances at Celine.

Like she doesn’t know the answer to that question, either.

Mira exhales in a little puff of air that Zoey has come to recognize as her version of incredulous laughter. Zoey fights the urge to stick her tongue out at her.

Celine smiles and it doesn’t look incredibly natural but it also doesn’t look annoyed, which is a win. “It went smoothly,” she says agreeably. “Rather illuminating. And, honestly, Zoey, there’s no need to bother with honorifics here, in the house. It will get rather redundant, I suspect.”

It’s a polished answer, genuine in the way that a mirror’s reflection is genuine: it’s true, at least, though it doesn’t go any deeper than surface level. But it’s also probably Zoey’s seventh or eighth conversation with this woman ever, so. She’ll take it.

Mira, bless her, breaks the little lull of awkward silence and adds, “So, where did you go?” And her tone isn’t accusatory, exactly, but there’s something there. A little edge.

Celine doesn’t seem to notice. Thankfully. “Sokcho,” she replies evenly. “And a few surrounding towns. I was… researching, I suppose one could say. Looking for answers to questions that have plagued our predecessors for centuries.”

“Did you have much success?” Rumi asks quietly, and there’s something to her voice, too, something that Zoey can’t quite name. Something cautious, maybe.

Celine’s next smile is a little smaller, a little more sterile. Placating, professional; a smile you’d offer a colleague. Or a retail customer. (Don’t ask how Zoey knows that.) “Some.”

She doesn’t elaborate - Rumi doesn’t press. There seems to be some sort of agreement that passes between them, some unspoken accord not to push the matter.

It’s soo weird. So weird.

Zoey turns to Mira and sees a brief flash of confusion on her face, there and gone; it’s comforting, that Mira doesn’t know what the fuck is going on either. Comforting enough that Zoey shrugs to herself and returns to her plate.

The food really is good. They’d kind of killed it.

(She’s honestly not too bothered by any of this. She’s in way over her head, right now; idols and Hunters and soul-bonds and living in this massive house thousands of miles from her home. She doesn’t understand what’s going on but, like. That’s been true for everything, since she got here. She figures it’ll work itself out, or at least she’ll get some sort of explanation. Eventually. Hopefully.

And she’s content with that, so long as the worst thing to come of it is some weird dinner tension.

And Zoey knows true tension; knows silent family dinners with something heavy hanging just above the tablecloth, something magnetic in the plates drawing the eyes downwards to stare at them rather than at the person seated across the table. Knows brief attempts at conversation shut down with short, often terse responses; knows the way that awkwardness is oh-so-flammable, can spark and ignite and rage til it burns to ashes in seconds.

This isn’t quite that. It’s awkward, but not awkward like her parents had once been, where everyone seemed braced for a fight with every breath. Not awkward like their first dinner here had been, with Rumi and Mira at each others’ throats. This isn’t that.

(She wonders, absently, what her mom would think of all this.)

This is less aggressive, more foreign. Distance rather than anger. It’s not quite urgent.

So Zoey’s not too bothered, not yet. Not until she notices something that suggests otherwise.)

She returns to her plate, and tries to ignore the malaise that seems to creep through the air as they finish dinner.

An adjustment. This will be another adjustment. They’ll get through it, and everything will be fine. She’s almost sure of it; knows these girls, now, cares for them, knows they care for her, too. She’s pretty confident a little tension won’t be enough to break them, now, so she isn’t too worried.

(Still, she wishes Rumi would smile. Wishes Mira would smirk and say something witty and make all three of them laugh. Wishes she could start blathering on about sea stars and get interested hums and affirmatives in response. Wishes for the warm, cozy silence of curling up in the living room together and watching a stupid show in silence. Not this stony, awkward thing.)

This will be another adjustment, and Zoey’s ready. For these girls, for the life she’s glimpsed over the course of the last month or so, she’ll weather it. They’ll weather it, and they’ll come out better for it, she’s sure.

Training will start soon. She’ll be ready for whatever it throws her way, and she’ll get stronger, and she’ll find her place here beyond just being Rumi and Mira’s friend. Beyond just being Rumi and Mira’s.

She’ll find her purpose, and she’ll find herself, maybe, and it’ll all work out. She’s weirdly sure of it.

She’ll be ready. She’ll have to be.

For now, she focuses on clearing her plate and pretending not to notice that anything is off. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance, if she does say so herself; she smiles blithely in between bites and only exchanges loaded glances with Mira like, twice.

(Maybe thrice. It feels good knowing she’s probably not the only one noticing, like. All of this.)

She’ll pretend, and she’ll be ready, and hopefully it’ll pay off. And when it does, they’ll come through better for it.

—

Rumi feels like she doesn’t really breathe until Celine excuses herself.

She’d offered to help with the cleanup before she left, but they’d waved her off. Rumi, specifically, had been rather adamant. And part of that she can accredit to tradition and respect and all, but more importantly, the after-eating cleanup has become kind of a ritual for the three of them. Rumi helps Mira with clearing and wiping down the table; Zoey rinses the dishes. They load the dishes together, and finish around the same time. It’s a system that works.

It feels like they’re in sync.

She wonders if this will be what it feels like when they start training together. Hunting together. She hopes so. Nothing in her life has been so easy.

(Mira tries to get Rumi to stop helping, at first. “You’re still injured, dumbass,” she says, and there’s so much fondness behind the indignation that Rumi’s kind of struck dumb, for a minute. “Can you sit down for ten minutes?”

(Rumi’s kind of struck dumb, but still stubborn. She is many things, and one of those things is stubborn.) She finds her tongue to retort, “I’ve been sat for a lot longer than that, Mira. I’m injured, not an invalid.”

That earns her an unimpressed look. She switches tactics. “I know my limits,” she says, a little gentler. Channels sincerity, even as her side smarts. “I’ve got it, okay?”

Mira doesn’t look entirely convinced - neither does Zoey, for that matter, who had re-entered the kitchen just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation - but backs off. Rumi’s beyond grateful. She’s so sick of sitting. Prefers the stinging in her torso a hundred times over to the boredom of sitting on her ass, to the feeling of bone-deep discomfort that creeps through her every time she’s not doing something. Like radio static, buzzing and buzzing under her skin until it’s all she can do not to fidget, not to claw free.)

Celine wants to speak with them, when they’re done. She’d mentioned as much on her way out. Rumi assumes she’ll want to discuss training; after all, that had been what Celine had said to Rumi, when she’d called her into her office a few hours ago. Simply that she was glad the three of them had settled and seemed to be getting along nicely, and that she’d discuss beginning training with the other girls soon.

That had been all she had said.

It’s so strange.

Usually there’s something else. A request for a more detailed report. A task to complete, or a new exercise to add to her training regiment. A piece of information learned while away. A correction of some variation, delivered with enough impassivity that Rumi sometimes absently wonders if the skin of her mentor’s face will ever wrinkle from use.

There is always something else. Something Celine requires; something Rumi must do. Learn. Become.

But there’s nothing, this time. Celine had asked her about her injuries, congratulated her (sort of) on a hunt completed and on her success bonding with her soul-bonded, and dismissed her. And it’s just. So very strange.

