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wildernessuntothemselves · 13 days ago

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Now See Them Burn in Fire | Part 4

Genre: dark fic, smut, angst

Word Count: 17.8

Chapter Excerpt:

“I was invited,” He says simply, and you feel a heat crawl up your spine. Invited. No. No, you didn’t invite him. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want any of this.

“I… I didn’t—” You croak, your throat tight around the words. Panic claws at your chest, and your breaths come out shallow, frantic. Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate to explain to her that you had nothing to do with this, but when your eyes meet hers, you see none of your own horror in them, none of the shock.

Instead, there’s an eerie calm in her eyes—a nauseating resignation.

“I did,” She tells you flatly, her voice steady, emotionless “I said I would end it, didn’t I?”

You stare at her, your mind struggling to comprehend her words. End it? What does that mean? Your heart hammers in your chest as it refuses to put the pieces together, to admit to what your mind already knows.

But it can’t hide away from it for long. Not when your mother blatantly proclaims it to the world to hear, not scared of how her act of betrayal against her own daughter might incur the wrath of the gods.

"Take her. Do what you want with her. Just release me."

Warnings: fem!reader, DARK FIC, FUTURE NONCON/DUBCON, mentions of people being burned alive, iron age au, supernatural au, yandere beomgyu, allusions to child sacrifice but nothing graphic, character death, smut, blow job, handjob, riding (lol the warnings be giving you whiplash)

______________________

The high priest’s burning sparks a twisted revelation in Beomgyu’s mind. Why should the tribe carry the burden of those marked by the curse—housing them, guarding them—when he could rid the land of them as he did with the priest? With each body he casts into the fire, he sees it as another step toward his grotesque mission of purification, purging the tribe of these cursed souls and claiming victory over what he calls the evil that threatens all of you.

It is not difficult for him to rally the tribe to his cause. After all, the afflicted were all but dead in the eyes of the people, their fates sealed as soon as the first sign of the curse was seen within them–and Beomgyu presents the purge as an act of deliverance, allowing the tribe to turn its gaze away from the humanity of the victims. With his power to draw out the mark before the curse could completely corrupt their bodies and souls, he convinces everyone that the victims’ removal is not only justified, but humane—a mercy killing.

The first of these so-called purifications unfolds in a scene of dreadful cruelty. Dozens of men and women, their voices silenced by gags and their limbs bound tight, are led to the center of the settlement where the flames are stoked high, eager to consume their bodies and drown their cries in the crackling and snapping of its fire.

The cloud of smoke that results from the horrid act is putrid and choking, hanging over the settlement like a deathly veil. It clings to everything—clothes, hair, even skin—until it becomes part of the very breath the people take. For days, the ash lingers like a dark miasma, a constant reminder of the atrocity that has occurred, haunting the people like a second shadow.

Though the smoke eventually begins to lift, it never fully dissipates, for the fire is never allowed to die. As long as there are new victims to be found, it continues to burn, fueling Beomgyu's influence over the tribe, as if his dominion is sustained by the very lives he consumes.

You confide in your mother, knowing full well that you cannot speak of your suspicions to Kai or his family. They would not understand. She listens, appearing perturbed by what she was hearing. But instead of confronting the horror you both know to be true, she retreats further into her work, her magic now consuming her every waking and most of what are supposed to be her slumbering hours. Though she does not say it, you know she believes you.

She has become a shadow of her former self, her body ravaged by the dark forces she’s courting. Her hair, once thick and full, falls away in brittle strands. Her eyes, once bright, are now hollow and drained of life. Her once-strong frame is now emaciated, the dark powers stealing away years of her life in mere weeks.

The sight of her chills you. If Beomgyu doesn’t kill her, the magic will. Either way, you fear for the fate of her eternal soul.

Not that she welcomes your concern. With each passing day, her bitterness toward you deepens, winding its tendrils around her heart, suffocating the remnants of warmth she once held for you. She holds you accountable for the blight that has befallen the tribe. In her eyes, you are the harbinger of doom. She insists that, were it not for you, none of this would have come to pass. She believes you were sent by the gods to curse your family, as Beomgyu cursed his, and that, unless she can find a way to break the curse, she will succumb to the same fate that afflicted your father and Beomgyu’s parents.

Oh, how Beomgyu would delight in this, were he to hear her words—or perhaps he already does, watching from some hidden corner, amused by your suffering. It must be endlessly entertaining to him to witness you enduring the very fate you once abandoned him to escape from—the distrust of your family, the suspicion in the eyes of your people, the public fall from grace. Could this all be an act of vengeance devised by a scorned man?

It can’t be… Surely he would not go so far just to hurt you. To curse the innocent, scorch their bodies, to raise those long slumbering powers—

Overwhelmed by it all, you flee to the hills that embrace the settlement, desperate for a breath of air that does not taste of ash. But when you reach the crest and look down, your heart falters.The village lies beneath you, shrouded in a veil of black smoke. It rolls across the earth, giving shape to the curse, devouring home, streets, and souls alike.

From this height, it’s difficult to find hope to cling to. From where you stand, all seems lost.

Should you flee? Kai and his family still rule the tribe, but for how long? How soon before Beomgyu weaves his schemes to undo them, just as he did with the high priest? His influence grows with each passing moment, and you wonder if their reign will slip through their fingers like water in the palm of a hand.

But where would you go? Would it be better to die under the claws of a wild beast than at the hands of Beomgyu and his men? Everywhere you turned your gaze you saw only death.

Your families were still fighting—that much was true.

Your mother, Kai’s family, and the remaining elders had bound themselves in an uneasy alliance, pooling what power and knowledge they possess between them in a last, desperate attempt to stall Beomgyu’s creeping dominion.

But as it was necessary for your mother to conceal the full truth from them in order to shield you both from suspicion—much of her work had to be done in secret. And due to that secrecy, she often found herself with no choice but to turn to you. Her summons were never tender. Your obedience never willing. It brought her no comfort, and you no peace.

Ever since that dark ritual she performed on your father’s lifeless body, your mother had spiraled deeper into the abyss of dark magic. Each incantation drew her further from the path of righteousness, binding her more tightly to shadowed forces—those ancient, insatiable beings whose whispers came with a price. Their demands grew darker, their hunger more cruel, and with every new pact, a toll was taken.

Her body suffered. But it was her soul that bore the deepest scars.

You tried to distance yourself as much as you could. Surely, fighting darkness with darkness was not the path of the gods. This calamity should have been an opportunity to prove your steadfastness, to remain true to your faith even if it meant your death. Better, you thought, to endure a slow, agonizing end upon this earth than to be cast out of the eternal bliss in the shadow of your beloved gods and into the fiery depths of the underworld.

You have come to realize a bitter truth: that despite all your knowledge, all your years of training and sacred rites, you are no different from the common folk when true peril knocks at your door. In the face of such a threat, even the wise falter. Even the learned cling to superstition, whispering half-remembered prayers, and committing the most desperate and selfish acts in the name of survival.

“You’re a long way from home, flower.”

Terror seizes your body at the sound of his voice. You hadn't heard him approach—not a single footfall, not the faintest rustle of leaves. How could you have believed that the wilderness could shield you from him when this is where he has always found refuge, where he has long conspired with the unseen forces that dwell in the shadows of the wild. This has always been his domain for as long as you can remember, his secret kingdom. Here, there is no escape from him.

“I just wanted to breathe,” You murmur, your voice barely a whisper, your body stiff with terror, refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

“I see,” He replies, his tone flat, undecipherable..

A silence hangs between you, as stifling as the black cloud of smoke. He is content to stand there and let the stillness suffocate you, and you realize you must break it yourself before it breaks you. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you think I am going to kill you?” He throws your words back at you, replacing your fear with amusement. They come out slowly, as if he’s savoring them, relishing in the terror he’s created in you. It is clear that your discomfort, your fear, pleases him.

“Is this funny to you?” You frown, unable to mask the disgust in your voice. He was the one who brought about this catastrophe, and yet here he stands before you, unburdened by any hint of guilt. His cold indifference to the suffering he has caused, the destruction in his wake—it’s almost worse than the act itself. He watches you, as if this is all some twisted game to him. He truly is a monster.

“I must admit, it is.” He replies, his voice light, almost playful.

“Why are you doing this? Just... please, tell me,” You plead, the desperation clear in your voice, seeking to find the real reason for his actions, to finally make sense of why he has seemingly decided to throw the world into chaos one day.

He laughs and you stare at him in incredulity. “What is so damn funny?”

"I find it rather amusing," He says, his tone laced with a quiet, unsettling humor that is only funny to him, "how not long ago, I was beneath you. And now, here you are, so eager to talk to me."

“You still are beneath me.” You proclaim proudly, no matter how dearly that would cost you. If he insists on this path, so be it. The monster standing before you has no shred of mercy within him so there is no point in trying to appeal to it. “Just because you’ve maimed and killed your way into this farce of a leadership among your band of savages, does not make you worth anything.”

The false lightness in his expression slips away, replaced by a burning hate. "And just because you married into power," He spits with bitter disdain, "does not mean they will protect you or your kin. When the time comes, they will stand aside and watch your bodies burn, all to save their own hides. He would, too."

“You know nothing of him.” You hiss at him, feeling defensive of Kai. “Your wretched soul cannot even begin to fathom the love his heart can hold. He would lay down his life to protect us.”

“But how will he protect you when he’s not even here?” Beomgyu tilts his head, feigning curiosity. In that moment, the reality of your situation comes back into clear focus and you remember where exactly you are, and who the man standing before you is.

He steps closer, his presence looming, and reaches out to gently grab your neck in his large hand, pressing down slightly. The absolute emotionlessness in his expression sends a shiver down your spine. You dare not resist; there’s no point. Any struggle would be futile, and you know all too well how easily he could overpower you. You’d be on the ground in no time like you were the last time you were alone with him. At least if he kills you now, you will die standing.

“If I wring your little neck and bury you in the earth under our feet, how will he stop me? If I choose to end this now, would he even know where his lovely bride laid? ” He taunts you, “Tell me, did you even bother to tell him you’d come here?”

