Chapter 1: Forced.
Summary:
Cale Henituse was done.
Chapter Text
Looking back, it had been strange.
No—wrong.
It had been insane.
Cale Henituse sat on the cold marble floor of the temple’s waiting chamber, his back pressed against a pillar that offered no comfort. Blood still clung beneath his fingernails, stubborn and dry, flaking off when he clenched his fists. His ceremonial robes, freshly pressed and stifling, felt like a noose around his neck. Gold embroidery scratched at his collarbone every time he moved, each movement igniting the memory of fire.
His body hadn’t fully healed from the fever yet—a fever that had come after weeks spent unconscious following the fall of the Henituse territory. He still woke up gasping, lungs burning, with the scent of ash and blood in his nose.
He remembered everything.
The way the fires devoured the forests of the northeast. Trees screaming as they splintered, roots exposed like nerves. The ash had made it impossible to breathe.
He remembered Deruth’s sword falling to the ground, too far from his outstretched hand.
He remembered Violan’s body, unnaturally still on the manor stairs, blood soaking the velvet carpet.
Basen’s scream, cut short. Lily’s silence, her little fingers cold and limp.
He had buried them.
By hand.
One by one. With trembling arms and a shattered heart.
The survivors had run. The retainers fled. And Cale—Cale had remained until the fires burned out and the soil was soft enough to dig.
Two weeks. That’s how long it had been.
Now, here he was, seated in a chamber dressed for weddings and rituals and royal displays, as if he hadn’t watched his world die. The priest had told him to wait until the final bell rang, but every chime that echoed in the distance felt like a countdown.
A funeral masquerading as a ceremony.
A marriage.
His own.
To Choi Han.
***
The summons hadn’t come with couriers or messengers. There had been no condolences, no words of regret.
Just soldiers. Three knights in silver armor bearing the Royal Family’s crest. Two flanking him, one riding ahead. Their hands never strayed far from their hilts, though Cale made no move to resist. He hadn’t spoken the entire journey. He had no voice left to waste on empty questions.
They had arrived with a letter sealed in red wax.
No name on the outside. Just an order.
"Young Master Cale Henituse is to present himself before His Majesty within three days to discuss matters of national security."
National security.
A phrase that meant everything and nothing at all. The ashes of House Henituse still smoldered, and somehow he was expected to play politics.
He was escorted like a criminal. No explanation. No right to refuse.
When he entered the imperial audience chamber—still wearing the black garments of mourning, still marked with burns and healing cuts—he expected at least a moment of decency.
Instead, the King looked down at him from the dais with a blank expression and said:
"You will wed Hero Choi Han."
Cale didn’t respond at first. The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t.
“…I’m sorry?”
“You heard me,” the King repeated. There was no ceremony in his tone. No pity. “It is already arranged.”
The royal court remained silent. Not a single whisper, not even a raised brow. Just cold, practiced obedience. Cale could feel the silence pressing in on his skull.
He blinked once. Twice. His mind searched for clarity, but the question that emerged from his lips was simple.
“Your Majesty… why?”
No answer came.
Only the quiet sound of a door opening behind him.
Cale flinched.
Instinctive. Uncontrolled.
He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
Choi Han’s footsteps were quiet, but not hesitant. The same steady pace as always. When he came to stand beside the King, his expression was as unreadable as ever—his face carved into something that looked human but felt like stone.
He didn’t look at Cale.
He didn’t bow.
He didn’t speak.
The King said, “Choi Han has volunteered.”
“Volunteered?” Cale asked, feeling his stomach turn. “Why?”
Choi Han’s eyes finally met his.
Dark. Cold. Endless.
“To ensure justice is done.”
The words struck like a hammer.
Cale’s breath hitched. “Justice?”
“You may protest your innocence,” Choi Han said, voice even, quiet, deadly. “But the blood on your hands—whether by action or inaction—cannot be overlooked.”
“I—” Cale’s voice broke. A bitter laugh escaped him. “I watched my family die. I buried them. And now I’m being married off as—what? A criminal? A political pawn?”
The King’s voice was sharp. “Consider it mercy. Your sentence could have been far worse.”
A sentence.
So that was what this was.
Not a wedding. A verdict.
A punishment in gilded form.
***
The wedding was held in the Church of the Sun.
A public affair. Lavish. Pointless.
The nobles filled the pews in gold and velvet, their faces tight with poorly concealed curiosity. Foreign envoys watched with keen interest. Merchants whispered behind fans. No one shed a tear. No one offered congratulations.
Cale stood in front of the altar, hands trembling beneath his sleeves. The ceremonial scroll was placed in his hand by a priest too afraid to meet his gaze.
He read the vows like a stranger reading someone else’s death sentence.
Choi Han remained still. Silent.
He didn’t speak until it was time to place the ring.
“I will take responsibility,” he said.
Responsibility.
As if Cale were a burden. A disgrace. A mistake.
“And I will protect the people from you, if necessary.”
Cale stared at him. At the silver band on his finger. At the priest who refused to ask if they consented. At the congregation that clapped with polite indifference.
They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t even look at each other.
The King did not attend.
‘If necessary.’ He says, but considering their previous interaction two years ago. Cale reckons that Choi Han would never find it necessary to protect him.
***
Their home was a manor in the noble district of the capital—newly built, yet devoid of warmth. The floors were cold marble. The walls, lined with paintings no one had chosen. Servants bustled through the halls like ghosts, silent and swift, avoiding both husbands equally.
Cale was given the east wing.
On the first night, he sat by the fireplace, its light flickering over his features, casting him in gold and shadow. His reflection in the window looked like someone else—someone thin and pale and far too young to be carrying a nation's suspicion.
Choi Han knocked once before entering.
Cale didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be off protecting the world from me?”
“You may live here as you like,” Choi Han said. His voice was empty. “But do not enter my wing. We will keep things… civil.”
Cale smiled, sharp and tired. “And by civil, you mean I pretend this isn’t a cage?”
Choi Han’s eyes flicked to the wedding ring.
“You will be unhappy by my side for the rest of your life.”
Cale laughed. A breathy, bitter sound. “Ah. So it’s not a cage—it’s a coffin. Lovely.”
Choi Han left.
He didn’t close the door.
***
Weeks passed.
Cale became a master of performance.
He attended court events, dressed in silks and draped in jewels he had no desire for. He smiled at nobles who had once groveled before Deruth and now treated him like something rotting.
He learned to wear silence like armor.
To nod when spoken to.
To endure the whispers:
“Lady Choi seems pale again. Is he unwell?”
“They say he let his family die.”
“He must’ve sold them out.”
“Shameful, really. The House of Henituse brought low by its own son.”
Cale never responded.
He didn’t need to.
The servants avoided his eyes. The guards never addressed him by name. Even the staff in the manor called him milady when they thought he wasn’t listening, they say it like a mockery.
He endured every dinner he sat through alone.
Every report that Choi Han had returned victorious from another border skirmish or conflict.
Every moment he lived as a shadow tethered to a man hailed as a hero.
The people adored Choi Han.
And they despised the traitor he had married.
***
Two years passed like a knife dragged slowly over skin.
The days bled into each other.
Until one evening.
Rain tapped softly against the windows, like fingers drumming in warning.
Cale sat alone in the library. The fire flickered, casting long shadows over shelves that had been ignored for months. He pulled a book from the shelf without thinking—a worn, leather-bound volume of essays Violan had loved.
He opened it.
And stopped.
A dried flower fell from between the pages, landing on his lap.
A forget-me-not.
His hands trembled.
The book slid from his fingers.
The walls of the room warped. The scent of fire returned. The sound of Lily’s laughter echoed in his skull, followed by silence.
He gasped.
Pressed a palm to his chest.
The tears came unbidden.
He bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
And thought: Why am I still here?
What was he enduring this for?
Not redemption.
Not justice.
Not love.
Just survival.
But for what?
He had nothing left. No purpose. No name that mattered. He was Cale Henituse in title only—a man buried beneath shame and suspicion.
But.
He was still Cale Henituse.
The one they called trash. The one they underestimated.
The one who endured the fire and buried his dead with his own hands.
He stood.
His reflection in the window stared back—haunted, yes, but alive.
Scarred, but still breathing.
“Choi Han may have the power to make me suffer,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the rain.
“But I have the power to end it.”
Something inside him shifted.
Something dark, cold, and filled with despair.
Not all the positive emotions one would have when they had a realization.
It was resignation.
It was a dark acceptance.
Cale Henituse was done.
And he was ready to end it all with his own hands.
Chapter 2: Tired.
Summary:
Cage would always believe Cale.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“How are you?”
The words hung in the air like smoke from a dying flame, curling and fading into silence. Cage, the excommunicated priestess of the God of Death, stood in the center of the manor’s east wing, her arms crossed and her expression tight with barely restrained fury.
It had taken everything she had not to kick down the front gates the moment the guards hesitated at letting her in. And it had taken even more to maintain the mask of civility when they called her Lady Choi’s companion.
Companion.
What a joke.
She was here as a warden. She knew it. Cale knew it. And it hurt.
Cage had been many things in her life. A priestess. A criminal. A friend. A fugitive. But never—never—a spy.
Not until now.
She looked down at the pale figure curled into the corner of the window seat, half-obscured by the velvet curtains. Cale Henituse was wrapped in a robe too large for his frame, his skin sallow with the kind of sickliness that came from long neglect rather than illness. Blood no longer clung to his fingernails, but the stains under his eyes were darker than bruises.
He didn’t respond to her question. Not even a glance.
“I brought food,” she said, voice softening despite herself. She placed a covered basket on the low table, ignoring the tray of stale bread and cold, separated soup that had been pushed to the side—untouched, like all the others.
Cage’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know who’s supposed to be feeding you, but this is actual prison food. No offense to the dead, but I think even the God of Death would be offended.”
Still no response.
She sighed and sat down across from him. “I bought it from that little place in the south district—the one with the grilled sweet potato wraps you like. Remember?”
There was a flicker of movement—just a twitch of his fingers, maybe. Or a trick of the candlelight.
Cage pressed on, even as her chest clenched. “I also brought honey tea. It’s still warm. Don’t make me force-feed you like I used to with Taylor, because I will.”
At that, Cale stirred. Slowly. Stiffly.
His eyes, when they met hers, were dull. Empty. As if he were seeing her through a fogged window that had long since iced over.
“Why are you here?” he asked, voice hoarse, disused.
Cage blinked. Not because she hadn’t expected the question, but because the tone was so... dead. No heat. No accusation. No life.
“Because you’re not eating,” she said. “Because you're clearly not sleeping. Because I’m worried. Because someone has to be.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
His gaze drifted back to the window. Rain trailed down the glass like veins, fracturing the pale sunlight into strange, broken patterns.
Cage clenched her fists.
“Don’t say that.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll—” His voice cracked. “You’ll get hurt.”
There it was.
Cage inhaled sharply. “So what?”
Cale turned to look at her, and for the first time in weeks, something flickered behind those empty eyes.
Not anger. Not hope.
Something darker. More brittle.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I never left,” she snapped. “You think this is something I can just walk away from? You think I could live with myself knowing you’re locked in this frozen cage while the entire kingdom plays blind? I don’t give a damn what people say.”
He closed his eyes.
She stood, too tense to sit still anymore, and began pacing. “You know, I tried talking to Rosalyn. She’s in Breck right now. She’s doing what she can, but even she can’t touch this without risk. And Choi Han—” she spat the name, voice like venom. “That bastard hasn’t been back in three months. Not a word. Not even to the staff.”
Cale didn’t react.
That was somehow worse.
Cage felt her fury twist into something more vulnerable.
“You know what they told me last week?” she said bitterly. “That you’re ‘dangerous.’ That you’re ‘too calm for someone accused of treason.’ That you must be plotting something.”
Cale gave a faint, dry chuckle. “They really don’t know me.”
“No,” Cage whispered. “They don’t. But I do.”
She walked over to him, crouched down, and held out the food. “So, eat. Just a few bites. Please.”
His gaze lowered to the basket. He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
Cage smiled, just a little, as he picked up a wrap and bit into it without looking up.
They stayed like that for a few minutes. Quiet. Peaceful, in that way where silence meant survival, not absence.
Then Cale spoke again.
“They think I’m the leader of ARM.”
Cage froze. “I know.”
“I’m not.”
“I know,” she repeated, this time with steel in her voice. “I know.”
Cale looked at her. “Do you?”
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t need proof. I was there. I saw you drag your bloodied self back from the brink to protect people who never deserved your sacrifice. I saw you weep over your siblings’ graves. I saw how you looked at the fire.”
She met his gaze. “So no, I don’t need evidence. I know.”
His expression didn’t change. But the next words he spoke were quieter than breath.
“No one else believes me.”
“I do.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is for me.”
He looked down again, shoulders slumping. “Then you’re a fool.”
“Good. I’d rather be a fool at your side than a coward among liars.”
That drew a reaction. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile.
But not nothing.
Cage leaned back and let out a long breath. “You know, you should really start writing down what you remember about ARM’s actual movements. If they’re using your name, you can use that as leverage.”
Cale tilted his head. “Leverage for what?”
She hesitated. “For survival.”
He snorted. “I’m already dead. Just breathing.”
Cage’s lips trembled. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, it’s not. You’re still Cale. You’re still... you.”
Cale looked at her, then at the flames flickering in the hearth. “That’s the problem.”
They lapsed into silence again.
Cage sat down beside him, not touching, just close enough to share the warmth. Rain still fell, soft against the windows. Somewhere in the manor, a clock chimed the hour.
She didn’t say anything more.
Sometimes, silence said enough.
But inside, she was screaming.
