Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

☪︎

They say that if one goes beyond the West Gates of Aspien, through the dirt paths of Begonia Brooke, crosses the Black Ravine, and wanders the everlasting silence of the Deepwood forest, they would encounter the Witch. 

Now, why would one want to find the witch? Well, their enchanted potions are rumoured to be able to heal about any ailment. 

This, of course, is intentional. Wooyoung–or the “Witch of the Night” as they call him–doesn’t care for people. It’s not that he’s an introvert, oh, no, no, no–back in his day, he was anything but. Yet, there came a day when he decided it was time. 

So, what does a retired witch do? 

They tuck themselves in a cottage a day’s journey (and a very tough one at that) west of the castle, and hidden from human civilization. 

Of course, for convenience, a Fae village is a good few miles away, but that’s about it. 

Wooyoung lives simply now, comfortably nested among the towering fir trees of the forest. He follows an even simpler schedule, only getting up in the morning to brew some tea, nurturing his plants, and living off the fruits and vegetables of his garden. He uses enchantments here and there, but not to the extent he used to. 

Living alone in the middle of the forest can get a little lonely at times. But there are plenty of creatures of the forest that keep him company. 

 As long as there isn’t a traveler knocking on his door asking for whatnot, it’s a good day in his book.

You could say, he’s content.

This morning, he woke up with the early Sun. The orange hues that broke through the trunks of the surrounding trees shone through the window, breaking him from his slumber. Before he could close his eyes once again to catch just a few more minutes of sleep, Nunki was already pawing at his face. 

“Just find some random mouse in the forest,” he moans, pulling a pillow over his face. “There’s plenty for you to get your nasty jaws on.” 

Nunki meows, unamused. 

Wooyoung rolls his eyes and glares at the cat. “Fine,” he relents. 

So, he begins his day. 

After successfully forcing himself out of bed, which may or may not have taken longer than it had to, he made his way to the kitchen, now pouring the kitty’s kibble into her respective dish. 

He clicks his tongue, and Nunki comes trotting over, dodging the hand he puts out to pet her.

“Wow. Not even a thank you, huh?” 

The cat says nothing.

He gets up and brushes off his knees. “You spoiled little thing,” he tuts disapprovingly. 

He begins his morning ritual, taking his time. Even with the colder months approaching, the garden’s harvest is still plentiful. His jars of herbs are stocked full and prepped, ready for teas and ointments. He decides that maybe the day following, he’ll sell some goods at the nearby Fae village, maybe get some more kibble for Nunki on the way. 

The early morning fades away as the Sun rises higher in the sky, its orange hue taking up its typical bright yellow. A good morning means it’s a good day. 

Today, he learns that it isn’t always necessarily true.  

Just as he finishes up with his morning chores to pour his tea from the now screeching kettle on the stove, he hears a voice erupt from the outside of his cottage.  

“Excuse me! Witch of the–”

Before the person is able to finish their sentence, Wooyoung is already slamming the shutters of the window open and sticking his head out, glaring down at the stranger.  

“What is it?” he asks dryly, not wanting to waste another minute waiting for a request that he’s most likely going to turn down anyway. 

The stranger stares back at him blankly. Seemingly shocked after the abruption. 

He’s clad in layers of leather and torn fabric, thrown over a tan tunic and slightly darker trousers. On his waistline sits a sheathed sword that justles along with his movements. Moving down his pantline are pouches and other smaller blades. He’s not that tall, but he has a strong build. Wooyoung assumes the man is some sort of knight belonging to the King’s Guard, ordered to make the trip over. 

After a moment of silence, Wooyoung diverts his attention to his nails, glimpsing over them before planting his elbow on the windowsill and resting his chin on his fist. He drags a sigh out. “Well, go on.” He flicks his free hand, allowing the man to continue. “I don’t have all day.” (He in fact did have all day, just not in the presence of a needy messenger.)

The stranger shakes his head, falling out of whatever trance he was in before shuffling through one of his many pouches to pull out a very wrinkled script of some sort. He straightens it out and clears his throat, squinting at the text. In a very robotic voice, he recites:

"On behalf of the Kingdom of Aspien, I have been sent to retrieve the Witch of the Night–”

Or at least he tries to before Wooyoung begins waving his hand in disapproval. “No, no, no,” he tuts. The man was hardly literate, and Wooyoung would rather listen to Nunki scratch at the legs of the sofa than hear another word of this man’s speech. 

The other looks at him, confused. 

Wooyoung flicks a finger, and the journey-damaged scripture levitates from the man’s hands. It floats still in the air for a moment before getting torn to pieces, the scraps of paper falling like feathers towards the dirt. 

“I–um.”

“Just get to the point,” Wooyoung states. “Who hired you, and what do you want? And–Oh, my name is Wooyoung, by the way.” 

The man bows. “Oh, of course.” He takes a deep breath.”Wooyoung, I am Choi San, head of the Kings’ Guard…”

The man’s words melt into the background, mixing with the rest of the sounds that come from the forest. Wooyoung listens to the birds squawking from the trees. He hears the scurrying of baby squirrels chasing each other up and down the trunks of the fur trees that surround them. He’s only able to pick up a few words, but he assumes it’s enough, so when the soldier finishes up his dialogue, he sums it up.

“So,” he begins, letting his insincerity trickle off his lips with every word. “You were sent–by who again? The Royal Consort, was it?”

The soldier–San apparently–nods affirmingly.

“--to receive a cure for the King, who has fallen ill to…?” Wooyoung cocks an expectant eyebrow, waiting for the man to fill in the blanks. 

“It is known as the Scourge.” He responds quickly. “It has been inflicted upon much of Aspien at this point. Many are out of work and bedridden.” The man’s expression hardens, but Wooyoung doesn’t relent just yet.

Wooyoung, after years of being taunted and judged by the kingdom, finds sympathy hard to grasp. “And where are your healers at this point in time?” he quips. “ Shouldn’t they be on the job?”

“All of our attempts at finding a cure have been useless.” 

San’s words become sharper, more desperate. Wooyoung takes notice of it, but refuses to back down. Rather, he crosses his arms with a scoff. “So what? You guys just come barging in? Demanding that the so-called ‘Witch of the Night’ will come and fix it all? Well, guess what–”

“They’re dying!” the man shouts. He lifts his head up to Wooyoung, his eyes pleading.

Silence washes over them. The forest itself seems to rid itself of noise as the chirping of the birds comes to a halt, the shuffling of the critters, and the wind shifting through the trees all settle. The air is thick, and it sticks to Wooyoung’s throat. He, as well, is unable to make a sound. 

 A moment goes by, and the knight's head falls again. This time, quieter, he says, “They’re all going to die.”

Wooyoung falters. 

He struggles to respond. 

What does one say to that?

Wooyoung clutches the cloth of his tunic and frowns. “I-”

But still, he is unable to find words.

“The Consort said you’re our only hope.” 