He feels your gulp under his hand and his grip tightens in response, sensing your answer without you even needing to utter a word. A rush of regret floods over you—no, you hadn’t told anyone where you were going. You had acted carelessly, and now, that recklessness may cost you your life.

“Figured as much. You’ve always been pretty, but not too bright, my flower,” He remarks with a sneer, and you're taken aback by how his words sting. Though your death by his hands seemed imminent, you had still believed your past friendship was genuine. The thought that he had always harbored such disdain for you cuts deeper than you expected. It tarnishes the memories you thought were safe, innocent. Had he been deceiving you all along? Was he always the monster everyone had warned you about, and you’d simply failed to see it? You really are stupid…

It doesn’t matter now, does it?

But then, unexpectedly, he laughs and releases his hold. “How has your mother been?”

The sudden shift in his tone catches you off guard, and you freeze, unsure of what to make of this abrupt change. For a brief moment, confusion clouds your mind, but that confusion quickly turns to dread as the true implications of his question settle in.

“No. Don’t you dare!” You warn, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound firm.

He chuckles, a hot, bright sound that scalds its way down your spine. “Dare to do what?”

You have no time for his games—they serve only to entertain him, offering you nothing but distress in return. Whatever truth he holds, he’ll twist it into something unrecognisable just to watch you suffer. The only way to find out what this threat truly means is to go find your mother right now.

So with a shaky breath and even shakier limbs, you take a step back. “Are you going to let me walk away?”

He grins, the expression predatory and playful, as if this is yet another game to him. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

You draw in another shaky breath, bracing yourself for what’s to come, before you sprint down the hill, heart pounding in your chest. Each step feels frantic, as if you’re trying to outrun your fear, the thought that Beomgyu could be hot on your heels unshakable. Every part of you expects him to leap from the shadows and drag you back into his grasp, to make good on his earlier threats. The world around you is a blur of trees and underbrush, and despite your desperate pace, the tangled roots and uneven ground slow you down, making you stumble and fall as if the earth itself, subject to his swat, has conspired to bring you to your knees.

By the time you see the familiar sight of home, you’re battered and breathless. Mud streaks your clothes, and your skin is marked with scratches and bruises—a testament to the battle you’ve waged against the wilderness. But none of that matters now. As you stand before the entrance to your home, a dread unlike any you’ve ever felt sinks into your bones. What will be waiting for you inside?

The possibilities rush to your mind, each one worse than the last. Will your mother be missing? Dead? Bound, tortured, andleft to the mercy of those dark forces she meddled with? The thoughts gnaw at you, and the images they summon are near enough to fell you where you stand if you let them continue to run wild.

With a quiet prayer to the gods above, you steel yourself, pushing the terror down into the pit of your stomach, and step over the threshold.

“Mother?” You call, the word leaving your lips with an urgency that belies your composure. There is a long, drawn-out moment of silence before you hear her answer. Weak, but unmistakable. Her voice, though faint, is still there—and in that small, fragile sound, you find a breath of relief. The tension that had wound so tightly in your chest begins to loosen, though you remain on edge, knowing the fight isn’t over yet.

You follow the direction of her voice, finding her hunched over her cauldron in her usual spot—her ghastly face illuminated by the flickering candlelight, casting eerie shadows as she stirs whatever concoction brews within.

At first, you don’t notice it, the strange lighting obscuring your view. But when she looks up at you, taking a step back from the cauldron, your eyes catch it—the faintest discoloration on her skin, a sickly, blackish hue that sends a rush of nausea through you. You’re so struck by the sight that you can’t hide your reaction, and it’s then that she sees your dismay.

“What?” She croaks, her voice trembling. You remain silent, a lump forming in your throat. “Is it on me?”

“Mother, I’m sorry–” You apologize as if you truly believed it is your fault. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s all because of you.

Your words have the opposite effect than you hoped. Instead of evoking her sympathy, they seem to fan the flames of her fury. In an instant, anger takes hold of her, and she thrusts herself toward you, scratching at your face. “You fucking slut. You did this. You brought him into our lives.”

“I am sorry.” You weep, holding your hands to your face to prevent her from clawing your eyes out.

“I ought to kill you right now, bury you alongside your father and rid us of this evil. No, you do not deserve the dignity of a burial. I should slit your throat and leave your body out to the vultures to pick at your innards and the beasts to tear you apart from limb to limb.”

“Please, mother, I did not mean for any of this to happen.” You try to reason with her, but even you feel yourself choking on your own guilt.

“Shut up! Shut up!” She snarls, striking you repeatedly.

Fortunately for you, her strength has long waned, the dark magic sapping what little power she had left. You manage to push her away, stumbling backward toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. As you flee your home, your tearful apologies echo behind you, but they feel hollow—an empty attempt to ease the guilt that eats at you with every step you take.

Kai is taken aback by the state you’re in when you stumble through the door of your married home—disheveled, wounded, your eyes wide and wet with grief. He asks what happened, tries to coax even an explanation from your lips, but you are in such an inconsolable state, you could not have given him any even if you had wanted to. So he stops asking.

All he can do is gather you into his arms and hold you close, rocking you gently as if the motion might carry you out of your despair, and futilely drying off your unending tears as he whispers meaningless reassurances to you.

It’s all worthless. Beomgyu is going to win. He will take each and everyone you love away from you and then he is going to kill you.

________________

You fabricate a story to tell your husband, weaving it with just enough truth to make it sound believable. The words flow from your lips with effort, each one stinging with betrayal. You tell Kai that you had a falling out with your mother over your decision to venture into the woods in search of a rare herb that would aid in her potions—potions that would ultimately benefit his family. You tell him that you ignored her warnings and ventured out alone, only to be attacked by a wild animal. You describe how your mother arrived just in time to save you, though her fear of losing you—much like she had lost your father—left her furious. Her anger, you say, led her to say things she didn’t mean and ultimately cast you out of her home.

It would have been a convincing story had the scratches on your face not looked so human and had you not been so reluctant for Kai to attempt to mediate any form of reconciliation between the two of you, fearing that your mother would be angry enough to expose your secrets to him, even if it meant her doom. After all, what has she got to lose? She’s already been claimed by the curse.

So imagine your surprise when she was the one who extended an invite to you to talk things over at your family home, telling you that she has found a way to get rid of the curse once and for all.

You felt exceedingly nervous about it, especially that she had specifically instructed you not to tell anyone you'll be meeting her. It made sense that she didn't want anyone to know about the secrets you've been harboring, but after the way she had spoken to you the last time you saw her, you worry about this being a trap to get you within arms reach so she could act on her previous threats.

Still, you had no other choice but to go. If anyone could find a way to break the curse, it would be your mother. And if not, you die. Either way, you die, right?

Your mother looks nothing like herself anymore. The curse has latched onto her like a parasite, rapidly consuming her body until she’s nothing more than skin on bones. She’s covered with it from head to toe. It writhes and pulsates over her in deep slow breaths.

“Mother…” You speak slowly and she grimaces.

“Don't you dare look at me in pity. You did this. You're the one who invited the evil in. But I'll be the one to end it.” She tells you resolutely, but before you can seek more answers, before you can ask her what she means, a sudden suffocating presence presses down on your chest. The room grows impossibly still, and the world outside seems to fade, leaving only the rhythmic pounding of your heart in your ears.

Your gaze is drawn, unconsciously, toward the front of your home. There’s a shadow, a figure standing just beyond the threshold, barely visible in the dim light of the evening. It feels like you’ve been here before, the vision cut right out of your nightmares—the figure so suffocatingly familiar to the deepest, most primal part of your brain, bringing forth images of deathly blue eyes, and with them, the paralysing fear.

The figure moves, a silhouette cloaked in darkness, each step slow, deliberate. Your pulse quickens as your mind races, your body rooted to the spot, unable to move, barely able to breathe. But when the figure steps fully into the light, the air in your lungs escapes in a sharp, panicked gasp, for the monster it unveils is even worse than the one in your nightmares.

Beomgyu.

A mixture of disbelief and terror floods your veins. You try to speak, to say something, anything, but your voice falters. He’s standing there, more real and solid than the ground beneath you that threatens to fall away from under your feet to escape his presence.

"W—what? What are you doing here?" The words stumble out of your mouth, barely more than a breath. Your legs feel as if they’ve turned to stone, unable to carry you to safety even as terror pulses through you. The monster in the doorway, Beomgyu, stands with an unsettling calm, his eyes fixed on you, something predatory in the curve of the smile lingering on his lips.

“I was invited,” He says simply, and you feel a heat crawl up your spine. Invited. No. No, you didn’t invite him. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want any of this.

Instead, there’s an eerie calm in her eyes—a nauseating resignation.

“I did,” She tells you flatly, her voice steady, emotionless “I said I would end it, didn’t I?”

"Take her. Do what you want with her. Just release me."

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, sharp and burning. You can't breathe. You can’t think.

“Mother!” You shriek, shaking your head in denial. “What are you saying?!”

Her eyes meet yours then, but there’s no softness, no comfort in them. Her expression is cold, like she’s already detached herself from what’s happening, like she’s already let go of whatever bonds once tethered her to you, allowing her to commit the unthinkable against her own flesh and blood without her heart giving way in protest.

Beomgyu doesn’t make any move. He just stands there, watching your reaction with curious intensity, studying your every flinch, your every gasp, as if to see if this will finally break you. The room feels impossibly small, as though the walls are closing in on you, and the darkness of his gaze—of his presence—fills every inch of space, suffocating you.

He tilts his head towards your mother, his voice laced with false sweetness as he continues to wear that chilling smirk on his lips, like a tyrant delighting in watching his subjects perform their misery for him.

“Look at you, Mother. You are unwell. It's making you delirious.” He coos, his eyes glinting with amusement as they flicker toward you. “I have nothing to do with this or your daughter.” “Don’t you dare mock me,” She spits out, her voice fierce, but there’s something hollow in it, something broken. “I know it is you behind all of this. I know you want to have her for yourself, so do it. Take her and do what you will with her. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.” The words send a tremor of revulsion through your body. Your stomach lurches, nausea rising like bile in your throat at the sheer abhorrence of what she’s just said. Your mother, your own mother—the woman who should have been your protector, the very one meant to shield you from the cruelties of this world— is willing to give you up, to throw you out to him in order to save herself. How could she? She has seen what he's capable of. How could she hand you over to him like this?

