Saltwake
Chapter One
OT8!PirateAteez x F!Reader/original character
sequel to Tidebound- please read first
Masterlist > Previous (book one) >Next
The curse was only the beginning. Saltwake. Some times don’t pull you under. They come for the world instead. The sea feels colder now. Less alive with horror but now deadly with anger. Siren waters whisper lies. Towns rot under golden banner. Guards watch without faces. The curse is gone - but the world had not healed. And somewhere on land, a name begins to echo.
Genre: PirateAU, sequel, slowburn, angst, enemies to ??, found family
Warnings: angst, violence, dictatorship, imprisonment, grief, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, distress, manipulation, swearing, political oppression, (lmk if i misses anything!)
Word count: 10.8K
The sea was colder now. Bitter, and stings with each breath it takes.
Winter had settled across it like a shroud, turning every wave to steel and every exhale to smoke. The air carried that sharp, briny bite that stung the back of the throat and clung to everything it touched- sails, ropes, skin.
The horizon had lost its colour. It was all grey upon grey; sky and water bleeding into one endless sheet of metal. Even the gulls had gone silent, their shapes distant smudges against the clouds that sagged heavy with snow.
The HalaVeil moved through it slowly, her timbers groaning with the effort. Frost webbed across her rails and masts, catching the faint light like veins of glass. Each swell that struck her hull sounded more like an exhale than a crash- tired, rhythmic, old.
A storm must have passed here recently. The ocean still trembled from it, restless and resentful, the surface dappled with scattered foam that looked like torn paper floating on ink.
There was no wind strong enough to fill the sails. No sound but the soft roll of water against wood. It was the kind of quiet that made the sea feel alive; watching, waiting, holding its breath.
And somewhere beneath the frost and the stillness, under the waves that had swallowed both prayers and promises, the tide was beginning to stir again.
Wooyoung stood at the bow, the frost biting through his coat. The world around him was colourless- sky and sea bleeding into one another, the ship adrift in a silence so heavy it felt personal. His eyes burned from the cold, or maybe from the ache behind them that hadn’t eased since the island.
He leaned against the railing, knuckles white, breath a thin mist. “You’d hate it like this,” he murmured to the wind. “Too quiet.”
The sea didn’t answer, but he kept talking anyway- half out of habit, half out of need.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For not being faster. For not seeing what you were going to do. I should’ve–” His voice broke, the words catching before they could finish. He blinked hard, but the tears still came – small, hot lines against the cold air. “You always did what you thought was right, didn’t you? Even when it hurt.”
A wave sighed beneath the hull. The rhythm was almost like a heartbeat.
“I just wish,” he breathed, “you’d let us save you, for once.”
The wind changed. It came softer now, curling around him like a voice half-remembered. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Somewhere below, the water shifted– slow at first, then deliberate.
He froze.
There was movement, a shimmer under the surface, something dark but graceful, turning just beneath the ship’s reflection. His heart stuttered, breath catching in his throat.
“…Angel?”
The name left his lips without permission.
The water rippled in answer. Not violent, more like a beckon. The sound of the waves dulled. The cold faded. The air thickened until all he could hear was that faint pulse beneath the surface, that heartbeat that wasn’t his.
He leaned forward, hands gripping the railing. His vision tunneled, drawn to that flicker of shape, that almost-sound of a voice he knew.
And then it was like he was pulled over. Splash.
Ice-cold water slapped his face. A hand seized his collar, yanking him backward so hard his boots skidded on the frozen deck.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with alarm. He slammed the hatch closed behind them before Wooyoung could even catch his breath. “You were seconds from going over.”
Wooyoung stared at him, dazed. “It was– there was something–”
Seonghwa’s glare was pure steel. “That was a siren.”
“No,” Wooyoung said, still trying to find his footing. “It sounded like–”
“Don’t,” Seonghwa snapped. “You think every ghost the sea throws at you has her face? Do you want to end up another body the tide keeps?”
Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. The protest stuck in his throat. The sting of saltwater still burned against his skin, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the sea or his tears.
Seonghwa exhaled, quieter this time. “Don’t do that again.”
He left Wooyoung standing there in the half-dark cabin, dripping and shaking, the sound of the sea pressing faintly against the wood.
Wooyoung turned back toward the porthole – where the frost still clung to the glass and the horizon waited. The ocean outside looked calm again. Empty.
But even after Seonghwa’s footsteps faded, he swore he could still hear it – a voice beneath the waves, whispering his name.
The door slammed behind them with a thud that echoed through the ship’s hollow ribs. For a moment, Wooyoung just stood there, breathing hard in the dim corridor, water dripping from his hair and collar onto the planks below. The scent of salt clung to him– sharp and unmistakable, as if the sea itself refused to let go.
He wiped at his face with his sleeve, though it did little to dry him. The faint sound of the waves against the hull felt louder down here, pressing through the wood like whispers from another world. He hated that he couldn’t tell if they were real.
Above deck, Seonghwa’s boots thudded once, twice, then stopped. The bolt on the hatch scraped shut, iron on iron. Wooyoung could almost hear him exhale through his teeth before moving off again.
Sirens. The word still rang in his head, cold as the air that bit his skin.
He pushed off the wall and started down the corridor toward the lower deck, boots slick on the frost-slick planks. The lanterns hanging from the beams swayed gently, throwing lines of gold and shadow that turned the narrow passage into something almost alive.
As he descended the steps, the familiar smell of oil, medicine, and iron filled the air – Yunho’s domain. The medic was at his desk, hunched over a book, the light catching in the wire of his glasses. He looked up when Wooyoung entered, one eyebrow lifting at the state of him.
“What did you do this time?” Yunho asked, voice calm but carrying that edge of concern he never bothered to hide.
Wooyoung hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain it – the sound, the shape in the water, the way the world had gone quiet. “Seonghwa said it was a siren.”
Yunho’s hands stilled above the page. “And you didn’t believe him?”
“I almost went overboard,” Wooyoung admitted. “Didn’t feel like I wanted to – it just… happened.”
Yunho leaned back, studying him. “That’s how they work. If it was real, you wouldn’t have wanted anything except to follow.”
“I didn’t want to,” Wooyoung said quickly, defensive. “I just–” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, the water still cold against his fingers. “Forget it. I don’t even know what I heard anymore.”
Yunho sighed, closing the book softly. “You’ve been seeing things that aren’t there since the island. Hearing them too. Grief does that.”
Wooyoung looked away. “It wasn’t grief.”
Yunho didn’t argue, and somehow that made it worse.
The silence stretched until the floorboards creaked above them, Seonghwa’s steady tread moving from one hatch to the next. The man never made unnecessary noise, yet somehow Wooyoung could always tell where he was on the ship.
Yunho turned back to his desk. “Get warm before you freeze. And don’t go near the rail again until we’re past this stretch.”
“Why?”
“Because Seonghwa said so,” Yunho replied simply. “And he’s the only one on this ship who can hear a siren and live to talk about it.”
Wooyoung frowned but said nothing. He peeled off his soaked gloves and dropped them onto a crate near the stairs before heading for his bunk.