There once was a time, decades ago, when the ‘Witch of the Night’ was more than such. He hadn’t even had the name. He was just–well–Wooyoung. Sometimes, they would give him more flattering titles like the Healer of All, or the One of the Magic Touch--stuff like that. But, overall, he was just–Wooyoung. 

With a flick of the wrist and a few rare herbs, he could fix about anything. 

He was getting dozens of requests a day. As some would say, business was booming.

He was the only one in the nearby land who was blessed with the Gods’ gift of magic. Sometimes it was hard to keep up, but when a client’s eyes lit up after seeing their newly healed loved ones, the pressure didn’t matter. That was all he needed to keep going. It was a reminder that he was helping people.

So, he served. He did so happily. 

And each time he was successful. Everyone was starting to believe that he truly was able to cure everything. Nothing was out of his realm. He really was the Healer of All.

That is, until one day. 

He had been sleeping when a woman came crying at his doorstep one night. In her arms, she carried a limp, frail thing--her son.

His face and body caked with boils the size of lemons, veins bulging from every pulse point as he struggled with every breath. Each exhale sounded wet and sticky as if tar coated the inside of his lungs. The tips of his fingers and toes were black and solid to the touch, cutting off all circulation like he had been left in the snow for too long.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. 

With further examination and research, he found nothing. Nothing that could lead him to a cure.

How was he supposed to heal something that hadn’t existed?

He still tried.

But every book hadn’t said a word of it.

The longer he searched, the more time ran out.

And just as time kills every rogue flower, the boy died. Perishing from the unnamed illness

He was the first person to ever die under his care.

Wooyoung wasn’t The Healer of All, or The One of the Magic Touch.

Just a fraud.

He couldn’t eat or sleep. Orders and requests piled up and were left unattended. He just couldn’t bear it.

Not long after, he fled.

He disappeared, unheard of again.

He found solace nestled in the deep woods. No human would ever dare make the journey. Or so he thought.

They gave him the name: ‘The Witch of the Night’—the one who left during the time of twilight and never returned. 

It hits Wooyoung. 

“What is happening to them—the sick ones?” He asks.

San swallows. “Their skin is— their limbs are—” He fails with every attempt. “They look…”. Wooyoung already knows what he’s about to say. Because now, he knows he’s seen it before.

“Inhumane,” they say collectively.

Wooyoung nods, his teeth gnawing on his bottom lip. 

San looks up at him. “You know of this? ”

Yes, that's what he wants to say. But that would mean having to recount the memory. Instead, he remains quiet.

Wooyoung looks around him. 

The Sun has risen above the trees, making golden streaks through the branches and traveling through the glass panes into his home. It’s peaceful. There’s (not so freshly) poured tea sitting beside the kettle, the windchimes around the garden clink together with little wisps of wind that weave through the trees. He sees Nunki on the sofa, bathing in the golden beams of the morning, letting it reflect off her black coat. Caught in the light, the pupil of her feline eyes narrows as she looks back at Wooyoung. 

It’s peaceful here. 

He’s comfortable. 

But how can he bring himself to feel the simple pleasantries of life, knowing that others are struggling to see their loved ones live another day? 

He can’t bring himself to. 

So he doesn’t. 

He makes a decision that he knows he might regret. 

It’s not what he wants. But it’s not about that. 

He takes a deep breath, locking eyes with the soldier below. The other’s eyes are pleading with him. 

“I will go back to the castle with you,” he announces, straightening his posture. “And… I’ll do what I can.” 

☪︎

It doesn’t take long to pack what he needs. 

He grabs his spellbook, a few common herbs, and some other necessities.

He clings to the small hope that if the Court would give him enough time to research it, he will find a cure. Surely, they would understand. 

Surely. 

So, as he approaches the door, now packed with his enchanted satchel slung over his shoulder, he glimpses back at the place he has called home. 

He’ll be back. 

But it may be a while. 

He breathes in, letting the subtle scents of the ash from the fireplace mix with the soft cinnamon and cardamom of the kitchen flow through him one last time. He pushes through the door, not missing the passive ‘meow’ Nunki gives him on his way out. 

“Oh, please,” Wooyoung drawls. “You know where to find me.”

The door closes behind him. Down the pathway, the soldier supposedly named San kneels by one of the garden beds, seemingly examining the flowers in it. He strolls over. 

“Novaphix,” Wooyoung states as he passes San from behind, nodding his head at the particular flower that San has fixed his attention on.

San snaps his head up. It must be those crazy soldier reflexes because Wooyoung swears he hears a ‘thwip’ with the motion. 

“Oh, really?” San asks curiously. “Never heard of it.” A curious finger reaches out to poke it before Wooyoung swipes his hand. 

“Hey, don’t touch that!” he snaps. “Their poisonous.” …And that they’ll quite literally dissolve your skin clean off, is what Wooyoung wants to add, but he leaves it as is.

San’s lips form into a distinct ‘o’ as he quickly retracts his hand. “Noted,” he mumbles. He looks back up at Wooyoung, a suspicious look on his face. “Why do you have these exactly?”

Wooyoung can’t help the little smirk that pulls on his lips. “Just in case little lost soldiers come curiously poking around my garden,” he answers, letting his claim’s legitimacy hang in the air. San’s small shudder doesn’t go unnoticed by the witch. Wooyoung decides he’ll let himself have a little fun. 

As the other stares him down, probably deciding whether it’s really worth bringing Wooyoung back to the gates of Aspien, Wooyoung himself decides it's time to get a move on. His eyes wander east into the woods ahead of him. Though he’s not sure how long it took the fellow beside him to manage his way over to the cottage, from this time of day, Wooyoung assumes that they’ll be traveling well past the Sun’s setting. 

With the edge of his foot, he nudges San, whose begrudging gaze is back fixating on the fatal flowers that almost took his finger. 

“We should get going,” he huffs, nodding towards the forest. “We don’t want to waste any more sunlight.”

The knight pops up, nodding affirmingly. All very soldier-like. 

Wooyoung's face scrunches in a cringe. “You don’t have to be like…that,” he sneers.

“Like what?” San quires.

Wooyoung looks him up and down, judgmentally. That’s when he remembers how impressionable humans can be, being the little, submissive, and conforming creatures they are. So, he relents, shrugging San’s odd etiquette off his shoulder as they start moving deeper into the trees. 

☪︎

The first couple of hours were spent walking in silence. 

In every direction, the trees stretch on, seemingly for infinity. He knows that’s not the case, but oh does it seem so. The cold air burns through his lungs. He’s not out of shape, per se, but it’s been a while since he’s really gotten out. He would ask to take a breath, but he won’t be the one to break first, so he keeps trudging on.

They’ve been walking east for a while, and while they haven’t reached the dense part yet,  he knows it’s coming up. He figures it would be best to have a map out.

He’s not a lost witch, as he knows the woods like the back of his hand, but he doesn’t have time for small navigational mistakes. He looks behind to see San, wondering if he has a map with him. 

San is surveying the trees with every step as if anything or anyone could pop out at any moment. So even a King’s Guard can’t handle the forest. The thought entertains Wooyoung for the time, so he studies the other. 

