Chapter Text
Moonlight dripped through a shattered sky.
Jimin stood in a palace he had never seen, beneath an open ceiling where the stars wept light, a thousand of them, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The marble beneath his feet was cracked, blackened at the edges as if scorched.
In the distance, someone was calling his name. Softly. As if they had called it many times before and were certain he would not answer.
He turned. A corridor of gold and shadows stretched out before him.
At the end of it stood a boy with raven-black hair and a crimson hanbok, burned at the hem. His face was turned away. Flames crawled like vines up his arms, but he didn’t scream.
Jimin took a step forward.
And the walls changed. They turned into forest, then into memory, then into war.
Someone whispered behind him:
“He wore the mark and died for it.”
The boy in red turned slowly, but his eyes were made of smoke, and where his heart should’ve been was only a hollow ember.
Jimin blinked.
The image rippled.
Now the same boy knelt beside a field, and Jimin was pressing a hand to his chest. Blood bloomed like roses across pale silk. A hand reached for Jimin.
It was his own.
A voice — his voice? — whispered:
“If the sky falls again, I will remember you.”
And then—
Jimin sat up with a sharp inhale, breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled into the folds of fabric at his chest, right where the boy from his dream had been pierced.
He blinked once.
The book.
It lay half-open in his lap, the last page he’d read gently wrinkled where his thumb had pressed into it.
His skin still felt hot, like the dream had scorched through more than just sleep.
“…Not again,” he murmured.
///
The sky was still more gray than blue when Jimin padded down the hallway, floorboards cool beneath his feet. The tavern below lay silent, too early for any noise, but he moved quietly anyway.
He stopped in front of the guest room.
For a moment, he hesitated, hand raised but not yet knocking. The memory of his dream still clung to him like fog. He wasn’t sure why, but some part of him didn’t want to wait.
He knocked.
It took a while.
Eventually, the door creaked open just a bit. Yoongi stood in the gap, eyes barely open, his hair a tousled mess.
“…What?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.
Jimin smiled faintly. “I thought we could head to the forest now. To meet my friend.”
Yoongi blinked at him like he hadn’t registered the words.
“…Now?”
“I need to be back before noon,” Jimin said, arms crossing. “Can’t keep the tavern closed. Some of us have responsibilities, you know.”
Yoongi gave the softest of groans and rubbed his temple. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m generous. I’m helping you.”
Yoongi stared at him for a beat longer, then sighed, already closing the door. “Give me a bit. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Don’t take too long,” Jimin called through the wood, turning with a smile.
///
The forest at daybreak was not yet awake.
Mist still hung in between the trees, and low across the grass. Dew clung to the leaves, making everything glisten faintly beneath the pale morning sun.
Jimin led the way through the forest. He moved easily, like someone who had walked this path a thousand times.
Yoongi followed a step behind, robe drawn close, his boots crunching softly on the damp ground.
Neither spoke for a while.
Then Jimin spoke, casually. “You don’t strike me as a forest person.”
Yoongi’s eyes swept across the trees. “I’m not.”
“You look like someone who thinks nature is out to kill him.”
“It is.”
Jimin laughed under his breath. “And yet, you agreed to follow me into the woods.”
Yoongi glanced at him. “I was too tired to argue.”
They walked a bit further. A bird called once, distant and low.
Jimin paused beside a crooked tree with bark that spiraled upward like a frozen wave. He ran his fingers along its side without thought.
His fingers brushed the bark lightly, an absent-minded gesture, but the tree responded.
It shivered.
Not with sound or movement, but with something like a pulse. Beneath the layers of bark, a faint shimmer stirred. Silver, like threads of moonlight. For a second, it seemed to ripple beneath his touch, as if it recognised him.
Jimin drew his hand back, blinking. The shimmer faded instantly.
Yoongi, a few steps behind, had stilled. He watched the tree with narrowed eyes, then looked at Jimin.
Yoongi’s gaze lingered on his hand.
“Does it always do that?” Yoongi asked.
“What?”
“The trees. The way they… respond when you touch them.”
He reached out again, slower this time, hesitant. The bark remained cool and firm. It didn’t react again.
Jimin pulled away. “It’s never happened like that before. Not… that clearly.”
Yoongi didn’t press.
Instead, he said, “Your friend. The half-elf.”
“Taehyung,” Jimin supplied, stepping back onto the path.
“What’s he like?”
