C1 - [ "The Untamed" ]

Jeon Jungkook was brave.

He was not afraid. Not of war. Not of death.

He had watched his family slaughtered when he was just a kid, but he had survived to grow strong. As an adult he had faced throngs of angry sword-wielding warriors without backing down.

He had spent months as a prisoner of war under conditions as terrible as the seventh hell, but he had endured and escaped and continued his life. He was certainly not frightened to have a conversation with one old man.

Not even if the old man was the king.

Hwarang Hyejin walked so quickly that Jungkook, despite his longer legs, had trouble keeping up with her. His sword swung at his hip; he hadn’t had time to adjust it properly when she came to fetch him.

Still, he managed to sneak a few looks at his surroundings as he rushed by. He’d never been in this part of the castle before. The hallways here were narrow and the decorations finer but less lavish. It was a more intimate space than he was used to.

The Hwarang came to a halt in front of a door flanked by two guards who saluted her and gave Jungkook very slight nods. He knew these men, but not well.

Hwarang Hyejin knocked firmly and opened the door even before receiving an answer. Jungkook followed like an obedient puppy.

He found himself in a room that was smaller than he had expected and considerably more pedestrian. The most striking feature was an oversized fireplace with roaring flames.

Several padded chairs were scattered about, three battered tables supported piles of papers and scrolls, and more papers sat on overloaded shelves. Heavy curtains shrouded the single window, and as elsewhere in the castle, the floor was stone.

Two men stood near the fireplace. One of them was Jeonha Yongdae. He nodded at Hwarang Hyejin, who bowed and quickly retreated from the room. At the same time, Jungkook dropped to one knee and bowed his head, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Get up,” the king said. “Formalities aren’t wanted now.”

Jungkook rose. “Yes, Jusang.”

He kept his eyes trained carefully on the floor, but he could still feel the weight of his king’s gaze— not to mention that of the other man, Wangja Taehyung. The wangja always looked at him with contempt and disdain, but this afternoon he looked furious as well. Jungkook wondered what he had done to enrage him.

“What is your name?” the king asked. He didn’t sound angry, at least.

“Jeon Jungkook, Your Maj—”

“And is it true that you speak Joseon fluently?”

Jungkook snapped his head up in surprise. “I… My father was…”

“Your father was Joseon, yes. I am aware of that. But do you speak the language?”

It had been Jungkook’s first tongue, and although he’d had little occasion to use it for some years, he still dreamed in Joseon. “Yes, Jusan—”

“Good.” The king turned to Taehyung. “He will accompany you.”

“No,” growled the prince. “I told you. I don’t need a nursemaid.” He stood with his hands on his hips, perhaps deliberately displaying his impressive muscular structure. He was maybe leaner than Jungkook but was well built.

“He’s not a nursemaid, he’s a Hwarang. It’s not fitting for a wangja to travel alone, not even under these circumstances. And it’s not safe. I won’t allow you to go unaccompanied.”

Any man but the prince would have been tried for treason for glaring at the king like that. “Fine,” Taehyung spat. “Give me a translator. But not him.”

“He can speak the language. His presence may ease your interactions with the Yeowang Nabi.”

“I won’t spend days with the Joseon trash at my side!”

Jungkook had beaten men senseless for lesser insults. But now he stood with his face carefully blank, pretending Taehyung’s words hadn’t pierced him like poisoned arrows.

Jeonha Yongdae had gray hair and a fu Manchu moustache and was much slighter than his son, but when he stomped closer to the prince, Taehyung took a step backward.

Jeonha Yongdae poked him in the chest. “This man is a citizen of South Han. He was born here. His mother was from one of our prominent families. And he proved his loyalty during the war. He was a hero. I’m told he saved several dozen of our warriors in prison.”

A flash of sense memory: the reek of piss, s/hit, and sweat; the sounds of harsh breathing and terrified screams; the taste of blood. Jungkook hoped neither of the men saw him flinch.

Taehyung shook his head. “I don’t care if he saved half the damn country. I won’t go with him. Surely someone else speaks that damned language. One of our own people.”

Jeonha Yongdae opened his mouth, then closed it. His shoulders slumped slightly as he gave his son a long look. He turned to face Jungkook. “My apologies. It seems your services will not be needed in this matter. You may leave.”

Ignoring the Wangja’s triumphant smile, Jungkook bowed. “Yes, Jusong. Thank you.” He hoped that his failure to address the wangja wasn’t taken as an unforgivable slight— but then, the Wangja Taehyung hadn’t said a single word to him.

Ever.

Hwarang Hyejin waited in the hallway. Perhaps she had overheard the conversation through the closed door, or perhaps she could judge the situation from Jungkook’s expression.

She was a very perceptive woman. In either case, she motioned him back in the direction of the guards’ quarters. Then she entered the room with the king and closed the door behind her.

!!~~~~!!

Whack! The wooden sword slammed into his face, delivering a jolt of pain and a fountain of blood from his nose. Jungkook staggered a half step backward and glared at his opponent.

“You almost broke it,” he said, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose.

Yana cackled and waved the tip of her sword in his direction. “No use being vain now. It’s been broken before.”

“In battle, not in practice.” He grabbed his jeogori from the floor where he’d flung it earlier and used it to wipe the blood from his face. The flow was slowing already— it had been a glancing blow— but he’d likely end up with an ugly bruise.

“And if you’d been as fuddle-headed in battle as you are today, you’d never have lived this long.”

He grunted at her, but she was right and they both knew it. If he’d been paying full attention, she never would have been able to strike him so well with her sword.

He knew as well as anyone that distraction was fatal in a fight. If he and Yana had been sparring with real swords, she would have killed him with that blow. He growled at himself, gave a last swipe to his face, and tossed the wadded fabric aside.

“Again,” he said, bending his knees into fighting stance.

But Yana shook her head. “I’m done with swordplay for today.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Want to wrestle instead?”

“I’m far too heavy for you. You couldn’t possibly win.”

“Who says winning is my goal?” She flashed a grin before striding to the end of the practice room to stack her sword in a cabinet.

Most of the other guards had already left to wash up before lunch, although two women were restringing their bows and a man was tossing a hammer at a target.

Jungkook rarely trained with anyone but Yana. She was shorter and lighter than he was, but then, so were most of the men.

She was very quick and clever, however, and he liked to fight her because she forced him to think. She also liked to flirt, even though she must have long ago accepted that he wasn’t interested in fcuking her.

She probably just liked the challenge.

Abandoning his ruined jeogori, Jungkook followed Yana out of the training room. But when she turned left toward the mess hall, he continued forward.

He wasn’t hungry.

He’d lost his appetite two weeks earlier, a few days after meeting with the king, and while he still forced himself to eat breakfast and dinner, he spent his lunchtimes running a circuit atop the castle walls.

The guards mocked him as he sped by, but they were friendly taunts, and he simply gestured rudely in return without slowing down.

He’d have to get rid of his boots before he climbed the stairs to the rampart. The heavy footwear was fine for sparring, but he preferred to run barefoot. After he reached the dormitory and sat on his cot, he found himself frozen in the act of unlacing.