Wooyoung would consider himself observant. It doesn’t take long to learn a person’s character. But he notices that he missed some things about the man behind him. He assumes he just hadn’t gotten that good a look at him.

And, wow.

He’s got slick, upturned eyes—almost cat-like, with a sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones. Sprinkling down the exposed part of his neck are little brown freckles, as light as they were, Wooyoung figured they could probably go the whole trip without him seeing them. His head is kind of big, but his strong build balances it out.

He doesn’t remember people looking like that.

He chalks it up to just not having seen another person in a while. When the only other hominin creatures you’ve been interacting with are ogres, trolls, and fairies, your standards change.

That’s all.

He decides to make some conversation (definitely not in an attempt to make an excuse for staring at the other for too long). 

 “First time through the deep, dark woods?” Wooyoung teases, hunching his shoulders and clawing his hands, mimicking a ghost (or at least the human’s interpretation of it). He allows his witch intuition to guide his backward steps as he faces San. 

“Well, second time to be exact,” he corrects, still on guard. “But something about this place, it’s… odd.” His hand crept up to rub on the back of his neck nervously

Wooyoung shrugs. “I don’t feel anything,” he shares. And just to feed the insatiable pit that is his boredom, he adds, “Does the King’s Guard training turn you into a wuss or is it just you?” 

He whips his head back to the front, facing forward just in time to dodge the glare that San sends his way. Wooyoung presses his lips together to suppress the snicker that bubbles up in his throat. 

“Anyway,” Wooyoung starts, shifting the conversation. “Do you have a map on you?”

“U-huh,” he confirms, not sounding too amused with Wooyoung.  

“Alrighty,” Wooyoung muses. He whisks a finger behind him, using his magic to once again shuffle through San’s many pockets till it grasps onto the desired subject. 

San frantically pats down at his trousers. “I-Hey!” He blurts. “Can you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Wooyoung asks half-consciously, already absorbed in the contents of the map floating in front of him, to consider it.

He hears a sigh from behind him. 

From the illustrations on the map, his assumptions are affirmed. In about three kilometers, they would be approaching the thicket, the uncomfortably tight portion of the forest where the trees only leave inches of space to pass through. It aligns with the ravine they need to cross over. If he remembers correctly, he recalls a bridge–albeit a very desecrated one–that goes across it. Wooyoung shakes his head.

Damn, sometimes he forgets how difficult the trek is to the kingdom.

He turns to look behind him when he finds that San has caught up to him, now right by his side. 

Wooyoung eyes him suspiciously. “How did you even find me?” he asks.

“Ah, well, it wasn’t easy.”

“How long did it take?”

San drops his head and lets out a shy chuckle. “A few days?” he answers with uncertainty, as if he weren’t the one who made the journey. “I made a lot of wrong turns and had to set up camp in a few areas. Oh yeah, I also got chased by some wolves at one point, which carried me way off track.”

Wolves. 

“Where?”

San blanks. “Where what?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “The wolves–where were the wolves?” 

“Yeesh,” San grumbles. “Like an hour out from the ravine. Something like that.” 

“So we should be careful then,” Wooyoung cautions. His eyes scour the brush in front of them.  All there is that lies ahead of them are trees and grass for kilometers to come. 

But then, a rustle. 

It seemed like it didn’t slip past San’s hearing either because within a fraction of a second, a palm slams down on Wooyoung’s shoulder, forcing him into a crouch. “Hey, yo-” Before he can finish protesting, another hand cups over his mouth. 

He tries to wrestle his way out of San’s hold, but the other doesn’t budge. He kneels beside Wooyoung, bringing his hand from his shoulder to the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t make a sound. And telling from the hand covering Wooyoung’s mouth, he shouldn’t either. 

Wooyoung will hand it to him. For being kind of an idiot, he’s quick.

San waits. Wooyoung can’t catch a blink or a shallow breath from him. It’s almost as if he were frozen in time. The only thing giving him away would be the beads of sweat that bloom across his forehead from adrenaline.

Until-

“Holy shit!” 

Wooyoung's eyes flash beside him. Totally broken from the perfect marble statue he was, San is back on his feet with his hands up, eyes locked towards the ground. Following his gaze, Wooyoung looks down.

“Ugh, Nunki,” Wooyoung groans, out of half-annoyance and half-relief. 

Nunki is nuzzling her head against San’s calf, curling her tail innocently as if she didn’t scare the near-living crap out of him.

Wooyoung pinches his brow and bends down to pick up the feline, dragging her up by the underpart of her front legs. She hangs like a rag doll as he holds her up to his face. She meows at him, and he can’t help but smile. 

San looks at him, flabbergasted. “That–That’s yours?” He points from the cat back to Wooyoung. 

“Yep,” Wooyoung sighs. He brings Nunki to his chest and cradles her. “It’s Nunki.” Just Nunki, and thank the Gods not a man-eating wolf, Wooyoung thinks to himself. He looks down in his arms. “You got him pretty good, didn’t you?” 

San still looks a little breathless, and maybe a little offended. He drags a hand across his forehead, wiping the adrenaline-born sweat away, then exhales deeply. “Fuck, that thing scared me.” He narrows his eyes. “Where did it even come from?”

Wooyoung doesn’t even need to explain. Nunki decides to demonstrate herself. The cat hops out of Wooyoung’s arms onto the leaf-covered floor. After nuzzling his leg a few times, she trots behind him. 

And then she’s gone. 

Instead of popping out from the other side of Wooyoung, she’s now perched on a fallen trunk right beside San. 

Again, San jumps. “Ya!”

Wooyoung chuckles. “That’s the thing,” he starts. “She kind of just comes and goes.” He puts a hand out, and she comes over to him. She leans the side of her head into it, asking for scratches. 

“That’s not… Tha–” San’s eyes are locked on the cat, not tearing away for one second. “That’s a demon.” 

Wooyoung strokes her fur, admiring the way the little specks of light that breach the trees glisten off her thick black coat. “Maybe,” he muses. “But to me she’s just Nunki.” 

San shakes his head in disbelief, not lifting his suspicion off of her. He doesn’t say anything further, so Wooyoung assumes it’s okay. 

Wooyoung gets back up, brushing off his knees. “Well, looks like nothing’s here to attack us. Let’s get a move on, shall we?” 

San nods, still giving suspicious glances towards the cat. 

They move on. 

☪︎

The Sun is passing the final quarter of the visible sky as the forest thickens. The sky is edged with a pale orange, signifying the last hour they have of sunlight before the star dips below the horizon. Wooyoung was hoping they’d be out of the forest by now, but at the moment, San is hacking at branches and sticks with his sword just so they can get through the thick brush. 

Thankfully, it means they’re close to the ravine. 

Perhaps there’s a cave tucked close to the surface that they can take shelter in for the night. As much as he’d like to keep traveling through the twilight hours, his joints ache, he’s cut up from rogue sticks, and hunger begins to curl in the bottom of his stomach. 

Just a little longer, he reminds himself. Just hold on a little longer.