Jimin tilted his head in thought. “Hmm. Strange. Loud. He brings me things I don’t need and disappears for weeks without warning. He once gave me a rock shaped like a cabbage and said it would protect me.”
“…Did it?”
Jimin smiled. “Still alive, aren’t I?”
Yoongi huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.
The mist began to lift.
The deeper they went, the quieter the world became, as if the forest itself was listening.
Jimin looked ahead, toward a bend in the path. “We’re close.”
The trees thickened as they pressed deeper into the forest, until the path faded altogether, swallowed by moss and root. Then suddenly, the air changed, gentler somehow.
There, nestled between two ancient oaks, stood a house that was not built but grown. Its walls curved with the grain of a massive tree, the bark hollowed and carved into spirals. Windows bloomed like petals from living wood, and ivy laced its frame. Mushrooms glowed faintly at the base, lighting the way to a crooked wooden door.
Jimin smiled. “He’s home.”
He stepped forward and knocked once.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and a face peeked out. Wide eyes, pointed ears, brown hair nicely combed.
“Jiminie!” Taehyung grinned, sunshine in his voice.
But then he spotted the man standing just behind — cloaked, black-haired, sharp-eyed — and his smile vanished.
With a high-pitched shriek, Taehyung slammed the door shut in their faces.
Jimin blinked.
He sighed, stepped forward again, and knocked louder. “Tae! Open the door.”
No answer.
“Tae, seriously. We just want to talk.”
A muffled voice came from inside. “That man is cursed!”
Jimin turned back to Yoongi, who looked more confused than offended. “Do you know each other?” he muttered.
From behind the wooden door, Taehyung’s muffled voice called again, “Tell him to go away! He chased me for three streets! I almost broke my ankle!”
Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “That’s the elf that fooled me.”
Jimin turned slightly. “You’re sure it was him?”
“Pointed ears. Stupid grin. Sold me the map.”
“I did not fool you!” Taehyung shouted from inside. “You chased me like a madman! You didn’t even ask what it was!”
“Why are you hiding if you didn’t do anything wrong?” Yoongi retorted.
“Because you’re terrifying and dressed like a villain!” came the indignant reply.
Jimin sighed and stepped closer to the door. He rested a hand against it, voice calmer now. “Tae. Listen to me. He’s not here to chase you or to hurt you. We need your help.”
There was a pause. Then a soft, reluctant, “…Help with what?”
Jimin glanced back at Yoongi, who crossed his arms but said nothing. The bark beneath Jimin’s fingers pulsed faintly, as if the house was listening.
“It’s about the map,” Jimin said gently. “The one you sold him.”
A long silence followed. Then, slowly, the door creaked open once more, revealing Taehyung’s suspicious face peeking through the gap.
“Is he going to yell?”
“No,” Jimin promised.
Taehyung squinted at Yoongi. “…Is he going to stab me?”
Yoongi huffed. “If I was going to, I would’ve done it already.”
Taehyung sighed dramatically and opened the door wide. “Fine. But if I die today, I want it on record that I was beautiful and misunderstood.”
The inside of Taehyung’s home felt like stepping into the heart of the forest itself.
The walls were curved, alive with the warm grain of living wood. Ferns grew from crevices in the bark, and a soft glow emanated from hanging moss in glass jars. Bundles of herbs dangled from the rafters; scrolls and strange trinkets were piled haphazardly on crooked shelves. The air smelled of pine and something sweet, like overripe pears.
Taehyung plopped onto a cushioned stump and eyed Yoongi from a safe distance. “So? What’s this about?”
Jimin sat beside him and pulled the folded parchment from Yoongi’s bag. “You sold this to him,” he said, carefully unfolding the map on the table.
Taehyung raised an eyebrow and leaned in. “A blank paper?” He inspected it with a slight pout. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Yoongi, arms crossed, narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get it?”
Taehyung made a face. “I don’t know! I trade things all the time, alright? Trinkets, maps, books, boots with holes. Sometimes I don’t even check what’s inside. I think someone gave it to me in exchange for a sack of salted honey root. Or maybe a charm for sleeping…”
Yoongi sighed in exasperation.
Jimin glanced at him, then back to Taehyung. “You really don’t remember who gave it to you?”
“Nope,” Taehyung said with a shrug. “But I remember thinking it was weird. I tried drawing on it once—nothing stuck. Thought it was cursed, but it never bit me.”