***
In another part of the capital, Choi Han stood in a war council chamber, listening with half an ear to the logistics of a border skirmish. He didn’t speak. He barely heard.
His mind was elsewhere.
On a letter, still sealed, unopened in his desk drawer.
A letter from Cage.
He hadn’t read it. Couldn’t.
He didn’t know what terrified him more—that it would confirm his worst fears, or that it would make him doubt everything.
He hadn’t seen Cale in months.
By choice.
And every day, that choice felt more and more like a chain tightening around his throat.
He left the meeting early.
***
That night, Cage watched Cale fall asleep in his chair by the fireplace, the half-eaten wrap still clutched in one hand. His breath was slow. Shallow.
But steady.
She rose, draped a blanket over him, and whispered to the empty room:
“Hold on, Cale. Just a little longer.”
Because even if the world had turned its back on him—
She hadn’t.
She never would.
And somewhere deep inside the ash and ruin, she still believed—
That he hadn’t given up either. Not truly.
Not yet.
(But little did she know...)
Chapter Text
It had always been cold. The maids that brought him water to wash his face never gave it to him at the right temperature.
Lukewarm at best, icy at worst—today was one of those days.
He dipped his fingers into the basin, then stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to splash it on his face. The chill felt like knives against his skin. His body was too thin now, the bones too prominent, and his hands shook more often than they didn’t. He didn’t know whether it was from weakness or something deeper—something in his mind, unspoken and worn.
The mirror in front of him was cloudy. Old. Much like his eyes, he thought, staring at his reflection without really seeing it.
He looked like a ghost.
Not even a proper one. Just a pale remnant, clinging to a body that didn’t want to be alive anymore.
Cale closed his eyes. He reached for the towel, slowly, drying his hand more out of routine than need. Another day. Another morning. Another minute dragged into eternity.
He didn’t know how long he had been here. The days blurred together. Morning. Night. Afternoon. It didn’t matter. Time didn’t move. Or perhaps it did—but it no longer took him along.
He turned away from the basin and let the towel drop onto the floor.
The door creaked open slightly.
Not Cage. One of the maids. The one who never looked him in the eye. She placed another set of clothes at the edge of the table—standard, dull brown, a size too large. Then, without a word, she left, her steps quick and quiet, like she didn’t want to be seen in the same room as him.
He didn’t blame her.
His legs trembled as he approached the bed. He sank down slowly, carefully, so he wouldn’t fall. The cold water hadn’t refreshed him. It never did. His body was constantly sore, like he had been running in place, fighting battles no one else could see.
Maybe he was.
Maybe he still was.
***
“Sir Choi Han, Sir Ron Molan and Sir Beacrox are finally coming back.”
Choi Han perked up at that. Ron and Beacrox had left for the Eastern Continent a week before his wedding to Cale Henituse. It had been Rosalyn’s idea to wait for them—they were the ones who knew Cale the best.
Choi Han didn’t know what he’d do if they had all been wrong—
if he had been wrong.
That they had blamed and turned a man into a pariah because of fear.
Because of his fear.
He remembered the silence at the wedding.
Cale had said nothing when the officiant spoke.
Nothing when their hands were bound.
Nothing when Choi Han tried to meet his eyes.
He had told himself it was guilt.
That Cale couldn’t speak because he was finally realizing the weight of what he had done.
But now…
Now, after two years of no evidence, two years of still being attacked, two years of watching Cage try and fail to hold everything together—
The guilt was shifting.
Rosalyn hadn’t said a word when she handed him the report. She simply watched him, lips pressed tight, as though daring him to say what she couldn’t.
What if they were wrong?
What if he had let Cale rot in that manor for nothing?
What if all those blank stares, all those sleepless nights, all those silences hadn’t been signs of a guilty man…
But of a man already drowning?
***
When Ron and Beacrox arrived at the base, Choi Han wasted no time.
“What happened on the Eastern Continent?” he asked.
Ron’s face was unreadable.
Beacrox looked like he was about to snap his knife in half.
They didn’t speak right away. They didn’t need to.
Choi Han saw it in the way Beacrox clenched his fists, in the way Ron’s eyes darkened—not with confusion, not with surprise, but with quiet, simmering fury.
“Is it true?” Choi Han asked, voice low.
It trembled anyway.
Ron looked at him for a long moment before answering.
“Did you truly believe he would be capable of such a thing?” he said, voice soft—razor-sharp. “Did you forget the boy we raised?”
Choi Han couldn’t speak.
Ron clicked his tongue. “I raised the young master myself. Why didn’t anyone think to ask us if they wanted the truth?”
Beacrox glared at him. “The young master may’ve been trash, but he’d never side with Arm. You hate him—I get it. But that doesn’t give you the right to accuse him without asking us first.”
The words struck deeper than Choi Han expected.
Then Ron began explaining.
Arm had been active for over a century from what they could tell. They had attacked the Molans long before Cale Henituse was even born. Ron had the records—dates, locations, patterns of movement. Proof.
And no one had bothered to ask.
No one had thought to send a message to the man who had raised him.
They had locked Cale away.
And waited.
They blamed an innocent man.
***
Cale stared blankly at the large bathtub in front of him as he looked around. The doors, the windows—everything had been reinforced with spells and materials that even a swordmaster couldn’t break.
Especially the door of his bedroom.
It made Cale laugh, just a little.
A brittle, quiet sound that died almost immediately in the silence.
They had built him a prison under the guise of a home.
Not a cell with bars, but a manor with locks on every door and enchantments lining the walls. No one said it aloud, but he could feel it in every creak of the floorboards, every overly polite maid who never met his eyes.
He was being contained. Watched. Forgotten.
He stripped slowly, the effort enough to leave his arms trembling. The tub was already filled—lukewarm, at least, not icy like the basin. Maybe Cage had ordered it. Maybe someone still remembered that he didn’t like the cold.
He lowered himself into the water.
The warmth should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
It made the ache in his bones more obvious. The silence in his chest louder. It didn’t soothe—it revealed. All the cracks, all the wear. The way he didn’t fit into his body anymore. Like he’d outgrown being alive.
His head rested against the edge. His arms floated, weightless, pale against the water. He stared at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster.
Cale looked at the dagger he managed to get, the one laying just within reach on the table beside the bathtub.
A simple blade. No ornamentation. No history. Just steel and weight.
It looked small. Too small to do anything permanent. But he knew better. He had seen men bleed out from less.
He had caused it.
He had survived it.
But this wasn’t about survival. Not anymore.
He didn’t remember where he got the blade. That fact alone should’ve terrified him. It didn’t. All it meant was that even here, even with all their enchantments and walls and good intentions, they hadn’t been able to stop him.
He stared at it.
It stared back.
He didn’t touch it right away. He just breathed.
Or tried to.
His lungs felt tight. His chest ached with the weight of silence. It had been weeks—months?—since he last had a full conversation. Cage came and went. She said things. Sometimes he said things back. But the words were empty now, like echoes in an abandoned room.
He’d forgotten what it felt like to speak without tasting bitterness.
He dipped his hand into the water again. Let it float.
Then he picked up the dagger.
His grip didn’t tremble.
Not anymore.
Cale brought it close. He stared at his reflection in the steel—a warped, distorted ghost of himself. Pale. Thin. Hollow-eyed. A man who had been unmade piece by piece, until the only thing left was the memory of pain and the habit of breathing.
He didn’t feel angry.
He didn’t even feel sad.
He was tired. So unbearably tired.
Tired in his marrow. Tired in his soul.
He pressed the blade to the skin of his left wrist. Just above the vein. The first touch was cold. Not shocking—just... dull.
The kind of cold that settles into your bones and refuses to leave.
He didn’t hesitate.
The steel sank in easily. Too easily.
Like his body had been waiting for it.
There was no scream. No gasp. Just the faint splash of water disturbed as blood curled into it, a soft red spiral blooming like ink on parchment.
He stared at it for a while. Mesmerized.
It didn’t even hurt.
Wasn’t that ironic?
All this time, all this pain—and this… this didn’t even hurt.
He switched hands.
This one was shakier. He had to work quickly. The first cut was shallow. Not enough. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his grip, and went deeper.
The pain flickered this time. A brief surge. But he welcomed it. It reminded him he still had nerves.
Blood flowed freely now. Bright red at first. Then darker. It spread through the water like smoke, clouding the tub in crimson tendrils. Like vines. Like veins.
He let the dagger fall. It sank with a small clink against porcelain.
He slid lower in the water, submerging more of himself, until only his face remained above the surface.
It was warm.
Too warm now.
Or maybe that was just the blood.
His arms floated, slack, limp. The cuts were clean. He had made sure of that. No flailing, no mess. Just the gentle surrender of skin to steel. Like a promise.
His breathing slowed.
The ceiling blurred above him, white streaked with cracks and water droplets on his lashes. He blinked. Once. Twice.
The room tilted slightly.
The water lapped at his ears.
It was quiet.
Peaceful.
For the first time in years, Cale felt... still.
Not numb. Not aching.
Just still.
His thoughts grew hazy. Not gone, but slowed. Like drifting through fog.
He thought of Cage.
Of her tired eyes. Her stubborn voice. The way she still treated him like a person when everyone else treated him like a curse.
He thought of Choi Han.
Of the silence at the wedding. The look in his eyes. The way he never once asked Cale if it was true.
He thought of Ron.
Of Beacrox.
Of how they hadn’t been there to stop this.
Then he thought of Cage again.
And something deep in his chest cracked.
How she had tried so hard to be there for him, how she struck conversations with him even if he doesn’t respond, how she tried to feed him properly when it’s obvious that everyone around him wouldn’t.
Cale squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
His voice sounded far away. Hollow. Like it wasn’t even his.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger.”
A single tear rolled down his cheek and disappeared into the water.
He didn’t know who he was apologizing to anymore.
His family. Cage. Himself.
Maybe all of them.
Maybe none.
The world started to dim around the edges. His heart was beating slower. He could feel it. Each pulse weaker than the last. His fingers tingled. His lips were cold.
His thoughts slipped in and out like waves.
Memories.
Soft, strange things. Unwelcome.
His father, smiling as he watched them.
His stepmother, muttering to herself as she fixed Lily’s hair.
Basen, timid as ever, tried to strike a conversation with him.
Lily, energetic and lively, showing off the new moves she learned during swordsmanship practices.
He was falling now.
But there was no one to catch him.
No Father. No Violan. No siblings.
Only the water.
Only the blood.
Only the silence.
His chest rose once. Then again.
Then slower.
The water had gone still.
Almost calm.
Then—
Bang.
The door exploded inward with a blast of divine energy that shattered every spell woven into its frame.
“CALE!”
Cage’s voice shattered the silence like a bell in a tomb.
She rushed in, slipping on the wet tiles, nearly falling. Her eyes locked onto the crimson-stained water, the floating arms, the open eyes dimming by the second.
“No. No, no—”
She plunged her hands into the water, fingers scrabbling for a pulse, for life, for anything.
Her hands found the cuts.
Found the dagger.
She screamed.
It was raw. Animal.
She hauled his body up, heedless of her soaked robes, heedless of her shaking limbs. Blood smeared her hands, her chest, her face. She pressed her fingers to his neck. Nothing.
Then faintly.
So faintly.
A flutter.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she choked. “Don’t you—!”
She laid him flat. Started the spells.
Healing. Restoration. Stabilization.
Her hands glowed with divine light.
But it wasn’t enough.
The blood wouldn’t stop.
“HELP!” she screamed, her voice hoarse, throat torn. “SOMEONE—!”
Outside, the wards flared as Rosalyn arrived, hair wild, eyes blazing.
She took one look and paled. “Move!”
Together, they worked.
Cage’s divinity, Rosalyn’s magic. Layered spells, ancient rites. They stitched skin, healed veins, pushed blood back where it belonged.
The water turned brown, then black.
Cale didn’t move.
His heart didn’t respond.
Then—
A shudder.
A breath.
A violent, gasping inhale that arched his back from the tub.
He coughed once. Twice. Vomited water and blood.
Then collapsed again.
But his chest moved.
He was breathing.
Alive.
Barely.
Rosalyn fell back, hand over her mouth.
Cage shook as she cradled his face.
“You idiot,” she whispered, tears falling freely now. “You absolute, beautiful idiot. Don’t you dare leave me.”
She pressed her forehead to his.
His skin was cold.
But he was alive.
For now.
***
Choi Han couldn’t move as Rosalyn and Cage had tried their best saving Cale. Cage bumped into him too hard, she was mad at him, at everyone—he could understand that.
He thought he had grown numb from seeing all the blood after all these years of fighting against Arm, after watching countless allies fall and enemies die in pieces beneath his blade. He thought he had grown used to it.
But this was different.
This wasn’t a battlefield.
This wasn’t war.
This was Cale.
His supposed spouse that everyone had thought was the White Star, the leader of Arm. Only to be proven innocent two years later. When Cale was too broken and tired to fight back anymore.
And he was seeing the evidence of it.
Cale had just tried to commit suicide, and Choi Han had a hand in his despair.
“You will be unhappy by my side for the rest of your life.” Choi Han had once said to Cale after their wedding two years ago.
He had meant it as a warning.
A truth spoken in bitterness, in fear, in a moment of unbearable self-loathing. He had thought he was protecting Cale by saying it—by building a wall between them before either of them could get hurt.
He hadn't realized the wall became a cage.
One Cale was locked inside.
Choi Han didn’t blink as the memory replayed itself again and again in his head.
"You will be unhappy by my side for the rest of your life."
He hadn’t meant for it to be prophecy. But it had become one.