He must’ve been blessed by the Gods, because only ten minutes after does he starts to see the cracks of the ravine through the brush. 

“Finally,” he quietly sobs. 

“Huh?” 

“Ah, nothing,” Wooyoung blurts. Trying to wipe away the little tears of relief that bloomed in his eyes. He really just wanted to go home, but this was good enough. 

“Okay.” 

San slices through the final bushes and holds back the residual leaves, allowing Wooyoung and Nunki to take the first steps out of the wooded prison. 

For living a decade in the forest, oh, is he thrilled to be out of it. 

San sheaths his sword and follows them out. He dusts off the palms of his hands. “Looks like it’s almost sundown,” he points out with an exhale. 

“Indeed.” Wooyoung glances back to the West. The Sun perches just above the never-ending sea of trees they came from, sinking deeper by the minute. 

“I set up camp along the ravine. If I’m correct–” he pauses to look around, nodding once he sees the bridge in the near distance, “ –it should be just south of us. Would you want–”

Before San can finish the offer, Wooyoung is already desperately nodding his head. 

“That’s settled then.” 

Wooyoung follows San as he navigates them to the site. 

After a few hundred meters, he kneels on the cliffside and pokes his head over the ledge. Wooyoung peaks over his shoulder.

“No,” Wooyoung instinctively states. 

An anywhere from five to seven meter climb down, there’s a ledge that leads into the mouth of a cave nestled into the cliff. From the stacks of sticks and abandoned firepit, it’s safe to say that this is the camp San was referring to. 

“No way. I’m not going down there.” 

“We have to,” the other replies. “Wolves don’t climb.” He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers. “We can.” 

“We can climb,” Wooyoung considers. “But we can also fall to our death.” Because if he misses a notch and doesn’t fall onto the ledge and break a few bones, a hundred-meter drop into a ravine is waiting to catch him from below. 

San teeters his head. “I’ll go first, you watch me, and follow the same path. I’ll guide you from below.” 

Before Wooyoung can protest, San swings a leg over the edge and makes his descent. He hooks his feet into terrifyingly small crevices and somehow finds the littlest of crannies to grab onto. Soon enough, he’s close enough to hop off the wall and land on the ledge. He motions Wooyoung to come down. 

In a daze, Wooyoung tries to collect himself. Deep breaths, Wooyoung, he repeats either mentally or out loud. He wasn’t too sure. But when San shoots him a ‘It’ll be okay!’ from below, he figures it’s the latter one.

After stalling for a few minutes by proposing every single thing that could possibly go wrong, San finally convinces him that if he really does fall, he’ll be there to catch him. So, cautiously, Wooyoung starts making his way down. And for the majority, it goes pretty smoothly. 

 Six meters, five meters, four meters, three meters…

Slip.

He fails to latch his foot onto a crevice and loses his grasp on the wall. 

Just then, he squeezes his eyes shut, accepting his fate, waiting for the pain of the break. 

But it doesn’t.

Instead, foreign hands come to grip his sides as his toes come to contact with the floor. He opens his eyes to see that he “fell” from not even a meter above. Still, San holds him up to steady him. 

“See, wasn’t that bad, right?” 

A little breathless from the initial scare, the only sound he’s able to make out is indiscernible–something between a laugh and a cry. His eyes are wide, and everything seems a little hazy, but he’s not dead, and his bones are certainly not broken. 

San releases him, and he wobbles from the unsupported weight. But, he’s able to prop himself up. 

He looks back at San, who was now in the mouth of the cave, carrying the abandoned sticks with him. “I’m going to start a fire,” he says. He cocks his head over to Wooyoung. “Did you bring anything from your cottage? I’m starving.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Wooyoung unhooks his satchel from his shoulder and kneels on the ground. He feels around the pocket space, pulling out jars of pickled vegetables, jams, seasonings, and breads–all of which are way too big to fit in such a seemingly small area. 

Crouched at the fire pit, San stares at him, confused.

“How the hell do you fit all that in there?” 

“Magic,” Wooyoung snarks with a wink. 

San chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow,” he muses. “That’s amazing.”

As the flames finally catch, San leans back, putting his hands on the back of his head, acting as a pillow. He rests his weight on the wall of the cave. Nunki trots to his side and curls up comfortably. It seems she’s taking a liking to him. 

“Already abandoning me?” Wooyoung jests. Nunki meows in retaliation. He doesn’t argue, though. He understands the appeal. 

As narrow as it is, it’s long enough for the two of them to share the space comfortably. They sit across the fire from one another. Wooyoung passes some of the food and silverware over to San, who perks up eagerly to crack into it. 

Wooyoung takes a slice of bread from one of his sourdough loaves (homemade by yours’ truly) and spreads his favorite raspberry jam on it. 

Across from him, San is having a field day. 

“This is awesome,” he says as he takes a big swipe of every different jam and butter, mixing it all onto a singular slice of bread. 

Wooyoung laughs. “You don’t have to mix them all onto one piece. There’s plenty more bread, you know.” He doesn’t know if it’s just the relief that the day has come to an end or something else, but something within him lightens–as if someone lifted a weight from his chest that he hadn’t even realized was there. 

San shrugs, proceeding to take a ginormous bite out of the abomination of his creation. “It’s just been so long,” he makes out of his chewing. Usually, Wooyoung would tease about his manners (or lack of), but it’s been a long day, and what the hell. 

“A long time?” he asks instead.

“Since, we’ve–” he stutters, “Since, I’ve had anything like this.”

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung puts down his slice and tilts his head. “It’s just jam and bread?” 

San takes a deep breath, a solemn expression crossing his features. “Since the Scourge,” he starts, lowering his voice, “gardeners, cooks, and bakers have been out of work. We’ve been having to live off of rations.” 

Oh. 

Wooyoung swallows his final bite, but he only tastes guilt. Suddenly, he’s lost his appetite. 

San looks up, his eyes soften, and he shines Wooyoung a hopeful smile. “But, we’ve found you. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned today,” he pauses and focuses outward, eyes searching for something beyond the mouth of the cave, “you’re pretty amazing. I don’t doubt that you’ll be the one to bring Aspien peace.”

Wooyoung follows his gaze. Outside the cave and above the ravine, the stars scatter across the blue twilight. Not too far away is a kingdom. One that he abandoned when they needed him most. He can’t help but blame himself for their misfortune. But he’s hoping that this knight is right. That he will be the one to save them. 

☪︎

All he can hear is the pounding sound of his heart. 

It surrounds him, it engulfs him. 

“Do something!” a woman cries from behind him. “Just don’t let him die!” Her voice goes in waves, like he’s underwater. Everything is fuzzy; he’s surprised he can even make out what she’s saying. “Please,” she begs again. 

It’s too late. He knows that. 

The body in front of him, splayed out on the wooden table, is going to die. 

The black that was once just on his fingertips has snaked up his arms, moving towards his heart. The boils have grown to the size of small melons, doubling in mass. The body smells of rot and pus, and with every breath he makes a retching sound as if he were choking.

It’s horrifying. 