Above, the ship groaned under the weight of the cold sea wind.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seonghwa moved methodically, his movements almost ritualistic. He started from the quarterdeck, working his way down, bolting hatches and checking every latch, every window, every seam of the ship that could let sound slip through. The sky had deepened to that eerie blue-grey that came before snow, the kind that swallowed distance. The air was too still, the waves too gentle.
They were passing through siren territory; he could feel it in the hum of the current beneath the hull. The water vibrated differently here – slower, deeper. Like something sleeping with one eye open.
He paused by the aft hatch, gloved hand brushing over the frosted iron. His reflection blinked back from the porthole glass: pale, sharp, unbothered by the cold. The faintest shimmer of silver traced his pupils, a remnant of the bloodline he never spoke of aloud since the island.
Part-siren. Not enough to lure. Not enough to drown. Just enough to know when the ocean wanted something.
He could hear them faintly now – the real ones – buried beneath the sea’s breathing. Their song wasn’t meant for him; it was meant for those who didn’t know better, those who still believed they could be loved by what lies beneath.
His chest ached faintly at that thought.
He turned the final bolt into place, the metal biting at his fingers, and pressed his ear lightly against the door. The hum outside was steady, no rhythm of words yet, no melodic pull. Safe enough. For now.
“Not tonight,” he muttered under his breath, straightening. “You won’t have anyone tonight.”
The wind shifted, carrying a faint echo back- soft, almost mocking, as though the sea itself had laughed.
Seonghwa didn’t react. He simply pulled his hood up and made his way back toward the captain’s quarters, the lanternlight catching briefly on the curve of his eyes, eyes that gleamed faintly silver before the dark swallowed him whole.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The captain’s quarters were a cave of dim light and colder air. A single lantern burned on the map table, the flame too low to fight the shadows that clung to the corners. The room smelled of salt, ink, and exhaustion.
Hongjoong stood hunched over the table, palms braced on either side of a map he hadn’t stopped tracing for hours. The parchment was creased and stained with water, edges curling where candle wax had dripped and hardened. Circles marked routes that led nowhere. Crossed-out notes bled into one another.
He hadn’t slept since the island. It showed in the hollow beneath his eyes and the unshaven shadow running along his jaw. His hair hung loose, salt-stiff and dull at the ends. Every now and then, his fingers would twitch over the inked coastlines, as if he could redraw the world into something that made sense.
When the door opened, the hinges creaked loud in the silence.
Seonghwa stepped inside, the lamplight catching briefly on the frost that clung to his coat. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the howl of the wind.
“We’ll be out of siren territory within three hours,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, steady – one of the few constants left aboard the ship. “The waters past that are clearer. Still cold, but safer.”
Hongjoong didn’t look up. He gave a faint nod, the motion barely more than a breath. “Good.”
Seonghwa crossed the room slowly, the boards creaking under his boots. His gaze swept over the map table, over the scattered charts and the old compass that spun lazily without wind. “You’re mapping again?”
“Checking routes,” Hongjoong muttered. His voice was rough, worn down by too many sleepless nights. “We’ll need supplies soon. Food, rope, ammunition. The last storm tore through half our stock.”
“Yunho said the same,” Seonghwa replied, leaning against the table’s edge. “You could’ve let him help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You need sleep,” Seonghwa said simply.
That earned him a flicker of a glance – nothing more, but enough to see how much weight Hongjoong carried in the lines of his face.
His eyes were dark, almost bruised. The kind that had seen too much and refused to close because of it.
“Every time I sleep,” Hongjoong said quietly, “I hear her. In the water. In the rigging. In the damn wind.” He forced a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve been locking down hatches because of sirens, but I don’t need them to lose my mind.”
Seonghwa didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, watching him trace the edge of the map again, the muscles in his hand tightening until his knuckles went white.
Finally, he said, “Then stop trying to erase her by drawing lines through the sea.”
Hongjoong stilled. His gaze lingered on the inked coastlines, the fine trembling of his fingertips betraying the calm in his voice. “You think I’m erasing her?”
“I think,” Seonghwa said, choosing his words carefully, “you’re trying to rewrite everything that went wrong. And the sea doesn’t take edits kindly.”
The silence that followed stretched thin, humming faintly with the ship’s low groan.
Hongjoong exhaled, slow and shallow, then turned the compass toward him. “Aldervain,” he said finally. “Small town, forest edge. Old logging port. It’s far enough from the capital to stay unnoticed, but close enough to resupply. We’ll go there at dawn.”
Seonghwa nodded once, not pushing further. “I’ll tell the crew.”
He turned to leave, his hand brushing the door handle, but Hongjoong’s voice stopped him.
“Three hours, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Wake me when we’re clear of the border.”
Seonghwa hesitated – surprise flickering across his face – before inclining his head. “Aye, Captain.”
When he left, the room sank back into quiet.
Hongjoong leaned on the table again, eyes tracing the map without really seeing it. Beyond the cabin walls, the ocean rolled slow and patient. The tide had gone still, but its memory never slept.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Below deck, the storm-lamp hummed faintly, filling the infirmary with the warm smell of oil and linen. Yunho had pulled his sleeves up, sorting herbs and jars into careful rows while Wooyoung sat perched on the edge of a crate, the last of the chill still clinging to him.
“You can stop hovering,” Yunho said without looking up. “You’ve been dripping on my floor for twenty minutes.”
Wooyoung huffed. “It’s not your floor.”
“Everything below deck is mine,” Yunho replied easily. “At least until someone starts bleeding on it.”
That earned a quiet laugh. For a moment it almost sounded like the old kind of laughter – easy, careless. Then it faded, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Yunho glanced up. “Still thinking about what you saw?”
Wooyoung’s mouth twitched. “Heard,” he corrected softly. “And no. I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I learned from Hongjoong.”
Yunho smiled faintly at that. “Then you’re doomed.”
The door banged open before Wooyoung could reply. Mingi stumbled in, a bundle of smoke and curses, clutching his forearm. “Okay, don’t panic–”
Yunho didn’t even look alarmed. “What did you set on fire this time?”
“Nothing important,” Mingi said quickly. “Mostly myself.”
He held up his arm, the sleeve scorched and a patch of skin reddened beneath it. Wooyoung blinked. “What were you even doing?”
“Trying to make the new powder dry faster,” Mingi said, wincing as Yunho grabbed his wrist. “It mostly worked.”
“Mostly?”
Yunho poured a trickle of cool water from a jug, the steam hissing as it met the burn. “You’re lucky you didn’t blow a hole through the hull again.”
“Again?” Wooyoung asked, feigning shock.
“That was one time,” Mingi protested. “And the hole was very small.”
Wooyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your ‘experiments.’”
“It’s called innovation,” Mingi said proudly, though the corners of his mouth twitched with pain as Yunho dabbed salve over the burn. “Besides, if we don’t keep improving, the next cannon might sink before we fire it.”
Yunho arched an eyebrow. “Comforting.”
Mingi grinned at him. “You love the thrill.”
“I love having a ship that’s still afloat.”
