Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cale Henituse had finally won. After countless battles, schemes, and narrow escapes from death, peace had settled over the lands. The wars had ended. The empires had stopped their greed-driven conquests. His people were safe. His family was happy. For the first time in what felt like forever, Cale was free to do as he pleased.

And what did he want?

To rest.

To sleep without worry, to eat without the looming threat of battle, to watch the children play, to talk with his friends, to simply exist without the weight of the world pressing down on him. He had fought so hard for this—this quiet, peaceful life.

But peace did not come so easily.

Cale awoke in the early hours of the morning, body aching as if he had fought another war in his sleep. His limbs felt leaden, sore in ways that made no sense. A dull, pounding pain resonated from deep inside him, almost like an echo of something long buried.

He shifted slightly, trying to push himself up, but his arms trembled, weak. A shiver ran down his spine.

Cold. He felt so cold.

Swallowing thickly, he curled onto his side, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe it would pass.

But then his stomach twisted violently.

The nausea hit so suddenly that he barely had time to roll over before he was gagging. His body rejected what little food he had eaten the night before, but there was nothing left to throw up. Instead, a sharp, metallic taste filled his mouth.

Cale wiped his lips and pulled his hand away.

Red.

He stared at the blood smeared across his fingers.

It wasn’t the first time.

It had been happening for weeks now. At first, it had just been a little—small flecks of red when he coughed, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest that he ignored. But now…

His stomach churned, the pain pressing in from all sides. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe. His hands curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly.

He couldn’t tell them.

Not after everything.

They were finally happy. He had seen it in the way On and Hong played without fear, the way Raon laughed so freely. He had seen it in Rosalyn’s relieved smiles, in Choi Han’s quiet but obvious ease. He had seen it in Alberu’s exasperated sighs, in Ron’s teasing remarks, in Beacrox’s newfound passion for food.

They were moving on. They were healing.

So why should he ruin that?

He just had to keep going.

For their sake.

For his family.

Even if it hurt.

Cale lay still in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his body screaming in agony with every breath. His limbs were heavy, aching with a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of rest could fix. His stomach felt twisted in knots, the nausea never truly fading. The worst of it was the pounding in his chest, the dull, burning sensation in his gut that made every movement unbearable.

He was so tired.

Not just tired—drained, completely and utterly empty.

But no one could know.

So, he got up.

His body protested, his head spinning as he forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his messy red hair, sighing quietly. His vision blurred for a moment before steadying, but the exhaustion never left.

How long had it been since he last slept properly?

He couldn’t remember.

Cale had been sleep-deprived before. He had spent years pushing himself to the limit, ignoring his body’s needs in favor of handling wars, saving lives, and preventing disasters. But this… this was different.

This wasn’t just tiredness. This was his body breaking down.

And the ancient powers knew it.

"You fool. Your body is in pain."

The Scary Giant Cobblestone’s voice was grim, practically growling in the depths of his mind. The other powers murmured in agreement, whispering their worries, their protests. The Vitality of the Heart flickered inside him, panicking, but even that power was struggling to keep him stable.

"You cannot keep ignoring this."

Cale scoffed silently, forcing himself to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him, and for a second, he thought he might collapse. His vision darkened at the edges, but he grabbed onto the bedpost, steadying himself.

It had only been a week.

A week of sleepless nights.

A week of unbearable pain.

A week of nausea, of forcing himself to eat, only for his body to reject it.

A week of coughing up blood, of hiding the evidence, of biting down the pain every time someone looked at him with worry.

Only a week.

And yet, it felt like an eternity.

He wanted to rest. Desperately. But fate had never been kind to him.

"Go back to bed, weak human." Raon’s voice suddenly cut through his thoughts, sleepy but firm. The little dragon had developed a habit of checking on him, and Cale hadn’t even realized Raon was awake.

He couldn't let Raon see.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up, forcing a lazy smirk onto his lips. “Nah, I’m fine. Just stretching.”

"Human, do not lie."

Cale chuckled, brushing off Raon’s concern. He couldn’t let them worry. He couldn’t let them know.

Not when they were finally happy.

Not when he was supposed to be resting.

Not when he had fought so hard for this peace.

He just had to endure.

He had survived worse.

He could survive this.

…Right?

Chapter Text

At first, the signs were small.

A headache here. A dizzy spell there.

Nothing he couldn’t handle.

When Alberu pulled him into a meeting about post-war restoration, Cale barely heard a word. The room was too bright, the steady hum of voices grating against his skull. His vision blurred at the edges, the words on the documents shifting as he tried to focus. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the quill, and for a moment, he hesitated.

He clenched his fist under the table.

(Just fatigue.)

“Cale.”

Alberu’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with scrutiny. Cale blinked, forcing himself to meet the crown prince’s gaze.

“Yes?” His voice was steady, casual, as if nothing was wrong.

Alberu’s golden eyes narrowed. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Cale exhaled slowly, tilting his head with an easy, lazy smirk. “Something about rebuilding, right? Sounds like a hassle.”

Alberu scoffed, rolling his eyes, but Cale didn’t miss the way his sharp gaze lingered. “You’re as clueless as ever,” Alberu muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

Cale chuckled. Good. If Alberu was still exasperated, it meant he hadn’t noticed anything.

The headache worsened.

(Just get through the meeting.)

He did.

Barely..

That evening, Raon tugged at his sleeve, big round eyes peering up at him with concern.

“Human, have you eaten today?”

Cale forced a smile. “Of course.”

Lying was easy. He had done it countless times before. But lying to Raon—his precious, brilliant dragon—left an unfamiliar weight in his chest.

Raon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I didn’t see you eat.”

“I ate earlier.”

A complete lie.

Cale hadn’t been able to stomach anything all day. Every time he even thought about food, nausea churned in his gut. His body rejected the idea entirely, his stomach twisting in protest.

Raon huffed, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press further. Instead, he latched onto Cale’s arm, wings twitching slightly.

“Then let’s eat together now!”

Cale barely held back a grimace. “Maybe later,” he deflected smoothly, ruffling Raon’s head. “I’m not that hungry.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. He wasn’t hungry. He never was these days.

Raon’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he wrapped his tail around Cale’s wrist, holding on tightly.

Cale ignored the way his stomach twisted, guilt gnawing at him.

The days blurred together.

The signs grew worse.

Dizziness struck at random, leaving him unsteady on his feet. His limbs felt heavy, exhaustion dragging him down like thick chains. Every breath felt too shallow, like there was something pressing against his chest.

But the worst was the pain.

A constant, dull ache that pulsed through his body, flaring up unpredictably. His bones throbbed, his muscles ached, and a deep, searing pain burned in his stomach.

At night, when no one was around to see, he curled in on himself, fists clenched as he waited for it to pass.

Sometimes it did.

Sometimes it didn’t.

And when it didn’t, Cale bit down on his tongue, pressing his hand over his mouth to muffle any sound.

He didn’t want them to hear.

Didn’t want them to worry.

Because what was the point?

The war was over. His family was safe. Everyone was finally at peace.

He wouldn’t ruin that.

He refused to ruin that.

So he endured.

And endured.

And endured...

Later on the day, Ron brought him a tea..lemon tea, his sharp eyes lingering too long, Cale pretended not to notice.

He accepted the cup with a lazy smile, fingers curled around the delicate porcelain, ignoring how his grip trembled ever so slightly. The warmth seeped into his skin, soothing but fleeting, much like everything else these days.

"Young Master, you seem more sluggish than usual." Ron’s voice was light, almost amused, but Cale wasn’t fooled. He knew that tone well—it was the same one Ron used when he was watching, waiting, assessing.

Cale took a slow sip of tea, the fragrant warmth spreading through his throat, but it did little to ease the nausea already churning in his stomach.

"I'm always sluggish," he replied lazily, setting the cup down with what he hoped was a steady hand.

Ron hummed, unconvinced. His aged but deadly sharp eyes never left Cale, scanning him with quiet precision.

Cale met his gaze, unfazed. Years of practice had made lying second nature.

Ron didn’t push, merely refilled Cale’s cup before retreating silently. But as he left the room, Cale could feel it—Ron knew something was wrong.

And that was dangerous.

Cale couldn't afford to let anyone know..

After that, Eruhaben made his move.

The ancient dragon had always been subtle, his wisdom and patience unmatched. So when he placed a hand on Cale’s shoulder, golden light flickering at his fingertips, Cale nearly cursed.

He barely had time to react before the warm, healing glow spread across his skin.

For a split second, relief—true relief—brushed against his body, a brief sensation of comfort before—

Fizzle.

The light shattered like fragile glass, dissolving into nothing.

Eruhaben's eyes widened a fraction, his expression carefully neutral, but Cale caught the way his fingers tensed.

It hadn’t worked.

Cale took a step back, forcing out a chuckle. "Ah, seems like my slacker nature is rejecting your efforts, eruhaben-nim"

Eruhaben's gaze sharpened. "Cale."

A single word. A warning. A demand.

Cale raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk unfaltering. "Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine."

He turned before Eruhaben could argue, his movements smooth and unhurried, but his heart pounded in his chest.

(I have to get out of here.)

He reached his room in seconds, locking the door behind him. His breath came out in short, uneven gasps.

The truth was simple.

His body was failing.

The ancient powers whispered anxiously in his mind, their voices overlapping.

"You’re pushing too far."

"You’re dying, fool."

"This is not something you can ignore."

Cale pressed a hand against his forehead, shutting his eyes. He knew. Of course, he knew.

But what was he supposed to do?

Tell them?

Let them worry?

Watch as their peace shattered, their hard-earned rest destroyed because of him?

No.

He refused.

The days stretched on, and the symptoms worsened.

Eating became a struggle. Every bite felt like a battle, every meal leaving him nauseous and aching. He forced himself to eat when necessary, but more often than not, the food barely stayed down.

And the pain—the pain—never stopped.

His stomach burned, a searing agony that twisted deep into his core. His muscles ached, his bones throbbed, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. Every step was heavy, every breath a reminder that something inside him was coming undone.

Sleep was a distant memory.