Yoongi moved closer to the table and unfolded the parchment fully. “Can you see anything now?”
Taehyung squinted, then tilted his head. “Still looks like… a really expensive napkin.” The elf shrugged. “I really don’t remember who gave it to me,” Taehyung said, finger tapping under his chin. “But… maybe a cup of tea will help jog my memory.”
Without waiting for an answer, he sprang to his feet and wandered into the small kitchen tucked beneath a vine-covered archway.
Jimin and Yoongi exchanged a glance.
Moments later, Taehyung returned with a mismatched teapot and three hand-carved cups, setting them down on a table. The tea smelled earthy, like dried flowers and citrus bark.
“I don’t usually have guests,” Taehyung said brightly, pouring for them all. “Well, not the staying kind. Most people just want things. I give them charms, or salves… and then they leave.”
He paused, then smiled at Jimin. “But I like you. You always bring food. And the cats follow you. That says a lot.”
Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “You judge people based on that?”
“Obviously.”
They sipped in silence for a moment. Outside, the forest swayed gently, birds beginning to stir.
Taehyung looked down into his cup. His voice softened. “The elves don’t really want me. Too human, they say. And humans don’t trust what has pointed ears. So I live here. Between things.”
Jimin watched him carefully, something in his chest tightening.
“I know the feeling,” he said, finally. “It’s just me and my master. Always has been.”
“Must be nice, though,” Taehyung said, glancing up. “To have even one person who stays.”
Jimin smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He goes away a lot.”
A beat passed.
Yoongi said nothing, fingers wrapped around the warmth of his tea. But his gaze flicked toward them both, thoughtful, unreadable.
Taehyung blinked away the heaviness and clapped his hands once, as if something had finally clicked.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I think… this map came from a pirate.”
Both Jimin and Yoongi looked up.
“A pirate?” Yoongi echoed, his tone suddenly sharper.
Taehyung nodded. “Big guy. Strong shoulders. Talks with his hands a lot. Smelled like salt and old books. He came through the port about a season ago. Traded me this parchment in exchange for… something.” He paused. “I don’t remember what. Something shiny, I think. He said he had no use for it. Called it cursed.”
“Do you remember his name?” Jimin asked, leaning forward slightly.
Taehyung tapped a finger to his chin, then snapped. “Ah—yes! He goes by the name of Kim Namjoon.”
Yoongi’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you know where we can find him?” Jimin pressed.
Taehyung shrugged, already standing and wandering toward one of his cluttered shelves. “He sails in and out. Doesn’t stay long. But he trades at the northern port sometimes. That’s where I usually see him.”
He tossed a moss-covered compass toward Yoongi, who caught it mid-air with one hand.
Taehyung grinned. “If you’re lucky, he’ll still be there. If not… well. Pirates tend to leave behind trouble. You could probably follow the chaos.”
Yoongi adjusted the strap of his satchel. “North port, then.”
Jimin nodded, glancing back at the round wooden door behind them.
“Thanks for the tea,” Jimin said with a grin. “And the information.”
Taehyung laughed. “Anything for you.”
Jimin stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.
Taehyung blinked in surprise, then wrapped his arms around Jimin’s waist with a satisfied hum. “You smell like tavern and dreams.”
When they pulled apart, Yoongi gave a stiff nod in place of farewell.
Taehyung winked at him. “Don’t get cursed.”
Yoongi arched a brow.
///
The tavern was quiet in the early light, its wooden beams still holding the chill of the forest morning. Jimin swept through the main room with ease, righting stools and brushing crumbs from tabletops.
Behind him, footsteps padded softly down the stairs.
Jimin looked over his shoulder as Yoongi descended, his satchel slung across his chest and the folded map clutched tightly in his hand.
“You’re leaving?” Jimin asked, pausing his cleaning. He wiped away the dust from his jeogori.
Yoongi nodded, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I’m heading to the northern port. If I find that pirate, Kim Namjoon, I might finally get some answers.”
Jimin leaned against the bar, arms loosely crossed. “You think he knows where the map came from?”
“He has to. If he gave it to the elf, he knows more than we do.” Yoongi glanced down at the map. “This thing… it’s more than just paper..”
Jimin hummed.
Yoongi hesitated, then added, “Which is exactly why I need to find the origin of it. If I can figure that out, maybe everything else will make sense.”
Jimin nodded slowly. “Will you be back?”
Yoongi met his gaze, then looked away. “Depends on what I find.”
