Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He mixes the porridge and the soup at the same time, also checking on the tea in the small teapot over the smaller fire. The porridge is ready, but the chicken isn’t tender enough in the soup. All the same, he picks up the teapot with its cups and the entire pot of porridge. 

“Dad,” Gaon says as he watches his father stumble into his room. “I could’ve gotten it myself, you didn’t need to trouble yourself.”

His father tuts and takes the empty bowl from the floor. He scoops in a heap of porridge, then pours a hefty cup of tea. “Your mother is out buying some more herbs and presents for Soohyun.”

Gaon sighs. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to have your porridge, that’s what time it is.”

His father helps him sit up against the headboard and spoons out some porridge for him. His hands shake as he takes the spoon so he eats it quickly, nervous about spilling it. It’s tedious, especially with having to wait for a moment at which no porridge will fall from his tremors, but his father sits with him patiently and talks while pouring their many cups of tea.

“How are you feeling today?” Gaon asks. “You’re very lively.”

“I feel like I could wrestle three bulls at the same time! You see, if you eat all of your porridge and drink your tea as you should do, you’ll be fine.” His dad downs the rest of his tea. “This sickness in my heart is too scared of the power of ginger and turmeric.”

“But Dad, you know I can’t stand the taste of turmeric, and it stains my teeth.”

He tuts again and pours Gaon’s third cup. “Three in the morning, three in the evening, that’s what the doctor said.” Gaon’s starting to resent her a little more with every sip. “Turmeric doesn’t taste of anything, you're too fussy.”

“It tastes like dirt.”

A cup is shoved in his face. “Drink.”

He chuckles and sips the tea, now warm. 

His dad shifts to lean against the wardrobe. “How are you feeling, my son?”

Gaon shrugs. “Better than yesterday. Still a bit weak, but I think I’ll be able to go out properly for spring this year.”

His dad smiles and rubs his arm. “I wish we knew,” he says quietly, “I wish we knew why.”

Gaon chuckles and takes his dad’s hand in his. “I don’t think we’ll get an answer even if we ask every year. Things like this happen.” He breathes in and looks out of the window. “The cherry blossoms will start to bloom soon.”

Gaon’s father watches him gaze beyond their window and slowly stands up. He tries to hide the pain in his chest as he takes in a deeper breath. “Come,” he says, grasping Gaon’s arm, “there’s over an hour before Soohyun’s assessment. She’ll be getting ready now.”

The both of them walk slowly to the bathroom where Gaon freshens up. When he goes back to their open kitchen, his mother is frantically storing herbs in ceramic pots and putting sets of jewellery on the table.

“Quick, choose one,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the table. 

Gaon runs his fingers over a purple ribbon for hair tying. Next to it is a different ribbon in a jade colour. He takes the purple in his hand. It would match Soohyun well. From the selection of necklaces and bracelets, a necklace of indigo pearls with swirls of vibrant violet swirls catches his attention immediately. Between every three pearls is a pink star which glitters in the sunlight. It’s the most artistic and elaborate between the rest of them, and an instant match for Soohyun.

His mother laughs. “I said one .” She packs the rest away in a fabric bag. “You have a good eye for these things. Are you ready? We’ll have to go now if you still want to see her as she’s getting ready.”

Gaon nods and goes for his thick cloak. It’s padded with miscellaneous things, from collected lint off of his clothes to the dead hair that falls from his and his mum’s scalp when they brush through it. It’s the thickest, heaviest cloak of the three there (and the most expensive too). Gaon sighs just thinking about how heavy it rests on his shoulders. 

He turns to his father who’s sitting at the kitchen table. “Will you be alright on your own?” he asks.

His dad nods and waves a dismissive hand. “Go, go. I’ll be fine. Give Soohyun my best wishes.” 

With a smile, Gaon pockets the gifts, links with his mother’s arm and they leave the house, waving his father goodbye. 

Ribbons of white, red and purple stream from large posts all around the bustling marketplace with flower petals scattered to create an aisle. A large banner flutters proudly in the gentle winter wind with bright flowers painted on its edges. ‘Blessings for your compatibility,’ it reads, and further down the street is another banner reading, ‘Blessings from our families!’

As they walk down the aisle of flower petals, merchants and buyers all wave and greet them both, offering blessings for Gaon’s health and trying to sell last-minute trinkets to give to the maidens for the assessment. Gaon’s eyes linger on a carved cricket that supposedly brings good luck. He chuckles at the memory of his Grandmother stuffing three carved crickets into his trouser waistband before sending him off to his own assessment. 

He feels the tug of his mum walking past without him. 

A short woman, Mido, runs up to him with her usual limp and pushes a small jar into his hands. “Here,” she says, glancing back at his mum, “for both you and your father’s joints.” She clasps her hands over his so much that he briefly feels them ease from their twitching. “Don’t tell your—“

“Mido, what did I tell you about giving us your potions?” His mum sighs and pushes his clasped hands back towards her. 

Mido grunts and pushes them back. “You’ll want this one, I promise I perfected the recipe, this will do young Gaon here wonders for the aches he gets this time of year. It’s a soothing menthol rub.”

“Your potion nearly killed poor Seon last year! We’re fine on our own, thank you.” Her voice is stern and unrelenting.

Though, neither is Mido’s. “Let the boy answer for himself!” She turns back to him and gives him beady eyes. “Gaon, every winter you get so terribly ill. Wouldn’t you like something to help with the pain?”

One glance at his mother is all he needs. 

“Really Aunt Mido, thank you, but I really couldn’t take this, not without money—“

She tuts and pats him on the side. “You know it is free, I would never charge you both!” His mum huffs and turns the other way. “It’s alright,” Mido resigns. “It's alright. I understand. I wish you well.” With a warm smile, she walks back to her medicinal stand (of which Gaon is almost certain is full of restricted herbs) and returns to her usual bartering. As they pass her stall, she winks at him before shouting about her botanical products that promise ‘enhanced potency’.

Just outside of the tea house sits an elderly man knitting who Gaon’s mum calls out to. “Mr Izako, I have your loaf of seeded bread waiting in the backroom for you! And don’t worry, I remembered to put in the dandelions!” She calls out.

He looks up a tad startled then waves at them both with that warm smile of his. “Bless you, Minjee. Is your husband at the shop now?” 

“He’s resting at home, but I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to get your bread.”

Mr. Izako starts to pack away his wool and nods. “I’ll go collect it then. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to him too. How’s your lad?” 

Gaon waves and says, “I’m feeling much better today, thank you.”

Mr. Izako huffs and laughs heartily. “That is very encouraging to hear! You know Minjee, I actually have some more tea leaves in my hut that are good for ailments, I will drop them off later after the assessment. They would do you wonders, Gaon. Absolute wonders.”

With strained lips and hard eyes, Gaon nods. He’s had enough herbal tea to last him a lifetime.

Of course his mother takes the offering in stride. “Thank you, Mr. Izako. I expect to see you later this evening then!”

“Yes my dear. Give Soohyun my best wishes for the assessment!”

Gaon and his mum hasten as they turn down a small alley that splits from the main path. Its once grim walls are lit with colours of red and white that stream from window to window. 

As if on cue, right as they pass the food hut a ragged Soohyun comes barreling out of the door with pyjamas on and slippers in her hand. “Miss Mo, those pancakes were simply delicious!” She says while walking backwards. “Save some for me after the assessment, pleas—” Soohyun trips over a rock and makes way to fall directly into Gaon. He instinctively throws his arms out, but with a yelp she manages to swerve and throw herself into his mother instead.

His mother cradles her awkwardly as Soohyun leans further back and raises her eyebrows. “Why, hello there Gaon.” She looks up and nods. “Aunt Minjee. Always a pleasure.”

“As with you,” his mum grumbles. 

“Soohyun!”

“Yes Aunty, I’m coming!” She clumsily removes herself from Gaon’s mum’s arms and straightens her clothing. With a cheeky grin, she mouths, “I may or may not have slept in.”

Gaon gapes at her. “Soohyun, it’s literally—”

“—I know. New record, right? But good timing, wasn’t it? I mean, how could I get ready for my matchmaker’s assessment without you? We made a pact.”

From further down the street a green door slams open and a woman with reddening cheeks peers out. “Yoon Soohyun, I promise, if you are not in this house in the next three minutes, I will drag you by both ears!”

Gaon all but cackles as she winks and runs down the street to her house, brushing past the brashness of her Aunt Si-Young’s lambasting. The door is left open for both Gaon and his mum, with Aunt Si-Young calling out, “Come in you two.”

The inside of Soohyun and her aunties’ home is welcoming with warm colours painted all over and wind chimes at the door. A portrait of the Yoon extended family hands on a wall leading into the living room, a few faces starting to fade with the age of death. As a kid, Gaon would always joke about how angry Soohyun looked as a baby in that picture, always a scowl on her face. Oddly enough, despite her having grown out of that habit, he can still see it.

A fragrance of rose water wafts through the air along with other strong scents of lavender, rosemary and peppermint. Soohyun’s aunt (on her Dad’s side), Aunt Chae, sets up some pillows and fabrics for them to sit on, leaving with a quick, “I’ll be back once Soohyun has bathed. Feel free to snack on anything on the table.”

From upstairs comes a mini scream and then the sound of water splashing against the floor. Gaon can’t help but laugh around the biscuit in his mouth. His Mum chuckles, but that’s it. She somehow manages to stay reserved as she sits proudly. 

It isn’t too long before Soohyun comes downstairs in her under layering for the dress her Aunt has in hand. It’s a beautiful dress, elaborate yet simple with colours of pale purples, pinks and blue spinning together, not to mention the white sash embroidered with flowers. Gaon thinks about the necklace in his pocket. It’ll match perfectly. 

“You’re looking much better now that the drool is out of your face,” Gaon says with a snicker. His mum laughs this time. 

Soohyun pouts. “Shut it, you don’t exactly look like Prince Charming when you’ve just woken up.”

“Sit down, Soo.” Aunt Chae sighs and places small round tins on the table. “We don’t have time to waste, let’s get your face done.”

Gaon’s eyes twinkle as he watches the tins get opened. He glances at his mum who beams and nudges him forward. 

“I’ll paint her face to match her skin tone first, then you can do the specifics. Is that alright Gaon?” 

Gaon’s eyes widen and he shakes his hands. “I couldn’t, Aunty. My arms tremor too much. It would look horrific.”

Aunt Chae shrugs and starts to powder Soohyun’s face. “How about we swap roles then? You paint the base, and I’ll do the rest.”

“There really isn’t enough time to correct my mistakes though.”

This time Soohyun tuts. “What mistakes could you make? You’ll just be patting my face down.”

“What if it’s all patchy, or doesn’t match? Soohyun, you have forty minutes until your assessment.”

“So we have forty minutes to fix any ‘mistakes’ you make.” She rolls her eyes and humphs. “Stop making a fuss and sit down next to Aunty.”

Soohyun’s other aunt, Si-young, walks in with a steaming pot of tea. She pours a large cup for Gaon and a smaller one for his mum. “How are you feeling, Gaon?” She asks. “You seem much healthier today than when we last saw you.”

He smiles thinly. That’s the fifth ask today, and it isn’t even two in the afternoon yet. “I’m doing much better, thank you.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Here, drink some of this. It has ginger root and turmeric.”

His mum chuckles and pushes the cup closer to Gaon’s side of the table. “Turmeric is perfect, thanks Si-young.”

“It’s alright my dear.” She turns to Soohyun and sighs. “Right, now with you. Chae, I’ll tie up her hair properly.” As she goes to kneel Soohyun, she tuts and mutters something about waking up late.

Gaon pushes himself forward and reaches into his pocket. “Wait, Aunty Si, I actually have something for Soohyun. Maybe you can use it in her hair.” He brandishes the purple sash and hands it to Soohyun. “Do you like it?”

She makes a noise of excitement. “It’s really pretty! Aunty, can you put it in my hair please? You or Gaon, I don’t mind.”

Aunt Si-young moves to the side and pats the space next to her. “Come on then, we don’t have all day.”

He scoots up and sits down with the sash in hand. His hands shake as he wraps it around Soohyun’s long hair, but once he’s tied it into a small bow it looks pretty. Pretty. Soohyun always looks pretty.

“Hey, Soohyun?”

“Hey, Gaon!”

“You’re pretty.”

Perhaps now isn’t exactly the best time. The room goes silent, but he can feel the smiles of the other women in the room. Aunt Chae is the first to make a sound, a loud cackle as she mentions Soohyun not needing to put any blush on her cheeks from the colour they’ve turned. 

“Well, wasn’t that sudden,” his mum says, sipping her tea. “I didn’t know my son to be so bold with his statements.”

“Mama, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

She shrugs and finishes off her cup. “Come finish your tea, maybe it’ll stop those damn shakes in your hands.”

He makes a face but picks up his teacup all the same. It doesn’t taste horrible, unlike the concoction his dad makes every evening after their three cups of lemon tea. 

“Gaon, sorry to move you about so much but would you like to powder Soohyun’s face now?”

He looks down at his hands, but before he can object his mum nudges him. Go on, she mouths, then smiles at the other ladies in the room. Aunt Chae hands him the tin and the brush, and he can’t help the smile that graces his face.

He dips the brush into the powder, then gently dabs it on Soohyun’s face. She smiles as he moves it in circular motions, and he can feel her eyes on his.

“You’re doing my lipstick, you do know that right?”

Gaon scoffs. He leads the brush down below her chin. “Says who?”

“Um, says me? It’s my assessment today, I make the rules.”

He frowns but chuckles. “I don’t recall it being that way on the day of my assessment.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause you’re a dude.” Her eyes droop ever so slightly. Gaon sits back on his heels. “Dude assessments are so much easier than dudette assessments.”

Gaon gives her a sympathetic smile as he hands the tin and brush back to Aunt Chae. They’re replaced with a darker powder and a smaller brush.

“They’re less important, they don’t determine your entire worth.”

Gaon’s voice has taken on a softer tone. “I’d say they’re fairly important, but I agree that they’re not as weighted as the assessments maidens have to do.”

“Today is for my family,” Soohyun whispers, then looks in the direction of the family painting. “For them.”

Gaon smiles and taps her on the nose. “That’s why we’re getting you all dolled up.” He brushes a bit of the bronze powder just below her hairline. “Even if you are already pretty.” He raises his voice as he tells Aunt Chae, “All finished.”

She smiles and takes his spot in front of Soohyun with a smaller brush and a darker powder. Eyebrows , Gaon thinks to himself. Aunt Chae is the best at doing eyebrows. He watches the small brush follow the direction of Soohyun’s brows with just enough force that the colour will pigment them, but not so much that they look like ink patches. She takes less than a minute to fill one completely. Gaon is envious of her skill.

His eyes trace down to Soohyun’s ears. She doesn’t have her ears pierced so no gold clings to them, but there are flower petals stuck just behind her earlobe from her rose petal bath. They look rich as ornaments — maybe he’ll write that down in his notebook.

Not before long, he’s drawn back into the living room of Soohyun’s place and Aunt Chae is telling him it’s time to do Soohyun’s lipstick.

As he lifts the brush to her lips, he lets out a nervous chuckle. “My hands are really bad.”

“You’ll be fine. Just use a scrap of fabric if you make a mistake.”

He brings the brush to her lips and slowly fills them in. He tries to tense his fingers to stop their twitches, but it only makes them worse. He lets out a frustrated sigh, but Soohyun is there to give him her reassuring gaze. He breathes again, and finishes them. 

“Okay, so they don’t look horrible,” he says. There’s a little smudge on the corner of her upper lip, but with a bit more scrubbing it fades away. The lip colour in general is a vibrant contrast to the pastel of Soohyun’s purple clothes. 

Aunt Si-young beams and pats Gaon on the shoulder, taking his Mum with her further into the kitchen. Aunt Chae stays for a moment to do some final touches before leaving them to it with a, “Listen out for my call, or the bells of the walk. You cannot miss this, Soohyun. You cannot.”

Soohyun visibly deflates as she lets out a sigh. 

“Try to relax,” Gaon says. “Today is meant to be fun.”

She scoffs and fiddles with the hem of her sleeve. “It would be a lot more fun if Do Hoon or Dad were still alive. At least they—” she points in the direction of the kitchen— “wouldn’t be counting on my esteemed ‘grace’ to uphold the family honour.”

Gaon sighs this time. “Well, I mean you’re not the only one. I’m a walking earthquake come winter, I can barely even lift a stick! Fat honour on my family.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder and she falls into his side to ease the effort on his end. “Looks like we both only have our beautiful looks.” 

Soohyun sits up dramatically and gasps. “On the topic of beautiful looks…” She shuffles across to the table and picks up the thin brush Gaon used for her lip colouring and the same tin. She wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Come on, I know you want to put it on.”

Gaon sighs, resigned. “Okay, you caught me.”

Soohyun giggles and scootches forward again. “Let me do it this time,” she says, already twisting the tin open. “You’re going to look so pretty, Gaon.”

“I thought I already looked pretty.”

She hums, ever focused on the lip tint. “You are! But this will be the cherry blossom of spring.”

He feels the brush slowly drag across his slightly dry lips. She tuts something about how he needs to use the beeswax balm the elder in the market hands out come winter in exchange for rice bowls, and how his lips are going to crack and bleed. 

“That’s why I have you to apply all sorts to stop them from drying out.”

Soohyun shakes her head. Clearly that’s not going to fly today.

When she’s finished, she goes for the blush next. This is where Gaon gets nervous.

“Soo…”

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to end up looking like how you did last time.”

He wishes he had the energy to run out of the room. “That’s what you said last time, but I still ended up looking like I walked out of the circus.”

She shushes him and starts applying it. Gaon closes his eyes as tightly as he can, already dreading looking in the mirror.  He prays that she doesn’t put too much on like last time, prays and prays and prays until—

“Is that—” He opens his eyes and listens more carefully. The high pitches jangle, the ringing of stone against metal, the sound of people singing…

Soohyun curses and rushes the last parts of Gaon’s makeup which has him panicking because— “Why are you still fussing over me? They’re marching down the high road right now, get out there!”

She laughs as she throws the brush and tin on the table, picking up the skirts of her garments and rushing to the door where she slips on her formal, decorated slippers. 

Aunt Chae, Aunt Si-young and Gaon’s Mum are all rushing to the door as well, mumbling things about how she cannot be late, how didn’t she hear the bells sooner? And Soohyun is saying, “I was preoccupied, if you heard them you should’ve shouted.”

Gaon hobbles out of the living room in time to see Soohyun dash out of the door and run back through the alley to reach the high street where she can see the last few maidens walking poised and perfectly.

His mum helps him out of the house and together (with Soohyun’s aunties) they all walk as quickly as they can to catch the tail end of the parade. They watch Soohyun adjust her skirts and straighten her back, soon following in the song the maidens sing with the rest of the villagers echoing certain lines. People throw flowers, rice and sweets along with their shouts of well wishes. Soohyun blushes when a rose lands at her feet. 

“May you all be worthy!” people exclaim when the song finishes. The drum and lute players start it up again, an older woman at the front of the parade singing with operatic tones.

They follow the parade all the way to the matchmaker’s block where six matchmakers are waiting; three women, three men. It works in a rotation system — half of the maidens will be tested with either a male matchmaker or a female matchmaker, then afterwards will swap to have a fully balanced report. The same applies for the boys, including the unwritten rule that everyone is always tested more harshly by the matchmaker of the opposite sex. Standards must be met.

Gaon recognises his own matchmakers, the most infamous one being Min Jeong-ho. He’s a weird one, and Gaon warned Soohyun about his antics and odd tendencies. In truth, he is more of a family friend too. He always chose to get his weekly loaf from their bakery even though he lived on the other side of the village, and oftentimes sat in for a drink. 

Everyone comes to a silence when one of the matchmakers raises a hand and a scroll. She clears her throat and reads from the top of the scroll, “We are here today as a collective to assess these young maidens to see if they are fit for the commitments of marriage according to their personalities, skills, and dignity. These young women are of age now where if they so wish, they may be married to another with consent from both parties. Today tests compatibility, however, the final results are not exclusive to external factors. All are welcomed to the House of Marital Rights, and all are welcome to be open and honest.” She clears her throat again. “I will now read out the first half of maidens assigned to our three female matchmakers.”

Soohyun’s name isn’t called for the list of female matchmakers, but she is called to the first group of male matchmakers. And to her own dread, she’s assigned to the one and only—

“Yoon Soohyun to Min Jeongho…”

She lets out a curse under her breath as the rest of the girls are assigned to their matchmakers. Of course she got the weird one, it was just her luck to wake up late, nearly miss the parade and then be assigned to the matchmaker obsessed with—

“Please make your moves to your assigned matchmakers.”

Soohyun becomes lost in the crowd of other girls moving to their matchmakers, but she does catch sight of Gaon sitting along the edge of one of three matchmaking huts. He’s sitting along the edge of the left hut, the one that curves around to the main entrance of the matchmaking block. He’s gesturing haphazardly, and from the distance that Soohyun is at it looks as though he’s beckoning her over. Given that he’s already had his matchmaking ceremony with one of the same matchmakers, it makes sense for him to know where to direct her, so she starts towards him.

That’s when she sees where he’s truly gesturing — in the opposite direction towards the right hut now directly behind her.

Just her luck to line up to the wrong hut.

She picks up her skirts awkwardly and shuffles across the now clear courtyard to where the other girls are lined up in front of the hut. Just as she arrives there, Min Jeongho announces her name.

Soohyun timidly raises her hand and he offers her a welcoming smile. He opens the door and gestures for her to come through with a polite, “Right this way.”

She pinches her skirts again and tentatively walks up the two small steps before brushing past the door and into the room. Behind her the door closes.

The room is dark apart from two candles lit on a small table in the centre of the room. The smell of incense is strong and overt and its haze cloaks the room, adding to the dark. Soohyun can’t find which corner of the shadows they’re being burnt in.

“Please take a seat Soohyun.”

She sits on one of the small cushions on the floor behind the table, careful not to knock over the candle with her billowing fabrics. Min Jeongho uses the candle opposite her to light one more lamp in the far corner of the room, then sits opposite her across the table.

Now that she’s seated, she can properly see two empty ceramic bowls beside both of their candles and a larger boiling pot on the floor at the head of the table. The ceramic bowls have a beautifully intricate design on the outside with swirls of white against the navy blue and heavy set fingerprints in brick red. Expensive .

“Are you nervous?” Min Jeongho asks with a lopsided smile, brandishing a teapot out of nowhere. He sets it on the table. “You’ll bite your lip off.”

Soohyun clears her throat and puts on her best smile, bowing her head slightly in a show of obedience and respect . “ Ideal qualities they will look for in a maiden,” her tutor told her. Always appear abashed and quiet in front of the male matchmakers. “The female ones look for someone more fire spirited.”

“Thank you for your concern, Matchmaker Min.”

“Please, pour yourself some tea.”

The first test.

With the pleasant smile still on her face, she carefully rolls up her sleeves then sets a steady hand on the handle of the teapot. She pours herself a small amount into her bowl, then with it still raised, lifts her gaze to the matchmaker.

“Would you like me to pour you some, Matchmaker Min?”

He chuckles and tilts his head to the side. “If you are offering, I will not decline.”

Pouring his tea twists her elbow at a difficult angle as she tries not to burn her dress. There are no accidents though, and judging by the nod she catches Matchmaker Min making, she hasn’t done too bad of a job.

He rests a hand on the bowl and looks at Soohyun. “Tell me about yourself Soohyun. What are your hobbies and interests?”

Lie. Nobody would want you with an answer like that. The voice of her tutor rings hard and true.

“I do favour embroidery and painting. I do find that I’m not too bad at cooking as well.”

Matchmaker Min drinks some of the tea and hums. “Much like every other young lady who comes in here.”

Well that isn’t the answer she’s looking for.

“For as unladylike as it may seem, I do oftentimes find myself enjoying more physically laborious activities.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and tilts his head. Great job, Soo, now you sound like a whore. “Such as?”

