Chapter Text
as thin as a layer of ice, truth shines brighter
way to the dam of the damned, 5.
“Why... is your body cold as ice...?”
Young-Yi halted mid-step. Her breath caught in her throat, her spine rigid as if someone had poured freezing water down her back. Her hands trembled—not from the weight of Seokyoon slung over her shoulders, but from the icy dread creeping through her veins at his fragile, breathless voice.
“W-what do you mean, Yoon?” she asked, her voice cracking. She dared a glance back.
Seokyoon’s eyes fluttered half-open, his gaze glassy and distant. “Noona…” he rasped. His words broke apart with a fit of coughing. “You’re so cold… Your body… It doesn’t feel alive. It’s like—like I’m resting on a corpse…”
The words tore through her like a blade. She could barely feel her own heartbeat as fear twisted inside her chest. Is he hallucinating? Am I that cold? What’s wrong with me?
Before she could process the sinking panic, a voice cut through the smoke.
“Young-Yi!” Moonjo’s voice was sharp, commanding, and desperate. Her head snapped forward at the sound, instinct snapping her out of her daze. He was up ahead, eyes wide, hand extended as he beckoned her to keep moving.
Her legs kicked into motion before her mind could catch up. No time to think. Just run.
She sprinted, dodging the rising tongues of fire as they crept closer from behind. Each step was uneven, adrenaline pounding in her ears louder than the crackling of the forest engulfed in flames. The air was thick, tasting of smoke and desperation.
A leap—her knees almost buckled—and another—until finally, she caught up to the others. The four of them moved together now, a chaotic unity driven by fear and the faint hope that the gates ahead would be their escape.
But they weren’t.
The iron gates stood tall, ominous and unmoving. Rooted deep into the earth like they were never meant to open. Moonjo reached them first, slamming his sword hilt against the bars with a loud metallic clang. The sound echoed but did nothing. The gates didn’t even shudder.
Jongwoo threw his weight into the bars with both hands, arms straining, knuckles whitening, but the gate held fast, as if mocking their desperation.
“What the hell are the gate security doing?!” Moonjo bellowed, teeth gritted, sweat and soot streaking his face. His voice cracked, the fury inside him barely masking the fear.
Jongwoo turned, his jaw clenched as he stared past them. The fire in the distance had grown into a beast, snarling and alive, its tendrils dancing high above the treetops. It was moving fast—faster than they’d predicted.
His heart dropped.
They had minutes. Maybe less. Either they opened the gate—or they’d be swallowed whole by the inferno.
Jongwoo spun toward Young-Yi, who was already kneeling, gently lowering Seokyoon to the ground. His back slumped against the cold iron gate, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.
“Get a grip, Seokyoon!” Young-Yi cried, voice breaking with panic. Her hands fumbled at her pouch until she pulled out a small water jug. She poured some onto a cloth, shaking fingers pressing the damp fabric to his face. “Breathe—just breathe, okay? You have to stay with us!”
The smoke was everywhere now, thick and suffocating. It clawed into their lungs and stung their eyes. But Seokyoon—he wasn’t just choking on smoke. His condition made this worse. Why did a boy like him have to go through this? Young-Yi bit her lip hard, her hands trembling as she hovered over him, knowing she couldn’t protect him from what was inside his own lungs.
Jongwoo's eyes darted across the chaos, desperate for something—anything—a break in the trees, a forgotten path, a miracle. Then, movement—his gaze snapped right.
A silhouette, moving fast, barely visible through the smoke and haze.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting. And then the figure tilted, just enough for the light to catch on the sash around their waist. A sash he recognized.
“…Kihyuk?” he breathed.
“Jongwoo!” the voice confirmed. Kihyuk burst from the smoke, robes flaring around him, a second sash clutched in one hand, weighed down with supplies. He stumbled toward them, his chest heaving as he collapsed into a crouch, gasping for breath.
Moonjo turned from Seokyoon, his eyes narrowing at the sudden arrival. He saw the man cloaked in black robes, speaking to the prince like they knew each other. Tension flickered in his eyes.