A beat passed.
Jimin smiled, trying to keep his voice light. “The port can be rough.”
“I can handle it,” Yoongi muttered.
“Of course you can.”
Yoongi turned toward the door but paused when Jimin called out, “Hey.”
He turned slightly, one hand on the handle.
“Take care of yourself, Yoongi-ssi,” Jimin said with a smile.
Yoongi exhaled through his nose. “Thanks for feeding me. And for all the help.”
Jimin looked down.
Yoongi only gave the faintest nod before slipping out the door.
And then he was gone.
Jimin stood there for a long moment, the tavern silent again. The chairs were set, the fire low.
But somehow, everything felt different now.
///
The tavern bustled with its usual rhythm — clinking mugs, the soft murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from the card table in the corner. Jimin moved between tables with a tray balanced on one hand.
The events of the past two days felt almost like a fever dream. The world hadn’t stopped spinning. The tavern doors still creaked on their hinges, the regulars still slouched in their usual corners, and the fire still crackled as if nothing had changed.
But something had changed.
Jimin glanced at the bar where Yoongi first sat, drinking his tea in silence, fingers always twitching toward the map. The seat was empty now.
“Will you find what you’re looking for out there?” he murmured under his breath, wiping down the bar counter.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden shadows through the windows. Jimin rolled his sleeves up and moved to snuff out the candles, flipping the last chairs onto tables in preparation to close. Only a few customers lingered, dragging out their drinks.
He was halfway to the door when it creaked open again.
Two men stepped inside. They wore the official blue robes of the Byeongjo, the Ministry of Military Affairs. Wide-brimmed gat sat low over their eyes, the black horsehair gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Their jeogori were crisply folded, and at their waists hung the short swords of government officials.
Jimin’s pulse faltered.
The elder of the two, tall and weathered with a thin beard, stepped forward. His voice was formal, clipped.
“Is your name Park Jimin?”
Jimin straightened behind the counter, bowing slightly. “Yes.”
The younger offical exchanged a glance with his companion before speaking. “A body was discovered this afternoon. Found drifting near the southern bank of Lake Saryang, tangled in reeds. A fisherman reported it.”
Jimin’s hands stiffened on the cloth he’d been using to clean.
“We were told you might know who it is.” the older officer said.
Jimin’s lips parted, but no words came.
“There are signs on the body. A scar beneath the chin. Ink markings on the wrist,” the younger added. “We cannot confirm the identity… but we require someone to make the recognition.”
The tavern felt suddenly cold, as if the fire had died without warning. Jimin’s breath caught.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Allow me a moment to gather my things.”
The two officials stepped aside, wordless and still, their presence heavy.
Jimin didn’t understand why his hands were trembling. He had seen death before, it was not uncommon, but as he followed the two men in silence down the winding path toward Lake Saryang, a deep, quiet dread grew in his chest like a stone dropped into still water.
The walk felt long despite the closeness of the lake. The officials spoke little, their steps steady against the darkening path. Crickets chirped in the reeds. The scent of damp earth clung to the air.
When the trees finally parted, the lake stretched before them, calm and unbothered, its surface like polished obsidian under the dusk sky. Lanterns glowed softly along the bank, and three more officials stood near the water’s edge, their shadows long in the fading light. Beside them, a man in simple clothing wrung his hands, a straw hat hanging limp from his fingers — the fisherman, Jimin guessed.
And then he saw the body.
It lay partially covered on the bank, a cloth draped over the chest and face, the ends soaked from the water. The hem of the man’s durumagi still dripped lakewater, fingers pale and stiff with death.
One of the officers turned to him. “Come. Tell us if you recognize him.”
Jimin stepped forward on unsteady feet. The cloth was drawn back.
A moment.
Then the air left his lungs.
The world tilted slightly, as if it too had just understood the weight of what lay before him.
“Master…” he whispered.
It was him. Master Eun.
The lines of his face had not changed, though they were pale and slack now. His hair was matted, lips tinged blue. But there was no doubt, this was the man who had raised him, taught him letters and discipline and strength.
Tears slipped silently down Jimin’s cheeks as he fell to his knees beside the body, one hand hovering over the chest, afraid to touch.
“It’s him,” he choked. “It’s my master.”
The older officer gave a solemn nod. “We are sorry for your loss.”
Jimin looked up, voice breaking. “What… what happened? How did he end up here?”