Wooyoung watched them bicker, his arms folded loosely, a small smile ghosting over his lips. For a few minutes, it felt almost normal, like the months before everything fractured. The laughter, the smell of smoke and medicine, Mingi’s dramatic groaning as Yunho wrapped the bandage too tightly.
“Done,” Yunho said at last, tying the knot with a precise tug. “Try not to light yourself again before morning.”
“No promises,” Mingi said cheerfully, testing his fingers. “Thanks, doctor.”
“Medic,” Yunho corrected.
“Right. Doctor of explosions.”
He saluted with his good hand and left the room, still muttering to himself about formula ratios.
The laughter followed him out, lingering like warmth.
When it faded, the silence between the remaining two wasn’t empty, it just sounded older.
Wooyoung still smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The light caught there anyway, reflecting the faint shimmer of salt that never quite left him.
Yunho saw it, but didn’t mention it. He just leaned back on his stool, arms folded, watching the lantern sway. “Get some rest,” he said finally. “Tomorrow’s probably going to be long.”
Wooyoung nodded, pushing off the crate. “Yeah. Sure.”
He left the infirmary, the echo of Mingi’s laughter already fading into the hum of the ship.
Behind him, Yunho blew out the lamp. The scent of smoke lingered, sharp and human against the cold breath of the sea.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By morning, the sky had softened into a pale wash of silver. The storm had passed sometime in the night, leaving behind a sea so still it almost looked frozen. Thin shards of sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting across the frost that coated the ropes and railing.
The HalaVeil creaked softly as it cut through the quiet. Seonghwa stood near the helm, his coat drawn tight, eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint outline of land had begun to take shape, a dark smudge rising through the morning mist.
He had already been awake for hours. The air here tasted different- less metallic, less heavy. The humming beneath the hull had quieted. Siren territory was behind them.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Hongjoong stood a few paces away, the pale light catching on his tired face. The captain’s hair was pulled back in a rough knot, the stubble along his jaw shadowing sharper than ever. He hadn’t spoken much since dawn, only the occasional clipped command as they adjusted course.
At last, Seonghwa raised his voice, steady and clear. “All hands to deck.”
The call rippled through the ship. Doors creaked open, boots thudded across the floorboards, voices mumbled half-awake answers. One by one they appeared– some still bleary from sleep, others already shrugging on coats and belts.
Yunho came first, rubbing at his eyes and clutching a cup of something that steamed faintly in the cold air. Mingi followed, his bandaged arm tucked carefully against his side, the smell of burnt powder still clinging to him. Wooyoung trailed last, collar high against the wind, his expression unreadable.
Yeosang was the quietest, moving with that same deliberate precision that came with exhaustion he never named aloud. His pendant glinted once against his throat before disappearing beneath his scarf.
They gathered around the helm, shivering slightly, breath misting in the chill.
Hongjoong didn’t waste words. “We’re nearing Aldervain,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “Small town, forestry trade. There’s a mill and a few market routes left open this time of year. We’ll restock food, medicine, and whatever repairs we can’t manage ourselves.”
Mingi raised an eyebrow. “Simple supply run?”
“Exactly that,” Hongjoong said. “In and out. No distractions, no curiosity, no trouble.”
Wooyoung gave a low whistle. “You’re talking to the wrong crew, Captain.”
Hongjoong’s eyes cut to him, sharp as glass. “Then prove me wrong.”
The deck went quiet again, broken only by the creak of the sails above. Seonghwa shifted slightly beside him, the faintest twitch of amusement flickering through his expression, though he said nothing.
“Pairs,” Hongjoong continued. “You know how this goes. You move in groups. You don’t linger. We meet back at the docks before dusk.”
“Understood,” Yunho said first, voice calm and grounding as always.
The others murmured assent, though none of them looked entirely awake yet. Mingi yawned. Wooyoung nudged his shoulder. Even Yeosang’s usual composure looked thinner under the weight of sleeplessness.
Hongjoong glanced toward the horizon one last time. The mist had begun to lift, revealing the dark stretch of forest that framed the coastline. From here, Aldervain looked quiet – almost peaceful. But the captain’s eyes didn’t soften.
“Stay sharp,” he said finally. “We’re not the only ones trying to survive out here.”
Seonghwa nodded once, stepping forward to take the wheel as the ship veered closer to land. The sea hissed softly against the hull, and a flock of pale birds lifted from the distant treeline, their cries echoing faintly over the waves.
The HalaVeil moved toward them, the frost beginning to melt from her decks. The day had only just begun, but already the air felt different, like the kind of stillness that comes before something breaks.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The docks appeared first – jagged lines of wood jutting out from a shoreline of silt and stone. The water near them was darker, thicker, the colour of iron instead of salt. As the vessel drew closer, the wind changed, carrying the faint tang of smoke and metal instead of brine.
Aldervain was a town half-swallowed by its own past.
From a distance, it might have once looked proud – rows of warehouses and mill chimneys rising above the tree line, a cluster of rooftops hugging the curve of the river mouth. But time and war and the slow rot of greed had taken their share. The closer they came, the clearer the decay became: roofs caved in and patched with tar, walls layered in soot, streets that looked slick with perpetual rain even when the sky was clear.
The forest beyond was vast and unyielding, a wall of dark trunks and frost-glazed branches pressing close to the back of the town as if waiting for its chance to reclaim it. Every gust of wind through those trees carried a low groan, like the sound of something ancient remembering how to move.
Hongjoong stood at the bow with Seonghwa, watching the town come into focus through the thinning fog. A line of gulls perched on the dock rails didn’t even scatter as the ship approached; they just watched, heads tilting in eerie unison.
The first buildings rose from the shore like broken teeth – grey brick and rusted tin, their windows fogged or boarded over. Faded signs hung crookedly above empty shop fronts: Tanner & Sons Leatherworks, Grain Mill, Dockwright Repairs. None of them looked open.
The streets beyond were narrow and damp, puddles reflecting the dull light of morning. There were people, but not many. They moved quickly, wrapped in thick coats, faces hidden. No one lingered long enough to speak.
And everywhere – plastered across the walls, nailed to the sides of warehouses, even painted over old signs – were the posters.
Some were new, paper still white beneath the grime. Others were peeling, edges curling from the damp. Each carried the same mark at the bottom corner — a sigil of the capital, stamped in gold.
Most bore slogans: words like Order, Security, Prosperity. But the tone wasn’t hopeful. It was a warning disguised as promise.
Mingi squinted at one as they passed, its ink still running from the rain. “Cheery place,” he muttered.
Wooyoung gave a dry laugh that didn’t sound like amusement. “Looks like home, if home forgot how to breathe.”
Yeosang said nothing. His gaze lingered on one of the posters, something about it catching his attention, though he couldn’t say what. He only knew it made the back of his neck prickle.
Seonghwa slowed the ship as they drew up to an empty mooring post, his hands steady on the wheel. The air here felt heavier somehow, the kind that settled in the chest instead of the lungs.
“This place reeks of the capital,” he said quietly.
Hongjoong didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking across the streets, the banners, the dull shimmer of the gold sigils catching in the light. Something about the order of them – too precise, too clean amid the ruin – made his stomach twist.
