Night — Border of Zandara
The moon cast a cold silver veil over the lands between Goryeo's encampment and the outer forests of Zandara. The soldiers of Tae-jun remained on high alert, though the queen's forces had not attacked.
Tensions crackled like dry leaves underfoot.
Within his private tent, Tae-jun stood bare-chested before a copper basin, wiping the blood from his shoulder — a wound from an earlier skirmish with panthers released by Kemetwa's trackers. He did not flinch. Pain was irrelevant. His mind was elsewhere.
"You bleed in silence," said a voice behind him.
He turned. It was General Baek, eyes shadowed with fatigue.
"A wound means little if the soul is already pierced," Tae-jun murmured.
Baek hesitated.
"You speak of the queen?"
Tae-jun gave no answer, but the silence said everything.
⸻
Meanwhile — Secret Chamber beneath the Citadel of Zandara
In the ancient halls where queens once spoke with gods, Nalya knelt before the Flame of Truth — a sacred fire lit only in moments of great spiritual turmoil. The heat curled around her skin, not burning, but probing.
Behind her, Ezinah, the priestess, stood motionless, clutching a staff carved from lion bone.
"Your heart moves toward him," Ezinah whispered.
"It betrays me," Nalya replied, her voice hoarse.
"It awakens you."
The flames surged, casting visions into the smoke.
Tae-jun — standing beneath a falling sky. Her own face — not as queen, but as a woman, weeping into the wind.
"If the two become one," murmured Ezinah, "the sky may change its color."
"Or the earth may split," Nalya said.
⸻
In the Jungle — Goryeo Encampment
That same night, a soldier went missing.
Panic spread. A search party was formed.
They found his body at dawn, ritually marked, laid at the edge of the forest — eyes wide open, pupils white, as if he had seen something beyond death.
A symbol was carved into his chest: the sigil of the Shadow Warlock, a figure from Goryeo myth, believed to exist only in nightmares.
But he was here.
Watching.
Feeding on unrest.
⸻
Temple of the Veil — Kemetwa Highlands
The Sorcerer stirred black smoke in a shallow bowl of obsidian.
He had sacrificed a white bird under the moon, whispering old spells in tongues forgotten. His voice cracked like breaking branches.
In the reflection of the bowl, he saw them.
Nalya and Tae-jun. A prophecy reborn.
"If they love… we vanish," he growled.
Behind him, ghostly silhouettes — ancient spirits of war — writhed, bound to him by blood.
He turned toward the altar and slammed his palm down.
"Then they will die before dawn."
⸻
Zandara — The Gardens of Storms
That evening, Nalya paced beneath the moonflowers, petals glowing with soft blue light. She wore a long robe of midnight silk embroidered with silver serpents — the garment of those who dream of peace.
Tae-jun entered through the lower gate, unguarded.
"You walk without fear," she said.
"Not without fear," he answered, "but with hope."
They stood close. Neither wore armor.
"Why did you come here, really?" she asked.
"To find the part of me I had forgotten," he said. "And perhaps… to find you."
Nalya did not smile.
"You speak as if fate sent you."
"Didn't it?"
A gust of wind shook the trees. Thunder rumbled from the distance. Nalya looked up.
"Storm's coming."
"Then let it come," Tae-jun whispered.
And without another word, he reached for her hand. This time, she did not pull away.
For the first time, they were no longer emperor and queen.
Just two souls at the edge of something greater.