The large room echoed with emptiness— eighty narrow beds neatly made, eighty locked trunks containing the worldly possessions of their owners.

Jungkook knew what was in his trunk: several clean jeogoris and bajis, identical to those worn by the other warriors; socks; his razor, comb, soap, and tooth-cleaner; a favorite knife in a worn leather scabbard; a few coins; a single set of plain civilian clothes.

Not much to show for a lifetime, especially considering that the bulk of it wasn’t truly his.

He finished unlacing his boots and pulled them off. But instead of standing, he collapsed back onto his thin mattress and stared at the timbered ceiling. He very rarely spent time alone in this room.

Usually there were seventy-nine other men and women talking, squabbling, laughing. Playing cards or dice, bragging about deeds on the battlefield or in the bedroom, complaining about the food or the drills or their pay.

Even at night the room was filled with snoring and farting. Men and women called out in their sleep. Cots squeaked and bedding rustled as people sought a bit of solo pleasure in the yange solitude of the dark.

But now Jungkook lay alone on his cot. His nose throbbed slightly, reminding him of his foolishness.

There was another man who neared Jungkook’s strength and prowess in fighting.

His Wangja, Kim Taehyung.

Prince could have practiced on his own; he could have hired whomever he wanted to train with. But he seemed to prefer joining the Hwarangs. He arrived nearly every day, attired not in his royal costume but instead wearing the same plain  dress as the guards.

He fought like the warriors too, never sparing the force of his strength and always becoming furious if he suspected they were returning less than their full efforts.

He was excellent at hand-to-hand combat and skilled with blades. The prince in combat was a fine sight indeed, especially when he took off his tunic and the sweat gleamed on his heavily muscled body. But although they were closely matched in size and skill, he refused to spar with Jungkook.

Jungkook liked to believe this was a blessing. It meant that he’d never forget himself when that solid body strained against his.

He’d never be humiliated by stroking silky black hair when he ought to be wrestling, or by losing himself entirely in the heat of contact and rubbing his aching c0ck against his handsome partner.

But no matter how many times Jungkook reminded himself of these things, he didn’t feel blessed. Not when the prince shot him contemptuous looks, when he deigned to notice him at all. Not when the prince muttered darkly about Joseon scums. The filth of North Han.

Although Prince Taehyung fought with barely-restrained ferocity, he was charming when he relaxed with the other soldiers. He would squat against the wall with a few other warriors, sipping at a cup of tea and watching others spar.

He joked, laughed, and teased with the easy comfort of a comrade, and he never minded when friendly mockery was made at his expense.

He even joined the troops at meals sometimes— although he certainly could have found better food at the royal table— and he’d dig into the plain, hearty fare with as much gusto as anyone else.

But every bit of light banters the prince exchanged with others and every good-natured smack to another warrior’s shoulder wounded Jungkook worse than a wooden sword ever could.

Taehyung’s hate for Jungkook...he never understood why the prince never talked to him or sparred with him.

The dormitory was dark even at midday.

The windows were set high in the walls, tucked under the tower’s eaves, and received direct sunlight only during a short period every day.

Sometimes the vast room felt like a cocoon and sometimes like a prison. Lately it had been feeling like a tomb.

But Jungkook had keen eyesight, so even in the dim light he could make out cobwebs among the rafters.

When he was very young, his father used to tuck him in at night with folktales from his homeland. The Joseon said that the universe was spun by a spider and each of the stars was a glittering jewel caught in a vast web.

‘We’re all caught as well,’ his father used to say as he smoothed the hair from Jungkook’s forehead. ‘Every one of us. The trick is to keep fighting to be free. We will never achieve freedom— not until the very end— but the fight can be so beautiful.’

“Liar,” Jungkook whispered into the empty dormitory, speaking in Joseon.

After several long minutes of listening to his own breathing, Jungkook sat up. It wasn’t Prince Taehyung’s hatred that had stolen his appetite and his attention.

He’d become used to that hatred over the years, so much so that now he was bothered by its absence. The prince hadn’t appeared at practice for two weeks— not since the night Jungkook had been summoned before the king.

Sometimes Taehyung missed a day or two, but he’d never been gone so long. Surely the other warriors must have noticed, but nobody mentioned it and Jungkook hadn’t wanted to broach the subject himself.

Everyone already knew that Taehyung detested him. It would kill Jungkook if his comrades suspected that the prince haunted Jungkook’s dreams, if they knew that when Jungkook furtively pleasured himself in the slumbering company of seventy-nine other guards, it was Prince Taehyung he was thinking of.

Jungkook stood, shook his head, and tucked his boots under the cot. Then he set off for the wall at a jog.

!!~~~~!!

The Dark Valley was crowded this evening, but Jungkook managed to snag a small table in the back.

He sipped his ale slowly and watched the other patrons, nodding and waving at a few familiar faces. The Valley stood only a few yards outside the castle walls and catered mostly to off-duty guards and certain civilians who were attracted to the local flocks and warriors.

These civilians tended to be fairly well-to-do merchants and craftsmen who added a bit of thrill and fake danger to their lives by dressing down and consorting with soldiers. The warriors never minded. They had all grown tired of fucking each other, and any willing body was good enough.

Jungkook must have had a reputation, because although women liked to eye him appreciatively, it was nearly always a man who worked up the courage to sit with him.

Such as the man— only a few years past boyhood, really— who grinned at him now and folded himself gracefully into an empty chair. He was very pretty.

Delicately built, with honey-colored curls and cinnamon-hued skin, and green eyes twinkling with slightly predatory glee. His tunic was probably meant to look plain, but even Jungkook could discern the fine quality of the cloth and tailoring.

“I’m Eunwoo,” the young man said, speaking loudly over the din.

“Jungkook.”

Eunwoo’s gaze sharpened slightly at the foreign name, but he didn’t appear surprised. No doubt he’d heard of Jungkook already.

There were those who sought him out specifically because he was half Joseon. They liked the hint of exoticism, perhaps, or maybe it added to his allure as an almost-ruffian.

Not like Prince Taehyung, who was— No.

Not Prince Taehyung, whom Jungkook shouldn’t even be thinking about.

“I’d like to buy you a drink,” said Eunwoo.

“I already have one.”

“I’ll buy you another.”

Jungkook sighed and rubbed his face, wincing a little due to his sore nose. He’d thought the bruise might prove off-putting, but apparently not. “Why don’t we just go somewhere and fcuk?”

A wide grin bloomed on Eunwoo’s face. “I should have known you’d be a man of action.” He stood. “I’ll get us a room upstairs. Come on.”

!!~~~~!!

After hours of passion and sweat and tangled limbs, Jungkook slept looking at the ceiling while Eunwoo was making circles at his chest with his lean fingers.

Just as some wealthy citizens like Eunwoo got a thrill out of bedding warriors, some of the warriors got excited over rich men and women kneeling before them like this.

It was a little game of sorts, with each side play-acting their roles.

Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t what Jungkook yearned for.