The crew moved to lower the anchor. The sound of the chain rattled through the cold air, echoing off stone and metal. A few dockworkers turned to look – blank faces, tired eyes – before going back to their work without a word.
When the ship finally stilled, the silence that followed felt unnatural, like the pause before a breath that never comes.
Aldervain wasn’t dead. It was just holding very, very still.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hongjoong stood near the gangplank, the morning light painting his features in washed-out gold. The others gathered close, breath fogging the cold air as gulls screamed somewhere above. Aldervain’s docks stretched out ahead of them, quiet and grey, the sound of machinery in the distance a dull, relentless hum.
“Pairs,” Hongjoong said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You know the rules.” He pointed first to the map laid out across a crate beside him. “Mingi, you’re with me. We’ll find the main supply office and see what’s left of their stores.”
Mingi nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
“Seonghwa, Wooyoung – check the taverns and markets. See if there’s word from the capital, anything about increased patrols.”
Seonghwa gave a curt nod. Wooyoung smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yunho, Yeosang – medicine, rope, spare canvas. Don’t linger.”
Yunho murmured agreement, glancing at Yeosang, who gave a silent nod in return.
Finally, Hongjoong turned to the last two. “Jongho, San – the forest. Bring back what you can. We’re running low on good arrows and usable wood. If you see anyone, keep your heads down.”
Jongho’s expression stayed even, but he caught the faint hesitation in San’s nod. Hongjoong did too, though he didn’t comment. “Be quick,” was all he said.
With that, they split, boots striking the damp planks in opposite directions, the sound of their parting footsteps echoing like distant gunfire through the stillness.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The streets narrowed the further they walked, splitting into thin veins that wound like cracks between the buildings. The air here was different- damp, stale, thick with the scent of smoke and rust. Each alleyway was a shadowed corridor of dripping eaves and warped cobblestones slick with frost.
Yunho walked ahead, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting near the small blade at his belt. His eyes scanned every sign they passed, though most were unreadable – paint worn down to faint ghosts of letters.
Yeosang trailed a few steps behind, his boots quiet on the stones. The noise of the main street faded quickly behind them, swallowed by the echo of dripping gutters and the occasional distant clang of metal on metal.
A cat darted across their path, fur bristled, tail disappearing beneath a heap of old crates. Yeosang’s gaze followed it for a moment before lifting again to the walls around them.
Every surface was layered – crumbling plaster, flaking paint, the grey smear of time. On some walls, the capital’s posters had been plastered so thickly that they overlapped like scales, their slogans barely legible under the grime. The edges peeled in the damp, revealing older layers beneath – other promises, other lies.
“Place feels like it’s rotting from the inside out,” Yunho muttered, glancing up at the narrow strip of sky between the buildings. “Can’t believe people still live here.”
Yeosang’s voice was quiet. “People live everywhere they’re allowed to.”
Yunho looked back at him, eyebrows raising faintly, but didn’t argue.
They turned another corner, stepping over a broken wheel left half-submerged in a puddle. The reflection of the two of them wavered in the water, distorted by ripples, stretched by light.
A few stalls lined the alley’s end, small and desperate. Vendors hunched behind patched tarps, their goods laid out in careful rows – threadbare cloth, bottles of cheap tonic, cracked glass jars filled with herbs that had lost their colour long ago.
Yunho slowed as they approached one with the faintest smell of alcohol and disinfectant. A hand-painted sign hung overhead, letters uneven but still readable: Healer’s Goods & Remedies.
“Found it,” he said, nodding toward it.
Yeosang scanned the alley before following, his gaze lingering on a nearby door marked with the capital’s sigil. Something about the emblem made his stomach tighten, but he said nothing, stepping closer to Yunho.
Inside the stall, the air was warmer – close and heavy with the scent of medicinal oil. Shelves leaned against the walls, cluttered with bottles and wrapped herbs, the faint hum of a small heater breaking the silence.
An older woman looked up from behind the counter, her expression wary. “You’re not guards.”
“Does that make you feel better or worse?” Yunho asked lightly, reaching for a small pouch of coins.
She didn’t answer, just gave a pointed look at his hands.
He set the pouch on the counter. “We’re looking for antiseptic, clean bandages, anything you have for burns or deep cuts.”
Her eyes flicked to Yeosang briefly before she turned away, gathering supplies without a word.
Yeosang stood near the door, watching the alley through the warped glass pane. The posters outside fluttered in the wind, corners flapping like wings. For a second, one peeled back enough to reveal an older one beneath it – a different name, a different face, almost entirely obscured.
He stepped closer, squinting through the glass, but before he could make out the words, Yunho’s voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.
“Yeosang.”
He turned. Yunho had already packed the supplies into a small satchel, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go before someone decides we look too clean to belong here.”
Yeosang nodded, following him back out into the cold. The alley felt narrower now, the sky thinner, the silence heavier.
Behind them, the healer’s door shut with a dull click.
And above, a poster tore loose from its nail, fluttering down to the wet stones—its face half-hidden, but the name still visible in gold ink that hadn’t yet faded.
Elias Solivar.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The forest began almost immediately after the edge of the town, a gradual bleed of industry into wilderness. Soot-blackened chimneys gave way to frost-bitten birch and oak, their roots tangling through old stone foundations. The air changed there – colder, cleaner, carrying the smell of sap instead of smoke.
San walked ahead, his shoulders tense beneath his coat, the bow slung across his back like a habit he couldn’t put down. The silence between them was long, stretched taut by something unspoken. Jongho followed a few steps behind, eyes flicking between the path and San’s expression.
“You slept?” Jongho asked finally, voice quiet.
San gave a brief shrug. “Didn’t need to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Didn’t want to, then.”
Jongho hummed softly, as if that was answer enough. The wind hissed through the trees, carrying small flakes of snow that clung to their sleeves.
“You know,” Jongho said after a moment, “I think this place used to be beautiful. Before the mills.”
San’s gaze stayed forward. “Everything used to be something better.”
The bitterness in his voice was faint but unmistakable. Jongho let it sit for a while before replying, “Doesn’t mean it can’t be again.”
That earned him a low exhale – not quite a laugh, but not dismissal either. Progress, maybe.
They reached a narrow clearing where a handful of makeshift stalls had been set up, their owners wrapped in thick coats and suspicion. One sign, half-frozen and crooked, read Riverside Provisions. Another listed Hunting & Tools.
Jongho nodded toward it. “Let’s start there.”
The man behind the counter was older, his face red from the cold, eyes dull but watchful. “Travelers?” he asked, voice gravelled.
“Passing through,” Jongho replied easily. “Need a few supplies. Arrows, maybe a new bowstring.”
The man eyed San’s current bow, noting the wear in the wood. “Good piece, that. You keep it oiled?”
“Sometimes,” San said.
The man grunted, rummaging beneath the counter and laying out a small bundle of arrows and a bow with a polished, dark handle. “This one’s newer. Costs more.”
Jongho placed a few coins down, the sound sharp in the cold air. “We’ll take it.”