Cale had married him anyway, back then. Quietly. Without fanfare. With no resistance. Because maybe back then Cale already could tell that it would be futile, because the King himself had said so. Cale probably thought he could at least trust Choi Han despite their differences few years ago.
And what had Choi Han done with that trust?
He let doubt fester when the world turned against Cale.
He stood silent as rumors grew like weeds, choking out the truth.
He hadn't asked .
Even when Cale’s eyes grew duller by the day, when the sharp edge of his voice dulled into apathy, when he started refusing meals and never left his room—Choi Han hadn’t asked .
He had watched from the other side of a locked door.
He let the door stay locked.
Then he had started avoiding being at the manor all together.
Cage’s screams echoed in the background, but Choi Han barely registered them. His gaze stayed fixed on Cale’s pale body as Rosalyn worked with trembling hands and a clenched jaw.
Cale’s lips were blue. His fingers had turned ghostly. His blood had filled the tub.
Choi Han’s knees finally gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, unable to keep standing.
Why didn’t I go to him?
He thought of all the days Cale sat in silence at the dining table, untouched food in front of him, answering questions with nods and hums. How he never once asked for anything—not help, not company, not understanding.
And Choi Han had taken that silence as strength.
He always looked so composed. So stubbornly proud. Like always. I thought he was angry. Not...
Not unraveling.
He buried his face in his hands. His gloves were wet. He didn’t know if it was water or blood or both.
“Choi Han.”
Cage’s voice was hoarse. Broken. But it carried power that snapped something in him.
He looked up.
Cage stood by the edge of the tub, her robes soaked through, blood staining every inch of her. Her expression was one of barely leashed fury—fury and heartbreak.
She pointed a trembling finger at him.
“You don’t get to grieve yet ,” she said. “You didn’t see him. Not the way I did. You didn’t hear the way he laughed anymore. You didn’t even knock.”
Her voice cracked. “You just let him fade . You all did.”
He couldn’t argue.
Because she was right.
Rosalyn didn’t say anything, but she did flinch. She was still focused on Cale’s shallow breathing, her hands weaving stabilizing spells. The effort in her shoulders showed just how close they had been to losing him completely.
“I’m sorry,” Choi Han whispered.
The words felt useless. Inadequate.
Cage knelt beside Cale, brushing back the damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Her eyes were red, but she didn’t cry anymore. She was past tears.
“Sorry doesn’t bring people back,” she said quietly. “You should’ve been here. You should’ve seen it .”
Choi Han’s mouth opened, then closed.
He hadn’t. He hadn’t seen any of it. Because he hadn’t wanted to see.
Because it was easier to pretend Cale was the enemy. Was the person behind his own despair.
Was the stubborn person who can’t admit to guilt of his supposed crimes, even when he was the one breaking.
He reached out slowly, hesitantly, toward Cale’s unmoving hand.
But Cage slapped his hand away.
“Not now,” she said.
It was firm. Final.
So Choi Han sat there, fingers curled against his thighs, head bowed low.
He didn’t know how long he sat like that.
Eventually, Rosalyn finished the last of the spells. Her hands shook as she covered Cale’s arms with healing wraps, hiding the scars that would one day remain.
“He’s stable,” she said. “But he’ll be unconscious for a while. Days, maybe.”
“Will he live?” Cage asked.
Rosalyn didn’t answer right away.
But she nodded.
“Yes. He’ll live.”
Cage let out a long, trembling breath.
Choi Han looked at Cale again.
His face was peaceful now. Still too pale. Still too cold.
But alive.
Alive.
And Choi Han swore to himself, then and there, that this would never happen again.
He wouldn’t wait behind locked doors.
He wouldn’t look away.
Even if Cale hated him now. Hated the world for forsaking him without any evidence, without any proof.
Even if Cale never forgave him. Never forgave the world for blaming him all because he shared features with the White Star.
Choi Han would stay.
Because Cale deserves that, someone staying by him.
Chapter 4: Wheelsman
Summary:
the one sided og!ericale no one asked for :>
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Choi Han clenched his fists as he looked at the man calmly sitting in front of him.
Erich Wheelsman, now Marquis of the Northeast, bore little resemblance to the wide-eyed, slightly anxious young noble of the past. The war had aged him. The fall of the Northeast had hardened him. And reclaiming it had refined him into steel.
The same steel that now looked him dead in the eyes.
A man who had once laughed with Cale. Celebrated every little thing with him. Who had been Cale’s rock when his mother had died—Eric, who had stood up for Cale even when he was still widely reviled as a lazy, good-for-nothing drunkard.
And—most painfully—the only noble who had never once stopped believing in Cale Henituse's innocence.
“…Young Master Eric, what brings you to—”
“Divorce Cale.”
The words landed like a thunderclap. Not shouted. Not barked. Just spoken plainly, evenly.
Like a sword being unsheathed.
Choi Han froze. Not from the demand itself—he had known it would come, eventually—but from the clarity in Eric’s voice.
There was no rage.
No tremble.
Just resolve .
“Pardon?” Choi Han finally managed, mouth dry.
“I said,” Eric repeated, “divorce Cale. Officially. Publicly. Cleanly. You don’t deserve to be called his husband.”
His tone did not rise. It didn’t need to. The fury was in his restraint.
“I was there when the world turned its back on him for being trash,” Eric continued, eyes unflinching. “I was there when they denied him warmth, even support. I was by his side for years, Choi Han. Even when he wanted to pretend he had no one.”
Choi Han’s jaw clenched.
“I was there,” Eric said, voice cracking, “when he put a wall around himself so thick no one could reach him. When he forgot how to cry. When he stopped hoping for anything good. When he didn’t know what to do outside of the Henituse territory because his father was too overprotective to let him out, and the world had decided to ignore him.”
“And where were you?” he asked sharply, but not unkindly. “You were his husband.”
Choi Han looked away.
“I didn’t—”
“No, you didn’t,” Eric cut in. “You didn’t try to see him beyond the trash persona. You didn’t believe in him—not the way you should have . You let them break him, piece by piece, while wearing the ring you and the Royal Family had forced onto his hand.”
Choi Han’s fists trembled on his lap.
“Why?” he asked, quietly. “Why are you doing this now?”
Eric’s expression didn’t change. “Because he deserves to be free. He survived all of you. And because I made a promise to myself that if I ever had the power to do so, I would take him away from people who didn’t love him the way he deserved.”
Silence stretched long.
“…You love him,” Choi Han finally said, hoarse. “You’ve been in love with him all this time.”
Eric didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He said it like it was a truth that needed no fanfare.
“Yes,” he repeated. “I loved him when he pushed me away. When he laughed too loudly to cover his pain. When he refused to look anyone in the eye after his mother’s death. When he wore the title of trash like armor. I loved him when he didn’t love me back. And I will love him even if he never does.”
Choi Han didn’t know what to say to that.
Because it wasn’t a threat.
It was a vow.
“Even now?” he whispered.
Eric’s gaze did not waver. “Especially now.”
Choi Han opened his mouth, but no words came. The weight in his chest made it hard to breathe.
Because he realized—he couldn’t say he didn’t love Cale .
But he also couldn’t say he loved him the way Eric did .
And deep, deep down, beneath the obligations of royalty, of war, of guilt, he knew one thing:
He didn’t want to let Cale go.
Not yet.
Not to anyone.
Even if he had already lost the right.
“I will not forgive you,” Eric said, standing, adjusting his gloves with military precision. “Not now. Not in ten years. Not when he dies. Not when you do.”
Choi Han said nothing.
Eric turned toward the door, then paused, hand on the frame.
“When I rebuild the Northeast,” he said, “it will bear his name. Not yours. When the world remembers the Henituse heir, it will not be as your husband. It will be as my friend , and your shame .”
He opened the door.
“And when you divorce him,” he added, without looking back, “I’ll ask him if he wants to come home.”
Then he left.
And Choi Han remained seated, the cold silence wrapping around him like a noose, echoing with a truth he could no longer ignore.
That loving Cale wasn’t enough.
Not when he had already failed to protect him.
***
When Cale woke up after his suicide attempt, he did not speak.
Cage took it in stride, as if she had been preparing for this silence her entire life. She filled the air with idle chatter, her tone light but never dismissive, talking about everything and nothing all at once. The breeze. The state of the garden. The tea. How she thought Bud was growing out his hair again in an ugly way.
Cale didn’t respond. Not with words. But he never flinched from her. He didn’t turn away.
And that was more than enough for Cage.
Choi Han watched them from the doorway. Silent. Still. Unwelcome.
He watched how Cale relaxed in her presence—his shoulders not exactly at ease, but not tense either. How his eyes softened when she adjusted his blanket or pressed cool cloths to his forehead. How he didn’t flinch when she laughed.
But when Choi Han stepped in, when he so much as brushed his fingers along Cale’s wrist—
Cale flinched.
It was subtle. Barely there.
But Choi Han saw it.
And it broke something inside him.
He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He had no right to.
He simply sat at the edge of the room, as far away as Cale’s silence allowed, and stayed.
Day after day.
While Cale refused to look at him.
And Cage filled the space between them with her quiet, relentless love.
And for the first time, Choi Han asked himself not if he loved Cale—
—but if he truly deserved to.
***
“Cale.”
Choi Han’s heart hurt when he saw how Cale perked up, how his dull reddish-gray eyes lightened slightly as Eric visited him.
“Hyung-nim.” Cale’s voice was soft—had it ever been that soft?
Gentle. Fragile.
Like it hadn’t been used in days.
Like it had never been meant to carry burdens.
Eric stepped into the room, the scent of the northern wind clinging to him—snow, steel, and something faintly like home.
And Cale smiled.
It was small, barely there, but it was real. It wasn’t the forced, tired curl of the lips Choi Han had grown used to seeing. No. This was something quieter. Something that reached his eyes.
“Brought your favorites,” Eric said, lifting a basket in one hand. “Don’t ask where I found strawberries this time of year.”
Cale’s smile widened a sliver. “You probably threatened a merchant.”
Eric didn’t deny it.
Instead, he placed the basket on the side table, careful not to disturb the vials and wards, and turned to Cale with that same calm steadiness that had anchored him through so much.
“I missed you, you brat,” Eric said, crouching beside the bed.
And Cale—Cale laughed.
It was hoarse. It cracked halfway through. But it was a laugh, and Choi Han felt like it shattered something inside him.
Because that laugh had never been for him.
Not like this.
Cage grinned from her seat near the window, kicking her feet idly. “Told you he needed someone normal in his life.”
Choi Han lowered his eyes.
He felt like an outsider in his own home.
Cale glanced toward him, and for a moment, Choi Han dared to hope—but the light dimmed.
Like Cale had remembered something.
Like the warmth had boundaries now.
“…I’m tired,” Cale said quietly, not to Eric, but to the room.
To the world.
Eric only nodded. “Then sleep. I’ll stay.”
Cale didn’t protest.
He didn’t even glance at Choi Han again.
He leaned back into the pillows, letting Eric gently adjust the blanket over his shoulders. There was a tenderness there—an ease born from years of knowing how to care for someone who never asked for it.
Eric didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need permission.
He just stayed.
Cage hummed under her breath, casting a small spell to dim the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
Only Choi Han remained frozen.
Because he’d seen wars. He’d fought monsters.
But he had no weapon for this.
No sword to raise.
No armor to hide behind.
Just silence.
And the realization that maybe—just maybe—Cale didn’t need a knight.
Maybe he never had.
Maybe he just needed someone who saw him before the titles.
Before the pain.
Before the ring on his finger that weighed heavier than any chain.
And Choi Han…
Choi Han had never asked Cale if he was happy.
Only if he was willing.
And now, as Eric brushed a strand of hair from Cale’s forehead with all the care of a man holding a miracle—Choi Han finally understood.
He was too late.
Too late to reach a heart he had helped bury.
Too late to deserve the title of being Cale Henituse’s husband.
Too late.
And so he stayed.
Rooted in place.
As the man he had married slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
Not because of him.
But in spite of him.
Chapter Text
Choi Han tried getting along with Cale, even with Eric Wheelsman in the picture now.
He wanted to. He really did.
He wanted to start over.
Now that everything had been cleared up—now that the misunderstandings had been peeled away like old scars—he wanted to rebuild something, anything, with the man he had married.
The man he had failed.
But Cale never once met his gaze.
Not when he entered the room. Not when he brought warm soup or fresh blankets. Not even when he quietly said, “I’m sorry.” Even though Choi Han knew it would fix nothing.
Cale responded to everyone else. He smiled at Cage, even letting her properly take care of him. He even joked with Eric, in his own dry, weary way.
But to Choi Han?
Silence.
Or worse—polite indifference.
It burned more than rage ever could.
“Hyung-nim, you didn’t have to bring that,” Cale murmured one afternoon as Eric returned with yet another stack of paperwork and an entire pot of soup from the Northeast.
“I didn’t,” Eric said, unbothered. “But I wanted to.”
Cale let him place the papers on the desk near the bed, accepted the soup, and even allowed Eric to help fix his pillow.
Choi Han, standing just inside the door, watched it all.
He tried to speak. “Cale, I—”
But Cale didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t even turn his head.
As though he hadn’t heard him.
As though Choi Han was part of the furniture.
It was then that the realization hit him—not with a bang, but with a dull, sinking sort of grief:
Cale was letting Eric in.
But not him.
Not anymore.
And maybe never again.
***
The attack came days later.
Cale had just begun walking again, his strength barely enough to reach the balcony outside his room. The winter wind was cold but not biting, and he stood there alone, wrapped in a thick blanket.
Choi Han saw him from the hallway window and hesitated.
He shouldn’t approach.
He knew that.
But he did anyway.
Quiet steps. Careful presence.
“Cale.”