Lying down only made the pain worse, his body wracked with discomfort no matter how he shifted. His mind was foggy, slow, his thoughts tangled in exhaustion.

He barely reacted when Choi Han placed a hand on his shoulder one evening, concern clear in his dark eyes.

"Cale-nim," Choi Han murmured, his grip steady but gentle. "You're unwell."

Cale laughed, tilting his head. "Unwell? I'm always like this."

Choi Han frowned. "No. This is different."

Damn it.

Cale shook off his touch with an easy smile, stretching his arms lazily. "You're imagining things, Choi Han."

"I'm not."

Choi Han's voice was firm, unwavering. Cale could feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and watchful, much like Alberu’s, much like Ron’s.

They were noticing.

Cale turned away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Stop worrying. Everything’s fine."

Everything was not fine.

But he couldn’t let them know that.

Not when they were finally happy.

Not when they deserved peace.

Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

Years of pushing himself beyond his limits had finally caught up.

But what did it matter?

There was no more war. No more battles. No more enemies lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opening. If his body collapsed now, it wouldn’t change anything.

He had done his part.

He had fought.

He had won.

And wasn’t this what he had always wanted? To rest?

Then why did every breath feel heavier than the last?

Cale exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his aching chest. His heartbeat felt sluggish, heavy, as if his body itself was weighed down by something unseen. His head throbbed, his limbs ached, and his stomach twisted with a deep, relentless pain.

Rest.

He had finally earned it.

So why did it feel like he was drowning?

He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to chase away the exhaustion clouding his mind. His ancient powers murmured in the back of his thoughts, their voices a tangled mix of concern and frustration.

"You ignored us."

"You ignored yourself."

"Do you think peace means you don’t have to take care of yourself?"

Cale scoffed under his breath. If his powers had the ability to throttle him, they probably would have done so by now.

He knew he was getting worse.

The signs were no longer subtle.

His vision blurred at random moments, a dizzy haze creeping into his mind when he stood too quickly. His hands trembled when he held a teacup, his grip weak no matter how much he tried to steady it.

Food was a battle. Every bite was a struggle, his body rejecting anything he tried to force down. His stomach lurched at the mere thought of eating, nausea crawling up his throat until he had no choice but to push his plate away, uneaten.

Sleep was impossible.

Every time he closed his eyes, pain gnawed at him, twisting deep into his bones. His body refused to find comfort, shifting restlessly no matter what position he lay in.

He had been exhausted before. He had pushed himself beyond limits most people would never even consider.

But this was different.

This wasn’t just exhaustion.

This was his body breaking apart, piece by piece.

And yet—

Cale ran a hand through his messy red hair, staring blankly at the ceiling of his room.

He couldn’t let them know.

He wouldn’t.

"Human, you didn't eat again!"

Raon’s voice was sharp with concern, his small body hovering at Cale’s side, blue eyes narrowed.

Cale glanced at the untouched plate of food in front of him and forced a lazy smile. "I'm just not hungry right now, Raon."

Raon huffed, tail flicking in irritation. "You said that yesterday! And the day before!"

Cale exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I'll eat later."

Another lie.

Raon glared at him for a long moment, then turned to On and Hong, who were sitting nearby. "Ong, Hong! Make sure the human eats!"

Ong tilted her head, her sharp golden eyes studying Cale. "Cale, are you feeling unwell?"

Cale forced an easy chuckle. "Unwell? No way."

Lies.

Hong sniffed the air, his ears twitching slightly. "You smell different," he murmured. "Like… like something's wrong."

Cale stiffened.

Damn beastmen senses.

He covered his reaction quickly, waving a hand lazily. "You're imagining things, Hong."

Hong frowned, his tail curling in suspicion. "I'm not imagining it."

Raon stomped his little paw against the table, wings fluttering in frustration. "Human! Stop lying! You’re sick, aren't you?!"

Cale sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm fine, Raon. Really."

He wasn’t.

Not even close.

But they didn’t need to know that.

He reached out, ruffling Raon’s head, ignoring the worried expression on the dragon’s face. "You worry too much."

Raon puffed up in frustration. "I have to! Because you never take care of yourself!"

Cale chuckled, standing up from his seat. "I'll be fine."

Another lie.

And as he walked away, he could feel their eyes on him.

Watching.

Worried.

Damn it.

Night came, and with it, the pain.

Cale curled in on himself, his hands clenched into tight fists as he forced himself to stay silent. His body ached, a deep, burning pain spreading through his limbs. His stomach twisted sharply, nausea rising until he barely made it to the washbasin in time.

He coughed, a sharp, ragged sound that echoed in the silent room.

Then—Blood.

Dark red splattered against the white porcelain, staining his trembling fingers.

Cale stared at it for a long moment, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

More.

He coughed again, harder this time, and more blood dripped from his lips, pooling in the basin below. His body shuddered, pain lancing through him with brutal intensity.

For a second, just a second, he thought—

(I might actually die like this.)

Then he pushed the thought away.

(No. Not yet.)

Not when his family was finally happy.

Not when they were finally at peace.

He wiped the blood from his lips, forcing himself to stand. His legs trembled beneath him, but he caught himself against the wall, steadying his breath.

He could endure this.

He had endured worse.

Tomorrow would be fine.

Tomorrow, he would smile.

Tomorrow, he would keep pretending.

Even if it killed him.

Morning came sluggishly, dragging behind it the weight of exhaustion and pain.

Cale’s body protested as he shifted, sore muscles aching from another sleepless night. His head pounded, his throat was dry, and his stomach twisted violently at the mere thought of food. He had spent the night hunched over a washbasin, coughing up blood and bile, his body rejecting everything.

Still, he had to act normal.

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Before he could fully sit up, he realized something was wrong.

He wasn’t alone.

On one side of his bed sat Ong, her sharp golden eyes studying him with quiet intensity. Hong was on his other side, his tail flicking against the sheets, his red eyes filled with something that looked too much like concern.

And at the foot of his bed—

Raon, hovering with his wings slightly spread, looking down at him with an expression that was both worried and determined.

Cale’s lips parted to say something—anything—but before he could, he noticed the tray of food resting on his lap.

His stomach churned.

Before he could even attempt to push it away, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Young master, you should eat before it gets cold.”

Cale’s eyes snapped to the side of the room, where Ron stood, his usual pleasant smile in place—but there was an edge to it. A quiet, knowing sharpness that sent a chill down Cale’s spine.

He wasn’t alone in noticing the tension in the air.

Ong and Hong weren’t letting him escape.

Raon was glaring at him.

And then there was Choi Han.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his dark eyes unreadable.

Cale resisted the urge to groan.

He was trapped.

The food sat heavily on his lap, an unavoidable presence. His body already rejected everything he ate, and forcing it down would only end in another miserable night hunched over a washbasin.

But there was no way out of this.

Ong’s ears twitched. “Eat, Cale.”

Hong tilted his head. “You always make us eat properly. It’s your turn now.”

Cale swallowed, forcing himself to keep his face blank. “I’m not—”

“Don’t even think about lying!” Raon huffed, his blue eyes narrowing. “You always do this! You always say you’re fine when you’re not! We’re not letting you get away with it today!”

Ron stepped forward, silent as a shadow, and reached for the tray. “Shall I feed you, Young Master?”

Cale flinched. Hell no.

He grabbed the spoon before Ron could make good on that terrifying threat.

“I can eat by myself,” he muttered, forcing a lazy smirk onto his face.

Raon’s expression remained skeptical, but the little dragon allowed it, watching him like a hawk.

Choi Han still hadn’t said a word.

Cale exhaled slowly, looking down at the bowl of porridge. This shouldn’t be hard. Just eat a few bites and they’ll leave me alone.

He forced himself to lift the spoon to his mouth.

The first bite was manageable. Warm. Soft. It slid down his throat without much issue, and for a moment, he thought he might be able to do this.

Then came the second bite.

And the third.

By the fourth, his stomach twisted violently.

Cale clenched his jaw, setting the spoon down as casually as he could, acting as though he were simply pausing to take his time.

But Ron noticed.

Ong noticed.

Hong’s ears twitched. “You stopped.”

Cale picked the spoon up again, forcing another bite down even as nausea rolled through him.

His fingers trembled slightly as he set the spoon back down again, feigning nonchalance.

“Young master.”

Ron’s voice was light, pleasant. Too pleasant.

“You should finish your meal.”

Cale’s grip tightened around the spoon.

If he ate more, he would throw up.

If he refused, they would push harder.

A sharp, familiar pain burned at the back of his throat. Not now. Not in front of them.

He set the spoon down, leaning back slightly. “I’ll eat later.”

Hong frowned. “You always say that.”

Ong narrowed her eyes. “And you never do.”

Cale let out an exaggerated sigh, shifting under their gazes. “no, I don't..”

Raon’s tail slammed against the bed. “Liar!”

Cale winced.

Choi Han finally moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Cale’s face.

“You can’t hide it forever.”

Cale stiffened.

Choi Han’s voice was quiet, but there was something heavy in it. Something sharp.

Ron’s pleasant smile never wavered. “It is unlike you to refuse food so persistently, Young Master.”

Cale forced a tired chuckle, trying to lean back. “You’re all overreacting.”

Another lie.

And they all knew it.

Choi Han sat on the edge of the bed, studying Cale with unnerving patience. “What’s wrong?”

Cale swallowed the immediate denial that tried to escape his lips.

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

His body. His exhaustion. The way pain curled into his bones and refused to let go.

But he couldn’t say that.

Not now. Not ever.

“I told you, I’m fine.” He smiled lazily, shifting to stand up. “I think I’ll—”

The moment he moved, his vision swam.

The room tilted, and his stomach lurched violently.

He barely had time to push himself off the bed before his body gave out.

The tray clattered to the floor.

And then—

He collapsed.

Pain exploded in his skull as he hit the ground, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His limbs felt like lead, his stomach twisting violently. A sharp, bitter taste flooded his mouth, and he barely turned his head before—

Blood.

He coughed, a thick, wet sound, crimson spilling onto the floor.