The fisherman stepped forward hesitantly, voice low with nerves. “I found him, honored sirs. This afternoon. Floating not far from the rocks by the southern bend. I—I called for the guards straightaway.”
The officer nodded again. “There were no signs of a struggle. No wounds we could see. From the look of the body, it seems he drowned. Judging by the condition… it happened a few days past.”
Jimin stared at the face of the man who once seemed invincible. A few days. And he hadn’t even known.
The words echoed in his mind, hollow and senseless.
Drowned.
A few days past.
No wounds. No struggle.
Jimin stared at the still face of the man who had been everything to him — mentor, guardian, the only constant in a life that had never stopped shifting beneath his feet. It didn’t make sense. His master was careful, precise in all things. He had walked that lake’s edge a hundred times, always steady, always sure.
He would not have fallen. He would not have drowned.
“No,” Jimin whispered, shaking his head slowly. “No, it… it can’t be.”
He looked up at the officials, vision blurred. “You must be mistaken. He wouldn’t have—he wasn’t the kind of man to wander near the water carelessly. He could swim. I’ve seen him. He—he used to pull me from that lake when I was a child!”
The elder officer’s gaze softened, but his voice remained steady. “There were no signs of foul play.”
Jimin’s chest ached as though someone had carved a hole straight through his ribs.
He wanted to scream at them, to demand they search again, to drag the lake, to find a better answer. But all he could do was clutch the edge of his master’s wet durumagi and bow his head low as tears spilled freely down his cheeks.
His master had died. Alone. Without a soul to call his name.
“Please,” Jimin murmured brokenly, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “Let me take him back with me.”
The officers exchanged glances.
“I want to prepare him myself,” he continued. “To bury him with proper rites. Not on some nameless shore like a stranger.”
The youngest among them hesitated, but the elder gave a solemn nod. “We will help you carry him.”
With careful hands, they wrapped the body in clean cloth, and two of the officials lifted it between them. Jimin followed close behind, never once taking his eyes off the bundle that held the man who had been his world.
The journey back was silent.
As they approached the edge of the village, a few lanterns flickered to life along the paths, but the tavern stood dark and still. Jimin opened the door himself, his hands shaking as he led them inside. The floors were swept. It looked as though nothing had changed.
But everything had.
They laid his master’s body in the small room behind the kitchen, the one reserved for storeroom or rest on winter nights. Jimin fell to his knees beside the still form, and folded his hands tightly over his own heart.
“I will tend to him,” he whispered, more to himself than to the officials. “He was not a rich man, but he lived with dignity. And he will be buried with it.”
One by one, the men offered their final bows and stepped outside, leaving Jimin alone in the quiet, grief settling into his bones like winter chill.
He sat there long after the door closed, weeping in silence, the scent of lakewater clinging to the air.
It all felt wrong.
Unnatural.
Jimin sat by his master’s side long into the night, lantern light flickering low across the room. The tavern was quiet now, the doors bolted.
He couldn’t make sense of it.
His master… in the lake?
Why?
He wasn’t a careless man. He never walked without purpose.
So why?
The ache in Jimin’s chest deepened, curling in his ribs like smoke. The confusion clawed at him, but grief… grief was a blade, sharp and silent, cutting each time he dared to look at the still form beside him.
He reached for the cloth and gently began to clean his master’s face. The lake had left its marks, bits of salt, tangled strands of hair dried against his brow, and Jimin wiped them away with shaking hands. Carefully, reverently, he cleaned the skin around his mouth and eyes, brushing water from pale lashes.
“I should have known something was wrong,” he whispered.
He dipped the cloth again, drawing it slowly across his cheeks, then sat back and inhaled a trembling breath. “You were always the one who kept everything steady. And now you’re just… gone.”
The tears threatened again, but Jimin stood before they could fall, hands moving on instinct. He went to the old chest at the side of the room, the one where his master’s spare robes were kept, and chose a clean, dark blue po, the kind worn for ceremonies or travel.
He returned and began to unfasten the soaked outer garments, intending to dress him for the burial. As he peeled away the water-heavy durumagi, something caught his eye — a slight bulge in the inner lining.
Curious, he hesitated… then reached inside.
His fingers closed around a folded parchment. He pulled it free, brows furrowing — and then froze.
The parchment was dry.
Not damp. Not even wrinkled. It looked untouched by water, as if it had never gone into the lake at all.
Jimin stared.