The redhead’s shoulders tensed but didn’t turn.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Choi Han said, voice softer than before. “The wind’s sharp today.”
Still, Cale didn’t answer.
So Choi Han stood beside him in silence.
For a moment, it felt almost like before. Before the marriage. Before the silence. Before Cale had stood on a rooftop and tried to leave the world behind.
Before Choi Han had realized how deep the wound he left truly was.
“Do… Do you want to walk around outside the manor?” Choi Han asked.
Cale didn’t respond.
Not immediately.
Not with words.
He simply exhaled—a long, quiet breath that ghosted into the air like smoke, fragile and fleeting. His reddish-gray eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, on the misty line where sky met frozen earth.
“Fine.” he murmured finally. Not cruel. Just… tired.
Choi Han nodded, startled by the small concession.
He moved slowly, offering his arm, but Cale ignored it and walked past him, blanket still around his shoulders like a cloak. Choi Han followed at a respectful distance.
They walked in silence. Through the frost-kissed garden where dead vines curled around marble pillars, past frozen fountains and snow-covered hedges that hadn’t been trimmed since autumn. The world was quiet, hushed, holding its breath as if not to disturb the brittle peace between them.
Choi Han wanted to say something.
Anything.
But everything felt wrong. Too sharp or too soft. Too late.
So he said nothing at all.
Even as they were walking by the market, Choi Han noticed all the untrusting gaze the common people give Cale, even the disgust they gave him. As they walk down the line, they avoid them; most of all, they avoid Cale.
Choi Han wished that Alberu would hurry up and clean Cale’s name before it’s too late.
***
A bell rang in the distance.
The scent of roasted chestnuts lingered faintly in the cold air, but no one offered them as they passed.
Cale’s steps were slow but steady, head high despite the unmistakable tension in his spine. His blanket dragged slightly behind him, the hem picking up frost.
Choi Han kept pace just a little behind, his eyes flicking to the passersby—merchants, townsfolk, guards—all watching Cale with narrowed eyes and thin-lipped suspicion. Their stares were like daggers: cold, pointed, and full of quiet accusations.
Cale ignored it all.
He always had.
It was a skill born of survival.
But Choi Han felt it—every whisper, every glance—as though they were thorns piercing his own skin. And yet Cale didn’t flinch, didn’t pause. Not when a child was pulled away from him like he carried plague. Not when a woman spat at the ground after he passed.
Not when someone muttered, “Murderer.”
Choi Han turned sharply, eyes searching for the speaker, but the crowd had already swallowed them up.
Cale kept walking.
Right up until he stopped.
Choi Han saw the hesitation—brief, subtle.
Then he saw the man.
Middle-aged, nondescript. Unremarkable.
Too unremarkable.
He stood by a cart of wilting produce, arms crossed, posture stiff with barely concealed hatred. And when Cale stepped past him, he moved.
It was too fast.
Too sudden.
Too practiced.
Choi Han’s warning shout tore through the cold air just as the man lunged.
Steel gleamed.
The knife buried itself in Cale’s side with a sickening sound.
“You ruined my family!”
The words came out in a broken scream, but Choi Han didn’t hear them. All he saw was Cale stumbling back, blanket falling, his hand catching the wound as blood bloomed across white linen.
A soldier tackled the assailant too late.
Choi Han was already at Cale’s side.
“Cale—!”
Cale slumped, weight leaning against Choi Han for the first time in months. His face was pale, lips trembling, and eyes dazed.
He looked smaller than he had any right to.
He looked tired .
Choi Han pressed a hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the red only spilled faster, staining both of them.
“Don’t talk,” Choi Han said, panic rising. “I’ll get help. We’ll get you—”
Cale laughed.
A short, breathless thing.
He looked up at Choi Han, those dull eyes sharper than they’d been in weeks.
“I told you,” he whispered, blood staining his lips, “I should’ve stayed inside.”
Then he passed out.
The world erupted around them.
Guards screamed. The crowd scattered. Cage came running from the manor gates. Someone yelled for a healer. Eric’s voice cracked with fury as he shoved his way through.
But Choi Han heard none of it.
He just held Cale close, feeling the warmth of blood seep into his chest.
And he prayed—
For the first time in a long time—
That he hadn’t just lost the one thing he was still trying to fix.
***
The infirmary was quiet in that strange way buildings got when people were trying not to panic.
Healers moved with urgency but spoke in whispers. Footsteps were quick but muted. The only real sound was the rasp of cloth being soaked red, and the steady, deliberate beat of someone refusing to die.
Cale lay on the narrow bed in the center of it all, pale as the snow still melting on his blanket. His shirt had been cut away. Bandages crisscrossed his side. Blood still seeped through, though slower now, controlled by magic and medicine alike.
Choi Han sat beside him.
Still. Rigid. Hands stained in a shade of red that no soap could wash away.
He hadn’t left since they brought Cale in.
Not when Cage tried to pull him back.
Not when Eric’s voice cracked with fury outside the door.
Not even when the head healer asked him to step away so they could work.
He had just… stared.
Unmoving.
As though Cale would vanish the second he blinked.
And maybe, on some level, he believed he would.
Now, the room had mostly emptied. The emergency had passed. Cale’s breathing, shallow though it was, had steadied. A soft rise and fall beneath clean linens.
But he hadn’t woken.
Not once.
Choi Han’s hand hovered near the bed. Not touching—he didn’t dare. He had no right. Not anymore.
Still, his voice broke the quiet.
“Cale.”
Soft. Careful. Almost reverent.
No response.
Of course not.
He swallowed.
“You shouldn’t have gotten hurt,” he murmured. “You were just walking. Just breathing.”
His voice shook. He clenched his jaw.
“I should’ve seen it faster. I should’ve moved faster. I should’ve—”
He cut himself off. What was the point?
Cale wouldn’t hear it. And even if he did… would he care?
Choi Han bowed his head, one hand curling into a fist on his lap. The knuckles were white.
“I didn’t protect you.”
Not in the manor. Not from the rumors. Not from the people outside who spat his name like a curse.
“I keep saying I’m sorry, but it’s not enough. I know that. I don’t want forgiveness. I just…”
His voice cracked then, quiet and sharp.
“I just want you to live.”
There was a rustle of fabric.
Cale didn’t wake.
But his hand twitched. Just once. A small, involuntary movement.
Choi Han froze.
Then—very gently—he reached forward and brushed a piece of hair from Cale’s forehead. His fingers trembled.
“I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Even if you never speak to me again. Even if you hate me. I’ll stay right here.”
His eyes were dry, but he looked hollow.
“Because I meant it, when I said I loved you. I still do.”
The only reply was the soft, rhythmic breath of someone too exhausted to argue.
Choi Han stayed like that, hunched over the bedside, through the night.
Through the storm that followed.
Through the long, slow crawl of healing that had nothing to do with flesh.
And everything to do with trust that might never return.
Chapter 6: Refusal.
Summary:
The Kingdom turned its back on him.
Cale bleeds in silence, his name dragging through the mud as the crown cements a lie for the sake of peace. The King refuses to revoke his statement. The world will rest easier with a traitor to hate—even if he’s the one who done nothing wrong.
The Royal Family needs a scapegoat.
They chose him.
They chose him, at the expense of his own peace.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“What do you mean the King refused!?”
Choi Han’s voice came out low, tight, and shaking with restrained fury. His hands curled into fists at his sides. From the corner of the room, the rhythmic shhhk, shhhk of Ron and Beacrox cleaning their daggers added a chilling undertone to the silence that followed.
They’d all been waiting.
Waiting days —through restless nights in the infirmary, through the suffocating quiet of Cale’s unconscious breathing—for word that the Royal Family would do something .
Something to make it right.
Something to fix the mess they created.
But all Crown Prince Alberu sent was a formal missive.
The King would not redact his statement.
The people needed peace of mind.
A scapegoat had already been chosen .
Cale.
Eric Wheelsman had stormed into the estate not ten minutes after hearing the news, so angry he knocked over a vase in his rush. He had shouted himself hoarse demanding to speak to someone— anyone —in power. His voice still echoed faintly through the halls.
No one answered him.
In the war room, Choi Han stood frozen in place, as though movement might make this real.
Ron’s voice, dry and unhurried, broke the silence.
“Hmph. So the King thinks comfort is more valuable than truth.”
Beacrox didn’t look up from the blade he was polishing. “Cowards always do.”
Choi Han turned to face them, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “Cale nearly died. And they think the rumors help the people sleep better at night?”
Ron met his gaze calmly. “Noble sacrifices are always easier when the noble in question isn’t one of theirs .”
Choi Han inhaled sharply, as if he’d been struck.
It wasn’t just betrayal. It was strategy . Cold, calculated abandonment.
“Does Cale know?” he asked.
“No,” came the curt answer from Rosalyn, who had just stepped in. She was wearing robes still dusted with ash and frost from her recent mission, hair tied up and eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t woken yet. But when he does…”
She didn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
Everyone knew what would happen when Cale woke and learned that the world still thought him a traitor—and that nothing had been done to fix it.
Choi Han lowered himself into the nearest chair, spine hunched, like he could feel the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders.
“I won’t let this stand.”
His voice was quiet.
Dangerously so.
Ron chuckled lightly. “And what will you do, punk? Slay a king?”
Choi Han didn’t flinch. He looked at the dagger in Ron’s hands, then at the mark on Beacrox’s apron—another shirt stained from training. Then finally, at the pale, empty chair that always sat beside Cale’s.
“I’ll protect him.”
He stood again, straighter this time.
“From the world. From the palace. From everyone .”
Beacrox raised an eyebrow. “Even from himself?”
Choi Han’s face twisted—pained and guilt-ridden. “Especially from himself.”
The room fell silent again.
The kind of silence before storms.
And in the room just down the hall, Cale Henituse slept beneath clean linens, unaware that the war he had bled for was quietly turning against him.
***
Cale had heard.
Not from Choi Han.
Not from Cage.
Not even from Alberu.
He heard it from the maids.
The ones who whispered when they thought he was too unconscious to hear.
The ones who believed the rumors and treated him like a ticking bomb wrapped in silk sheets.
The ones who brought his food late, their eyes cold and distant.
The ones who stripped his linens in silence, muttering beneath their breath with every pass of the cloth.
As if scrubbing the filth of him away would make the room clean again.
“He should have just died.”
“After starting a war like a fool…”
“Does the Crown Prince think we’re fools?”
“Keeping him alive only makes it worse for everyone.”
The first time he heard it, Cale had been too weak to move.
The second time, he’d bitten his tongue so hard it bled.
By the third, he simply lay there.
Still.
Staring at the ceiling.
Letting it all sink in.
The King knew the truth of his innocence had refused.
The statement stood.
The people had their peace.
And he—
Cale Henituse, the trash who never had done any crimes towards the Crown, the people of the Kingdom—
Was now the villain they needed.
He couldn’t even bring himself to laugh.
His chest still hurt—every breath like dragging his lungs through shards of glass—but it wasn’t from the injuries anymore.
It was from knowing .
They would rather sleep peacefully with a lie than face the truth that he had never done anything, that he would never do such a stupid thing that ended his entire family.
He closed his eyes.
Alberu… hadn’t told him directly. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was strategy. Maybe it was both. But that silence spoke volumes.
And Choi Han. That idiot. That stubborn, earnest idiot. Cale could practically feel his rage pulsing through the walls.
He didn’t want that.
Didn’t want war for his sake.
Didn’t want blades raised in his name.
He was tired.
Tired of being used by the people that never once tried to understand him.
Tired of always being the one who had done nothing but breathe and be branded the monster for it.
Cale’s hand slid to his side, feeling the bandages still wrapped tight across his ribs. He winced.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if he hadn’t woken up at all.
But that wasn’t an option, was it?
Because even now, someone had to take the blame .
And it was always him.
Even when it shouldn’t be.
He opened his eyes to the ceiling and let out a breath that sounded too much like defeat.
“…Damn it,” he whispered.
And outside his door, the storm waited.
Cale looked out the window, then perhaps.. It was time for the villain to exit the scene the way people had wanted.
***
“Young Master-nim.”
After four years, the Molans stood before him again.
Ron, ever composed, his aged features unreadable as always. Beacrox, looming at his side, apron bloodied from the kitchen—though whether the blood belonged to meat or man, no one ever asked.
They had left him.
Walked away after Choi Han beat him to the ground all those years ago, when Cale was still figuring out what it meant to survive in this world and still thought keeping others at arm’s length would protect them all.
They hadn’t said goodbye.
He hadn’t asked them to stay.
Now, after four years, they were back.
And he didn’t know what they wanted from him.
“Ron,” Cale rasped. His voice was a stranger to him, brittle and worn down by days of disuse and weeks of betrayal. He didn’t bother sitting up. The room still spun if he tried too fast. “What are you doing here?”
Ron’s lips curved faintly—more of a shadow of a smile than the real thing. “It seems the world has mistaken our Young Master for something he is not.”
Beacrox crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “A traitor.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“People only see what they’re told to see,” Cale said finally, voice flat. “The palace told them I was dangerous. That’s enough.”
“Are you angry?” Ron asked.
Cale blinked slowly, as if the question were foreign. “No.”
Another lie.
One he didn’t even try to believe.
He wasn’t angry.
He was tired.
He was so tired.
“I suppose you’ve come to what… Serve me again?” Cale murmured, turning his head to the window. The sky beyond was pale. Cloudless. Too bright for a day like this.
Ron inclined his head. “If our Young Master will have us.”
Cale didn’t respond at first.
The silence stretched long—uncomfortable even for men like Ron and Beacrox, who’d spent lifetimes moving through the shadows.