Rumi tries not to think of it as she packs Tupperware back in the fridge. Tries but ultimately fails, which she knows the girls notice; knows they notice her reversion back to formality, discipline. They are not nearly as subtle as they think they are, Zoey especially, with her bug-eyed glances at Mira every time Rumi so much as twitches the wrong way. It makes her feel unbearably fond, even as she fights the urge to roll her eyes.

They are not nearly as subtle as they think they are, and Rumi knows Celine has noticed too. Celine notices everything.

So it’s endearing and a little exasperating, the utter lack of discretion. It’s also more than a little funny, because Mira usually has the stone-cold poker face of a seasoned interrogator and Zoey is normally at least a little more lowkey about her gawking. Rumi supposes being in the presence of a fabled Sunlight Sister may have something to do with the latter’s reactions.

It’s, truthfully, not a big deal. Neither is Celine’s out-of-the-ordinary behavior. What she needs from Rumi, Rumi will ultimately hear about. That is, put simply, how their dynamic works; it is how they’ve kept Seoul and the greater surrounding country safe, just the two of them, for so many years. Rumi is good at listening, and even better at following orders.

The other two will learn.

Rumi is actually quite excited to start training. If it’s half as natural as everything else has been with them thus far (barring the awfulness of the first couple weeks), she’ll be more than satisfied, and the souls of those she’s sworn to protect will be more than safe, she hopes. Her goal, golden and shining and once-improbable, is a little less unrealistic. A little closer in reach.

Which is good, because now that Rumi knows them, her bonded, she can’t imagine being distant from them for long. Certainly not for her whole life. The pull towards them is strong, magnetic, polarizing, harder to resist than she’d ever imagined it being, and the thought of being apart from them has her whole body protesting on what feels like the molecular level.

So she’s not being dramatic. The golden Honmoon is no longer some amorphous goal. It is a necessity, because right now it is the only thing truly in the way between her and her soul-mates.

She won’t let such a barrier stand.

She won’t let anything stand between her and them. She’ll complete her duty and keep everyone safe and seal the Honmoon. And then, finally, the strangeness, the lingering distance, will dissipate. They’ll be together, truly, the way they’re meant to be.

Until then, she’ll smile and stack containers of food like Jenga pieces into their fridge and laugh at Zoey’s jokes and Mira’s quips and smile some more. Until then, she has to be perfect; and perfect she will be, to keep them happy, to keep them safe.

It is, in her opinion, the very least she can do. And Rumi is many things, but it can never be said about her that she does not see her goals through to the end.

She’ll nod and laugh and play whatever part Celine needs of her; will allow herself fleeting glimpses of the joy she’ll only truly have once she is fixed, if solely to motivate her further.

She will protect them. They are already suspicious, so she’ll need to do better. She’ll have to feign complete control, pretend that everything is alright, even more so than she has been doing for the better part of her life.

Rumi wipes down the table and allows stiffness to bleed from her posture. She lets herself relax a little more; lets herself start smiling again. Celine will return, and so too will her apprehension, but until then she is with Mira and Zoey, and she never feels lighter than when that is true. She lets herself bask in that, in the happiness the thought brings about.

She doesn’t let herself think about the rest.

—

Celine is waiting for them just outside the kitchen, once they’ve finished packing up.

Mira is struck with deja vu. Remembers the first time she’d been summoned for something training related; remembers how much of a disaster it had been. Remembers how angry she’d been. How scared.

She fights the urge to laugh, absurdly - at how stupid she’d been, for fighting the thought of being here so hard, back then. Instead, she steps outside and joins the three of them on a walk to the dining room.

Mira hasn’t been in here in weeks. The three of them eat almost exclusively together in the kitchen, and on the rare occasion that they don’t, the food is taken back to respective rooms and wolfed down in solitude. This room feels too big, too empty; the table is vacant, far too long. Celine sits at the head; Zoey on her left, Rumi on her right.

Again, the deja vu.

She sits on Rumi’s right. Zoey grins at her from across the table, something knowing in her expression. Mira knows she remembers. She smirks back.

Things have changed since that day; for the better, she’d say.

Rumi glances at her and her face is tight with the same stiffness she adopts every time Celine enters a room. Her face is tight but there is something sparking in her eyes; something like recognition, like memory. Something deeper. Understanding, maybe.

Things are different. We are different. We are with you.

Mira feels her smirk soften into a half-smile, twin to the one Rumi flashes her before schooling her features and turning to face ahead. It’s enough, the callback. The reminder.

The Honmoon hums. Mira can feel it buzzing over her skin, tingly and somehow comforting. It hums. Things have changed. We are with you. We are with you, as we always were meant to be. Together. Together again.

Celine clears her throat delicately. She says, “Zoey, Mira. You have had time, now, to settle in. How have you found everything? To your liking?”

Mira looks up at Zoey, whose eyes are wide with wonder, with joy; looks over at Rumi, face ever-neutral but the corner of her mouth still quirked up in the echo of a smile.

“Yeah,” Mira says. “I’d say so.”

Zoey beams at her. Mira can’t help but smile back.

(There is something raw in Celine’s face when Mira looks back at her. Something new. Something a little devastating in its intensity. It feels like she’s looking through her.

Then Celine blinks, as if remembering herself, and it clears. It’s gone, before Mira can figure out exactly what it was. It leaves her a little uneasy; uneasy and, for whatever reason, a little sad.)

(The Sunlight Sisters had lasted all of three days after Ryu Mi-yeong’s death. Hana had been gone only two months later.)

Celine opens her mouth to speak and Mira, without really thinking, interrupts, “I have a question.”

A quirked eyebrow in her direction. “Yes?”

“You were a Hunter. Right?” The ensuing nod is uncharacteristically hesitant. Mira continues, “So you’re, like, linked to the Honmoon, too?”

For a moment, Celine doesn’t speak. She merely stares at Mira, like she’s contemplating something, like she’s trying to answer something just from studying her face. What she finds, Mira doesn’t know, but it’s enough for her to nod slightly and say, “Yes. I was.”

There is a sharp inhale from one of the other girls. Mira doesn’t know who exactly it is, but she’d be willing to bet it was Rumi.

“But,” Celine continues, a tad quieter, “my connection is not nearly as strong as yours. It has been well over a decade since my- since the Sunlight Sisters were an active Hunter sect. The time has caused my connection to it to dim; I am not as in-tune as I once was.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, her face doesn’t change; her gaze does not waver. But there’s something heavy with sorrow there regardless, in the space between them. Rumi, on Mira’s right, makes an odd, aborted movement before settling back into her previous stillness.

Then Celine smiles and says a bit wryly, “I haven’t been snooping, if that’s what you’re wondering, Mira. I’ll get brief echoes of any especially strong emotion, but it is nothing like that which the three of you feel from each other through the bond. If that was your concern.”

Mira fights the urge to flush; it was kind of her concern. The thought of Celine feeling the weight of every ugly barb and word she’d spat at Rumi, at Zoey, in those early days is disarming. The thought of Celine feeling the weight of her utter fondness for the two now is mortifying. It feels a little too sacred for someone else to casually admit they are privy to.

Still. She supposes “brief echoes” isn’t as bad as it could be. She’ll take it.

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, we do have important matters to discuss. Regarding your training. I know you likely have many questions; I ask that you hold them until I’ve finished explaining the basics, if possible.”