The room spun around him, voices shouting—too loud, too much—

A hand gripped his shoulder, steady but firm. Choi Han.

Ron was already kneeling beside him, his face unreadable, his usual pleasant mask replaced with something dark, something furious.

Raon was shouting something, his voice trembling.

On and Hong looked frozen, eyes wide in horror.

Cale tried to speak.

Tried to say something, anything.

But his vision blurred, his breath shuddering—

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Cale hated it.

Hated waking up to the worried looks. Hated the way they hovered, watching his every move. Hated how they noticed.

He had been so careful.

So why did they have to see?

His body was his own. His pain was his own.

It wasn’t supposed to be their burden.

Yet now, after collapsing in front of them, he was trapped under their suffocating concern.

He could still hear Raon’s panicked cries. Could still feel Choi Han’s arms around him, steady but trembling. Could still see the blood staining the floor, the way Ron’s usually unreadable expression had darkened.

And Eruhaben—

Cale closed his eyes.

The golden dragon had looked furious. Not at him, but at the situation. At the fact that his healing had done nothing.

That had been days ago.

Now, Cale was awake. Alive. Stuck.

---

He got better at hiding it.

They watched him too closely during the day, so he adapted.

He drank when they weren’t looking—just a little, just enough to make the thoughts slow, to make the pain dull.

He stayed out of sight, taking walks at night when the others were asleep.

His body still ached, but the fresh air helped.

It had to be enough.

---

The first night he tried to slip out, he barely made it past his door before Ron was there.

“Going somewhere, young master?”

Cale forced a lazy smile. “Just getting some air.”

Ron said nothing, but his eyes flickered, sharp and knowing.

Cale walked past him anyway.

Ron didn’t stop him.

But when Cale returned, the old butler was still there, waiting.

---

The second night, Choi Han found him.

Cale had been sitting outside, looking at the stars, when a shadow moved beside him.

“Cale-nim.”

Cale sighed. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Cale didn’t answer.

Choi Han sat down next to him, quiet as always.

They stayed like that for a while.

Then Choi Han spoke.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Cale stiffened.

He turned, lazily lifting an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Choi Han didn’t look at him. His hands curled into fists.

“You know what I mean.”

Cale smiled. “I really don’t.”

Choi Han finally looked at him, eyes dark with something Cale didn’t want to name.

“You collapsed.”

Cale shrugged. “It happens.”

Choi Han clenched his jaw.

“You were coughing up blood.”

Cale tilted his head, feigning boredom. “And?”

Choi Han’s hands trembled.

“Cale-nim.”

There was something desperate in his voice.

Cale looked away.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Cale sighed. “Then what do you want me to say?”

“That you need help.”

Cale scoffed. “I don’t.”

Choi Han inhaled sharply.

“You’re in pain.”

Cale didn’t respond.

Choi Han continued.

“You barely eat. You barely sleep. You hide how much it hurts.” His voice was low but steady. “You think we don’t see it, but we do.”

Cale stared at the sky.

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

Choi Han exhaled, long and slow.

Then, softly—

“You don’t have to be.”

Cale closed his eyes.

---

He got better at dodging them after that.

Ron, Choi Han, Rosalyn, Alberu—he avoided them when he could.

Even Raon, who clung to him like a shadow, was easier to slip away from when the dragon was distracted by On and Hong.

Cale didn’t want their concern.

Didn’t need it.

He had survived worse.

A little pain was nothing.

---

But the pain didn’t stop.

It got worse.

Some nights, he barely managed to make it back to his room before his legs gave out.

Some nights, the coughing was so bad he had to bite down on his sleeve to keep from making noise.

Some nights, he wondered if he’d wake up at all.

---

One night, he didn’t make it back.

He had wandered farther than usual, his body weak, his head heavy.

The air was cool, the stars distant.

Then the dizziness hit.

His knees buckled.

The pain flared, sharp and unbearable.

His vision blurred.

He barely registered the sound of footsteps before he collapsed.

Strong arms caught him.

A familiar voice cursed.

Then—darkness.

---

When Cale woke up, he wasn’t in his room.

He was somewhere warmer, softer.

Blinking slowly, he turned his head.

Choi Han sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes dark.

Cale sighed.

“Really?”

Choi Han didn’t respond.

Cale shifted, trying to sit up—

Pain.

He barely managed to suppress a wince, but Choi Han caught it anyway.

His expression didn’t change.

“You collapsed.”

Cale looked away. “I’m fine.”

Choi Han’s voice was cold.

“No. You’re not.”

Cale sighed. “It’s not that bad.”

Choi Han inhaled sharply.

“You almost didn’t wake up.”

Cale stilled.

Choi Han leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm.

“You keep pushing yourself.” His fists clenched. “You keep acting like none of this matters. Like you don’t matter.”

Cale looked at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“I—”

Choi Han didn’t let him finish.

“We are your family, Cale-nim.”

Cale froze.

Choi Han’s voice shook.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Cale swallowed.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to say.

And when the nightmares came—bloody battlefields, the weight of corpses, the suffocating pressure of expectations—he suffered through them in silence.

The first time he woke up gasping for breath, sweat clinging to his skin, he thought it was just a fluke. Just his body catching up to everything.

The second time, he pressed his hand against his chest, feeling his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs, and reminded himself it wasn’t real.

The third time, he bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood, desperate not to wake anyone up.

And the fourth—

The fourth time, he didn’t wake up alone.

---

“Cale-nim.”

A quiet voice called to him, gentle but firm.

Cale jerked awake, his body tense, his breath ragged. The ghost of pain lingered in his chest, as if his own body refused to let go of whatever haunted him in his sleep.

The room was dim, the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Beside him, Choi Han sat, worry etched into every part of him. His brows were furrowed, his eyes dark and searching.

Cale swallowed, forcing his breath to steady.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice came out rough, hoarse from sleep.

Choi Han didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied him, taking in the tremble in Cale’s fingers, the way his body curled in on itself.

“You were having a nightmare,” he finally said.

Cale exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So?”

Choi Han’s gaze didn’t waver. “You sounded like you were in pain.”

Cale frowned.

He didn’t remember making a sound.

Had he—

Had he been loud enough for Choi Han to hear?

(Annoying.)

Cale sighed, rubbing at his temple. “It’s nothing.”

Choi Han’s jaw tightened.

“Cale-nim.”

Cale ignored the way his name sounded—firm, steady, worried.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Choi Han said quietly.

Cale lifted an eyebrow. “Because it’s true.”

Choi Han’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Is it?”

Cale’s patience was wearing thin. “Choi Han, I don’t need you to—”

“Lie to me, then.”

Cale paused.

Choi Han’s voice was calm, steady, but there was something underneath it. Something desperate.

“Tell me you’re not in pain.”

Cale’s fingers twitched.

“Tell me you’re sleeping well.”

Cale looked away.

“Tell me you aren’t exhausted, that you don’t feel like collapsing every time you stand.”

Cale’s breath hitched.

Silence settled between them, heavy, suffocating.

Then Choi Han exhaled, long and slow.

“I just—” His voice wavered. “I just want you to let us help.”

Cale closed his eyes.

Help.

What a useless thing.

But—

The way Choi Han was looking at him, the way his voice trembled—

It reminded Cale too much of before.

Of how they had all followed him through battle after battle.

Of how they had watched him bleed and never once turned away.

Of how they had all believed in him, even when he never believed in himself.

Cale sighed.

He leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion creeping into his bones.

“…I don’t know how,” he admitted.

Choi Han stilled.

Cale let his eyes drift shut. “I don’t know how to stop.”

He didn’t know how to stop fighting.

Didn’t know how to stop pretending.

Didn’t know how to let himself just be.

Choi Han’s voice was softer this time.

“Then let us show you.”

Cale didn’t answer.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t push Choi Han away.

Chapter Text

Cale woke with a start, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest ached, a sharp, suffocating pressure squeezing his lungs. His hands trembled violently, his fingers curled into the sheets as he tried to steady himself.

He clenched his jaw, biting down hard to suppress the sound bubbling up in his throat. He couldn’t wake anyone up. He wouldn’t.

His body wouldn’t stop shaking. His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he was back on the battlefield—blood pooling beneath his feet, the scent of iron thick in the air, the screams—

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus.

He pressed his trembling fingers to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut.

(Stop. It’s over. It’s not real.)

But his body refused to listen.

His stomach churned, nausea crawling up his throat. He sucked in a breath, but it didn’t reach his lungs. He felt lightheaded, like the ground was slipping away beneath him.

His hands spasmed again.

Cale bit down on his knuckles, hard enough to draw blood.

The sharp sting brought a moment of focus, but it wasn’t enough. The shaking continued, his pulse still erratic.

(Too much. It’s too much.)

He needed something—anything—to make it stop.

His hand fumbled in the dark, blindly reaching for something solid. His fingers brushed against cool metal. A dagger.

He grabbed it without hesitation.

Without thinking, he dragged the blade across his arm.

The pain was sharp, biting, real.

His breath hitched, and then—

Then, he exhaled.

The world steadied, the suffocating haze lifting just enough for him to think.

For the first time in weeks, he could breathe.

---

The pain was grounding.

It pulled him back from the edge, away from the ghosts of the past clinging to him like a second skin.

Cale sat in the darkness, his back pressed against the headboard, staring at the thin line of red welling up on his skin. The wound wasn’t deep, just a shallow cut—just enough to chase away the shaking.

Just enough to remind himself that he was still here.

(Still alive. Still breathing. Still—)

His stomach twisted.

Cale let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

How pathetic.

After surviving war, after tearing through battlefields and carrying the weight of so many lives, this was what he had been reduced to?

A broken body, a restless mind, and the inability to function without feeling like he was falling apart?

(Annoying.)

It was so annoying.

Cale tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. His arm stung, but he ignored it, letting the warmth of his own blood seep into the sheets.

He could already hear Raon scolding him if he saw this.

He could imagine Choi Han’s expression—tight-lipped and unreadable but filled with that kind of worry, the kind Cale hated.

And Ron—

Cale sighed.

Ron would say nothing.