“Good timing, Kihyuk!” Jongwoo called, rushing to him and grabbing his shoulders. The urgency in his voice cracked. “Where’s the exit? We need to get out of the village—now!”
But Kihyuk didn’t flinch. Instead, he gently placed his hands over Jongwoo’s and rubbed slow, calming circles on the backs of them.
“Calm down,” he said softly, looking Jongwoo in the eye. “You’re safe. Follow me—there’s another exit. It’s close.”
Jongwoo gave a firm nod, his voice low but commanding. “Let’s go.”
He turned quickly to the others. Moonjo rose without hesitation, rushing to Young-Yi’s side just as she bent down, arms trembling as she prepared to carry Seokyoon on her back again.
But Kihyuk stepped in before she could. Without a word, he knelt beside the unconscious boy. His hands moved with a quiet confidence, skimming along Seokyoon’s sides to find the safest grip. Then, in one swift motion, he hoisted him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing at all.
Seokyoon let out a weak cough, his fingers twitching.
“Careful!” Young-Yi snapped, her voice sharp with fear as she shoved the damp napkin into Seokyoon’s hand. “He can’t breathe properly—he’s asthmatic!”
Kihyuk glanced at her, eyes briefly softening. He adjusted Seokyoon’s position with more gentleness now, nodding silently in acknowledgment before setting off at a steady pace.
The others followed, their footsteps quick and heavy against the scorched earth. The fire’s roar had faded behind them, but the damage it left behind was everywhere—trees blackened to ash, the stench of charred flesh thick in the air. Each step over the ruined path was like walking through a graveyard.
Moonjo’s gaze never left Kihyuk’s back. There was something about the man that unsettled him—the way he moved, calm in chaos, like this wasn’t the first fire he’d walked through. How does Jongwoo know him? the thought scratched at the back of his mind, but he had no time to pry. Not now.
His legs ached from dodging the broken branches and scorched remains, but worse than the pain was the sight around them—corpses burnt beyond recognition. Children curled in each other’s arms, elders who hadn't made it out of their homes. Entire families turned to ash.
Too cruel… Moonjo clenched his jaw, blinking smoke from his eyes.
“There!” Kihyuk called out, pointing toward a break in the trees. A wide clearing opened ahead of them, and beyond it, gates—real gates—no iron bars, no lock, just an open path.
They didn’t hesitate. One by one, they burst through the opening, lungs burning from the effort. And when they crossed to the other side, as if an invisible weight had lifted, their feet slowed. Finally, they collapsed beneath the shade of a lone, towering tree.
Kihyuk knelt down and gently laid Seokyoon against the thick trunk. The boy’s breathing was shallow, lips tinged pale.
Without needing to be told, Kihyuk reached for his sash and pulled out a small roll of cloth tied with twine. Inside were containers—herbal remedies, a few vials, and small, carved tools. His hands moved fast, but not rushed—just trained. Jongwoo watched silently, awe and confusion flickering in his eyes.
Kihyuk knew exactly what he was doing.
And Moonjo, still standing, still staring, didn’t miss it either.
“Isn’t that... eucalyptus?” Young-Yi asked, her voice a soft whisper as she pointed to the small container Kihyuk had opened. Her eyes flickered with recognition, relief, and worry all at once.
Kihyuk nodded, his movements gentle but sure as he dipped his index finger into the finely ground herb. “Yes,” he said simply, smearing a small portion onto the center of the damp napkin with practiced ease. “It’ll help open his airways. Have him inhale it slowly—it should soothe the asthma.”
Seokyoon let out a faint, rasping sound that might’ve been a hum of gratitude. His trembling fingers reached for the napkin and brought it to his face, eyes fluttering shut as he took a cautious breath in. The smell was sharp, fresh—cleaner than anything in the smoke-laden air. The relief wasn’t immediate, but it was comforting. And right now, that was enough.
Jongwoo, exhausted and curious, let his knees hit the grass as he sat beside Kihyuk. He exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands together before asking, “Why was there a fire? In the middle of the night, no less. That wasn’t a random accident.”