Mira inclines her head in a nod, her mind going a mile a minute. Should she be taking notes? It kind of feels like it. She wonders if Zoey’s got one of her dozens of notebooks handy.

Speaking of Zoey: she’s nodding along to Celine’s every word, eyes wide with interest and barely-subdued excitement. Mira’s pretty sure Celine’s disclaimer about shutting up and listening is weighing pretty hard on her; Zoey looks like she’s physically biting her tongue to avoid saying anything.

Rumi, for her part, is the picture of serenity. Mira supposes that makes sense; none of this will be new to her, probably. She’s already a Hunter. She goes out and does Hunter things. Does them well, if the fact that Seoul is still standing is any indication.

(Does them alone.)

“First, though, I’d like to hear from the two of you,” Celine says. “Rumi has mentioned there have been advances in your sensing of the Honmoon, and I would like to determine where exactly you fall in your ability.”

That’s kind of a loaded question. Mira’s not exactly sure where she falls; doesn’t really have much to compare her own ability to. For all of Rumi’s clear competence, she hasn’t explained much; told them to wait for Celine.

Mira glances at Zoey, who looks similarly at a loss.

Rumi, mercifully, speaks next. “We’re not too sure, at the moment,” she says, and her voice is flat and cool in a way that Mira hasn’t heard in a month. “There’s been… flashes. It hasn’t manifested the same way mine did.”

Celine hums, considering Zoey with a little more interest. “Flashes?”

“Yeah. Like, uh, feeling things? Hearing, like, songs that aren’t really playing, sometimes,” Zoey says. “And then I get. Pulled places? A lot? It’s weird. That sounds kinda crazy, huh.”

That’s interesting. Mira hasn’t been getting pulled anywhere; the closest she’s come to that sort of thing was at the tree, the day they’d found out Rumi was in fact a Ryu. Oh, and that day at the piano.

Huh. Maybe she is getting pulled places. She’s not sure how to feel about that.

“And when was the last time that occurred?” Celine asks Zoey, who goes a little pink and glances sideways at Mira before muttering, “Yesterday.”

Oh. Mira had been wondering what could have possibly compelled Zoey to wander into the hallway so late last night; turns out the answer is the Honmoon. She should probably be grateful. She’d likely have contracted hypothermia or something if Zoey hadn’t.

“And you, Mira?”

Celine looks expectant and even Zoey looks at her with no small amount of interest. Mira shrugs. “Mostly the same as Zoey. No pulling, though.”

(She doesn’t know why, exactly, she leaves out the fact that she can perceive the Honmoon if she focuses hard enough; a gleaming blanket over the floor, geometric and glowing and somehow almost serene. She doesn’t know what stops her from saying it; it’s on the tip of her tongue. She has no reason to withhold that information.

But she does.)

Except then Rumi adds, quietly, “Mira can see it.”

Mira blinks.

She’d never told Rumi that, only Zoey. And by the latter’s raised eyebrows, it hadn’t been her who told Rumi.

So how-

She doesn’t have time to follow that line of questioning before Celine is asking follow-ups. “This is something you are doing consciously? It’s reproducible?”

So far it has been. “I mean. Yeah. Pretty much.”

“And what, exactly, do you see?”

Mira sighs slightly and lowers her gaze. This gives her kind of a headache, though it’s lessened the more times she’s done it. She’s hoping it’s a ‘practice makes permanent’ kinda thing and eventually it’ll just stop hurting, like building a tolerance or something. “Blue. It’s, like, shimmery and blue, and other colors in some places, I guess. Looks like a big grid. The other night, when Rumi had to go out, there was pink, too.”

Celine nods. Her gaze is intense as she appraises Mira, then Zoey. “You are further along than I had expected. You’re likely ready to be trained.”

Mira tries not to let her eagerness show. She feels suddenly like she’s standing in front of a drill sergeant, and it seems best not to let anything slip right now. That’s usually discouraged in basic training, right?

Zoey does not seem to share this strategy. There is a strangled sort of squeak to Mira’s left; turning reveals Zoey mid-fist pump in the air, a ginormous grin on her face. “This is so sick! I’m so hype!”

To Mira’s surprise, Celine just laughs lightly. “You probably won’t share that sentiment long,” she warns, though somewhat warmly. “Training to become an idol is grueling. Training to become a Hunter doubly so. I’m sure Rumi can attest to that.”

Rumi gives a stiff sort of nod, but she does smile, albeit a little stiltedly. “I’ve already warned you guys.”

“Still!” Zoey says. “A couple months ago I was writing DBQs and failing my calc exams. Now integrals can suck it, we’re gonna be demon hunters!”

Mira bites her lip to suppress a smile.

“Indeed,” Celine says, all bemusement. “In that case, if the three of you would follow me.”

—

It’s warm out this afternoon.

Celine leads the three of them out of the estate and down a path branching out towards the left of the property. Rumi’s pretty sure Zoey and Mira have yet to traverse this area before, so she lags a bit behind, just in case; the trail is a little winding, and it will soon be dusk.

The sun fully sets in a couple of hours or so, and they must return to the house before that time. The estate is as safe a place as any could possibly be for Hunters, but the woods surrounding it have always been rather wild, untamed. It is usually best to vacate them before sundown. Whether the forces within are foes or not, Rumi has never questioned. She hasn’t been told one way or another, and is content with the amount of knowledge she has.

So it will be dark soon, and they will soon return. But the arena is outside, and that’s what Celine wants to show them.

(It’s outside, a short walk from the house and a bit further up the mountain. Far enough that the sounds of clashing blades and shouted orders don’t carry down the slope to the small cabins dotted along the way down; close enough to the house that medical supplies can be retrieved in a hurry.

It’s outside, because it’s easier to keep clean that way. The floor, coarse sand and pebbled rubber, has probably seen more Hunter blood spilled than any other place in the country; injuries from nosebleeds to skinned knees to worse.)

It’s outside, and so Rumi walks behind Mira and Zoey and watches as Zoey trips over a root and Mira steadies her, snorting; it’s outside, and so Rumi breathes in fresh air deeply and concentrates on the sounds of the nature around them to tune out the quiet laughter in front of her.

She cannot join them, not now. They are now to begin their training, and here, she is expected to be their leader, a model of behavior, not a friend. This Celine has drilled into her countless times, for the days and weeks and months before she’d brought the two of them to the manor.

It hurts more than she expects it to, though she knows it won’t be permanent; almost physically pains her, to hang back and ignore their chatter, not join in their laughter. It aches, which is stupid, so she focuses instead on the low humming of cicadas and the slight stickiness of the balmy air, on the sure-footed posture of Celine, a few paces ahead.

They arrive. The arena is not remarkably large - eight or so could spar in it comfortably, but any more would be an issue. Regardless, Zoey’s mouth hangs open; Mira’s eyes are fractionally wider, which for her is practically falling to her knees in shock.

Rumi bites down a smile and steps into the arena after Celine, motioning for the other two to follow.

Their mentor’s voice carries in the center of the circle. “This is the training arena; it is where you will study combat. Our other main spaces are in the courtyard and inside, in the dance studio and rehearsal rooms. Those will be used mainly for idol training, but this place is for learning to fight.”