Ron would simply look at him, calm and knowing, like he saw right through him.

Like he already knew.

A shiver ran down Cale’s spine.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t.

He had already worried them enough.

He pressed his palm over the wound, waiting until the bleeding slowed. Then, he reached for the handkerchief by his bedside, wrapping it around his arm with practiced ease.

The cut wasn’t deep. It would heal quickly.

By morning, no one would notice.

(Just like always.)

Cale leaned back, exhaustion settling into his bones. His body still ached, his head still pounded, but at least—

At least the shaking had stopped.

At least he could rest.

For now.

Just for now.

The wind was gentle, rustling through the leaves of a grand tree. The sunlight peeked through the branches, dappling the ground in soft golden hues. Beneath the shade of the mighty tree, a woman sat, her red hair gleaming like fire in the afternoon sun. In her lap sat a young boy, his small fingers curling against the fabric of her dress.

The boy—Cale—leaned against his mother, his head resting against her shoulder as she read to him from an old, worn book. Her voice was soft, weaving through the words like a lullaby, soothing and warm.

"You will grow to be loved."

Her voice carried the weight of a promise, as if she were whispering a blessing upon her beloved son.

Cale blinked. The words felt strange, as if they didn’t belong to him.

"But you will die in despair."

His tiny fingers twitched. His mother’s voice did not falter, yet a deep sadness swirled in her warm eyes.

"Reach for your mother's hand for peace."

Cale felt the gentle brush of her fingers against his cheek, a touch so light it almost wasn’t there.

"You will not die in vain."

The young boy did not understand.

He looked up at his mother, confusion flickering in his bright, childlike eyes. Her lips curled into a gentle smile, but there was sorrow behind it—an ache buried beneath warmth.

Cale's small hands tightened around the fabric of her dress.

"Mother," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "What do those words mean?"

She did not answer right away. Instead, she closed the book, setting it aside. Her delicate fingers brushed through his red hair, her touch soft and lingering.

"It means that you are loved," she said simply, as if that was all that mattered.

Cale frowned.

"But—"

She placed a finger to his lips.

"Shh. No more questions, my love." She chuckled, tilting her head slightly. "You always think too much for a child."

She reached out and gently took his small hands in hers.

"Just listen to me, Cale." Her voice was light, affectionate. "No matter what happens in life, know this—you are my beloved son, and you will never be alone."

Cale stared at her.

Something deep inside him ached.

He didn't know why.

The scene was so peaceful, so warm. The light danced around them, the leaves swayed gently, and his mother smiled at him like he was her entire world.

And yet—

A deep, unshakable sadness filled his chest.

It felt wrong.

Like something had been lost. Like something was slipping away.

The child Cale held tightly onto his mother’s hands, but as he did, the warmth began to fade. The fingers that held him so gently were becoming transparent.

"Mother?"

She still smiled.

Even as her figure flickered like a candle’s flame.

Even as she began to disappear before his eyes.

Cale’s breath hitched.

"Wait—"

She raised her hand, brushing his hair back one last time.

"Don't be afraid, my love," she whispered. "Even if you don’t remember, even if you don't understand—"

Her fingers touched his cheek.

"I will always love you."

The world began to dissolve.

The tree. The light. The warmth of her arms.

It all faded.

Cale reached out, grasping at nothing.

"No—!"

And then—

He woke up.

---

Cale gasped, his body jerking awake. His chest heaved as he sucked in air, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs.

The room was dark, the only sound being the harsh breaths escaping his lips. He sat there, frozen in place, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a ghost.

His hands trembled.

Slowly, he raised them, staring at his fingers as if they were foreign.

They were empty.

(Just a dream.)

He swallowed. His throat was dry.

His mother's voice still echoed in his ears. Her warmth still lingered on his skin.

But it wasn’t real.

It was never real.

Because she was never his mother.

His hands curled into fists, the sharp sting from his earlier wound grounding him in reality.

He was an orphan. Never knowing the meaning of being loved at such young age..

That poor orphan was beaten.

The orphan that was falling to loneliness.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

(How envious… to have a mother like the original Cale.)

He tilted his head back, exhaling slowly. His body still ached. The exhaustion still pulled at him, heavier than before.

But the dream—

It left something behind.

Something deep in his chest.

Something he didn’t understand.

He didn’t want to understand.

Cale closed his eyes.

He was so tired.

But even as sleep tried to claim him again, he knew—

That warmth was not something he will ever deserve.

Not in this life.

Not in any life.

"I don't deserve to be loved." Cale slowly whisper to himself.

Cale has fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

The collapse happened without warning.

One moment, Cale was sitting in a strategy meeting with Alberu—papers spread across the table, his back straight and face unreadable. He nodded at the appropriate points, offered brief suggestions when asked, and stared blankly at a document he hadn’t really read.

The next, the world tilted.

His vision fractured like broken glass, his limbs went slack, and a high-pitched ringing drowned out Alberu's voice.

Then—darkness.

Voices called out to him—urgent, panicked—but they were too far away, too muffled. Hands gripped his arms, his shoulders, someone called his name like a desperate prayer. A cool wash of magic pressed against his skin, familiar and golden—Eruhaben. But Cale’s body, in its cruel, habitual defense, rejected it. His innate magic nullification flared weakly, denying even the help meant to save him.

Everything slipped away.

---

He woke to the sound of sobbing. Not loud, but broken. Gut-wrenching.

Warmth curled beside him—small and trembling.

“Raon…”

His voice was barely a whisper, a wisp of air that didn’t even reach the child's ears.

“You promised,” the little dragon cried, his voice thick with anguish. “You said we’d rest together! That we’d play! That we’d eat cake and sleep and go on adventures again!”

Cale’s heart cracked at the sound. He wanted to reach out, to pull Raon close and soothe him, to smile and say something sarcastic—anything—but his body refused to obey. His arms felt like lead, every muscle aching as if he’d been thrown back onto the battlefield.

His lungs burned with every shallow breath.

“I didn’t mean to break it…” Cale thought faintly, the pain in his chest not just physical now. I just didn’t want anyone to worry.

Ron’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Eat.”

A spoon pressed against his lips. Cale wanted to resist on instinct, to insist he wasn’t hungry, to tell them not to fuss—but he couldn’t muster even that much.

The spoon slipped into his mouth, and he swallowed mechanically. Tasteless. Cold. Meaningless.

But he swallowed again when the next bite came.

And again.

Ron’s eyes didn’t leave him for a second. Not his hands. Not his face. Nothing escaped the old man’s gaze.

Rosalyn was sitting in the corner, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her lips drawn in a pale line. Alberu stood behind her, silent, his jaw tight with tension.

Choi Han…

Cale could sense him right outside the door. Standing guard. Silent. Loyal. The weight of his presence was unmistakable.

They didn’t leave him alone now.

Someone was always in the room.

Raon barely left his side, curling against him like a terrified child clinging to what little warmth he could find.

Ron fed him every meal, even if Cale could only take two bites before his stomach revolted.

Alberu came in the mornings, trying to talk politics but giving up halfway through and just… sitting there. Watching.

Rosalyn whispered with Eruhaben in the halls, their magic flaring faintly every so often, like they were trying to understand something that refused to make sense.

None of them said it aloud.

But Cale knew.

They had realized the truth.

He had spent too long pretending.

Too many days smiling when his hands shook beneath the table. Too many nights coughing blood into the sink and washing it away like a secret shame. Too many moments biting down pain, convincing himself that if he ignored it, it would go away.

But it never did.

It only got worse.

And now, his body was failing.

Piece by piece.

Silent. Unforgiving.

He could feel it.

The way his bones ached, not with the sharpness of injury, but the dull, cold weight of something deeper. The way his vision blurred too often. How he could sleep for hours and still wake up exhausted.

And the cold.

Gods, he was always cold.

He shivered beneath the blankets even when the fire roared in the hearth. His fingertips never warmed, and his breath came out thin.

(Just rest, they said.)

But rest did nothing now.

And when he looked at Raon’s tear-streaked face… when he saw the silent rage in Ron’s eyes… when Alberu refused to meet his gaze…

Something inside Cale broke.

He had been so careful.

So careful.

(Why… why did they have to find out?)

“I didn’t want this,” he thought numbly. “I just wanted peace.”

But peace… it came with a price.

And now they were the ones paying it.

Raon’s hiccupping breaths.

Ron’s stern silence.

Choi Han’s sleepless nights.

He hadn’t meant for this.

He hadn’t wanted them to suffer, too.

A hand touched his, so small and trembling it nearly went unnoticed.

Raon.

“I’m sorry,” the little dragon whispered. “I should have noticed sooner. I should’ve…”

Cale’s eyes fluttered closed. His throat tightened.

He wanted to say, No, you’re just a child. It wasn’t your fault.

But no sound came.

Only the crushing silence of helplessness.

They were watching him die.

Slowly.

Painfully.

And he… he didn’t know if he could stop it this time.

But even as the cold claimed him again, even as his breath rattled in his lungs—

He swore to himself:

Just a little longer.

Just one more day.

If only to see them smile again.

Raon’s tiny paws glowed with magic, trembling as he pressed them against Cale’s chest.

“Don’t move, human,” he whispered, his voice shaking as the golden light sparked. “I’ll make it better… I’ll fix it…”

Cale didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, even though the moment the healing magic touched him, his insides screamed in agony. His body jerked instinctively, rejecting the power like a poisoned well spitting out clean water. Raon immediately pulled back, horror written all over his small face.

“No… no, no, no… why didn’t it work?” Raon’s voice cracked as he backed away, shaking his head as tears welled up. “I’m strong! I’m the strongest dragon! I—”

“It’s alright,” Cale interrupted softly, reaching out with a trembling hand to gently pat Raon’s head. The action was weak, barely more than a brush, but it made Raon stop shaking for a second.

“I’m just… tired,” Cale said with that same smile—the one he used to trick, to deflect, to hide. “I just want to sleep. That’s all.”

Raon’s eyes welled with more tears. “But you promised…”

“I know.” Cale closed his eyes. “Just a little nap.”