But to your surprise, Beomgyu doesn’t act on her offer. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t claim you the way your mother so coldly suggested. Instead, his grin widens, and he chuckles softly, as if amused by the entire exchange.

“No offense, mother,” He says casually, his voice smooth and playful despite the jarring reality. That lightness, that ease, only makes it more terrifying. “Your daughter is a beautiful lady, and I understand that every child is precious and priceless in their mother’s eyes. But do you really think I’ve set the netherworld loose on my own tribe just so I can have her?” He pauses, letting the silence stretch between his words and wrap around your throats, before he continues, “I think you might be overestimating her worth a little bit.”

You halt at his words. When he says it like that, it sounds almost absurd, doesn’t it? How highly do you think of yourself? How inflated is your own sense of ego, that you could ever believe that a man would go to such lengths just to possess you?

You suddenly question everything—the beliefs you held, the assumptions you made. Have you completely lost your mind? The realization hits you like a wave, washing away your certainty, leaving only the salty sting of embarrassment in its wake. In truth, are you nothing to him but an insignificant pawn in a much larger game? All this time you had convinced yourself that you were his sole obsession, the source of his dark desire and unquenchable wrath, when your suffering may be nothing more than an afterthought to him.

But your mother is not so easily dissuaded.

“Don’t you dare lie to my face,” She snarls, voice shaking with fury, and lunges at him. “I know who is killing me.”

A blade flashes in her grip and for a moment your heart lurches in your throat as visions of blood, of Beomgyu’s skin split open and carved by her fury, flash through your mind unbidden—but she is much too slow. Whether it’s the curse draining her strength or the unnatural force thrumming through him, it hardly matters, because Beomgyu catches her arm mid-swing and twists it with savage ease, a sickening crack echoing through the room.

Her scream is as mangled as her arm and the fight leaves her all at once. She would crumble to the floor if it wasn’t for Beomgyu grip on her arm holding her up

“Mother, is that the mark of the curse?” He asks emotionlessly, bringing her now deformed arm to his face so could have a closer look.

Your mother pales at the realisation of what she's inadvertently revealed and tries to pull herself away from him but he quickly grabs her by the throat with his other hand, ruthlessly cutting off the protests she tries to utter.

No, this cannot be happening. You cannot bear to lose another parent to him.

Desperation surges within you, and you rush forward, falling to your knees. “No. Please, don't. I beg you. Don’t take her from me.”

He gazes at you, bemusement flickering in his eyes. “You wish for me to spare her? She was prepared to sacrifice you to me.”

Yes, you’re acutely aware of that fact, but she is the only family you have left. Without her, you would be utterly lost. How can you ever hope to stand up to him if the only remaining person who knows the truth about you and him is gone? The only person remotely capable of devising a plan to stop him?

“She’s the only family I have left. Please, don’t take her from me.”

The world seems to hold its breath as Beomgyu regards your pitiful form at his feet. His expression reveals nothing, his face carved from stone. You cannot begin to decipher what he's thinking, and that is the most terrifying thing of all.

You want to save your mother. That’s what you tell yourself. But as you kneel before him, a dark terror coils in your chest—tight and shameful. Because in pleading for her life, you’re leaving ajar the door your mother had opened—an invitation to come in and steal you away.

And what if he does?

You are all too aware of his hatred for you, and the thought of him finally getting his chance to unleash that festering rage, not on strangers or enemies but on you, the one who left him behind and chose another—it makes your blood run dry. Because you know you won’t be treated with the same twisted cruelty he treated them. No, what he has in store for you will be far worse.

And yet, when he finally speaks, it is not with fury—but with cold indifference.

“She has been marked. Her fate is no longer in my hands.” Beomgyu finally declares, his voice devoid of human emotion.

Without another word, he turns, dragging your mother along, and you follow in frantic pursuit, but neither your mother's wailing and flailing nor your screams and attempts to separate them yield any success. He leads you both toward the heart of the settlement where the bulk of the cleansings have been taking place.

“I have another,” Beomgyu announces to his men, who are tending to the ever burning flames at the center of the ritual site, keeping it well fed with daily sacrifices.

“No, please, don't do this.” You plead hysterically, but Beomgyu’s men have long forgone any trace of mercy. They move with grim efficiency, one tearing you away, another seizing your mother. There is no flicker of hesitation or remorse in their eyes, as though this act of unimaginable cruelty—this tearing apart of families, this march to feed the flames—has become second nature to them…mundane. “No, please, please!” You thrash and scream until your throat burns, but still you cannot break free of the grip that holds you. People gather quickly, drawn like moths to the flame, eager to feast their hungry eyes on the latest sacrifice to the fire that rages like a god over their lives.

And before long, so do your husband and his family.

A sense of nauseating terror and shame fills you as you see them make their way through the crowd, for in that moment, your greatest fear is not the impending loss of your mother—but the dread of what they might see, the secrets that she may expose in her desperation and anger at you.

“What is happening here?” The leader’s voice rings out, commanding attention, but Beomgyu does not flinch. His expression remains impassive as he calmly reveals the mark on your mother’s body, exposing it to all who have gathered around, and the sound of shocked gasps ripples through the crowd, echoing in the air like thunder.

The leader is struck into a disquieting silence, wearing a grim expression that tells it all. You shake your head in disbelief, the words tumbling from your lips in a frantic plea. “No, no, it’s a mistake. You must do something.”

But he does not answer you. This man—your leader, your shield, the one who once stood bold and brave against a whole horde of enemies at your gates—cannot even summon the strength to meet your eyes.

He doesn’t speak, because he doesn’t have to. His silence confesses what his pride won’t—that he is too afraid to challenge Beomgyu. Too afraid to stand between her and the flames. And in that moment, whatever faith you still held in him withers away completely.

So you turn your gaze to Kai instead, pleading for him to save your mother. And your husband, your precious Kai, tries to move forward, tries to do something, anything, to stop this madness. But before he can act, hands seize his arms. Not Beomgyu’s men, but his own family.

“She bears the mark,” His father declares, his voice flat, stripped of emotion. A wave of disgust churns within you, not just at his words, but at the apathy with which he speaks them, as though he agrees that condemning your mother to a fiery grave was the only possible solution.

"I have to do something!" Kai shouts, his voice raw, his body taut with urgency, but his family does not yield, they keep their grip on him iron-clad, unwilling to let him risk his life to save your mother’s.

Left with no other recourse, and desperation all but consuming you, you throw your body around, managing to somehow slip away from the man holding you.

“She didn’t do this. You know she didn’t!” You dash towards Beomgyu, but one of his men quickly intercepts you, shoving you back roughly, the force causing you to crash onto the ground–and you lay once again at Beomgyu’s feet.

He looks down at you, his expression blank, unnerving. “I know—or you know?” He asks, his words laying out a trap for you. “Is there something you’re hiding from us? Do you know who is behind this?”

A knot tightens in your stomach, and for a moment, the world stands still. You know you cannot accuse him, not without proof.

And without proof, nobody would ever believe you—they would turn on you as easily as they have turned on everyone else. They’re itching to burn you too, you are certain of it. This must be what Beomgyu wants. He seeks to provoke you, to drive you into a corner, to force you to reveal your own culpability in front of them all and seal your own fate.

“I—I don’t,” You stammer, flinching as you crawl back, the fear in your chest tightening around your lungs like a vice.

“Then how do you know she’s not involved?” Beomgyu takes a step forward, like a panther stalking its prey.

You hesitate, your mind racing for an answer that could save your mother without giving yourself away, but you cannot find a lie convincing enough even if your mother’s life depends on it.

So you turn your face away in shame, just like Kai’s father did. You’re all nothing but cowards and he will pick you off one by one.

“I don’t.”

A cold sneer curls on his lips, and he spits the words at you in contempt. “Then don’t waste our time.”

“He did this. He's the devil.” Your mother finally screams, not afraid of holding back anymore. But it’s too late for her now. No one listens to the ravings of the condemned. No truth she speaks will save her life—But that doesn’t mean her words won’t damn yours.

“Are you happy with what you’ve done?” She snarls, her voice trembling with fury as her eyes bore into yours. And in that gaze, you see it—a hatred deeper than any she could ever hold for anyone else, even Beomgyu. “You’ve killed me. You’ve killed your father!”

Your heart lurches in your chest, your mouth running dry. Is this it? Is this how you burn?

But before she can speak further–before she can offer you up to the hungry crowd, Beomgyu steps in, wrapping a strip of cloth around her mouth–silencing her.

Your mind reels. Why did he do that? Why did he save you? Is it so he can trap you a little longer in this waking nightmare? To force you to watch as everyone you love is devoured by flames? So he can draw out your agony, savor it, let it rot in your bones before he finally claims your life?

You watch as Beomgyu’s men bind your mother in the same manner they did the high priest, the ropes biting into her skin as they force her to her knees and hold her there. She struggles but her muffled screams are lost behind the cloth gagging her.

Then Beomgyu approaches her slowly, in his hand he carries a censer of burning myrrh, thick smoke billowing from its bronze mouth in slow, curling tendrils. He swings it over her head, his movements rhythmic and purposeful, the scent heavy, cloying, smothering.

"Spirits of darkness, foul ones born of shadow and hate, hear my warning and depart from this vessel. Recede back into the deep earth, to the cold underworld below our feet. Linger not, lest you perish with the flesh that binds you. Let her soul rise, carried by wind and smoke, to the gods who dwell above, that she may finally find peace and forgiveness in the light of the heavens."

A strange wind answers. It weaves through the crowd like a living thing, burrowing through cloth and skin alike with claws that cannot be seen–sinking into flesh with a chilling sense of foreboding and terror. Something ancient has stirred, and it is listening.

But even in the chaos of your frantic thoughts, an unsettling detail strikes you.