He stared out the window, lips parted but unmoving. The sunlight filtering in seemed distant, like it belonged to another world—one that hadn’t turned its back on him.
He thought of the maids’ whispers.
Of the cold food.
He thought of the aching weight in his chest that wouldn’t ease no matter how many times he told himself he didn’t care.
Then finally, he said—
“…Why now?”
Ron didn’t blink. “Because it is now that you need us.”
Cale scoffed, a quiet, bitter sound. “That’s a funny way of saying you’ve come to collect the corpse.”
Beacrox’s eyes darkened. “If you were dead, Father and I would’ve burned this kingdom down.”
That earned a flicker of something in Cale’s expression—surprise, maybe. Pain.
“I’m not dead,” he whispered. “Unfortunately.”
Ron took a step forward, his presence quiet but solid. Familiar in the way an old scar was familiar.
“Four years ago,” he said softly, “we left because if we stayed for too long, you would be caught up with our battle with Arm, and we didn’t want that, we wanted you and the Henituse Family to be safe.”
Cale’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But we never stopped watching. Never stopped waiting.”
Beacrox stepped forward too, his tone gruff but firm. “You were wrong, you know. Keeping people away didn’t protect anyone. Least of all you.”
Cale closed his eyes.
He knew that.
He’d known it every time he’d looked at Choi Han’s wounded expression. Every time he caught Cage peeking by the crack of his door, pretending to just check on him while she trembled with rage and fear.
He knew it when the servants around the manor continued to disrespect him.
“…It’s too late,” Cale said, softer than before. “The Kingdom’s already made up its mind.”
“And since when,” Ron murmured, “has that ever stopped you?”
Cale didn’t have an answer.
Because once, it hadn’t.
Once, he had stood tall with the bravado of a trash, looking down on those that had inconvenienced him, all because he wanted to secure Basen’s position as the heir.
But that Cale—
That version of himself—
Had burned out somewhere between the waiting for his innocence to be known, to be free, to be finally with his family.
He was ash now.
Scattered. Fragile.
“If I take you back,” Cale said slowly, “there won’t be redemption. Not for me. I’m not going to fix this. I don’t want to.”
Ron gave him a long, unreadable look.
“Good,” the old assassin said. “Redemption is for fools who believe they need it.”
Beacrox grunted in agreement. “We’re not here to help you fix your name. We’re here to help you survive.”
“And if I don’t want to survive?” Cale asked quietly.
“Then we’ll make sure you don’t go alone,” Ron answered, his voice like the edge of a blade sheathed in silk.
Cale laughed.
It was small and broken and almost sounded like a sob, but it was real.
“…Idiots,” he muttered.
Beacrox tilted his head. “That a yes?”
Cale opened his eyes. Looked at them both.
Then nodded once, slow and exhausted.
“Yes.”
And just like that, Cale felt that he could slowly but surely let go of this feeling.
The feeling of holding on staying alive.
Chapter 7: Softly
Summary:
Eric loves Cale with his whole heart.
And it's fine even if the object of his love does not return it.
Because Eric would make sure that Cale would have someone stand beside him that deserves Cale, flaws and all.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eric held Cale in his arms.
“I remember doing this when we were children,” Eric softly said as he played with Cale’s red hair.
Cale didn’t answer.
His head rested against Eric’s shoulder, unnaturally still, breath faint against the nobleman’s collar. It wasn’t the first time Eric had held him like this—cradled him through nightmares, fevers, reckless exhaustion—but it felt different now. He had grown heavier. Not in weight, but in weariness.
“I used to think you hated being touched,” Eric murmured, combing his fingers gently through tangled strands. “You’d swat me away every time I tried. Said it tickled.”
Cale gave a breath of amusement. Barely.
“I didn’t hate it,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just didn’t know how to… take it. Not after Mom…”
Eric smiled, slow and sad.
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a while.
The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that existed only after everything else had broken. A fire crackled low in the hearth. Outside the windows, dusk clung to the edges of the sky, bleeding into twilight.
Eric shifted, holding Cale a little tighter, his tone still soft. “I thought I lost you.”
Cale blinked slowly. “You did.”
Eric’s throat worked around the lump rising there. “Then let me find you again.”
A pause. Cale’s fingers twitched against Eric’s sleeve.
“I don’t know if there’s anything left to find,” he said. “I’m tired, Eric. I’ve been tired for a long time.”
“I know,” Eric whispered. “That’s why I’ll stay. Until you’re ready to sleep without thinking it’s the last time.”
Cale didn’t speak again.
But he didn’t pull away, either.
And that, for now, was enough.
“I love you, you know.” Eric murmured as he nuzzled onto Cale’s hair.
“I know.”
“It’s fine if you don’t love me back.”
“I know.”
“But I want you to be at peace, Cale.”
Cale’s breath hitched, barely perceptible. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t have it in him. But something inside him trembled—quietly, like a cracked glass finally beginning to split.
Peace.
It sounded so far away. So impossible.
But Eric said it like it wasn’t.
Like it could be.
“I don’t know what that means anymore,” Cale said, voice nearly lost against Eric’s coat. “Peace. I didn’t do anything, why did it have to be me. I didn’t do anything. I love my family.”
“I know,” Eric said again, and his voice didn’t waver.
“I know,” Eric said again, and his voice didn’t waver.
He didn’t say it wasn’t fair . Didn’t offer hollow comforts or righteous fury on Cale’s behalf. He simply held him—closer now, like Cale might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
Because maybe he would.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Eric whispered. “Not to them. Not to the world. Not even to me.”
Cale exhaled shakily.
A shallow, ragged sound.
“But they all look at me like I’m a monster. Like I’m a danger waiting to happen.”
“You’re not.”
“But I could be.” Cale’s lips twisted faintly, bitter. “You’ve seen it, Eric. You’ve seen what I can do when I was a trash. When it’s too much. When I’m too much.”
“You were never too much for me.”
Cale closed his eyes.
A long time ago, that might’ve broken him—hearing those words, being believed so easily. Now, it just hurt. Deeply, quietly. In a way he wasn’t sure would ever heal.
“…They said I betrayed them.” The words came out numb. “They said I lied. That I was dangerous.”
Eric didn’t respond immediately. He ran his fingers through Cale’s hair again, slower this time.
“I don’t care what they said. I care what you say.”
Silence.
“I didn’t betray them,” Cale whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“I know.”
“I was just trying to keep my family safe.”
“I know.”
Cale’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to lose anyone else.”
Eric pressed his lips to Cale’s temple—gentle, grounding. “Then let me be someone you don’t have to lose.”
Cale didn’t answer.
But his hand, cold and trembling, reached out slowly and fisted in the fabric of Eric’s coat.
Tight. Like a child clinging to a lifeline.
Like a boy who had lost everything once, and was afraid to hope again.
And Eric held him, like he always had.
Like he always would.
Even if it broke him.
Even if Cale never looked at him the same way.
Even if all he ever got in return was silence and scars and this quiet, empty grief.
Because loving Cale Henituse had never been easy.
But Eric had never needed it to be.
***
Eric stared passively at Choi Han.
The firelight behind him flickered across his face, casting shadows that made him look far older than he was—tired in a way that couldn’t be undone by rest alone.
“Look what you’ve done,” Eric said, voice low but sharp. “What this kingdom has done.”
His hands, still tangled gently in Cale’s hair, trembled.
“Cale didn’t deserve this.”
Choi Han didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His sword hung at his side, untouched. His eyes were wide, stricken—not with guilt alone, but something deeper. Horror. Realization. Grief.
“He hasn’t done anything wrong.” Eric’s voice cracked like ice. “And you— all of you —turned on him the moment it was easier to be afraid than to understand.”
“The evidence–”
“Anyone could have the same features as Cale.” He said, “It could have been anyone, hell it could have been Mage Rosalyn, she could use mana and could disguise herself, so why Cale.”
Exactly. Why Cale…
Choi Han doesn’t have any answer.
Eric scoffed and turned his heel to leave with Cale still asleep in his arms, “What do I expect from the Dog of the Crown.”
***
The hallway was long, silent, echoing beneath Eric’s steps. He moved slowly, not out of caution, but out of necessity. Every step away from Choi Han felt heavier, as if the castle itself was trying to pull him back, demanding a confrontation he wasn’t yet ready for.
Cale remained limp in his arms. A quiet, shallow breath was the only sign that he was still here, still holding on, just asleep. Eric glanced down at him.
Once, this man had been his light.
Once, Cale had been the reason he’d laughed in empty ballrooms, had stayed grounded when life tried to drag him into political chaos as he grew older.
Now?
Now Cale was the broken heart of a kingdom too blind to see the treasure they’d shattered.
Eric took him back to the east wing, tucked deep in the estate, away from prying eyes and ears. He laid Cale on the bed like one might lay a relic—carefully, reverently, afraid to disturb something sacred.
He pulled off his gloves, setting them aside. He dipped a cloth into a basin of warm water and began to gently wipe Cale’s face, brushing away the sweat—a physical remnant of a war waged in silence.
"You’re safe here," Eric whispered, unsure if Cale could hear him. "No one will hurt you again. Not while I still draw breath."
He finished his task in silence, placing the cloth aside. Then he sat, pulling a chair close to the bed, never taking his eyes off the man he loved.
He thought of the first time he’d seen Cale—back when they were children, before the title of ‘trash’ had clung to him like a curse. Cale playing by the garden, hair fiery against the sky, a boy who smiled like the world belonged to him, and maybe it did, and he just never knew.
And maybe he did.
Maybe he hadn’t.
He’d only ever wanted to protect.
Eric felt a dull ache twist in his chest.
Where had it all gone wrong?
When had the world stopped looking at Cale as a person and started seeing a threat?
He didn’t know.
He only knew this: if Cale was still willing to breathe, then Eric would make sure he had something to breathe for.
Even if that meant standing against the kingdom.
Even if it meant standing alone.
Eric reached out and took Cale’s hand in his own, wrapping their fingers together.
"Rest," he said softly. "Just rest. I’ll be here when you wake."
And he would.
For as long as Cale needed.
Even if it took forever.
Even if he never opened his eyes again.
Because loving Cale Henituse had never been easy.
But it had always been worth it.
Chapter 8: Rain.
Summary:
Cale never liked the rain, not since he was eight and mourning for the first loss in his life.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Cale hates the rain.
Just as much as he hates fire.
It reminded him of when the Henituse Territory had fallen during the first wave of war.
It reminded him of when he lost his entire family.
The flames had come first—unrelenting, violent.
The rain had come later—too late.
Rain hadn’t saved anyone.
It had only smothered the ashes.
He didn’t remember screaming that day.
He remembered silence.
Thick, choking silence.
And the rain pounding over charred wood and crumpled bodies.
He had stood there, barefoot in the mud, rain in his eyes, blood on his hands, and realized that even the sky couldn’t wash it all away.
Not then.
Not now.
***
He could finally leave the room again.
No one stopped him this time.
No one tried to.
He had walked out with quiet, stiff steps. The world beyond the walls was too big, too sharp, and far too loud in its silence.
But he went anyway.
The painkillers were still working, barely. He felt them buzzing faintly in his bloodstream like bees lost in a fog.
The garden was empty.
Good.
Everyone had left him alone—as always.
Cage wasn’t here.
She had been summoned for healing.
Cale didn’t ask where.
Ron and Beacrox had been deployed.
War information. Border skirmishes. He didn’t care.
So it was just him now.
He breathed in the scent of wet earth, the subtle bite of petrichor rising from the stones. It should’ve been refreshing. It wasn’t.
At the corner of his eyes, he saw a large willow tree.
Its branches drooped low like they were tired of holding themselves up. Like him.
He moved toward it slowly, the soles of his shoes squelching in the damp grass. He didn’t mind. He preferred the discomfort. It reminded him he still existed.
The branches welcomed him in their quiet way—shielding, weeping.
He crouched beneath the tree, pulling his knees to his chest. The rain tapped gently against the leaves overhead, like cautious fingers.
Cale exhaled.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Maybe for someone to call him back inside.
Maybe for someone to prove he hadn’t been left behind again.
But no one came.
***
It started raining harder.
The sound of it blurred the edges of the world, turning everything soft and distant.
His clothes were damp, his hair dripping, but he didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t care.
He let the cold seep in.
He let the memory bleed out.
“I really hate this weather,” he murmured, voice rough and unsteady.
There was no one to hear it.
***
Footsteps approached from somewhere to his left, splashing lightly against the puddles. He didn’t react at first. He was used to people ignoring him, used to being overlooked unless someone needed something from him.
But these steps were slow. Cautious. Almost… gentle.
A moment later, a figure knelt beside him, just outside the curtain of willow branches.
“…You’re going to catch a cold,” a voice said softly.
Cale blinked.
It was Choi Han.
“What’s the commander doing here?” Cale asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at a war council or something? Did the king ask you to look after me, the traitor, again?”
Choi Han didn’t flinch. Not at the biting tone, not at the word traitor .
He simply settled into the wet grass beside Cale with the kind of quiet, unshakable patience that had come to define him.
“I came because I wanted to,” Choi Han said after a pause, his voice low. Steady.
Cale scoffed under his breath. “What, you missed babysitting me?”
Choi Han didn’t answer right away.
Rain continued to drum against the branches overhead, soft and insistent. It soaked through their clothes and pooled in the grass around them, but neither moved to seek shelter.
“I want to be with you.”
“Ha.” Cale let out a disbelieving sound, “I find that hard to believe, Lord Choi.”
“You’re my spouse.”
“What a flowery way to say you’re my warden.”
“I’m not..”
“Yeah, because you haven’t been here for two years, like after we got married.”