“You’ll have noticed the arms we have reserved for training. You will be expected to learn and master most, as we will not know what weapon the Honmoon will assign you until you have drawn it for the first time. Learning includes not just how to wield, but also how to tend to - many of these blades have been used by Hunters for centuries, and their upkeep is of great importance.”

“So freakin’ cool,” Zoey whispers, eyes wide and shining as she takes in the racks of weapons. “Check out the swords. I want one. Hey, what’re the odds I can-”

Celine’s tone becomes a hint firmer as she continues, “It is also imperative to note that they should not be removed from these grounds for any reason. Disobeying this rule will have consequences.”

Zoey’s grin does not become any smaller, though it is a touch more sheepish. “Yeah, okay, fair. Safety first!”

“If we have those weapons,” Mira says, jerking her head in the general direction of the racks, “why do we need magic ones?”

“Ordinary metal doesn’t work on demons,” Rumi replies quietly. (Except her, of course. Steel slices through her skin all the same.) “Only Honmoon-made weapons.”

“Honmoon-made weapons?” There’s a bit of a challenge in Mira’s eyes. The question isn’t rhetorical, but it’s not asking for a traditional answer, either; that much Rumi can easily tell. There’s something like show me, something like prove it, there in Mira’s tone, in the easily-missed glint in her otherwise steady gaze.

Celine seems to recognize this. She also seems all too happy to oblige her. “Rumi? If you would do the honors?”

Rumi steps forward.

There’s something a little sad to their duty, she thinks, as she comes to stand next to her mentor, pivoting to face the other two. Something a little sad to the nature of their work, of course - that they learn to sing and to kill, lest people be turned into something not, left as husks or taken in their entirety. Sad, too, that they are so young; that they are called as children, trained as adolescents, Hunters by twenty.

Killers by twenty, maybe.

There’s something sad to it, but there is also something sacred. Something sacred to the gentle breeze that perpetually winds through the training arena, carried from the branches of a great tree a hundred meters away, cool and calm to soothe the Hunters sweating and bleeding to protect it. Something sacred to the way her vision sharpens and clears when she takes a deep, steadying breath, all granted warrior-calm, remarkable stillness.

Something sacred to the warmth of those iridescent threads beneath her hands, fingers splayed out in preparation for summoning her weapon. More than sacred - something holy, maybe, some divine purpose filling her, lifting her, settling and bolstering and all-consuming and hers.

Rumi focuses on dipping her vision deeper and blinks against the way the world lights up multicolored; the Honmoon gleams, bathes this plane in every shade of cerulean, all the more bright for the presence of four of its chosen in this hallowed place.

There’s something sacred, too, in what she sees before her when she looks back up, sight swimming with the evidence of their work, the purpose of it. Something sacred in the awe she sees blooming on her inyeons’ faces. Something sacred in the way Zoey’s freckles glow, like bioluminescence; sacred in the way Mira’s eyes shine, sparking with pure white light. The Honmoon, claiming. These too are mine.

They are haloed with its favor, her soul-bonded, blazing with all the brilliance of starlight, and Rumi can’t help but stare, even as she gathers delicate, entwining threads into her hands and tugs.

Her saingeom shatters into existence, hilt-first, blade extending in a flash of white-hot light.

Its weight is balanced and light and somehow comforting. It’s difficult to explain, the way her blade somehow feels the same in her hands as the threads of the Honmoon do under them; difficult to explain the way holding it simultaneously fills her with bone-deep calm and also seemingly wakes every cell in her body all the way up, livewire-ready.

It’s electric, the feeling, and it’s addictive, and it’s the most normal anything ever feels, when she’s holding her blade; when she is the embodiment of a Hunter, a weapon of the Honmoon. But Rumi isn’t thinking about any of that.

Mira and Zoey stand before her and the Honmoon loves them. It is singing, something kind and lilting and exuberant, singing as Rumi lowers her arm and allows her blade to hang loosely at her side. Singing as, at the very heart of her soul-bonded, something starts to glow.

(Demons steal souls.

Rumi asks, once.

Celine is walking her through a drill, correcting her posture. “No, Rumi. Better to swing up, and be ready to defend. This is not an offensive maneuver. It’s protective.”

Rumi stops, resets. “Protective?” she asks, breathing heavily. “Protecting what?”

It’s a little snippy - she’s exhausted, sue her, and this maneuver doesn’t make sense: the move leaves her whole torso wide open and expends all her energy in an upwards strike. And it’s been nearly half an hour and she still hasn’t nailed this drill.

Celine raises an eyebrow at her tone and she ducks her head, appropriately chastised, lifts her practice sword back into the ready stance.

But instead of ordering her to go again, Celine considers her carefully, and then says, “Protecting people’s souls, Rumi. That’s what Hunters do.”

She… doesn’t understand. How would an upwards strike protect people? There are no demons that attack from the sky, as far as she knows, besides maybe the bigger ones that tower over humans and use their superior height to their advantage in combat, but a vulnerable move like the one she’s being taught wouldn’t help with that at all.

She’s loath to ask anything clarifying, though. Too many questions without noticeable improvement and Celine will shut her down. “Right. Because… demons kill people. And so this move. Protects those people…?”

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to ask again. Celine sighs slightly and says, “Demons steal souls.”

Rumi blinks. She… knows that. Doesn’t really know why Celine’s said it with such finality, as if that explains everything. “O-kay?”

“Think, Rumi,” Celine says, voice suddenly weary. “How do demons steal souls?”

This, she doesn’t know. She’s only twelve, and she’s never been on a proper hunt before, despite her best efforts; never seen real demons in action, not where people are in danger. She’s never been allowed.

“I’m not sure,” she admits slowly.

Celine, fortunately, does not seem frustrated with her lack of a correct answer. “They consume essence,” she says. “Literally suck it from a person’s body, tearing the connection between them and their soul. That is what kills the person.”

Oh. “The souls are tangible?”

Celine hums. “In a way. An intangible soul and a divine blade, for whatever reason, can make contact. You will be able to see it, Rumi.”

“What do they look like? Can I see one now?”

Another hum, this one considering. “Ordinarily, no. But you have demonstrated an extraordinary sensitivity to the Honmoon thus far.” Rumi preens at that, and decidedly does not think further on why it might be. “In any case, Rumi, you will be ready for hunting soon. And on your first hunt, you will see a soul.”

Something inside Rumi is buzzing faintly, an echo of adrenaline. “So this move you’re teaching me…”

“Disrupts the connection. A Honmoon-weapon can cleave the bridge between the demon and the soul leaving the person’s body - an upwards arc is usually powerful enough to do it. That is what you are protecting.”

She should be horrified, Rumi knows. She is. She’s appalled. She should be appalled into silence.

But the words are bubbling up and out of her before she can swallow them down. “Why do they do it?”

There is a pause, all charged silence. When Rumi dares to look up at her mentor, Celine’s eyes are not on her own. They are fixated somewhere near her right shoulder.

Celine’s voice is a little sharp, a little cool, when she speaks next. “Does it matter?”

And Rumi supposes it doesn’t, really.

She falls back into her ready stance.

Demons steal souls. Nobody really knows what they do with them - the journals of Hunters past are of the belief that they bring them back to Gwi-ma. Some believe they rend and consume them for some twisted version of nutrition. Others still believe it’s for sport - simple cruelty. They’re demons, after all.