The air shifted.
Kihyuk stilled—just for a second. But it was enough.
Enough for Moonjo.
He didn’t say anything at first, only watched. His gaze, cool and unreadable, narrowed ever so slightly as Kihyuk averted his eyes. A brief intake of breath. A pause too measured.
“You hesitated,” Moonjo said flatly.
Kihyuk looked up.
And for the first time, Jongwoo could see it too—that flicker of something behind the stranger’s composure. Guilt? Calculation?
Kihyuk met Moonjo’s stare, something unreadable tightening in his jaw. There was no use in denying it. “You noticed,” he admitted, calm, but not relaxed.
Moonjo’s gaze didn’t falter.
“Mm.” That was all he said, low and unimpressed.
Then, with deliberate slowness, the general lowered himself onto the grass beside Jongwoo. He crossed one leg over the other, resting an elbow on his knee, his cheek in his hand—a picture of leisure, but his eyes said otherwise.
He wasn’t relaxing.
He was watching.
Observing.
And Kihyuk could feel it—the weight of those eyes. He was no longer just the helpful stranger.
He was being evaluated by a wolf.
“The fire… it’s revenge,” Kihyuk said, his voice steady, almost too calm for the weight of his words. Then softer—more distant—“And redemption.”
“Redemption?” Moonjo echoed, the word rolling off his tongue with a curl of disdain. His tone was laced with quiet mockery, the kind that made people flinch.
A sharp smack landed on his thigh.
He turned, brows knitting, only to meet Jongwoo’s glare—disapproving, firm. “Don’t,” it said more clearly than words. Moonjo raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, a short shrug following, but his eyes slid back to Kihyuk, still skeptical.
Then Kihyuk spoke again.
“I started the fire.”
Jongwoo blinked.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. His brain scrambled for a punchline, a laugh, anything that would turn this into a twisted joke. But there was none. Just Kihyuk—calm, expression unwavering, eyes that didn’t look away.
Those eyes told the truth.
The breath Jongwoo had been holding slowly slipped from his lips, but the lump in his throat only grew. The silence thickened around them, pressing down like ash-laden smoke. Even the crackling of fire in the distance seemed quieter now.
“Why…?” Jongwoo finally asked, his voice hushed, uncertain. “Why would you do that?”
Kihyuk didn’t hesitate this time.
“Because everyone killed my mother.”
Moonjo’s shoulders stiffened.
The confession sank in like a blade to the gut—sharp, sudden, brutal. He stared at Kihyuk, his mind racing to fill in the gaps. Killed? What did he mean? How?
And then Kihyuk answered without being asked.
“They crucified her,” he said hollowly. “They said she was a witch.”
The words hit harder than any flame. A suffocating silence followed—one that felt too loud, too cruel to carry such a calm voice. Moonjo turned to Jongwoo instinctively, as if to confirm what he’d just heard, but Jongwoo wasn’t looking back.
He was staring at Kihyuk.
Staring at the quiet rage behind his eyes. At the boy who had set a town ablaze not just for vengeance—but for grief that had never found justice.
It all started when I was little,” Kihyuk murmured, eyes soft with memory. “My mother… she had this gift with herbs. Plants seemed to grow just for her.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, touched with sorrow. “She’d spend hours in our little garden, coaxing each leaf and stem to life. And when they bloomed, it was like watching her happiness take form. Eventually, she opened a shop—tiny at first. She used the plants she grew, made salves and ointments from them.”
He paused, his voice softening further, as if reliving the scent of sun-warmed leaves and damp soil. “She figured out that most people didn’t have the time to soak and dry herbs the proper way, especially when they were in pain or needed help fast. So, she began preparing them herself—grinding the dried leaves into powder, gently soaking others and extracting dew by hand. She worked tirelessly, every single day… cutting, rinsing, drying, pressing. All with her bare hands.”
A flicker of pride entered his voice. “Her business boomed. She helped so many people. Word spread, and soon we were no longer struggling. We were… well-off. Comfortable. Rich, even.”