Why is Beomgyu invoking the evil spirits to depart? Why not bind them within her, trap them in the flesh they defiled, and let the flames consume them?

Surely, if his goal was to destroy them, this would be his chance. Unless… their destruction was never his aim. Unless this ritual is not a cleansing—but a deliverance. A gruesome offering to those same dark spirits.

You glance around, your eyes darting from face to face, searching for even a flicker of doubt—some glimmer of recognition that this is not right, that someone sees through the veil he’s cast over their eyes. But no one stirs. They stand in still, vacant silence, their faith—or fear—rendering them blind.

And so, without question, they watch as his men step forward and present him with a shallow dish filled with a foul-smelling ointment—thick, dark, and reeking of rot. Beomgyu takes it with solemn hands, dipping his fingers into the paste and leaning over your mother. Then, in slow, deliberate strokes, he begins to smear it across her forehead, tracing a shape you do not know—Not of your people. Not of your gods.

It is other. Ancient. Wrong.

“O watchers beyond the veil, turn your gaze from the mark that stains her flesh and upon the weary soul beneath—lost, bound, and cursed,” He intones, his voice echoing inside your skull. “Unbar the gates, and let her spirit pass into your keeping.” His words fall with the cadence of prayer, but they ring hollow. The chant drifts, aimless and meandering—lacking the clarity, the structure, the intent of true communion with the divine. He names no god, directs his plea to no realm, invokes no power.

To the unknowing, it may pass as a true prayer. But you know better.

The hollowness of it unsettles you—for it either speaks of his ignorance of the sacred rites he dares to mimic, or more chillingly, his deliberate intent to obfuscate the ritual’s true nature so as to confuse and mislead those who are watching.

Your suspicions are all but confirmed when Beomgyu is handed a ceremonial knife—its blade dulled by time but still sharp enough to serve its purpose. Without pause, he presses it to the center of his palm, unflinching as he draws a thin, precise line of blood.

Then, with grim ceremony, he places his bleeding hand upon your mother’s chest, the crimson smearing across her skin like a second mark. His chanting continues—a dissonant blend of the familiar and the foreign. Words you half-recognize, twisted into forms that sound unnatural to your ears.

It soon becomes clear—this is the true spell, veiled beneath the pretense of prayer and cloaked in the cadence of forgotten tongues. Yet its purpose still eludes you. There is no revelation in his words, no guiding light—only a slow, suffocating dread that wraps around you tighter with every utterance.

Whatever he calls upon is not merciful. It is old, it is patient, and it is hungry.

As his chant begins to wane, Beomgyu looks to his men, and with a single, commanding gesture, they seize your mother and drag her toward the fire. He lifts his hands to the heavens, his voice rising in one final invocation—deep, resonant, and utterly unintelligible–spoken in a tongue long forgotten by time, its meaning lost to all who hear it.

But you’re no longer listening.

You are rooted to the ground, eyes fixed on the figure of your mother as she’s cast into the fire. Her small frame is devoured almost instantly, swallowed whole by the flames. Even her screams are soon lost to the roar of the inferno.

You stand there, motionless, the tears that should have sprung forth remain trapped behind your eyelids, their ghostly tendrils burning hot on your cheeks. Around you, the world feels distant, veiled behind a wall of smoke and ash.

You stare at the faces of those around you–everyone who has come to witness your tragedy. Beomgyu stands at the center of it all, the firelight casting haunting shadows across his blank face, untouched by the horror he has wrought. His men, however, are alive with twisted fervor, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust as they watch their sacred flame consume your mother's body.

And the common folk… they are no different. They whisper among themselves with eager smiles, reveling in your tragedy—gleeful to see another of your kind consumed by the flames.

And then there is your leader—your brave leader who cannot summon the courage to lift his gaze to you, nor to your mother’s fiery grave, his shame shackling him.

They do not mourn for you. Not him. Not his family. Not the crowd that gathers like vultures at a feast. It is just as Beomgyu had promised. They would all stand back and watch, silent, eager, complicit, as you and everything you cherish burns to ash.

____________________________

Kai tries to explain, to excuse—offering hollow apologies for his father’s shameful cowardice. He promises you protection, swears by all the gods that he will keep you safe.

But you no longer have the patience for these white lies. You remind him that he couldn’t protect your mother from Beomgyu and he cannot protect you from his family.

Because now, just as Beomgyu had warned, his family force you to take her place—pressuring you to fill the role she left behind before her ashes have cooled. They drape her robes across your shoulders and place her tools in your unready hands. You are expected to brew their potions, chant their spells, stitch their wards—positioning you as a shield between them and Beomgyu. They do not care about the risk to your life or the toll it would have on your soul. Just as they hadn’t cared about what it did to her.

But the joke is on them, for you are not your mother. You possess not her strength. The power that once coursed through her blood lies dormant in yours. You cannot command the dark forces as she did, and so your body is spared the toll that broke hers—not out of mercy, but out of lack.

And with that lack, their terror grows. Beomgyu stalks their nightmares still, and without your mother’s protection, they are left vulnerable to his attacks.

In their fear, they grow more and more callous. They demand more. Always more.

They hold Kai over you, blaming you for any harm that would befall him should you fail. They shut you within the cold walls of your mother’s now empty home for days on end, leaving you to choke on the air heavy with long-spent incense and bitter memories. Days pass, and still they demand, pressuring you to invoke powers that should never be meddled with.

And when your hands falter, when the spells fail, they turn cruel. They tell you that if Beomgyu should come for you, they would not stop him.

But their threats fall flat. If they had possessed the strength to stop him, they would never have turned to you. And if your mother had failed, how could they have ever thought you would succeed? This was all an exercise in futility, and they know it. Only they cannot bear to face that truth. They would wear you thin, grind your bones to dust, bleed you dry, tear your soul from your body and lay it bare before the void—before they would ever face the reality of their own doom.

But before they can sacrifice what little you have to offer, Kai steps in.

He cannot silence their demands, nor can he shield you from the endless expectations they heap upon your shoulders—but he can, at the very least, keep them from raising a hand against you.

Not that any of them would admit to considering such a thing—yet you see it clearly in their eyes, the desperation, the growing contempt. If it came down to it, they would throw you to the flames if it meant they could delay their own reckoning, even if for a day.

And so, in the wake of your failure and inadequacy, Kai’s grandmother, a former temple priestess herself, has to step in—the magic in her bones faded but not gone.

She arrives at your mother’s house with two men in tow, straining to carry a heavy stone slab between them—its surface worn but unbroken. She bids them to place it at the centre of the room before she dismisses them, leaving only the two of you inside. You and the dark stone.

She tells you it was once part of a great altar, built by your forebears in time before memory, when your ancestors called down unknowable powers before the tribes bowed to gods with temples. This fragment is the only piece that remains. And for that, it holds power—ancient and terrible, capable of channeling the kind of dark magic Kai’s family so desperately needs.

She begins by laying down the materials atop the cold stone—arranging them carefully in the shape of a cross, each point aligned with one of the five cardinal directions: north, south, east, west… and the center—the axis, the bridge to the underworld.

To the north, bat wings—thin and crumbling at the edges—symbols of the veil, laid down to draw the unseen from its hiding places, to give shape to powers were never meant to walk in flesh.

To the west, mugwort— dry and heavy with scent—laid at the feet of the dying to open the path between worlds, to beckon what lingers between life and death.

To the south, wormwood—gnarled and acrid—burned to rouse what sleeps beneath the earth, to tempt spirits into the realm of the living.

To the east, a hare’s thigh bone—scrubbed clean, wrapped in ash-dyed twine– a vessel of passage, used in rites that tread the seam between realms, where breath falters and blood is the price of entry.

At the center, cedar—weathered, etched with faded sigils—It anchors what is summoned, lest it drift and devour. Once it touches the stone, the rite takes hold.

She murmurs to herself as she places each item, speaking in a tongue you barely recognize—an old dialect of the priestesses, near-extinct, clinging to life only through the lips of women like her, remnants of a world that has all but turned to dust.

Your pulse falters, skipping once—twice—before racing on. Though she has not said it, your heart knows it to be true. Each item, taken on its own, could belong to any number of rites. Harmless, even sacred in the right context. But not like this. Not laid out in this formation. Not chosen in this combination.

This is not a rite of protection. It is a summoning. And whatever it calls forth will demand a price.

Then, without saying a word, she leaves you, disappearing into the shadows outside your home, and when she returns, you see a babe sleeping quietly in her arms. Swaddled. Unaware.

Your breath catches and your stomach turns.

“Grandmother,” Your voice barely leaves your lips, “what are you doing with that baby?”

She places the child at the centre of the altar, directly atop the cedar. Her eyes find yours with an unsettling calm.

“You did not think blood magic came without blood, did you?” She asks. “The old rites demand life in exchange for power—untainted, pure life.”

The air grows colder, thicker, as if the house itself is holding its breath. You stagger back, one hand clutched to your stomach. “No—I will not do this.”

“You must,” She tells you, her voice low and final as she begins to light the materials one by one, the flames catching like a stuttered breath. “It is the only way.”

Your eyes remain fixed on the child, so small, so still. The flickering shadows from the burning herbs dancing across his skin like claws waiting to dig into flesh.

“Whose child is that?” You whisper, heart hammering in your chest. She meets your gaze without flinching.

“The debt has already been forgiven by his family,” She replies, as if that excuses the butchery. “They gave him to me willingly. They understand what must be done. He will save us all.”

“Save us?” You spit out, disgusted. “You think salvation could ever come from shedding the blood of the innocent?”

She says nothing, only stares—her eyes empty, carrying the same vacant look you saw in Beomgyu’s. They are no different than him. None of you are.

“You’ve lost your mind,” You hiss, stepping back, bile rising in your throat. “This is madness and I will not be part of it.”

The flames crackle louder, as if stirred by your defiance.

“It’s either this child or everyone else.” She tells you, her voice sharp like the crack of dry bone. “If you will not help us defeat him, you would doom us all. If you do not stand with us, then you stand with him.”

“I don't.” You insist fiercely. “I won’t be made his champion just because I refuse to slaughter an innocent.”

