Then the wolves howled—thin, wild, silver-edged, curling around the trunks, spinning through the pines. Haneul’s head snapped up, a deranged grin splitting his face. He howled back, perfect, animal, his voice echoing across the water.
And from the far side of the frozen river, a massive silver wolf stepped into moonlight. Its coat shimmered, every muscle fluid beneath the frost. It looked at Haneul, and Haneul stared back, unflinching, unafraid—like he belonged.
“Father…?” he whispered, childlike, lost, trembling. “I’m… sorry…”
His eyes rolled, body folded into the snow, breath fogging, arms limp, cheek pressed to the earth. Out cold.
The wolf padded forward, lifted its nose. Its eyes flicked to Seungho—not with fear or respect, but with judgment. It knew him. It gave a sharp yip, then vanished into the trees.
Seungho crouched beside Haneul. Cold steam rose from the boy’s skin; he’d burn up if left alone. That core pulsed even in sleep, stubborn and bright. Seungho brushed tangled hair from Haneul’s temple, watching snowflakes cling to his lashes.
“I’ve killed a hundred men,” he whispered, “and not one of them made me laugh.”
Haneul’s breath warmed his palm.
He lifted the boy—body lean, taut, light, ribs too sharp under silk, head heavy on his shoulder. From the trees, Seungho walked into the open. The clan was shouting, boots pounding, voices cracked with worry.
“Haneul!! Where the fuck is that boy?”
“I told you it was a bad idea to give him soju!, commander Baek is gonna fucking whoop our asses!”
“Stop calling him a boy—he’s nineteen, old enough to kill us all with a sneeze!”
“He lived in a tree for a week—killed his parents, you know—swear he thinks the wolves are his kin.”
He stepped into the moonlight. Jeong turned, froze.
“Holy shit.”
Gwan followed, eyes wide.
“Is that—”
Seungho did not stop orspeak. Just carried Haneul, snow in his hair, limp as a child, sacred as a secret.
Their swords rasped from sheaths. Jeong stepped forward, blade trembling.
“Put him down, Fire King.”
Seungho didn’t pause. He looked through Jeong, voice thunder and smoke:
“Tell them to sheath their blades, Snowdrop. Or I’ll show them what a war god looks like in the flesh.”
Haneul didn’t stir. He was utterly unconscious—limp, breath soft, face slack with the kind of sleep only magic and drink could bring. One arm hung down Seungho’s back, fingers twitching once, then falling still, his scent sweat, soju, and faint ozone, clinging to his robes.
The rest of the clan appeared all at once—flaring like wolves scenting blood.
“Fire King,” Jeong growled, stepping forward, sword bared, boots crunching, shoulders squared. “Put him down.”
The others spread out—five, six, ten, battered survivors, some half-drunk, others cold sober, not one afraid, all burning with loyalty. Swords gleamed, frost magic flickered at their fingertips. They formed a half-circle between Seungho and the barracks—the only place Haneul had ever called home.
“We won the last battle,” Gwan said, iron in his voice, hand tight on his blade. “You’ve got no claim tonight. Haneul’s ours. You want a rematch? You wait. You fight like a man. Not a fucking thief.”
The frost cracked under their boots. They weren’t afraid of the Fire King—but they were afraid for Haneul.
Seungho stood tall, holding Haneul like a sacred, stolen thing, the boy’s head tucked to the crook of his neck. The heat of hisfire made the snow steam in a lazy ring at his feet, melting a slow circle. He could feel Haneul’s heart flutter against his ribs—weak, stubborn, feverish, the core still pulsing, unwilling to quit.
And they wanted him back.