That… wasn’t possible.
He turned it over in his hands, pulse beginning to quicken. His master had been floating in a lake for days. His robes had been soaked through. There should’ve been nothing left of such a fragile thing.
But here it was. Whole. Preserved. Waiting.
He looked back at his master.
The grief didn’t lessen.
“What were you hiding?” Jimin whispered.
The parchment trembled slightly in his fingers.
His breath caught in his throat.
With careful fingers, Jimin unfolded the parchment. The edges were crisp, as if freshly pressed, and the ink was alive.
Moving.
A map.
He stared, heart pounding.
But not the map — not the one he and Yoongi have studied for hours at the tavern table.
This one was different.
The lines were drawn in similar style, but the markings diverged: different coastlines, different routes weaving through shaded mountain passes. Names he didn’t recognize. Symbols etched in the margins — small, strange sigils.
Jimin’s hands trembled as he traced one of the paths. It curved inland, past a cluster of runes that looked like a forgotten dialect, and ended with a symbol that made his stomach lurch — a flame. Sharp, red. It glowed under his touch.
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
“This… this doesn’t match Yoongi’s map.”
He sat back on his heels, mind spinning.
Why had his master kept this hidden? Why carry it at all, especially if he was heading toward a lake? How had it stayed dry?
The grief still throbbed beneath the surface, sharp and endless, but now, he had so many questions. His master, silent and secretive to the very end, had carried this map like it meant something. Like it mattered.
“Did you know something?” Jimin murmured, looking at the still face beside him.
The silence gave no answers.
///
The morning air was still, as if the world itself dared not breathe.
Jimin stood alone atop the small hill behind the tavern, where the trees parted just enough to let in the early sun. The earth was freshly turned, a simple grave, marked by a smooth stone and the folded hands of the man who now lay beneath it. His master.
There were no mourners. No long procession. Just Jimin.
He had washed and dressed the body himself, hands steady even as his heart splintered.
He knelt at the head of the grave and pressed his forehead to the cold stone.
“I hope I did it right,” he whispered. “The rites. The wrapping. The prayers. You always said it was the duty of the living to carry dignity for the dead.”
His voice broke on the last word, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway — quiet at first, then heavier, until he was clutching the grass, shoulders shaking as he wept.
“You were all I had,” he choked. “You—you were my family.”
His fingers dug into the earth. The soil beneath his nails, the ache in his chest, they were the only things keeping him from crumbling entirely.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The wind shifted through the trees like a sigh.
“You found me when I had nothing. No future. You taught me to read, to fight, to think. You gave me this place, this life, and I—”
His breath caught.
He sat back on his knees, tears glistening on his cheeks. The grave looked peaceful, quiet. The kind of rest his master deserved.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “And I will not forget.”
Jimin lingered there, letting the sun climb slowly over the trees. He didn’t rush to leave. There was no one waiting. No one to pull him away.
He stayed until the shadows began to shift, until the wind stopped biting.
Then he rose, brushing dirt from his hands. His face was streaked with tears, but his gaze was clear, focused.
He turned once more to the grave.
“Rest well, Master.”
And with the map now tucked tightly in his robes, Jimin began the long walk back to the tavern.
///
The tavern was still in the early afternoon light. As if it were waiting for him to come back.
Jimin moved through the space silently, gathering what he needed. A small pouch of coins, wrapped tightly and tucked into his sash. A flask of clean water. A satchel packed with dried rice cakes, roasted barley, and a few herbs from the kitchen jars.
He picked the map gently, smoothing its surface one last time before rolling it tight and wrapping it in oiled cloth. He slipped it into a hidden inner pocket he’d sewn into his tunic that morning, close to his chest.
When everything was done, he stood for a long moment in the center of the tavern.
The silence pressed against him, thick and soft.
He reached for the door, then hesitated. Turning back, he knelt near the firepit and placed a bowl of dried anchovies beside the fire, just where the cats liked to sleep in winter. One of them — the scruffy white one — blinked at him from the rafters, tail flicking lazily.
“You’ll be alright,” he murmured. “Don’t scratch the walls.”
He slid the door open and stepped into the light, crossing the narrow lane to the neighbor’s gate. The old woman was in her courtyard, sweeping leaves with slow strokes.
She looked up as he approached. “Jimin-ah... I heard about Master Eun. I’m sorry. He was a good man.”
He offered her a small smile and held out the tavern keys.