There was a silence between them, just as there was a distance between them. Cale was staring at the swaying leaves of the willow tree as the wind that accompanies the rain does so.
“I hate you.” Cale broke the silence.
“I know.” Choi Han said.
“I hate this kingdom.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.” He said again.
“I know.”
Cale hated him so much he couldn’t breathe around him. Couldn’t think straight. Not when the man had the audacity to sit next to him like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn't gone up in flames and left Cale behind in the ash.
Rainwater trickled down his face, blending with the quiet wetness that clung to the corners of his eyes. He couldn't tell if he was crying. Maybe he had been for a while. Maybe he hadn't stopped.
“You should have asked Ron and Beacrox.”
“I know.”
“All of you thought I was the leader of Arm.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your sorry won’t bring back the two years I spent being locked up in this place.” He gritted out. “It won’t bring back the freedom I had. It won’t even stop the hatred of the people towards me because the King is a fucking coward.”
“We are trying.”
“Then stop trying.”
Cale was exhausted. What good would it do when his name was cleared? His family were all dead. He had nothing. He just wants to die at this point.
Choi Han didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t offer some pathetic comfort like “you’re not alone” or “we’ll get through this.”
Because maybe he knew.
Maybe even he had finally realized—
That Cale Henituse had been broken beyond repair.
“You should go,” Cale muttered. His voice was barely a whisper now, worn down and fraying at the edges. “You’ve done your duty. You sat here. You listened. Congratulations.”
“Cale…”
He flinched.
His name. Spoken like it still meant something. Spoken like it wasn’t soiled and spat on and torn from court records.
“I said go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
Cale laughed. A dry, bitter sound.
It was ugly. Unbelieving. Cruel.
“Love?” He sneered. “Is that what you call it? Abandonment? Silence? Watching me rot for two years in this cell called a manor while my name was dragged through shit? While everyone whispered that I’d turned traitor? While people spat when they heard my name in the market?”
“I didn’t believe it,” Choi Han said quietly. “Not for a second.”
“Then why didn’t you do anything?” Cale hissed, turning to face him now, his voice rising with every syllable. “You could have said something. You could have fought. But you didn’t. You stood by and watched them look at me like a monster!”
Rainwater dripped from his bangs, from his jaw, mingling with the salt that burned behind his eyes.
“I was under orders—”
“Oh, fuck your orders, Choi Han!”
It burst from his chest, raw and ragged.
“You’re not some damn puppet! You’re the Sword of the Kingdom, aren’t you? The war hero? But you couldn’t lift a single fucking finger for me.”
Choi Han didn’t respond.
He looked down, rain slicking his hair to his face, his mouth pressed into a thin, pale line.
Cale hated him for that silence, too.
He hated everything.
“You let me rot,” he spat. “And now you sit here—like this is still your right.”
“It wasn’t my right,” Choi Han said hoarsely. “It was my failure.”
A beat of silence. Then another.
And suddenly Cale felt like all the fight had been drained out of him, like the anger was just a mask stretched too thin over old, bleeding wounds.
He curled in on himself beneath the willow tree, arms wrapped tight around his knees.
“I used to dream about them,” he whispered. “Mother. Father. Basen. Lily. Everyone. I used to think maybe they got out. That maybe they were just missing. That maybe—maybe someone lied.”
The wind howled in the distance, and the rain kept falling.
“But they didn’t lie,” he continued. “They’re all dead. All of them. Do you know what it’s like to hear that your little sister was buried beneath a collapsed corridor? That her body was too charred to identify except by the necklace she wore? That your father was shielding both his wife and son, and when they found them, they were barely recognizable?”
His voice broke. A low, strangled sound.
Choi Han shut his eyes.
“I survived,” Cale said, “and I wish I hadn’t.”
He had screamed for them. Dug through ash with blistered hands. Held bodies that barely looked human anymore. Waited for someone—anyone—to tell him it had been a mistake.
But no one came.
Not then.
Not now.
“You didn’t come,” he murmured. “No one did.”
Choi Han was trembling.
He hadn’t said a word since that confession.
Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe there were no words heavy enough to carry that kind of grief.
Cale tilted his head back and let the rain fall freely against his face.
Let it sting.
Let it wash nothing clean.
“It always rains,” he whispered. “Whenever I lose everything.”
***
They stayed there for hours.
Neither of them moved.
Eventually, Choi Han said, so quietly it was almost lost beneath the sound of rain, “I should have asked Ron and Beacrox the moment accusations started.”
“You think?”
“I should have known. I should’ve known that even if you had the reputation of a trash, the only people you had ever terrorized were those that made trouble for the county. I should’ve fought the king himself if I had to.”
“It’s too late now,” Cale said numbly.
“I know.”
“You can’t fix this.”
“I know.”
“They’re still dead.”
“I know.”
And still, Choi Han sat beside him. Not to fix him. Not to forgive himself. Not even to be forgiven.
But simply to witness.
To not turn away from the ruin he had helped create.
And that—that almost hurt more than the betrayal.
Because Cale didn’t want kindness anymore. Not if it was going to come now, when it was useless.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he said, the words barely audible. “I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to be this person. I’m tired.”
He hadn’t said it before. Not aloud.
Not even to himself.
But it was the truth.
The ugly, bone-deep truth.
“You don’t have to be,” Choi Han said.
Cale scoffed. “It’s too late for that too.”
He was the traitor. The scapegoat. The reminder of a war that had almost broken the kingdom. Even if his name was cleared, the stain would remain.
“I have nothing left,” he said.
“You have me.”
Cale turned to him slowly. His expression unreadable. “Do I?”
Choi Han met his gaze.
“Yes.”
***
Later, after the rain had softened to a drizzle, after the sun tried feebly to peek through the clouds and failed, Cale stood.
His legs were stiff, his bones aching. He swayed slightly, then steadied.
“I’m going inside.”
Choi Han rose too. “I’ll walk you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
Cale didn’t stop him.
He was tired of fighting shadows. Tired of carrying a weight no one saw.
The walk back to the estate was quiet.
Not peaceful—never that.
But quieter.
When they reached the door, Cale paused.
He didn’t look at Choi Han. Not really. But he said, quietly, “Don’t follow me inside.”
Choi Han nodded.
“I’ll be here.”
And Cale went in.
Alone.
As always.
***
The manor was dark. The hallway still smelled faintly of lavender and firewood.
He walked slowly through it, trailing his fingers along the walls.
It wasn’t home.
Nothing was, anymore.
He passed by many rooms that he was never allowed to. This manor had been his prison for two years. The people that work here are all his wardens, his probable executioners when he breathed wrong.
His own room was at the end of the hall of the East Wing.
He opened the door.
It hadn’t changed over the two years he was here, it was still his prison.
Neither had the weight he carried in his chest, pressing, always pressing.
He sat down on the bed, still damp from the rain, and stared at the wall.
And slowly, quietly—
He wept.
Not the violent sobs of fresh grief.
But the slow, aching tears of someone who had run out of rage and now only had absence.
***
Night fell.
The silence was deafening.
He didn’t light the candle.
Didn’t eat.
Didn’t change.
He just lay there, watching the ceiling.
Waiting.
For sleep.
For death.
For something to feel like it mattered again.
Outside, it rained again. Just a little.
Just enough.
He closed his eyes.
And dreamed of flames.
And silence.
And the rain that came too late.
Chapter 9: Letters
Summary:
Cale went out, then wrote some letters.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Cale had snuck out to buy parchment, envelopes, a fountain pen, and something else he didn’t name. It was a miracle he wasn’t seen by the people outside—maybe it was because of his cloak and they thought he was a traveler. A strange nobleman with strange eyes, passing through on business that didn’t concern them.
Or maybe people just didn’t care enough to look twice anymore.
Permanence had become a fragile thing in this city. Faces changed. Shops shuttered. Names were forgotten as quickly as they were spoken. Cale, once a shadow behind every victory, now walked like a ghost through the remains of a place that had already buried him.
It was a strange, aching kind of freedom—being invisible in a city he once bled for.
The ink bottle clinked in his satchel as he walked beneath the weight of a silent sky. The rain had stopped earlier that morning, but the world still smelled like ash and memory. A dull dampness lingered in the stones, the air thick with the scent of things that had burned too long ago to matter but not long enough to forget.
By the time he reached the manor, the wind had picked up again. It pushed at his back like an impatient child, as if urging him to move, to return, to finish.
Cale ignored it.
He didn’t bother with lights when he entered. His hands knew the way. The wood creaked beneath his feet like an old friend offering one final protest. Every board whispered the echo of lives once lived here. Every hallway breathed with the ghosts of dinners and plans and laughter.
His room was cold when he entered.
Not empty—never that. It was full of ghosts.
The desk was cleared of everything now. Just smooth, dark wood. Waiting. The one clean surface in a room that looked otherwise abandoned.
He unpacked the paper first. Thick, cream-colored parchment. Not official. Not noble. Just plain and honest. Something you might use to write to someone who wouldn’t care for titles.
The pen came next. Fountain-tipped. He’d tested it in the store. The ink had flowed like blood across the tester page. Deep and final.
Then came the final item.
He set it aside, away from the desk.
Later.
Not yet.
Cale sat down.
Dipped the pen in the ink.
And began to write.
***
To Cage,
I hope you’re still laughing somewhere. I always liked that about you—you could laugh in places where even priests feared to breathe. That made you strong in a way I could never be.
I’m sorry I didn’t visit. I know you would’ve stormed the temple to reach me if you could. But after everything… I didn’t want you to see me like that.
You always said death wasn’t the end. That there was something after. If you're right, then maybe I’ll see them again.
And if I do, I’ll tell them you lit a candle for each of them.
Be well. Keep laughing.
—Cale
***
To Eric Wheelsman,
You idiot. You damn, loyal idiot.
I didn’t deserve your friendship. Not then. Not now. And definitely not the way you kept defending my name even after it ruined your standing in court.
Thank you.
And I’m sorry.
I hope you never meet someone like me.
Please be happy. Someone should be.
—Cale
***
To Ron and Beacrox,
I can’t decide if you’re both the best people I’ve ever known or the most terrifying.
Ron… thank you for never abandoning me. Even when it would’ve been easier. Even when you should have.
Beacrox… your food was always terrible when you were angry. But you still made it.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to family. So I won’t try.
Take care of each other.
Don’t let anyone take this house.
—Cale
***
To Choi Han,
I hated you.
I hated you for staying quiet.
I hated you for not coming when I screamed.
You’ll live a long time, you know. That’s the kind of curse you carry. So make it worth something. Fight for something that matters. Protect someone who still wants to be saved.
I didn’t write this for forgiveness. I just wanted to say what I couldn’t.
I never blamed you as much as I blamed myself.
—Cale
***
By the time he finished the final letter, his hand was trembling.
Not from the cold.
Not from fear.
But from the simple exhaustion of saying goodbye.
He folded each letter with careful hands, like they were made of glass. Sealed them. Stacked them neatly.
One by one.
He placed them in the box beneath his bed.
Someone would find them. Eventually.
When it was over.
***
Cale looked out the window.
It was still raining.
The glass was misted with condensation, blurring the world outside. Streetlamps flickered in the distance, haloed in fog. The kind of night that swallowed sound and left everything damp and heavy.
He wondered if the stars were out, hidden behind clouds.
He wondered if anyone was looking up, hoping, praying.
He wasn’t.
He sat back in the chair, the joints creaking beneath him. The silence pressed in, soft and suffocating.
The object near the desk caught his eyes again. He reached for it—not with hesitation, just inevitability.
He played with its texture in his hand.
Long. Simple. Strong.
He’d gotten it from a hardware store that didn’t ask questions. Money had changed hands. That was all.
Cale had always known how to disappear.
His thumb brushed over the end of the rope. It didn’t feel real.
None of this did.
And yet.
His eyes flicked to the desk, now bare again. The pen lay beside a stray ink blot, drying slowly into a dark smear.
It’s done.
The thoughts were quiet now. Not kind. But quiet.
There was nothing else to say.
No one else to write to.
No one left to tell the truth to.
Cale closed his eyes.
He breathed in, and for a moment…
…he thought of fire.
Not the destructive kind.
But warmth.
A fire in the hearth. Lily curled up asleep on his lap. Basen reading beside him. His mother was sipping tea nearby.
A hand on his shoulder.
A voice.
“You did well.”
He exhaled.
The rain whispered at the window like it knew.
One final day.
Cale decided he would have one final day.
Chapter 10: Final.
Summary:
The finale.
The End.
***
tw: suicide
Notes:
i kissed this brick, handled it with care before i punt it into your faces this time XD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cale felt lonely.
It was his final day and the people he wanted to see weren't here.
Cage was still out there healing the injured, she was already excommunicated, but her healing magic was stronger than the other priests.
Eric-hyung was still at the court doing something Cale had no idea what it was about.
Ron and Beacrox were still out there gathering information to win the war.
Choi Han… Well, he heard from the servants, who served him rotten food, that he was with the Crown Prince for something. The ever Dog of the Crown.
The desk scraped across the floor with a hollow sound as he dragged it in front of the door. One last barrier. One last futile act to ensure privacy no one would care to invade.
Outside, the wind picked up. Branches scraped against the windows, thin claws against old glass.
The rope was already there, hanging like a question.
A sentence.
He had tied it the moment the servants left, when their duties took them to the kitchen or the stables or wherever they went to avoid looking at him too long. No one was guarding him anymore. No one suspected, or maybe they just didn’t care.
Invisibility was a gift he had once longed for. Now it had become a curse.
He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling where the beam stretched across—solid oak, dark with age and soot. How many times had he looked at it and wondered? Now, there was no wondering left. Only doing.