“Sports.” She’s quick to reclaim that ounce of her dignity. “I like dodgeball and bat-a-ball.” And street fighting.

“That's it?” he asks. “I’m sure I used to see you out in brawls with the boys when you were younger.”

Matchmakers aren’t supposed to bring external factors into the assessment normally. Then again, Gaon did say his assessment was far from normal.

She awkwardly chuckles and goes for the tea, composure fading with how quickly she grabs it and drinks it. “I have since grown out of those childish affairs,” she chokes out.

“Play is important to balance the cruelties of the world.” He finishes his tea and sets the bowl down. “We all need escape sometimes.” He then lifts his head and asks, “Are you finished with your tea?”

She nods and pushes her bowl forward slightly. She bows her head again and thanks him.

“It is quite cold outside, so some tea and soup are nothing but courteous of me.”

She can’t help herself and blurts out— “Soup?” Who wouldn’t want some soup on a winter day?

He gestures towards the table again and Soohyun realises he’s hinting towards the large boiling pot. She makes an ‘ah’ noise and lifts the pot to the other edge of the table. When she opens the lid, and mixes it with the ladle inside, she notes that it’s quite thick and consistent with its colouring. Likely a pumpkin or potato soup.

“May I?” she asks, eyes gleaming with hope that it’s a pumpkin soup. Potato soup can be so bland if not seasoned correctly.

“It is there to be served, Miss Yoon.”

Just as she’s about to go for her own bowl, she reconsiders how to shift this assessment further in her favour and goes for Matchmaker Min’s bowl first. She scoops him a generous helping and sets it down with another gratuitous nod of her head, then heaps a ladle full into her own bowl. Inconspicuously, of course, so as to not look like a pig.

Manner is another thing her tutor reminded her of. Unless invited to do so, do not be the first to drink or eat.

Matchmaker Min pushes forward two wooden spoons she didn’t see before, and with one already in his hand, goes to eat the soup. When his spoon rests back in his bowl, Soohyun goes for her own bowl. She raises the spoon to her mouth and turns away —a habit her tutor would be glad she picked up— to taste it, ready to revel in the pumpkin glory that would meet her tongue. When the soup does in fact reach her tastebuds, she’s sorely disappointed. Potato soup. At least there are sweet potatoes in there too.

She shouldn’t have poured herself so much. She must finish it all now though, for the sake of being well mannered and showing respect and obedience .

Matchmaker Min appears to enjoy the soup. His questions are forgone with his measured spoonfuls. That is until he takes another spoonful and his face contorts ever so slightly once it is in his mouth.

He swallows the spoonful to then sift the rest of the soup in his bowl. “Soohyun, how do you season your soups?”

This is a question she can answer tutor-free. “I like to add salt, chilli flakes and sometimes some breadcrumbs for texture. It depends on the soup though.”

“So you would say you are a talented soup cook?”

She muses on the question before answering with, “Passionate rather than talented.”

He mixes his soup some more and supposedly finds what he’s looking for. He raises his spoon to the candlelight and inspects it. “A cricket,” he whispers in marvel, the golden candlelight painting innocent childhood on his weathering face.

Soohyun’s jaw tenses. A cricket. In the soup she just served. She didn’t even know what to think.

“Crickets in potato soup. I must say that is new to me.”

There had to be more than one considering the face he just made. Which meant that there would be another in her soup. Soohyun’s aunts have a palate towards the insects, but Soohyun isn’t particularly fond of them. And she doesn’t particularly know how to feel about them being in her soup either.

“Say, Soohyun,” Min Jeongho starts, mesmerised by the dead cricket in a pool of orange. “Have you ever heard of crickets in potato soup?”

She gulps, eyes fixed on his spoon. “I must say Matchmaker Min, that I have not.”

Then all at once, as if the shadowman had come to visit them himself, the lamp in the corner burns out leaving the corners of the room shrouded in darkness and haze. The whittling candle wavers over Min Jeongho’s face as he lowers the spoon back to the bowl. A chill runs itself up and down Soohyun’s body, and she suddenly wishes she’d woken at the crack of dawn to pray for her success in here today.

“You lie,” Min Jeongho utters. His eyes flicker up and make direct eye contact with her. “You have heard of it now.”

She stutters over the ominous shift in the room. “I-I apologise—”

Matchmaker Min raises a hand to silence her. Only the sound of wicks burning can be heard.

“Our session concludes there, Miss Yoon,” he announces curtly. There’s the faintest hint of a frown on his face. “You have done well.”

Soohyun grits her teeth together and gets to her knees. Once kneeling, she thanks him again before quickly getting to her feet and making a quick path towards the door.

Just as she reaches the door, Matchmaker Min calls out— “The one for you is there, Miss Yoon. They are there waiting for you as you wait for them. But it is not who you believe it to be.”

Gaon instantly comes to mind. With the power of a matchmaker’s omniscience, Min Jeongho shakes his head.

“Not him.”

She frowns. If not him, then— “Who?” There was no better place to ask than a matchmaker’s assessment.

Min Jeongho inhales and exhales slowly. “It’s a callous world out there, Soohyun.” She lifts her head to meet his gaze. It’s intense with the force of the silhouettes casting down on him and soft where candlelight spills across his features. “All are welcome in the House of Marital Rights. All .”

What does he know?

“You needn’t thank me again. You should be on your way to your next assessor.”

She nods and slips outside. She stands on the landing for a moment to take in the chill of winter before raising her eyes across the courtyard to see Gaon leaning back in his seat wrapped in a blanket. His eyes are shut tight as the wind brushes past. When the small gust passes, he opens his eyes slowly, looking as frail as ever. He sees Soohyun and seems to brighten up almost instantly. At least in her mind he brightens instantly. A tiny hand from under the blanket waves at her.

She starts down the patio stairs, allowing an easy smile to break across her face. It feels strained, though. 

“How did it go?” Gaon chirps.

What did Min Jeongho of all people know?

“Good,” she returns, then sits back awaiting her next assessment.

She failed. 

It happened in a flourish of shouting, embarrassment and those six aching words that sliced her chest in half. “No man will ever desire you,” her female matchmaker had told her as gently as a bull fighting an ant.

And all she had was his radiant smile branded in her brain, his charm and charisma blinding her stupid and poisoning her priorities. Today wasn’t about her desirability for any man, it was her desirability towards him , and they’d all said no. They didn’t know them or their story, and yet with their iron mallet from God, they’d judged and crushed and demeaned. 

Soohyun lashed out. “You’re wrong,” she seethed, forced the table forward onto the matchmaker and made her way out of the damned door. She then shouted, “You’re both wrong!” to both opposing huts. When she turned to look at Gaon and saw the concern in his face, she started crying. “They’re wrong,” she whispered to him, then turned on her heels and ran home.

She sat curled up in her room while conversation happened downstairs. Nobody had come upstairs to check on her, until now.

“Dinner’s ready,” Aunt Si-young calls from outside the door, then walks away. 

Soohyun doesn’t make any attempt to hide her tears or the pain in her heart as she drags herself down the stairs in rumpled pyjamas. She doesn’t look good, she doesn’t feel good and isn’t hungry, but an unspoken rule in her household is that no matter how long the world’s been burning for, you do not skip dinner. 

She sits where she usually sits, only Gaon is next to her and his Mum is opposite her, and she hangs her head in shame and self-pity. 

“Soohyun.” 

She raises her head.

Her aunt blesses the food, they all thank her for making it, and then they eat. There’s no easy conversation today. 

Nobody asks what happens, although they wouldn’t need to. It was surely announced to the entire courtyard. Soohyun of the Yoon family is officially undesirable. The Yoon family is officially disgraced.

After the meal is finished and fruit is cut, Soohyun is handed three sticks of incense. “Pray to them,” Aunt Chae tells her. “ Apologise” is what Soohyun hears.

So she goes to the back of the house, behind the kitchen, and gets on her knees in front of the shrine of those deemed deceased in the Yoon family. There are a lot of portraits in various places with tea candles lit around them. It smells of spices burning, though that isn’t what brings tears to her eyes.

She bows until she’s kissing the ground, and she sobs in apology. She cries for her brother Do-hoon and her father. She cries for her mother. She curses the Heavens who put her family in this situation, the matchmakers, her aunts, and herself for letting the family down again. 

She cries even more when she curses out Gaon, because why isn’t it him? In this blighted town where nobody but him bats an eye at her, why can’t they be made for each other? And why does she care so much? Is she that lovesick over a boy?

Through her sobs she misses the footsteps. It’s only when a hand — his hand, his rose-petal fingertips and short nails— covers hers when she realises that he’s next to her.

“It’ll be alright,” he says gently to both her and the shrine.

Not him.

“They’re wrong,” she chokes out to the shadows of the moon.

She can make herself desirable. Perfect. 

She’d let everyone down in one fell swoop.

They’re all wrong.

They have to be.

Chapter Text

Gaon wakes up dizzy.

His head is spinning and behind his eyes is a dull prodding to match the thumping in his head. Soohyun’s room faces West so there isn’t too much sunlight to pierce through his brain, but that doesn’t make waking up with a headache any easier.

Soo’s a slow riser anyways, so he can probably make his way to the bathroom and splash his face with some water to help before she wakes. It would be too burdensome for her to wake up to a sick Gaon after failing her matchmaker’s assessment. 

Except, the second he stands up, he gets woozy in the head and he’s seeing double. He reaches for the wall and miscalculates slightly, sending his brain spinning even if he is still standing. 

And it’s then when Gaon realises that he really needs to lie down again.

“Damn,” he whispers once he’s on his back. 

Soohyun rolls over in her sleep so her arm flings across his torso. All Gaon is focused on is breathing correctly and how to stop the splitting headache behind his eyes.

There’s a knock on the wooden panelling beside the doorway and hears the beaded curtains parting and the sheet of fabric being pushed aside. Gaon closes his eyes, then opens them slowly as if he had just woken up to see his mother standing in the doorway.

Given the positioning of Soohyun’s arm across his torso and her leg peeking from under her blanket, there’s no wonder his Mum has that fond look about her.

“Morning,” she says.

Gaon smiles. “Morning.” His morning voice is always rough.

“We should head back soon. Your father will be waking up soon.”

“What hour is it?”

“The sun’s just risen.”

Gaon knows that there’s no use trying to ‘save face’ in front of his mother, but he still tries to hide just how badly his head is killing him. With slow movements, he shifts Soohyun off of him (she rolls over to the other side in response) and sits up very slowly. It’s a lot better than him trying to stand up as soon as he wakes.

“Come say goodbye to Chae and Si-young when you’re ready,” his mum says before leaving the room.

Gaon takes another second to breathe. He’s already dreading the walk back home, though it’s less than twenty minutes away. 

He leans over and kisses her on the forehead. They’ll already be home by the time she’ll wake. 

With slower movements, he rolls up his flat mattress and blanket and pushes them flush against the wall, then leaves the room. He goes to the bathroom to wash his face, promising a more thorough wash once he’s home, and makes his way through to the living room.

“You’re both off now?” Aunt Chae asks from where she’s knitting on some padded cushions. 

“Yes, we are my dear. I want to start some breakfast for Dae-hyuk before he gets up. It would be rude of us to impose on you further as well.”

Aunt Chae tuts to herself and puts her knitting down. “Nonsense, you're no imposition.” Just as she’s about to continue, Aunt Si-young hobbles through from the kitchen with clay jars with fabric ties and small baskets. 

Gaon subtly leans against the wall as she starts talking. 

“I’m glad I caught you two before you left. Chae and I have been pickling some cabbage and cucumbers, along with apples and cider.” She nods towards Gaon as she packs them in a larger basket. “The sharpness will help with his chest. And there are some leftovers from dinner yesterday that would pair well with a breakfast.”

 Gaon’s mother takes the basket from Aunt Si-young’s hands and thanks her. “You know there’s always a loaf waiting for you both too.”

Aunt Chae laughs heartily. “I would never pass up on any of your or your husband’s bread, Minjee.”

Surprisingly, they don’t take much longer before saying their final goodbyes, and soon enough Gaon and his mother are on a slow walk back home. His head is splitting against the brightness of the day, and he’s shivering with even the smallest gusts, but other than that he’s holding his own fairly well. His mother doesn’t seem to have noticed either. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asks. 

He thinks of his restlessness, being too hot but also too cold, not being able to move and restraining his coughs for fear of waking Soohyun. “Yeah, I slept alright. Did you?”

She sighs and adjusts the basket on her arm. “Not really. I don’t like sleeping away from home.”

Gaon smiles and gently nudges her. “Do you miss Dad?”

“That’s part of it. I also like the comfort of my own sheets. They know my body.” She adjusts the basket again, then asks- “Was Soohyun alright last night?”

“Not really. She— hold on…” 

He’s managed to last around seven minutes without stopping to catch his breath, which he’ll take as an achievement any winter day. 

His mother waits for him patiently, as annoying as having to stop every two seconds may be. “We’ll walk slower when you’re ready.” 

Gaon wheezes, and when he coughs, it’s rough. No phlegm, so no infection. Just another bad night. 

Before he’s truthfully ready, he stands back to full height. “Ready?” she asks him. He nods, and they’re off again. 

They hold off on talking in favour of Gaon getting some more air in his lungs which serves him well. Given the celebrations of the festival last night letting people sleep late and wake late, at this time in the morning, the only people out are the volunteers who offered to clear the streets in the aftermath of the festival. It won’t be long before the entire village wakes up. He picks up the pace upon this realisation, thinking about the invasive eyes and wandering hands asking if he needs help and what happened. His mother seems to understand, and together they walk faster. 

The streets become more lively by the time they reach their little street, and Gaon is just about ready to throw himself back into bed. When they do reach their house, there’s a dashing white stallion outside with a clean, well kept coat and mane. Nobody in the local area has a horse as clean and pure as this one, but the chance that royalty is visiting their small town is extremely slim. It must be a traveller. But there are many other bakeries further into the village by where Soohyun lives — why come all the way here for a loaf?

Gaon’s mum walks in first, leaving Gaon to follow. There’s nobody in the living room, but when they walk through to the kitchen, Gaon’s father is talking to a tall stranger with thick, long black hair tied high with a white ribbon, dressed in an all black robe. The attire of a martial artist, perhaps. Even an assassin. From where they’re standing, neither can get a proper look at the stranger’s face, but Gaon’s father looks solemn and serious. 

“Go lie down,” Minjee tells Gaon, then addresses the stranger— “Is everything alright here?”

Gaon lingers by the doorframe, not so much that he’s completely out of sight but still not in the conversation. 

The stranger turns around, long hair following the motion. They have a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, but a surprising softness around the cheeks. A short fringe covers their forehead, and Gaon can’t help but marvel at them. From their height to the leanness of their physique, they have a mysterious allure. The aura of an assured man, one of status and loyalty, though it wouldn’t be hard to see them in the line of maidens at yesterday’s matchmaking event.

Gaon catches his eye. The stranger dismisses him and turns back to Gaon’s parents. Not unexpected, but…diminishing.

“Kim Minjee, I assume? Wife of Kim Dae-hyuk.” His voice is deep too. Deeper than Gaon’s.

“That is I, yes. And you might be?”

The stranger bows. “I am a member of the Imperial Guard, Ms. Kim.”

As he stands to full height, Minjee crosses her arms and inclines her head. “What is your name, soldier?”

“I am most commonly addressed as K.”

“And that’s your name?”

“That is the name I use, yes.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Minjee says— “I think your business here requires a cup of tea during discussion. Please, sit.” She turns around and looks Gaon straight in the eye. “You too. You don’t need to hide behind a door frame in your own house.”

K, Gaon and Gaon’s father, Dae-hyuk, all sit at the table as Minjee bustles around the kitchen to warm the teapot over their fire and prepare tea leaves. Gaon’s father, who has been silent since they arrived, stares and taps the low table.

“Sit down, Minjee,” he finally says. “The soldier comes with news.”

“Neither you nor Gaon have had your medicine for this morning.”

“Minjee.” His voice is firm and straight.

Gaon’s mum doesn’t turn around to face him, but she does stop momentarily. “This is our house where I can and will do as I please, regardless of whoever’s presence I’m in. Right now, I wish to make tea.”

Gaon’s hairs are standing on their edge. His headache only seems to be getting worse by the minute. “What’s going on?” When nobody answers, he sighs and slowly pushes himself up from the cushion on the floor. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Yes, go rest,” Gaon’s father says as his mother rushes to tell him to, “No, stay.”

The teapot starts to whistle over the fire. “He needs to hear this, Dae-hyuk.”

“It would only cause him pain.”

“Do either of you two even know what’s going on? Or did you just assume?” Gaon asks, voice raised to be heard over the whistling kettle. “All K said is that he’s part of the Imperial Guard.”

The kettle’s whistling pierces through the silence. Minjee takes it off the flames. 

“The news I have is primarily for Dae-hyuk. Whether he deems it a familial matter is not the business I have come here to attend to.”

Gaon and Minjee both turn to Gaon’s father. He humphs, face somehow managing to contort into a more aggrieved manner, then he says with more power than they’d heard that winter, “Let me hear the news. Leave us, Gaon.”

“Why do I have to—”

“Gaon!”

He stands up without another word and leaves the kitchen, straightening his back as much as he can and drawing in slow, deep breaths to keep him walking in a straight line. 

He walks to his room with no intention of lying down, despite his splitting headache. A minute passes, and Gaon is stealthily walking back out into the corridor so that he’s just close enough to hear what they’re talking about.

“The time has come where my debt must be paid.”

“I am to assure you that it is not a debt, but rather a request. You are one of the top listed men in regards to loyalty and skill.”

Dae-hyuk chuckles. “In what list?”

“The list we turn to when the Raiders of the North threaten the throne.”

“Must be a list you turn to very often then.”

K’s voice is grave. “It is not, Mr. Kim.” He pauses, letting his words fill the room. “The threat is dire, and we are in need of soldiers who know their skill. It is spoken of you that you were deemed the Imperial Army’s best archer. It is not without regret that we request you upend your retirement.”

Minjee clears her throat. “I appreciate the severity of the situation, but—”

“Is a skilled archer all you need?” Dae-huk asks.

“We need a loyal man with both mental and physical strength. Your allegiance to the previous general did not go amiss.” 

“Then I will fight.”

“He will not.” Minjee’s voice is firm and unwavering. A shiver runs down Gaon’s back.

Dae-hyuk’s voice is not angry, though. “And who are you to tell me whether or not I will fight?”

“I am your wife and the mother of your child. You may be foolish enough to convince yourself that you’re fit and able, but I know you, Dae-hyuk.” She’s bitter. “You are frail from illness and age. You are stiff and in pain. You are not the sharpshooter you once were, and I would rather throw these baker’s hands of mine into war than see your body split open from your own foolishness.”

Gaon falls back against the wall and sinks to the ground. He takes a deep breath in, just enough so that it doesn’t burn his chest, and slowly lets it out. 

Of all the things he expects to hear next, it isn’t his father laughing. 

“My wife is always one to speak openly,” his father says. Gaon can imagine him sitting back with his hands resting on his knees. “Openly with no apology.”

“She speaks her mind,” K assesses, taking a sip of his tea. “What is on your mind?”

Another moment’s silence, then— “Speak your piece, don’t look at me.”

“My piece. Hmmm… I think that there are very few instances when my wife has been incorrect with her intuition.” He takes another sip of his tea. “You have travelled a long way, my friend. When are you set to leave our village?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“Then you will need a place to stay tonight. We’ll open our house for your shelter. We all eat dinner at sunset. I’ll have a response for you by then.”

“I am honoured at your offer. I must say, this outcome was not unexpected. Given the decision that you cannot fight, I do ask for three other fighters who can take your place. Strong recommendations.”

“I’ll factor that into my decision. Otherwise, I assume you have other business to attend to here?”

Gaon hears the slight rustle of fabric as K stands. “I do. I will return come sunset.”

“In your own time, comrade.”

Gaon quickly scrambles to stand as he hears the gentle padding of feet against the floor. By the time he’s fully stood, K has already left the kitchen. They both share eye-contact for a second, and then K is moving towards their door without a word.

“You should tell Gaon,” Gaon’s mother says softly.

“It would only burden him.”

“How? How is honesty burdensome, Dae-hyuk?”

“A soldier comes to our house in need of a soldier. If I as Gaon’s father am not fit to fight, who does that responsibility fall upon? Who is most likely to feel inclined to fight in his place?”

“Gaon’s smarter than you give him credit for. He wouldn’t be so stupid, not with his ailments.”

“Stupidity and foolishness, as you would say, are nothing in the face of the honour you receive in serving your country.” This is where the bitterness and shame surfaces in Gaon’s dad; after company have left. “A man would do anything to protect the integrity of his family. I would be angrier at your proposal that I stay here idly were it not for the thirty-one years of service I’ve already given. You do not abandon your family nor your country, Minjee.”

“Those two don’t coexist, Dae-hyuk.”

Gaon’s father’s voice drops low and sincere. “I would die for my son. I’m doing what’s right.”

“You will die .”

For the first time in their entire conversation, Gaon’s father’s voice raises to a shout. “Who do you think he’s asking for when he asks for recommendations? Who then will die?! That boy cannot fight , he cannot lift a—”

A coughing fit seizes him then, and as Gaon’s mother shouts for him, Gaon hears his father crumple to the floor. His body jolts to run to him, but his feet stay planted where they are.

“Here, drink this.” The sounds of a struggle and frustration. “Drink it, Dae-hyuk! Stop being so stubborn and take the damn tea!”

Then comes the sound of porcelain smashing. “Bring the soldier,” his father chokes out.

“Your stubbornness will kill you off before that blasted war!” 

Gaon’s mum angrily storms out of the kitchen. She bumps into Gaon as she turns the corner. She glares at him with watery eyes, then breezes past in the same direction as the soldier in black. 

“Aunt Si-young! There is a strange man lurking around the front of the house.”

“Ask him what he wants then, Soohyun. I’m busy.”

Soohyun grunts and puts her best kind-neighbour-who-isn’t-in-the-middle-of-a-crisis face on. “To what do we owe the pleasure of such a… pretty stranger,” she asks, false bravado dwindling as she reaches the end of her sentence and closer to the stranger. 

“I am looking for the Yoon residence.”

Soohyun would like to think she recovered fairly quickly to seeing the stranger’s beauty. (She still has to clear her throat before she speaks.) “And you are?”

“Looking for Yoon Do-hoon.”

Before she can even make a note about him evading her questions, her chest seizes in shock. “Who…why are you looking for him?”

“Are you his family?”

“He wa—” she clears her throat again. “I’m his sister.”

The soldier bows to her. “I am a soldier for the Imperial Army. We are in need of trustworthy, skilled soldiers, and Yoon Do-hoon’s name was offered as a recommendation.”

Soohyun crosses her arms. “By who?”

“Kim Dae-hyuk.”

Soohyun's breath hitches. “He- he recommended… he recommended Do-hoon ?”

“Is there a problem, Miss…?”

“Yes, there is a problem. A-a huge problem. Do-hoon’s been de—”

“Who is it, Soohyun?” Aunt Si-young bellows from the house. 

She startles, uncrosses then links then crosses her hands again. “It’s nobody, just… uh… just the taxman?” She stumbles to get out, cringing as the words leave her mouth.

“The taxman?! What day is it - tax isn’t due for another two weeks! What is that blasted- Where’s the salt? Soohyun get the salt, I don’t even want to see that greedy man’s face around here before the end of the month.”

“Is he here? Can I speak to him?” The soldier asks hurriedly now.

“He’s not here, no.” Something white falls from the window above, sprinkling onto Soohyun’s hair. She waves off her aunt— “Aunty, we don’t need the salt—”

The soldier is persistent. “When will he be back? It is urgent.”

They can both hear heavy footsteps coming their way. 

Soohyun blabbers as she tries to think of something, anything, aside from her selfish desire seeing this as an opportunity. Reclaim your name . “When are you leaving?”

“Dawn.”

Aunt Si-young comes out with a basket of finely ground salt which she chucks handfuls at the soldier, cursing him out as she does so. “Get inside, Soohyun.” She grabs Soohyun’s hand and starts to lead her inside.