Who can really tell what’s true? It doesn’t matter why. Everyone knows it’s what they do.

Rumi thinks she maybe gets it. Not what they do with the souls, but why they steal them.

Demons steal souls because they have none of their own.)

Her inyeon’s souls brighten and brighten with the Honmoon’s song until light is radiating from their chests, pulsing a soft, wispy blue in time with Rumi’s heartbeat. They are whole and perfect and, for a moment, something in Rumi’s own chest clenches, heats and heats and feels as though it is blooming.

She dares a glance down.

And sees nothing.

There is no blue luminescence emitting from her chest, no rays of sapphire light shining from her, the beautiful, stalwart proof of life, of care, of something more. Proof of connection.

Proof that she is not-

Rumi had been smiling, moments prior. She only realizes because of the way she feels it fade.

Demons steal souls. They have none of their own.

—

Zoey is going to lose her fucking mind.

Actually, she’s pretty sure she’s already lost her mind. But she’s gonna lose her mind more. Somehow. She’s not sure it’s been done before but she’s certain it’s possible. She could do it. If anyone could do it, it’s her.

Rumi stands before them in the center of an honest-to-god training arena, like in. Fucking Kung-Fu Panda or something. And she’s holding a glowing magical weapon. That she just pulled out of thin air.

Which, like. Okay, Zoey knew there was magical stuff going on. Celine had told her, and she’d seen the aftermath of the demon hunts because of Rumi, and, like, her whole situation with the Honmoon had convinced her a long time ago. But this is her first time really seeing it.

Rumi had just closed her hand around the empty space before her and drawn a blade burning with pure, blue-white light. It’s a sword, not terribly thick or large or long but elegant in its simplicity. Rumi looks as at ease holding it as she does doing everything else, effortlessly competent and composed, serene - but she’s smiling, when she meets Zoey’s eyes, smiling with a kind of assuredness Zoey doesn’t think she’s ever seen on Rumi before.

The sight of it makes her whole chest throb and then lighten, like something at the very core of her is being drawn out and held gently, seen.

There’s a light in Rumi’s eyes that Zoey doesn’t recognize. It makes her want to do everything in her power to keep it there.

Then Rumi blinks, eyes fluttering down, and when she lifts them again that light is gone. In its place is something startled, something sharp. Hurt. Fear. The edge of it dulls into some complex emotion Zoey cannot for the life of her identify, twisting Rumi’s smile down and then away entirely, and then Rumi blinks again and it’s gone.

All of it. Her face is as placid as it had been when Celine had first gestured to her.

The lightening in Zoey’s chest stops, weight creeping back in like cool water. It makes her a bit sad, for whatever reason.

She doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it. Beside her, Mira breathes, “Holy shit.”

And the spell breaks - Rumi dismisses the sword, somehow, and it dissolves into sparkling strands of light before winking out; Mira whistles low, impressed; Celine, inexplicably, blows out an audible breath, even but not quite emotionless.

Zoey doesn’t move yet. Sound returns to the clearing. The crickets had paused their chirping, she realizes - the entire area had gone still and silent. Even the wind had stopped, though it resumes now: warm, dry air sways Mira’s ponytail, shifts Zoey’s bangs against her forehead. Rumi’s braid does not move, too heavy.

“Honmoon-made weapons,” Celine says, the answer to Mira’s challenge from what feels like eons ago.

Mira laughs, and it’s a bit incredulous but it’s bright with awe. “Yeah, okay, I see that. Honmoon-made weapons. Cool.”

“So fucking cool,” Zoey says. “So so so cool. When do we get to do that?”

“Language,” Celine says mildly, and Zoey internally grimaces as she continues, “Your training will begin soon. It will be a strict regiment, and hard, and it will be a while before you begin to see results, especially any so definitive as drawing your blade. This can be frustrating. It will be frustrating.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great car salesman? Like, super good pitch.”

“Zoey,” Mira near-groans, her voice all repressed laughter and a healthy amount of exasperation. “Dude.”

“Sorry. Sorry! That was an inside thought. Got it. Carry on.”

Celine’s ensuing glance is bemused. “In any case,” she says, “I will not deny the difficulty of what is to come. All of you will make sacrifices. Some of you,” her gaze slides to Rumi, still standing by herself in the center of the arena, “already have.”

“It will be hard, but you will learn. And you will have each other, now.”

And maybe Zoey should be cowed. Maybe she should be afraid, scared by the sheer impossibility of everything she’s seeing and hearing, terrified by the prospect of serious injury to her person and to her friends. Maybe she should interject and laugh nervously and ask Celine to explain, exactly, what they were meant to be doing, and what safeguards were in place for them, and whether it was too late to back out.

If she was more normal, maybe. If she hadn’t spent the last few weeks getting to know these girls. If she wasn’t so in-

If she wasn’t so invested. So interested, now. There’s no way anything is pulling her out of this, out of this life she can see unfolding before her. An idol. A Hunter. A friend, to two other girls who make up the rest of her soul.

A friend.

Zoey beams. “So, when do we start?”

—

“I have to redye my hair soon,” Mira muses, staring up at Zoey’s ceiling. The lights are dim and she can feel herself falling deeper into pre-sleep haze. She blinks against it.

She’s lying flat on her back on Zoey’s bed. Which is new, but she’d showered as soon as they’d gotten back inside a couple of hours ago - it had been hot out there, and she’d felt sticky - and she didn’t want to sit on the floor once she got here, not with clean hair and her pjs on. Zoey had noticed her slight hesitation and immediately patted the duvet beside her.

Mira had agreed. So now she stares up at Zoey’s ceiling.

(Rumi hasn’t joined them. She’d been quiet on the walk back, and then once they’d returned she’d claimed exhaustion and shuffled off into the house. She’d said she was going to her room, so they’d knocked, an hour or so ago, and the light was on but there hadn’t been any response or noise from within.

Zoey’s ensuing text in their group chat had gone unanswered.

To be fair, she had looked exhausted. Mira had murmured something about giving her space and Zoey, eyebrows drawn together in something like concern, had nodded. They’d retreated back to her room, but Mira knows for a fact that Zoey has been checking her phone for a response every few minutes since.

Mira knows this for a fact because she’s doing the same thing, stupidly enough. But she forces herself to stop, fifteen minutes or so in. Rumi will come to them when she is ready; Mira has learned this, over the last month. Give her space when she needs it. She always comes back.

She’d promised, after all.)

Zoey hums absently next to her in response. “Keeping it pink?”

“Yeah.” Mira’s never dyed it a different color, and she doesn’t really want to start trying now. She’s pretty much perfected the brand and shade she uses and she knows the color suits her, so why switch it up? Especially when she might be forced to change it anyway, once they’ve debuted. She knows how frequently idols switch hairstyles.

Another soft hum of acknowledgement. “Nice. I love it.”

That does not send any sort of thrill through Mira. Why would it? She knows pink looks good on her. And it’s not like she hasn’t heard it before. Besides, Zoey’s a kind person; of course she’d compliment her.

“Thanks,” Mira manages. Weird.

“Can I watch?”

“What?”

“When you dye it.” Mira looks over at the sound of the sheets shifting and watches as Zoey rolls over so she’s facing Mira, propping her elbow up on her pillow. “Can I watch?”

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

“Cool.”