In fact, given his choice, he preferred to be the one on his knees, tasting another man, feeling him deep in his throat or experiencing the burn of hot flesh in his a/ss. But he’d learned some time ago that it wasn’t what men like Eunwoo wanted from him.

They saw him standing there— bulky, battle-scarred, a little foreign— and stirred at the pretense of being taken by a brute.

Tonight, Jungkook gave Eunwoo what he wanted.

And Eunwoo must have been satisfied, because instead of hurriedly dressing and scurrying back to his home, he nestled against Jungkook on the uncomfortable bed, one thin leg thrown over Jungkook’s heavy ones.

They waited for their breathing and heartbeats to even out.

Eunwoo trailed a fingertip across an indentation on Jungkook’s chest. “Where did you get this one?”

“Suwon, I think.”

“Was it a Geom?”

“No. Just a knife.” A knife could be as deadly as any sword, though. He’d taken lives enough in close combat with nothing but a short blade.

Eunwoo’s eyes glittered in the lantern light. “It must be so exciting to be in a real battle.”

This wasn’t the first time Jungkook had heard those words, and he knew what Eunwoo wanted in response: a few fine tales of adventure and bravery, stories he could embroider a little before boasting to his friends about the savage he’d bedded.

But Jungkook wasn’t in the mood to lie.

“It’s not exciting. It’s…terrifying. Confusing. Everyone’s screaming like they’re in the hell, everything’s moving so quickly while your own body seems so slow. The air reeks of shit and blood and…” He trailed off and didn’t try to meet Eunwoo’s eyes.

“Why do you do it then?”

Maybe at one time, the answer would have come easily to Jungkook.

Vengeance.

Patriotism.

Valor.

But now those words would only taste bitter on his tongue.

“What else would I do?” he replied, a response not far from the truth.

“What about your parents? Couldn’t they give you a profession of some kind?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said Eunwoo, probably guessing— incorrectly— that Jungkook’s family was poor.

“Well, it’s not so bad, really. You got to see something of the world. And life in the castle’s pretty posh, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” said Jungkook, thinking of his narrow cot in the crowded dormitory, of his pitifully small trunk only half-full of possessions. “Not so bad.”

He might have drifted off after that. The heat of another body against his was pleasant, and Eunwoo’s fingertips soothed him. But a knock rattled the door.

“Time’s up. Two more coppers or get out,” called the old man from the hallway.

Eunwoo sighed. “We’ll be out in a minute,” he yelled back.

He rolled out of bed and began to dress, wincing slightly at the discomfort he must have felt in his ass. But when Jungkook was dressed and standing there somewhat awkwardly, Eunwoo smiled at him.

“Want that drink now?”

The angry little knot deep in Jungkook’s chest loosened a bit and he smiled back. “Just one. I have early watch tomorrow.”

“And I have to help my parents with a new shipment of Ginseng tea— which is even more boring and tedious than it sounds.”

They chuckled when they passed room four and heard a woman loudly urging her lover in the foulest terms imaginable. Downstairs, they had a tankard of ale together, and afterward in the darkness of the street, Eunwoo pulled Jungkook down for a hard little kiss.

“Stay safe, warrior,” Eunwoo said.

“Best of luck battling the ginseng tea.”

Long after they’d gone their separate ways, Jungkook could still hear Eunwoo’s soft laughter.

!!~~~~!!

“Jungkook. Come with me.”

Hwarang Hyejin knew better than to stand close to his cot when she woke him. That was fortunate, because if she’d been within reach, he would have struck her when he leapt to his feet.

His body always awakened before his brain, and when he was startled, his body launched into full defensive mode.

The reflex had saved his life multiple times during the war.

He’d once become fully alert only to discover a bloodied sword in his hand and a severed head at his feet, the man’s still-twitching body next to it.

He’d been enormously relieved to find that the man was an enemy instead of one of his fellow soldiers.

Now, Jungkook blinked for a moment at the lamp the Hwarang held, then hastily pulled on his trousers and tunic. He lifted his sword from its hook beside the bed and belted it around his waist.

Running his fingers through his unruly hair, he hurried after her.

“What is it?” he asked as they descended the stairs from the dormitory to the ground floor.

“Jusong,” she answered.

Jungkook knew that if the king were in danger, the whole dormitory would have been awakened. But just as he let go of that thought, his breath almost stopped. “But…I look like I just woke up. My uniform…”

“He doesn’t want you for a beauty contest. Just hurry.”

“What does he want me for?” Jungkook rushed to keep up.

“He’ll tell you that himself.”

The king waited in the same crowded room as before, but this time the fire was barely more than glowing coals. Before Jungkook could even drop to his knee, Jeonha Yongdae stopped him with a gesture.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” said the king.

Jungkook was nearly speechless with astonishment. “I… I… I’m at your service anytime, Jusong.”

“Good.” The king stepped closer, and a nearby lantern illuminated his face. He looked older than Jungkook remembered, and tired, with dark circles under his eyes.

“I want to apologize first for my son’s behavior the last time we met. He was unconscionably rude.”

Again, Jungkook didn’t know what to say. He could hardly argue that Prince Taehyung hadn’t been rude, and the king would think him an idiot if he claimed not to have noticed. He settled on an untruth. “Thank you, sir. But it’s not important.”

“Treating others as they deserve to be treated is always important. But you’re right. It’s not the most pressing matter at the moment.”

The lantern flame fluttered slightly as a door in the dark corner of the room opened, then shut.

Someone stepped closer, and for a brief moment Jungkook’s heart stuttered in his chest. But then the man came close enough to be seen properly, and Jungkook realized that while there was a definite resemblance, the newcomer was not Prince Taehyung.

This man was far less muscular and several years older, his dark hair shot through with many strands of gray. He looked nearly as haggard as the king.

The king made a small gesture with his hands. “Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook. He’s a member of our Hwarang warriors.”

Kim Namjoon— more formally, Wonja Namjoon—nodded. “I’ve seen him around the castle, I believe.”

Unsure of the proper etiquette, Jungkook executed a clumsy bow. He was used to royalty ignoring him, not conversing with him. “At your service, Jusang.”

“You’re half Joseon.”

“I… yes, sir. But my mother—”

“I know. And my father has told me that my brother was inexcusably ill-mannered to you.”

Was the entire royal family intent on apologizing for Taehyung?

“I believe the wangja dislikes Joseon.”

Namjoon’s answering laugh held no humor, and his face twisted so bitterly that Jungkook thought he might even cry. “Two of our brothers were slaughtered by Joseon during the war. One was a soldier but the other— Taewon— was only a child, fifteen probably. But perhaps you knew that already.”

Jungkook gave a cautious nod. “Yes, sir. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

The king made a small noise deep in his throat. “I understand you lost your own family to the Joseon.”

The sharp pang never dulled, not even decades later. Even before the war had begun, Jungkook’s father— an ardent advocate for peace— had been forced to flee North Han.

He hadn’t been safe in Gyeongju, though. Joseon assassins had tracked him down eventually. While Jungkook hid in terror inside a cupboard, the men had murdered everyone.