As the man wrapped their purchase in cloth, Jongho glanced sidelong at San. His skin looked pale under the light, the faint shadows beneath his eyes deeper than before. He held the new bow carefully, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
“Good?” Jongho asked softly.
San nodded once, fingers tightening around the grip. “Yeah. Good.”
But the word came out flat, like something practiced.
They left the stall and moved deeper into the woods, the sound of their steps muffled by snow. Behind them, Aldervain’s chimneys still smudged the sky, the smoke curling upward like a warning neither of them yet understood.
The forest thickened the further they went, swallowing the last traces of Aldervain behind a wall of frost and bark. The air here was quieter, so still it seemed to hold its breath. Their boots crunched over a carpet of dead leaves rimmed with ice, each step sounding too loud against the hush of snow-laden branches.
For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t unfriendly, just heavy. San walked a few paces ahead, bow slung loosely in one hand, his eyes sweeping the undergrowth like a soldier checking for ghosts. Jongho followed, watching the way San’s shoulders barely moved when he breathed.
Eventually, Jongho broke it. “Feels strange being out here again.”
San glanced back. “How so?”
“It’s been a year since we last hunted.” Jongho’s tone was almost light. “The island before that was all nets and fish. I forgot what real trees look like.”
San’s mouth twitched. “Forgot what silence sounds like.”
“Silence has a sound?”
He gave a short shrug. “You hear it long enough, it does.”
Jongho nodded, letting the thought settle. The wind stirred above them, sending a curtain of snow down through the branches. When it passed, he pointed toward a cluster of prints leading deeper into the woods.
“Deer,” he murmured.
San adjusted his grip on the bow. “You first.”
Jongho smiled faintly. “You sure? You’ll never hear the end of it if I bring back dinner.”
“Then I’ll aim higher next time.”
They moved quietly along the trail, slow and deliberate. The prints led them toward a narrow glade where sunlight filtered through in pale ribbons. Jongho crouched, notching an arrow. The deer stood near the far edge- thin, cautious, ears flicking.
He drew, held, exhaled.The bowstring thrummed.
The arrow flew clean and true, striking just behind the shoulder. The deer bolted once, staggered, then went still.
Jongho lowered the bow with a small, satisfied breath. “Still got it.”
San gave a low whistle. “Not bad.”
“Your turn.”
San stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned the undergrowth for movement. Another shape – smaller this time – moved between the trees, quick and darting. He raised his bow, pulled back, and loosed.
The arrow thudded into bark. Missed.
He tried again. Missed again.
The string bit his fingers. His breathing sharpened.
Jongho watched quietly. “Easy,” he said softly. “It’s the cold. You’re pulling too fast.”
San gritted his teeth. “I know how to shoot.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
He tried again. The bowstring snapped forward with a hiss. This time the arrow flew perfect – too perfect – cutting straight through the air and vanishing into the white blur ahead.
For a heartbeat, everything went silent.
Then the forest shifted.
The light bent, turned glassy. The air went thick. Where the snow had been, there was water. Where the trees had stood, there was silver light moving like breath. And where the arrow had struck–
“Angel,” he whispered.
She stood there, waist-deep in the tidepool that shouldn’t exist, her hair clinging to her face, eyes wide with hurt and confusion. The arrow was buried deep in her side. Red spilled through the water like ink in milk.
“No–no, no, no–”
San stumbled forward, bow falling from his hand. “Angel!” His voice cracked through the trees, shattering the quiet. He ran to her, feet splashing through phantom surf that wasn’t there.
“San!” Jongho’s voice came from somewhere far behind him, muffled and thin. “San, stop–”
She was still looking at him. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was the reflection of his own horror staring back. Her lips moved – soundless – then the water surged, dragging her down. His knees hit the ground.
“Angel!” He screamed until his throat tore. “No, no, I didn’t–”
Branches cracked. Snow fell. Jongho’s arms wrapped around him from behind, trying to pull him back, but San fought like a trapped animal, twisting, clawing at the frozen ground where the water had been.
“She was here!” His voice broke again, raw with panic. “I saw her! I hit her–”
Jongho gripped his shoulders tight, shaking him once. “Look at me. San, look.”
San’s breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes darted wildly, but the forest had already gone back to what it was- grey, still, empty. The only mark on the snow was the arrow half-buried in the roots of a fallen log.
“There’s no one here,” Jongho said, voice calm but firm. “There’s nothing here.”
San’s chest heaved. He shook his head, tears freezing against his skin. “She was right there…”
“I know.” Jongho’s grip softened, turning the hold into an embrace. “I know what you saw. But it wasn’t her.”
It took minutes for the tremors to ease, for San’s breathing to slow. When it finally did, he sagged forward, hands pressed to his face. The forest was silent again, oppressively so.
Jongho stayed beside him, neither of them moving. The cold bit through their clothes, but neither spoke of it. Somewhere high above, a crow broke into a harsh, lonely call.
When it faded, there was only the whisper of snow. And the arrow still trembling faintly in the earth.
Jongho crouched in front of him, careful not to startle. The air was sharp enough to sting the lungs, each breath leaving small clouds that hung in the stillness. San sat where he had fallen, bow lying crooked in the snow, his hands shaking faintly.
“San,” Jongho said softly. “Listen to me.”
No response. San’s eyes were wide and unfocused, fixed on the patch of ground where the hallucination had been. His lips moved once, maybe a word, maybe nothing.
Jongho swallowed hard, forcing calm into his voice. “It wasn’t real,” he said slowly, like coaxing a child back from a nightmare. “She wasn’t there.”
Still nothing. Just that hollow, glassy stare.
He reached out, lightly touching San’s shoulder. The fabric beneath his palm was damp – sweat or melted snow, he couldn’t tell. “San,” he tried again, firmer this time. “You’re safe. You’re here, in the forest. You didn’t hit anyone.”
San’s breath came fast and shallow, each inhale sounding more like a shiver than air. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused.
“She looked at me,” he whispered suddenly. His voice was cracked and thin. “She looked right at me.”
Jongho felt the words like a punch. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you think she did. But it wasn’t her, San. It wasn’t.”
He didn’t answer. He just kept staring, like he could force the ghost back into shape if he looked long enough.
Then his body went slack – not collapsing, just… drained. The kind of exhaustion that came after too much fear in too little time. His shoulders sagged, his mouth parted slightly, but his gaze stayed distant.
“Damn it,” Jongho muttered under his breath, scanning the treeline. The last thing they needed was to be out here alone if anyone saw them like this.
He glanced back at San, who still hadn’t moved. His lips were blue at the edges now, eyes glassy with shock.
“Alright,” Jongho said, shifting closer. “We’re going back.”
No response.
Jongho slid his arm under San’s, hauling him up carefully until San was on his feet. He barely reacted, just a faint grunt as his boots scraped the snow. Jongho tightened his grip around his waist, taking most of his weight.
“Come on,” he murmured, guiding him forward one step at a time. “We’ll get you to Yunho. He’ll know what to do.”