Rosalyn’s magic crackled next to him, her hands outstretched, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she tried to analyze the chaotic currents running through his body. Her magic brushed against the surface of his skin, only to be swallowed up and scattered by the ancient powers that coiled within him like frenzied serpents. The harder she tried, the more erratic the powers became, as if they were panicking, resisting any intrusion.

“It’s not working…” she whispered, horrified. “He’s—he’s rejecting everything.”

“Stop,” Cale murmured. “It hurts more when you do.”

She froze. Then she did as he asked.

Silence fell over the room like a weighted blanket.

Cale leaned back, sinking into the pillows. His limbs were heavy, his chest tight. His body was screaming at him in so many ways that he’d long since stopped cataloging the symptoms.

When he finally drifted off—he thought it was sleep, though it felt too light, too empty—he found himself not in darkness or pain but in sunlight.

Soft grass brushed his fingertips. The air was warm. A breeze carried the scent of flowers and fresh earth.

And then he heard laughter.

Tiny, carefree, like wind chimes in spring. A child’s laugh.

He turned.

He was small again—he knew it instinctively, the way a dream tells you truths without words. His hands were no longer scarred and calloused, but tiny and smooth. His red hair fell into his eyes as he looked up to see a woman with the same shade—rich, vibrant, cascading in waves down her back.

Jour.

The original Cale’s mother.

She sat under the wide canopy of a tree, sunlight dappled through the leaves onto her pale skin and gentle smile. A book lay open in her lap, forgotten for the moment as she watched him—her son—gather flowers in the field.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she called gently, reaching out with open arms.

Cale—no, not Cale, but the child version of the original—ran to her with a crown of clover flowers in hand, and she leaned down, letting him place it on her head.

“Does it look nice, Mama?”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re my perfect little prince.”

He watched them as if from far away, yet he was the child. He felt the warmth of her arms, the tenderness of her voice. He sat in her lap as she began to read, the rise and fall of her voice weaving a world of safety and wonder around them.

“You will grow to be loved,” she said as she turned the page.

“But you will die in despair.”

The sentence made him freeze.

He looked up, startled—but she wasn’t looking at the book anymore. Her gaze was distant, sad.

“Reach for your mother’s hand for peace,” she murmured, brushing his cheek with her fingers.

“You will not die in vain.”
"You are your mother son."

He didn’t know if it was the dream that changed, or his own fractured consciousness surfacing, but suddenly he wasn’t the child anymore.

He was himself—kim rok so, body aching, soul weary, eyes wide as he looked into Jour’s gaze.

And she saw him.

Not the original Cale. Him.

The one who had taken her son’s place.

“I…” He opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say. “I’m sorry. I’m not…”

But she just shook her head, placing a finger to his lips.

“You took care of them, didn’t you?”

His breath hitched.

“You bore pain, wore it like armor,” she said, her eyes soft and sad. “You lived in his name, in his place. You protected them all.”

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.

“I could not save my son… but thank you… for saving his world.”

Cale felt his chest crack open—grief, pain, and something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: forgiveness.

She wrapped her arms around him, cradling him to her chest like a child.

“Rest,” she whispered. “Just for now.”

And in that dream, that fragile illusion stitched together by his splintering mind, he allowed himself to do just that.

To rest. To be held. To be loved.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Even if it was just a dream.

Because even a dream of a mother’s love… was more peace than he had ever known.

Chapter Text

A month passed.

Cale played along.

He ate when they watched, forcing each bite past the lump in his throat. He slept when they hovered, even if it was only to close his eyes and pretend for hours. He smiled when they worried, lips twitching up into something that barely passed for comfort.

But at night, when the mansion fell into silence and only the distant rustle of trees filled the air, Cale stared at the ceiling.

He felt like a prisoner in his own skin. His body, once sharp with tension and purpose, now felt sluggish, foreign. The smallest movements sent aches echoing through his limbs. His chest was always tight, breath shallow, heart unsteady.

He was alive. He knew that. But he didn’t understand why.

There was no war left to fight.

No fire to put out.

No danger creeping up from the shadows, no world waiting to be saved.

He had done it. Everything. All of it. He had suffered and bled, torn through enemy lines, made impossible decisions, sacrificed sleep, health, blood, and soul—for peace. And now it was here. But Cale wasn’t.

Not really.

His purpose had always been tied to conflict. To stopping disaster. To fixing things. But now, in the quiet of this victory, he found nothing left for his hands to hold.

So why was he still alive?

The thought clung to him like rot. It grew in the shadows of his mind, wrapped around his ribs, coiled in his lungs. He tried to ignore it at first, tried to bury it beneath mission reports and restoration plans. But it was always there. Whispering.

(You’re useless now.)

(They don’t need you anymore.)

(You should have died back then. That would have made more sense.)

One night, long after Raon had curled beside his bed and drifted to sleep, after Ron’s footsteps had passed his door and even Choi Han’s quiet watch had faded into stillness, Cale rose.

He moved slowly, every bone in his body aching. He walked barefoot through the quiet halls until he reached the balcony.

The wind was cool against his skin. The stars overhead blinked softly in a sea of darkness. The world below stretched out peacefully. No fires. No smoke. Just quiet.

He stepped closer to the edge.

The stone railing was cold beneath his palms as he gripped it. The wind played with his hair, lifting it gently. He closed his eyes, breathing in deep for the first time that day.

It would be so easy to let go.

There was no war now.

No expectations.

No role he had to play.

He had given everything. He had nothing left to give.

So why?

Why was he still here?

He lifted one hand, fingers splayed, palm facing the moonlight. It trembled slightly. He stared at it, not knowing what he wanted to see. Maybe proof that he was still human. Still real. Still Cale.

But what stared back was pale and thin. The hand of someone who had given too much.

He held it higher, like he was reaching.

And for just a moment, he imagined another hand taking his. Warm. Gentle. Feminine.

Jour.

The red-haired woman from his dreams. The one with the sad smile and kind eyes. The one who had sat beneath a tree, reading stories and weaving flower crowns with her son.

[You will grow to be loved, she had said in the dream.

But you will die in despair.

Reach for your mother's hand for peace.

You will not die in vain.]

Those words echoed now, soft as wind chimes.

He could almost feel her hand holding his. Her fingers curling around his trembling ones.

And something shifted in his chest.

He didn’t know if it was hope or grief. He didn’t know if it was real or just another lie his mind told to survive.

But for that moment, he closed his eyes and let it anchor him.

He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe never. But that phantom warmth, that tiny fragment of comfort, was enough to steady him.

Slowly, he lowered his hand.

Turned back toward the hallway.

And walked.

His steps were heavier, his body screaming for rest, but he made it back to his room. Back to Raon, curled into the blankets with his little tail twitching.

Cale sat on the edge of the bed. The silence pressed in again, but it no longer felt like suffocation. It felt like waiting.

Waiting for an answer.

Waiting for peace.

He slipped under the covers and let his eyes close.

And this time, he slept without pain.

For the first time in a month, the darkness didn’t swallow him whole.

For the first time, he reached back.

For the hand that held his.

And for a moment, the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he believed—

Was enough.

Cale had another dream.

It began like the others: soft, distant, wrapped in warmth.

He was small again—barely taller than Jour’s knee. His hair was tousled by the wind, his cheeks plump with youth. He ran, laughing, his little legs carrying him across the sunlit field. The sky was blue, the air light. But as he sprinted too fast in his excitement to reach her, his foot caught a root buried in the grass. He tumbled forward, hitting the earth with a small thud.

The pain was sharp, but the embarrassment sharper. Tears welled in his eyes before he could think to hold them back. A bruised knee, scraped palms, and the crushing ache of wanting to be comforted.

Then arms—soft, warm, and familiar—scooped him up. The scent of books and flowers filled his senses. Jour held him close, whispering soothing nothings as she carried him back beneath the shade of their favorite tree.

“There, there, my little star,” she murmured, sitting him on her lap and brushing his hair back. “Let Mama make it better.”

She began to hum, her voice clear as water and hauntingly beautiful. And then, she sang:

"Pain go away and pass down the other~ Worry and regrets fade away to the other~

Stars that die, shall fall with a smile, Creating a beautiful night for their love, All the pain and suffering will be offered to sacrifice the other~"

Young Cale sniffled as the melody washed over him. Her voice painted images in his mind: stars falling with grace, not tragedy. Pain becoming something meaningful—not just agony, but a gift, a sacrifice for someone else’s peace.

And as the song wove through the dream, something strange happened.

Krs!Cale—older, broken, weary—began to experience the verses as truths.

"Like waterfall, you cry and cry until you make up a sea for your lost love…"

He stood alone in the void, his body grown and aching. The sea at his feet shimmered not with moonlight, but with countless tears shed in silence. The ache in his chest from too many nights alone. From never saying anything. From pretending.

"Cry, cry little love… create the wish that your other is wanting."

He reached out into the void. There was no one there. Only the echo of himself, of wishes he never voiced. The want to rest. The desire to be held. The desperate scream for someone to just understand without him needing to explain.

"Let these tears down to show your hidden deep suffering. Lock the book with locks and chains to never let it be read and open... hiding it forever in the deep ocean."

The ocean swelled. A book—heavy, ancient—floated before him. Its cover was cracked, its spine worn. Chains bound it tightly, the locks rusted with age. He knew what it was. He knew what was inside.

His pain. His truth. Every moment he smiled and said he was fine. Every time he vomited blood in silence. Every time he laid awake, haunted by ghosts, and told Raon not to worry.

No one had read this book.

Not because they didn’t want to.

But because he never let them.

"They leave and leave and come back for their needs. You give and give for their want for them to leave. Again."

Images flooded his mind—missions, war rooms, dying soldiers. Krs giving orders. Cale giving up blood. Cale always giving. Always sacrificing.

Why?

Because he could. Because no one else would. Because it was easier to bleed for others than to let them see him cry.

"Sacrifice, sacrifice everything. Love, love until the heart is broken and destroyed with the coldness and void that can't be filled."

He saw himself from afar—sitting beside Raon, patting his head. Grinning at Alberu during meetings. Teasing Ron. Laughing with Choi Han.