But she only narrows her eyes, her voice rising with condemnation. Then if the ritual fails because of your cowardice, do not dare to weep as your husband is dragged to the fire for you will have no one to blame but yourself when he becomes the next sacrifice to feed the fire you refused to quench.”

“No! There has to be another way.” You cry, refusing to believe that Kai’s salvation could be bought with the life of a child barely given to the world—a soul still cradled in innocence, not yet touched by sin or time.

“There isn't'.,” She tells you cruelly, banishing your hopes away. “Spare the child, and he’ll burn with the rest of his kin before the season turns. His death is mercy. His death is salvation.”

You recoil from her words, your voice breaking. “The gods will not forgive this.”

A cruel smile twists across her lips. “What do you know of the gods, foolish girl? The old gods demand blood. They always have. They have slept long and deep, and now they wake—and they hunger.”

“I won’t be a part of this.” If you stand on nothing, then you must at least stand on this.

“Then you are every bit the failure your mother feared you would be.”

Her words almost knock you off your feet yet she does not bother to waste another glance on you. Without another word, she turns away and begins to chant. At first, her voice is thin, worn by age, but as the words spill forth, it begins to shift. It deepens. Fractures. Each syllable splits into layered echoes, as though more than one voice now speaks through her. The sound slithers across the stone, coils around your spine, and settles behind your ribs.

The air shifts, darkening, as if it’s remembering a time before light. The walls of your home seem to breathe, expanding and contracting with each syllable of her chant. And somewhere just beyond your sight, you feel it—the veil thinning, the world bending. And something drawing near.

The moonlight recedes completely, swallowed into shadow, until only the dim glow of the burning herbs remains, their smoke rising in faint spirals. The scent of mugwort is sickly sweet in the back of your throat, mixing with the acrid tang of wormwood to churn your stomach. The symbols carved into the slab—ones you hadn’t noticed before—began to glow as if sensing the offering.

A strange power stirs within you, rising without warning. It shivers along your skin, flaring at your fingertips, lighting your nerves with wildfire. It fills you to the brim, heady and intoxicating, making you feel more alive than you have in moons—whole, strong, near invincible.

You glance at the old woman, and her face—withered and worn mere moments ago—now seems to shine with youth, her features blossoming by a vitality not her own. The dark force that is sparking within you has rooted itself fully in her, feeding her strength beyond what her flesh should hold. A faint smile graces her lips as she looks at you, knowing, triumphant.

And for one breath, you waver. For a moment the power calls to you—sweet and seductive. With this power, you can make the world right again. With this power, you can save Kai, you can save the tribe, you can restore everything to order. Perhaps one life is a small price for peace. Perhaps some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good.

But then, the child stirs.

And your eyes fall on him—-small, fragile, alive. His chest rises with each shallow breath, lashes trembling against his cheeks, tiny fingers curling as though instinctively reaching for comfort he will never again receive. And in a flash, his future unfurls before you like a vision—the laughter of boyhood, the wild courage of youth, the heat of love, the wisdom that only time can bestow. All of it devoured by a power that prowls around him like a beast, eager to tear into his soft flesh.

And then—suddenly—all that power is gone. It departs your body in a violent rush, leaving you gutted and raw. You stagger back, breath caught in your throat, bile rising. The strength that once made you feel godlike now curdles from the guilt and shame brewing in your gut.

You turn around, fleeing from the horror of it all. Your feet slamming against the ground as you run—out of what was once your home and into the cold night. You don’t stop to think. You can’t. All you know is that you have to get away.

From the altar.

From her.

From the child.

From what you’ve all become.

You flee the settlement in a haze, your feet carrying you into the wilderness before thought could catch up to you. You don’t pause to consider that if Beomgyu finds you alone, in the dark, he might not spare you a second time. Perhaps, somewhere beneath the panic, a part of you hopes he wouldn’t.

The forest swallows you whole. Branches clawing at your skin. Rocks biting into the soles of your feet. You wander deeper, breathless, until the walls of your world are replaced by thorns and shadows.

The air out here is biting—cold enough to make your teeth chatter, and still you welcome it. The frigid night air is a balm against the fever that has clung to you ever since the night-bloomer scorched its way through your blood. That cursed flower was the beginning. It opened something inside you, and whatever stepped through never left.

From the edge of this high ridge, you watch the settlement below. Its fire flickers and dances—no doubt being fed new sacrifices even now. It has become a nightly ritual. You have stopped asking who, or why, or what it accomplished. It no longer mattered. One day, it would be your turn. Perhaps soon.

You stay there for hours, curled against the earth like a wounded animal, until the morning sun breaks the night open with its blinding light, its heat beating ruthlessly against your back, pulling you from your icy resting place. Only then do you begin the long walk home. Step by step, as though the daylight could erase what you had witnessed from your mind.

As you approach Kai’s home—the one you had once tried to think of as your own—dread blooms anew in your chest.

Kai is waiting inside for you. He sits stiffly near the hearth, though no fire has been lit. His eyes, hollow and rimmed in red, snap to you the moment you enter. He hasn’t slept. You can tell.

“Where were you?” His voice is rough, dry. You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch. “I—I was just…”

He turns fully to you, something brittle in his expression, like a man one breath away from breaking. “Were you with my grandmother?”

Your heart seizes up, scared to beat lest it betray you. He knows. He knows what you've seen. What you’d almost done. He knows what you are now. A monster.

“Did my grandmother slaughter a child for blood magic?”

You open your mouth, but no words come. What is there to say? There is no explanation, no defense that wouldn’t rot on your tongue.

But he does not wait for your answer. He seems to barely even see you.

“She’s gone,” Kai tells you, his voice hollow. “They burned her.”

You stare at him, quiet, still, guilty.

“She was caught trying to dispose of the body,” He continues, looking somewhere past you. “The villagers found the remains… and the altar. They saw what she had done.”

He swallows hard, his own words hard for him to stomach. “They dragged her to the fire—And they threw her in.” His breath hitches, faltering for a moment. “My father tried to stop them. He tried to save her.”

Kai’s hands tremble, fingers curling into fists in a futile attempt to steady himself. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “He stood before them all and called Beomgyu the devil. Said he’d cut him down—and every last one of them who stood with him. Even if it meant slaughtering the entire tribe.”

Kai looks down, and for a moment, you fear he might shatter into a thousand pieces that you’d spend the rest of your short life trying to piece back together. “Beomgyu didn’t even need to say a word. His own people turned on him. Just like that. They dragged him to the flames and threw him in after her.”

He lifts a trembling hand to his face, his fingers press against his skin like a dam against a flood, but it’s no use. The tears spill anyway, silent and searing. “I only survived because my men held me back. They stopped me from running into the fire after them.”

Silence settles between you for a few long moments—pressing in from all sides, crushing. Then, finally, Kai lifts his gaze to you, and for the first time, you see him utterly broken.

“I’m next. I know I am.” He swallows hard, voice thinning to a whisper. “You were right. I can’t protect you. I can’t protect anyone.”

____________________________

Kai watches, helpless, as more and more of his family fall like winter leaves—plucked from the tree one by one, their faces lost to the fire.

He moves through life like the dead, a ghost barely bound to flesh, walking only because he does not know he has been claimed. Each morning he wakes is not a mercy, but a sentence delayed. Each breath drawn is a borrowed one.

And still, you try to protect him.

You surround him with wards, cleanse the air around him with sacred herbs, speak the old words over his sleeping figure. You draw on all the knowledge you had learned from your mother and your masters—every charm, every rite, every shred of knowledge that has been passed down through the ages.

And still, it is not enough. You can see the darkness seeping in through your protective walls, like water through cracked stone. So you shift course, forced to adopt a new approach if you wanted any hope of making it out alive.

You form an alliance with Beomgyu, offering him the illusion of compliance. You adopt the language of compromise, of reason—anything to buy time. You push Kai to yield, not just out of fear, but out of strategy. Because if Beomgyu truly means to rule, he cannot do so alone.

Let him burn the priests, let him silence the elders—but he cannot kill everyone. If he erases every trace of the ruling line and all religious authority, there will be no one left to legitimize him. The people may fear him now, but once the blood stops flowing, they will begin to question. And power built on fire alone will, in time, burn itself to ash.

You believe this. You hold onto it. Because the alternative is too monstrous to bear.

So you and Kai play your parts in this madness. You nod in silence to Beomgyu’s demands. You keep your gaze lowered when they drag another innocent soul to the pyre. You swallow down your shame, choke on your disgust, and wear your submission like armor.

And it works. For a time, the sickness slows. The village breathes. The sacrifices seem to satisfy something—if not Beomgyu, then whatever he serves.

But even that isn’t enough to save him.

You notice it first, of course. A faint shadow, just beneath Kai’s skin. A sheen of black along his collarbone, no bigger than a bruise. He doesn’t see it, but you do. You press your fingers to it, try to rub it away like dirt, but it stays.

And if Kai can’t see the rot slowly overtaking his body, he can still see your reaction to it—your alarm, your despair, and eventually he has to ask. “What is it?” He says softly, his voice quiet, resigned, as if he already knows the truth you cannot bear to speak.

Instead, you burn more herbs until your eyes sting from the smoke, steep roots and resins until your hands are raw, chant until your voice grows hoarse. You bathe him in salves, wrap him in spells and prayers—but still, it spreads.

The darkness that clung to your mother has found him now. It festers beneath his skin like rot, blooming slowly. The same black veins. The same sleepless nights. The same flickers of pain he tries to hide behind weary eyes and quiet smiles.

And with every passing day, you watch as you fail the one person you have fought so desperately to save. You wonder if this is why Beomgyu has spared you. So you would live long enough to witness your lover’s slow and torturous demise. So you would be forced to bear the agony of helplessness, to watch as love turns to ash in your arms. So he can see how much more you can take before your heart splits open under the weight of your grief.

_____________________

The fire in the hearth has long since died out, but you don’t have the strength to reignite it. The shadows stretch long across the room, and Kai lies beneath them—asleep, his breath shallow, his skin dark with the unmistakable touch of the curse.