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going, child?”
“I need to search for something,” he said, careful and calm.
Her gaze lingered on him, soft. “And will you return?”
Jimin nodded. “I will. One day or another.”
He pressed the keys into her hand and gestured toward the tavern. “There’s dried fish by the fire. Rice, too. Please feed the cats, if they come around. And help yourself to anything you need. The place shouldn’t sit empty.”
The old woman looked down at the keys, then back at him. “You’ve always taken care of things. Even when you were a boy. Just like your master.”
Jimin’s smile faltered, but he dipped his head politely. “Thank you, ajumeoni. For everything.”
“Go, then,” she said, waving her hand. “But don’t come back thinner than you already are.”
He laughed under his breath, and with a final nod, turned from her gate.
The road ahead was unfamiliar, but he walked it with steady steps, the tavern behind him, the map close to his heart, and his master’s memory carried quietly in every breath.
///
The carriage wheels ground to a halt, its frame creaking like old bones. Morning sunlight poured over the port city, sharp and golden, forcing Jimin to squint as he stepped down. He dropped a coin into the driver’s palm without a word, brushing dust from his sleeves.
The air smelled of salt and fish. Ships rocked gently in the harbor, sails flapping against wooden masts. Voices shouted over crates, gulls cawed overhead, and the whole city buzzed with the kind of chaos Jimin wasn’t used to.
He pulled his cloak tighter and began to walk.
Yoongi couldn’t have gone far. Not yet.
Jimin moved through cobbled streets and alleys, stopping at shop stalls and tavern windows, describing him carefully. “Black hair. Cat-like eyes. Doesn’t speak much. Wears a long jeoguri, dark, with a satchel. Looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days.”
Most people shrugged. One woman shook her head before slamming her shutters shut.
It wasn’t until the fourth stop, a tiny apothecary nestled between a dried-fish vendor and a shrine gate, that someone paused.
An old man hunched over the counter looked up at Jimin with watery eyes. “Cat eyes, you say?”
Jimin nodded. “Sharp. And quiet.”
The old man squinted toward the harbor, brows furrowed in thought. “A boy like that did come by. Said he was looking for someone.”
Jimin’s breath caught. “That’s him. Do you know where he went?”
The man shook his head slowly. “No idea. He looked restless. He came by yesterday.”
Jimin sighed, the tension in his chest growing heavier. “So he might be gone already.”
“Could be,” the old man said. “Could be not.”
Jimin hesitated. “Did he mention where he might search next?”
“No. Just asked about a name.”
Jimin looked at him sharply. “Kim Namjoon?”
The man nodded. “That’s the one. But like I told him—I don’t know the man. Just stories. A pirate, some say. Others say he doesn’t even sail anymore. Only trades in things that should’ve stayed buried.”
Jimin exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”
The old man’s gaze softened. “Take care, young boy.”
The port tavern was dim and crowded, smelling of smoke, salt, and stewed barley. Jimin slipped onto a bench tucked into the corner, his limbs heavy from walking half the city. He hasn’t found out much. Only that Yoongi was indeed in the port city. But he could’ve left already for all Jimin knows.
A serving girl passed by, and he raised two fingers.
“Something warm. And tea, please.”
She nodded and disappeared into the bustle.
Jimin sat back, eyes drifting over the warped wood walls, the sailors arguing near the fire, the clatter of dishes, until the smell of spiced broth brought him back. His food arrived in a chipped bowl, steaming and simple.
He was just about to take the first bite when a voice spoke beside him.
“I’ll have the same,” said the man to the barmaid.
Jimin’s hand froze halfway to his mouth.
That voice.
He turned—and there he was.
Yoongi.
Hair slightly mussed, coat dusted with salt, satchel still slung over his shoulder. Their eyes met in perfect unison, Jimin’s widening with disbelief.
“Yoongi-ssi,” Jimin breathed, setting down his spoon.
Yoongi stared. “What are you doing here?”
Jimin let out a quiet laugh, the kind that came with lots of tension unwinding in a breath. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
Yoongi blinked, once. Then he nodded toward Jimin.
“Then,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
///
The rented room was dim and quiet, a single flickering oil lamp casting shadows across the rough wooden walls. Yoongi had closed the door behind them, leaning his back against it for a long moment before speaking.
“So?” he said, voice low. “Why are you here, Jimin-ssi?”