They’d likely have sought out Jungkook and killed him too, but a neighbor had been visiting at the time— a sweet boy who was friends with one of Jungkook’s sisters— and the assassins had mistaken the child for Jungkook.

“Yes, sir,” Jungkook said evenly. “My parents and my siblings.”

“How do you feel about the Joseon?” asked Wonja Namjoon.

“I don’t…” Jungkook scratched at his hair. “I killed a lot of them during the war.”

“And?”

“And… it didn’t bring my family back to life.”

Did admitting this amount to treason?

“It never does,” the king replied sadly. Then his gaze sharpened. “How far does your loyalty to the crown go?”

“As far as it needs to.” Jungkook’s heart began to pound heavily, although he wasn’t sure why.

“You’ve risked your life in service to this country. Would you do it again?”

“Of course, Jusong.”

“Why?”

“I… I took an oath, sir.”

The king continued to stare at him. “An oath is only words.”

“No, it’s—” Jungkook stopped himself. Took a deep breath. The ground beneath him now felt more dangerous than any battlefield. “I beg your pardon, Jeonha. But to me, an oath is much more than that. My promise is…apart from my sword, it’s the only thing of value I possess. And even the best sword can be replaced. My… my integrity cannot.”

It was an honest answer, and perhaps also the right one, because something in the king’s eyes softened slightly, and he nodded.

But he wasn’t through with the interrogation. “Hwarang Hyejin informs me that Taehyung’s display in this room was hardly the first time he’s treated you with… scorn.”

“I’m sorry, Jusong. I’ve tried to behave respectfully toward him, and—”

“Yes. Your Hwarang tells me this as well. She says your restraint has been quite admirable, in fact.”

Another shift of the floor beneath him. Jungkook wished he had something to hold on to for balance. “Thank you, sir.”

“Jeon Jungkook, does your loyalty to the crown extend to Wangja Taehyung? Would you risk your life for him as well?”

“Yes, sir,” Jungkook answered immediately, even though his tongue was thick.

Jeonha Yongdae and Wonja Namjoon exchanged a very long look, clearly having a silent conversation. Perhaps they reached an agreement, because they both turned to him at once.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Namjoon. “Because you may very well end up dying on my brother’s behalf.”

!!~~~~!!!!~~~~!!

Sitting at a table with a bottle of wine in front of them, exhaustion making gray shadows under their eyes, Jeonha Yongdae and Wonja Namjoon looked remarkably human. They looked like two men sick with worry about their son and brother.

Namjoon stood, walked to the fireplace, and coaxed fresh flames. After he sat down again, he poured wine for all three of them. But while the other two men took healthy swigs, Jungkook had only a polite sip. His head was swimming enough already.

“Taehyung is a stubborn fool,” said the king, sounding more sorrowful than angry. “He should have taken you with him, as I told him to. You might have been able to protect him.”

“Protect him from what, Jusang?” asked Jungkook quietly. He didn’t truly want to hear the answer.

And the king didn’t give him one, at least not immediately.

Instead, he toyed with his wineglass, rimmed in gold and inset with jewels at the base. Jungkook had an identical glass. He hardly wanted to touch it for fear of breaking it.

“There have been rumblings of war from Wonzan,” the king said at last, naming the country to the southeast. “It began as a border dispute after the river changed its course, and now…well, sometimes these things take on a life of their own. The king of Wonzan is not well liked, and I expect he hopes a war with us will improve his popularity. I do not want a war, Jungkook.”

Jungkook nodded solemnly. He didn’t want one either.

Jeonha Yongdae took another gulp, refilled his glass, and continued. “North Han is a strong ally of Wonzan. Strong enough that the Joseon queen might be able to persuade Wonzan to find a peaceful settlement with us. All their food supplies are provided by them. The trick, of course, is getting her to believe that peace would be in her best interests as well. And as you know, our relationship with her is…complicated.” He paused, perhaps waiting for Jungkook to digest this knotty situation.

“I see,” Jungkook said after a moment. It occurred to him that Jeonha Yongdae must have to juggle these delicate, complex matters all the time. Jungkook was suddenly very grateful to be simply a guard.

“Even approaching the queen to discuss these issues is something that must be done with a certain amount of secrecy. It wouldn’t do for Wonzan to discover our conversations too soon. So instead of going myself or sending a large delegation, I thought to send a single man. And someone to guard him and translate for him.”

“But— forgive me, Jusang. May I ask a question?”

The king waved his wineglass slightly. “Of course.”

“I don’t mean to be impertinent. But was Wangja Taehyung the, uh, best choice? Considering his feelings about Joseon, I mean Jusang.” He steeled himself for punishment.

But all he got were bitter chuckles from the other men. “He was a terrible choice,” said Wonja Namjoon. “But there weren’t any good alternatives. The journey was bound to be hazardous, and Father didn’t wish to…”

“To risk the heir,” finished the king. “Not to mention that you have a beloved wife and four children, and Taehyung has only his nightly conquests.” He gave his son a fond smile before returning his attention to Jungkook. “And any messenger but royalty would have offended the queen and doomed us from the beginning. In any case, Taehyung pledged to put his prejudices aside and do what was best for his country. He’s impetuous at times, and he requires a more civil tongue in his head, but he’s a good man, Jungkook. I trust him.”

Oddly, Jungkook agreed. Aside from his hatred for Jungkook, Prince Taehyung had a reputation for fairness and intelligence. Had Jungkook been in any position to do so, he would have trusted him too.

And if Taehyung was able to set aside his ill will for the Joseon enough to travel to their country and negotiate with the queen, Jungkook refused to be devastated by the revelation that he was unwilling to have Jungkook at his side as he did so.

“What happened then, Jusang?” he asked.

It was Wonja Namjoon who answered. “He took a translator with him. Some old lady from the university. She may or may not have been adept with the language, but she certainly didn’t know how to wield a sword.” He swallowed the last of the wine in his glass before rubbing his face.

This was the part Jungkook had been dreading almost since the beginning of the conversation. “A sword would have been useful?” he asked quietly.

“Probably.” Namjoon spoke without any inflection, the way a bored fishmonger might state the price of the day’s catch. “My brother was kidnapped shortly after he crossed the Joseon border.”

The blood rushed loudly in Jungkook’s ears. “Kidnapped by whom, Jusang?”

“Yakuza.”

It wasn’t an unpleasant word, objectively speaking. In Joseon, it meant “black.” But it actually meant much more than that, because the Yakuza was the branch of Joseon military charged with carrying out the most unpleasant tasks. The Black Bandits. They were more feral, brutal and ruthless mercenary killers... worse than the ninja assassins of Oyashima.

Even Joseon citizens feared them. The assassins who killed Jungkook’s family were Yakuza. As were the soldiers who ran the prisoner of war camp where he’d spent eleven hellish months.

Jungkook downed the entire glass of wine in one long draught and then— without asking permission— poured himself a refill. But even as panic scrambled his thoughts, a single voice of clarity reminded him that the king was asking for help. And that meant that perhaps there was still hope.