You sit with him, legs folded, his head resting on them. You haven’t left his side since the coughing began—since the first flecks of blood stained his lovely lips.

His eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but when they meet yours, he offers a weak smile. “You’re still here.”

Your throat tightens. “Where else would I be?”

He shifts, just barely, wincing from the effort. “I keep dreaming… that you left me. That you–” He frowns, not continuing, and you did not wish him to.

You brush your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, as though trying to smooth the sickness away. “I wouldn’t leave you. Not now. Not ever.”

Kai’s hand finds yours—shaky, and weak—and he brings your knuckles to his lips, resting them there. There’s no heat in his breath anymore, just the ghost of warmth. The silence between you is thick, filled with everything you feel and everything you don’t have time to say. Outside, the wind howls like it mourns for you.

Kai’s hand moves slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek. “Do you remember the first time I saw you in the temple gardens?”

You smile weakly, the memory fond and precious in your mind. “You asked me if I was a spirit.”

“You looked like one,” He murmurs, awed. “Too bright to be real.”

You let out a soft laugh—real but slightly bitter. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like that.”

It’s true. No one has ever looked at you so kindly. Not your parents. Not Beomgyu. Not anyone.

“You’re the only one I ever looked at like that,” He tells you, his weak voice sounding firmer than it has been for a long time. “If my end is near… I’m glad I get to spend it with you.”

You press an aching kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there, as if the love you press into his skin can sink deep enough to drive out the curse.

“It’s not the end,” You lie gently. “You’re still here. And I’m not letting go yet.”

He looks up at you, and there’s something in his eyes that breaks you—resignation, sadness, the desperate look of a man who knows he’s fading and wants to feel alive just one more time.

You shift, laying his head down on soft fabric so you can climb over him, breathing him in. His hands reach for your waist, tentative, as if asking permission. You don’t pull away. You wouldn't dream of it. Instead, you lean into him, your foreheads touching, the tip of your nose brushing his.

His fingers graze the back of your neck, sliding into your hair, and you press your mouth to his slowly. The kiss is soft. His lips part against yours, and you drink in the faint warmth of him while it lasts.

You pull back just enough to look at him again, eyes shining with love. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing the side of your face.

“If I die, I want to die like this. Holding you. Not in—” He gulps, and you shush him, quickly pressing another kiss to his lips.

Then his cheek, then lower—to the hollow of his throat where you feel his thready pulse, to his chest, where his heart beats faintly beneath your lips. You take your time with him. Every brush of your fingers, every kiss, is slow, deliberate—like you’re trying to remember him—not just his body, but everything about him, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch, the way he sighs your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

You make your way down his stomach, lingering where the faint little hairs rise from under his breeches, listening for the way his breath hitches at your proximity.

Then you pull them down, exposing his hard member to you. You gather it in your hands, placing a few gentle kisses along the length before taking it in your mouth. You shudder at the soft moan he lets out. He lies still and pliant, chest rising and falling in rhythm with your movements. His hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just holding—like he needs you to anchor him.

“You feel so good.” He chokes out, breath quickening as the heat of your mouth gets to his head. “Gods, I love you so much.”

You slow down again, needing to savor the way his hips twitch beneath your touch, the tremble in his legs. You can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding back, not wanting to overwhelm you with his urgency. It makes your chest ache. Even now, with his body failing, he’s still thinking of you.

“I know, darling. I love you too. So much.” You whisper, taking your mouth off him to pump his length in your hand instead, your pace fast and easy over the wet member. “Want you to give in to me. Forget everything and only focus on my touch, the tightness of my grip, the softness of my lips…”

You talk him through it, punctuating your words with open-mouthed kisses to his cock, until his head falls back and a quiet, broken sound escapes his lips.

“I'm right there. I can't–I need you!” His body arches, shuddering as you draw every last drop of pleasure from him, and then he collapses back against the ground, boneless, eyes fluttering shut.

You move back up his body slowly, pressing soft kisses to his stomach, then to his chest, then to the curve of his jaw. When you finally reach his lips, he pulls you in, arms around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Your heart drops in guilt, and you hush him with a kiss. “You deserve more than I have given you. More than I can ever give you.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve given me everything.”

No, you’ve taken everything from him, and soon you’ll take his life too.

Still, you stay close to him, selfishly curled along the length of his body, his skin damp with sweat, his breath still shallow but slower now. You rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat—faint, yes, but steady. Strong enough to ease your worries, if only for tonight.

His fingers thread loosely into your hair, his other hand cradling the back of your neck, as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. Neither of you speak for a while. The silence full of things too heartbreaking to put into words: thank you, I love you, I’m scared.

You kiss the skin over his heart, once, then again, and he hums softly, tired but content.

“You're warm,” He murmurs, and you frown. Does he feel the burn of the curse too?

You shift to look at him, your leg draping over his hips, hands resting gently against his ribcage. You can feel the sickness thrumming under your fingertips. You know it all too well now—the slow, merciless crawl of it. The way it spreads inward, inch by inch, carving through flesh and spirit alike as it creeps toward the heart, and yet he holds you like he’s still whole.

“I wish I could take it from you,” You whisper, fingers pressing down firmly as if you could draw it out through touch alone. “I’d carry it all, if I could. Every ache, every breath. I’d let it tear through me instead—if it meant saving you.”

He shakes his head resolutely. “I would never let you. I would die a thousand deaths before I let it hurt you.”

There is no use arguing with him. For all your declarations, neither of you can save each other. So you lay your head back down on his shoulder and fall into a rhythm with his breathing, your hand moving slowly up and down his side in a soothing motion.

“Tell me something good,” He asks you quietly.

“Like what?”

“Anything. A lie, even. I don’t care.” He says, and his desperation breaks you.

You think for a moment, then smile to yourself, picking the most beautiful lie. “You’re going to get better. We’re going to beat this, beat him, and restore everything to what it was. Then we’ll rebuild—cleanse the tribe, shape it into something kinder, somewhere safe. A place worthy of the children we’ll raise together. And one day, there’ll be stories about us. Legends. Our descendents will speak about how we saved the world from darkness.”

Kai chuckles, low and raspy. “That’s a good lie.”

“I’ll keep telling it until it’s true.” You lean up and kiss the corner of his mouth. He turns his head and kisses you back, more desperate and needy this time—the kind of kiss you give when you don’t know how many more you have left.

He touches you more boldly, his hands running along your sides, to your hips, pulling your dress up and guiding you over his cock until you’re sinking down on it, making you both cry out in relief as you become one.

If you could, you would never let this moment end. You would stay here, forever bound to your beloved.

Your hands slide across his chest, your mouth trailing close behind it, kissing every inch of skin as if each touch could buy you another day. He murmurs your name like a prayer, over and over.

When your bodies meet, it’s not rushed despite your desperation. It’s not even just about pleasure. It’s about closeness. Skin to skin, breath to breath. You move together in the dark, your hands tangled in his hair, his fingers grasping your waist, your shoulders, your arms—anything to keep you near. You feel him tremble beneath you, from the strain of his pleasure, from the emotions he can no longer hold in.

You kiss his tears away. You give him your everything—every thrust of your hips, every desperate moan, every gasp as you ride him until neither of you can tell where he ends and you begin.

“I’m so sorry.” You tell him, fighting to hold back your own tears as you watch him ache beneath you, his cock hot and twitching inside your fluttering pussy. “I’m so sorry.”

He can’t hear your apologies, and perhaps that’s a small mercy. Better he never knows what you’ve done. The curse might claim his body, but to live his final days with the knowledge that he has been doomed by the very person he loves—that is a fate more cruel than death.

You can tell that he’s close, and you let one of your hands drop between you to brush against your pussy, pushing yourself over the edge so your contracting walls can milk his cock dry.

“Oh, gods!” He groans, his eyes fighting to stay on you as his second release wracks through his weak body. “I love you. Thank you.”

You cannot bear to receive his gratitude, not when you know that the slow ruin overtaking his body all began with you. So you kiss him until he can no longer speak, until the tension fades from his limbs and his body yields to exhaustion. Only then do you stop.

You collapse beside him, your bodies pressed together, limbs entwined like roots grown from the same tree. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your hand over his heart once more.

It still beats. Not strong. Not for long. Not if you do nothing.

You cannot let him die. You need to save him. You’ve been selfish enough, watching him suffer for far too long while you cling to your fear, your pride, your hope that there might be another way. But there isn’t.

And you know what you must do.

_________________

You slip out in the dead of night, silent as the grave, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it can be heard through the stillness. The village sleeps around you, tucked into an uneasy slumber. You should be asleep too—wrapped in your lover’s arms, but instead your feet carry you forward—to the one place you swore you’d never go.

Beomgyu’s home looms ahead, shrouded in shadow, the darkness pooling thickly around it, making it seem larger, more oppressive than it is. The door hangs slightly ajar, as though left open for you. And perhaps that should have been your first warning.

You step inside, breath lodged in your throat, every footfall echoing loudly in the unnatural stillness. You half-expect to find him asleep, or hunched over in some twisted ritual. But instead, he’s standing in the center of the room, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the door, on you, as if he knew you were coming. That should have been your second warning.

The hairs on the back of your neck lift. Every instinct screams at you to turn and run and not look back until you’re far away from here. But it’s already too late. You’ve stepped into his grasp, and you know he will not let go so easily.

“What are you doing here, flower?” He asks, his voice quiet—almost gentle. There’s no surprise in it. No confusion. Just a calm certainty. As if this moment had already taken place in his mind a thousand times before.

You open your mouth to speak, but your words fail you. You’re struck by the softness of him—not the snarling cruelty you've come to expect, not the hollow-eyed hatred he’d worn all these weeks since you’d first rejected him.

Gods—has it only been mere weeks? It feels like the terror and grief you’ve lived through can fill up a hundred lifetimes.

“Is it proper,” Beomgyu murmurs, his tone and expression almost… fond. As if you were lovers meeting in secret. “for a married woman to be alone in another man’s house at such an ungodly hour?”