As she’s being lead back inside the house, Soohyun shouts, “He’ll come meet you at dawn tomorrow! At the end of the high road!”

The front door slams shut in front of her.

Dinner is an awkward affair. K and Gaon’s father, with all the nerves of war soldered soldiers, eat as if nothing is hanging over their heads. K’s posture is as if there is a wooden beam keeping him upright, while Gaon’s dad sits with a hunch. Gaon’s mother eats as if her husband is already dead. Gaon eats nothing with the nausea in his guts. He drinks his turmeric and ginger tea instead in heaps. 

“The food is lovely, Mr and Mrs. Kim,” K says as he bows his head.

Gaon’s father nods and places another flatbread onto K’s plate with a heap of seasoned soybean, chickpeas and carrots. 

“We don’t eat much meat at this time of year, but the peas give us all enough protein. Here, eat up.”

When everyone has finished eating dinner, Gaon’s father moves to the fruit basket and takes out two of their largest pears, sea salt, and a knife. As he crosses his legs at the head of the table again, Gaon’s mother gently pries the pear out of his left hand. 

“Minjee, please.”

“I would like to cut it for our guest. I wasn’t the most hospitable earlier.”

Gaon’s father hands over the knife as well, seemingly satisfied. Gaon finishes his fourth cup of turmeric tea.

“It seems our son has grown accustomed to the tea that ‘tastes like dirt’,” his father says jovially.

Gaon’s following smile is strained. “I’m making up for this morning. I didn’t have my three cups with you.”

His dad humphs. “You didn’t have your porridge either. Tomorrow,” he promises with a firm nod, “we will sit together and have our porridge and tea.”

Thick pear slices are laid out on a plate in the centre of the table, with a small pouch of coarse sea salt in the middle. Gaon is the first to take a slice, salivating at the prospect of anything to wash out the god-awful taste of turmeric. 

“Tell my comrade about the sea salt, Minjee.” 

She sighs. “Every summer, if we are all well enough, we take a trip down to the seafront on the back of a travelling carriage. Dae-hyuk and I sell bread and Gaon collects seaweed and seawater with the other children. When we return, we leave the seaweed and seawater out to dry in the sun so that we can better preserve our food. This salt is from the seafront.”

Gaon’s father nudges K and sprinkles some salt onto the pear. “We’re a crafty family. Here, try it.”

K takes the slice from Gaon’s father’s hands and eats it whole. His eyebrows shift ever so slightly upon tasting it as he hums. It’s the most Gaon’s seen the soldier emote.

“The sweetness of the pear mixes nicely with the tanginess of the salt. It is good salt too.”

Gaon’s father sits back and turns his head to face the window of their kitchen. The fabric is parted so the moon is visible — a full moon.

“You have a refined taste, my friend. Though, that salt is from the year before last. We couldn’t go last summer. The travelling carriage didn’t pass by.”

Gaon frowns. They didn’t go last summer because his father was bedridden. His body lit up like a flame in the blazing heat. He remembers sending the carriage away.

“Like wine, aged salt fresh from the sea tastes better. It’s stronger than the nonsense they break down from rocks in the mountains. If we were greedier, we could’ve sold the salt and made larger profits. Instead, we used it to better our bread and pastries, and for occasions such as this.” His father’s eyes are still trained on the moon as he stands. “We’re righteous people. We may suffer for it, but there’s goodness in our hearts.”

He moves towards the back of the kitchen towards the pantry which is shrouded in darkness. From it, he emerges with a loaf of bread wrapped in their best parchment and tied with string. 

He hands it to K. “Take this, my friend, for the journey back.” 

He turns to acknowledge Gaon and Gaon’s mother. “I’ll take my leave now. I’m in need of a good night’s rest.”

They all watch as Dae-hyuk leaves for his bedroom. 

Gaon’s mother brushes her hands against her skirt. “We don’t have a spare room, but we do have spare bedding for the floor. You can sleep in the main living room.”

K bows again. “Thank you.”

“I’ll go prepare it now.”

“I will help you.”

They both leave the dining table, leaving Gaon alone. 

He stands and moves towards his parents’ room. The candle lamp is still on in the corner and Gaon’s father is sitting on his side of the bedding in his sleeping clothes.

“ Appa ,” Gaon calls out softly. The word rings familiar. 

His father instantly turns around, shock evident in the raise of his brow. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. What’s troubling you?”

Gaon slumps onto the bedding and rests his head against his father’s shoulder, lifting it just enough so that it doesn’t put too much strain onto the other. His dad takes his head and moves it to his lap where he brushes his fingers through Gaon’s hair.

“I miss when your hair was longer, you know,” his dad says quietly.

“I’ll grow it back out. You have to wait a few years to see it though.”

His father chuckles. “I’ll try my best.”

“What did you tell K?”

The fingers running through his hair don’t stop. Gaon closes his eyes. 

“Do you know how I lost my forefinger on my left hand?” His dad asks. Gaon’s heard the story a thousand times, but he stays silent all the same. “It was my third day of training. I was cocky and ignorant, thinking ‘How hard can it be to shoot an arrow? It’s a stick and some string!’. I tried to shoot without any technique, and as the arrow flew, it clipped my finger which was in the way, taking it off. I learned two lessons that day. I learned discipline, and how to shoot an arrow with a missing finger. Two of the most valuable lessons I took into adult life.”

Gaon hums, basking in the feel of warm fingers running through his hair. 

“I’m living the life of my dreams. A beautiful wife and a charming son. Good neighbours and good food. Sixty-seven years of life. There’s no hiding the plentiful life I’ve lived on my body; I am full and fat with satisfaction.

“For all the blessings I’ve received in my lifetime, I owe Heaven at least this. The opportunity to leave this world on a righteous note. We are a righteous and honourable people, Gaon.”

In the haze of Gaon’s tears, his father has never seemed to glow so bright, nor as weary. “You won’t get to brush your fingers through my long hair.”

“That’s why I’m doing it now. I’ll remember this feeling. Running my fingers through my charming son’s hair and telling him stories of our family. I’ll take it with me into the afterlife. 

“A life worth living isn’t golden walls or silk pillows. It’s good salt, good neighbours, good family, and a good spirit. You, my son, have a good spirit . Lead your life with it.” His father pats his shoulder and kisses his forehead. “This isn’t goodbye, not for you. This is welcome to the life you will start living, and see you later to the life I’m leaving behind.”

Gaon’s first lesson in combat is stealth training. K is already sitting up by the time he arrives. 

“I-you heard me?”

“I was expecting you. Although, you are not as silent as needed for the army.”

“So you know.”

“I had an idea. Are you fit enough to fight?”

“I’m fine, I just need some training. You do that, right?”

“What of your illness?”

“The past two weeks haven’t been so bad. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you have a uniform?”

“There’s one in reach.”

“Due to the state of affairs, your training will include a five-week scheme sparring with established members of the army. You will not be alone; your father gave me a list of names in addition to his own enlistment. I assume you will be taking his place.”

Gaon nods. “When do you leave?”

“Dawn.”

This isn’t goodbye. This is welcome to the life you will start living.

Gaon sets his face straight, masking the pain in his chest. He reaches out an arm. 

K clasps his forearm and meets Gaon eye-to-eye. “Gaon of the Kim family, the Empress welcomes you into her army.”

The teapot whistles violently over the fire. Dae-hyuk uses thick fabric to take it off and pour the hot water into the two bowls of oats and rice, then into the smaller teapot with ground turmeric, ginger and tea leaves in it. He tops off the two bowls of porridge with herbs he keeps in the corner of the bread pantry. With a pleased humph, he places all of the dishes onto a wooden tray, then with slow and careful steps, he walks to Gaon’s door. 

“Gaon, I have breakfast ready,” he announces as he pushes the door open with his foot. 

The bedding is neatly made, but Gaon isn’t there. There’s water running in the bathroom though, so his father sits down beside the bedding and waits with his hands curled on his knees. 

“Dae-hyuk, did you move your bags?” Minjee calls out.

He contemplates the question. Admittedly, he has been getting forgetful lately. Perhaps he left them out on the porch. 

“I don’t remember. I’ll find them after I’ve had breakfast with Gaon.”

She rounds the corner and leans against Gaon’s door. “Is he— where is Gaon?”

“In the bathroom. I just heard water running.”

Minjee’s face pales. She straightens up instantly. “That was me in the bathroom. I just washed my face.”

It takes a moment for Dae-hyuk to register her words, but the second that it does, he’s tripping over the tray of food and racing out of the house. 

“Gaon!” he yells, running as quickly as he can down the street. “ Gaon-ah! Come back! Gaon!”

He runs until his lungs can’t take in any more air. He collapses to the ground in a heap of tears and heavy breathing, clutching his fist to his chest. 

He looks up, blind to his surroundings bar the figures walking away from him in the distance. Two soldiers, a horse, and his son. 

“Gaon,” he wheezes again. A soft hand pats his back to ease the pain, but it’s nothing to console the knowledge that his one and only son walks so easily away from his family.

“He didn’t say goodbye,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Chapter Text

Back engaged and firm, arms lax against knees, sharp jawline and sharper eagle eyes that survey all in the room on her podium that brings even the highest officials to their knees, Empress Cha Kyunghee has a power unlike any other figure in the land. Her title speaks for itself: she is the Empress, the one and only unimpeachable figure. 

Her silence speaks for herself as she pops grapes into her mouth and poises her perfectly shaped brow. The boy before her is awaiting for her grace to speak. Instead, her maids fan her as she eats more grapes and dates, the many sapphires and emeralds in her headpiece casting her as the image of a peacock advertising his feathers. 

“Mother…” the boy starts, voice quivering.

Empress Cha takes in a sharp breath and leans forward, keeping her back postured. “Who is it that you are calling Mother, Lord Lee?”

He sighs and somehow manages to bow even lower. “Your Imperial Majesty, Mother of the Three Nations and esteemed land, may I burden you with a concern of mine?”

Empress Cha smirks and eats another grape. “Seven years into my reign and you still mistaken my address, Youngmin. It is inconvenient.”

“I am still working on it, Your Imperial Majesty.”

She waves a nonplussed hand in his direction and vaguely gestures for him to come forward. He scooted from the middle of the hall to three quarters of the way down, meaning he no longer had to shout so loud. 

“What is wrong with you now?” she asks, falling into a more resigned register at seeing her son’s face up close. “And control your shaking, boy. Is ruling such a small plot of land really that bothersome?”

Youngmin shifts so that he’s sitting on his heels and fumbles with his sleeves before taking out a crumpled sheet of parchment paper. “A letter arrived yesterday, your Imperial Majesty. From the Raiders of the North.”

Empress Cha sighs again, then gestures for her maid to retrieve the letter. With humble steps, the maid places the letter into the Empress’s hands.

She frowns as she reads it, the words written in blood mixed with ink giving it a brownish tinge and the lettering janky and somewhat illegible; a mix of upper-class Soula and lower-class Daakk . Her jaw sets as she just about reaches the end of the letter. It ends with a date; six days from Empress Cha’s reading.

Her heart quickens as she folds the letter. “When did you say you received this?”

“Yesterday, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Did you see who sent it?”

“N-no, it was just pinned on the door.”

Empress Cha is quiet for a moment, then she lashes out— “You’ve come all the way here for this empty threat? When will you grow up, Youngmin? When will you become a man instead of cowering behind me? You storm through the palace sweating buckets over one out of twenty threats from the Raiders of the North in the last week! What makes you so special?”

He stumbles over his words again, rather pathetically. 

Empress Cha leans forward again, this time good posture be damned. The maid holds the headpiece against her head to prevent it from falling. Empress Cha leans on her knees and glares at Youngmin through her lashes. 

“What do you have a sword for, Youngmin?” she growls.

He clears his throat, averting his gaze. “To fight.”

She stands and descends upon the stairs, this time head perfectly high and straight. The train of her golden gown is never-ending, the rubies and silk sapphire streamers never ending as they billow out. 

When she reaches him, she crouches and puts a superficial gentle hand on his cheek. “The next time you receive one of these letters, don’t bother wasting my time. Pick up your sword and put your lessons to work. You’ve done enough to embarrass this family name. Don’t cover our graves in manure while you’re at it.”

She slaps him. His head jolts to the side. 

She stands again and looks down at him without moving her chin. “Next time you bow to my palace doors, it had better be with a tale of victory. Otherwise you can kowtow your position in this Imperial Palace goodbye. Now get out of my sight.”

He bows so low he almost sinks into the ground, then thanks the Empress for her time before practically running out of the hall.

Once she is certain that her son has left, Empress Cha allows a guttural yell to rip from her throat. She lifts her headpiece and drops it to the ground, pulling out various braids and twists in her hair as she does so. Her maids race to fix it, but she swats them away.

“Bring the Imperial Adviser and our Communications Officer,” she commands her lady-in-waiting, turning her firm face from the Imperial Hall’s doors and instead to her throne. “And ensure I have no further attendances this afternoon.”

In a timid voice, a maid asks, “Shall we fix your hair, our Imperial Majesty?”

Empress Cha frowns, then takes slow, calculated steps to her throne. With a nod of her head, the maids scurry to climb the steps of the dais and begin to redo Empress Cha’s hair. When asked if she wants the headpiece, she shakes her head and rests it on her lap. 

“When entering a den of starving wolves,” she starts, “it is best to see which will bite the meat first. Which will be the example to the rest? The first to be put down?”

“I asked for the Imperial Advisor and the Communications Officer, not the royal court jester,” Empress Cha sneers. 

Below her throne sits Imperial Adviser Seo Jeong-hak, Imperial Adviser of three generational monarchs dressed in blue draping robes from his first appointment. Lord Park Du-man, Imperial and Royal Communications Officer, sits in a cream overcoat with black trousers and embellishments to represent ink on parchment paper. And Lord Heo Joong-se, a man who somehow manages to maintain his position in the Imperial House despite his lacking political influence and poor upbringing, sits in the usual brown clothing of Lords. There is not enough evidence for Empress Cha to dismiss him yet, and unlike any other palace member, Lords are a lot harder to dispose of quietly.

The slimy man grins and nods continuously. “It is always a pleasure to be in your presence, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Empress Cha sighs and directs her glare at Lord Park Du-man. “What is he doing here?”

Park Du-man clears his throat and raises his head to look Empress Cha in the eye. “Given that this meeting regards a letter written by the Raiders of the North, I deemed it necessary to bring someone of similar calibre to our attendance.”

“Is that so?” She questions, raising an impervious eyebrow. “I must be under the incorrect impression that that was your role, Communications Officer. No matter, what we have to discuss is more important than a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

Heo Joong-se laughs obnoxiously and raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure the phrase you meant was ‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing’, your Imperial Majesty.”

She simply stares at him, shock melding together with astoundment at his sheer stupidity, then turns her head and sighs. 

“The matter at hand is this—” she stands and descends down the great gold stairs, headpiece now sitting on her throne, and kneels in front of the three attendants. In between them she places the letter from Youngmin. “This letter was received by Lord Lee yesterday, and I am none too pleased with its contents.”

She allows them a moment to read over the letter. All but Heo Joong-se’s eyebrows crease, whereas he glosses over it easily. He mutters to himself, “That is quite a poor attempt at mixing the two lettering systems together…should’ve just stuck to Daakk.”

Park Du-man runs his fingers over the characters and rubs them together. “This was received yesterday, correct?”

“Yes.”

He hums and brings the paper closer to the light to inspect it. “It was written approximately three days ago. The paper is uneven under the ink, yet firm, so it has had enough time to dry.”

“It was delivered in a matter of two days,” the Imperial Adviser grumbles, setting his fists against his knees.

The Empress frowns. “Could it have been written within the province?”

The Imperial Advisor shakes his head. “We have cordoned Lord Lee’s province to prevent further attacks from the Raiders of the North to him, meaning the threat came from within the area. A commoner turned raider.”

Heo Joong-se seems to catch on quickly as he adds— “A commoner wouldn’t know even the basics of writing Soula characters.”

The Communications Officer lets out a heavy breath. “The information was relayed to the Raiders which then was sent in the form of a letter.”

Empress Cha’s face turns sour. “It took them two days to exchange intel and correspond. Tell me, Communications Officer, what is the status of the travelling Imperial Army?”

The large man loosens his headpiece and drops his head. Despite his significant height and build over Empress Cha’s petite figure, he still crumbles under her eye. “We are yet to hear any word, your Imperial Majesty,” he says quietly.

She leans in slightly, scrutinising him. “It has been a week.”

He clears his throat. “The travelling army are moving up the mountains to ambush the Raiders of the North, so communication is harder as they are constantly moving.”

Empress Cha closes her eyes and nurses between her brows. “I do not want to hear any excuses, Communications Officer. I want to know why the Raiders of the North are able to get letters to my son in two days and yet a week has passed and we know not of the progress of our own flaming army!”

Her voice, inclined to a shout, causes Lord Heo and Lord Park to cringe. The Imperial Adviser remains unmoved. In fact, he asks her to settle her voice.

“Settle my voice,” Empress Cha repeats, staring at him in shock. “Settle my voice when my son’s movements across his own land are being monitored and emotions watched.”

She turns her anger to Park Du-man. “Are our letters getting intercepted?”

The man practically folds under her stare, eyes wandering. “That is most likely, your Imperial Majesty.”

“Do you have any propositions on how we can communicate with our own army, or is it your job to sit under my table and fill yourself fat with imperial goods?”

“I do have one solution, your Imperial Highness. This method has no way of being intercepted. I simply require the contents of the letter.”

Empress Cha scoffs and raises from her knees. “I never did think anybody could replace Lord Heo’s status as the Royal Jester, and yet here you are fighting for first place,” she says under her breath, then in her domineering voice, she demands, “Contact the Imperial Army. Request for updates on their position, situation, and have they filled the quota of required soldiers. Make yourself useful for once.”

She turns her back on her attendance and sighs again. “You are dismissed.”

The three of them rise and bow to her before both Lords scurry out of the palace room, leaving the Imperial Advisor to take his sweet time sauntering out.

When the large doors to the Imperial Hall close, Park Du-man lets out a sigh of relief. He then lets out a string of curses under his breath, all suited for the Empress.

Heo Joong-se laughs and gestures to the doors. “Watch your tone, fellow Lord. She has a raven’s ear.”

“She has a bitch’s ear, that’s what she has…”

They walk down the hallway together, leaving the Imperial Advisor long behind, and make it out of the suffocating walls of the Imperial house. They stand in the open courtyard, winter’s chill breezing past and rustling the branches of the cherry blossom tree.

“What is your plan, Lord Park?”

He heaves another great sigh before turning to Lord Heo. “We contact the monastery.”

Lord Heo simply stares at him, before nodding slowly. “I do suppose praying for our souls would fit the scenario.”

But Lord Park is already off on his way, the letter from the Raiders clenched firmly in his fists.

He arrives in the middle of a prayer. There is a congregation in the temple hall, all bowed to the ground reciting prayer which is led by a fellow practitioner. Some heads are clean shaven, others have hair of varying lengths. A monastery of varying faiths, united in the singular cause to devote themselves entirely to the education and commitment of all religions.

Park Du-man walks around the congregation and sneaks behind a small curtain, opening a large wooden door which leads to the higher religious powers. The doorman stands when he enters and bows, then asks, “Who is it that you seek, Imperial and Royal Communications Officer?”

“The calligrapher,” he says hurriedly.

The doorman nods and leads Park Du-man further into the depths of the monastery. They walk down hallways, the doorman bowing to others in his presence, before making it to a small door. The doorman knocks first, and a deep yet gentle voice beckons them in.

The doorman opens the door and gestures for the Communications Officer through. Once he is through the door, the door slams shut behind him, and he’s left alone in a small dark room with naught but two candles lighting the calligraphers table. The calligrapher is seated on the floor with his legs crossed, and he appears to be writing from the movements of his left hand.

“The Imperial and Royal Communications Officer, I assume?” the monk says without turning his head. He is bald, and wears colours of draping yellow and brown.

He is the only person Park Du-man bows to in the entire monastery. “Brother, I come requesting help.”

The monk laughs and inclines his head. “If ever there is such a place where you are needing help, I should hope it will be here.”

The monk pulls away from the table and turns around. His face is youthful and handsome, with thick eyebrows and plump lips. Though his face deceives his age, Park Du-man is sure, as sometimes in the low lighting, he catches sight of a wrinkle or two forming on the other’s kindly face. For as soft and unassuming as he looks, there is something troubled in his eyes, and many a story behind the burn scars that climb his neck.

Park Du-man sits in front of the monk and rests his wrists on his knees.

“What is it that you require, friend?”

“A runic letter, Brother.”

The monk inhales and links his fingers in his lap. His right hand is scarred to the point of pink skin replacing otherwise slightly tan skin, and does not move as much as his left.

“Are you in a state of desperation?”

“Yes, Brother.”

“And this is the only way reparations can be made?”

“Temporarily, Brother.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the candles wick burning quietly, before the monk gets to his feet. “Then let us begin, my friend.”

Park Du-man knows the basics of the procedure, but definitely not enough to partake in it himself. Instead, he resigns himself to laying out a cream cloth on the floor and gently moving the table backwards. He sits to the right of the monk —never in front of the cloth, otherwise the letter may curse him— and watches as he piles fresh soil from the garden onto the cloth. He evens it out, then opens another, miniscule wooden chest, and sprinkles on a mixture of incense and what appears to be a golden spice over the top of the soil. The monk gestures for him to pass the usual bowl of herb water, then graciously pours the bowl over his hands and forearms.

“Who is the person of address?”

“The soldier, K. Sang Kyung-ho.”

“Is that their birth name?” The monk asks, left hand poised and ready to begin. Park Du-man noticed that the monk never uses his right hand. The scarring must have left too much damage. “It must be their birth name, otherwise the message may not reach them.”

The answer is always the same when it comes to K. “That is his given name. He did not have a birth name when he came to the palace.” Like any other palace servant. They have no use for names.

“I will need your seal of attachment to ensure it is received appropriately.”

Park Du-man rolls up his sleeve, revealing a few tiny pinpricks up his forearm. “Do what you must.”

The monk turns around and picks up a feather from the table. He snaps off the tip to sharpen it, then once he’s satisfied with the result, he grips Park Du-man’s forearm and sends the tip into his skin. He waits until the blood pools, then takes the arm to the soil and releases the feather tip, allowing two drops of blood to fall into the soil. As it hits the earth, it sizzles as if burning.

He cleanses his hands with the herb water again, then resumes his position at the top of the soil. “What do you wish for the contents of your letter to be? It must be concise.”

As Lord Du-man recites, the monk uses his left hand to engrain runes into the soil, every movement causing the soil to hiss. Underneath the lettering, the cream cloth burns brown.

When they reach the end of the letter, the monk asks, “Is that all?”

“Yes, Brother.”

The monk then takes Park Du-man’s index finger and dips it into the herb water before guiding it at the end of the soil to sign his name. Next to his signature comes the only letter Du-man recognises: an English ‘I’.

The runic message is prepared, and now it must be sent. The monk closes his eyes and moves both of his hands in circular motions above the dirt. The runes light up in gold as he utters the prayer, then with a final hiss, they sink into the cloth and the soil collapses over them.

The monk turns to face the Communications Officer. “The message has been sent. The recipient will receive it when they next see a plain image, such as a tent curtain or a lake. If they know how to partake in the ritual, then you should expect a reply.”

Park Du-man bows his head again. “Thank you, Brother Isaiah.”

“It is no problem, my friend. Now, be on your way.”

When the door closes behind him, the monk clears away the material for the ritual and returns the table to its original position. He then takes out another sheet of paper and lays it on the writing mat. With a moment’s consideration, he turns to his abandoned letter.

He stares at it longingly, a pull towards it. A necessity to finish what he started, although he knows he will never send it.

“I’ll come back for you, my dearest Elijah. I’ll return to you,” he whispers, then folds the letter and tucks it away between some religious texts he’s accumulated. 