Cale sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking beneath him, familiar and cold.
He looked at his hands.
Scarred. Steady.
How many times had these hands held a sword, a shield, a pen?
How many times had they bled?
He flexed them once, slowly. Like he was memorizing the feeling. They didn’t tremble.
There was a kind of peace in that.
He stood again. The floor creaked beneath him, the old wood groaning like it knew what was coming. The room smelled like ink and old memories. The letters were still hidden beneath the bed. Safe. Waiting.
Someone would find them.
Eventually.
When the war was over.
When the dust settled.
When someone remembered that there was a man who used to live in this room.
He turned to the window. The sky was overcast again, thick with clouds. A gray so deep it was almost blue. The rain had not returned, but the air was heavy with it, the kind of weight that pressed on lungs and made it hard to breathe.
Cale leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
Would anyone notice he was gone?
Would anyone care?
He was the scapegoat, he doubted that anyone would does beyond his small circle.
They had never known him .
Not really.
Even those closest to him saw only fragments.
Cage had seen the tired kindness. Eric, the loyalty. Ron, the potential. Beacrox, the stubbornness. Choi Han… the weakness, perhaps.
But no one had ever looked at Cale Henituse and seen a boy who just wanted to rest.
Who wanted to live quietly.
Who wanted to be held and told that it was enough.
That he was enough.
He moved to the center of the room. The chair beneath the noose was plain. He’d dragged it from the corner earlier, dusted it off like it mattered.
He stood there for a moment.
Just stood.
Still.
Listening to the wind, to the distant rustle of leaves, to the hollow quiet of a house that no longer felt like home.
He could still back down.
He could still wait one more day.
But no one was coming.
No one was coming.
And he was so tired of waiting.
Tired of hoping.
Tired of being left behind.
His hand rose slowly, reached for the rope, gripped it.
Rough.
Coarse.
Final.
He climbed the chair. It wobbled slightly beneath him. The room spun just a little. Not from fear. Just from the strange dizziness of being high above the floor, of looking down on everything he was about to leave.
He slipped the noose around his neck.
Tightened it.
The knot sat heavy against the side of his throat.
He exhaled.
A soundless breath.
No tears. He’d cried them all already.
No prayers. No gods were listening.
No last-minute regrets. Only the ache of things never said, never done.
He closed his eyes.
And waited.
A minute passed.
Another.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t jump.
Something clenched in his chest—not pain, not hesitation.
Just a flicker.
Memory.
A soft laugh.
Lily.
His baby sister. Her hair like firelight. Her eyes like spring. She had laughed once in this very room, curled beside him when thunder made her cry.
But Lily was gone.
Buried with their mother. With their innocence.
And maybe that only cemented what he already knew.
There was no one left.
Not really.
Cale opened his eyes again.
And let go.
***
The moment his foot pushed the chair away, there was no sound but the snap of the rope pulling taut.
His body dropped and jerked violently. The noose bit into his throat—unforgiving, unrelenting. It felt like fire, sudden and absolute, the coarse fibers grinding into skin, crushing down on his windpipe.
Air. Gone.
Like a hand wrapped tight around his neck, stronger than any enemy, tighter than any grip he'd ever known.
His lungs screamed. The instinct to breathe surged through him like lightning—raw, wild panic. His legs kicked once, twice, a desperate betrayal of his resolve. His hands clawed upward, reflexively seeking relief, fingers slipping over the rope, too late, too far.
His vision burst into stars—bright lights that danced behind his eyelids even as his eyes rolled back. There was pressure in his head, blooming outward like thunder. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a heavy drum growing slower... and slower...
Every second stretched.
The agony was pure and all-consuming: a fire in his throat, a roar in his skull, a convulsion of muscles trying to fight, to live.
Then—
A strange stillness.
A ringing silence swallowed the pain.
His limbs twitched—no longer from panic, just from failing nerves. His body was surrendering now, the struggle fading into nothing.
Everything grew distant.
The room darkened—not from the sun or the clouds, but from within him, like his soul was folding in on itself.
Thoughts slowed.
The pain ebbed.
He felt heavy.
Detached.
Cold.
Not the cold of weather or winter, but the kind that seeped out from inside, as if his blood had forgotten how to warm him.
Images floated up—fragmented, ghostlike.
His father, unsure yet supportive.
His stepmother, firm but loving.
Basen, quiet but his peaceful presence.
Lily laughs as she shows off her new skill.
Cage, while a bit crazy, was there for him during his despair for the past two years.
Eric-hyung, who had been his rock the moment he re-entered Cale’s life.
Ron and Beacrox, who had returned after leaving him four years ago for his safety.
Choi Han… One of the reasons he fell in despair, yet somewhat made an impact, as small as it was.
The rope creaked above him.
His heart thudded once.
Then again.
And then—
Nothing.
***
Choi Han felt something was wrong.
He was speaking with Alberu, after so much negotiation. With the persistence of Marquis Eric Wheelsman, the king was finally retracting his statement about Cale being the White Star. The official announcement was to be released that very evening, clearing Cale’s name at long last.
It should have been a moment of relief.
Of victory.
But Choi Han’s fingers trembled.
A phantom chill crawled up his spine, sinking its claws into his chest. The back of his neck prickled. He didn’t hear what Alberu said next—only the blood pounding in his ears.
“Your Highness,” he said suddenly, breath sharp, eyes wide. “I… I need to be with Cale—”
Alberu faltered. “I thought he was at the Choi Manor?”
A servant approached just then, hesitant, eyes flickering. “Sir Choi Han, the eastern wing… There’s been no movement reported. Lady Choi’s door hasn’t opened since morning.”
Alberu stood up instantly.
But Choi Han was already gone.
***
The eastern wing of the manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
When Choi Han and the knights reached the corridor, it was like walking into a tomb. The air was still. No wind, no sound—only the oppressive silence of something terribly wrong.
He slammed a hand against Cale’s bedroom door.
Nothing.
No response.
He shouted, “Cale! Cale, it’s me!”
Still nothing.
The knights tried their swords. Nothing. The blades sparked against the reinforced material but left no mark. Magic barriers shimmered faintly across the wood—strong, ancient spells that only Cale himself could cancel.
Beacrox arrived a moment later, his chest heaving, eyes burning. Ron stood behind him, ghost-pale.
“Why is this door sealed?” Beacrox demanded, already drawing steel.
“It’s enchanted,” a mage muttered behind them. “I don’t think we can break it without… without hours.”
Choi Han didn’t have hours.
He didn’t even have minutes.
“Stand back,” he said, voice low, almost shaking.
He poured aura into his blade, more than he ever had before. His body screamed in protest, his core strained, but he didn’t stop. He swung with all the desperation in his heart—an attack that could cleave mountains—
And still.
The door held.
Not a crack.
Not a dent.
“Cale!” His scream ripped down the hall, broken and raw. “Please—!”
Then a mage stumbled forward. “The windows—maybe we can teleport inside—there might be a blind spot—”
Ron didn’t wait. “Do it.”
The spell took thirty seconds.
Too long.
Far, far too long.
When the light of the portal finally blinked into existence in the middle of the hall, Choi Han was the first through.
The scent hit him first.
Not blood.
Not rot.
Just—
Stillness.
No magic.
No warmth.
No breath.
Cale hung silently from the ceiling beam, his hair tousled, his body swaying gently like the last leaf of winter.
The rope creaked.
The room was dark but not unkind. Clean. Ordered. As if he’d made peace with the end.
There were no signs of struggle.
No signs of violence.
Just… stillness.
A chair tipped over beneath him.
Letters tucked beneath the bed.
The door was blocked with a desk.
A world that had already moved on, too late to stop what had already been done.
“No…”
Choi Han fell to his knees, the breath torn from his chest.
Beacrox stood frozen, eyes wide, lips parted in horror.
Ron closed his eyes and turned away.
A mage rushed forward, casting frantic spells—healing, revival, anything—but there was no pulse. No soul.
Cale Henituse was gone.
He had been gone for hours.
And no one had known.
No one had come.
They were too late.
Far, far too late.
The door behind them swung open now, slowly—Alberu having ordered the best court mages to dispel the enchantments. He stepped in, saw the scene, and stopped.
His shoulders fell.
The room was silent.
There was nothing left to say.
Only the creaking of the rope, and the faint rustle of letters waiting to be read.
***
Choi Han stood unflinching as he heard Eric Wheelsman’s wails as he clung tightly onto Cale’s body. Cage was kneeling in horror.
Her trembling hands pressed against her lips, as if trying to stifle the sob that threatened to tear free. The red head was her only friend, she had been his companion for the past two years, she had worked so hard to keep Cale afloat. And now… this. This grotesque silence in a room that should never have seen such an end.
Beacrox was still frozen. His blade had long since clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Ron stood by the window, his hand gripping the frame so tightly the wood began to crack under the pressure. He did not speak. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something deeper than sorrow. A man who had lived longer than most, killed more than most, and protected more than most—he looked like a grandfather who had failed his child.
“Get him down,” Choi Han said, voice flat, devoid of the fury seething beneath his skin.
Beacrox moved then, mechanically, as if his body was detached from his mind. Carefully, reverently, he cut the rope.
Cale’s body fell into Eric Wheelsman’s arms.
The Marquis wept silently now, too far gone for dignity. His grip never loosened, even as his knees gave way and he collapsed to the ground with the weight of the young man he could never protect.
Cage finally moved, crawling forward on her hands and knees until she reached them. Her fingers shook as they brushed against Cale’s wrist. Cold. Still.
Gone.
“I… I was supposed to protect him,” she whispered, barely audible. “The God of Death promised me—”
“Don’t,” Ron said, his voice barely more than a breath. “Don’t blame the heavens. This was a choice.”
A choice.
The words hung in the air like a death knell.
Choi Han turned, eyes hollow, and slowly made his way toward the bed. There, tucked beneath the mattress, were the letters. Stacks of them. Some with names. Others sealed with wax, plain and unmarked. He gathered them all in silence.
Then, one last letter—left openly on the desk.
To whoever comes too late.
Choi Han picked it up but didn’t read it.
Not yet.
His hands shook.
“…He planned this,” Cage whispered, realization crashing over her like a tidal wave. “He… He sealed the doors.”
“To keep us out,” Beacrox said bitterly, kneeling beside Eric. “He didn’t want to be stopped.”
Alberu finally stepped forward. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow. He didn’t speak, not at first. Just stared at Cale’s lifeless form.
Then, quietly, he asked, “Where is the bastard who dared accuse him of being the White Star?”
No one answered.
Because they all knew.
It didn’t matter anymore.
The truth had come too late.
Cale Henituse was dead.
***
No one stopped Eric when he had punched the king, Zed Crossman, in the face. It had been his words that condemned Cale, that led everyone to suspect Cale of being the White Star.
And this man had the audacity to come to Cale’s funeral like he hadn’t doomed him.
Zed stumbled back from the blow, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The guards flinched but did not move. No one did. Because not a single soul in that room could claim Zed Crossman didn’t deserve it.
Eric stood over him, panting, grief carved into every line of his face like a man hollowed from the inside out.
“You looked him in the eye and called him a monster,” Eric spat, voice shaking. “You—you sent knights to bring him to you to be wed off to that bastard Choi Han. You told the world that Cale Henituse was the White Star!”
The king didn’t answer. His face was pale, but there was no apology in his eyes—only the flicker of something like regret, too little, too late.
“I begged you!” Eric’s voice cracked as he pointed a trembling finger at the coffin draped in red and gold. “I begged you to wait, to investigate, to listen . But you—”
His voice broke, and he turned away, fists clenched and shoulders trembling. Beside him, Cage stood with a cold expression that had never before adorned her features. A priestess of the God of Death, a woman once full of warmth and fierce loyalty, now stared at the king as if weighing his soul.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said quietly. “Leave.”
Zed’s lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes drifted toward the coffin—and then toward the letter in Choi Han’s hands.
Choi Han met his gaze with a chilling calm that had never been so absolute.
“If you don’t leave now,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I will make you.”
The threat wasn’t a threat—it was a promise.
Zed hesitated only a moment longer before turning and walking out, not a single person stepping aside for him. He was no longer a king here. Just a man who had made the wrong call and lost something irreplaceable.
As the heavy doors of the temple closed behind him, the silence returned.
Unbearable.
Suffocating.
Cale Henituse was dead.
And the world that remained would never be the same.
***
Choi Han could hear the murmurs of regret as he walked back to his bedroom in the manor.
The voices echoed behind closed doors and around corners—quiet, shameful, and too late. Nobles who once smiled at Cale in public and whispered behind his back now spoke in hushed tones of “misunderstandings” and “tragic mistakes.” Servants lit candles in the hallways with solemn expressions, each flame a small apology they could never voice aloud.
Choi Han didn’t stop walking.
He had no strength left for shared grief. Not tonight.
He opened the door to his room and shut it behind him with a quiet click .
Silence settled again.
But it was not peaceful.
Cale’s death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not behind doors sealed so tightly that not even a swordmaster could break through. Not in the room where Cale should have been safe.
Choi Han clenched his fists.
He remembered the way Cale’s body had looked—cold, pale, lips tinted blue. As if he had simply… stopped breathing.
As if he had given up.
Choi Han sank down on the edge of his bed, the letter still in his hands. Cale’s final message, written in neat, steady script. Too steady.
He hadn’t opened it yet.
He hadn’t dared.
The mere weight of it in his hands was unbearable.
Because Cale had known. Somehow, he had known that no one would reach him in time.
And he had written to say goodbye.
Choi Han bent over, resting his forehead against the letter, eyes shut tight as a silent scream echoed in his chest.
He hadn’t protected him.