“Does Wangja Taehyung yet live, Sir?” he whispered.

Jeonha Yongdae and the crown wonja both nodded.

“The interpreter’s body was found several days after they left Kaesong,” said the king, his lip curled with disgust. “But not my son’s. And we have recently…we recently received a message from Yeowang Nabi. She says that the men who took him are extremists. Rebellious Yakuza who wish to stir hostilities between us. They would have known Taehyung was coming, but she says she did not authorize his capture.”

“Is she telling the truth?” asked Jungkook. Apparently tonight was his time to question the actions of royalty.

“I hope so,” the king answered grimly. “And we are…placed in an awkward situation.”

Jungkook frowned slightly as he tried to comprehend the ramifications of Taehyung’s kidnapping.

He was relieved when Namjoon offered further explanation.

“Yeowang Nabi cannot send in her own soldiers to fetch him because doing so would mean she was publicly endorsing his attempt to negotiate with her— and she cannot do that without angering Wonzan. Likewise, she cannot allow us to send our own soldiers to fetch him, although that’s clearly what the rebels are hoping for. Besides, it’s an embarrassment to her that some of the Yakuza have escaped her control. And if we do nothing at all, the Yakuza will soon conclude their ploy has failed and they’ll simply kill Taehyung. His only value to them is as bait for us.”

Jungkook had never been a strategist, and his head spun with all the impossibilities. In the end, though, he decided it came down to only one thing. “How can I help, Jusang? Please. What can I do?”

It had been a night full of surprises, but perhaps none of them greater than the warm, grateful smiles now bestowed on him by the king and wonja. Jeonha Yongdae even went so far as to reach across the table and briefly lay his hand over Jungkook’s.

“Good man,” he said, squeezing firmly.

When he took back his hand, he wrapped it around the stem of his wine glass and stared into the ruby liquid as he spoke. “The queen has told us where she believes Taehyung is being held. She’s granted us permission to send a single man to attempt to rescue him. And she has pledged that if Taehyung is freed, she will listen most carefully to our entreaties.”

As simple as he was, Jungkook understood what this meant: it wasn’t only Taehyung’s life that hung in the balance, but also the lives of the thousands of men and women who would suffer if Wonzan went to war with South Han.

“Why only one person, Jusang? I see why she wouldn’t allow an entire company of soldiers, but surely a small squadron would work, or—”

“Only one,” Wonja Namjoon interrupted. “So that if he is caught, both sides can claim he was merely an aberration. A man defying orders. A larger group— even two or three— looks much more like something planned.”

Jungkook nodded. “When will I leave, Jeonha?”

Wonja Namjoon held up a hand. “You understand that…that the likelihood is high that you will be killed.”

“Yes, Jeonha.”

“And if you are taken alive, we will not send anyone to rescue you. We cannot. If asked, we will claim you acted without orders.”

An echo of pain— years old— resonated in Jungkook’s body. “I won’t be taken alive.”

He’d die by his own hand first.

“Very well,” said Jeonha Yongdae solemnly. “And if you are successful, our gratitude will be… very generous.”

Would the king be incredulous if Jungkook told him he needed no incentives or rewards to take on this task?

In truth, Jungkook would have attempted to rescue Taehyung even had the king expressly forbidden him to do so.

He didn’t drink any more wine. And although the hour was very late and he’d had only an hour or two of sleep, he was no longer tired.

For the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose— suicidal as it may have been.

After a few final arrangements were made, he bowed to the king and wonja and hurried to the dormitory to pack his things.

!!~~~~!!

Although it had been some time since Jungkook had traveled far from the castle and he’d very rarely had the benefit of a carriage, he didn’t enjoy the trip to the border.

The road was rutted, and the carriage progressed with jerky rattles. His fellow passengers— two women, a man, and a young child— filled the small space with the reek of their perfumes and stared at him distrustfully the entire way.

But the worst part was the slow speed of the journey.

Yes, they were going faster than if Jungkook had been walking, and with fewer stops to rest. But it wasn’t fast enough. He wished he were a horseman, riding a steed at full gallop the whole way.

No, he wished he could fly.

But all he could do was sit, jolting from side to side, trying to distract himself from thoughts of death.

He couldn’t go on horse—that will harvest attention. He had to be sneaky.

They spent the night at an inn near a busy crossroads.

The food was bad and overpriced, but at least his pallet on the floor was no more uncomfortable than his usual cot, and the shared sleeping quarters had a familiar feel.

The innkeeper’s daughter flirted with him, as did a handsome middle-aged man who was journeying in the opposite direction. But Jungkook turned them both down and slept with nothing at his side but his pack and sword that was hidden in his jeogori.

Shortly after dawn, the travelers ate a breakfast of sausages and bread and then set out again on the road. Jungkook hadn’t managed to wash more than his face and hands, and he felt grimy.

His unfamiliar civilian clothes chafed. And the toddler was fussy all day, alternately whining and crying or throwing her food on the floor.

During the war, Jungkook and his fellow soldiers had complained about marching endless miles. His feet had always been sore and blistered, his mouth always tasted of dust.

But his current journey was far worse— both the company and the agony of waiting.

Besides, he hated having to sit for so long.

His ass hurt and his legs were cramped.

A low range of mountains marked the border between South and North Han. As the evening fell, the setting sun turned the ridge dark and forbidding.

The last time Jungkook crossed those mountains, he’d been going the other way. His body and mind had been battered, and his soul had felt more sullied than the dirt beneath his boots.

But he was alive, and so were the men and women he’d rescued from the Joseon prison, and he’d counted that as a victory. He’d also sworn never to return, but it seemed he was bound to violate that oath.

The carriage clattered to a stop well after nightfall.

Bright lanterns glared in front of another inn, this one much smaller.

Even with the war long over, few people crossed the border.

But three other travelers were spending the night there: two women who looked to be in their thirties and constantly touched each other, and an older man with a completely bald head.

They were all Joseon.

They sat at a table together over dinner while Jungkook sat alone, but even with his attention focused on his meal, he could feel their scrutiny.

He had to make an effort not to twitch with discomfort. He hadn’t spent time with any Joseon since the war— and the time he’d spent during the war had not been pleasant.

He was grateful to discover that he had a private room for the night.

It was tiny— just large enough for a lumpy bed and small washstand— but that was fine. Someone had filled the washbasin and left a towel, so after he undressed, he gave himself a quick wash.

He doused the lantern, lay down, and pulled up the covers, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Perhaps he was kept awake by the absence of seventy-nine other sleeping companions, or by anxiety about what was to come.

In either case, he squirmed unhappily for a long time.

Finally, he sighed with resignation and began to stroke his cock. It didn’t remain soft for long under his steady hand.

He thought of Eunwoo— of his fine skin and firm little a/ss, of the lean planes of his hips and the dark, sensitive nubbins of his nipples.

He thought of the scent of rose and bergamot oil, and of tight heat drawing him in. But even as Jungkook’s wrist sped its motions, his thoughts strayed to another body, rippling with muscle.

Straight hair, dark as a raven’s wing, long enough to cover a broad neck. And a wide mouth that turned easily into a grin.