The necessity to finish what he started brings him to document the entire contents of the runic letter onto paper, as well as document the rising tensions in the inner city and the Raiders of the North infiltrating Lord Lee’s land. It brings him to fold it into the shape of a bookmark and place it inside an empty notebook.

When he closes the notebook, his fingers linger over the name on the front. ‘PROPERTY OF KANG YOHAN’ it reads in obnoxious Soula lettering.

He returns it to behind the shelf and ignores what he knows is signed on the back.

From your brother, Isaac.

“Captain Kang!” Commanding Officer, Oh Jinjoo, calls out beyond Kang Yohan’s tent. 

He refolds Isaac’s final letter to him, the paper already yellow and brittle with age, and tucks it into the sheath of his second sword.

Jinjoo enters the tent with a cheeky smirk and bows shallowly. “They’ve arrived, Captain.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Captain Kang Yohan does when he steps outside of his tent is greet K with a bow and a firm nod. He then turns to the new recruits and scrutinises them under the winter sun. 

There are less than anticipated — a further twenty or so to help make up the travelling army. The majority of the Imperial Army withheld at the palace for the eventuality that should the travelling army be killed or compromised, the palace would not be left unguarded. Naturally, it results in disappointing numbers within the travelling army, but nothing that can not be made up for with skill and spirit.

The new recruits are made up of no man Yohan had not seen in his time: the front men laugh from the bottom of their bellies, happy to reveal bravado and unleash their beastly desires when the time comes. They are senior veterans who were wrongly taken from retirement, yet rejoin the army by choice and choice alone for they have lived with the fear of a country taken from them, and would give their lives to prevent such an event from recurring. The middle has those who are determined that this is the choice they must make for the sake of their country and family. It is my duty , they attempt to convince themselves. They are children of dead fathers whose lives were signed away the second they were born. Contractually, without remorse and with no consideration. Should I die, my son will fight in my place. And at the back we see the weak and embittered; the ones who didn’t have the strength to fight off bullies in the streets and hope this is their opportunity to make a name for themselves. The ones who heard of the travelling army and with blind trust thrust themselves forward. 

They would not have travelled that long a journey to already cause conflict between each other, and yet there are two settled in the middle that avoid each other’s eyes, electrify the space between them with the possibility of a fight, all with the assurance that this isn’t the place for me in their eyes.

They are the first Yohan approaches.

As he walks, the new recruits ripple into straightening their backs and raising their chins. When he stops in the middle, he feels the collective sharp intake of breath.

The two in the middle are fragile and pretty. One is doe-eyed and lanky, with a tremor to his hands that Yohan cannot parse as to being from nerves or the cold. He almost seems to curl in on himself — not like a hunchback, no, more so as if it is taking his entire body strength to keep him upright. A gentle man who lived a humble life prior; perhaps a baker or a laundryman. He has smooth hands and well-kept nails, with a thin layer of stubble on his chin. A man made not for the ferocity of battle. A man who may have a thousand unearthed desires ready to be unleashed on the battlefield. 

The second of the two is shorter and plumper with a rounder face and softer features. Less timid than the first, but much more intimidated. He puffs his chest when he breathes and sets a firm crease in his brow, but on the exhale allows fear to circle his bones. The uniform is ill-fitting around his shoulders, jutting out awkwardly, but it should not be a detriment to his range of movement. His lips are rosy despite the skin breaking, as if not long ago they were tinted. His hair is short too, with uneven chunks scattered around his neck. 

Neither look like they belong here, yet make effort in appearing as though they do.

Yohan wonders what it is they are fighting about. 

He walks back up to the front of the group and plants his feet there, scrutinising everybody now. K and Jinjoo stand by Yohan’s right and left.

“See and acknowledge the leader of the Imperial Travelling Army, Captain Kang Yohan!” K bellows.

They are not as ragtag as expected with how they all bow together. Although, they do rise in scattered numbers.

Yohan nods to K, then takes a step forward. 

“See and acknowledge my second-in-command, Commanding Officer Oh Jinjoo!” He calls out.

They all bow again, then rise.

Their faces have changed now. This is serious, they realise. 

“And I expect you all to be acquainted with my right hand man and very good friend, K.” 

Yohan begins to circle the group, surveying all of the new recruits as both individuals and a unit. 

“See and acknowledge your fellow comrades to your left, right, front and back. The Imperial Travelling Army.” The words are purposefully placed in the air, hanging over them all not as a threat, but an honour. 

“You will be with each other for a determined four weeks. Time extending beyond then is uncertain. It would be wise of you to settle any animosity between you now. It becomes easier to fight when there is only one enemy on your mind.” He raises a brow at the two he surveyed earlier. “My role as your Captain is to ensure that we collectively fulfil the Empress’s wishes: to prevent the Raiders of the North from reaching the city. You are my tools to help me attain her vision. I stand before you today as the Empress’s representative. My Commanding Officer stands before you as your representative.”

Jinjoo flashes him her cheeky smile and takes a step forward. It is in moments like these where Yohan laments the loss of her innocence to war. Her smile belongs to a small-town village, not the craggy edges of the mountains.

“Hello! Now, while K was the one to recruit you, during your training period I will be acting as your recruitment officer. Along with the Captain and K, I will aid and lead you in your training for the next four weeks, and should any problems arise, you are to address me with them to be resolved. I look forward to working with all of you and further developing your skillset.”

Always so optimistic.

Yohan returns to his position at the front of the group. 

“We are preparing you for battle. Let that be known. Regardless of whether you are returning to the Imperial Army or joining for the first time, you will be changed, and the only way to survive is to embrace that change. Am I clear?”

Breath in, and then— “Yes, Captain!”

Their enthusiasm weighs soberly in Yohan’s heart. 

They all stand attentively, waiting for their first command.

It comes with the breath of wind.

“Let’s get them initiated.”

“Family name?”

“Kim.”

“Father?”

“Kim Dae-hyuk.”

“Province and district?”

Upon the names Gaon recites, the soldier manning the recruits administration pauses in his scavenging of the list of suggested names. Names of people to turn to if the fight for the cause wore their numbers thin.

“Status of your father?”

Gaon frowns. “Retired?”

A sigh. “Dead or alive?”

Gaon is too quick to answer. “Alive.”

“Reasoning for you taking his place?”

“He is too ill to fight.”

The soldier nods and marks a cross by Kim Dae-hyuk’s name. 

“First name?”

“Gaon.”

On a secondary sheet of parchment, the soldier writes down Gaon’s name and his relation to his father.

“Stand to the right. You will be assigned tent-mates shortly.”

He waves a dismissive hand and Gaon scuttles off to the right. He is the only one in this corner, the others already being guided towards their tents. 

Soohyun —no, Do-hoon— is next to be registered. She breezes past without much question, which is slightly unsettling to the both of them. When was this travelling army’s records last updated? How long have they been out here? How long will they both be there?

Soohyun is sent to the same corner as Gaon. Both crease their lips in thin lines. 

There’s only one more person who is guided into their corner, the others taking different positions. Midway through the next recruit, Commander Oh Jinjoo makes an appearance forcing the soldier upright. 

She waves a delicate hand. “Continue! Don’t let me distract you.” She looks around the room and smiles gently. “I’ve come to help with assigning the new recruits to their tents.” She eyes Gaon and Soohyun with the same friendliness as before, but also an inquisitive eye. “Are these three ready?”

“Yes, Commander.” He tells Commander Oh the district they’re from, then points to another corner. “And those four in the far corner.”

Her smile grows. “Great! I’ll take them over now.”

The camp is fairly large, depending on where you count its beginning and ending. The tents are lined up in rows in the middle of the camp, leaving a wide expanse of space on either side. One side has a row of straw dummies with arrows sticking out of them. It’s the side closest to the mountains, leaving the other to be an uneven plane of land with a few training mats set down. At the furthest place from where they’re standing, there is a cook preparing food in a large pot. 

“We reorganise the placement of the tents depending on where we’re taking respite,” Commander Oh begins. “The edge of the mountain provides us with a nice cover; the opposite side is too dangerous for anyone to attempt to climb over, and ours is nice and smooth which helps for a few of our training exercises. 

“We assign tents based on province. It helps with the homesickness our soldiers get.” She sighs to herself as she walks, ducking her head yet still remaining tall. Almost as tall as Gaon, if not the same height. “Some of us have been with the Imperial Army longer than we’ve been home.”

Commander Oh shakes off the thought and puts her jovial smile back on. The switch is nothing short of unsettling.

“You three are from the same town then?” She asks Gaon, Soohyun and the third person, who they still haven’t gotten a name out of.

It’s him that speaks up. “Different villages. Our area isn’t considered a town yet.”

She looks directly at Soohyun and Gaon. “So you don’t know each other?”

Soohyun clears her throat, then in an attempt at lowering it manages to scrape out- “We know each other.”

Commander Oh nods, then turns to the other four walking with them. It somehow already feels like Gaon and Soohyun are in trouble.

Their tents are quite a ways down the camp, closer to the end of the third row of tents set up. Behind and slightly offset to their tents are three larger tents, assumedly for the Captain, Commander Oh, and the Strategists. 

“I would say get comfortable, but we’ll be on the move within the next three days, so be prepared to pack up again soon. No need to worry about tonight and tomorrow — we give new recruits at least a day to settle into the atmosphere. That is unless we are ambushed again. Anyways, set your things down, get to know each other a little, socialise and all that. The bell for dinner will ring soon, so listen out for that. You’re always welcome to come help set up the eating area if you would like.”

Gaon catches her wink at Soohyun and her subsequent blush. He frowns, then brushes past the fabric closing their tent. 

The interior matches how it appears on the outside. There are four straw sleeping mats rolled into the corner with fabric over them, and then the rest of the space is empty. Gaon drops his bags into the corner, trying his best to tuck them up as far out of the way as possible. He then sits and leans against them, suitably exhausted and ready to hibernate.

When Soohyun and the other man walk in, it becomes awkward. The man gets to placing and organising his things while Soohyun hovers, unsure of which corner or edge to take up.

“Are you two rivals or something?” The man asks as he finishes untying his belongings.

The question stumps both of them. “No,” they reply together.

“Then why do you hate each other?”

“I don’t hate her. Him! I don’t hate him.”

A mistake like that could get Soohyun killed.

“Sure act like you do,” the man grumbles. “What about yourself?”

Soohyun — Do-hoon, Gaon , Do-hoon — shrugs. “I don’t hate him. On most days.”

“Just the past week and a half we’ve been travelling?”

Another shrug.

The man shakes his head. “You two should put whatever feud you have behind yourselves. This whole thing becomes a whole lot easier when there’s only one enemy in mind.”

He doesn’t look that much older than them. “Have you been enlisted before?” 

The man hums. “With my brother. Not for the travelling army, but for preventative action against threats to the Empty Throne.”

The Empty Throne. The one year period where the empire was without a monarch. The people had tried to introduce independent governing, raising lords and ladies to the positions of kings and queens after a few handy bribes, but nothing major became of them. They weren’t royal. They hadn’t crafted an empire like the Kang Dynasty had. Many had tried, but it had to be said that there was something godlike about the Kang Dynasty, something eternal.

Even their deaths were somewhat spiritual. Burning in a house of gold and rubies. Burning with the fruits of your creation.

Gaon remembered the time well. It was a time of pure despair and loss in the country. He was too young to know of the political mess such an event caused, or to know the lengths the Imperial House went through to uphold the monarchy for such a period, but he remembered how much colder those winters were. How his parents didn’t smile as much. Spending more time with Soohyun after it had killed off her brother. Then getting sick, and never quite recovering.

“How did you get out?” Gaon asks.

“We got a monarch in. And she sweeped the palace clean of any existing staff and soldiers.”

“They let you go.”

“It’s the only way to get out these days.”

“Why did you come back?”

He turns to face Gaon fully now, and levels him with an easy yet hard stare. “Why did you?”

Gaon’s jaw tenses.

The man waves it off. “No need to answer.”

He stands and stretches his arms. He smiles without his eyes and says, “I’m Yunho.”

“Gaon.”

“Do-hoon.”

He bows shallowly. “I look forward to fighting alongside you both.” And then he leaves the tent. 

It should feel like he can breathe easier, but the air feels all the more tense. Not a minute later, Soohyun spins around and sends him a cutting glare.

“What is wrong with you?” she accuses. “That slip up could’ve gotten me killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean anything to me if I’m dead.”

He sighs. He’s too tired to argue. “Well, you’re not exactly the one who’s dead.” It comes out as a dry breath.

Her face goes hard regardless.

Tiredness be damned though. Yunho was right. They do need to clear the air.

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?”

“You look more uncomfortable about it than I do.”

“Soohyun—“

“My name is Do-hoon here,” she growls.

“It’s wrong.”

“My name?”

“Everything! Haven’t you any shame?”

She begins to pace. “Why should I? He’s dead, it’s a free name now.”

“Not the name, Soo, the whole thing! The entire charade! Impersonating your dead brother — that’s what we’re really talking about here.”

She whips her head around. A vein shows at her temple. “Of course it makes me uncomfortable!” She yells. It throws Gaon off with how strained it is. “I feel sick to my stomach in his clothes, with his name, and in his place. It even feels like I’m starting to smell like him. It’s enough to drive me insane! But there’s nothing I can do about it now apart from deal with it and survive. If I can cope with living as my dead brother, then you can too.”

The tiredness hits him again in a wave. He closes his eyes and leans further against his sack.

On an outtake of breath, he prods, “Why? Why did you do it, Soo?”

She sinks to her knees. It seems the exhaustion is weighing in on her too. “Because we have nothing.’

“You don’t have nothing.”

“We have no honour. No respect. Aunt Chae and Aunt Si-young are living on pride and dignity, but that only gets you so far. I’m doing something for the family this way.” She sounds as though she’s convincing herself more than anything else.

“You’ll be disgraced if they find out.” 

“They think I ran away. Would never have imagined that I joined the Imperial Army.” 

“What about when we go back?”

“I’ll return with a shiny medal and respect for our family name.”

Gaon opens his eyes. He takes in Soohyun’s form as she’s knelt. The choppy hair she likely couldn’t wrangle into an army topknot, the flakiness of her lips, the dark under her eyes. The too-big uniform hiding her flatter chest, jutting out slightly at the shoulders and reducing her silhouette. 

“You’re here as Do-hoon, not Soohyun,” he says quietly.  

She raises her head to look at the roof of the tent. “I suppose I didn’t think that far.” She visibly deflates on her exhale. “Suppose I didn’t really think at all. Could’ve dressed as any other man. It didn’t have to be him.”

Gaon searches her face with his eyes. “You look like him,” he whispers. It might not be the best thing to say, but it’s all he has. “In your own way. Do-hoon who is also Soohyun. Not her deceased brother.”

She chuckles. It still sounds slightly bitter. “Mission accomplished.” She pauses, then collapses to the floor on her back. “I’ve really dug a hole for myself with this one.”

Gaon muses over the thought and shuffles forward. “Not necessarily. Like I said, you can be here as a regular man. You don’t have to play as Do-hoon.”

“They’ve already got me down on the record.”

“These records say that Do-hoon is still alive, Soo. I don’t think they’re that worried about the validity of them. You can always say that you go by another name. Nobody will know but you and I.”

“I can completely change who I am.”

Gaon smiles and rubs her ankle comfortingly. “It’ll be the first decent thing to come out of us joining the Imperial Army of all things.”

She sits up quickly and glares at him, though it’s lighter this time. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Why?”

“You tried to run off without telling me! I thought we were meant to do all this reckless, teenage nonsense together.”

He pushes up his lips and raises a brow. “You were going to do the exact same thing. And we’re not teenagers anymore, Soo. We’re men. Big, grown, adult men.”

She groans and slumps forward. “I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?”

It’s his turn to chuckle now. “You and me both. But we’re doing a good job, Soo. We’re doing a good job.” 

“We’re doing the best we can.”

“That’s all we can give for now.”

Yohan watches as the new recruits settle into the camp as they eat dinner from the sidelines. Most of them have senior knowledge of what battle entails, though there are a few that will need some extra fixing up. That is what the next four weeks are for after all.

His eyes somehow always land on the pair that he’d seen earlier. They sit on the large blanket spread across the flatter side of the mountain plane with three other new recruits, too awkward to mingle yet, and they seem to have cleared whatever animosity they had from earlier. It happened faster than he anticipated.

The taller one had a cursed look about him. Not cursed because an evil spirit had befallen him, but cursed in his uncanny visage. His chapped lips and quivering arms were among the few reminders that he was real, and not an apparition of some devilish kind.

Both of their eyes meet. Yohan’s chest twists uncomfortably.

“What did you say his name was?” Yohan asks K, standing beside him as expected. He keeps staring when Gaon looks away.

“His name is Gaon of the Kim family, Captain. He took his father’s place during recruitment.”

“Who is his father?”

“Kim Dae-hyuk.”

Yohan whips his head around to face K. “Kim Dae-hyuk?” he repeats. 

K nods slowly. 

Yohan turns slowly to return his gaze to Gaon’s table. “He’s still alive,” he says under his breath, then clears his throat to address K again. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Ill health. The same applies for Gaon, but he is adamant that he can persevere.”

Yohan hums under his breath. “Him joining would be a waste otherwise. What of your assessment of his abilities?”

K sighs. “I don’t think he will be physically adept during training, and although winter is passing, the mountains are still cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the first to go. But he does have determination, even if it does render him slightly stupid, and stealth — to a degree.”

Kim Gaon. An asset or a liability?

“It will be interesting to see where he fits into this army,” K continues. “How we can use him.”

Yohan nods in agreement. “Keep me updated about his father’s health, and if possible, get me in contact with him too. We have much to discuss.” He inclines his head back towards the table. “What of the other one next to Gaon?”

“Yoon Do-hoon. There’s something off about him.”

“What is it?”

“He exists in our records, but I asked around the village about him, and the locals were either reluctant to talk about him or claimed they didn’t know who he was.”

“Enough to be suspicious?”

“I would say so, Captain.”

Yohan sits on the thought for a moment. “A false identity we can deal with later. What of his skills?”

“I didn’t meet him in the village, strangely enough. He wasn’t there when I went to recruit him. His sister was, however, and she promised that he would meet me come dawn. From what I’ve seen on our journey here, he’s agile, though lacks stamina. Loud when excited but eerily silent when intimidated. Could be a dark horse.”

“Did Do-hoon or Gaon get into any arguments on the way?”

“At the beginning of the journey, yes, but then they were silent for the rest of it.”

“We’ll keep a close eye on them.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Yohan finally removes his stare from the table and turns to face K. K stands with his head bowed and back straight — always such a firm and rigid man.

“Where is Jinjoo?”

“Changing for the night, Captain.”

Yohan’s lips slightly curl up in acknowledgement. He places a firm hand on K’s shoulder. “You should get some rest too. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

K bows. “Yes, Captain.”

Yohan allows his hand to linger on K’s shoulder before the other turns away and walks to his shared tent with Jinjoo. Left alone, Yohan’s mind drifts between thinking of Gaon and another, long dead yet not forgotten.

Chapter Text

Training starts before the sun rises. Two large sheets of copper banging against each other is what informs the training camp. 

It rattles Gaon out of his half-sleep and sends him dizzy. His eyes ache behind their lids, and he’s frozen stiff from the mountain breeze.

He hears Do-hoon groan and rouse out of sleep, just catching her mumble, “It’s freezing.” It sounds like Soohyun’s usual sleepy voice, not the false impression Gaon has to adjust to with everyone else at the camp. 

“Below freezing,” Yunho’s smooth voice cuts through. He’s sitting up on his sleeping mat, positioned behind Gaon and Do-hoon at the end of the tent, also seeming to struggle with the cold given his hands shuffling up and down his arms.

“That was probably the worst sleep of my life,” Do-hoon mutters, flopping back onto the sleeping mat. 

“I wouldn’t expect sleeping in the mountains to be comfortable,” Yunho says, stretching and twisting his back. 

“I’ve heard that it’s meant to be quite healing.”

“Shouldn’t we wake Gaon?” 

Gaon sees Do-hoon shake his head and sit back up. “Gaon’s awake, you just have to give him a few minutes.”

Yunho chuckles. “Not an early bird?”

Do-hoon shrugs and looks over at Gaon. “Suppose you could say that.”

Gaon breathes in and musters the energy to voice, “I am awake, by the way.”

“Glad to hear that.” 

Yunho stands and takes out his training uniform — simple loose grey trousers with a beige cross-over shirt and a red sash. Do-hoon squeaks and turns to face the other way as Yunho changes, blushing fiercely. Gaon can’t help the laugh that comes out of him.

“You both act like you’ve never seen a man get changed before,” Yunho mutters, a smile in his voice. “How old are you both anyway?”

Do-hoon clears his throat. “I just turned 19.” 

“I’m 20, turning 21 soon.”

“Oh you both are young. Did you only just have your matchmaking assessment then Do-hoon?”

“Yes, the day before I was recruited.”

Yunho sighs and shakes his head. “That’s unlucky. Is there someone waiting for you back home? A pretty little lady?”

Gaon sees Soohyun stiffen, then slowly turn to face him. 

“No, I wasn’t courting anyone. Good thing too really. Think it would hurt too much to leave them.” 

“Such is war,” Gaon says quietly, finally sitting up. 

Yunho is quick to remind them— “We are not at war. We are defending the monarchy, but we are not at war.”

There’s a bellowing from outside the tent, indicating that all recruits and soldiers have five minutes before the camp starts to roll out on a morning run. Even the sound of it has Gaon and Do-hoon groaning.

“I’m going to head outside,” Yunho says. “Don’t be the last ones, otherwise you’ll be at the back of the line, which if I remember correctly, is never a fun experience.”

He leaves the tent, leaving Gaon and Do-hoon sitting opposite each other. They both sigh. 

“We’ll probably wash up after we train?” Do-hoon asks.

“Probably.”

“Right...”

“I’m sure you can wash up after everyone else.”

”Probably.”

The silence between them is awkward and heavy. 

“We should get ready.”

”Yep.”

Gaon shuffles on his sleeping mat to face the fabric of the tent. “I’ll give you some privacy.” Thankfully his training uniform is just next to him, having set it out the night before. He’ll change his shirt first.

Do-hon hums. “Nice.”

The sound of fabric rustling fills the awkward silence, as well as the slow footfall of fellow soldiers joining the mass outside. Their training uniforms are black 

“You can turn around now,” Do-hoon says. 

Gaon nods and turns around, now fully changed. They’re both fully changed. Do-hoon looks… well he looks like Do-hoon , which is frightening and consolidating at the same time. 

“You look like a man.”

“That’s the goal.”

“A prepubescent one.”

She snorts. “Get lost.”

Gaon looks at the ground. He feels sick. Not the usual ill sick, but the about to vomit all over the place sick. 

“How are you feeling?” Do-hoon asks. It’s a futile question; both of them know Gaon has no business running out in the mountains in this weather. 

“I’m worried I’ll die.” He manages to lace it with some humour.

“Do you want me to hang back with you?”

He shakes his head, but is interrupted by a holler outside of their tent. Ten seconds before the camp head out!

Both of their eyes widen before they rush out of the tent. Do-hoon grabs Gaon’s arm as they join the rest of the Imperial Travelling Army as the group begins to roll out at a steady pace. 

“Oh god,” Do-hoon mumbles as it’s their turn to start jogging. “I’m gonna die.”

Gaon gulps. “You and me both.”

What did they sign themselves up for?

By some god-given miracle, they don’t die on the morning run, but they very nearly do. Gaon’s legs start to shake after the first three minutes, and his jog staggers as he tries to shake the headache away. He’s surprised he’s gotten this far too, given the state he’s been in for the past two weeks. Do-hoon handles it much better than he does, naturally, and hangs back with Gaon. They aren’t alone at the back, joined by a couple other new recruits who are lagging behind too. The distance between them and the rest of the Imperial Army is shameful though. 

Gaon is forced into a walk halfway through the run, just when he can start to see the sun coming up. Do-hoon hangs back with him at first out of solidarity, then speeds up to close the distance that’s growing between them and the other new recruits. Soon enough, Gaon is alone in the mountains.