His tone is light, but beneath it lies something darker—a knowing, a warning, a welcome. And though you haven’t yet said a word, he already knows why you’ve come. You see it in the way he steps closer, in the slight, assured curl of his smile. He’s been waiting for this.

“There is no such thing as an ungodly hour. The gods watch over us always.” Your voice is steadier than you expected, the defiance slipping out before you can stop it—small, trembling, but there, surprising even you.

Beomgyu smiles wider, and you can’t help but feel mocked. In this house of darkness, you worry that the gods can’t see you.

“Indeed they do,” He takes another slow step toward you, hands clasped behind his back as if he does not need to lift a finger to bring you to your knees. “Does he know you’re here?”

You shake your head, already struggling to breathe. “No.” Your voice is quieter now, more weak. “He can’t know. He can’t know any of it—so please, just… stop.”

Your mouth fills with saliva as bile rises to the back of your throat. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I don’t understand what you want from me. But please… no more.”

You hate how broken you sound. You hate the way the shadows press closer around you as if they can sense your weakness, how he watches you as if he’s ready to devour you.

“So you’ve come here all alone… behind your husband’s back… to another man’s home?” He advances on you slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike. “That’s not very wise.” Another step. “What if I do something to you?” His head tilts, eyes gleaming with something far too close to hunger. “What if I decide to take what I have always wanted?”

His words hang in the air like incense smoke, thick and cloying. He watches you the way a cat watches a mouse it had battered within an inch of its life—curious to see what you will do, knowing you can’t run.

Your breath is shallow, but your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears. You flinch when he finally closes the distance between you and reaches out. You brace for the worst, but his fingers merely brush through your hair to tuck a loose strand behind your ear. The gesture may seem sweet, but it only serves to remove what little separates you from the depthless darkness of his eyes, and that is exactly his purpose.

He hates you and he wants you. This isn’t about affection—it’s about conquest. About proving that he can take what was once denied him. That he can make you his, if only to undo you. You feel it in his gaze, in the sharp softness of his touch. This is the revenge he’s always hungered for.

Your voice comes out quieter than you had hoped, but it remains resolute. “Do what you will… just stop this.”

“Stop what?” The corner of his mouth twitches. That cruel little glint of satisfaction, duper’s delight, flickering in his eyes like he can barely contain his pleasure at seeing his plans unravel so perfectly. “I am only purging this tribe of those infected with the curse,” He says, mockingly pious.

You stare at him, heart thundering, disgust bitter on your tongue. “Then go jump into that fucking fire. That will cure us all.”

He laughs, the sound battering against your weak heart and making it want to shrivel up and die–his apparent good mood more unnerving than his anger. You feel like prey already halfway into the lion’s mouth.

“Why, surely you’re not implying that I am behind the curse?” The mockery drips like poison honey from his tongue. He’s daring you to say it, daring you to try to strip away the mask he wears for the others and face the monster you’ve unknowingly nurtured.

“You are!” You cry, your voice thrumming with a courage you do not truly possess. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, or how you can find any of it amusing, but it’s not. You’re killing people—innocent people!”

Beomgyu doesn’t flinch, your fury and disgust scattering around him like ash in the wind. He merely tilts his head, a slow, mocking gesture, and drawls, “Who is innocent? Your mother? The woman who tried to barter your life for her own?”

That silences you—but he isn’t finished.

“Or perhaps your husband’s father—our brave leader—who threatened you, used you, and would've cast you at my feet just as your mother did, if it meant I’d spare him.”

You don’t respond, the truth of his words piercing your skin like blades.

“No one in this tribe is innocent,” Beomgyu continues, his voice low, almost mournful. “They care for nothing but their own safety. Their own comfort. They would let the world burn just to keep themselves warm.”

His fingers lift—gentle, too gentle—and brush against your cheek. The touch is soft, but it feels like it brands you. “They condemn that which they don’t understand and cast it out without a second thought. Without mercy.”

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Is that what all of this is for? To punish them? To take revenge for what they did to you?”

His gaze darkens, like a storm passing over still water. You've struck something raw. “Do I not deserve revenge?”

“For what?” You ask, incredulous. “Because they looked at you in distaste?”

“You think that’s all that was done to me?” His false smile finally slips from his face, revealing the raw edge beneath. “I was feared by my own mother, hated by my own father, then blamed for their deaths. I was judged before I even had the chance to defend myself. I was stripped of everything, my family name, my birthright, my future, and you all watched it happen. No one came for me. No one defended me. My bloodline was doomed to rot while others like yours were revered. I was condemned to nothing—and still you call it distaste?”

You feel the world bend around you—as if even the night itself recoils in fear of his wrath.

“If you think all that was nothing but distaste,” He murmurs, his voice stripped of all pretense, “then why are you here, begging for it to stop when it’s finally happening to you?”

You blanch, the breath catching in your lungs like smoke.

Suddenly, everything begins to make sense. His aim was not just to dismantle and destroy those in power so he could rise to take their place. No—he wanted you to suffer as he had suffered. To feel the whispers at your back. To endure the suspicion in your family’s eyes. To suffer the isolation that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. To see your name soiled, your future crumbling in the palms of your hand.

He wanted to ruin you, just as you watched him get ruined. “Please,” You whisper, voice quivering with the tears of despair and utter hopelessness you’re struggling to hold back. “Whatever justice you believe this to be, you’ve delivered it. Let it end now—please.”

“But I am not doing anything, my flower,” Beomgyu says, his voice once again cloaked in silken innocence. “This is the gods’ wrath, sent down to punish the sinners.”

You recoil as though scorched, fury and dread climbing your throat like smoke from a pyre.

“Liar!” You hiss at him. “It’s you. This is all your doing.”

He feigns confusion, his smile soft and patronizing. “How can that be? I have no power, remember? I am nothing, no one. Not compared to you.” His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains deceptively light. “Wasn’t it your family who was entrusted with the sacred arts? The divine craft passed down through generations? Wasn’t it you who once told me of the dark magic that is kept hidden behind the walls of the temple? The spells marked in blood beneath the altar?”

The implication in his words is clear. You cannot give him up. If he burns, you burn with him.

Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it all—his threat, his power, the noose he’s been quietly tightening around your neck seemingly since the moment you met him.

“Please,” You plead, voice frayed. “Spare them. Spare him.”

He regards you in a silence that stretches between you like a taut thread ready to snap. Then, calmly—almost kindly—he says, “Only the innocent will be spared.”

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. “But… you said there are no innocents.”

His answering smile is slow, terrible, and you finally start to cry, the tears falling faster than you can wipe them away. “He is innocent.” You insist, wailing.

“Is he?” His voice is not raised, but sharpened—like a blade sliding between ribs. “His family is the reason mine is dead.”

“Lies!” You shout, desperate to drown him out, to push back against the tide of his hate. “He is good—he’s good.”

But your words barely leave your mouth before his hand strikes like a snake, fisting in your hair and yanking your head back sharply. You gasp, pain blooming across your scalp, your neck straining as he forces you to look up at him—his eyes dark and gleaming with fury and hurt, long-fed and allowed to fester.

“Tell me again. Tell me how good he is.” His grip tightens, uncaring that he’s hurting you as he watches your tears stream down your cheeks.

“Tell me why you chose him over me.” For the first time, his voice rises, a crack forming in his composure, letting you glimpse his hurt. “Was it because he is respected? Because his family’s name sits high on the tongues of fools while mine is dragged through filth? Because the people love him—trust him—as a matter of birthright—while they hate and fear me for the lies his family told? For the poison your elders whispered into my father’s ear? For the lies they let fester until they bled into every home in this cursed tribe?”

You try to shake your head, to deny it, but his grip holds you fast.

“You’re lying,” You manage, the words brittle, barely holding shape. “Why would they do that? Why would they want to hurt you?” You ask as if you’ve never heard the rumors. As if you don’t remember the whispers that once buzzed like flies around a fresh grave, speaking of his father’s untimely death and how fortuitous it was for Kai’s father to survive his only real rival for leadership.

Beomgyu’s laugh is empty, humorless. “Ask your precious husband. I’m sure he won’t lie to you—not now that you’re one of them.” The accusation in his voice burns like his fire. “You’re both cut from the same cloth. Liars and hypocrites. You wear righteousness like a veil, pretend to be pure, pretend to be above me—” He sneers down at you, his shadow devouring your light.

“I’ll strip away that veil—thread by thread. And when there’s nothing left to hide behind, not your name, not your blood, not your husband’s family, I’ll show everyone what you really are. What you’ve always been—rotten underneath.”

You stare at him, heart fluttering in your chest like an injured bird. “You’re insane,” You whisper faintly to whatever monstrous creature is wearing Beomgyu’s face.

And yet, the cruelest truth is the one you cannot deny—he is not wrong. You’re no better than him. You have brought death to your parents, ruin to your husband’s bloodline, and doom to the tribe. Every choice you have made has carried you further from the grace of the gods, and you fear that their gates have been long closed to you.

He leans closer, until there is no air between you and him. Until the warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, and you can smell the faint trace of herbs and smoke clinging to him like a second skin. “Maybe I am after all,” He murmurs, voice low and intimate, as if sharing a secret only with you.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” You sob, wondering with growing terror if there remains any plea, any offering, that might yet stay this madman’s hand. “Just to kill us all for crimes you’ve imagined we committed?”

“Oh, flower,” He murmurs, almost fond. “You’re even more beautiful when you cry but I must warn you that those precious tears you shed only burn me with more hatred.”

He cups your cheek in his hand, and though he stands suffocatingly close, you can’t pull away, not with his fingers tangled in your hair like claws hooked into flesh. “It makes me want to kiss you until I've taken all your breath away, to fuck you until you have no tears left to shed and your throat bleeds from screaming my name.”

There it is—he no longer makes any effort to conceal his ravenous hunger. You came knowing this moment could come, hoped for it… but to say you were prepared for the violence of his desire would be a lie. Still, if surrender is the price for a little more time, you will pay it. If he harbors even a sliver of mercy in that withered heart, you’ll trade whatever pieces of yourself he demands so he will let you breathe a little longer. Not for you, but for it…

“Please…” You tremble, the words tearing your throat like thorns. “Spare my child. It is innocent.”