And Wooyoung can’t do a thing about it.

“Do something!” he hears again. Only this time, it’s louder, more demanding. 

His heart beats louder. 

Do something. 

His sight is blurred by tears of his own.

Do something. 

He closes his eyes, hoping it will go away. 

Do something. 

But he knows it doesn’t.

When he opens his eyes again, the boy is dead. He’s lifeless, but his eyes are looking at Wooyoung. In his final moments, all he wanted was to be saved, to live a little longer. Veins of black weaved across his body and pooled at his heart. If he were to cut into him, the blood would be of the same color. 

It’s silent now. No screaming, no crying–he can’t hear his heart in his ears anymore. He assumes it’s just him now. 

“Why didn’t you do anything?” 

It’s a different voice this time. Sinister. 

He looks towards the voice. 

The woman who was behind him looked like the body on the table. Black swirled around her limbs and coursed through her bulging veins. She leaned on her side, unable to carry her full weight. She looked at him with cruelty in her eyes. 

“Why didn’t you do anything?”

I can’t. 

“They’ll all die,” the voice says. 

And it’s all my fault. 

“And it’s all you’re fault, Wooyoung,” it affirms. 

Wooyoung. 

“Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung opens his eyes, inhaling a deep breath of air as he regains consciousness. 

The brown cat-like eyes that he has come to be familiar with stare at him from above, brimming with concern. “Are you okay?”

Wooyoung’s head throbs, rhythmic pulses punching the inside of his skull. “Gah!” He can’t help the groan that rips through him when he pulls himself up. He takes a hand to the side of his head as his eyes squeeze shut in pain. 

San huddles to the side, putting a supportive hand on his back to keep him upright. “Geez,” he sounds. “Did something happen? Do you need some water?”

Both of Wooyoung’s hands come up to cradle his head. “Just some water,” he croaks through the singeing pain. 

San nods and grabs a flask, quickly handing it to Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung takes the flask in his hands and takes a sip. The cool water hits his throat, and finally, the throbbing begins to sublimate. 

He takes a deep breath. 

The sun’s just rising over the horizon. Long rays of orange extend into the shallow shelter, reflecting off the brittle pieces of chipped rock that scatter across the cave floor. Nunki bathes in it.

“Hey,” San whispers. “You okay?” 

Wooyoung nods. “Been better,” he admits with a weak chuckle. 

San stares at him, unconvinced. 

“Seriously,” he urges. “I’m fine.” He brushes a hand through his sleep-distressed hair. “Just–” he falters. “Just a bad dream. That’s all.”

“Bad dreams don’t cause whatever the hell that was.” 

Wooyoung shrugs San’s hand off his shoulder.

“It happens.”

Which is a lie. 

If he were being honest, he hadn’t had a nightmare in years. Ever since he let it go. But it’s not that way anymore. 

It’s not just the past anymore. It’s his future. In just a few hours, they’ll be at the gates of Aspien–where victims of his mistake are now lying in their deathbeds, counting their final breaths.

He’ll see them. They’ll see him. 

Do they know? 

Is that why they’re really bringing him back?

To punish him?

He doesn’t even realize how his breath shallows and his heartbeat quickens–his fingers start twitching as his focus drifts into space. Not until he feels a stern shake. 

“Wooyoung.” 

“I’m fine,” he quips. 

San’s eyes tell him that he doesn’t believe him. He knows something’s bothering Wooyoung. Wooyoung also knows he’s not doing a good job hiding it. 

But no one can know. No one. 

So he pushes himself up onto his feet, schooling his face into a snarky smile and holding himself up with confidence. 

“Well, ready, Knight?”

☪︎

After a quick and efficient breakfast (and an anxiety-inducing climb up), they begin making their trek over to the bridge to cross the ravine. 

Beyond it is a meadow. Lilies, daisies, and every now and then a fruit tree, sprinkle the plain. In the farther distance, a shallow creek snakes through it, leading to what looks like another forest. 

But first, the bridge.

It’s definitely in a worse state than Wooyoung remembers it being.

The wood posts that support the very frail-looking bridge are molded at the tips from decades' worth of moisture exposure. The ropes that hold up the planks are worn down and torn from constant use, and some boards–well, he doesn’t know what happened to them. Probably down a hundred meters, sitting at the bottom of the ravine, swept away by storms and whatnot. 

“Okay,” Wooyoung voices warily. “We definitely need to go one at a time.”

San nods and opens his arm out for Wooyoung to lead the way. It most likely has something to do with his knight-chivalry, but no way is Wooyoung taking the first step on that bridge. He doesn’t have a death wish!

Wooyoung looks at him, dumbfounded. “You expect me to go first?” He shakes his head, offended. “It’s been one day and you’re already trying to kill me! Are you forgetting who’s going to be saving your kingdom?” 

San opens his mouth, but doesn’t say a thing, his intentions clearly not taken the right way. He bows his head. “I was just assuming that maybe it’ll be smarter for you to go first, because you’re, well–” He brings a hand from his forehead down, in an attempt to respectfully call him smaller. “Y’know…”

Wooyoung gets the gesture. But, he remains unconvinced. 

“Alright then,” San concedes, hands above his head in surrender. “I’ll go ahead.”

Wooyoung crosses his arms and watches San make cautious progress across the patchy bridge. He taps each brittle board of wood with his foot before making a committed step. His hand grips onto the torn rope, which, though it hardly does its job, is supposed to act as some sort of handrail. 

He does, after a time, get towards the end without the bridge crumbling under him. It isn’t till he’s only a couple planks away that they hear the quiet, but definitely not unnoticeable, ‘crack’. 

“San!”

Immediately, San lunges forward, pushing from the now-falling bridge over to the other side. 

Just as Wooyoung thinks that he might witness a death by falling, San’s upper body collides with the edge of the cliff, his lower half folding over and dangling above the deep ravine.

“Ufh!” 

And Wooyoung can feel the impact. He unconsciously grabs the side of his abdomen as his face folds into a sneer.

San’s fingers dig into the dirt, slowly pulling himself up. 

Once his legs make contact with the firm ground, he flops onto his back, with a heavy sigh–or with what looks like one. Wooyoung can’t fully hear him that well, considering their distance that is now divided by an uncrossable ravine. 

“San!” Wooyoung cups his mouth to project his voice and shouts across. “Are you okay?”

San shoots him a thumbs-up from across the way, his other hand still grasping his side in pain. Most definitely too winded to make a discernible remark. 

“Oh, Gods,” Wooyoung mumbles to himself. 

This is the point where Nunki decides that she doesn’t want to deal with it. She winds herself around one of the collapsed posts and disappears, off to who knows where.

Wooyoung feels a pang of guilt. This is all his fault. 

Maybe if he had just taken up the offer and gone first, it wouldn't have happened. Now he has to find a way to cross it and get to San’s side, who is obviously in deep need of aid.  

If only there were a way to–

And that’s when he remembers he’s a witch. 

Fucking hell, Wooyoung, he thinks to himself.