And yet behind it all, that hollow space inside of him remained untouched. A void, a silence no amount of love from others could seem to reach. Because he never let it.

Because he was too afraid to.

"Run to your mother's arms to feel the need of comfort, to only wrap yourself on your own, for your own comfort."

The warmth of Jour’s embrace returned, but this time, he wasn’t a child. He was who he was now—grown, thin, exhausted. She held him anyway, brushing his hair back with those same gentle fingers. And when he reached out to her, for just a moment, he believed he could feel her again.

"Sleep little star to create a new start, walking along the void with the only light by your side."

There was a flame.

Small. Flickering. In his hand.

His light.

He clutched it to his chest, guarding it from the wind. It hurt to hold. It burned his skin.

But without it, there was only darkness.

"The light burns and flames, but without it, it’s all void dark with no Guide to follow…"

He stared ahead.

There was no one walking with him.

Only his own footsteps echoed.

But now, he understood. This song wasn’t just a lullaby. It was a map.

A map of everything he had refused to face.

"Sleepy little star, wake up to the other... alone in own hands with no other… holding hands that can never let go of each other."

He opened his eyes.

The dream didn’t fade.

Jour was still there, arms wrapped around the younger version of him, gently holding the child and another child is is bruised and hurt with black hair. Both child lay their heads on jour lap, sleeping peacefully

And krs… stood beside them, watching. Watching the mother he never had, comforting the child he never got to be.

Tears fell—quiet and relentless.

(That child is me…)

He stepped forward, kneeling beside them.

Jour looked up and smiled at him, soft and knowing.

“You can cry too,” she said.

And so, he did.

For the first time in years, Cale let himself fall apart.

No disguises. No walls. No smiles.

Just him.

And the mother he never had.

And the child he used to be.

Together, beneath the shade of a tree that only ever existed in his dreams.

Chapter Text

Cale stirred.

The darkness slowly peeled back like a curtain at dawn, and the first sensation to return was the weight—soft but present—on his chest. Something warm. Familiar. Then the quiet, steady sound of counting.

"...three hundred eighty-two... three hundred eighty-three..."

Raon.

His voice, though small, was laced with worry. That alone was enough to pull Cale from the haze. He blinked open crusted eyes, breath shallow, throat dry, and the thrum of dull pain echoing through his skull like an old drum. His limbs were heavy. His skin clammy.

He didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember anything after stepping out of the balcony that night.

"Raon...?" His voice cracked like dried leaves underfoot.

Raon stopped counting abruptly, and wide, round eyes looked up at him with shock, then overwhelming relief.

"Human! You're awake!"

Cale barely had the energy to blink as Raon all but threw himself upward, tiny claws clutching at Cale's robe like a lifeline.

"You’ve been asleep for three days! Three! Everyone was so scared! I—I thought..."

Cale looked down. Hong was curled against his left arm, snuggled so close it was clear he hadn’t moved an inch since he’d fallen asleep. On his right, On rested with her paw lightly touching his wrist, her ears perked but her eyes closed, exhaustion clearly visible in the way her body sagged.

He slowly sat up, ignoring the way his head pounded with every slight movement. He winced, and Raon immediately flapped his wings in distress, hovering in the air beside him.

"Don't move too fast! You’re still weak! We tried to wake you up so many times. Even Rosalyn and old Goldie tried to heal you. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked. We were so scared."

Cale looked at him. Then slowly, with a shaking hand, patted Raon’s head. The little dragon trembled under the touch, then pressed into the palm like he couldn’t bear to lose it.

His stomach growled. Loudly.

"...Huh." Cale muttered, a bit startled. He hadn’t felt hunger in what felt like weeks. And now, it was roaring in his gut like a dragon trapped behind bone.

But more than that, the pain was still there. That deep, gnawing ache inside his body, in his bones, his joints, the very core of his being.

It should have alarmed him. But he just breathed. Quietly. He was used to it.

(So it didn’t go away, huh...)

His powers stirred in the back of his mind. Each ancient power rumbled and flickered with anxious energy, pressing against his consciousness. None of them spoke aloud, but he could feel their collective panic. They were worried, confused, angry.

But Cale barely acknowledged them.

He turned to the window. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains. It must have been mid-morning. The world kept turning.

Raon was still hovering, uncertain and scared. His eyes were red from crying.

Cale turned toward him and forced a gentle smile. "I’m okay."

It was a lie.

But it came so easily now.

On stirred next, blinking her golden eyes before letting out a small, surprised sound. "You're awake."

Hong blinked open his eyes blearily and looked up. When he saw Cale upright, his eyes welled with tears. "Cale! You're back!"

Cale placed a hand gently on both of their heads.

"Sorry for worrying you."

Even now, he didn’t ask for help. Didn’t tell them about the pain or the screaming in his head. Or the way his heart had started skipping beats in his chest.

Because what could they do? They’d already tried everything.

And besides... he didn’t want them to know.

If they knew, really knew—if they saw how much he was breaking—they’d never stop watching him. Never let him breathe.

He couldn’t bear that.

So, he got better at pretending.

He touched Raon's head. "Have you eaten?"

"What—? I—We were waiting for you!" Raon puffed up indignantly. "How could we eat when you were—"

"I'm hungry," Cale interrupted gently. "Let's eat together."

He forced himself to rise. His legs trembled beneath him, and Raon instantly darted forward to support him with magic. Cale didn't protest. But inwardly, he braced himself. Every step sent a jolt of pain shooting up his spine. Every breath was thin, like trying to pull air through a straw.

(Just act normal.)

He could do that. He had done it for years.

Downstairs, the house stirred as word spread like wildfire.

Ron was in the kitchen within moments, face unreadable but eyes sharp. He wordlessly set a tray of warm broth, soft bread, and gentle stew on the table.

Choi Han stepped in next, quiet and intense, hovering nearby like a shadow. Rosalyn arrived soon after, her eyes flickering across Cale’s body like she was trying to memorize his every twitch.

Eruhaben said nothing. He merely nodded.

Cale sat down. Ate slowly. Chewed like nothing hurt.

But it did.

Every mouthful was like swallowing rocks. His throat burned. His hands trembled. But he smiled when On handed him a cloth. He thanked Hong when the boy asked if he wanted fruit.

He smiled, and they believed it. Mostly.

Because the truth was, the pain had become such a constant companion that it barely even registered unless it flared. Unless it screamed. This? This dull throbbing? This tired ache in his chest? This was nothing.

He was used to it.

He could manage.

(For now.)

Everything went as normal. The morning was warm, filled with sunlight filtering gently through the windows, and Cale played along with the day as if nothing was wrong. He had done it so many times now that it had become second nature—smile when spoken to, nod at the right words, eat when the others watched.

They had breakfast together. Raon had insisted that Cale eat every bite, hovering beside him with expectant eyes, his small tail flicking in anxiety. Hong and On sat beside him, eyes glancing up between mouthfuls of their food to make sure he was chewing, swallowing. Ron stood in the background, calm but sharp-eyed, watching like a hawk even as he prepared tea. Cale smiled, even chuckled softly at something Raon said, and took another spoonful.

It tasted like paper.

The moment the others turned their heads, he palmed the smallest bit of the food and slipped it beneath the napkin in his lap. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to ease the roiling in his stomach. His body still hated the food, but he couldn’t bear their looks if he didn’t eat. His stomach, sharp and raw like scraped flesh, churned with nausea as he forced himself to finish.

After breakfast, the children pulled at his sleeves with excitement. It was a clear day, perfect for the garden, and Cale knew better than to say no. He let Raon drag him by the hand, On clinging to his left, Hong tugging at his robe. They wanted to play. And he, of course, had promised.

The sun was warm but not blistering, filtered softly by the trees. The garden was in full bloom, with flowers dotting the hedges and bees lazily floating through the air. Cale sat beneath one of the larger trees, letting its wide canopy cast dappled shadows over his body. He leaned against the trunk, trying to ignore how the bark pressed harshly against his spine. The shade cooled his burning skin. His breath hitched, but he made sure it was silent.

He watched them play. Raon flying low over the grass, giggling as Hong and On tried to leap and catch him mid-air. Their laughter echoed through the garden, light and sincere, like wind chimes in a spring breeze. They looked so happy. So free.

And Cale—he smiled at them.

Not because he felt happy. But because they deserved to see someone smile at them.

He shifted slightly, one hand clutching his side when the pain returned—sharp and sudden like a jagged knife sliding under his ribs. The coppery taste hit his tongue, and he instinctively swallowed. The blood burned as it went down.

(Again.)

The nausea flared. For a moment, his vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges of his sight.

(Stay still. Breathe. Swallow it. Don’t let them see.)

His fingers curled into the grass beside him. The children hadn’t noticed. Good. That was good.

He relaxed his shoulders deliberately. Forced his body to still. A sigh escaped him slowly, calculated and careful. The pain never left. It throbbed behind his eyes, pulsed beneath his skin, sat like lead in his chest.

But it was quiet.

And quiet was better than panic.

He tilted his head back against the tree and looked up through the canopy. The sky was blue today. Birds flew overhead in lazy loops, feathers glinting like metal in the sun. He remembered the dream again.

That long, long dream.

The original Cale, younger and softer, with tousled red hair and wide eyes full of innocence, running across the fields toward his mother. Jour, radiant and gentle, scooping the child up in her arms. Her voice singing that lullaby.

Words that shouldn’t have lingered still swam in his ears.

"Sleepy little star, wake up to the other... alone in your own hands with no other..."

It had felt real. Like he could reach out and touch her. The warmth of her embrace, the tender way she had held the young Cale, cradling him like the world hadn’t turned cruel yet. Like there was still softness somewhere.

(So that’s what it felt like...to be loved by a mother.)

He had no memories like that of his own. Just cold silence, expectations, judgmental eyes. But the dream... it had felt like something stolen, gifted to him just once. Like the universe showing him what could have been. What the original Cale had lost. What he never had.

That thought had festered. It dug into him like rot beneath the skin.