San stumbled once, almost dragging them both down, but Jongho caught him, keeping them steady. The forest path stretched long and silent ahead, the snow deepening with every step.
Jongho didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see the spot where San had fallen, where the phantom blood had soaked into the snow and vanished.
By the time they reached the treeline again, the light was already fading. Smoke from Aldervain’s chimneys drifted low and heavy, painting the air in grey.
Jongho tightened his grip around San’s shoulders as they stepped out of the trees and back onto the road. The HalaVeil waited at the docks, a dark shape against the water.
“Almost there,” Jongho said, half to himself, half to San. “Just hold on.”
San didn’t answer. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything anymore.
Jongho swore under his breath and pulled him closer, quickening his pace as the first flakes of snow began to fall.
They disappeared down the road – two shadows swallowed by the mist – the sound of their footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the sea.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The market sat in the heart of Aldervain, a cracked square ringed by old stone buildings that leaned inward as though trying to keep out the cold. A single line of smoke rose from a brazier in the centre, the only colour in a landscape washed grey.
The air smelled of ash and brine, tinged with the faint sweetness of burnt sugar from one of the vendors trying to disguise the scent of decay. Ice clung to the cobblestones in thin veins; every step crunched.
Wooyoung and Seonghwa kept close as they moved between the stalls. The crowd was thin, mostly locals wrapped in heavy coats, heads bowed low. Conversation was scarce. The few voices that rose were quick and nervous, never lingering long enough to sound like gossip.
A row of guards lined the edges of the square. Their armour wasn’t the kind meant for battle, it was built for fear. Thick plates of dull steel covered every inch of them, each etched with the capital’s golden sigil at the shoulder. The visors hid their faces completely, reflecting only the market’s pale light.
They didn’t move much, only turned their heads occasionally, slow and mechanical, following anyone who lingered too long near the exits. The sound of their boots – heavy, deliberate – punctuated the air like the ticking of a clock.
Seonghwa’s eyes tracked one as it passed. The guards’ presence seemed wrong here, too grand for a dying town. “Aldervain never used to look like this,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Wooyoung.
Wooyoung glanced at him, pulling his collar higher. “You’ve been here before?”
“Once,” Seonghwa murmured. “Years ago. It was noisy then- music, trade ships, even festivals in the square. Now it’s…” He gestured vaguely around them. “…a graveyard with stalls.”
Wooyoung’s lips curved in a small, humourless smile. “Guess prosperity wasn’t profitable.”
They stopped at a booth selling dried meat and bread so hard it could have been used as ballast. The vendor kept his eyes down as he wrapped the food, hands shaking slightly. A guard passed behind him, the clang of armour making the man flinch.
Seonghwa handed over the coin without a word.
When they turned to leave, Wooyoung caught sight of another poster nailed to the wall beside the stall. The gold sigil was brighter here, freshly printed. Beneath it, bold letters read:
OBEDIENCE IS ORDER. ORDER IS SECURITY.
The ink still shone wet in places.
He stared at it for a moment too long. Seonghwa noticed and tugged at his sleeve gently. “Don’t.”
“I’m just looking,” Wooyoung said, though his tone had gone cold.
“Exactly. And they’ll see you doing it.”
He followed Seonghwa’s gaze; two of the armoured figures were watching them now. Their mirrored visors made it impossible to tell if there were eyes behind them, but the weight of their attention was unmistakable.
Wooyoung forced a grin, tilting his head in mock courtesy. “Friendly place.”
Seonghwa didn’t smile. “Keep walking.”
They moved on, weaving through the maze of stalls, pretending not to feel the stare following them. Every corner of the market seemed to hum with quiet surveillance, the sound of boots on stone, the hiss of breath inside helmets, the unspoken warning that nothing in Aldervain went unseen anymore.
When they finally reached the edge of the square, Seonghwa paused, glancing once more at the guards and the posters that coated the walls like mould. “This wasn’t the capital’s land,” he said under his breath. “Not before.”
Wooyoung looked back, jaw tight. “It is now.”
A bell rang somewhere beyond the square – a dull, metallic sound that made the crowd stiffen instinctively. The guards turned in unison, their visors flashing once in the weak light.
Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what the bell meant, but every instinct screamed leave.
Seonghwa’s hand brushed his arm. “Let’s get what we came for and go.”
They didn’t run, but they walked faster, the market’s air growing colder with each step until it felt like even the sun was holding its breath.
They moved deeper into the market, past rows of shuttered stalls and thinning crowds. The smell of smoke and damp wool hung low in the air, curling around the barrels of salted fish and the cracked baskets of root vegetables that no one seemed eager to buy.
Seonghwa stopped occasionally, testing the weight of a rope coil or running his gloved fingers over a lantern’s rusted frame before handing a few coins to the vendors. They spoke little, just enough to be polite, to look like travellers passing through.
Wooyoung followed half a step behind, hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze flicked from face to face, noting how quickly each person looked away when he met their eyes. It wasn’t fear of strangers, it was fear of being seen speaking.
At the edge of the square, a small stall stood half-hidden beneath a collapsing awning. Its owner was an old woman, thin as parchment, her back curved under layers of shawls. The table in front of her was scattered with trinkets: buttons, dried herbs, old coins, cracked glass beads that had lost their shine.
Something about her stillness drew Seonghwa’s attention. He crossed the narrow space, boots crunching softly on frost, and offered a small nod. “Morning.”
The woman looked up slowly. Her eyes were pale, almost colourless. “You’re not from here.”
“No,” Seonghwa said gently. “Passing through.”
“Few pass through these days.” Her voice was rough with age but carried an odd clarity, like she’d been waiting for someone to listen.
Wooyoung glanced around, wary of the guards nearby. “We were wondering,” he began carefully, “what happened here. The town – it feels…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Empty,” the woman finished. “Yes.”
Seonghwa leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “It wasn’t always like this, was it?”
She shook her head, the motion slow and trembling. “Used to be loud. The mills, the ships, the market lights that burned through the night. Then the capital came. Said it was for protection. Said the world was dangerous. They built their walls and sent their soldiers, and people started disappearing. The air got quieter. The sky darker.”
Wooyoung frowned. “Who’s running the capital now?”
The woman hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if the frost itself might be listening. The nearest guards stood motionless, but she still leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“There’s a new leader,” she murmured. “Took power only months ago. Some say he was meant to die years back, but men like that don’t die easy. They rise. And when they do, the rest of us fall.”
Seonghwa’s expression tightened. “What kind of leader?”
“The kind that promises peace,” she said, her eyes flicking to one of the golden posters half-torn on the wall behind them. “And buys it with silence.”
Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. “What’s his name?”
The woman’s gaze returned to them, sharp for a moment despite the tremor in her hands. “Elias Solivar.”
The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear.
Wooyoung’s breath caught, a quiet curse forming on his lips before he stopped himself. He looked at Seonghwa, expecting fury, or recognition, or denial – but what he saw instead was hesitation.
Seonghwa didn’t move. His hand lingered on the edge of the stall, the leather of his glove creaking softly. His eyes had gone distant, as though searching through memories he wasn’t sure belonged to him.
