The matriarchs huffed, one muttering that he’d “never survive as a Sky Clan bride,” another grumbling that “all the pretty ones turn mean in the cold.”
No one offered a blessing twice.
A few of the younger warriors—still bruised from last week’s punishment—tried their hand at banter:
“Don’t let the Fire King see those whip marks, Skyboy. He’ll want to trade for a rougher leash!”
Haneul’s eyes slid past, as if watching a hawk circle high overhead, attention never landing where they wanted.
“You can’t shame a wolf for bleeding,” he snapped, voice too clear for comfort.
Gwantried to lighten things: “If he tries to drown you in that hot bath, bite his nose off. We’ll say it’s a northern custom.”
Another chimed in: “A fox in a palace tub—bet you piss on his floor just to claim it.”
Haneul grunted, not bothering to reply.
He’d never seen a bathhouse, never set foot in one of the gilded pools the city was famous for. His entire life, water had meant rivers cracked with ice, lakes in moonlight, snow melted on the tongue. Warmth belonged to the enemy. Steaming pools were for the soft, the slow, the ones who could afford to play at peace.
He kept his eyes on the sky, watching clouds drift in ragged herds over the valley, counting crows and magpies, tracing the flight lines of birds he’d never name aloud. His mind hummed with the pulse of wild things—staying, leaving, refusing to be caged by ritual or hope. Every muscle in his body seemed to bounce with nervous energy, jaw set, shoulders up around his ears.
If anyone made a filthy joke, he growled. If anyone tried to talk softness or ceremony, he barked a bitter laugh and sped up. There was nothing holy in this march to diplomacy. Just duty, just cold, just another mask to wear on a face still raw from last week’s punishment.
The city gates came into view at last—walls rising black and slick with the Fire King’s sigils, smoke curling from within. A row of guards in crimson armor flanked the gate, staring down the Frost Clan’s battered procession with a mixture of hunger and boredom.
Haneul didn’t flinch.He just watched a pair of crows scuffle in the gutter, lips pressed in a line, his mind already building a list of ways to escape if the world went wrong. The irony cut deep: they marched through snow and steel air to a bathhouse soakedin fire and luxury. Warmth had never been a comfort to him. It was a threat—like soft hands reaching to steal his edge.
He was here because they told him to be. He would play the part, bare his wounds, let them see how a boy who’d never tasted warmth could still walk into fire—and live.
??????
CHAPTER EIGHT– The River That Couldn’t Be Tamed
The diplomatic procession had become a gauntlet by the time they reached the bathhouse. Frost Clan elders bickered with Fire Clan stewards over every step—what shoes to leave at the door, which gods to invoke, whose banner could hang closest to the entry arch. Haneul trailed at the back, posture rigid, arms locked tight, braid swinging like a challenge to anyone who dared get too close.
The ritual began at the threshold: a priestess with incense, a boy with a copper bowl, a matron murmuring a hymn for peace. It was the first ritual of winter—held every year after the first frost, when water was meant to purify what the old season left behind. This was Haneul’s nineteenth winter, though no one had dared mark it aloud. He didn’t celebrate ages. He survived them.
Haneul recoiled at the first flicker of smoke, lips curling into a snarl, side-stepped the bowl, and hissed, “Keep that ash away from me.” When a woman tried to mark his brow with soot, he slapped her hand aside, earning a gasp from both clans and a muttered curse from his commander.
Fire Clan envoys glared, voices rising in complaint—
“Your boy is an animal—”
“This is sacred—”
“Let him show respect or take him home—”
Frost Clan answered with equal heat—
“Let the king try to tame him—”
“Hebathes for battle, not for blessing—”
“Foxes don’t kneel, not even for gods—”
Haneul ignored them all, gaze fixed somewhere above their heads. The only things that seemed to matter were the crows skittering on the bathhouse roof, the slow drift of cloud shadow over distant pine. He rocked on his heels, scowl etched deep, jaw working with unsaid words and nerves. His long legs bounced, bare feet flexing in and out of the borrowed slippers. When a guard tried to joke—“Don’t piss in the water, Skyboy”—Haneul growled, sharp as a wolf’s warning.
Seungho was already inside, stripped to the waist, crimson robes half-off, hair tied high and wild. His broad back gleamed in the lantern light, marked by the kind of scars that made even rival soldiers hush. He watched as Haneul finally ducked through the cedar doors—rigid, glaring, steps measured like he was about to cross a battlefield.