Why was it that something so simple—a lullaby, a flower crown, the shade of a tree—felt more foreign to him than any battlefield?

His hands trembled again. He dug his nails into the grass. Not now. Not here.

He coughed softly, clearing his throat to steady himself. The burn remained. The bitterness lingered.

"Weak human!" Raon called, flying close. "Are you okay? You’re too quiet! Do you want a flower crown too?!"

Cale blinked and smiled, lifting a hand to wave slightly. "I’m fine, Raon. I’ll watch from here. Make a nice one."

Raon grinned wide, eyes sparkling. "It will be the best flower crown ever!"

"I believe it," Cale replied gently.

As Raon zoomed away, Cale exhaled slowly. His head rested against the bark once more. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound of their joy soothe the growing ache inside.

His thoughts wandered.

(You will grow to be loved. But you will die in despair. Reach for your mother’s hand for peace.)

Was that peace then? That dream?

Or was it a warning?

The pain would not leave him. The false recovery he pretended every day wore him thinner and thinner. There was no miracle cure. No last-minute rescue. Even the ancient powers were quiet now, uncertain, as if unsure whether to panic or retreat.

He was dying.

Slowly.

Quietly.

With a smile on his face and blood on his tongue.

But as long as the children laughed, as long as they played and ran and sang—

He would sit here beneath the tree, watching.

Pretending.

Because that was what he was good at.

Pretending it didn’t hurt. Pretending he was fine.

Pretending to be someone worth loving.

Even if it was all fading.

(Just a little longer, he thought.)

(Just a little more.)

Chapter Text

Raon the little black dragon called out, wings fluttering excitedly as he flew toward his human. “Human! Human! Look! The flower crown I made for you is done now!”

Cale turned his head just in time to see Raon landing gently on the grass before him, proudly holding up a small, colorful flower crown. “Its pretty like human too! It’s got the prettiest flowers I could find!”

Cale blinked slowly, the edges of his vision still slightly dim from the light headache pulsing behind his eyes, but he smiled anyway. A real one. Soft and warm.

“Thank you, Raon,” he said, as Raon placed the crown carefully on his head, adjusting it with tiny claws to make sure it sat perfectly. “It’s beautiful.”

Just as Raon was about to puff up proudly and bask in his human’s praise, two blurs of energy barreled into the space beside them.

“Cale-nim!” “We brought juice and cookies!”

Hong and On dropped down beside Cale, grinning wide with youthful cheer. They placed a tray of snacks down on the grass with practiced care, settling in as if this peaceful afternoon had no end. And perhaps in their eyes, it truly didn’t.

Cale leaned back against the tree trunk, letting the shade shield him from the direct warmth of the afternoon sun. The breeze was light, rustling the leaves above them and carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers. He watched as the children began munching on cookies and showing each other what they had collected during their garden playtime.

He rested a hand over his stomach, feeling the faint churning that threatened to rise. The familiar bitterness crept up his throat, but he forced it back down with practiced ease, swallowing the metallic taste.

(It's normal now... this pain. This nausea. This weight.)

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the sounds of laughter wrap around him. This moment—it was soft. Gentle. Untouched by war, politics, or the jagged tension of survival. Just Raon’s excited voice. On’s quiet giggles. Hong’s dramatic gasps at bugs too close for comfort.

It should always be like this.

That thought crept up again. Quiet. Lingering.

(It should always be like this.)

Cale opened his eyes slowly, watching them with a tenderness he rarely showed. A selfish part of him wanted to keep this scene frozen in time. A perfect image of calm. He felt a pang in his chest.

But even as he sat among them, his body hummed with silent misery. The pain, dull now but ever-present, crawled under his skin like an itch he couldn't reach. His body trembled faintly beneath his robes, muscles tight from tension. He shifted, hiding the wince behind a lazy sigh.

He had gotten good at that. Hiding it.

The flower crown tilted slightly on his head.

“You look like a peaceful hero now,” Raon declared proudly, climbing into Cale’s lap.

Cale chuckled faintly, placing a hand atop Raon's head.

(If only a crown could fix what's broken.)

He looked down at his small companions. Their trust in him. Their warmth. Their innocence. And he felt it again—guilt. Like a shadow crawling beneath the surface of his skin, guilt that burrowed deep and made his chest feel even tighter than before.

He remembered blood on his hands. Not from battle, but from his own body. The panic in Raon’s eyes. Ron’s controlled, silent fury. Rosalyn’s trembling hands as she tried spell after spell.

Cale had been nothing but a source of pain for them recently. A burden. A patient who would not heal. A leader who could no longer stand without help. And even now, sitting under a tree in the shade, he couldn’t let them see the sickness.

He didn’t want to worry them. Not anymore.

(They deserve better.)

That thought hurt more than the pain in his chest.

(Can guilt consume someone whole?)

(Enough to drag them into a hole they can’t climb out of?)

Cale looked up at the sky beyond the tree leaves. The blue stretched endlessly, serene and untouched. Unlike him. He wondered if the original Cale had ever sat like this. With mother Jour, laughing and playing.

He remembered that dream.

The songs. The gentle hands. The calm voice promising love and sorrow in equal measure. The symbolism etched into every line—a book locked away, tears spilling into an ocean, hearts shattered and left unrepaired.

(Was I always meant to break?)

“Cale-nim,” On said softly, her gaze curious.

He blinked, realizing his hand had been trembling slightly. He quickly hid it under Raon’s soft belly.

“Just tired,” he murmured. “This is the best nap spot, isn’t it?”

Raon beamed. “Then sleep, human! I will protect you!”

He chuckled again, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. Let them believe it. Let them have this moment of peace.

Inside, though, his mind whispered relentlessly.

(What happens when I’m gone?)

(Will they be okay?)

(Will they be angry I didn’t fight harder?)

He was so tired. Even now, surrounded by everything he’d sworn to protect, the weight didn’t lift. And maybe it never would.

But he had to hold on. For a little longer. Just long enough to not ruin this for them.

Because even if guilt could consume someone—he wouldn’t let it ruin their smiles.

Not today.

“Raon,” he said after a while.

“Yes, human?”

“Thank you. For the crown.”

Raon grinned wide. “You’re welcome! You look like royalty!”

Cale chuckled faintly, letting his eyes drift closed again. The breeze cooled his feverish skin. The flower crown tickled his forehead. On and Hong hummed a lullaby beside him, low and calming.

And for now, he allowed himself this fragile peace.
It was quiet. Too quiet.

===================

Slowly but surely, it was gnawing at him. An invisible rot, crawling through the crevices of his thoughts and wrapping around the root of his mind like ivy.

(It's your fault.)

That single phrase echoed louder than any victory, stronger than any praise. It clung to his skin, whispered behind every laugh shared with the children, breathed cold air into every smile forced for Raon’s sake. It curled around his chest, heavy and suffocating.

(You dragged them into this.)

He sat still during meals, nodded along to Ron’s reminders, responded to Choi Han’s worried glances with false calm. He kept his answers short, tidy. Too neat to look suspicious.

Too neat to look like he was bleeding inside.

Because speaking up?

(It'll be dismissed.)

He imagined it. The looks. The confusion. The disbelief. The soft pity, or worse, the quiet suspicion in their eyes. They would think he was exaggerating. Seeking attention. Lying. Maybe even manipulating them.

That thought alone made him nauseous.

Cale was many things, but he never wanted pity. Never wanted to be seen as weak, not in that way.

So he kept it inside. Locked behind ribs and fake smiles.

The guilt fed on his silence. Grew fatter and darker with each nod, each "I'm fine."

You smiled too easily. You walked away too soon. You should have known better. You shouldn’t have lived.

(You don't deserve them.)

Sometimes, it got so loud he thought his ears would bleed.

He imagined ways out.

A blade, resting against the veins on his wrist. A knife plunged into the hollow of his throat. A spell. Quick. Silent.

Or the bath. Slit his arms beneath the water and let it all drain out. At least that would be quiet. Maybe peaceful.

But the Heart of Vitality mocked him with every attempt. He knew his body would seal itself. That ancient power pulsing like a curse through his veins, determined to keep him alive when all he wanted was rest.

(Coward.)

He didn’t know if the voice was his own or someone else’s anymore.

That night, it was worse. The rain came like a drumbeat against the windows. A thunderous reminder of storms past.

He woke up gasping. Sweat clung to his back. His sheets tangled around him like chains.

His hands were shaking.

He blinked, heart pounding in his ears, breath coming fast and shallow.

(Was that a dream?)

The details were already fading, but he remembered enough. Blood. The cold. A mirror cracking. Hands, not his own, shoving him deeper into the water.

He sat up, slowly.

The room was dark, shadows dancing as lightning flickered through the window. The rain hadn't stopped. It was loud, chaotic.

(Like my head.)

Cale pressed his hands to his face, fingers dragging down as if trying to peel the thoughts off his skin.

"Stop," he whispered into the dark. His voice was hoarse.

He looked down at his hands.

The same hands that had killed. The same hands that had saved. The same hands that now trembled, unsure of their worth.

He stood, slowly, legs heavy, and walked to the window.

The world outside was wet and wild. Trees shivered in the wind. The garden blurred beneath the downpour.

In the reflection of the glass, he looked pale. Hollow.

Like a ghost of himself.

(I don't know who I am anymore.)

The man who had planned to live quietly. Who had fought for peace. Who had become a shield.

Now, he was just tired. So tired.

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

"What am I still doing here?"

Lightning flashed. In the corner of his eye, he saw Raon, curled on the blanket at the foot of his bed, tail twitching in sleep.

Even in his nightmares, the child wouldn’t leave his side.

That hurt more than anything.

(He deserves better.)

Everyone did.

Rosalyn, with her quiet strength. Choi Han, who had already lost so much. Ron, who had been a shadow beside him for years. Beacrox. Lock. Even Alberu, who never said it, but carried the weight of worry in his shoulders.

They would be better off if he wasn't a burden.

Right?

Would they?

"If I left... would they be relieved?"

He hated that he was asking that.

Lightning again.

In that flash, he saw his own eyes in the glass.