“…That name,” he said finally, voice low, “rings a bell.”
The woman gave a thin, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It should,” she said. “It rings through every town he’s taken.”
A gust of cold wind swept through the square then, snapping the edges of the posters and rattling the loose boards of the stalls. Seonghwa stepped back, the sound echoing faintly in his chest.
He didn’t speak again. Neither did Wooyoung.
They just stood there for a long moment, the name hanging between them like a curse the sea itself had carried ashore.
The centre of Aldervain sat like a wound that refused to close. The closer Hongjoong and Mingi walked toward it, the louder the town’s silence became – a hollow kind of quiet that pressed behind the ribs.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The streets widened briefly before choking again into narrow lanes. What might once have been a proud square now lay half-collapsed under the weight of decay. The cobblestones were cracked, weeds clawing through the gaps, rainwater pooling in the hollows. A fountain stood at the centre – dry, its basin filled with scraps of paper and coins that no one had bothered to take.
Houses leaned against one another like drunks, roofs patched with tin and tar, windows fogged or smashed entirely. Laundry lines hung limp between buildings, the fabric stiff with frost. In the corners, small fires burned inside barrels, the smoke curling thin and grey.
The people here moved like shadows, gaunt faces wrapped in scarves, hands tucked into worn coats. Children with hollow eyes watched from doorways, their skin pale against the soot. Every so often, one of them would dart out to grab something from the gutter – a scrap of bread, a fallen apple – before vanishing again into the maze of houses.
Animals roamed freely among them: stray dogs with their ribs showing, half-starved cats weaving through piles of debris. A single horse stood tethered near the old town hall, its breath fogging the air as it pawed at the frozen ground.
Hongjoong kept his hood low, the shadow hiding most of his face. His hand rested near the hilt of his blade, though he didn’t look like he intended to use it, only that he wanted the comfort of feeling something steady beneath his palm.
Beside him, Mingi carried the supplies list, scanning each street as they passed. He tried to walk with purpose, but his shoulders were tense, eyes flicking toward every corner where a guard might appear.
There were plenty of them.
The guards stood at every intersection, armour gleaming dully under the overcast light. Their presence fractured the flow of the town, no one crossed near them unless absolutely necessary. Every few minutes, one would turn their head, the metal of their helmet catching the light as they scanned the crowd.
Hongjoong’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Keep your head down.”
Mingi nodded, lowering his gaze to the cobblestones. “How many do you think there are?”
“Too many.”
They passed a group of labourers hauling crates onto a cart – men whose hands were raw and cracked, whose eyes didn’t lift as the guards shouted orders. One stumbled under the weight, earning a hard shove and a curt warning that made Hongjoong’s teeth grind.
He forced himself to keep walking.
“This place…” Mingi whispered. “It’s worse than the stories.”
Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “Stories always leave out the smell.”
Mingi glanced sideways at him, the corner of his mouth twitching with a nervous half-smile, but he didn’t argue. The tension around the guards was too thick, too real.
When they turned the next corner, the square opened into what must have once been Aldervain’s market heart. Now, it looked hollowed-out, half the stalls empty, the others selling little more than wilted vegetables and chipped pottery. A handful of people moved between them, exchanging coins quietly, eyes darting to the soldiers stationed near the old courthouse steps.
One of the guards barked an order to another, the voice muffled by the helmet but unmistakably sharp. Hongjoong’s eyes flicked toward them – not openly, just enough to note the pattern in their movement. They were too well-organized for a simple patrol.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “They’ve turned the whole place into a checkpoint.”
Mingi nodded, clutching the list tighter. “How do we even get what we need like this?”
“Carefully,” Hongjoong said.
He guided them toward a smaller side street, his pace unhurried but deliberate. The smell of smoke and ash thickened the air, mixing with something older- the faint rot of damp wood and stale bread.
As they passed another line of houses, a woman stepped into the doorway of one, clutching a child to her hip. Her face was drawn but proud, her gaze steady as she watched them. Hongjoong’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second – just long enough to see the quiet desperation hiding there.
He gave a subtle nod, the kind that said I see you, before turning away.
Behind them, Mingi whispered, “They’re starving.”
“I know.”
“Then why–”
“Because the capital doesn’t feed ghosts.”
Mingi didn’t reply after that. The only sound left was the crunch of their boots and the faint, hollow ring of the guards’ armour echoing off the stone.
The road toward the main supply office wound through the oldest part of Aldervain. The buildings leaned so close together that the roofs almost touched, leaving the street below in permanent shade. Ice crusted along the gutters, dripping in slow, steady beads that fell onto the cobblestones with faint, rhythmic taps.
Hongjoong and Mingi kept their pace slow, deliberate. To rush here drew attention. To linger drew suspicion. They walked that narrow line between both, their breath fogging faintly in the frozen air.
The supply office sat near the end of the street – a squat brick building with a faded blue door and a cracked sign swinging above it: Town Provisions and Trade Registry. The paint had peeled to reveal older lettering underneath, something that had once sounded proud.
Inside, the air was stale and cold, smelling faintly of dust and ink. Shelves lined the walls, half-empty. The wooden counter was cluttered with parchment and ledgers, and behind it stood a man hunched over a list, his fingers stained with ink.
A few townspeople waited near the entrance, gaunt figures clutching ration slips and sacks that looked too light. None of them spoke. They only glanced up when Hongjoong and Mingi entered, eyes dull but curious, before returning to the floor.
Hongjoong stepped forward, keeping his hood low. “We’re looking for provisions,” he said quietly. “Dried goods, rope, nails, anything that’ll keep.”
The clerk barely looked up. “You and everyone else,” he muttered, flipping a page. “We’ve got little left. Capital’s shipments go to the higher towns first now.”
“Higher towns,” Mingi echoed. “And the rest of you?”
The man gave a humourless smile. “We survive on what we can scrape off the back of their carts.”
He passed over a small bundle of items – a sack of grain, a few sealed jars, half a coil of rope. It wasn’t much.
Hongjoong placed a few coins on the counter, noting how quickly the clerk’s eyes darted toward the guards outside the window before snatching them up.
The door creaked behind them, letting in another gust of cold air. A small group of men entered, one of them in a tattered coat with gold embroidery long since dulled to brown. His posture was still upright, the remnants of old pride clinging to him despite the hunger etched into his face.
The clerk straightened immediately. “Mayor.”
Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up. So this was the man who supposedly still ran Aldervain. The name came back to him a heartbeat later – Thorne Halden. Once one of the wealthiest timber merchants in the north.
“Mayor,” the clerk repeated, tone half-respectful, half-fearful. “These travellers are here for supplies.”
Thorne’s gaze moved to Hongjoong and Mingi. It was sharp for a man who looked so worn. “You’re not traders.”
“Passing through,” Hongjoong said evenly.
The mayor studied him for a moment longer before giving a slight nod. “Then you’ve chosen a hard place to pass through.”
Mingi glanced around the office. “You’re still running things here?”
A faint smile ghosted across the mayor’s face, tired and bitter. “In name only. The guards approve everything that moves in or out. I sign papers, they stamp them, and the town starves slower than it would without ink.”