He avoids looking at San while he whips a guilty finger up and around. 

The caved posts straighten back up, standing tall and sturdy as the twine of the ropes winds together, meeting in the middle. Planks that have snapped and fallen float back up and mend themselves together. In just a few seconds, a bridge as good as new connects the two walls of the ravine. 

It’s too late for Wooyoung to lament the fact that he didn’t try that earlier. He pockets that for later when he’s lying in bed, supposed to be sleeping. 

But, for the time being, San needs help.

He darts across the newly constructed bridge, it withstanding every heavy thunk of his foot. 

As he reaches the other side, he gets a good look at the other. Under his muddied clothes, he can see blood starting to pool and stain near his chest and abdomen, probably from where he hit the rocky cliff side. 

“Oh my Gods,” Wooyoung pants. “Are you okay?” He crouches beside him and begins to dig into his satchel, searching for his bandages and ointment. 

There is a small cut on his lip. From where his sleeves cut off, small bruises and marks paint up and down his arms.

“Oh geez, oh geez,” Wooyoung repeats under his breath. He’s frantically pushing things around in the pocket space till he grabs a hold of what he needs. Suddenly, a firm hand takes hold of his wrist.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a cool (but severely pain-inflicted) voice says. “I’m good.” 

Wooyoung looks down to see San smiling. Though it’s not a very believable one, he can’t help the breath of relief that leaves him. 

Still, Wooyoung shakes his head. “No, no, you’re not.” He stares down at San’s hand, which is desperately clenching at the side of his abdomen. Wooyoung swipes it away to reveal the blood tainting the cloth. 

With fervor, he pulls San’s shirt up, to which San protests with a gritted “hey!” but Wooyoung overrides it as he is much too concerned about stopping the bleeding to care. 

A big gash climbs from his midsection to the side of his chest.

The wound is nothing fatal, but it’s nothing pretty either. The tear in his flesh gives a clear view of the soft tissue underneath. 

Wooyoung wastes no time as he starts blotting at it with a few stray cloths he found in his satchel. He can feel San’s muscles contract from the pain, and from the corner of his vision, he can see his jaw clench and unclench. He knows it burns. And that’s why he’s scared to do what comes next. 

He takes out a bottle of antiseptic, tearing off the cork. The scent of the alcohol burns his nostrils, and he flashes San a sorry look. ‘This is going to burn,’ he warns with his eyes. 

He pours it over the wound, and immediately San jerks forward. 

“Fuck!” he seethes through his teeth. 

“I know, I know,” Wooyoung urges. “But it’s going to get infected. The wound might not kill you, but the bacteria will.” 

San gives a rigid but understanding nod, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Wooyoung begins applying an ointment. 

As much as he’d wish he could simply bandage it up, he wasn’t going to take any chances. It is just going to bleed and bleed.

He needs to stitch it.

From his aid kit, he takes out a needle and thread. He sends a spurt of magic through his fingertip as he taps the end of the thread. It takes on a golden glow. 

If the antiseptic hurt him that badly, he knows that this’ll hurt more. To spare San from the agony, he flattens his hand and covers San’s eyes. 

“Wooyoung?”

Sleep.

And when he removes his hand, San is out cold. 

He begins from the bottom, piercing the flap of flesh and pulling the needle under. He pulls it up through the other side of the gash, completing the first stitch. As he tugs the rest of the magic thread through to tighten it and begin the next stitch, blood spills through the seam, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the urge to duck to the side and hurl. 

He keeps on winding the needle and thread through, completing thirteen stitches before tying the final knot. 

The gold of the string shines brightly before spreading its glow to the wound. Threads of gold bloom from the skin and fold over the stitched gash, sealing it. When the light dies down, what is left is a pink scar that runs down the same path.

Wooyoung runs a hand across his forehead, not noticing the beads of sweat that have accumulated. 

Healing magic always leaves him a little wiped–especially wound sealing spells. 

Now that the worst is done, he begins to clean and bandage up the little marks that litter San’s body. 

Just as he’s blotting a cotton wad on the cut on San’s lip, the other slips out of the sleep spell. San’s eyes flutter open and look up at Wooyoung in a daze. 

“What–?” 

Wooyoung finishes up and sits back on his heels. He begins to pack away his supplies, letting San lean up. “I put you to sleep to treat your wounds. For a soldier, you’re not too good at handling pain,” Wooyoung articulates. 

“Hey,” San quips. His lips form into an unamused frown. 

San pulls his head up and looks at the rest of his body. His eyes widen once he sees the massive scar. “Did you–was that–?” He points to Wooyoung and back at the mark, starstruck. “How did you do that?” 

Wooyoung chuckles and shrugs his shoulders. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he sasses without any actual bite. “Magic.” 

☪︎

San doesn’t take long to regain his strength. 

Half an hour later, he’s already popping up, urging both of them to move on. 

So, they do.

They follow the dirt road that winds through the meadow, stopping every now and then so Wooyoung can collect flowers he can use for potential brews. 

San stands patiently, whistling a tune while kicking at the dust in the road. 

The map shows that the nearest village, Begonia, is only a few miles out when they start to converse after walking in silence for so long. 

“So,” San prompts. “I saw that you magically fixed the bridge.” He looks up and tucks his hands nonchalantly at the rim of his belt. There’s a bitterness in his tone. It’s not toxic, but it still stings a bit.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung concedes, “I was dumb, I know. Sometimes I just forget about–like, having magic, you know?” He wants to call himself an idiot, but he doesn’t want to come off as too pathetic and redemption-seeking. So, he leaves it with a small but sincere, “I’m sorry.” 

San shrugs. “Don’t be.” 

Wooyoung looks at him, confused. 

“Without you,” San snarks, “I wouldn’t have this badass scar, would I?” He then lifts up the corner of his tunic, revealing the pink mark that cuts across his well-defined trunk. It followed the groove of his abs and traveled to hit the lining of his pec. Somehow, the scar was the least intriguing thing in sight.

 “Cool, right?”

“Uh,” Wooyoung stammers and shakes his head. “Yeah, totally.” He internally curses himself and whips his head to the side in an attempt to hide the pink on his face. He desperately needs to get out more often. 

San nods his head and pats down his tunic. “Pretty cool, pretty cool,” he mutters. His demeanor shifts into something more genuine. “It’s redeeming in a way.”

That takes Wooyoung off guard. He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not–I haven’t really done anything that knight-like. Not since I’ve graduated.” 

“I thought you were ‘Choi San, Head of the Knight’s Guard’,” Wooyoung mocks in a deep, pompous voice, puffing his chest out.

“Hey, I don’t talk like that!”

Wooyoung shrugs and rolls his eyes.

“Anyway,” San redirects, “that title is just bullshit.” He kicks a rock and watches it skip across the dust, apathetic and bored. “I just got it because the actual head is, well, sick. He happened to pick me to take his role. And because everything has been so slow, most of my jobs are pretty domestic.” He sounds quiet, small, vulnerable–as if he hasn’t told anyone this before. Like it’s a tumor in his mind that grows and grows and just won’t leave him alone. “I just feel like a–”

“Fraud,” Wooyoung finishes for him. 