Zoey just kind of… watches her, for a moment. She’s smiling gently, soft brown eyes crinkling at the corners with it, and Mira feels her cheeks start to heat at the attention, inexplicably. Mortified, she turns her face back to the ceiling.

“It’s just,” Zoey continues, “I kinda wanna see you do it. In case I wanna dye my hair.”

“You thinking about it?” Mira asks, voice miraculously even.

Zoey sort of shrugs, or at least Mira thinks she does - there’s the sound of fabric scrunching against smooth sheets. “Like, not really? But my hair’s kinda boring, and I know… like, I could do more with it. I’ve done the same thing with it my whole life. Same length and color and everything.”

Mira nearly gives herself whiplash jerking her head to the side to stare at her. Zoey’s hair is unbound, falling in soft-looking waves to her shoulders. “Your hair is not boring,” she says a tad hotly, and then winces at herself. “Sorry, that was intense.”

Zoey giggles. Her eyes are a bit wide, but her smile is still just as gentle. “No, you’re good. Thanks.”

They’re closer than they were a moment ago. Zoey must have scooched a bit closer when she’d shrugged earlier. Mira notes this and then immediately un-notes this, because it has no bearing on anything.

“You could always ask Rumi,” Mira finds herself saying.

“Huh?”

“About the hair-dyeing thing. Or, like, watching her do it. She’s been doing this kind of thing longer than us.”

Zoey bites her lip in thought. (Mira also un-notes this.) “I guess that’s true. What if I just wanted to hang out, though?”

Mira smiles even as she rolls her eyes. She can’t help it. Zoey’s batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly and looking up at her with big brown eyes, as if Mira was gonna say no. “Then just say that. You don’t have to have an excuse. We can hang out.”

The resulting wide smile is blinding. Mira nearly has to shield her eyes against it. “Okay!”

A few moments of blissful silence. Time to collect herself. Zoey shifts so that she’s staring up at the ceiling, too - yawns a couple of times. Mira counts the oscillations of the ceiling fan and wills her chest to stop buzzing. Sometimes she wishes the Honmoon-connection-thing had an off switch. It’s making it hard for her to relax.

“Hey, Mira?” Zoey asks after a moment. Mira hums in response. “Did you notice anything… like, going on with Rumi? Earlier?”

“Outside, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Mira blinks. She doesn’t really know how to answer. “Apart from, like, summoning a magical sword?”

Zoey giggles. Mira smiles reflexively. “Yeah, apart from that. I meant, uh, with her. Specifically.”

And- well, yeah. After Rumi had manifested her sword, Mira had checked the Honmoon. Had watched as Rumi shone, wreathed in white light, so radiant it was near-blinding. Had seen her smile, all relief, all confidence. Triumph, even.

It had lasted all of a minute. She’d looked down and seemingly collected herself and then looked back up with so much defeat on her face that Mira had needed to fight the urge to gasp with every fiber of her being to keep it contained.

“I guess. Like, she seemed a bit…” Gutted. She’d looked fucking desolated. “I dunno. But I noticed.”

Zoey hums. “Yeah. Me too.” Concern creases her forehead, worries at her lower lip. “You think she’s okay?”

Mira really isn’t sure. “Rumi’s… Rumi,” she concludes lamely. “Sorry, that was dumb. I just mean, she does things on her own schedule, y’know? She’s complicated, and super independent. But I’m sure she’s fine. She just needs time, maybe.”

“Okay. Yeah, no. You’re right.”

And, well, Mira isn’t entirely sure she is, but she’s trusting Rumi. So she makes a small, noncommittal sort of noise.

There’s not much more to say on the subject. Silence falls.

“You’re sure my hair isn’t boring?” Zoey mumbles after a few minutes, clearly slipping into sleep, and had it been from anyone else Mira would have scoffed and told her to stop fishing for compliments. But it’s not anyone else. And there’s an edge to Zoey’s voice that’s just the slightest bit vulnerable, softened with sleep and affection; like she really cares what Mira’s about to say. Like she needs the reassurance.

“I’m sure,” Mira says honestly, turning her head to the side once more. She studies Zoey’s side profile and continues, “It suits you. Like, really suits you. The color is great for your complexion and the length frames your face nicely. And your bangs are super cute. Anyone who says it’s boring can fuck off.”

Zoey huffs a little sleepy laugh. “You’re so sweet,” she says, and Mira raises an eyebrow even though she knows Zoey can’t see her.

“Uh, I’m really not,” she laughs, but then there’s more fabric-moving noises and something is grazing the arm closest to Zoey.

She can’t help the way she completely stiffens as Zoey places a warm hand on Mira’s forearm, wrapping her fingers loosely around it. “No, you are,” she says, still mumbly but convicted. “You’re so nice. You pretend like you’re not but you are. Strong on the outside but sweet on the inside. You’re like- like creme brulee. Mmm, I love creme brulee.”

Mira swallows. Forces herself to relax into the contact. Forces herself to open her mouth and say, “We can make some tomorrow, if you want,” in a completely normal and unbothered tone of voice. Her throat is a little tight and a little hot but that’s probably just because of her allergies. Somehow.

Zoey smiles. Her eyes have fluttered shut but she doesn’t remove her hand. “Yeah, okay.”

Another few moments of silence. Mira cannot help but watch the way Zoey’s body softens into rest, the way any tension bleeds from her. Her hand around Mira’s forearm goes limp but does not let go.

“You’re falling asleep,” Mira says softly. “I should go.”

The hand tightens, a gentle squeeze. “Stay.”

Fuck. Okay. “You’re sure?”

Another drowsy laugh. “We cuddled last night out in the hall, Mir. Now this is a real sleepover.”

It takes active effort not to jolt at the nickname, soft and fond.

Mira’s never had a nickname like that. Certainly not one said with so much kindness. Most certainly not one said in Zoey’s voice, bright and warm as sunshine even in the dead of night, well on her way to half-asleep.

Fuck. Yeah, okay. She doesn’t say anything - doesn’t trust whatever would come out of her mouth next to not be strangled garbage. Instead she focuses on dissipating the heat in her face through sheer willpower.

This is ridiculous. What is this reaction? Someone shows her kindness and she melts into puddles? She should really get up. Should go back to her own room and wash her face again and maybe stare at the wall some before falling into cold, fitful rest.

Yeah, okay. Good plan. She tenses in preparation of sitting up, and-

Zoey’s thumb swipes once, twice, across the tender skin at Mira’s inner wrist. Every thought of getting up empties out of her head.

“Sleep,” Zoey grumbles half-into her pillow, an order more than a suggestion. “G’night.”

Mira couldn’t stop the smile stretching across her face if she tried. Which she does. It doesn’t work.

“Okay, Zo,” she whispers. “Good night.”

—

Rumi stares at the mirror before her and takes deep, even breaths. Deep, even breaths.

You are not going to be sick. You are not going to be sick.

She’d practically sprinted to her bathroom as soon as they’d gotten back. Dread, simultaneously hot and cold, courses through her like so much fire; she’d swallowed down bile as she’d torn her top off.

And there, below her neck-

There had been two things that had kept her from screaming and pounding her fist into her reflection, and one had been that she’d remembered, distantly, the presences of Zoey and Mira next door.