Not when it mattered most.
“You will be unhappy by my side for the rest of your life.”
Choi Han’s voice, spoken with hollow conviction on that cold winter day two years ago, echoed in his mind like a curse. He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t wanted it. But he had said it. And Cale, ever calm, ever unreadable, had simply smiled that quiet, tired smile of his and said, “Then let’s be unhappy together.”
Choi Han had believed they had time. Time to learn each other, time to build something real. He had thought Cale’s words were an opening, a compromise. A reluctant acceptance that, with time, might become more.
But now—
There was no time left.
He opened his eyes. The letter remained untouched in his hands, still folded with cruel precision. He wanted to tear it apart, to throw it across the room, to scream at the inked silence for daring to exist when Cale did not.
But instead, with trembling fingers, Choi Han broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Cale’s handwriting stared back at him. Neat. Controlled. Every stroke deliberate.
Like the man himself.
***
To Choi Han,
I hated you.
I hated you for staying quiet.
I hated you for not coming when I screamed.
You’ll live a long time, you know. That’s the kind of curse you carry. So make it worth something. Fight for something that matters. Protect someone who still wants to be saved.
I didn’t write this for forgiveness. I just wanted to say what I couldn’t.
I never blamed you as much as I blamed myself.
—Cale
***
His breath caught.
The words carved themselves into his soul—sharp, bitter, final. Not wrapped in comfort. Not softened for his sake.
Not even kind .
And that, more than anything, made it real.
Choi Han couldn’t breathe.
The pain he had been holding back—pressing into a tight little corner of his chest—finally broke loose, and it was too much.
Cale had screamed.
And no one had heard him.
Not Ron. Not Cage. Not Beacrox.
Not even him .
Choi Han curled around the letter like a man hollowed out, like something in him had died alongside Cale in that sealed room.
He would never forget those words.
Not the hate.
Not the hurt.
Not the quiet, devastating grief buried in that single line:
“Protect someone who still wants to be saved.”
Because Cale had not.
Cale had stopped wanting.
And Choi Han—Choi Han had been too late.
Too afraid to push. Too careful to question. Too hopeful that silence meant peace.
But Cale had been screaming.
And now… now there was no more time.
Just ashes.
And a letter written too late.
***
Eric Wheelsman emptied another bottle of beer.
The glass slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull clink on the floor, rolling against his boot. He didn’t bother picking it up.
He sat slumped in the corner of his study—though he hadn’t done any studying here in weeks. The curtains were drawn, the hearth cold, and the air reeked of alcohol and regret.
Cale was dead.
That fact hadn’t changed in the days since the funeral. It carved itself into his every waking moment, a splinter lodged too deep in his chest to pull out.
He had punched a king.
And it still hadn’t changed a damn thing.
He laughed bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. His knuckles still ached. Not from the blow. From what came after.
From watching them lower Cale into the ground with ceremony, like any of it mattered now.
He was the one who begged the king to reconsider. He was the one who screamed in the assembly hall. He was the one who said, “Cale Henituse is not the White Star! You’ll regret this!”
But by the time anyone listened, it was too late.
Zed Crossman’s public apology was a formality. A desperate attempt to control the narrative. Nobles were already whispering of political scapegoats, of manipulation, of “a grievous misunderstanding.”
Eric knew better.
He had watched Cale unravel, week by week when he had finally reunited with him. Had seen the flickers of exhaustion, the silence that stretched too long, the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. And he had done what the rest of them did.
He’d ignored it.
Because it was easier.
Because Cale was strong, wasn’t he? How else did he still have the title of trash for so long.
A man like that didn’t break.
Except he had.
Eric looked at the half-crumpled letter on the desk. Not his. No, Cale hadn’t written to him. And he hadn’t expected it.
Why would he?
He’d already betrayed Cale once—by standing in that courtroom, by remaining silent when it counted most.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I thought if I just played along… they’d see reason in time.”
But reason had never come.
Only a body behind a sealed door, and a house filled with apologies too late to be heard.
Eric reached for another bottle—and then stopped.
His hand hovered in the air for a long moment.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he set it down.
There was no drowning this. No numbing it.
All he could do now was remember.
And maybe—if the gods had any mercy left—make sure no one else ever died screaming behind walls built by people who should have protected them.
He lost the love of his life because of their cowardice, he would never get Cale back. No matter how much he begged and cried.
Even if he drowned in sorrow, Cale would never come back to him. Never to call him hyung-nim ever again. Eric would never be able to hold Cale, not in this lifetime.
“If… If you are listening, please..” He sobbed as he prayed to the God of Death, “Let Cale be protected and happy in his next life, I beg of you. Not for me, not for anyone else, but for Cale… Please..”
***
Cage sobbed as she clutched the letter Cale had left her.
Cale had been her friend. Her little brother.
At first, she’d been by his side because everyone thought the “traitor” needed someone to watch him. Someone to keep him in line, to make sure the supposed White Star didn’t lash out or run.
But Cale…
Gods, Cale was—
He had been so human .
He didn’t beg for trust. He didn’t try to convince anyone of his innocence. He simply endured it. The suspicion. The isolation. The way people who should have been taking care of him couldn’t even meet his eyes.
And still, he treated her with quiet patience.
Still, he offered her tea on the cold days, and awkwardly shielded her from the wind when the patrols dragged too long, and made her laugh with his dry, sarcastic wit when no one else was listening.
He had been kind .
Cage pressed the letter to her chest, her hands trembling. The wax seal had already been broken, the ink smudged in places where her tears had fallen.
***
To Cage,
I hope you’re still laughing somewhere. I always liked that about you—you could laugh in places where even priests feared to breathe. That made you strong in a way I could never be.
I’m sorry I didn’t visit. I know you would’ve stormed the temple to reach me if you could. But after everything… I didn’t want you to see me like that.
You always said death wasn’t the end. That there was something after. If you're right, then maybe I’ll see them again.
And if I do, I’ll tell them you lit a candle for each of them.
Be well. Keep laughing.
—Cale
***
She let out a broken laugh. A raw, pained sound that turned into another sob.
“I did curse him, you know,” she whispered to the empty room. “When I found your body. I screamed until my voice was gone.”
She didn’t care that she had ripped the altar apart in her grief. She didn’t care that she had dared to demand an answer from a god who had gone silent.
Because how dare he—how dare the gods let someone like Cale suffer like this.
He had done nothing. Nothing to deserve their hatred and fear, yet he stayed. Even when they spat in his face. Even when they called him the enemy.
He stayed.
He endured .
And they let him die alone.
Behind doors that wouldn’t open. With no one to hold his hand. No one to whisper it wasn’t his fault. That they were sorry. That he mattered.
Cage clutched the letter tighter.
“You mattered, Cale.”
She said it to the silence.
And this time, she hoped the gods were listening.
***
Ron had raised Cale Henituse from the moment he was born.
That tiny, red-faced baby, placed in his arms by Lady Jour herself.
“My son,” she had whispered, exhausted and radiant, “please… protect him.”
And Ron had. With quiet devotion. With eyes always watching, knives always hidden, and love—deep, unspoken, unwavering.
When Jour died, it had been Ron who carried the child in his arms while the house mourned. While Deruth drowned in grief and forgot how to be a father. While the nobles whispered that Cale would grow up cold without a mother.
But Cale hadn’t grown cold.
He’d grown lonely .
And Ron had done everything he could to fill that void.
Warm meals. Late-night stories. A steady hand on his back when nightmares came. Teaching him how to fight, how to survive, how to lie when the world demanded a mask.
Cale was not his blood.
But he was Ron’s son .
And now… he was gone.
Gone behind doors Ron couldn’t break. Sealed with spells even his blades couldn’t cut through.
The boy he’d protected all his life had died alone, just a few meters away—while Ron had screamed and slammed his fists against the bedroom door until they bled.
The image of Cale’s body would never leave him.
Ron sat quietly in the kitchen where Cale had often snuck in for snacks at odd hours, the silence suffocating. The teacup before him remained untouched, steam long gone. Beside it, on the table, was the letter.
He hadn’t opened it yet.
He didn’t want to.
But he forced himself to, because Cale had written it. For him and Beacrox .
***
To Ron and Beacrox,
I can’t decide if you’re both the best people I’ve ever known or the most terrifying.
Ron… thank you for never abandoning me. Even when it would’ve been easier. Even when you should have.
Beacrox… your food was always terrible when you were angry. But you still made it.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to family. So I won’t try.
Take care of each other.
Don’t let anyone take this house.
—Cale
***
Ron’s hand trembled slightly as he folded the letter again, placing it neatly beside the teacup.
He didn’t cry.
Not here.
Not now.
Instead, he reached for the blade tucked beneath his sleeve—a habit Cale had teased him about—and held it in his palm.
“I failed you,” he said softly, voice nearly breaking.
Then he stood.
Because grief could wait.
There were still those responsible.
And Ron—Ron Molan—would never forgive them.
***
To Ron and Beacrox,
I can’t decide if you’re both the best people I’ve ever known or the most terrifying.
Ron… thank you for never abandoning me. Even when it would’ve been easier. Even when you should have.
Beacrox… your food was always terrible when you were angry. But you still made it.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to family. So I won’t try.
Take care of each other.
Don’t let anyone take this house.
—Cale
***
Beacrox wanted to scoff when he re-read the letter.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to family , Cale had written.
What a cowardly, infuriating, Cale -like thing to say.
Beacrox had always known his young master was an idiot. A genius in planning, in deceiving the world—but an idiot when it came to understanding his own worth.
Family?
Cale had been his family.
Beacrox had bled for that man, even if he did not know it. Cooked for him, taken care of him, followed him through fire and ruin and into far too many absurd situations. He had watched Cale collapse from being too drunk, had dragged him to bed when he passed out outside the Henituse estate, had threatened nobles with kitchen knives for daring to badmouth the "waste" of the Henituse family.
And Cale—
Cale never asked.
He simply trusted .
That was what made it unbearable.
Beacrox sat alone in the manor’s darkened kitchen, Cale’s handwriting resting beneath his fingers. His hands, usually so steady with blades and pans, shook.
He’d made soup the night before Cale died. A warm, hearty stew. Something simple but grounding.
It sat untouched.
Beacrox had left it outside Cale’s door, like he often did when Cale was too busy or too drained to eat with the others.
He hadn’t known it would be the last meal.
He hadn't known that the sealed room, fortified and cursed to be impenetrable, would be a tomb.
And now Cale was gone, and Beacrox was left with a pot of cold soup and a piece of paper telling him to take care of each other .
"...Idiot," Beacrox muttered, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye.
He would never forgive himself for not forcing the door open. For not sensing that something was wrong. For not realizing the silence that night meant the world was about to fall apart.
But he would follow that last order.
He would take care of his father.
And no one—no king, no noble, no god—would ever take this house, the house Cale had left from them.
Beacrox folded the letter and slipped it inside his coat.
Then he picked up the stew pot and reheated it in silence, as if his young master might walk through the door at any moment.
As if hope were not already buried.
***
Choi Han stood by Cale’s grave again. It had been days? Months? Since Cale had died.
Time had lost meaning.
The world still spun, people still breathed, the sun still rose—but none of it felt real. Not without Cale.
The grave was simple. A flat headstone, nestled beneath the shade of the old tree Cale used to rest under when he didn’t want to deal with anyone. It bore only his name, no titles. No grand embellishments. Cale Henituse wouldn’t have wanted them.
Here lies Cale Henituse , the inscription read. A home to many .
Choi Han had chosen those words himself.
Because that’s what Cale had been.
A home.
A chaotic, stubborn, reckless, brilliant home. Even if Choi Han was not welcomed in that home.
Choi Han knelt slowly, his hand brushing away a few fallen leaves that had landed on the grave. He set down the dried flowers he always brought—red poppies and moonflowers. Symbolic of remembrance and silent love. Cale would’ve scoffed, called him sentimental, maybe thrown a pillow at his head or just straight up ignored him.
Choi Han would’ve let him.
He bowed his head.
“I read your letter,” he said softly. “I almost tore it apart.”
The wind stirred. Quiet. Listening.
“You hated me, you said. For not coming. For not speaking. For being quiet when it mattered.”
His voice broke. “I hated me too.”
He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly.
“I should have known you were suffering. I did know. But I told myself you’d be fine. You were always fine, weren’t you? You were that so-called trash that never backs down.”
His hands curled into fists on his lap.
“I thought there’d be more time. I thought I could say all the things I never said when you were ready to hear them.”
He forced a smile that trembled.
“I was going to grow old beside you. Did you know that? I didn’t care if you never loved me back. I just wanted to stay. That would’ve been enough. That eventually, you would fall in love with me as well…”
His voice grew hoarse.
“But you’re not here anymore, and that probably would never happen because of how much pain I had given you.”
A long silence stretched between them. Only the sound of rustling leaves filled the void.
“I’ve been living, like you told me,” Choi Han whispered. “Fighting for something. Protecting the people you loved. Trying to… to make it worth something. Your death.”
He touched the gravestone with trembling fingers.
“But some days, I wake up thinking I’ll see you in the kitchen, hair a mess, face in your soup. And I forget.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks, quiet and unstoppable.
“And then I remember.”
He stayed like that, head bowed, grief raw and unhealed, until the sun dipped low behind the hills and the shadows stretched long across the earth.
When he finally stood, he did so with all the careful reverence of a man carrying a shattered heart in his chest.
“I’ll keep going, Cale,” he said quietly. “But I’ll never stop waiting for you to come home.”
He turned away, leaving behind a grave and a promise.
And the wind whispered through the trees, soft as a farewell.
As if somewhere far beyond reach, Cale was listening.