He sits down to catch his breath. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been out here, but the sun is starting to rise, and he feels like if he took a big enough breath, his ribcage would shatter and his organs would spill out. And his shins, his shins feel like splinters jutting into his knees. 

Sitting only helps his muscles, because soon enough he’s vomiting beside him. 

Then comes the pat pat of soft boots against the hard ground. He turns and sees Captain Kang running at a steady pace without any mark of exhaustion. 

Gaon scrambles to his feet too quickly, then slowly starts to careen sideways. He catches himself just in time. 

Captain Kang comes to a slow in front of him, but doesn’t stop. 

“Enjoying the sunrise?” he asks, voice low and unimpressed. 

“No, Captain.” 

His throat is dry from the cold yet slimy from built up phlegm. He coughs violently, feeling the heavy-set ache in his chest. 

“You don’t enjoy watching the sun rise?”

“I do, Captain.” He’s speaking in a wheeze. 

“Struggling to keep up?”

“I was just catching my breath.”

“Then let’s be on our way.”

Captain Kang builds back up to a steady pace, leaving Gaon stood there. “Today, recruit!” he yells behind him, causing Gaon to unwillingly attempt to get back into a jog. 

His form is all over the place, and the added pressure of facing Captain Kang’s back —who has since slowed down but is still a good few metres ahead of him— doesn’t help. 

Just as he’s certain his whole body will give out, he sees the camp around the bend. Composure be damned, he lets out a yell of relief. His feet are still very much dragging through the ground at more of a quick walk as opposed to actual running.

Captain Kang jogs around the back of the camp so Gaon follows, catching the sight of them doing press-ups. 

When they come to a stop, Gaon’s legs actually give out and he collapses to the ground, heaving and struggling to keep focus. 

Someone waves a flask of water above him and he snatches it before drinking it all. His tongue searches for every drop. 

The hand stretches back out and Gaon shakily puts the flask back into it. He only then seems to realise that the hand is Captain Kang. His chin is tilted downwards, and his mouth is curved in an unimpressed frown. 

“Take 5, recruit.”

“I’m fine—“

“Take 5.” 

It’s an order. His first personal order. 

“Yes, Captain.”

Captain Kang walks away to rejoin the camp, leaving Gaon sprawled out pathetically across the floor. 

The smell of rice porridge wafts its way over to Do-hoon as he’s learning various blocking techniques with a partner he’s long forgotten the name of. Chan-hyun, or something along those lines. His mouth waters and stomach aches from a stitch he still has after running. That and general hunger. Who knew being part of the Imperial Army meant they starved you until midday?

He gets smacked around the side of the face. 

“Keep your guard high,” Commanding Officer Oh chides him, and his nerves set his heart beating a little quicker under her eyes. 

Do-hoon clears his throat and pitches it lower. “Sorry, Commander.” Aced it.

He can’t help it that his arms are shaking from the 3 sets of pushups and burpees he couldn’t get a grip on. It’s embarrassing enough that he only got 3 in when most other people did the full 5.

What’s even more embarrassing is that he’s been split up from the rest of the Imperial Travelling Army. Well, he’s not the only one — all the new recruits are separated from the rest of the army to get their skills back up to speed. They’re on the left side of the tents, on the rockier mountain side with training mats laid out on the more dangerous spots, while the rest of the army are on the right side working with the wooden dummies and wooden swords.

On that note, where’s Gaon?

“Reset,” Commander Oh commands.

They reset. 

Chan-hyun —or was it Changkyun?—  is slightly larger than Do-hoon in all aspects; he’s taller by a few inches, broader in the chest and shoulders, and also physically assured in his stature, despite him being as close of a matching weight class to Do-hoon that he could find. It means he has to work ten times harder just to block a simple punch, and he’s already feeling bruised and dejected. 

So when Chan- something swings for Do-hoon this time, he grabs the assaulting arm with both hands. It’s a development from his initial instinct of jumping out of range. Just when he’s feeling proud, his stomach is met with a jab. 

“Stop,” Commander Oh says. She waves Chan- I-can-actually-throw-a-punch out of the way and takes his spot, facing Do-hoon head on. 

She’s gorgeous. 

Her cheeks are still rosy red from the run of the morning and the general chill outside, though the winter sun does make it a bit warmer. Her long auburn hair is tied back with a ripped cloth, unlike most men’s topknots. Her lips are somehow still rosy and plump with only the tiniest chap to them. 

Woah. 

Do-hoon gets hit in the face again, but it’s more of a gentle tap this time. 

Commander Oh sighs and stands back. “Recruit,” she chastises.

“Sorry, I got distracted…” by your eyes. 

…

I’m not starting to think like a man, am I?

“Distraction gets us injured. Try again.”

“Could you repeat what you said before?”

“Focus this time. Because you’re small and lithe, you can’t just take an opponent’s force like you’ve been trying to do. You’ll mainly want to use their force against them if possible, or otherwise use a combination of attacking and defending at the same time.”

She gestures for Channie to throw a punch at her. Predictably, he goes for a right hook to the face. She uses her left hand to block it while her right hand open palms him in the jaw. It visibly stuns him. 

“Then from here, you have a small window to get a few blows in. Elbow to the ribs—“ she gestures the movement but doesn’t make contact, “Could go for a break in the arm, or what I like to call a chop to the throat. Anything to injure your opponent and give you time to draw your sword, or take other action.

“In this case, I had to use a combination of attacking and defending. But let’s say for instance that your opponent goes for a straight punch-” She now gestures for Do-hoon to take Chan’s place against her. Do-hoon gulps and shakes off his nerves as he comes face to face with her. “Throw a straight punch at me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. You can never predict a punch.”

Do-hoon goes for the face. His form is horrible, he knows that, but Commander Oh slips out the way regardless. She uses Do-hoon’s still outstretched hand to swing him sideways and land jabs to his stomach and back. 

“Hit the enemy with the enemy’s sword.”

“Yep,” Do-hoon grunts. 

Commander Oh steps back, but still faces Do-hoon. “One more thing: when you punch, your thumb needs to be on the outside of your fist. You can break it if you punch with it tucked in.”

She shows her own fist as an example. Do-hoon nods away. 

“Make sure to listen during the demonstration. You’ll pick up these skills a lot quicker if you do.”

“Yes, Commander.”

As she starts to walk away, Do-hoon can’t help but ask— “Why are we learning hand to hand combat? Won’t we be using swords and bows?”

Commander Oh turns back around but doesn’t come any closer. Her long black robe with a red sash, the same as Captain Kang’s, flows behind her knees from the wind she’s now facing, as does her hair.

“You will likely be using swords, bows, and possibly canons too. We want to minimise the chance of you getting into close quarters with a Raider of the North as much as possible.”

“Then why?”

Commander Oh takes a deep breath. Do-hoon doesn’t sense any frustration in her face, but he could easily be wrong. Perhaps he overstepped…

“The honest answer is conditioning. Men’s bodies out of war and battle often become soft and relaxed, as is natural. But for a climate such as this, we need them hard and strong, which unfortunately for you means a lot of bruising.”

“Right.” 

If only matchmaker Min were here to hear that. To win a man’s heart you must be soft and gentle. Maybe so, but hard and strong wins the war.

…that didn’t sound right.

“Your name , recruit?”

Commander Oh’s tone suggests that she’s been asking for a while. Do-hoon collects himself and gives her his name. The correct one this time, no slip ups.

“You are a new recruit, correct? You’ve not been re-enlisted?”

“Yes, ma’am. Never fought before.”

“That much is obvious. We can’t help you if you’re constantly away with the clouds.”

“Sorry, Commander.”

“Don’t be sorry. Pay attention.”

With that she leaves, and Do-hoon breathes a sigh of relief.

Chan- bastard smacks him around the face again.

Lunch finally arrives, and it’s rice porridge with water from a spring that the Imperial Travelling Army’s cooks sourced. They’re a small crew of around 10 experienced soldiers, a few whose wives work alongside them, and as well as cooking meals, they source the food and water for the camp.

Do-hoon sits on the large blanket next to Yunho with a warm bowl of rice porridge in hand. He devours it quickly, having only had fruit to snack on during the fifteen minute rest sessions during training. He hasn’t spotted Gaon yet which is really starting to eat away (get it?) at him. 

That is until Gaon comes hobbling over to their spot on the large blanket with a bowl of rice porridge dangling from his fingers.

Yunho’s the first to make any comment. “You both look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

It’s true. Do-hoon has a black eye and bruises all over, which make sitting difficult. But Gaon looks deathly pale and can barely keep his eyes open. His neck is flushed red, and his breathing is shallow. When he sits down, it seems like all of the life has been drained from him.

“What happened?” Do-hoon asks, and dammit he forgot to lower his voice like usual. He quickly glances at Yunho but he hasn’t seemed to notice anything.

“Trained. Like you,” Gaon mumbles, slurping his rice porridge.

“Where were you? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“End of our section. I joined late.”

“That run really took it out of you?”

His energy seems to completely dissipate then as he doesn’t even bother attempting to respond. He finishes his rice porridge then drops the bowl. It tips to the side. 

“It’s so hot,” Gaon mumbles again, then lays down on the blanket. “Wake me up in time for whatever’s next…” he trails off, then shuts his eyes.

Do-hoon has no idea how he’s going to get through this in his state. He has no idea how he can help either.

“Is he alright?” Yunho asks sincerely.

Do-hoon breathes and lets the air escape his body. “No, he’s not.”

After lunch the new recruits finally start training in swordsmanship, and Gaon and Do-hoon require a lot of assistance from both Commander Oh and K, who’s joined them for their afternoon session. Captain Kang occasionally makes an appearance during the session, floating on the sidelines with a blank look yet a scrutinising eye. Never for long though.

Then comes core training. Pieces of cloth filled with rocks and stones from the mountains tied onto large branches collected on the army’s travels find themselves on the backs of every soldier and new recruit. Everyone’s on the flatter side of the training camp and are spread out in two rows. The first row run up towards the tents with the weights on their backs, then when they turn around to come back the other row starts running, scattered to not interfere with the paths of those ahead of them. Most of the new recruits are in the second row, and Do-hoon’s grateful for it to spare the embarrassment of being the last one in the line.

He’s not physically strong, that much has been established. So his cloth weights are smaller than the other’s (he’s hoping his prayer that the Commander and K didn’t see him put less in his) and gets a steady trot going, but he’s not winning any medals.

Gaon’s next to him, struggling again and looking like death warmed up. He’s angry with himself. This should’ve been one of the easiest exercises for him. During the summer and most springs, when his body isn’t failing him and shutting down, he’s the heavy lifter around the bakery, taking flour sacks and grain bundles to the pantry, and helping his parents buy more stock. He’s no heavy lifter, but he definitely should have the strength to take a sack of rocks across 50 metres a few times.

After their final lap, they untie the cloths and let the rocks drop back into the mountain. 

Then comes the relief. They’re finished for the day. The sun is a half hour away from being fully sunk, and the candle lamps are starting to get lit around the camp. Dinner is said to be ready at the sun’s full descent, so most of the soldiers take the time to freshen up using dried plants and their small store of bathing water the cooks set aside specifically for that purpose.

Gaon sits at the edge of their camp, half lucid. Commander Oh sits beside him.

“It’s been a rough day, huh?” she says. Her voice is more gentle now that she’s not leading their training for the day.

He nods. His head feels as though it will fall from his shoulders.

“It’s Gaon, right?”

He sighs. “Yes, Commander.”

She sits back against the mountain edge. “What did you do before you came here, Gaon?”

Two breaths in. “I’m a baker’s son. I worked in the family bakery.”

She winces. “This isn’t going to help you keep those soft baker’s hands.”

He laughs humorlessly. “I guess not.”

“Why are you here?”

“Father’s sick.”

“You took his place?” Gaon nods. “That’s very honourable.”

The sound of fire cracking and wooden spoons against metal pots mixes with the smell of vegetable stew and steaming rice. In the dim lighting of the setting sun with the burning candles against a mountain, it feels like heaven.

“Rest up tonight. Your body needs it.”

Commander Oh leaves him alone by the mountain edge to help set up for dinner. 

He closes his eyes and falls asleep against the mountain.

Later, after their bellies are full on stew, Do-hoon helps lift Gaon onto Yunho’s back. 

He carries him back to their tent.

Captain Kang, Commander Oh and K meet in the Captain’s tent just before lights out. They sit at a low table with one large candle on it.

“Day one. The new recruits.” Agenda set.

Jinjoo’s brows are furrowed. “They’re not in the best shape, especially the new ones, but I do think they’ll be shaping up within the next few weeks.”

“As expected with your never-ending optimism,” K adds with a hint of a smile.

“Someone has to combat your pessimism.”

“Any outliers?”

Jinjoo inclines her head and faces K. “There are a couple who really struggled to keep up today. Gaon of the Kim family in particular really had a tough time.”

Yohan hums in assent. “We lost him on the morning run. Caught him resting on my second lap.”

K chimes in, “He is of ill health, which would explain a poorer performance than expected.”

Jinjoo frowns. “His performance was very poor. In all honesty, I don’t think he’ll be able to take it. A week perhaps, but that would be his absolute limit.”

Yohan watches the candle flicker and sway. “Any other outliers?”

Jinjoo catches K’s eye. He shrugs in response.

She lists a few other outliers, Do-hoon’s name added to the mix, but she sounds more hopeful about this list.

“Most of them are just out of practice or relatively small. It won’t take long to get them up to speed, and the smaller ones can be quite agile.”

Yohan hums again. “We’ll see tomorrow. Tradition with our runs will restart. K — status update on Inguk?”

K adjusts himself on his knees, posture forever perfectly straight. He takes out a slip of parchment from his robe and lays it on the table. “This came via a runic letter. Kim Chung-sik has announced an expected departure in four days, following the same route as we have copied down. They’ve not reached the mountains yet, but plan on moving around them as opposed to through them like we are.”

“Thank you for that, K.” Yohan muses over the information. “We need to be leaving the mountains soon.”

“I agree,” Jinjoo adds. “If we stay too long, we’ll miss them before they hit the capital.”

“But we don’t want to meet them before we have planned. Not with the current state of our troupe.”

Yohan places a hand on the table. “I’ll discuss with the Strategists. We won’t be staying another night, so let the word spread that some time tomorrow we will be leaving. I anticipate it will be after our midday meal. K — ensure the Imperial Palace receives that notice.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Anything else to be discussed?”

“Not on my end.”

“No, Captain.”

“You are both dismissed then.”

Both Jinjoo and K bow to Yohan before standing and leaving the tent together, off to their own shared tent. 

Yohan stays at the table, watching the golden wax cascade down onto the metal plate beneath it. He hears it crackle and pop and burn.

Licking his index and thumb, he pinches out the flame. It sizzles out.

Beyond his tent, up in the mountain, a small, petite figure watches the light from his tent fade away. She takes the dried sugarcane out of her mouth. It rakes satisfyingly against her front teeth.

“Leaving so soon, Yohan?” Her voice is light and dulcet. “Perhaps I’ll meet you halfway.”

Chapter Text

Dawn is breaking as the woman wraps the blanket tighter around her small frame, chewing on a piece of dried sugar cane. She’s seated on the lower sloped edge of the mountain overlooking the Imperial Travelling Army’s camp, just behind a sizable rock to hide her. She’s far enough away that she can’t hear what is being instructed to the gathered troop, but she sees the order of men shift as the meeker ones at the back shuffle forward. They stand nervously still, as they did yesterday, with hunched backs and no ounce of confidence required to win a war. 

Although, this is not war. Not yet.

They set off in the dark, the new order forcing them to become one troop again as opposed to the staggered mess that was the dawn before. Albeit at a much slower and frustrating pace. Her legs ache just thinking about running that slowly. That could just be a result of sitting in the cold mountains all night too.

As they run down, she notes that the struggling soldier from the day prior either wasn’t struggling today, or wasn’t running with the troop. An interesting development, likely for the sake of the integrity of the army. 

The cooks of the camp start packing up their tents as the army runs. So do the strategists, piling their sleeping equipment outside the tent and collapsing their portable tables. Gradually, they take out a couple of chests which then load onto carriages pulled by horses. The large tent comes down, and is rolled away.

The sun begins to bleed into the blue of the morning.

Out of her right periphery, she catches sight of another figure. Tiny in the distance, but she doesn’t need any further confirmation to know who it is. She stands and shakes out her legs, throwing the stale sugar cane to the side. She takes a moment to bask in the rising sunlight, then wraps the blanket over her head and around her shoulders before setting off down the slope.

The woman’s quick and stealthy, moving with agility through the rocky terrain with practised ease. With a glance behind, she’s assured that her timings were correct: he’s still a ways away, moving with pace, and she’s made her own headway downwards. 

Further down the path the army have been running for the past few days is a small breakaway where the ground flattens and an opening to the side of the mountain reveals itself. It’s where the slow soldier from the day before rested until his captain caught up with him. She reaches there in good time and collapses to the ground. The stones and sharp rocks dig into her right hip and leg, building the image of a vulnerable woman who’s fallen. She tugs her dress lower to cover her right ankle, then lets out a howl and cradles her foot, rocking back and forth.

The sound of footsteps near and she pulls the blanket further over herself and turns her head. As expected, the footsteps slow as she assumes the man has spotted her. 

He stops but doesn’t move further. 

She turns her head jerkily, as if frightened, then flinches at an appropriate time to appear to only just have seen him. 

“You gave me quite a fright there,” she says quietly, making her voice gravelly with pain. “I thought we were alone up here. Do you mind helping me up? I appear to have slipped and rolled my ankle.”

The man nears her and extends a hand. It’s hardly the most gentlemanly gesture; typically, men would be grabbing for her waist to help her up. But this one has his wits about him. He ought to as the Captain of the Imperial Travelling Army.

She allows herself to be helped and grips his forearm for balance. “Thank you. I thought I was in real trouble before you came.”

“Where did you come from?”

She gestures behind her to the higher edge of the mountain. “Further up there. I went for a walk before the sun rose.”

“Have you been up in the mountains for long?”

She smiles politely. “Only a couple of days.”

“Are you alone?”

“My, this does sound like an interrogation…” she mumbles. When his face doesn’t move, she dignifies him with an answer. “I am with the native peoples of the mountains, although they’re further out from here.” She colours her voice with false nostalgia. “I have visited them often since I was a child, they’ve become somewhat of an extended family to me. Although I like to get a bit of fresh air and time to myself early in the mornings.”

The captain’s face shows nothing. Now that is nostalgic. The ever elusive Kang Yohan. 

She turns to face him. “My, what a strong physique you have. Very sturdy and capable. I am glad it was you who found such a small woman as I in the mountains.” She allows her hand to brush against the small insignia on his chest, then looks back up at the same symbol on his headband. “Look here— you belong to the Empress’s army.”

He moves her hand away from him and his face hardens. Unlike the other men she’d seduced in her time, the ones who leer and spark with their idea of potential sex under her gentle touch. 

He was different. Always different. 

“I belong to myself. I simply serve the Empress.”

“As a lieutenant? Commander? With that face and that physique, I couldn’t imagine you any lower. Perhaps even the Captain of a company.” She gasps and turns behind them, quickly enough for him to glimpse her face but not longer than that. “Is it the military parade already? Or perhaps you are part of the Empress’s Travelling Army.”

Captain Kang Yohan sighs. “Would you like an escort back to your temporary lodgings?”

She shakes her head. “No, that is alright, thank you. I wouldn’t want to put you out of your way.”

“It would be my duty.” He almost says it with regret. “And your ankle is rolled.”

“It is not so bad. I would prefer the rest of my morning to myself as I’d intended. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, it is just that I have a lot on my mind.” Her voice becomes more sombre and she tilts her head to face Yohan again. She takes a risk with the angle she peers at him. If he so wanted, he could look her in the eye. Wouldn’t that be thrilling? “A lot of decisions to make.”

She passes easily over his eyes. Her stomach twists. 

“Be safe on your journey back,” he says with levelled disinterest.

“And you, soldier.” She downturns her head. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

He doesn’t return her the offer. Instead, he turns, and jogs away.

She watches him run away from her and allows the weight of it to come over her.

She turns, and starts again up the mountain.

“What happened?”

“He didn’t recognise me.” She takes out a piece of dried sugarcane from her pouch and sucks on it. 

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No. It gives us more time.”

“We don’t want too much time.”

“You’re right. He’s still focused on the Raiders of the North for now. They’re moving deeper into the mountains to meet with them on the outskirts. What to do…what to do.”

Her companion opens up a winter fur for her to slip into. She does so with ease.

“We’ll go back to the village and bide our time there for the time being. In the meantime, send another letter with heightened threat.”

“Warning of war?” her companion asks.

She shakes her head, eyes fixed on the small ants of the Imperial Travelling Army moving out of the mountains. “No, a warning of oncoming battle and bloodshed. War is a ways away yet, but it is on its way.”

She’d been monitoring Yohan in the Imperial Army. From the backseat, of course. She wouldn’t try her luck inside the palace despite having gained the Empress’s favour during her serving years. That was before the Empress was the Empress , and given the state of affairs with their monarchy, the old rules were abandoned long ago. 

She watched his moves, and congratulated on his ability to rise through the ranks of the Imperial Army without going detected by the Empress. Kang Yohan, the man of many surprises.

When he left for the Imperial Travelling Army, she was almost ready. There was one thing she wanted to do. 

She went to the monastery. Dressed as modestly as her wardrobe allowed, she veiled her head and walked into the monastery, and for the first time since she was a child, she sat in the presence of the deities. For hours she sat, meditating, alone to her thoughts. 

He approached her first. It was unexpected. He knelt beside her in the hall and sat on his heels too. He didn’t pray. He sat with her.

When he stood and entered a shrouded doorway, she followed him. 

They knelt opposite each other on his humble floor and she withdrew her veil. In the hazy lighting of the room, she could just make out who he was. He’d changed. He’d aged. He’d burned.

The burden of injustice wore heavy on his skin.

He took out a piece of paper (rare, expensive) from his low table and brought it to the floor between them. He folded it with his left hand, then turned and retrieved a sharp stone to slice it down the middle. He allowed one half to drift over to her side, then put away the stone.

He started to fold his piece of paper with his one good hand. “Are you here to kill me?” he asked plainly. His voice was rougher than she expected.

All the softness she remembered of the great Crown Prince Kang Isaac had burnt in the palace fire. 

She touched the paper. It was softer than parchment. It would write smoother. It was no wonder it was more expensive.

Perhaps not all of the Crown Prince’s charm was lost. 

His hands folded over in slow, deliberate movements. Letting her in. Guiding her. Teaching her.

Using both hands, she mimicked his actions.

“No. I’ve not come as an enemy.”

“That is reassuring to hear.” His voice remained level. 

He knows , she thought. As he always did.

“I come as your sister.”

His left hand paused. He looked up at her. A smile filled his face. Stretched the burns, creased the skin, showed the dimples.

“My sister,” he uttered with the delicacy of a leaf. Her chest lit up with warmth. “I welcome you, my sister.”

“As do I, brother.”

He resumed his folding. She did the same.

“You look well. Life outside the palace serves you well.”

“Thank you. I must say that the food was much better under that roof. More treacherous too.”

He chuckled. “Do not assume that I didn’t see you steal from my brother’s bowl.” His language was starting to relax around her. This was…nice.

“I was hungry.” 

“That is not a crime.”

“It is under current Imperial law.”

Crease, fold, flip.

“He noticed too.”

“He never said anything.”

“Are we to pretend that was a surprise?”

She chuckled. “You knew all that time and yet you still let me throw myself at him.”

“I didn’t know. Not for a long time. But when I did find out, it’s true that I did nothing about it.”

“Why?"

“Cowardice.” Crease. “And I suppose I wanted you to have that.” Fold. “To have one good thing in there.” Flip.

“That’s quite an indecorous desire for me, brother.”

He laughed. “Don’t think so far in the extreme. I wanted you to have hope. To stay determined. I see that’s a quality you’ve retained.”