Except that grin was never for Jungkook.

Jungkook came with a strangled sob.

!!~~~~!!

Jungkook hadn’t said a word to his new companions over breakfast or as they climbed into the rickety carriage that would take them over the mountains.

He’d squashed himself as small as possible into the corner, uncomfortable already with the way the springs poked through the seat’s ancient padding.

He stared out the window while the others stared at him. After several miles, the red-haired woman could apparently contain her curiosity no longer.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

Jungkook startled slightly when he realized she was addressing him but then gave a small shrug. “I’ve lived many places,” he answered in Joseon.

It was the first time in years he’d spoken the language out loud, but the words felt comfortable and familiar to his tongue.

“Are you Joseon? I can’t place your accent.”

“My family is Joseon,” he replied half-truthfully. “But it’s been a long time since I was there.”

Since the war, he didn’t add. Since your Yakuza tried to steal my humanity.

“And why are you returning?”

He’d forgotten this about his father’s people— they were very direct in their dealings.

Rude, according to Hangul customs, but his father had claimed there were benefits to plain speaking. You knew what people were thinking. It was much easier to exchange information.

“Family business,” said Jungkook.

Again, a not-quite lie. He never said the business involved his family.

“Maybe you’re coming to find a Joseon wife,” said the other woman, who was curvy and dark.

She leaned against the redhead so completely as to be almost in her lap. “The Hangul women are very beautiful, but they’re strange. Close-mouthed. And they have terrible fashion sense.” She smoothed a hand over her brightly patterned skirt.

Jungkook was making an effort to be polite. “I’m not looking for a wife.”

The redhead cocked her head at him. “A husband, then? We used to be short on young men due to the war, but not so much anymore. Besides, I suppose Hanguk had the same problem.”

He did not want to talk about the war. “I’m coming to search for some lost property. And maybe to see some old acquaintances.”

For the first time, the man chimed in. “You should consider staying. The prospects in North Han are better and the cost of living is lower. What do you do for a living?”

Protect my people from Joseon.

No, probably not the right answer.

Would his fellow passengers be so friendly if they knew his bag hid a sword?

Jungkook attempted a smile and thought quickly of a profession that sounded boring yet plausible for a man built like him. “I work in a mine. I began as a laborer but now I supervise others.”

“We have quarries in North Han. We produce some of the best marble in the world.”

“Maybe I’ll take a look.” And then inspiration struck. “Hey. Since it’s been so long since I visited, maybe you could recommend some sites to see. What should I see?”

As he’d hoped, that turned the conversation away from him.

The others were eager to tell him about stunning scenery, educational historic sites, and all the best places to eat and shop.

He pretended to listen eagerly, as if he really were a tourist, but he was relieved when the swaying carriage made the redhead ill and everyone else sleepy, and the conversation faded away.

Jungkook leaned his head against the carriage wall and watched as they ascended the mountain.

!!~~~~!!

Northern Han was wetter than southern region, the fields still green even in late autumn. But the winters were harsher.

Jungkook remembered marching down snow-dusted roads, watching his breath form dragon plumes in the morning air.

And shivering, naked in a cell, body curled into a fetal ball, wishing the cold would at least dull some of the pain.

Sometimes even in the sweltering height of summer, he’d wake up from dreams where he was still in that cell, and he would step outside into the searing morning sun just to remind himself where he was.

Now, though, as he walked over rolling emerald-colored hills under an ash-gray sky, he was only a little chilly.

He’d been traveling in North Han for three days— more jostling carriages full of curious locals—but he wasn’t yet used to this place. He was constantly unsettled.

The soft consonants and liquid vowels reminded him of family and childhood, but the landscape brought memories of blood and fear.

Shortly after his arrival, he’d bought local attire: loose trousers that cinched at the waist with a black fabric belt, a billowy white shirt with brightly embroidered animal motifs, a thick black cloak with embroidery along the edges.

He’d felt ridiculous when he’d first put on his new outfit, although he had faint recollections of his parents dressing him in something similar when he was very young.

Back then, he’d been proud of the thread-work dragons and phoenixes that danced across his shirt— so much more interesting than his friends’ plain, dun-colored tunics.

No public carriages served the little village where the queen claimed Taehyung was being held, so Jungkook had spent the past day on foot, his sword still tucked into his bag.

Aside from the slowness of his journey, he didn’t especially mind. He didn’t have to converse with anyone; the inhabitants of a few tiny hamlets and several little wooden farmhouses only stared curiously at him as he walked by.

He wondered if these Joseon thought he was one of them. If they noticed the very slight hitch in his gait, did they guess it was a remnant of the war?

And if so, did they assume he’d received the injury from his own weapon rather than a Joseon one?

Jungkook reached his destination just before sunset. A single sign announced the name of the place: Yonsan.

The painted lettering was tiny and faded, as if the inhabitants assumed that nobody would care about the name of their town.

It certainly didn’t seem a place that attracted many visitors. There was a single market square with worn cobbles and a fountain near the middle, and a few streets lined with slumping brick-and-timber buildings.

As far as Jungkook could tell, there was only one tavern, apparently nameless. He went inside.

It wasn’t crowded.

Perhaps fifteen men and women sat at the tables, drinking ale and eating plates of food. The ceiling was low, the air was close and smoky, and the room smelled strongly of drink and charred meat.

Everyone watched while Jungkook chose an empty table near the door.

“Do you want dinner or just a tankard?” asked a short man with a green apron tied around his waist. His blond hair stuck straight up in tufts and his hazel eyes were staring at him with sheer curiosity.

He was smiling.

“Both.”

“Are you sure? The food’s not that good.”

“I’m hungry. Do I have any alternatives?”

“Nope,” the man replied cheerfully. “But I thought I’d warn you. Are you from P’yongyang?”

Jungkook wasn’t particularly adept at Joseon geography, but he knew P’yongyang was the capital. It had been Taehyung’s destination. “No.”

“Oh. But you must be from a city, right? You look like you belong in a big city.”

“I’m from the south,” Jungkook said truthfully. “But I’ve lived in cities.”

The innkeeper’s grin increased. “I knew it. Then you’ll really be disappointed with our food, I’m afraid. It’s not fancy.”

“At this point, I’d eat a raw dragon,” said Jungkook. “I’m starved.”

“Well, hunger does make an excellent spice. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jungkook waited impatiently, trying to sneak looks at the other patrons. It was killing him to know that Taehyung was probably somewhere close by, probably in wretched condition, while Jungkook sat comfortably waiting to be fed.

But it was impossible to know where, exactly, Taehyung was; the queen’s information had not been specific. Jungkook was going to have to be patient until he found out.

Most of the other people in the room had returned to their meals and conversations, but a few still stared at him quite frankly.

None of them looked like Yakuza— but then, maybe Yakuza looked perfectly ordinary when they were out of uniform, enjoying a pint or two instead of torturing prisoners.

Maybe Yakuza even had homes and spouses and children, and maybe they had friends and hobbies too.