His gaze dropped for a moment, a hand brushing his sash with absent affection. “She even bought me this—one of the few luxuries she allowed herself to give me. The sash you fixed, Jongwoo.”
He let out a soft breath, eyes distant. “I grew up in that shop. Learned how to care for the plants, which ones healed burns, which could lower fevers. I documented everything she taught me. I even started experimenting—created my own mixtures. Antibiotics, balms, remedies. Life was… good. Peaceful. It was just me and my mom, and the world felt safe.”
His voice cracked slightly—just barely. “She was the kindest soul I’ve ever known. A woman who never turned away someone in pain. Who never hesitated to share what she had. I thank the heavens she was my mother.”
He fell silent for a beat. Then his expression darkened, his voice low and bitter.
“But… everything changed the moment the new officials were elected.”
The warmth drained from his eyes. The calm gave way to something else—resentment, buried under layers of grief. The soft flicker of nostalgia was gone now, replaced by the cold edge of what was to come.
“One of them… was a masochist,” Kihyuk spat the word like venom, jaw clenched. “And a misogynist, too. He couldn’t stand the thought of a woman rising above him. Especially not my mother.”
He paused, nostrils flaring, gaze fixed on the earth as if he could still see the bloodstained soil. “He despised her success—how a humble herbalist, a single woman with no noble blood or title, could build something so… powerful. He hated how her shop flourished. How she helped people more than he ever could with his titles and empty speeches.”
Kihyuk’s voice grew rougher, tinged with disbelief and fury. “He held a court relay—gathered the entire village to spit venom in the name of law. I still hear his voice echo in my skull…”
He mimicked, voice dropping to a sinister tone:
‘No woman should be able to comprehend that much knowledge! Too much knowledge is treacherous! And only witches know the secrets of earth—they are monsters risen from the ground!’
Kihyuk’s fingers curled into fists. “That one speech… twisted everything. The people who once smiled at my mother, the ones she healed, they turned. Their faith cracked and crumbled under the weight of ignorance and fear. Overnight, she became a villain in their eyes.”
He looked up, eyes dull with rage and despair. “They stopped coming. Her shop went silent. Others stole her recipes, her work, and pretended it was theirs. My mother… she cried every night, but never with anger. She prayed for him to apologize. Apologize!” he scoffed, bitterly. “That man didn’t even deserve to speak her name.”
His breath trembled. “And then one morning… I woke up to chaos. Strange men from the court barged in. They pinned me down. I was just a kid. I didn’t understand. I screamed for her. And then I saw—”
His voice faltered.
“They dragged her outside. I fought. I clawed. But they held me like I was nothing. That same afternoon… they crucified her.”
A tense silence wrapped around the group. Kihyuk’s voice shook, trembling with rage. “They tied her to a wooden cross in the village square like some rabid beast. People gathered—no one tried to stop it. They spat on her. Threw buckets of filthy water at her. They chanted verses, held up wooden crosses like they were saving themselves from the Devil. They surrounded her with Rue—Ruta Graveolens—because they thought it would cleanse evil.”
His voice cracked, barely a whisper now. “It was a ritual. A public execution. A horror show.”
“I stood there… frozen. Not because I didn’t care. But because my body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t scream. A guard gripped my wrists so hard I thought my bones would snap, but all I could do was watch—”
He inhaled sharply, face paling. “The priest stepped forward. Lit the base of the cross on fire. Slowly… flames crawled up the wood like hungry mouths. And she—she screamed. Her cries—gods, her cries—they tore through me. Her voice was pain itself. And no one did anything. No one helped.”
He was trembling now, fists shaking at his sides, voice low and cold as steel.
“That was the day I made a vow.”
A pause. Then—
“I would burn this village to the ground. Every last corner of it.”
“I’m so…” Jongwoo’s voice caught in his throat. He bit down on his bottom lip, guilt pressing heavy in his chest as he looked at Kihyuk—at the way the other boy’s fingers quietly played with the hem of his sleeve, the weight of his grief hanging off his frame like a soaked cloak.