Zoey and Mira, her soul-bonded. Zoey and Mira, whose souls had glowed with steady, gorgeous cerulean; who had looked at her with starlight at their brows and stars in their eyes, open and wondrous.

Zoey and Mira, shackled to something wrong. Something empty. She has no soul. What can something without a soul call itself, other than a demon? How can one be human with no soul? How can one function? Love? It’s not possible. She knows it’s not.

She’s empty. That cavity in her chest is hollow - there is no gleaming hope, nestled there, no kernel of humanity, nothing to speak of.

But there, below her neck - the patterns have grown. Extended, entwining, across her sternum, her upper chest. Dark and jagged and repulsive.

Demons steal souls. Also, you are not going to be sick.

She is so stupid. So stupid.

And to think, for a moment, that she’d thought - hoped - that that heat was her soul. She’d thought - hoped - that she had one.

You are not going to be sick.

To think, for a moment, she’d allowed herself to forget. For a whole month, really. She’d glanced down at herself with something close to excitement, expecting - foolishly, ridiculously - that she’d see something blue, glowing; that things had changed. That Zoey and Mira being here - that the three of them getting closer - had helped. Had fixed things. Was fixing her.

But she is not fixed. She is still this, this thing borne of disgust and shame. And now she is worse, and she is tired, and nothing has even really begun, yet.

She is so tired. Nothing has even begun, yet, and she is so tired.

Rumi feels almost feverish. There’s a part of her, deluded and reprehensible, that aches to walk out of her bathroom and into the next room and just fucking show them. Have all their well-laid plans come crumbling down around her. She is not fixed, and everything she does just breaks things further. Let her break this, too.

But she will not. There had been two things that had kept her from screaming and pounding her fist into her reflection, and the other is that she is nothing - nothing - if not disciplined.

Celine had raised her to be better than this, and Rumi had failed. But Celine had also raised her to be stone, unmoving in times of hardship, and had warned her of what was to come.

Celine, who had warned her that she would be alone. Celine, who was right, who has always been right. Celine, who left but came back. She always comes back.

Celine, who Rumi is going to have to tell about this most recent development.

You are not going to be sick. You are not going to be sick.

They hadn’t spread in over a year. She’d thought-

A knock at the door. Rumi jolts, breath coming faster. She silences it. Goes completely still.

Not the bathroom door, thank god. More walls between them. Two locks rather than one.

More walls between them.

You are not going to be sick.

“Rumi?” comes a voice, carrying faintly through wood. “Are you in here?”

She doesn’t respond. Grits her teeth so hard against the nausea roiling through her that had she been a little less manic she would’ve feared them cracking.

There’s murmuring. An ordinary human wouldn’t have been able to parse it but she can. She can, because she’s a-

“The light’s on,” Zoey is saying quietly. “Should we…”

A pause. Mira says, “Maybe she needs some space, Zo. She said she was tired.” She sounds unconvinced.

“Maybe.”

Another pause. Zoey knocks again. “Okay, well, we’re gonna be in my room! If you wanna come hang out. We, uh- we just wanted to ask, is all. No worries if you’re too tired! Um, good night, Rumi!”

“Good night,” Mira echoes, soft. There’s an undercurrent of worry, there. Rumi can hear it. Past the staticky ringing in her ears.

It’s making her want to-

You are not going to be sick.

The sound of footsteps receding. Rumi grips the sides of the sink so hard that she can feel the porcelain creaking under her fingertips. Any harder and it would break.

And it would break. It would-

Her phone buzzes, the display lighting up where she’d propped it up against the mirror.

hey, the text reads. It’s their group chat; Zoey - of course it is. just checking in!!

idk if u heard us or if ur not in ur room

but we’re gonna be in my room! come by if u wanna chill :)

and if ur tired that’s fine too we just wanted to make sure ur ok

A pause. Then, from Mira, good night, Rumi. see you tomorrow.

training!!!! Zoey sends. im so excited we’re gonna kick asssssss. Mira hearts the message.

Rumi’s vision swims. Her chest is unbearably hot and she can feel her soulmates’ joy and worry and warmth through their bond. Their bond.

Their bond. They are bonded to her. To this. This thing. This soulless thing. Incapable of human functions. Incapable of being human. They are bonded to a demon. That is what she is.

Demons steal souls.

You are not going to be sick. You are not going to be sick. You are not going to be sick.

Her phone vibrates again.

gn rumi love u, Zoey has sent.

Rumi drops to her knees and lurches towards the toilet.

(As it turns out, she’s capable of some human functions after all.)

—

She tells Celine.

Her throat burns the whole time; dry and raw from retching. Her eyes do, too, though that is not so easily explained away.

Her mentor looks at her and there is no surprise on her face, just something handily exhausted and quietly disappointed.

“We’ll handle it,” she says simply. Her tone is so carefully neutral - none of the frustrated weariness on her face bleeding into it.

It makes Rumi feel worse.

There is nothing else to say. She bows and takes her leave.

—

She doesn’t go back to her own room.

She tries. She makes it all the way back to just in front of her own door, and then-

Zoey’s door is just slightly ajar.

And Mira’s is wide-open, which - Mira would never sleep with the door wide open. So she must still be in Zoey’s room.

It’s nearly one in the morning. The light is off. They are most definitely sleeping.

Rumi should be sleeping. They have training tomorrow morning, and she’ll need to be at her best to put on the front she needs to; to focus on their first day.

She should be sleeping.

The Honmoon, it seems, has other plans. It pulls gently, silvery and winding, tugtugging her towards that crack in the door. Go to them. They want you there. You want what they want.

No, she thinks. No. Not now. Not this time. They’re good, without her; at peace, together. This is better. The distance is better. Less to lose.

Rumi turns back to her door and there’s a sharp yank at her breastbone, uncompromising and unforgiving. Like the Honmoon is saying not a suggestion. Go to them.

She’d be lying if she said she fought any harder.

Her feet move before she thinks on it any further - she creeps over to the door and passes through the frame, not entirely of her own accord.

They are in fact sleeping, both of them on the bed. Zoey’s tucked tightly into herself, a little ball almost completely folded into Mira’s side - only a few inches separate the two of them on the bed.

They’re good. They’re good, on their own, and Rumi’s whole heart is expanding with so much fondness she doesn’t know what to do with it and at the same time constricting so hard it physically hurts.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here.

But just before she turns to leave - Honmoon-pulling be damned, she’s dealt with worse - Zoey is stirring, uncurling slowly. She blinks blearily once, twice, and then shoots up.

“Rumi!” It’s a whisper-yell more than anything, but Rumi still winces at the volume, gaze darting to Mira. Mercifully, the other girl remains soundly asleep, as far as she can tell. Her breathing does not change. “What are you doing here!”

Rumi’s not entirely sure. “Uh. Checking in. I… got your message.” She’d gotten it several hours ago. It’s not a lie.

“Okay! Hi!” Zoey shifts some more. “Come sit!”

Oh, no. “No, no, that’s- that’s alright. Mira’s sleeping, and- and so were you, I’m sorry-”

“No no no you’re good, you’re fine-”

“-and I said I was just gonna check in and I have, so I’m going to-”

“-no, hang on-”

“-good night, Zoey, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, and-”

“-please, Rumi, please stay.”

Rumi stops.

“Please,” Zoey whispers, and her eyes are bright and wide in the dark of the room. “We want to see you, is all.”