The innkeeper was back with a large tankard and an overflowing plate, which he set in front of Jungkook.

But he didn’t seem inclined to leave. He watched as Jungkook picked up a fork, stabbed a chunk of meat, and took a bite.

The meat was tough.

But the spices…he didn’t know what they were called, but he recognized the flavor at once. His father had used them in his cooking.

“You’re not dying,” the innkeeper observed. “Or puking.”

“It’s not nearly as terrible as you led me to believe.”

The man beamed. “Good. I guess low expectations are the key to customer satisfaction. Is there anything else I can get you?” He waggled his eyebrows slightly, perhaps gently suggesting that he wasn’t talking about food or drink.

Jungkook ignored the innuendo. “Do you have rooms to let?”

“You mean you intend to stay in Yonsan?”

“For a little while, yes.”

“Why in the third hell would you want to do that?”

Jungkook had been concocting this tale for days. He hoped it was convincing.

“My employer wants to move somewhere quiet. He thought Yonsan might do, so he sent me to scout things out.” He made a face intended to convey his belief in his employer’s eccentricity.

“Well, if he wants lots of nothing, this is the place to find it.”

“Good.”

“Is this your regular duty— searching for places in the middle of nowhere?”

“I’m his bodyguard.”

That earned him an impressed look and, he hoped, added to his credibility. He looked like a bodyguard and could even speak intelligently about the needs of the job, if pressed to do so. He shoveled more food into his mouth while the innkeeper rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“We don’t have rooms,” the man said after a moment. “We don’t get much tourist trade here. But my family owns a building on the opposite side of the square. The one with the red door? My grandparents lived there, but they’re dead now and the house is empty. You can stay there if you don’t mind some dust and spider webs.”

“I don’t mind. How much?”

“Oh, let’s say twenty yang a night. And you can take all your meals here.”

They both knew that was an exorbitant price.

Jungkook had paid half that at the inns along the way. But he was playing the servant of a wealthy man.

And in truth, Jeonha Yongdae had given him money— enough that Jungkook could have fled and lived a comfortable life for many months— which was a mark of trust that had made him proud. “All right, twenty. With clean bedding to sleep on and ale with my meals.”

The innkeeper grinned. “Done. My name’s Min Yoongi, by the way. Yours?”

Min—a typical Joseon. Jungkook thought.

He thought of using his surname to produce trust.

“Jeon Jungkook.”

“A Jeon. There are rare Jeon left in our country. Welcome to Yonsan, Jeon Jungkook.”

Yoongi was right— dust lay thickly in the house and cobwebs festooned the ceilings and furniture.

But Yoongi lent Jungkook a broom and some rags, and Jungkook was able to get an upstairs room tolerably clean.

After years spent sleeping on the ground or worse, he wasn’t particular. At least the room had a large bed with a decent mattress, and Yoongi gave him the promised clean bedding, which smelled of lavender.

The window looked out on the square, allowing Jungkook to keep a furtive eye on the villagers’ comings and goings. He hoped to spy the Yakuza going about whatever errands they might have.

But tonight he was exhausted and worried.

And strangely uneasy, because Yoongi had been friendly to him. Had even flirted a little. With the exception of his own father, Jungkook was used to thinking of Joseon as hostile and foreign.

They were the enemy— the people who’d tried to kill him. The people he’d killed. They weren’t ordinary folk with unruly hair, who told jokes and worked hard serving mediocre food and drink.

Before he readied himself for sleep, Jungkook practiced his daily strength and agility exercises and then ended with a meticulous sharpening of his sword and knife.

!!~~~~!!

Yoongi’s breakfast wasn’t much more impressive than his dinners, but again the tastes were familiar on Jungkook’s tongue.

And Yoongi himself smiled and joked, setting his hand familiarly on Jungkook’s shoulder when he passed by.

Rain was spitting down from a leaden sky, making Jungkook grateful for his hooded cloak as he investigated the village. He found nothing remarkable.

Villagers going about their daily errands or stopping to chat with each other under the overhangs of doorways.

Merchants looking slightly gloomy under canopies in the square. Sleepy cats staring at him from windowsills. Jungkook wanted to grab every person he passed, shake them violently, and demand they take him to Prince Taehyung.

He wanted to summon an army and command them to search every room in every house. He wanted to stand in the center of the square and scream Taehyung’s name.

He did none of those things.

Instead he wandered restlessly, first through the village and then down muddy roads into the countryside.

He found nothing more interesting than a few curious cows.

He had lunch at the inn— at least the bread was fresh and good— before setting out again. But by the time night fell, he felt no closer to Taehyung than he had in the castle.

It was a very slow night at the inn, and an older woman who looked very much like Yoongi attended most of the customers, leaving Yoongi free to sit opposite Jungkook.

“You look discouraged, friend. Have you decided already that Yonsan won’t suit your employer?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook sighed. He was beginning to hate lying to a man who’d been nothing but pleasant to him.

“If he does move here, will you come with him?”

“I…I suppose.”

“Nothing much to guard anyone from around here. Were you always a bodyguard?”

“For a long time.”

Yoongi had brought over a little dish of walnuts. He cracked one with his fist, dug out the meat, and ate it. He dropped the shattered shell onto the floor. “Were you a soldier first?”

“Yes,” said Jungkook.

“I thought so.” Yoongi looked thoughtful. “My father was a soldier. He died. So did my older brother.”

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook was sorry, although as far as he knew, he could have been the one who’d killed Yoongi’s family.

“I was only a boy. I hardly remember them. I wonder, though. If they’d survived, would they have been able to come back to boring old Yonsan and back to their boring old lives? Some of the other men and women in the village were soldiers too, and most of them… well, I think the war changed them.” He blinked and gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”

“I don’t mind. You’re right. War changes everyone.” It was the first time Jungkook had ever had this sort of discussion with anyone, and he was surprised to find himself soothed rather than discomfited.

Yoongi crushed another nut, but this time he handed the meat to Jungkook before cracking one for himself. “Do you want to be a bodyguard, Jungkook? I mean, if you could capture a wizard and make him do your will, what life would you have him give you?”

Jungkook had thought about this before, but briefly, furtively, as if even hoping were forbidden. “I’d like to put down my sword. I’d like someone who loves me. A family. I’d like a home.”

“But not here in Yonsan, I’m betting.”

“No. I’m sorry. Not here.”

“I understand.” Yoongi gave him a sweet, wistful smile. Standing, he pushed the bowl of nuts across the table. “I’ve dishes to do. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jungkook. The war’s a long time past. You deserve your peace.”

If Jungkook failed on his mission, he and Taehyung would die. War would likely break out. And Yoongi would be called away from his cozy inn in his sleepy little town to become a soldier.

!!~~~~!!

A storm blustered overnight, making the shutters rattle.

Jungkook huddled in a warm bed, wondering if Taehyung was dry. Assuming he still lived, that was.

When Jungkook had been a prisoner, he’d had mixed feelings about the rain, which leaked in through the patchy ceiling high above him.