His gaze shifted briefly to the window, where two guards stood just outside, their mirrored helmets turned toward the office. “We’re not supposed to discuss shortages,” he added quietly.
Hongjoong followed his line of sight, jaw tightening. The guards’ stillness was almost unnatural – like statues that breathed.
“Then maybe we should move this conversation somewhere else,” Hongjoong murmured.
The mayor’s eyes flicked toward the soldiers again before gesturing toward the side door. “This way,” he said under his breath. “Before their patience wears thin.”
They followed him through a narrow hallway lined with old town records. The air smelled of paper and cold stone. The moment the office door closed behind them, the faint noise of the street dimmed, replaced by the slow creak of the floorboards under their feet.
Thorne motioned them toward a small study at the end of the hall – once grand, now stripped bare except for a desk, a dying fire, and shelves missing half their books.
“Forgive the mess,” he said dryly, closing the curtains. “The capital doesn’t send wood anymore. Just rules.”
He turned to them then, voice lowering. “Now – tell me honestly. What brings outsiders to a place the rest of the world’s forgotten?”
Before Hongjoong could answer, the shadows outside the frosted window shifted – the unmistakable silhouette of a guard turning toward the door.
The mayor’s eyes widened.
“Inside,” he hissed, ushering them quickly into the study. “Quietly.”
Hongjoong exchanged a glance with Mingi, then stepped inside. The door shut softly behind them.
The muffled clang of armour sounded faintly from the street beyond, followed by the heavy rhythm of boots.
And for a heartbeat, the entire house held its breath.
The mayor sank into the worn chair behind his desk, the leather splitting beneath him with a tired sigh. The single candle on the table wavered in the draft, throwing thin shadows across the room. He looked older in the flicker, hollow-cheeked and grey around the edges, the kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much for too long.
Mingi stood near the fireplace, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, trying not to shiver. Hongjoong remained standing, still as carved stone, eyes fixed on the mayor.
“What happened here?” Mingi asked quietly.
The mayor’s gaze shifted to the curtained window, voice dropping. “You’ve been away a while, haven’t you? Out at sea. You wouldn’t have seen it happen.”
Hongjoong’s brow furrowed. “Seen what?”
The man gave a short, bitter laugh. “The world tilting. The ground shifting under us while no one noticed.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Our old leader stepped down. Or so they said. Word was he retired for health, but you don’t retire with half the council missing and the other half too frightened to speak. People whisper that he was poisoned, but no one dares prove it. Not when the new man’s already sitting in the capital’s chair.”
Mingi’s stomach twisted. “So someone else took over.”
The mayor nodded. “A merchant at first - wealthy, ambitious. His fortune came from blood deals and trade lines no one could trace. But he knew how to talk, how to make fear sound like safety. Within weeks, the laws changed. Within months, the markets were chained shut.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, voice cracking slightly. “Supplies halved overnight. Towns like this one - industrial, poor, far from the capital - were told to ‘adjust expectations.’ Only those with connections to his circle still receive regular shipments. Everyone else gets what’s left.”
Mingi’s eyes darted toward the sealed ledgers piled against the wall. “That’s why the people look like they’re starving.”
The mayor’s laugh was hollow. “Starvation’s a weapon. Keep bellies empty, and people stop fighting. They just pray the next ration line doesn’t skip them.”
Hongjoong said nothing, but his jaw flexed once, a small muscle ticking near his temple.
The mayor hesitated, glancing at the window again as if the shadows could hear. “And that’s not the worst of it.”
Mingi frowned. “What do you mean?”
The candle flickered, the flame thinning in the cold air. The mayor’s next words came low, almost a whisper. “He’s hunting them.”
Hongjoong’s head snapped up. “Hunting who?”
“Tideborns.” The word sounded heavy in the small room. “Anyone with the blood. Doesn’t matter what kind, doesn’t matter if it’s faint. They’re calling them unstable, dangerous to the order he’s building. I’ve seen it myself - executions in the square, arrests in the night. Whole families taken. They say it’s for security, but we know better.”
Mingi’s voice shook slightly. “How many?”
The mayor’s eyes darkened. “Dozens. Maybe more. They’ve built prisons now – facilities, they call them. Not all of them return.”
A silence fell over the room. The only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire.
Hongjoong’s hands had curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His breathing came slow but uneven, like each word the mayor spoke was carving itself into his ribs.
Mingi swallowed hard. “Who is he?”
The question came out as more of a plea than curiosity.
The mayor hesitated. “You’ve not heard his name yet?”
Hongjoong’s throat felt dry. “Say it.”
The man’s gaze flicked between them – hesitant, almost apologetic. “Elias Solivar.”
The name hit the room like a gunshot muffled in snow.
For a moment, no one spoke. The sound of the wind outside seemed to stop. The candle’s flame bent sharply, as if recoiling.
Mingi blinked. “Wait, that–”
But he stopped when he saw Hongjoong’s face.
The captain had gone pale. Not with fear – something deeper. Recognition, horror, disbelief all folding into one. His pupils dilated, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he might be sick.
The mayor frowned. “You know him?”
Hongjoong didn’t answer. He just shook his head once, as if trying to clear it, then straightened abruptly. “We need to go.”
“Captain–” Mingi began, but Hongjoong’s voice cut sharp over his own.
“Now.”
The mayor stood halfway from his chair, confusion written in every line of his face. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Thank you for the information,” Hongjoong said quickly, his tone clipped, the control in it stretched thin. “Keep your head down. And if anyone asks, you never saw us.”
He turned toward the door before the man could respond. Mingi hurried after him, glancing back once to see the mayor sink into his chair again, expression hollow, hands trembling slightly as the candle guttered beside him.
Outside, the air hit them like ice. The square was quieter now, the guards still stationed at their posts, visors reflecting the pale light.
Hongjoong didn’t speak as they walked. His steps were too fast, his breath too shallow. The muscles in his jaw jumped with every word he wasn’t saying.
When they turned down the side street leading toward the docks, he stumbled slightly – just a flicker of imbalance – but Mingi caught him by the arm before he could fall.
“Hey–” Mingi pulled him to a stop near the wall of a boarded-up shop, holding him steady. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Hongjoong’s chest rose and fell hard. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand braced against the wall, knuckles white against the frost.
Then, quietly – so quiet Mingi almost missed it – he said, “That man. Elias Solivar.”
Mingi frowned. “What about him?”
Hongjoong lifted his head slowly. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, somewhere far away. The words hung in the cold like a curse, sharp and final.
Neither of them moved. A gust of wind rattled the shutters above them, the sound echoing down the empty street like the sea itself had drawn in a breath and refused to let it go.
“...He’s my father.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
well... we're officially back!!
Taglist: @glitter-and-tears @ninjakitty15 @bombyu @green-moon @flooftown @cherryandsugar @ilovekinny @leesuhbyun @wangshuo-deservesbetter @f4rt1m4r @motheraiya55 @addi-3 @hope122598 @minjoongsgirlie @darkbibliophile @m00nlight05 @amoryeonjun @amaranth1ne