“We’ve been speaking for ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is more than enough.”

His hand came to a slow stop. In it was a folded paper rose. 

She rushed to finish hers, but had gotten lost in the middle of it. It still looked like a folded triangle.

Isaac smiled again and handed her his rose. She cradled it with both hands as he took her piece of paper and started folding again.

“I come seeking advice, brother,” she said, swallowing the anxiety building.

“A monk would be the ideal person to seek advice from.”

“I have an army, but I don’t know what to do with it.”

Isaac hummed. “Then you do not come seeking advice, sister. You come seeking permission. You want the throne.”

“I do.”

“A difficult want to have.”

“Better than wanting my brother.”

He winced. “Yes, that was an unfortunate misshapen. I for one am grateful Yohan paid you no notice. I wouldn’t like to think of what might have happened otherwise.”

“I wish you’d have told me.”

He shook his head. “No you don’t.”

He was right.

“There is a problem I would like to resolve: your birthright.”

Isaac sighed as if he’d never let out a breath before. “Kang Isaac, son of Kang Ji Sang, has been dead many decades. I have no birthright I am interested in claiming.”

“You will not stop me from fighting for it?”

His hand stilled. He looked her in the eye.

"The birthright is yours."

His genuinity held secrets. Such was the paradoxical nature of the Kangs.

She lowered her head. Preparing for the reason why she had come in the first place.

“And what of Yohan?”

Fold. Tuck. Twist.

“He will understand.”

“He will resent me.”

“Perhaps he will. But he will understand.”

Chapter Text

The Empress marches through the halls of the Imperial Palace with nothing more than her white underclothes and socks on. It’s the rawest display of vulnerability she could shed, the most powerful display she could offer.

As her maids try to dress her while she storms through —because there is no stopping her— she barks orders at whoever is closest and will listen.

“Get him here now . I don’t care how you do it or who you have to kill.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” a eunuch starts, running after her. “We already have guards escorting His Lordship to the Imperial Palace as we speak.”

“How long will that take?”

“They left in the early hours of the night, so we anticipate that they will be here just before the sun reaches its highest peak.”

She doesn’t stop as she darts a cutting glare at him. “And what do you propose I do in the meantime while I wait? Sit and worry?”

“That would be an appropriate response, Your Imperial Highness.”

She swats her hand and snarls, “Get out of my sight.”

She slows in her pace until she comes to a stop at the gazebo overlooking the Imperial Lake of Swans. It is one of the biggest lakes on the Imperial Palace grounds, and home to many swans and geese. She watches the ripples they make on the surface of the water and imagines the sensation is passing over herself.

She’s ignored the situation in her three nations for too long now. Ignored really is the wrong word. She thought things would work themselves out eventually. The ‘Raiders of the North’, as they called themselves, were never a real threat to all that she had upheld. People attempted rebellions and ‘revolutions’ all the time. The difference was that they’d never had such a receptive response in her land before. 

Their anger was understandable, and unfortunately, justifiable. But that did not mean that Empress Cha Kyunghee would stop in her pursuit in as much land to call her own as possible. She’d laugh at the situation if it didn’t feel so…sour today of all days.

The Travelling Army appear to be struggling if the Raiders are managing to cause such continuous civil unrest. They are entering her lands now and converting her people away from the Empire. They are entering her property and harming her son. They are swarming her and attempting to suffocate her, and why today of all days does it feel like they’re succeeding?

Empress Cha’s rationality is split in two. She already has three nations, does she really need to conquer another? And yet, her two most recent acquisitions enclose around the fourth nation, situated just at the top of the entire span of land. It shouldn’t have been this hard to expand upwards- in fact, strategy tells her that expanding outwards has often caused more problems than the northern struggle. But the brunt of winter has hardened them to face the wrath of a monarch standing 12 years.

It is simply unacceptable.

Empress Cha should be strategising, she tells herself as she strolls around the outskirts of the lake. She should be thinking up a plan of action, a way for the Empire to show their teeth and might and put the stray dogs in their place. 

And yet.

Her mind is clouded with anxiety and nerves. She wrings her hands together as if she were a nervous maid in waiting, and she can’t find it in herself to stop. Her brain is fuzzy and nothing she is thinking of seems like it will work, and really, she should be consulting the Imperial War Strategists on how they should proceed, but they were all utterly useless in there. 

When the world was younger, and she had fallen for a man of high status and little time for their family, she would have asked Youngmin what he would do. For humour’s sake. Away from the face of the counsel she sat among when Ji-Sang was Emperor and her ever adoring younger sister, Cha Song-hae, sat by his side. When she would ask her ten year old son what he would do when presented with war hungry men in furs, or sleazy lords in silk. 

Then Song-hae died. Ji-Sang was poisoned. And everything had fallen apart. 

She could no longer go to her son for comfort. Both of them hardened into the beings for the throne that they were now. Nor did she want to go to her son for comfort or counsel; the idiot could barely control the tiny plot she had given him as a gift.

She did not want her son, but she did want comfort. 

What a shameful thing to admit. 

The sound of soft pitter-patter against the stones around the lake notifies her of a eunuch’s approach. She fixes the slouch that had briefly come over her shoulders and holds her chin up high. 

“Your Imperial Highness,” the man wheezes. “His Lordship has arrived and is in the infirmary.”

She inclines her head in dismissal, and off sounds the pitter patter again. She’s been at the lake longer than she thought. Looking out, she notices that she’d not covered much ground, but has seated herself at a bench and has been staring out at the water. 

That won’t do.

For the sake of curiosity, and curiosity alone, she makes a slow walk to the Imperial infirmary, which was quite a ways away from the lake. She ignores the bustling maids and servants who likely are to go away and gossip about her state of undress. 

The infirmary has embodied the smell of rot and old herbs, forever a reminder of death. She walks through to where a nurse leads her, and ducks into a dark room. 

On the roll of padded silk and feathers is a body bundled from head to toe in cotton bandages. Many of the cotton bandages have yellow pus bleeding through, or the green paste seeping under the corners. Many of the bandages are peeling off despite no doubt being applied regularly during Youngmin’s journey to the palace, and his placement. 

His face is exposed, but it has uglied significantly. The right side of his face has hardened, scarred skin across his cheek and nose, leading to his puffy lips. One of his eyes has completely swollen shut, the other simply closed for the time being. From his nose dripps black snot that a servant fervently wiped away.

He is unrecognisable. 

Kyunghee dismisses the room before she falls to her knees. She forgets her inhibitions and wails at her son’s bedside. Not for him, but for the pressure building in her chest and behind her eyes. For the strength she has to uphold for both of them and her nations. For the anguish settled deep underneath her ribs at the discomfort of the current political state of affairs.

She brushes a long, bony hand against Youngmin’s unbandaged one, before encasing their palms and gripping him tightly. She stopps her useless wailing and swallows hard.

There will be no comfort for the Lone Empress until she had, personally, burnt the Raiders of the North to ash beneath her palace grounds.

Ko Inguk wouldn’t say he had life easy as a taxman before working in the Imperial Army, but then again, he did get pelted down with rocks a lot more than here spying on the Raiders of the North. 

In all honesty, both jobs are more stressful than they need to be. Especially this one. It makes complete sense — he is literally spying on the enemy. But for one day, he sort of just wants to…rest? If that is allowed at all? Maybe take a day off from the glorious mission Captain Kang has been so hellbent on ever since he got assigned to this position. 

He understands the guy, of course he does, and who doesn't want to stop the political unrest dividing their countries once and for all? He’s lost people to a variety of causes himself. Those who believe that expanding the Empire will help import crops to prevent another famine in the smaller towns that hit a few years ago. Some who believe it was bullshit, and the crown should help its own before reigning in others. 

One who chose not to pick a side and died for it.

Everybody in the Imperial Army has a story, even those who were drafted. 

Likewise, everybody has a story here , where they are currently taking respite in a small village. Nobody joins a rebellion for the fun of it. (Some did. He might have if he were younger and less financially inclined). In his months spent among the Raiders of the North, he’s come to empathise with some of the people here, and even befriend a few quiet rebels. 

The captain won’t be upset to find out about his fraternisation. In spite of all of his excessive efforts, Inguk can’t help but think that there is something much larger at play in the Captain’s mind. The Raider’s are pawns on a chess board, and he’s gearing up to checkmate the king. 

But the man is nothing but elusive, and any attempts at guessing who Captain Kang’s king is are utterly futile.

(If Inguk had to bet, it would probably be somebody in the palace. Most people had serious gripes with the Palace folk and the stupid ways they decided to run things.)

Anyways, all of his complaints come to mind as he’s writing a runic letter to K. He’s not really as bitter about their situation as he plays off, but he’s really tired today, and there’s a lot of unrest in the camp that he’s not quite caught up on yet. He’s also trying to remember the ritual for sending a runic letter in the first place, but he’s not very good at them. His only confirmation that K is receiving them is the occasional runic letter back that acknowledges his previous one. 

Inguk is a scholar. His hands are more tactical with writing up contracts, land agreements, tax remits etc. He learnt the necessary runes for constructing a runic letter fairly easily being the academic he is, but putting it into practise took time.

A small price to pay for the sake of the Imperium, he supposes.

He signs off the runic letter to K detailing where they are currently and the tense atmosphere he woke up to, promising to write again when there is a significant update. For now, their plans are the same, nothing’s change—

“Joong!” 

Inguk curses and rakes his hand through the special sand to remove his writings. He takes a deep breath and relaxes.

Man-ah, a burly man he shares a tent with, comes whizzing round the corner of their tent. 

“Were you shitting?” he asks with slightly wide eyes. “Was it hard?”

Inguk gets up languidly. “Nothing came out. Looks like I just had an upset stomach.” He turns fully to face Man-ah. “Did you need me for something?”

Man-ah shrugs and puts his hands on his hips. “Not personally, but there is news.”

“Go on.”

“The Empress’s son has been severely injured to the point of permanent disfigurement.”

Inguk’s brows crease. He ignores the feeling of unsettlement brewing. “When did this happen?”

Man-ah sighs and strokes his beard. “Two days ago.”

“How did we find out about it so quickly?”

“The perpetrator advertised their crime in public. Posters claiming to be written in the young Lord’s blood, caricatures of his bandaged and bruised. Then many saw him taken away in a royal carriage. It’s been the news of this town.”

Inguk can’t help the confusion that crosses his face. “Was it us?” he asks quietly. “Was there instruction for us to do so?”

Man-ah’s eyes widen and he steps in closer, a habit he has whenever he gets excited. “That’s the thing! The Imperium have issued a statement claiming that we were the ones who orchestrated the attack, but Kim Chung-Sik is rounding up everyone to make an announcement. I don’t think the attack was under our instruction.”

Inguk feels the beginnings of dread slowly brew in his stomach. “Is that why you called me?”

Man-ah seems uneasy himself. “Yes. Sorry to interrupt your shitting.”

Inguk breezes past him and makes his way straight for the open area around their camp where a crowd of fellow Raiders congregate. There’s a crate at the centre of the area and everyone else circles it.

Not long after Inguk joins the group, the open area fills drastically until there is a man yelling for a path to be made for himself. Kim Chung Sik.

He makes a beeline for the crate and without an air of grace —but plenty of arrogance— slings himself to stand atop it.

Inguk had spent little time with him personally, but he knew enough about his childish recklessness and need for attention to prepare for the brunt manner he flings his torso around, surprisingly managing to stay atop the crate as he scans the crowd. Inguk keeps his face set and slows his breathing. When Kim Chung Sik’s eyes graze across his face, they leave just as fleetingly.

“I am sure we have all heard the news from the Imperium. Fear may be the first emotion to hit you when such a surprising announcement is made. To confirm with you all: There were no orders sent from me to strike the Empress’s son.”

A ripple of confusion and outrage passes through the camp. Inguk remains sturdy in his ominous anticipation of dread.

“Which means that the efforts of the Imperium grow more audacious and steadfast by the day. Our fight for freedom and independence of our own fruitful nations threatens the very infrastructure such an empire thrives on.”

He steps off the cart and addresses everyone at eye-level. He stalks forward like a hyena, jerking his head between faces and staring at others.

“Their ‘mercy’, as they once called it, has proven to be betraying, bullish and unwavering. I mean, how twisted is it to harm your own son for the sake of your agenda?” He leers forward. “How committed. ”

His gaze lands on Inguk and sharpens. 

“We should be inspired by such displays of ‘mercy’.”

He reaches through the crowd with his arm, sleeve grazing Inguk’s shoulder as he reaches behind him. The man he grabs yelps as he is dragged to the centre by his shoulder, then forced upon the crate by the back of his neck. 

With the presence of a royal jester, Kim Chung-sik jaunts around the man on the crate.

He rushes towards the man on the crate and forces a chipped knife into his hand. The man holds it out in front of himself and creases his brow.

Then Kim Chung-sik takes his hands and forces the knife into his side. Inguk can see it's a stab wound that won’t do too much damage. All for show, he supposes. Kim Chung-sik laughs through the pain before grabbing the man by the back of his neck and meeting him eye to eye.

“Spare no one.” His voice is low and serious. “They call us raiders when we have stolen nothing but wives, husbands and alcohol. If they wish us brutality, we shall wish them the same.”

Chapter Text

The deeper they travel into the mountains and the thinner the air gets, the sharper Yohan’s mind becomes. He wakes before the sun rises and starts on his run before the rest of the camp has risen. The Palace, betrayal, Isaac, and small Elijah who waits for him somewhere , informs his every step around boulders and broken rocks. The more his lungs struggle for air, the more he remembers what it is to burn beneath the weight of your wealth. The more his stomach aches and rolls, the more he remembers how it feels to be truly hungry and never in easy reach of food. 

As his scar tissue hardens in the unforgiving mountain air and his legs burn with every push, Yohan remembers and reminds himself of what it means to have everything, then nothing, and all the ways he can share that very specific laceration to the soul with those who stood idly and built new empires over his ashes.

On his second lap this morning, he sees the same recruit —who has made a bit of a reputation for falling behind in every aspect of their training— up ahead. The one with an…unfortunate face.

Kim Gaon. Son to Kim Dae-hyuk.

Yohan comes to a slow walk a ways away from him to observe. 

He’d be a fool if he ignored the obvious health issues the recruit was struggling with. His consistent struggle for breath that only would have aggravated the further into the mountains they went, his weak body that Yohan had initially assumed was just a body unused to fierce labour, and the days where you wouldn’t see him leave his tent, typically after they’d moved camp. 

Yohan is admittedly a little impressed with his resilience and determination. He goes at his own pace and refuses to meet a standard that is unreasonable for himself currently. It would be more admirable if they were in a less dire situation.

At the same time, Yohan is also frustrated. He would come across Kim Gaon nearly every morning, and while he’s usually tempted to lap him without much regard, there is some hating, or longing, that forces his legs to slow to a walk to watch him. The sag to his upper body, as if to keep himself upright is the hardest challenge of the day, and sluggish drag of his feet. The hair that grows longer by the day that he brushes out of his face, and at the incline of the mountain, the action reveals rosy cheeks and often a running nose to Yohan. 

His features were undoubtedly different to Isaac’s, that he knows for certain but has never been close enough to see. The resemblance is unnerving all the same. 

That said, Yohan typically has enough of his wits about him to know when to ease off and put the recruit out of his misery, lapping him and allowing them both to continue their running undisturbed. 

When it looks like Kim Gaon is about to turn around, without a word or gesture, Yohan does just that.

K approaches Yohan in his tent as he massages the scar tissue trailing up his arm. The tent blooms with the smell of citrus and refined cocoa butter from the salve. Expensive imports.

“Word from the Imperium, Captain,” K announces. 

Yohan waves him over so K kneels behind him. Yohan offers him the salve; K takes it, and wordlessly begins to massage the raised reddened skin between the Captain’s shoulder blades and across his back. Between his shoulder blades rests the heavy imprint of fallen rubble, arranged into what could be interpreted as a Biblical cross. In his time spent in the Captain’s company, he’d been told stories of his various religious experiences on his journey to safety before they met each other. The cross also makes an appearance the seldom times he receives a runic letter from a person simply known to him as the anglicised ‘I’.

K also knows the symbol of the cross from a man long ago. He doesn’t dwell on the memory.

“What is the news?” Yoahn asks on an exhale of breath. 

“There was an attack on Lord Youngmin. We have been instructed to further our efforts and with haste. The Empress is sending further support to Lifha, ready to help us engage with the Raiders once we are out of the mountains. She wishes the Raiders of the North to be neutralised before we pass through the next major city.”

Yohan’s brows crease further at this knowledge. He takes a clean bandage in hand, signalling that K can stop massaging, and he begins to wrap it along his arm, passing under his armpit to stretch across his back. 

He thinks about crossing the Raiders on flat ground. In his mind’s eye, it is a simple battle, easily won and conquered. 

Which makes it…strange.

Why instigate a fight between a trained army and simple radicalised countryfolk on even ground? Why aggravate the throne so specifically and purposefully when you haven’t even reached the capital city yet?

He grunts as he ties the bandage around the front, tighter than he usually does.

“Who orchestrated the attack?” Yohan questions.

“The Imperium are under the impression that the Raiders orchestrated or influenced the attack.” The words, albeit plain, are laced with similar skepticism. 

Yohan places his shirt back on. He lets out a low sigh.

Then he stands and rolls his shoulders. “Any news from Inguk?”

K stands almost immediately. He bows his head. “None, Captain. I have been unable to contact him for the past few weeks, and his last runic letter was completely indecipherable.”

Yohan flicks his thumbnail between his fingers, making a clicking sound. He muses over a thought. Then, with quick movements, he unrolls the map they consult most evenings. “How do you feel about heading home for a few weeks?”

K raises a curious brow. 

Yohan’s rough fingers brush against the harsh greyed out lines of the mountains on the map, and follows it down to the small, beige areas around it. “I want you to circuit the nearby villages and districts to these mountains. Start with Neemhwa — they’re the closest in range to the Raiders currently. Surveille the morale, are the townspeople in agreement or fear with the Raiders? Report back to me via runic letter. We want to find out if the Raiders will be gaining further support once they reach the outskirts. Once you have a clear image, stay in Lifha with the Imperium until we reach you there.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Leave this evening. We need to configure those runic letters. There’s no point in my best man leaving my side if I have no means of communicating with him.”

K allows himself a small laugh. “Yes, Captain. Although, it may be a good idea to bring someone else on board with the runic letters too, given your track record.”

“Are you implying that I’m not spiritually inclined, K?”

“Yes.”

“What a bold implication to make.”

“Not an inaccurate one, Captain.”

Yohan shakes his head, though he is smiling. 

He leads them out of the tent to the edges of where the soldiers are training. Yohan sees Kim Gaon at the far side with a nocked arrow. His back arm visibly quivers, likely from the cold and his ailments. Yohan watches as he exhales as he allows the arrow to zip through the air. It hits the edge of the target. Barely.

As if feeling eyes on him, Gaon turns and faces Yohan head on. He bows shallowly, although no disrespect is taken, and quickly turns back to face his target.  

K turns to Yohan again. “I do have news on Kim Dae-hyuk too.”

Yohan addresses K. “What of him?”

K’s face is grave. “Kim Minjee, Gaon’s mother and Kim Dae-hyuk’s wife, has made a plea for Gaon to return. She says his father is close to death, and his son’s absence has worn him down considerably.” 

Yohan adjusts his gaze to Kim Gaon’s friend, Yoon Do-hoon , as he would like them to believe, who is getting thrown around by their tentmate, Jung Yunho.

He glances back at Gaon who pathetically nocks another arrow only for it to fall loose quickly. He hums lowly. “He will die on the journey home.”

The unspoken drifts through the air. Truly, Gaon should already be dead. 

Yohan’s voice is soft and tinted with grief. “When you reach Lifha, send incense, spices, and white flowers to the Kim household.”

“Shall I include money?”

Yohan considers for a moment, watching Gaon fail to hit the target again. “Yes. Include a small sum signed for Kim Dae-hyuk, then a larger sum, around the same as a release of service, though leave the second unaddressed. Ensure both have the Imperial insignia.”

K nods.

Yohan turns to head back to his tent with deliberate steps. “You mentioned using someone else to transfer these runic letters to?”

K follows him. “I did. I believe the reason why Inguk is struggling with them, and why they haven’t stuck with you, may be due to spiritual differences in alignment. It could be as simple as your energy does not currently align with this craft.”

“How do you know who is more spiritually aligned to the craft?”

“With all respect, Captain, I am neither a priest nor a monk. It would be difficult for me to tell.

“You belong to a monastery.”

“I was housed in a monastery. Temporarily.”

“A monk watched over you all the same.”

Yohan watches K visibly close off. “I did not learn all of their teachings,” he says curtly. “I learned what I needed to survive.”

At the opening of the tent, Yohan appraises K, who avoids his gaze. 

He dramatically lifts the flap and steps inside, calling out to K who stays outside of the boundary— “Teach me everything.”

K sighs quietly. “Yes, Captain,” he mumbles, then follows him through the tent flaps. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Jinjoo questions Do-hoon, menacingly facing him head on.  

“ What? ” Do-hoon grumbles back, eyes downcast and irritated. He keeps pinching and adjusting the sides of his shirt.

His answer sparks a flame in Jinjoo. “Getting hit!”

The recruit also seems to become more agitated. “I don’t mean to!”

“But why does it keep happening?”

Do-hoon breathes heavily as he tries to find the words. “I don’t know how to…how to…oh forget it.”

As he goes to walk away, Jinjoo grabs him by the arms and pulls him back to face her. “No, I won’t. You’re acting like you don’t know how to fight, but any time your partner throws a punch, your body reacts , like it is supposed to, but then you just stop. You shut down. Why?”

When Do-hoon doesn’t deign her a reply, she takes a step back and opens her stance to show that she is ready to fight. He throws his arms out and exclaims, “I’m just shit at fighting, ok?! Maybe I’m just a better archer, I don’t need you to make an example of me.”

Jinjoo shrugs. “I’m not making an example, I want to resolve this. Fight me.”

“I don’t accept the challenge.”

“Fine.” 

Jinjoo lunges for Do-hoon anyway, going for a dramatic left hook. Unlike how they’re trained to block and attack at the same time, Do-hoon ducks and barges into Jinjoo exposed left side, knocking her off balance. She recovers well, landing a low kick to Do-hoon’s right thigh. Some part of their training kicks in as he drops lower into his left side and raises his right leg to catch the kick on his shin and soften the blow. Do-hoon comes at her with a frenzied punch to the side.

Jinjoo doesn’t lay off - she uses her elbow to block his attack then throws a combo at him, a 6-3-2 which Do-hoon does a…wild mess of actions to avoid but somehow manages to. He misses Jinjoo’s open palm that taps him square on the other side of his head though. He does shove her harshly away from him though, and when she skids back and plants herself again, she sees that fire in Do-hoon that she’d been trying to ignite this whole time.

He’s fierce . Shaggy hair has fallen in front of his eyes, making the stormy look on his face even angrier. He rolls his shoulders back while crunching in at the same time as if he’s preparing for a street brawl. 

The entire personality change jolts Jinjoo. She feels her frustration grow.

She relaxes out of her stance but still moves closer to the recruit.

“So you do know how to fight!” She accuses.

Do-hoon doesn’t relax. “Not in the way that you want me to!” He shouts behind balled fists.

Jinjoo is more astounded by the response than anything. “Do-hoon, there is no ‘way’. Not now. We fight how we can and when we can so that we don’t die. Those drills I make you do are for conditioning and efficiency. Do you honestly think we have time to teach you all of the— all the damned Wing Chun principles in one day?!”

Another flare of anger rises in her when she notices the recruit furiously wipe away at his eyes. Tears. Now. Seriously?

But before she can get another word in, the recruit leans forward and with venom he spits, “ Fuck you.”

He storms away from her, barging through the crowd Jinjoo only now notices has surrounded them.

K walks up to her slowly. 

“What?” she barks out, confused more than angry.

“The Captain has asked for everyone to meet around the archery station.”