On the one hand, it soaked the stone floor and made him colder than ever. But on the other, it was fresher than anything the Yakuza gave him to drink. It also washed the filth from his body— the blood, dirt, and come— and sluiced the piss and shit away from his cell.

Tonight he slept fitfully, awakened often by the moan of the wind.

When he awoke and saw the rain still pelting the cobblestones, he decided to delay his search.

He had nowhere fresh to examine anyway. He hurried across the square for breakfast, then back to his upstairs room, where he paced back and forth on the creaking floorboards.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he was contemplating going out again when he heard voices below.

There was nothing unusual about that— all the villagers passed through the square many times each day.

But there was something different about these voices, something louder and more swaggering than the villagers’ quiet conversations.

Jungkook crossed the room and lifted a shutter slat so he could see out.

Three figures were crossing the square.

He could not see their faces from above, and they all wore dark cloaks with hoods. As far as he could tell, they were not in uniform, but they all moved with the confident grace of seasoned soldiers, stepping almost in unison.

They carried large baskets filled with what appeared to be vegetables and meats.

Pulling on his cloak as he went, Jungkook hurried down the stairs. He didn’t have time to strap on his sword, but then perhaps this was not yet the time for an open display of weapons.

He rushed out the door and into the square, where the three men were nowhere to be seen. But he knew what direction they’d been going, and he thought they couldn’t be far ahead.

He almost lost them at one of the few cross streets, but Yonsan was a quiet town, and their loud voices echoed against the buildings.

Following their sound, Jungkook turned to the right and spied them far ahead where the village petered out into countryside.

He trailed them, pressing up near the houses and hoping they didn’t bother to look behind themselves.

But when he ran out of houses and all that remained were sodden fields beside the road, he had to stop. He’d be far too obvious following them outside the village.

The remainder of the day crept by.

Jungkook made an effort to be cordial to Yoongi, but didn’t succeed very well. “I’m sorry,” he said when Yoongi frowned at him worriedly. “I’m not feeling well today. The rain.”

Yoongi nodded. “I can make you some tea, if you like. It soothes my mother when her bones ache. My mother’s not quite a witch, but she’s good with herbs.”

“Thank you.”

The tea tasted like honey and sunshine— and exactly like the brew his father gave him when he was a child and had bruised himself roughhousing with his friends.

Jungkook managed to smile his gratitude to Yoongi before returning to his room and waiting for nightfall.

The rain stopped completely by the time it was fully dark. Jungkook strapped his knife under his shirt and his sword around his hips.

He tightened his boots.

If he’d been the sort to pray, he would have, but he’d forsaken the gods long ago as he cowered in a cupboard. He tied his cloak and stepped down the stairs and into the night.

He’d gone this way during his earlier explorations, so he knew there were few houses beyond the edge of the village.

The first one he came to was quite close, and light spilled out from between the cracks in the shutters.

Somewhere behind the low building, chickens clucked sleepily. Feeling like a thief, Jungkook crept into the front yard. He was thankful that the mud muted his footsteps. He peeked inside and saw a family sitting around a large table.

A young woman sang a tune that sounded familiar, while an old man knitted and an old woman sat and smiled. Two young children ran around, half-dressed and laughing, while their father chased them in circles and pretended to be a bear.

With a pang in his heart, Jungkook moved on.

The next house was dark and quiet, and in the one after that, two old women rocked by candlelight, chatting too quietly for him to hear.

The house after that was nearly the last one before the forest began. It was two stories tall and might once have been a fairly grand place, although it looked decrepit even in the dark. Several half-tumbled outbuildings were arrayed at the back.

When Jungkook had passed this way the previous day, he’d thought the farm abandoned. There were several such places surrounding Yonsan.

Now, though, faint light shone from some of the windows and he heard voices. And laughter— loud, mocking crows that made the hair on his neck stand up.

With his boots squelching in the mud and his heart hammering in his chest, Jungkook moved closer to the house.

If the Yakuza were staying here, it was quite possible they’d posted guards. If so, they would raise the alarm and he would be unable to kill them all singlehandedly. But his situation was never going to get better than it was now, and their patience at keeping Taehyung alive might end anytime.

He could not force himself to walk away, knowing Taehyung was almost within reach. Instead he had to hope that the Yakuza were as cocksure and overconfident as they had been during the war.

They’d been so certain then of their superiority over battered, unarmed prisoners that their defenses had been inadequate. With persistence and desperation, Jungkook and a few others had managed to overcome their captors at last.

Nobody raised the alarm as Jungkook reached the house. He hugged the ancient walls, moving to the side, where the noises seemed to be coming from.

This house had a cellar with a few small windows set low to the ground, shining with flickering candlelight. Jungkook had to crouch to look inside.

What he saw very nearly made him yell out.

A naked man was tied facedown to a table. His legs were spread, the ankles and knees bound tightly to sturdy wooden legs. His arms, stretched over his head, were attached to the other two table legs.

He was thin and dirty, and his pale skin was marred with mottled bruises, bloody lash marks, and oozing burns. His face was turned away from the window, allowing Jungkook to see only his matted long hair.

Seven men slouched against the cellar’s stone walls. Several of them clutched bottles of ale.

Two of them had their belts unfastened, their trousers pushed low on their hips; they were fondling their c0cks. All of the men had swords either around their waists or near at hand.

As Jungkook watched in horror, one of the men set his bottle on the floor, unbuckled his sword and set it aside, and prowled to the table.

When he got there, he slapped the naked man’s ass several times, the crack of flesh on flesh very loud. When that brought little response from the captive, the man laughed. He pushed his trousers down, revealing his hard d!ck.

As his companions shouted obscene encouragements, he shoved three of his fingers roughly into the bound man’s a/ss.

“Gods, no,” cried the naked man in a voice raspy from either shouting or disuse.

He said it in Hangul.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in horror. The man was Prince Taehyung.

A lone tear escaped his eyes when he looked at the horror in front of him.

Unable to bear watching the Yakuza forcing themselves on Prince Taehyung, Jungkook shoved his fist in his mouth to muffle his own screams of horror. He spun around so his back was against the house, and as his knees gave out, he slowly sank down until he was kneeling in the mud.

Flashes of the horrors of war marred his vision as he saw red. The stench and daily abuse and lashes, a room filled with stench and s/hit filled his nose as he gagged. But he couldn’t make a sound as the prince screamed inside while the Yakuz laughed and cursed and groaned.

He wanted to run and kill them all but he was extremely outnumbered. The bravely will only reward him his and the prince’s life. He needed to come with a plan. He closed his eyes and fisted his ears as he blocked those voices screaming in his head and the voices coming from inside.

For an immeasurably long moment, his head was nothing but a raging maelstrom, and he saw only red.

He even tasted blood, but that was probably from biting his hand. Not since he had been a young man intent on wreaking vengeance had he so ached to kill.

He had to walk away from the house when the screaming began.

He didn’t go far— only to an outbuilding with a mostly intact roof and a scattering of ancient hay on the hard-packed floor.

He could crouch far back in the mouse-scented darkness and keep an eye on the house, yet run little risk of being seen.

!!~~~~!!