He knows what that is like–all too well. 

“Yeah,” San mutters. “How did you–”

“We are all frauds in a way,” he reasons. His voice falters as he looks to the side. “Some more than others.” 

He sees San open his mouth to say something, but out of fear of being asked about himself, Wooyoung keeps the conversation focused on San. “But, in your case,” he begins, adopting a playful tone and folding his hands behind his back. “I think you’re quite ‘knight-like.’”

San’s eyes widen. “You do?” 

Wooyoung nods. “Well, you spared me on that bridge, didn’t you? I think that’s pretty knight-like.” 

A shy blush blooms beautifully on San’s face. 

“And, yes,” Wooyoung concedes. “The scar is badass.” 

San smiles proudly. “I’m really excited, you know.” 

“Excited for what?” Wooyoung quires.

“For Aspien to be back to normal,” he answers, voice full of hope. “That way, I can be a real knight.”

Something in Wooyoung tightens. When Aspien is back to normal, he repeats to himself. He hasn’t even gotten comfortable with ‘if’. 

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, “when.” 

As he idly pulls at his sleeves, internally debating the ‘if’, a light haze begins to collect around them.

“ What is this?” Wooyoung asks, waving his hand through the fog.

“Begonia,” San answers.

A small village emerges from the mist. Dull houses made of cobblestone and wood scatter across the ground while smoke pumps out of chimneys. Even though it’s only half-past noon, it's dark. The layers of fog thicken as they get closer. Lanterns dangle from the overhangs, leaking an eerie  orange through the white mist.

Something heavier hangs low in the air.

Some villagers converse, but most keep to their own. They walk with hoods over their heads, hiding their faces away. It’s quiet. 

Wooyoung leans into San. “This isn’t what I remember,” he whispers.

Begonia was glowing. Under the blue sky, children used to chase each other, weaving around vendors and carts packed full of colorful produce. It was small, but lovely. The villagers would be out and about during the day, sharing stories and whatnot. Later, they’d be at the bar, drinking and belting into the lit-up night.

Now, it’s lifeless, grim, bleak. 

As they pass through the paths of the village, it’s like time stops. Villagers turn and stare, locking their dead eyes on the both of them. In their gaze, there is something forbidding, as if they knew something–knew that he was guilty. 

Their eyes are sunken in, cheekbones visible and pulled taut. He was looking at a dead body. 

Wooyoung snaps his gaze towards the ground.

He sneaks a peek at San, who keeps his head high, but doesn’t spare a glance at the surrounding villagers. His eyes remain fixed forward. He may not look wary, but Wooyoung can tell from the way San’s hand creeps to the hilt of his sword that he’s nervous. He did the same when they heard the noise in the woods. 

San may charge forward with bravery, but he’s always aware that something might be lurking–

“You,” a voice croaks from behind him.

Wooyoung whips his head around. 

A wrinkled old crone stands before him. She’s cloaked in dark rags and leans heavily on a chipped cane. Her eyes are glossed over in a white film as the skin on her face droops with age. He can’t fight the feeling that he’s seen her before. There’s something familiar. 

“Me?” his voice wavers. He points to himself while trying to hide the shaking in his hand. Something doesn’t feel right. 

“You, boy,” she begins, “aren’t welcome here.”

Wooyoung’s frozen. 

Like a rabbit in an open field.  

Something shines in her eye. He can’t quite tell what it is. 

“You heard me, didn’t you?” she doesn’t ask, but demands. 

Everything around him is swallowed by a cloud of darkness, leaving only him and the old woman.

“Who are you?” he quivers. His eyes are wide. Buds of tears begin to frame his eyes. He’s seen ghouls and monsters from afar. But primal fear begins to rip from inside of him. He can’t move a muscle, and the beat of his heart sounds in his ears.

Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder from behind. 

“Wooyoung.”

Within a fraction of a second, the black cloud dissipates. He’s back, standing in the middle of the street. 

“Who were you talking to?” San asks. He raises a brow and peeks over Wooyoung’s shoulder.

Wooyoung frantically whips his head behind him, expecting the crone. “I was just talking to–”

Nothing. 

“Hey, hey, Wooyoung.” San takes both of his shoulders in his hands. His eyes narrow in on Wooyoung’s, probably noticing the water that rimmed them. “Are you–”

Wooyoung shudders and wipes his eyes. “No.”

San scoffs. “You’ve been acting like this all day,” he quips. “Are you sure something’s not up?” He’s stern, his gaze searing. His grip tightens on Wooyoung’s shoulders. 

“I’ve just–”

San cocks an expectant eyebrow. “You’ve just..?”

A beat. 

“I’m just tired,” Wooyoung finishes. He rips himself from San and pushes past him, keeping his head tucked. 

“Wooyoung.”

“Aspien isn’t too far away,” Wooyoung interjects. He lowers his voice. “Let’s just get out of this place.” He wraps the sides of his cloak around him, binding himself in the familiar comfort. 

He hears San sigh from behind him, but he continues to trek onward. 

He needs to get out. 

Aspien is only a few miles east. They’d be there within the next hour if they keep on at a steady pace. 

As they make their final steps out of Begonia, a voice trails past Wooyoung’s ear. 

“Leave,” it breathes. 

There’s no source of the voice; it’s as if it traveled with the wind. 

He looks over to San to see if he has heard it as well, but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. Despite the knight beside him, Wooyoung feels alone. 

Is it all in his head, or his something watching him–trying to get him? He can’t tell. 

There’s no way of telling. 

A shiver travels up his spine. He hunches his shoulders, feeling small, cold, and vulnerable. 

They travel in silence.

☪︎

The fog doesn’t clear up.  

San takes the lead for the remaining parts of the journey, head ducking every now and then to glimpse at the tattered map in his hands. It droops from the moisture in the air.

Wooyoung hasn’t said a word to San since they had left the village of Begonia. San returns the silence. Wooyoung quietly wishes that San would push for some conversation to cut the thread of silence stringing between them. 

He gets distracted by the towering posts of brick and stone that emerge from the mist. 

Aspien. 

The West Gates come into view. Amongst the fog, they stand tall and proud. Red tapestries with gryffons knitted on them drape from the merlons that sit atop the walls. 

“We’re here,” San mutters.

They approach the gatehouse. A guard stands pin-straight, clad in armor that reflects the little light that bleeds through the fog. It’s very different from what San wears. San’s being more casual—lighter. More efficient for moving. Suited for attacking and dodging, not for heavy defence like the silver armor of the fellow knight. 

As the guard catches San, he scrambles up to somehow stand even taller than he was before. “Head Knight, Choi San,” he addresses. His voice bounces off the metallic helmet, giving it a funny effect. He bows down, fluid and rehearsed. 

It’s impressive, really. Wooyoung looks over to San. He doesn’t seem to take the flattering formalities well. He chews on his lip nervously. Wooyoung remembers what San said to him earlier that day, about his lack of faith in his role. To lighten him up, Wooyoung smirks and raises his brows at him.  “Sir Choi San,” he mouths teasingly. A faint red paints San’s face.