Jinjoo takes a deep breath. “I’ll be there in a second.”

The group slowly starts to disperse but K stays by her side. 

“Is there anything else?” she asks, calmer. 

“I am being temporarily stationed in the nearby villages and districts,” he offers. 

Jinjoo’s eyes light up. “Will you be passing through Lifha?”

“That is where I will be staying until I reconvene with the Travelling Army.”

Her hand ghosts his arm. “When do you leave?”

“Soon.”

She starts running back towards where the tents are. “Wait one moment!” When she runs back, she has an envelope and a square of knitted fabric, around the size of a plating mat. It’s depicts a landscape of sorts, with the mountains on the left corner in a dull brown, and a light blue water spring trailing down them to form a larger body of water that takes up the middle and right side. There are dried petals stitched into the lake, and along the bottom is stitched in grass that has since dried and withered. In the top right hand corner is the sun, stitched in scrappy yellow fabric.

Jinjoo beams as she tenderly hands K the envelope and the fabric. “Could you take these with you and give them to my parents? You remember where they live, right? Third left after the well, walk all the way down the street then—”

“I’m sure it’ll come to me when I get there.”

“Yeah, it must do. They say you never forget your hometown. It’s home, how can you forget home?” Her voice trails off as she guiltily looks off to the side. She comes back to herself quickly. “Anyways, you can stay with them during your time there. I’m sure they remember you. And if they don’t, then tell them that I know you and I would like—”

K clears his throat. “I will likely be staying with the rest of the Imperial Army. The Empress is sending further support to Lifha.”

Jinjoo stumbles backwards. “Oh.” 

K nods and places the items in his satchel. “Will you be alright on your own?” he asks quietly. 

“I’ll be fine.” She waves a dismissive hand.

His faces crunches, as if there’s more he wishes to say but can’t find the words. “Jinjoo, I think you should tell the Captain about—”

She smiles thinly at him. “Thank you for telling me, K. Have a safe journey.”

K’s face crunches in discomfort. “Let him know if anyone tries anything again.”

She watches the taut emotion pass over his usually stoic face. “I will. We’ll catch up later. Watch over my parents often, will you? Visit them often. They’ll definitely remember you.”

“Be well, Commander Oh.”

She bows to him. “And you, soldier.”

Captain Kang selects 8 assigned archers to form a wide circle, then selects one of the newer recruits, yet to specialise in a battle discipline, to stand in the centre of the circle. 

Standing in the centre of the circle with the soldier, Captain Kang addresses him with a raised voice to carry to everyone. “Soldier — these archers will fire arrows at you in quick succession, one by one. You must attempt to avoid being struck by any arrow from any direction.”

He then opened up to address the wider circle. “Archers — you must not injure each other with your arrows. You must not fire at the same time as anyone else. Do not aim for the soldier’s vital organs - the upper chest and head are off limits. This drill will end once the final arrow has been released.”

Somebody in the group raises a hand. “What happens if you get hit by an arrow?” he asks. An honest question Gaon assumes most people were thinking.

The Captain is nonplussed. “What happens to you when an arrow strikes you?”

His non-answer ‘answer’ settles a deep discomfort into Gaon’s body. He looks around him to see if Soohyun— Do-hoon , is here, having missed him the whole day. He can’t see him, but then again he is swamped on both sides by burly, strong men.

He looks at Commander Oh who is standing stoic and unmoveable, which isn’t unusual but a little scary with how creased her brow is.

Captain Kang calls for the archers to ready themselves, and then—

“Begin!”

As soon as the sound leaves his lips, an arrow flies towards the soldier. The sound of it slices through the low mumbling of the soldiers. The soldier in the middle sidesteps it quickly, leaving the arrows to fall between two other archers.

Another arrow is quick on its heels, shooting from beside the soldier. He is forced to lean out of its way, the shaft catching on his sleeve before leaving his vicinity. 

The next shot is slower to release, the archers biding their time. Those who had already shot maintain their ready position, disorienting the soldier in the middle.

Two arrows slice through the air simultaneously. 

The soldier gets hit by the first arrow in the thigh and lets out a strange mix between a gulp and a yelp. As he stumbles, clutching his thigh, the second arrow makes a target of his shoulder. 

Gaon flinches upon seeing the impact. Stupidly, he closes his eyes and imagines the injuries the man is sure to face as opposed to actually witnessing them. 

So when Captain Kang coolly orders for them to, “Continue.” Gaon’s eyes fly open and his stomach flips. He looks at the soldier out of morbid force, expecting blood to ooze out of his limbs with arrows firmly implanted in his flesh. Only, there are no arrows impaled in him, and there is no blood. The soldier cradles his shoulder as he dodges the rest of the arrows.

Gaon squints at one of the lost arrows on the ground. The end, which usually holds a sharpened shaved tip as he is familiar with in his practices, is now rounded and now covered with many layers of fabric bound together.

The first round ends and the archers swap over. Gaon catches the Captain’s gaze again. The Captain raises a brow and rolls a haughty shoulder.

“Aim closer to the body this time,” he instructs, keeping his intense eye-contact. The new set of archers get into position.

Gaon is sure it isn’t his ego that convinces him that he won’t be selected for this task — it’s just common sense! Especially considering how he has his hand tucked into the crook of Yunho’s elbow currently. (Yunho, with his quiet yet assured ways, typically offers Gaon a helpful elbow to lean on or spare blanket whenever he feels inclined to.) It makes no sense for him to go next. It makes no sense for him to be there at all .

He supposes the Captain really doesn’t make much sense either because why is his next word— “You.” And why is it so eerily close to his ear?

Gaon looks up at Yunho who pointedly looks down at him. He feels the safety of Yunho’s elbow slowly fall away.

“Kim Gaon,” the Captain croons. Gaon looks at him and sees a sly smirk on the bastard’s face.

He stumbles forward, sending out wild prayers to the universe as he takes his position.

The archers readied.

“Begin!”

It is as if the world had silenced. The sound of the arrow reaches him quickly 00 back right, diagonal, so move far right to avoid its path. His body moves with speed and pace, and the arrow misses him. He stumbles into his new position but manages to stay upright.

Direct left now. He steps back. Another arrow missed.

Top left. Move further to the left and towards the front.

Gaon makes simple moves that don't require too much twisting or jumping that his body can’t afford. Everything in him has hyper focused to listen out for the sound of a quiver releasing and an arrow heading straight for him.

He gets hit in the bum which hurts both literally and humiliates him. His crouch however does allow him to miss getting hit by the next shot.

Although, once he is down, his body is down. Panic begins to settle in as his knees refuse to cooperate.

Top right. 

He throws himself out of the way, massively overestimating his movement and ending up at the feed of an archer who has yet to release his arrow.

Out of pure instinct and probably a fair amount of stupidity, he reaches up as the archer aims down and grabs hold of the bow before jerking it upwards. The arrow goes wild. All Gaon can hear is the sound of another man grunt and another arrow go awry.

In the commotion, he forces himself back to his feet, awaiting the last shot.

The last archer must be holding out. Gaon surveys his enclosure quickly, desperately trying to make out who the last one is.

He hears it too late.

Taut string loosens and a sharp, specific arrow comes his way.

Gaon freezes.

Rough metal clips the edge of his ear and then grazes his cheek.

The arrow strikes itself firmly into the ground, unlike the others that fell flat.

He slowly turns around to see the Captain standing next to Yunho, bow steady in his hand and relieved of its duty. His left arm is still positioned high behind him.

Drops of blood fall from Gaon’s split ear and cheek.

“I said-” the Captain bellows- “closer to the body this time.”

As if that somehow justifies what he had done.

“Change,” he calls oh-so nonchalantly while Gaon seethes.

But anger takes energy that he clearly didn’t have to spare as he stutters forward, only for Captain Kang’s face to blur, and the ashen gray of the mountains to close up into darkness as he falls to the floor.

“What you did to Gaon today was unfair,” Jinjoo states as she strolls into Yohan’s tent after him.

“I don’t see how it was. Isn’t the point of a training camp to train?”

“He’s far too ill. You’re pushing him beyond his capabilities.”

Yohan begins to take off the upper part of his uniform to change into more comfortable wear. “The same could be said about what you did to the other soldier today. I heard about your sparring match. It served him well.”

“Because he’s been holding back! Gaon isn’t holding back, he’s sick , and he will be the first to die if you continue pushing him like this—”

“Someone always has to die first. Such is life.” Foregoing revealing his scars to Jinjoo, he opts out of unwrapping his bandages and instead reaches for a loose fitting undershirt to bundle up with. “You seem angry,” Yohan notes.

Jinjoo ignores him. “His death will be your responsibility.”

Yohan turns his full and sharp attention onto Jinjoo. She doesn’t cower, but her face does harden. 

“Every man’s death here is my responsibility.” His voice is low and lancing. “I have more blood on my hands than you could imagine, Commander, and it would do you good to remember that. If the boy dies, he dies like all of the other soldiers before him, and the soldiers to come after him. I will not lay one’s life on my conscience.” He challenges her in the eye. “This isn’t only about Gaon, is it?”

Jinjoo breaks. “Why are the Imperium coming back to Lifha?” her voice wavers as she asks.

Yohan’s face doesn’t move, though he speaks slowly and measured, as if calculating where to go next with this conversation. “We were always scheduled to pass through there.”

“Why is the Empress sending soldiers to Lifha?” Jinjoo begins to pace back and forth. “What does she want with the people there?”

“She is sending reinforcements for our battle with the Raiders. Be rational, Jinjoo.”

Jinjoo spins around and points an accusatory finger at Yohan. “The last time ‘reinforcements’ were sent to Lifha, they took my people as slaves. And now she’s conveniently returning there? That place has never been the same since she got her claws on it—”

“It would do you well to remember that is your Empress that you speak ill of,” Yohan warns.

“Send me with K. I can catch up with him within the hour.”

“No.”

Jinjoo’s pacing increases as she runs her hand over her hair. “Why not? What is he even doing there? What is going on, Yohan? Why aren’t you telling me anything?”

“You will not be stationed with K. We need you here, Commander.”

“Answer me! What is going on?”

Yohan’s low voice is scathing. “Calm yourself and watch your tongue, Commander.” His patience is wearing thin. “Our discussion is concluded.”

“You can be a real cold hearted bastard sometimes, Yohan.”

“I said, Commanding Officer Oh, that our discussion is concluded. Is that understood?”

She grinds her teeth. Yohan watches as her eyes well.

“Is. That. Understood?” He punctuates every word.

However, before Jinjoo can reply, a horn sounds three short times before holding for a sustained note.

Outside the tent comes the loud booming of a man alarming the camp.

“North and East surrounded! Under attack!”

Then comes the sound of a battlecry.

Chapter Text

An arrow tears through the tent, landing lamely between Yohan and Jinjoo, but there all the same.

Yohan rushes out of the tent to see his soldiers racing around for their weapons and their defensive positions. It’s awkward given the nature of their camp, but they manage to organise themselves in staggered rows that blend seamlessly into the gaps between their tents with their shields raised above them. There are arrows scattered across the ground with black sashes, and some of his men, namely a few of the underprepared cooks, appear to have been struck although not fatally wounded.

The attackers were spotted along the North-East where the mountain faces are much too steep and jagged to be descended upon, and the boulders increasing the gradient at the bottom allow for more coverage from an onslaught.

Yohan looks up in front of them and sees the faint but firm row of archers peeking over the top of the steep. Jinjoo is quickly by his side with his sword and shield. As she is about to race off for her own gear, Yohan hears the very faint echo of a call to fire, then scattered sounds of string snapping against wood and whistling.

"Shields up!" he bellows as he grabs Jinjoo to hunch under his shield.

The next wave of arrows falls. He sees a few stick into the ground around him and is aware of a couple that bounce off of his metal plated shield. When the final arrow falls, he moves with haste to where his Travelling Army stand while Jinjoo runs for her shield.

"Split," he demands, cutting the stagger in two. "You - turn outwards to watch the flatlands. Anticipate an ambush."

He notes the steady line of black re-emerging over the edge of the mountain and calls for the shields to go up again. They haven't finished the formation change yet, but nearly all of them shield themselves in time.

After the next barrage of arrows, the Imperial Travelling Army is much quicker to reorganise under Yohan's orders. He keeps count in his head of how long it takes their attackers to redock their arrows and the next call to fire. It's quick - whoever they are fighting is efficient and trained.

Yohan commands for a small group of three soldiers to protect the Strategists, although he briefly notes two have fallen victim to arrow wounds.

They are succumbed to one more attack of arrows before another battlecry sounds, this time more guttural and personal. A group of non-uniformed civilians charge onto the flatlands of the west side of their camp. Their weapons of choice are humble yet scathing - pitchforks, large knives, cleavers, anything close and convenient to do the job. Some have armoury carved from imagination alone - improvised wooden blocks with nails hammered into the sides, doors sliced in half to operate as shields, compressed metal powders that burn hot once exposed to open air.

They wear their own clothes —notably not the furs of the indigenous peoples of the mountains— and they wear them as well as any militant army would. While hardly spotless, their robes and trousers are a far cry from the filth the Imperial propaganda would suggest. Most wear dark greens and browns, while some take pride in a bold yellow sash or striking blue top.

These are the Raiders of the North. The civilians with enough gusto to reclaim not only their land, but their identities.

They charge at the Imperial Travelling Army, led by Kim Chung-sik in his own vibrant red headband and a sword. He fights recklessly and without abandon, throwing soldiers out of his way and slicing at their uniforms. He's surprisingly adept with his sword, which doesn't exactly surprise Yohan but isn't what he expected.

The army separates from their uniform line quickly and tend to the fight at hand. It's an ugly fight to say the least; there is a lack of form and technique, which is to be expected when going up against the equivalent of an armed street bully. Yohan doesn't have much struggle with throwing off his attackers and charging at those already racing against him. He makes a conscious effort to refrain from killing his them, going as far as maiming or stabbing in a nonfatal area. He knows who his enemies are, and these people are a far cry from them.

The next person to approach him is notably different. They are wearing full blacks, wrapped neatly around the front, and have a black mask with green stitching covering half of their face. In their hands are two small daggers, and they attack Yohan with a precision and vigour that tells of a trained martial artist. They are small and lithe, manoeuvring around him in a way that is both playful and frustrating.

He throws down his shield and they manage to slice his bicep, the sting prompting him to tackle them to the ground and rest a heavy forearm against their neck. They writhe under him and he keeps the pressure before punching them square in the face. They pass out from the punch.

He swiftly gets off of them and stands only for someone to throw themselves onto his back with a high-pitched yell. He instinctively tucks his chin to protect his neck, and vigorously twists from left to right to shake them off, though their grip is unrelenting. A black covered elbow sinks down directly onto his left shoulder, sending a flare of pain throughout his arm and upper back from the already damaged nerves.

The pain forces him to buckle, which shifts the weight of his attacker in a favourable way. Yohan uses the momentum of their shifting weight to abruptly bring them both to the ground, effectively forcing his attacker to lose their grip. With them laid under him, he elbows them in the side and grabs a shard of metal to sink into their torso. The person groans, but continues to try to kick and harm Yohan. He takes the shard — what he now can see to be a knife missing its handle— and grabs the person's foot. Against their writhing, he rakes the jagged metal against their achilles, awakening a gnarly scream and rapid spurting of blood.

Yohan clumsily stands with a firm set to his brow. With a surveil of his surroundings he notes no immediate danger for himself.

The person on the floor cradling their achilles also dons the same black robes as his other opponent, and a mask with green stitching.

Those fighters were not only trained, but highly skilled and efficient. Given their slighter builds and deftness, he assumes them to be women.

He's rarely encountered female fighters of that skillset. The Raiders have many women fighting alongside their husbands, brothers and fathers, but none of that calibre.

Yohan catches sight of Jinjoo across the flatlands, similarly bloodied and dishevelled, holding a black scarf in her hand. The tip of her sword is against an unveiled woman in the same blacks as his previous attackers.

"Young Prince," comes a dainty, sultry voice directly in his ear.

Before his body has time to react, he is struck in the head. It dazes him, and the blood spilling from his forehead clouds his vision red. All the same, he spins around to attack the person. He aims a kick for her ribs, but it is sloppy and ill-spaced from the pounding pain in his skull. She lifts a foot and kicks him firmly in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

She rushes at him and jumps onto him, the force of it sending him to the ground. His training keeps his head from colliding with the rocky surface, but the pressure on his already aching back and shoulder is searing.

She climbs on top of him, one knee planting itself firmly into his hip, forcing a pained grunt from him. She leans down, meeting him at eye-level. His vision of her waivers, but he notes she is wearing a plain black mask.

He bucks his hips up, pushing her forward past his face, and he tries to crawl out from underneath her. She recovers from his counter quickly, readjusting herself to lie on her back. As he tries to slide past her legs, she uses her thighs to trap his neck, and forces him into a suffocating hold.

Yohan scrambles for anything to aid himself, but she has an iron grip on him. As more blood from his head injury streams down his face and his lungs wheeze for a full intake, his body is harkened back to a time where smoke clouded his vision and rubble suffocated his lungs.

He claws, he punches, he uses as much strength as he has to offer, just as he did then, all to no avail.

Young Prince.

The scarring on his back and arm sears as if it were sloughing afresh.

Black spots cover his vision, and he can feel his body becoming heavier by the second.

When the pressure suddenly eases off, Yohan doesn't move. It feels as though he is on the cusp between death and life, where he hears the battle around him, the scuffle next to him, yet he doesn't reach for another breath or move away from what could have been his grave plot.

He lays, adrift this strange purgatory, waiting for death yet witnessing life; wishing for clouds while expecting sulfur.

Under the red hue the world has taken, a face appears. Calling for him, reaching for him, pressing into him.

Isaac?

With that, Yohan remembers himself, and breathes.

Gaon comes to to the sound of yells and screams. His head is heavy as he surveys his environment; his shared tent, it seems.

When rest seems to tempting, the noise surrounding him sends his heart into a panic, and he can't help but feel as though he needs to move.

He removes the blanket atop him slowly, which in and of itself feels like a mammoth struggle. He takes a moment to himself, then rolls onto his side. God, his body aches. He lays there, strewn across his straw bedding, chest heaving from both the exertion it took for such a simple movement and the rising panic from the sound of metal against metal.

Against himself, Gaon starts crying in his slump on the floor. He's so helpless in this state. He can't even get out of bed. And he'd feel less pathetic about it if it weren't so embarrassing; to be surrounded by other fit, seemingly able-bodied men who have no trouble with jumping from their beds before sunrise for a run, who are able to lift their own weight, who are able to breathe easily without the heavy assistance of menthol salves and salts from an illegal street merchant. Even Soohyun, despite not having any professional training or the muscular advantage of an average healthy man, is somehow managing to keep up with the army.

He'd exerted all his efforts on keeping himself alive for the first week of training, and yes, he didn't exactly thrive, but he wasn't dead yet.

He may as well be now.

His heart stops when the opening of the tent bursts open. From where he is sprawled, he can't see who has entered, and has no idea if they are friend or foe.

"We need to move." Soohyun. Sounding as herself.

"What's happening?" he asks, voice still heavy with rest.

Soohyun moves to his side and pushes to roll him back onto his back. She's not gentle, and it doesn't sit right with his muscle aches.

"Soo, what's going on?" he asks with more determination as she reaches for his arm to heave him upright.

From this position he can see half of her body is covered in blood.

"Are you hurt? Why is ther-"

"Gaon, stop talking and get up!" she cries out in frustration as she tries and fails to properly hitch his body up.

He tries, and luckily with her assistance, manages to slump over his front. He opens out his right arm and Soohyun crouches low to get her shoulders under him.

"On three, I'm going to stand with you like this, and I need you to try your hardest to get up too. Ok?" He nods in silent agreement. "One, two, three-"

Gaon clenches his core as hard as he can manage and tenses his thighs to help him stand with Soohyun. The effort has both of them straining vocally, but by some miracle they reach a strange vertical position.

Gaon's strength hasn't had the time nor the means to properly recuperate, so he sags against Soohyun's side. She's considerably shorter than him though, and the extra dead weight threatens to pull her down as she anchors herself lower to the ground to remain steady.

Together they stumble out of the tent, all feet dragging and strained grunts. Even just passing the threshold gives Gaon reason to believe that his panic earlier was understated.

here are arrows littered across the ground, and when he looks to the right, he sees the bottom halves of what he assumes are two Strategists peaking out from the farthest edge of the Strategists' tent.

Through the gap between the Strategists' tent and the Captain's tent, only slightly offset to where Gaon and Soohyun emerged from, the Captain is pushed alarmingly close to where the two recruits stand. He's fighting against somebody in black. They climb up behind him and strike him in the head, which sends him bumbling backwards.

"This way!" Soohyun calls out, and begins to lead him in the opposite direction.

The person in black kicks the Captain to the ground. His head is a mere two metres away from Gaon's foot.

Soohyun tries to drag Gaon further away with haste, although he can't help his split attention on the man bleeding out on the floor.

His opponent, though surely having seen them, shows no interest in them and instead climbs atop him.

Something anxious and startling rises in Gaon's stomach. Their Captain doesn't appear to be winning. If he falls, there is no hope for the rest of them.

"Soohyun-" he alerts. She takes a cursory glance back and curses.

She stops for a moment, looking Gaon in the eye. In that moment, they come to a mutual agreement.

Gaon removes his arm from her shoulder and allows himself to fall to ground, which isn't so hard. Soohyun darts towards the Captain and lands a harsh kick to his opponent's shoulder, which displaces their firm hold over the Captain's throat. In a reckless move, Soohyun throws herself at the person while they're distracted and strikes down with her elbows and fists.

Gaon shakily crawls along the ground to the Captain, whose face is red and swollen from a lack of circulation, not including the blood spilling from his head. Gaon takes his head in his hands and forces the man's eyes open, looking for anything. He seems awake, but his chest isn't moving.

"He's not breathing- He's not breathing!" Gaon's voice rises in pitch as he desperately scans the area for anyone who can help. All his fellow comrades are either occupied with their own attacker, or laying unmoving on the floor.

He faces Captain Kang again, brain whirring to think of any way to help. Gaon hurriedly scuttles to the side and looks down at the Captain's still chest. He lays his head against it and watches acutely for any sign of breath. When none comes, Gaon places his hands atop of the Captain's chest and using all his might, throws his weight into him.

It's more likely than not incorrect form, and Gaon does have a moment's dread where he considers that he may only be making things worse, but he has to try, dammit.

It seems to be enough as the Captain takes a staggered breath. It's strange, not the gasp for life that is expected, but instead a slow, forgotten thing, as if he only remembered how to do it.

While he comes back to himself, Gaon drags himself to sit beside the Captain's head and slips off his already loose head-sash, pressing it firmly to Captain Kang's head injury. The Captain seems almost lost as he comes to, eyes unfocused but unwavering from Gaon's face. His eyebrows furrow, like he's confused, and he raises a slow arm to Gaon's cheek.

"Captain?" Gaon asks, looking between his glazed over eyes.

Captain Kang says something, but it's slurred. Gaon doesn't know what to do in a situation like this, so he holds the Captain's face in both of his hands and offers himself as a steady support.

"It's Gaon, one of your new recruits. Son to Kim Dae-hyuk." His voice feels all the more desperate as Captain Kang maintains his confused gaze. The Captain repeats the same thing, a name it seems.

Gaon's voice raises in pitch and the speed of his speech quickens. "Gaon. I'm Gaon. We're in the mountains. We've been travelling. We're fighting to defend the Imperiu—"

"—Gaon!" Soohyun screams. He instantly looks up to see the same figure in black running at them.

Dread fills his stomach. There's no time to do anything.

He throws his body across the Captain.

He feels a sharp and sudden pain between his shoulders, unlike any pain he's felt before. His face contorts in confusion, in discomfort…he's not quite sure what, but he's not quite sure what's just happened.

He's moved off the Captain. He reaches behind but can't reach high enough to the point of his sudden agony.

There's a strong, deep roar ahead. He doesn't see much apart from the grey-brown of the rocky earth beneath him.