Red. Faintly red.

A reminder.

"Cale Henituse," he whispered. "You weren’t meant to be a hero."

He wasn't born into this. He hadn’t asked for it. And yet... he had tried. Over and over. To do something good. To matter.

(But at what cost?)

His hands balled into fists.

He returned to the bed, sat at the edge. Rubbed his temples.

The dream had felt so real.

That helplessness. That hollow ache.

He couldn’t take much more.

(But I have to. For now.)

Raon stirred. A sleepy mumble.

Cale froze.

The little dragon fluttered his wings and crawled closer, curling against Cale’s back.

"You're warm," Raon mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Don't go."

Cale didn’t reply.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Reached back, gently patting Raon’s head.

For a moment, he allowed himself to lean into the warmth.

He closed his eyes.

(I'm sorry for being selfish.)

He need keep pretending.

(I don't deserve this.)

he have to figured out how to silence the storm in his mind.

Chapter Text

Rain still poured beyond the glass windows, faint and rhythmic, a lullaby for the suffering.

Alberu clenched his jaw as he stood beside Cale's bed, hands trembling despite the firm stance he tried to maintain. The others had gathered in the room, holding onto the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, something could be done this time.

He had healing powers. Not as strong as some divine beings, no, but it was his own and it had always helped. He had mended broken bones, healed wounds both shallow and deep, even reversed internal damage that could've cost others their lives. But this... this was different.

"Cale, I’ll try again. Hold still," Alberu said, his voice calm but strained.

(He looks too pale. The circles under his eyes are darker than before... and he’s thinner. Why is it always like this?)

He pressed his glowing hand against Cale's chest, letting the warm golden light seep into his friend’s frail body. For a moment, the room was filled with gentle light, the soft hum of Alberu’s power flowing and swirling into Cale. The others barely dared to breathe.

But then—

Cale coughed.

A harsh, gurgling sound ripped from his throat, and a thick splatter of blood sprayed onto the bedsheets. He shook with the force of it, chest heaving, hands gripping the mattress like a lifeline.

"Cale!" "Cale-nim!" "Human!"

Raon flew forward instantly, panic flickering in his wide eyes. Choi Han gritted his teeth, a hand already reaching for Cale's wrist to check his pulse. Ron stood nearby, silent and still, expression unreadable but tense.

Alberu staggered back. A sudden, sharp pain burst behind his eyes, and he clutched his temple. The healing magic in his hand flickered out.

"Hyung!" Cale called out hoarsely.

Alberu dropped to his knees.

"I-I'm fine..." he mumbled. The world spun. The pounding in his head was deafening, and for a terrifying second, everything went black.

He slumped sideways.

A moment of chaos followed—Raon quickly stabilized Cale with magic, Lock helped lower Alberu safely onto the floor, and Rosalyn pressed a cloth against Cale’s mouth to catch the remaining blood.

Within a few minutes, Alberu stirred again, groaning quietly.

"Don’t... overdo it," Cale rasped from the bed, voice wet and broken. He tried to sit up, but Choi Han held him gently down.

"Don’t be stubborn," the swordsman said with furrowed brows.

Cale’s gaze went to Alberu, who was now leaning against the wall, face pale, chest rising and falling slowly.

"You shouldn’t use your power on me again," Cale said. "It’s... not worth it. I can handle it. The pain will fade sooner or later."

(That’s a lie.)

But he said it anyway, because their exhausted faces looked too burdened, too strained, and he couldn’t bear to be the reason Alberu collapsed.

He looked away, throat burning.

(It would’ve been easier if I’d just died during the war.)

But the moment that thought crossed his mind, he felt Raon’s small claw grip his hand tightly.

"Human," the little dragon said quietly, wings drooping. "You are not allowed to say things like that even in your head. I will be very, very angry."

Cale didn’t respond. He only squeezed Raon’s hand back, letting silence speak what he couldn’t.

Ron quietly approached the bedside and placed a fresh glass of water down. The others gathered closer, sitting or standing quietly as the weight of the moment settled into the room.

Finally, Eruhaben exhaled.

"From now on, you’re staying in bed. No arguments."

Cale turned his head slightly. "Eruhaben-nim—"

"You’ve already done more than enough. You have nothing to prove," Eruhaben interrupted, his tone gentler than usual.

Cale opened his mouth to protest, but Raon beat him to it.

"You always say things like that! That you’re fine! But you’re not! You keep coughing blood! You keep saying the pain will fade, but it never does!"

Raon’s voice cracked. Hong and On huddled close on the blanket, tails curled around their paws, their gazes locked on Cale.

"We can see it, you know," On whispered. "You're hurting so much. Even when you smile, even when you act like it’s okay... we see it."

Cale looked at them all, heart twisting.

(They shouldn’t have to see me like this.)

But there was no hiding anymore.

He let his head fall back on the pillow, eyelids fluttering shut.

"...Alright," he murmured.

He didn’t fight them. Didn’t try to convince them otherwise. For once, he let them take care of him.

The rain outside softened into a drizzle.

Under the heavy blankets, Cale finally let himself breathe—not deeply, but enough. Enough to stay. Enough to let the guilt and pain pause for one night.

As sleep came again, he whispered one last thing:

"Thank you."

The room stayed quiet after that. They all stayed with him.
////
He had fallen asleep right after being fed in bed. He hadn’t resisted much this time, hadn’t argued or protested. Not because he was getting better, nor because he finally understood the need to rest—he was just tired. Everything felt like... nothing. The flavors of food had dulled long ago, the feeling of warmth barely registered, and the smiles around him blurred into a distant hum of life he no longer felt part of. So he ate, and when his body couldn’t hold itself up anymore, he simply let the bed cradle him.

As his eyes fluttered shut, the weight of his bones seemed to vanish. Like drifting, as if the wind had taken his soul away and he was floating through a space not bound by rules or reason.

Then he saw it.

A blank space. White, colorless, soundless. An endless void, and yet it didn’t feel threatening. It felt… still. Peaceful.

Cale stood there. Or perhaps, floated. His feet touched nothing, but he was grounded in presence.

And then—there she was.

Jour.

The woman in red. A figure of love that had long become a scar in his chest. A memory that once gave him warmth and now tore him apart with every reminder of what he had lost.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. But his body—his traitorous, broken body—moved without his will. His arms reached forward, trembling. His legs ran, faster and faster, as if the ache in his heart had taken physical form and yearned to be mended.

“Mom…”

His voice never came out.

And as he ran, the world shifted.

His height shortened.

His limbs shrank.

The red hair faded into midnight black, disheveled and clumped with dried blood.

The fine clothes were gone, replaced by worn-out fabric stained with dirt and bruises.

And his body—his entire being—was no longer the facade of the Henituse noble.

He was Kim Rok Soo again. A small child. A broken child. The real him, the one that had never been embraced, never been seen, never been allowed to cry.

But here, in this endless void, he could cry.

And he did.

The boy ran into Jour’s arms, collapsed against her chest as though the heavens themselves were too cruel to bear, and he buried his tear-streaked face into the folds of her red dress.

“I-It hurts,” he whispered. His voice was choked, cracked like dry earth. “It hurts… Make it stop… Please…”

Jour said nothing for a moment. Her arms only tightened around him, enveloping the child in a warmth he had long forgotten. A warmth that didn’t ask for perfection, that didn’t expect strength, that didn’t need lies or walls or silent suffering.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, voice so gentle that it stitched his wounds even as it made them bleed. “There, there…”

Her hand stroked his back as if soothing a fever. Her other arm wrapped around his thin frame with care, like he was something precious, something breakable. And he was. He was broken beyond repair. But in her arms, the cracks didn’t matter.

"I will help you. My child." The woman softly whisper in the poor child ear.

And slowly, the tears continued to fall—not in pain, but in release.

The void changed.

From white to green.

Cale blinked through his blurred vision and found himself no longer in the blank expanse but lying on soft, dew-kissed grass under a sky the color of morning.

A field of white flowers swayed gently in the breeze. Delicate and pure, untouched by the filth of war or blood.

He sat there quietly, still in the body of the small black-haired child, his cheeks sticky with dried tears. He watched the flowers move with the wind.

But amidst the sea of white, one flower stood out.

Red.

A single red bloom stood tall in the middle of it all—vivid, defiant, alive.

He didn’t know what it meant.

He didn’t understand why it was there.

But it reminded him of something. Of someone. Of his path. Of his pain. Of everything he had been through—burning, suffering, falling, and still, somehow, standing.

But before he could move closer, before he could reach out, his world shook.

Pain stabbed through his chest—an invisible blade twisting through his ribs.

The dream shattered.

He gasped awake, his body trembling, drenched in cold sweat. The room was dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning through the windows. Thunder growled in the distance. Rain pounded against the walls like a desperate cry.

His throat burned. His limbs ached. Everything felt weak.

He turned his head slowly, forcing his heavy arms to move.

There they were.

Raon.

Hong.

On.

Sleeping beside him.

Raon curled up beside his chest, tiny claws gripping his shirt with quiet protectiveness. Hong and On rested at the foot of the bed, breathing softly. Their presence anchored him back into the world.

His vision swam, his breath shallow, but he moved.

He wrapped his arm slowly around Raon and pulled the little dragon close, burying his face into the soft fur behind Raon’s ears.

“…I’m still here,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure who he was saying it to. Himself? Jour? The child within?

He closed his eyes.

(Why does it still hurt so much?)

(Why does it never end?)

He didn’t want to burden them. Didn’t want Raon to see the darkness swimming in his chest. But the child dragon was already awake, sensing his emotions through their bond. Raon nuzzled closer, and without a word, let out a soft breath of mana that gently pulsed against Cale’s body—comforting, soothing.

“I’m fine, Raon,” Cale murmured, though it was barely above a whisper. “Just… tired.”

Raon said nothing, but he stayed there, unmoving, protecting.

Cale clung back, letting the silence settle again. The ache remained, like a ghost pressing down on his ribs. But the pain was quieter now.

In the distance, the rain kept falling.

And in his heart, a single red flower still bloomed.