He stills, his haughty expression faltering. “You’re… with child?”

For the first time, there is no mockery in his voice. No smile on his face. No anger in his eyes. Just curiosity. And a flicker of something you’re scared to name.

You nod, tears blurring the shape of him, but never softening it. The despair wells up like a maelstrom in you as your thoughts drift to the life inside you. So small, so fragile. A child who may never see the light of day because of the monster that stands before you.

His shadow spills over you—vast, engulfing—larger than any mere mortal’s. His hand moves. Down. Until it lays gently over your abdomen.

You still, every muscle in your body tightening. You want to recoil, to strike him, to run. But you can’t. You’re afraid of what he might do if you try.

His touch is warm, gentle even, but it makes your skin crawl just the same. He is silent, contemplative, as though he could feel your child's lifeblood pulsing beneath his fingers. Then comes the faintest curve to his lips—a small, inexplicable smile that unnerves you. You can’t make sense of it and that terrifies you more than all the threats he’s made. Is he marveling at the life within you… or planning how best to use it? Will your child be spared, or sacrificed?

Your mind spirals. Behind your eyes, that horrible image resurfaces—the one you’ve tried so hard to banish: the infant Kai’s grandmother laid on the altar, soft and helpless, its innocence consumed to feed something foul and ancient.

Will he slaughter your child the same way—spill its blood to sustain whatever darkness writhes beneath his skin?

You wish you’d never told him. You wish your child would slip into the silence of your womb, its life fading before it could be used for something unholy. Before he could defile it, as he has defiled everything he’s ever touched. Before he could stain its soul so utterly that even the gods would turn their faces in disgust and refuse to welcome it home.

“Please,” You sob, barely able to speak through the wave of panic drowning your lungs. “Please don't hurt my child.”

He brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so gentle it only deepens your horror, convincing you that he’s preparing you for the slaughter. “Hush, flower,” He whispers. And then, slowly, he leans in—

His lips find your cheek first, kissing the trail your tears have burned down your face. He follows them as they run, until they pass over the corner of your mouth. There, he catches your lips in a kiss. Uninvited. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

You do not dare fight him. Instead, you kiss him back, desperate, needing to appease him. You let him draw you closer, pliantly responding to his terrifying hunger. You suppress your flinch when his hands start to roam, caressing and groping places only a husband should claim.

His pleased sighs are hot against your mouth, and you force yourself to swallow them down—burying your revulsion, your horror, your shame. You feel the hardness of him pressed against your hip, and everything inside you screams at you to stop this.

But you can’t. Because if this is the cost to keep your child alive… If this is what it takes to keep him from burning the only person you have left… then you will endure. Even if it breaks you. Even if the gods forsake you. Even if you never forgive yourself.

Your breath hitches as his hands roam lower, kneading the flesh of your hips, fingers digging in as though trying to mold you to him. You feel his hips grind faster against you—firm, insistent. You hear the roughness in his breath as he leans in closer, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in. And still you don’t pull away.

“So soft,” He murmurs, voice rough with need. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

You’re filled with revulsion—at him, at yourself. It sickens you to hear him all but admit to having viewed you so lewdly, to having lusted after you. But what makes your stomach turn even more violently is the way your body still reacts to his touch, despite everything—despite the monster he’s become, the horrors he’s unleashed, the blood he’s spilled. Despite the fact that you belong to another man, one you love. You hate it. You hate yourself for it.

And you begin to wonder if this too, is just another step in his cruel design? Not just to take you, not just to break you down and claim the pieces for himself—but to make you complicit? To make you question your purity, your loyalty, your sanity?

His lips press along your jaw, down the side of your throat, trailing heat and dread in equal measure. You close your eyes and try not to feel any of it. Try to think only of the child inside you. Of Kai’s face. Of anything but this.

You pull back, breathless, your lips damp with the salt of your own tears and the taste of him still clinging to your mouth. “Please, if I let you have me… will you spare them?”

He cocks his head to the side—eyes wild, feral. He lets the silence stretch until your heart is pounding against your ribs as if it wants out. You’re the first to break. Of course, you are. You cannot bear it, and so carefully, slowly you push one hand between your bodies to find his hard length and wrap your fingers around it in a tentative stroke. His jaw parts on a groan—a low sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. His lashes flutter shut, and for a few breathless moments, his body is open to you.

You study him—the quiver of his lips, the tension in his brow, the ache he hid for so long.

You watch his lashes, long and thick, fan out softly against his cheeks. His nose rising in an elegant silhouette from his handsome face. And his lips—soft, full, and delicate in a way that doesn’t belong in his world of ash and fire. You wonder how someone so lovely could hold so much darkness. With his eyes closed, he looks almost peaceful. Serene. Like an angel caught between two worlds, reminding you so much of the young boy you once held a small flame in your heart for, and your heart breaks. Not for the man in front of you, but for the boy who never stood a chance.

For a few moments, all you see is the boy who once waited for you at the edge of the woods with dirt on his knees and wildflowers in his fists. The boy who laughed too loudly and asked too many questions, excited and eager to have a friend, to get a glimpse at a world that never made room for him.

You wonder if he is still in there, if the fire burning through him hasn’t completely consumed him. You wonder if it’s not too late, if the monster still remembers what it means to love. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, there is a way to pull that boy out from underneath the embers.

But even with his eyes closed, you feel watched. Not by him—but by whatever always clings to him.

You keep stroking him, slow and measured, your other hand braced on his chest to keep some distance between you because despite all your mournful ruminations, this is not an act of tenderness, of love. This is a bid for salvation. He is no longer the little boy who yearned for belonging, who begged for your attention. That boy is long gone, if ever he existed. In his place stands a monster who slaughters those who once shunned him, carving out the place he was robbed of with blood and ash, and forcing you to bargain for the life of your unborn child with your chastity and dignity.

Beomgyu’s head drops back to your neck—gravitating there like it’s in his nature to tear you apart. His lips are hot and open, teeth scraping against your skin with something between hunger and rage. You wince, swallowing down your cries and moans. You can already feel the bruise forming there, how you’ll have to hide it later. If you live long enough to care.

He drags your dress up with possessive hands, fabric sliding over your thighs like a shroud being lifted. You shiver, the cold air meeting your bare skin, but that brief moment of chill does not last long for it is quickly replaced by his burning touch, his cock pressing—hard and hot, against your bare pussy.

You try not to cry out, try not to feel, but every nerve in your body seems to betray you, registering the pressure, the heat, the terrifying intimacy.

“What a pretty, pliant little whore,” He breathes against your ear, voice low and filled with a dark kind of awe. “Look how easily you break for me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, shame burning you alive. You want to vanish, to disappear inside yourself—anything so you won’t have to endure the shame and guilt of your body reacting to his touch.

But you stay still. You let him. Because there’s nothing else left to give. No more bargains to make. Just this. Just your body. And he knows it—He savors it.

You feel it in the way his breath turns ragged, in the low hum that escapes his throat like a growl. His hands tighten on your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh like he’s trying to imprint himself on you, like he wants you to never forget this.

His thumb brushes against your clit, touching you with slow intent, forcing you to feel as he drags his cock against your wet pussy. His satisfaction is palpable in the heat of his body, in the raspy moans that break from his lips like prayers through clenched teeth. Each breath he takes sounds like hunger. Each sigh, like triumph.

“Gods,” He mutters, voice shaking with pleasure. “I can eat you whole.”

“P-please…” You barely have the power left to speak, your shaky voice sounding repulsive to your own ears. Oh, how deep you’ve sunk. “Whatever you want. Just… just spare my baby. Spare Kai. Please.”

Suddenly, he pulls back, and the shift in his demeanor is swift and jarring. His mouth that was open in pleasure snaps shut. His brows that were furrowed in pleasure take on a furious look. And his dark gaze that is no longer tempered by pleasure—locks onto yours.

His hand wraps around your wrist and you swallow down the trepidation at the back of your throat, bracing for him to pull you in for more, to finish what you started. But instead, to your relief—and despair—he doesn’t. He pushes your hand away and steps back, shaking his head.

You blink, uncomprehending, as the distance opens between you. His eyes stay on yours, and for a heartbeat longer, he allows you to see the storm behind them. The rage. The grief. The boy who was buried alive beneath years of humiliation and exile, and who clawed his way back from the grave with nothing but the hatred and pain burning through his veins.

The full revelation of it, wrapped in a single, horrifyingly calm moment, almost knocks you off your feet.

“Can you give me back respect?” He asks, his voice low, his anger barely contained. “The dignity they stripped from me? The place in the tribe that should have been mine by birthright—stolen by your husband’s family?”

Your stomach knots. “No,” You shake your head, denying it until the end. “That’s not what happened. You brought this upon yourself. You killed your parents. You gave yourself to the dark.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe they conspired to ruin my family in order to keep their place atop the tribe?” His eyes blaze, his tone bitter, “And yet so easy for you to believe that a child—a child—could murder his own parents? His unborn siblings?”

You struggle to meet his gaze as if the hatred within it has the power to fell you. “Because you’re evil. Everyone can see it.”

The words hang in the air, quivering like a blade waiting to drop.

His smile returns, and your stomach drops. That’s when you know—you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve broken whatever fragile thread held back the monster. “Then everyone will see their evil too. And they won’t be given mercy, just as no one showed me mercy.”

“Please,” You try again, voice cracking and hands trembling as you try to reach out for him. try to fix it. “Please, Beomgyu.”

But his eyes remain cruel, pitiless. You’ve squandered your one chance.

He seizes your arm, his grip bruising, and hauls you toward the door. “Save your tears. You never shed them for me. Why should I care if you shed them for him?”

With a final shove, he casts you out. “Go to him,” He spits, looking down at you. “Save him if you can.”

And just like that, the door slams shut behind you—snuffing out the last flicker of hope you still dared to cling to.

__________________________

A/N: There is only one chapter left because this one was humungous. please let me know what you think and how you think the story will end

and just for fun though i already know the answer

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #heuningkai smut #supernatural au #dark fic #yandere au

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