From where he lays on his side, he raises his gaze across the stretch of flatland. Soohyun is there, laying on the ground too. Her arm is wrapped around her side. Her eyes are closed, though her face is all scrunched up like when she's in pain.

There is a loud resounding shout. He hasn't got the energy to make out the words, but at the call, the sound of metal against metal comes to a staggered cease and is replaced by shoes beating upon the ground.

The Captain's face blocks his view. He's being shaken, and god it hurts, and he grips the Captain's arm and tells him to stop, give him a second, check on Soo, she's the one who needs help.

"Hurts," he mumbles. "'m fine. Soohyun…help her."

In spite of what he says, he's glad for the warmth at his side.

It's the last thing he feels before the darkness.

Chapter Text

Soohyun wakes, painless. She sits up and glances around her. She’s in her tent and she’s alone.

She’s in her undershirt —one of Do-hoon’s, funnily enough, that he gifted her when it grew too small for him— and places her army uniform shirt over the top. She slips her arms in, then ties the left side into the inside of the right arm, then brings the right lapel all the way around to make a firm diagonal. She ties it together and slumps on her edge of the sleeping mat.

“You’re going to be late.”

She turns her head to the right - Yunho’s mat.

She knows who it is without him turning around. He’s unfolding the blanket on the mat.

“If you don’t go soon you’ll be leading the run tomorrow. Again, I’m sure,” he says.

“What?”

He turns around. His expression, full and rosy, is skeptical. “Don’t tell me you’ve never finished last.”

“What are you talking about?”

He picks up more of Yunho’s stuff and starts rearranging it. “Your Captain must be ass. Doesn’t he make the people who come last in the run go first the next time? It’s so shit, everyone else is forced to go so slow behind the ones who can’t run for shit. Some guy got beat up last time because of it.”

“That stuff isn’t yours. Put it down.”

“Or what?”

Soohyun rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dick.”

"I’m telling Si-young!”

She shoves him. “I’ll tell her you still refuse to call her aunty just to be spiteful.”

“Please, that old woman already knows.”

“What’s your problem with her?”

He shrugs. “I like pissing her off.”

“You like pissing everyone off.”

“Yeah, I have to be consistent. Duh.”

He gets right up in her face and burps.

She swats him away and stands, indignant. “Why are you always such a twat?!”

The bastard has the gall to smirk. “Listen, it’s the older brother treatment. I don’t make the rules.”

Soohyun punches him square in the shoulder. He sways and grabs his shoulder, expression stormy, before he blows a raspberry. “Aww you thought you could hurt me with your stupid girly punch?”

“I will fight you, you ass.”

He laughs. “You’ll lose.”

“Let’s see about that.” She cracks her knuckles.

He throws down one of Yunho’s belongings and rolls his shoulders back, a smile breaking across his round face. He raises his guard, waiting. Soohyun goes in for a jab, but he dodges it and instead grabs her by the shoulders. Using brute force, he throws her back down onto the mat.

“Told you.”

Soohyun sits up and grunts, her back sore from the harshness of the movement. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, grow a pair.”

It’s her turn to smirk. “Already got some.” She opens her palms and places them against her chest, expecting to find the softness of her breasts that are usually there, only for her hands to fall flat against her chest.

“Ew, gross,” he cringes.

Her eyebrows crease as she feels around her chest. “Where have my tits gone?” she mumbles.

“Are you going to train or not?” He turns to face her with an unimpressed look.

She looks up at him, feeling uneasy suddenly.

“Stop sitting there looking gormless and get off your lazy ass.”

She swallows and clenches her jaw.

He rolls his eyes and resorts to looking through the belongings to her left. “Is this Gaon’s stuff?”

“Don’t touch his stuff.”

He starts to snoop even more eagerly. “D’you reckon I’ll find something weird like makeup or whatever here? Remember when I found your lip tint in his bag that time? Perv. He’s a bit weird, isn’t he? ”

Soohyun gets up again and rips Gaon’s bag from his hands “I said leave it alone, Do-hoon!”

He stares at her, arms dropping idly by his sides. “Fine.”

She stares back at him, each second growing more and more uncomfortable with the man in front of her. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! You’re being strange, saying strange things…” she lowers Gaon’s bag and looks around the tent. “This isn’t right.”

“What’s not right?”

“You. Why are you here?”

He snakes his head in her face. “Why are you here?”

She pushes his face away. “Quit being a prick and answer me.”

He crosses his arms. “I think you should answer me. Why are you here, Soohyun?” He takes a step forward. “What gives you the right to be here over me?”

Soohyun’s heart beats quicker. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He laughs, humorlessly. “You wouldn’t, would you? ‘Cause all of this is so easy. So simple for you.”

Soohyun’s face contorts, an expression of pain and misunderstanding. “No, it’s not…” she utters.

Do-hoon bulldozes on. “Doesn’t mean much for you to take my place, does it? Not even been dead 5 minutes and you’re already in my clothes.”

“You gave this to me!” She shouts, gripping her torso which is now only covered in her undershirt. She looks down, confused, and notes the distinct lack of the slight stretch and bulge of the undershirt over her breasts. Her chest is completely flat. She brings her arms up to cover herself, feeling exposed despite the fabric.

“I didn’t give you my life! I didn’t give you my name, or my uniform, or my honour. You took those from me, just like you take everything from everyone.”

“That’s not true- that’s not fair!”

“Who’s else? Aunt Chae? Aunt Si-young? Little frail Gaon? You’re a parasite, Soo.”

“Please…” She can’t breathe. There a tears streaming down her face. Her hands are over her ears but she can hear him just as clearly. “I didn’t mean to.” She only now notices she’s been backed into the side of the tent. She can feel each one of Do-hoon’s warm breaths.

“You take, and take. You don’t stop until you’re full. If you’re so hungry, Soo, why don’t I give you some meat?”

Do-hoon reaches up to his scalp, shaved short, and with his bare nails, begins to tear. Soohyun screams as she watches the skin peel back, muscle and sinew coming away with his hands. He offers a full bloodied hand to her with the fresh skin slipping through his fingers, his other hand clawing at his cheeks.

She falls to her knees, screaming and sobbing, closing her eyes and apologising, over and over again, willing for it all to stop—

Hands. She feels hands. On her shoulders. Pushing. Pressing. She can’t move. Everything hurts. All of her muscles feel tense.

“Drink,” comes a voice.

She’s completely frazzled. She doesn’t know where she is or who this is.

“You need to drink this. It will stop the pain.”

Her head is being held up while a bowl is tipped into her mouth. She sputters and spits it out, sealing her lips to prevent drinking anything.

The man offering her the drink grows frustrated, unable to get a steady grip on her body as she writhes. It’s only when she turns one way when she cries out in blinding pain. It feels as if her ribs have sparked aflame.

The pain causes her to stop her writhing. The man takes up the bowl again, and in his gruff manor says simply, “Drink.”

She drinks. It’s bitter.

Once she’s finished her dose, he places the bowl down and tucks the padded linen further up her shoulders. It is only now that she realised that she has no clothes on her upper body aside from what feels like a very large, loosely bound bandage.

Her cheeks flush, and dread starts to fill her.

The man says nothing and leaves the tent.

Soohyun lays there idly. She doesn’t feel as rattled as a few minutes ago, but she would describe herself as far from calm.

That was by far the eeriest dream she’d had of her brother. In other dreams he's been outwardly hostile towards her, battling her to the death in pursuit of his namesake, or fleeting, a glimpse among the many men of the camp she’d encountered. Rarely had their encounters in her dreams felt so real, like he was normal and there. She's seen him in so many iterations, but he’s never felt nor looked so alive.

It was hardly the first dream she’d had where she lacked breasts. It was never something she realised instantly in her dreams. There usually was a moment where she was forced to reckon with her body, when she would realise that it was, in some way, wrong. At first, it felt slight. There was only something marginally wrong, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Some discomfort she couldn’t quite place, like an ill-fitting bodice.

But lately, her dreams have become much more visceral and violent to her personhood. She is not herself, in neither her head nor reality.

The tent flaps open. She expects it to be Yunho, or Gaon- Gaon! He was stabbed in the back. Shit, Gaon-

She tries to sit up again, foolishly forgetting the blinding pain in her side from a few minutes ago. The new agony forces a sharp intake and she slowly lowers herself back down.

“It’s me, Commander Oh.”

Soohyun turns to face her, surprised, then instantly worried.

She knows, she thinks. Everyone must know.

Commander Oh takes a step closer, slowly, then another, as if she were approaching a frightened animal.

“Commander,” Soohyun acknowledges, voice low and tired.

Commander Oh takes a seat on the flat of the ground in front of Soohyun.

“Injury wise, your body has sustained quite the beating. You broke 2 ribs, although I am told your torso and chest had many older bruises and injuries that have not set correctly.”

Soohyun turns away from her. “Are you going to kick me out?” she rushes. She misses the look of brief pity on the Commander’s face.

Soohyun turns to face her. Her face is lit with fresh fear. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Commander Oh reassures.

“Then you’ll leave me in the mountain which is no better than death here. I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back, not yet.”

Commander Oh remains firm in her presence. She is solid and firm, yet strangely comforting. “I am here to understand,” she says gently.

Soohyun doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ve tried my best to draw as few conclusions as I could based on what the medic said, but I don’t know. So I want you to tell me.”

“Oh.”

Commander Oh adjusts to sit straighter. More attentive. Waiting.

Soohyun’s brain whirs lowly, but she can't really parse many thoughts. She mainly feels apprehension.

“I don't know where to start,” she admits.

“Are you a man?” Commander Oh asks straightforwardly, though not unkind.

Soohyun flusters and turns away from the Commander again. “Obviously not,” she mumbles.

“Are you a woman then?”

Soohyun shifts under the duvet. This feels like an interrogation. “Yeah, I guess. But…things are complicated.”

The commander shrugs. “The answers aren’t so obvious then.”

Soohyun shifts as much as she can where she’s laying. She feels an uncomfortableness deep in her chest, sitting around her sternum. It’s now that she realises that while her chest is bandaged, it’s not wound as tightly as she usually does to give the appearance of a flat chest.

“I don’t know how to answer you right now,” she says meekly, avoiding the Commander’s eyes.

Commander Oh is quiet. Soohyun can feel her eyes on her.

Then, after a deep inhale, she says, “I appreciate that there may be complexities to your situation which make discussing it difficult. As much as I don’t want to pressure you into sharing anything you’re uncomfortable with, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to help you in this situation without being aware of what exactly your situation is.”

Soohyun feels oddly ashamed. “I know.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Commander Oh replies. Her tone is firm and undoubtedly serious, but surprisingly, still calm and kind. As if, perhaps, she really does want to help.

“Forgive my brashness, but to put things plainly, your situation is now forcing us to confront potential issues with the legality of your identity, the integrity of the Imperial Army, and your safety while employed under the Imperium.” Commander Oh sighs. “We turned a blind eye to the discrepancies in your paperwork upon registration, however, now there is due cause for a full investigation into yourself, the Captain, and myself. Should the Imperial Court hear of this, you’ll be in trouble that extends past both mine and the Captain’s hands.”

Soohyun drags both her hands down her face, discreetly wiping at the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. It’s only been a few months since she even joined the Imperial Travelling Army, yet she’s already found herself in more trouble than she expected.

It was foolish of her to think she could ever get so far.

“What should I do?” she asks, half to herself, half to her Commander.

Commander Oh leans forward, giving all of herself to Soohyun. “Talk to me. Explain,” she implores. “Give us a reason to have your back. An excuse for covering our eyes.”

She waits there a moment, held in anticipation. Soohyun almost feels compelled to spill everything like she’s been needing to for the past few months.

Still…it’s all too much pressure all too suddenly.

In lack of a response, Commander Oh stands, slowly.

“I can’t guarantee the medic’s full discretion, but I’ll try my best to uphold your privacy,” she says. “I will not tell the Captain yet. I will warn you - that will not prevent him from finding out some way or the other given the way things stand.”

She walks towards the tent flap. Soohyun, in her newfound distress, manages a strangled, “Why are you doing so much to help me?”

Commander Oh stops and looks back at Soohyun. Her face is soft and sad. As if she knows the million ways a young person could find themselves in a situation such as this. As if she’d been here before.

“Because you’re one of us,” she affirms. “No man gets left behind - you and I included.”

It’s been five days since the ambush, and the Imperial Travelling Army are on their way out of the mountains and onwards straight to Lifha for reinforcements. They’d moved away from where the ambush took place and took respite, only for two days. Yohan is anxious to be as far from where any raiders or even external parties could predict their movements, but the injuries his troop sustained had to be tended to urgently.

It had been a fight won in their favour, and the damage was not as significant as he’d worried. Mainly a few stab wounds or dislocated limbs, but not enough to make the move out of the mountains too difficult. There were some, a marginal number, who had sustained such severe injuries that there was little deliberation about sending them home. There were the very few who hadn’t made it.

Then there were the ones who simply need ‘rest’.

He is unsure if the need for five days rest constitutes enough for him to become worried.

Kim Gaon hasn’t awoken since he’d taken the dagger to the back for Yohan. He’s notably pale and sweaty despite the chill from their location. He occasionally wakes, although Yohan isn’t so sure you can even call it that. There were barely any signs of lucidity during these episodes. Gaon would open his eyes and move his head slowly, brows scrunched in confusion. He would not respond to his name nor his Captain’s. When Yohan would bring the medicine to his lips, he would drink, then promptly return to his resting.

One of the medics assured Yohan that that was all it was: resting. His body was overcome with exhaustion: he'd over exerted himself in the past two months. The battle had tipped the scale.

Yohan keeps a close eye on his condition in his carriage. While travelling, Yohan usually walks alongside his troops, however, on this rare occasion, he remains by Gaon’s side in a small carriage. He has no doubt there is gossiping mouths around the army, and he does not care for them.

This…young man…there was something to him.

Yohan hasn’t been in the Imperial Army for long, nowhere near as long as most Army generals or Captains. But he’d been in his fair share of fights and institutions, and he had learnt that loyalty, true and specific loyalty, is both rare and precious.

Within the Army, loyalty becomes a strange principle to uphold. You pledge your allegiance to your monarch through your service, and via the inbuilt hierarchy, you pledge allegiance to your command. It is impersonal by nature, and Yohan relies on that distance. He has no use for another’s devotion to a cause he doesn’t believe in.

Besides, when death comes knocking, Yohan will be there to face it himself. He is forever indebted to a worthier and purer man who shielded him once, and he’ll be damned if he allows it to happen again. He doesn’t deserve the shielding of another. He never did.

And yet Kim Gaon, with a face painfully similar to a lost brother, lies with a bandage around his back, and Yohan is able to sit back and watch the slow breaths he takes.

Death knocked, and missed the both of them.

He cannot deny the overwhelming relief he feels watching the rise and fall of Gaon’s chest.

He struggles to comprehend Gaon’s act. He does not know him. He has made no effort to know him. He has a home to return to, comrades to survive by, and potentially a life to live beyond his service.

So why? Why offer yourself as sacrifice? Why go through the pains? What made him say that Yohan was worth the trouble? Worth the grief? Worth the grace?

Was it truly fealty and belief in the system? If so, Yohan has no time for it. He does not believe in his position over these people as their ‘Captain’, nor the position of their ‘Empress’ over independent peoples. Gaon can take his pledge of allegiance and offer it elsewhere, not to a false representative.

This deliberation is what pushes Yohan to keep Gaon close. To study him. He’s felt it since their first encounter, a strange pull towards the young man so sick he can barely stand on his own two feet, yet still enlists in the place of his father. To the young man so ailed that he is often forced into days rests, yet still drags his lumbering feet behind the army each morning and pushes. Yohan feels the cannibalistic urge to rip back the layers of Kim Gaon to find the religion that spurs him into taking a knife for a stranger.

For now, he settles on watching the younger man sleep, and cursing him in his head as he does so.

The whole ordeal has stirred up unpleasant memories in Yohan. The scar across his back and arms feels tighter and more irritated, and he is now sleeping less than usual.

He turns from Gaon and goes to one of his books. The carriage they’re in is usually used for storing various ‘necessities’ the Strategists insist upon, including various chests, books, folding tables and small stools because god forbid they sit on the ground like the rest of us, whatnot. Yohan took the liberty of the space since it was already there with a few of his own books, and a small chest. With two out of the three assigned Strategists dead or severely maimed and now less room to argue, it wasn’t hard to…rearrange the space to allow for Gaon’s recovery.

It’s hardly a large space, but there’s just enough room for him to cross his legs and face away from the injured boy. He opens the tome —a philosophical questioning of the ethics and validity of the State becoming a religion of its own— and flips to the second to last page where a piece of parchment is neatly tucked into the bind.

He takes it out gently and allows its weight to sit in his hands. He breathes deeply, then unfolds it. The handwriting that greets him is neat as ever, in cursive, with very few ink blots and marks across the page. The parchment itself is bone white from multiple treatments and coatings. In places, some of the coating is peeling slightly from age, but it still holds as a reminder of the times when good parchment was enough to aspire for.

He steels himself as he reads the first line.

He thumbs over it. Commits the texture to memory all over again. If he does it enough times, maybe he’ll remember the feeling of having someone use your name out of tenderness, or compassion, rather than necessity, or principle.

In spite of knowing what it will say, he continues reading.

“Where am I?”

Yohan startles and whips his head around to find Gaon awake.

He lets out a breath and turns back to the letter. He’d flinched so hard he accidentally crumpled the parchment. Grinding his jaw, he refolds it and slips it subtly into his tome again.

He turns fully to Gaon now.

“Captain?”

Yohan nods, then scooches over to feel for Gaon’s forehead. When he raises his hand, Gaon flinches and moves his head to the side, eyeing Yohan intently.

“What are you doing?” Gaon asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Yohan rebuts, unimpressed, as he rests the back of his hand against Gaon’s forehead. Warm, but not as hot as before.

He removes his hand. Gaon doesn’t relax.

“What happened?”

Yohan fixes him with a stare. Planning what he should say. “There was an attack. You were injured,” is all he says.

Gaon’s eyebrows crease further and he averts Yohan’s gaze. Yohan can almost see him wracking his brain to remember.

“I need to go…” Gaon says and moves the duvet further off him.

Yohan puts a hand out to stop his movements.

“What are you doing?” Gaon asks again, this time more alarmed.

“You need to stay here.”

“Why? Where even am I?”

“You’re in a carriage-”

“-A carriage?”

Gaon shoves Yohan’s hand off him and throws the corner of the duvet off himself. “I need to get to Soohyun…” he mumbles and attempts to sit up. However, just as he hicks up an elbow he gasps and falls back down which elicits a yelp and the immediate welling of his eyes. “Holy fuck,” he breathes out, breath coming fast from the pain.

Yohan watches. “Who’s Soohyun?” he asks measured. He feels tension creep into his jaw and brow, then reminds himself to loosen it.

“What?” Gaon pants. His body is frozen where he is, awkwardly leaning half on his side and half on his back.

“A woman waiting for you back home?”

“What are you even- what’s wrong with me?” he rushes out. His face has scrunched up in pain.

“You took a knife to the back. Didn’t damage anything too major, but it won’t feel the same as before.”

“No shit.”

Yohan smiles. It’s small, but there nonetheless. “Colourful vocabulary.”

“I’ve literally been stabbed in the back, there’s not many other words to describe what I’m feeling.”

Yohan can’t exactly argue with that. “Your bandages need changing now,” he informs, picking up the fresh bandages by Gaon’s head. He looks back at Gaon, expectantly, and inclines his head upwards.

“I can’t get up, if you haven’t noticed.” Gaon opens an eye and turns to Yohan. He bows his head slightly. “Captain,” he tacks on.

Yohan shrugs. “You’ve done it before.”

“When?”

Yohan slides an arm under Yohan’s waist and another under his shoulders. He looks Gaon in the eye and says, “Ready?” before using his strength to lift Gaon to a sitting position, keeping his back as straight as possible.

Gaon grabs Yohan’s shoulder during it and lets out a pained sound, but the manoeuvre is quicker than he expects. It leaves him with aftershocks of pain, but he braces himself against his legs to keep a somewhat steady position.

Yohan starts to carefully slip off Gaon’s shirt which causes him to instinctively shy away and move away. Yohan immediate backs away and keeps his hands high where Gaon can see them.

“Would you rather do it yourself?” he asks, careful to remove any sass or passive-aggression from his tone.

Yohan watches Gaon war with himself, before he turns back to face Yohan more openly. “I can’t,” he says meekly.

Yohan goes back to the shirt. He’s very methodical and doesn’t move it any further down than he needs to. He gently takes off the old, sticky bandages, using a salve to prevent the fabric from tearing at the healing wound. He discards them to the side. With the area open, he takes up a pad of cotton and carefully blots on the same salve around the broken skin, using very slight and gentle movements. Gaon flinches and takes a sharp intake of breath now and then.

Once this is done, he takes the roll of new bandages and unwraps some. He folds it up and places it against the wound as a gauze, then unwraps the larger roll and begins to wrap it around Gaon’s back: up over his shoulder, then under his arm, then around the breadth of his chest.

He’s not as meek as Yohan would’ve assumed. There is muscle to him and some very subtle definition. He is not unused to easy labour it seems. That said, he is generally fairly soft still.

It’s not a quick endeavour; he takes his time with tending to him. Adjusting any folds, checking he’s covered the whole wound. As he winds the bandage around a final time, Gaon inclines his head towards Yohan.

“I remember, Captain.”

Yohan raises a brow. “You do?”

Gaon nods. “Are you alright?”

Yohan ties the bandage tighter than necessary. Gaon gasps again and grabs his shoulder in an iron grip. The motion brings their faces closer than the small carriage already offered. Yohan can see the freckling on Gaon’s nose bridge.

“Fine.” He smirks at the blush coming over Gaon’s face as he moves away.

“Is Do-hoon okay?” Gaon enquires next. He sounds more worried this time. Yohan doesn’t take it to heart.

“He too is fine, I’m told. I haven’t checked on him personally yet.”

Gaon nods. He slumps heavily to the right, coincidentally where Yohan is sitting. “Can you help me back down?” Gaon asks. Yohan agrees.

Once Gaon is lying again, he seems to take an easier breath. The motion of the carriage causes him more noticable pain now that he’s been moved, but he doesn’t complain.

“I need to see him.”

Yohan doesn’t move away. Gaon watches him this time. The weight of his gaze is uncomfortable.

“Thank you for tending to me.”

Yohan deigns no reply.

“You didn’t have to.”

Yohan grunts. “I do not enjoy being indebted.”

Gaon hums and looks back towards the ceiling. He closes his eyes.

Yohan watches him again.

He can’t help himself.

“Why did you do it?”

Gaon’s eyes open and find his.

“What?”

“Why did you save me?”

Gaon looks away again. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. No man throws themselves in front of a knife for no reason. What was your reason?”

“Aren’t we meant to do that?”

“For who?”

“I’m not sure— look, I’m really tired. Can we leave this for now?”

“No, I need to know. Why did you throw yourself in front of me?”

“What else was I meant to do?!” Gaon’s voice becomes more animated and higher. Yohan offers him no reprieve from his questioning.

“You could’ve let me die. You didn’t.”

“It was a spur of the moment.”

“Did your father teach you that?”

Gaon turns his head abruptly to him. “What?”

“Your father. Did he mention anything?”

“No- Captain, I’m really confused-”

“You don’t know me, so why?” he presses, leaning in.

Gaon blurts out— “Because you don’t deserve to die!”

Yohan, in his stern manner, observes the fluster Gaon’s found himself in. He can see the shame in his admission.

He leans back and asks plainly, “And you do?”

Gaon dutifully avoids his gaze.

Yohan leans towards the other side of the carriage and bangs against the frame. It comes to a slow stop.

He makes way to the back where the entrance is. He gets up to a crouch and places a hand against the door.

“You mustn’t do that again,” he instructs, then opens the door and jumps down.

Gaon, left to his own bewilderment, rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t have gone amiss.”