And Rumi does not point out that Mira is asleep, that all of them should be, really; does not gently remind Zoey of training early in the morning, or that they all had seen each other just a few hours ago and then almost every waking minute the four weeks prior. Rumi does not point any of this out, because the tugging in her chest is back and it pulls her unavoidably towards the empty spot on Zoey’s bed, and also because she doesn’t want to.

She doesn’t want to leave.

Tomorrow, she’ll deal with everything else. Tomorrow she’ll show up to training with a professional smile on her face and a full-cover top; she’ll nod at Celine’s every order and demonstrate and do whatever else needs to be done. Tomorrow she’ll wake up and face the mirror again, the unchanging truth of her shame painting her upper chest awful, violent indigo.

Tomorrow.

For now, she is here, with her bonded, with two people who she cares so deeply for and who still, inexplicably, care for her. Perhaps the only two people who still care for her, now.

For now, she clambers up onto the bed and fills the gap Zoey had scooched around to form - slides under sheets warm from their bodies. Mira stirs a little as she gets situated and starts to sit up, but Zoey shushes her gently, says, “It’s only Rumi,” and that makes her relax back down, boneless, mumbling something softly.

Rumi’s presence makes her relax. Both of them. It’s not something to confront, or shy from. To be afraid of.

She vows in that moment that she will never let that change.

Rumi will not tell them. Will not become something they have to fear. She will act the part of flawless Hunter and do her duty and be with them, truly, once she is fixed. They will not know. They’ll never have to know, so long as she is perfect.

Tomorrow, she will stare venomously at her own reflection and use the last of a fresh bottle of concealer and don a thicker, boat-necked sweatshirt. But for tonight, she relaxes into their presence and lets the sounds of their even breathing and the Honmoon’s soft song lull her into fitful sleep. For tonight, she’ll be selfish.

For tonight, she’ll stay.

—

The next morning comes misty, pale-pink and orange and cool moisture hanging in the air. It’s quiet, out in the clearing - no sound beside the leaves of the great tree rustling with phantom wind.

Celine had not slept last night. Nobody will be able to tell - she schools her face easily into unfeeling conviction - but she can feel the weariness creeping through her, sluggish unease setting her on edge.

Rumi had come to her, last night. It hasn’t taken much more than a glance at her stricken, too-pale face for Celine’s heart to sink.

She’d been hopeful, after the gap between the last spreading. She’d been foolish. Hope was an ideal; something they were working towards, not employing. Hope would bolster them but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. Celine should have known better than that.

She scans the clearing. Takes in the dozens of grey headstones peppering the expanse of green; rolling barrows, simply-marked and full.

Celine does know better than that. Knows exactly what hope without cold, hard action will get someone.

Another stone marker.

The clearing before the great tree is sacred. Every Hunter is inducted here - brought to life fully in their purpose, joined with the Honmoon, once their training has been completed.

And then, at the end of the cycle, when Hunters grow old and their voices falter, when they no longer reach for their weapons but instead for grandchildren or their partners’ hands, for the comfort of medication, or religion, or the past; when they pass from this realm and into the next, they are brought here, too. Brought here to rest.

(Just over half of all Hunters made it here under such peaceful contexts.

The others, only barely the minority, do not make it that long.

There is one stone marker that stands cleaner and prouder than the rest. One stone marker that is centered before the tree, rather than tucked away behind dozens of others, somewhere off in the grass.

There is one stone marker that Celine knows better than all the rest. This one is Celine’s fault.)

Noise rings out from along the path. It’s the girls, walking towards her; dressed in plain, loose clothes. Zoey seems to be in the middle of a story, arms waving animatedly; Mira, outwardly calmer as she listens to the younger, but a glint in her eyes that betrays her own excitement.

And Rumi is-

(Smiling. Smiling and nodding along to Zoey’s chattering, leading the other two steadily across the path, posture relaxed and strides even, though white bandaging peeks through her cropped top.

She is smiling, but Celine knows better. Knows the bleak, deadened quality to her eyes; has seen it before more times than she can count.

Hasn’t seen it in almost a year. They’d gotten complacent. This is Celine’s fault.)

And Rumi is-

(Laughing, now. Melodic and measured. Zoey beams up at her and Mira huffs a short laugh and they both look at her with such unguarded trust on their faces that it makes Celine near-ill. She knows Rumi must feel the same way.

Celine has seen that empty look in her eyes more times than she can count. Not just on Rumi’s face.)

And Rumi is an excellent liar.

This, too, is Celine’s fault. It may be the only thing that saves them, though.

And so she straightens as the three approach; she straightens and then she, too, smiles. She fears so much for these girls, now, for Rumi, but she cannot let it show. It must never be seen.

She smiles, welcoming. Strict and kind. The perfect teacher. And they come to a stop before her, mirrored conviction on their faces and determination in their eyes. Celine’s fingertips tingle; she knows it is the Honmoon reacting to their presences here. It’s the strongest she’s felt it in an age.

Celine returns her attention to the girls before her. Zoey shifts from foot to foot, looking around in awe; Mira’s eyes dart from place to place, cataloguing, assessing. Rumi stares straight ahead. Meets Celine’s eyes.

There is a question there.

Celine inclines her head in the slightest of nods, yes, and Rumi’s shoulders drop, just a fraction. Relief does not flicker across her face, does not lift tension from her spine, but there is a knife’s-edge dulled in her eyes. Still sharp, but more manageable.

Celine nods yes and Rumi’s smile goes a little less tight. A little more genuine. Zoey, perhaps subconsciously, grabs Rumi’s wrist as she rocks back and forth energetically, and Rumi does not pull away. She does not relax into the contact, but she does not pull away.

Celine nods yes and Rumi blows out a slow, even breath. Unnoticeable, to most eyes.

(Celine notices. She notices everything.)

Progress.

—

Four Hunters stand in the clearing, and for that the Honmoon rejoices.

It has been an age since it had even one. Many years since it had lost two in such quick succession; since the loss of so much of her soul had torn a third from it in turn.

Celine is there before it now, though - as unyielding and reticent as she had been all those years ago, too. A little older. A little heavier, in her heart. But still herself, it knows. It knows the core of her, and it remains as golden as before. Outwardly hard, but malleable. Pure.

The three youngest, the newest it has chosen, stand fresh-faced and vibrating before her. The threads connecting the three of them twine and dance like ribbon, looping and drawing and tying, tying. The oldest, sharp-tongued and kind-hearted; the youngest, ever-smiling and ever-reflective.

And the third.

So torn, this third it has granted its favor; always fighting, though it does not pretend to understand why. Always struggling. The Honmoon knows that the third’s life is hard, that it has always been hard, but it has given her everything she needs. It has given her the others. They are hers, and they are perfect, and they will help. If she lets them. Always hiding, its third.

It has faith in the group it has put together. They are pieces of each other, a tapestry of soul and heart and music. They will not be able to resist each other long - already they orbit each other.

It pulls at the glowing threads it has woven around them, green and blue and purple, catching and snaring on each sharp edge and looping around the soft alike. It tugs and tugs and probes and pulls them helplessly forward, helplessly together, tight and binding and kind. It is theirs and so too do they belong to it.

And they are together. As is meant to be.

It will be enough.