Jimin looked up from the floor where he had been standing still, hands clenched at his sides. “My master is dead.”
Yoongi’s expression shifted—just a flicker in the shadows. “…I’m sorry.”
Jimin’s throat bobbed. “He was found in the lake. He drowned.”
Yoongi straightened. “…What?”
“They say it was an accident.
He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a carefully the parchment.
Yoongi straightened. “What is that?”
“I found it sewn into the inner lining of his robe,” Jimin replied. “And I think it’s connected to your map.”
“The map?”
“Take it out, please.”
Yoongi crossed the room silently and opened his satchel. The old, worn map he’d carried for days now—useless to his eyes—unfolded like a memory between them. He smoothed it out on the table. “Still empty,” he muttered.
Jimin nodded. “I know.”
He laid his newly found paper beside Yoongi’s, the edges just touching.
“Is that a map too?” he asked, though the paper still looked utterly blank to him.
Jimin nodded. “Yes. I think it is.”
He gently nudged the two pieces so their edges aligned, and as they touched, something strange happened.
The pulsing lines of ink, once moving independently, now flowed in perfect unison. Roads stretched across both pages, rivers snaked through the divide as if the paper was never meant to be separated.
“I see it,” he whispered.
Yoongi leaned closer, his brows furrowed. “Tell me. What do you see?”
Jimin traced the edge of the merged maps with trembling fingers. “It’s like… the two pieces complete each other. There’s a river, and mountains—symbols I’ve never seen. The ink moves when I look at it.”
He glanced up at Yoongi, who was watching him closely.
“I still can’t see anything,” Yoongi said, a hint of frustration behind the calm. “It’s blank to me.”
“I think…” Jimin hesitated, “…my master had this for a reason. Maybe he was looking for something.”
Yoongi’s gaze lingered on the map, though it remained a mystery to him. “And now what?”
Jimin looked back down, heart pounding. “Now we find out what it’s trying to show us.”
Jimin dragged his fingers lightly across the seams. Faint writing flickered in and out of sight, too brief to decipher. “I don’t think the map is complete yet.”
Yoongi, still unable to see it, studied Jimin’s expression instead. “What could your master have been doing with this?”
Jimin’s lips parted, but he had no answer. Only a growing weight in his chest.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “But I think he found something.“
The candle on the table had burned low, casting a flickering glow across the connected maps. Outside the tavern room, the wind pressed faintly against the wooden shutters.
Jimin broke the silence first. “Did you find the pirate?”
Yoongi shook his head. “Not yet. But I found a lead. I was going to go there tonight.”
Jimin’s gaze drifted back to the maps. “And this… this map. What is it really leading to?”
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away.
Jimin looked at him then—softly, but firm. “If I’m helping you… you should trust me. I’ll trust you, too.”
After a beat, Yoongi exhaled. “It’s supposed to lead to a relic. At least… that’s what I heard.”
“From who?” Jimin asked.
“A monk.” Yoongi’s voice grew quieter. “He said it could help… to control what’s… inside me.”
Jimin’s brow furrowed. “What is it that’s inside you?”
Again, Yoongi hesitated.
Jimin leaned in. “Please. Trust me. We can help each other. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Yoongi stared at him across the table, the candlelight reflected in his eyes.
“Why do you need to know?” he asked.
Jimin’s answer came without pause.
“Because whatever this is… it found both of us. My master died for this. And maybe… maybe I’m not supposed to do it alone either.”
Yoongi looked down at the map that to him still looked like nothing but empty parchment.
Jimin’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. His voice was low, but there was fire in it.
“I just… I want to know what my master was looking for,” he said. “Why he died. It doesn’t make sense. His body was found in the lake, yes—but the map wasn’t even wet.”
Yoongi looked up.
Jimin nodded slowly, eyes distant. “If he really drowned and the parchment had been on him all this time, it should’ve been ruined. But it wasn’t. It was dry, clean. Perfectly intact.”
The flickering light danced across the map, as if mocking them.
“I need to know why,” Jimin whispered. “Why he died. What secret he was protecting. I think… I think I’m part of it too.”
Yoongi was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed and leaned back, his hand brushing back his hair as he looked at the ceiling.
He turned back to Jimin, voice quiet but sincere.
“I’ll trust you.”
Jimin met his gaze—and nodded.
“I’ll trust you too.” Jimin spoke, sincerity in his tone. “So, tell me, Yoongi-ssi. Tell me the whole story.”