“You have returned with the Witch, I see,” the guard acknowledges. 

“Wooyoung,” Wooyoung corrects, coughing into his fist and narrowing his eyes at the knight.

The guard doesn’t respond; he only focuses his attention back onto San. “You must report to the consort,” he says.

San nods.

Both the inner and outer gates open at once, letting them into the walls of Aspien. 

The fog sits lower inside the city. It only reaches up to about their ankles, giving them a longer field view.

Closed shops and empty buildings line the streets, boarded up and tucked away. One of the old signs read, “gone fishing,” while another one reads more realistically, “closed for good.” The white wisps of mist curl around candle-lit light poles and plots that carry dried-up plants, abandoned of care. He hears coughing in the distance. A family cloaked in tattered rags patched together, huddles in an alleyway. When they turn to look at Wooyoung, he sees what he saw in Begonia–the same gaunt faces.

Scourge, he thinks.

It really has gotten that bad. 

San looks even worse. The usual upright and go-getter knight, who wore smiles for every hour the Sun was shining, was dead-eyed and unexpressive. It’s as if the life within him tore away as soon as he stepped through the gate. 

It rubs Wooyoung in all the wrong ways. 

He bumped his elbow and snickered. “So,” he muses, “Sir Choi San, huh?” He shimmies his shoulders playfully, trying to lighten the mood. 

San rubs his elbow, but a little more light enters his eyes. 

“Yeah, Head of the Kings’ Guard,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips. 

“How official,” Wooyoung jokes. 

Despite Wooyoung’s efforts, he still sees the anxious lilt in San’s voice. Whatever happens, whether Wooyoung is successful in finding a cure or not, he hopes it doesn’t come back to harm San. 

He doesn’t care for humans, not anymore. But this one is genuine. This one is different. 

Wooyoung will find a cure. 

☪︎

The city is built upon layers, as the cliff it sits on points upward. At the very peak of it, the palace stands tall amidst the rest of the buildings within Aspien. It is constructed of stone bricks that go up for what appears to be hundreds of meters. How humans could have constructed such architecture without the use of magic never leaves the Witch unimpressed. They walk up one of the two splitting stairways that wind around dying topiary sculptures and dried-up fountains, growing mold and rust. He remembers how it looked when it was alive. Elegant was the only way to describe it. Now, it is a morbid sight. 

The archways that lead to the front door are etched with stories of dragons, fae,  and other tales. One, he recognizes from when he was a child. 

Far, far away, across the Blood Sea, through the Woods of the Whispered Tomorrow, and on the far side of the Harlins, is a mountain.  Draken Mountain. 

Within it, as said by the tale, is the beating heart of the Dragon that has become one with the mountain. It contains immense power that has yet to be dignified by man. Some say, however, that the heart, when ingested, can gift immortality.

Hundreds of curious explorers have attempted the journey, but all have been said to never return. No one knows whether the heart has been retrieved or not. Who’s to say it has ever existed at all? 

“What are you looking at?” San quires, looking over Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

Wooyoung’s gaze lingers on the engraving, drifting into thought. “A Draken’s Heart,” Wooyooung mutters beneath his breath. 

A Draken’s Heart.

San tilts his head. “Wooyoung?” 

Wooyoung looks at San, back from his lingering thoughts. “Ah, yes?” 

San nods over to the large mahogany double doors that stand at least three persons tall. “His Leige is waiting for us in the throne room. We should head in.”

Wooyoung nods and follows San to the entryway. He can’t help but glance back at the engraving once more.

The doors open at their presence. The interior of the palace is just as, if not more, architecturally intricate as the outside. Greeting them in the foyer are double stairways, carved from marble and lined with thin floral designs made of gold. The ceiling reaches to the roof of the palace, and in the middle is a dome of glass that lets the little light from the cloudy sky outside leak in. Out of the main foyer are probably miles worth of hallways that wind through the palace. 

San continues marching straight through, going under an archway that tucks under the spot where the staircases conjoin. 

The throne room. 

At the end of the long rows of finely carved pillars and sculptures, a man with shoulder-length silver hair sits on one of the two thrones. The one he takes is made of obsidian with traces of ruby sprinkled throughout it. To the left, and the biggest monument in the room, is what Wooyoung assumes is the King’s throne. It is constructed of white agate and brimmed with diamonds. Atop it sits a gryffon–which he has come to learn is the representative animal of the city of Aspien. 

They approach the man in the black throne–the Royal consort, he guesses. He wears an intimidating face, though astonishing in beauty. Black robes of silk wrap around his tall figure. He does not smile. Through the large window behind him, the orange sky of the setting sun paints the clouds a hazy yellow. It leaks through the stained glass and wraps around the man, amplifying his intimidating aura.

San immediately falls onto one knee with a bowed head. “My Liege,” he says. 

Wooyoung stares awkwardly between the figure on the throne and San, deciding what to do. Should he bow? He doesn’t really want to. The marble ground looks dusty and uncomfortable. And it’s not like he’s a subject or anything. 

Until he receives a particular glare from the consort that feels like the sharp end of a dagger on his skin. 

He kneels. 

“Choi San, Head of the King’s Guard, you have returned and have fulfilled your duty.”

San remains quiet. 

“You are dismissed.” 

San snaps his head up from the marble floor and to the Royal consort. He looks at Wooyoung and back at the consort, hesitance in his eyes. He looks worried–worried for Wooyoung. “But My Liege–” he tries to testify, keeping his voice as respectful as he can. It comes out a bit raspy. 

“Choi San,” he repeats. He does not relent. "You are dismissed.”

He flicks his wrist, sending San away. 

San hesitantly raises himself, watching Wooyoung as he begins making steps out of the throne room and back towards the foyer. His steps echo throughout the room till he makes his exit. 

The consort’s loud click of the tongue rings throughout the chamber, bringing Wooyoung’s attention back to him. 

With San gone, only the two of them remain in the room. The lack of guards and servants in the room tugs something in Wooyoung. Despite the ceilings that stand dozens of meters above his head and the vast area of the room, this is private–too private. He can feel the air thicken between them. Whatever is said in this room stays within its walls. 

Wooyoung decides he doesn’t like it.

With effortless elegance, the consort rests his chin on his fist, putting his weight on the elbow that rests on the armrest sprinkled with ruby gems that resemble droplets of blood.

“Witch of the Night,” the consort announces rather reservedly, as if the name leaves a sour taste on his tongue. Before Wooyoung can correct the man, he says, “Or, Jung Wooyoung, I should say.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrow. His surname sounds foreign to him now. Something about it being said by the man makes it sound dangerous. 

“Who are you?” he asks, trying to hide the grit in his voice.

“Who am I?” the consort asks, indifferent. “I am Park Seonghwa, consort of the Royal Court.”

He smiles. It’s not genuine, but it’s not exactly evil either. 

“Aspien welcomes you once again, Wooyoung.”