Without thinking, Jongwoo stood. The fire crackled nearby, but his attention was fixed only on Kihyuk. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. It was instinct—not out of obligation, but out of something deeper. A yearning to share the pain, to give warmth where there had only been cold for so long.
Kihyuk froze in shock.
He hadn’t been held like this in years.
The sudden contact brought a rush of emotions to the surface. Jongwoo's arms—firm yet gentle—felt like home. Like his mother’s embrace. Like something sacred he’d been starved of. His breath hitched. His head dipped forward, and his hair fell like a curtain, hiding his face from the world… from the distant fire still glowing against the dark sky.
Then, slowly, his hands reached for Jongwoo’s robes. He gripped them tightly, as though he might shatter without something to hold. And then, the tears came.
They weren’t loud. They didn’t crash through the silence. But they were raw. Heavy. Sobs that shook his chest in quiet tremors. Inside, he wanted to scream. To howl with the fury and sadness that had been buried so long. But all he could do was cry.
Jongwoo held him closer, pressing a hand to Kihyuk’s back and rubbing slow circles—just like his mother used to do when he was a boy, scared of thunder or too hurt to speak.
“It’s all over now,” Jongwoo whispered, voice trembling. “You’re safe.”
From a few feet away, Moonjo stood and watched. His eyes didn’t blink. His expression unreadable. But inside? Inside was chaos.
It wasn’t the hug that unsettled him—it was who gave it.
He wasn’t good at emotions. Never had been. But jealousy… jealousy bloomed easily. He could admit it, even if only to himself. He wanted those arms wrapped around him. Wanted to be the one pulled into Jongwoo’s warmth—not out of pity, not out of duty…
But out of love.
He clenched his jaw.
Because he knew—he knew—Jongwoo didn’t see him that way. Never had. To Jongwoo, he was just the general. Just the sword and shield of the young prince. A guardian bound to loyalty, not affection. A figure meant to stand beside him in battle—not in his heart.
And yet, as Moonjo stared at the silhouette of Jongwoo holding Kihyuk, something in him ached. A silent cry he couldn’t voice.
He wanted to be seen too.
Not as the general. Not as the protector.
But as Moonjo.
“Are you okay?” Seokyoon’s voice was faint, fragile—like a whisper trying to break through the heavy silence. Moonjo turned his head slowly, startled to see Seokyoon awake, clutching the damp napkin in his hand. Nearby, Young-Yi had slipped into sleep, her head resting gently on Seokyoon’s lap, unaware of the tension thickening the air.
“So-so,” Moonjo replied quietly, forcing the words out. He didn’t want to admit how shattered he felt inside.
Seokyoon let out a soft snicker, an attempt to lighten the mood. “Where are we even going to rest, though?”
Moonjo’s eyes flickered to the distant shadows beyond the gate, but before he could answer, Kihyuk rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve, wiping away the traces of tears he hadn’t bothered to hide earlier. He looked at them, his gaze tired but sharp.
“Where are you all headed?” Kihyuk asked, voice low and wary. “Not many people travel east.”
Jongwoo’s eyes searched Moonjo’s face, silently asking if they should speak openly about it. Moonjo hesitated—a flicker of doubt crossing his features—but then he nodded slightly, giving Jongwoo the permission he sought.
Taking a breath, Jongwoo turned back to Kihyuk. “The Dam of the Damned.”
Kihyuk raised a brow, surprise flickering across his face. “The dam?”
Moonjo shifted his position, carefully lowering himself to lie down, his head settling on Jongwoo’s thigh—a small comfort amid the turmoil. Jongwoo’s hand moved automatically, fingers threading through Moonjo’s hair in soothing, slow strokes. Moonjo closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the touch; it was a rare moment of peace in a world torn apart by fire and grief.
“The dam,” Moonjo finally said, voice low and almost reverent, “is guarded by Chinese troops. No one who’s gone there has ever come back intact.”
The weight of the truth hung heavily between them, a silent warning that the path ahead was fraught with danger—more than just the fire they had escaped. Yet, in that shared space beneath the tree, despite the fear and uncertainty, there was a fragile thread of hope binding them all together.