Chapter Text
It had been six months since the third member of the Starlight Sisters died—Jieun, graceful and sharp-eyed, with a voice that shimmered like bells in winter wind. Six months since Celine and Miyeong had seen each other. It hurt too much. But the Honmoon was weakening, and they needed to get back on stage. Even without the third voice in their trio—without the strength Jieun had lent to their song—they had to do what they could. Because the battle between humans and demons was never over. A hunter's job was never over.
They had to fight. Had to weave together the magic of the Honmoon to keep demons out. Maybe someday, a trio of hunters would manage what they had fought for over generations: the Golden Honmoon. Capable of locking demons out of this world forever.
Celine had hoped the Starlight Sisters would be the ones to do it. They had failed. And now one of them was dead.
Celine arrived at Miyeong’s house, a small home in the village of Gosan-ri. Before she even knocked, she sensed it. Demons. The air shimmered strangely, and her spine went stiff with instinct. She summoned her unggeom, a blade that was a physical manifestation of the Honmoon. It glowed cold and steady as it fell into her hand.
She pushed open the door.
There, in front of the fireplace, was a demon. Ugly purple patterns, like scars left by a lightning strike, wrapped around its form. Celine didn’t hesitate. There was no room for mercy with these creatures—beings who came to the human world only to reap destruction and consume souls to bring back to their leader, Gwi-Ma.
She crept closer, blade raised.
Where was Miyeong? What had it done to her?
Celine stepped closer and could hear the demon humming a soft tune under its breath. One of her songs. Hers and Miyeong’s and Jieun's. The demon was sweeping out the fireplace, gathering cold ash into a pail and setting it aside. There was a pile of kindling and tinder on the hearth, and a stack of larger logs for burning.
What was this thing doing?
It finally noticed her. It turned with a smile on its face, as if expecting someone else. But when it saw Celine, when it saw the Honmoon blade in her hands, it snarled and jumped to its feet. It stepped backward—half a step, nothing more. Maybe she should have noticed that. But her eyes were on its hands, which lengthened into claws.
Celine struck first and struck true.
Her blade pierced the demon square in the chest and it puffed into red smoke. Just like every other demon she had ever slain.
No sooner had she struck than Miyeong appeared in the doorway.
"Kesang!" she cried, running forward. Her hands reached for the red mist as it slipped through her fingers. "No!"
Celine lowered her blade, stunned.
"Miyeong...?"
Miyeong dropped to her knees. Her hands trembled in the empty air where the demon had been moments before.
"What have you done?" she whispered. Then, louder: "What have you done , Celine?!"
"He—he was a demon," Celine said. Her voice cracked. "I sensed him. I thought he hurt you—"
"He was my husband ."
The words hit like a blow.
Celine staggered back a step. "What... what are you saying?"
"Get out." Miyeong’s voice was flat, too quiet. "I can’t look at you right now. Go. I need time."
Celine didn’t argue. Her hands were still trembling as she stepped outside, blinking against the sharp mountain air. She wandered aimlessly down the path behind Miyeong’s house, past stone walls and brittle reeds, until she found a half-chopped pile of logs and a rusting hatchet. She set to work.
It was over an hour before she returned. She didn’t knock—just stepped inside, slow and cautious. Miyeong was sitting at the low kitchen table. She poured steaming water from an electric kettle, then held the teacup cradled between her palms.
Her eyes were red, but dry.
"Sit," she said.
Celine obeyed. The silence between them pulsed.
"His name was Kesang," Miyeong said, voice hoarse. "And I loved him. I love him."
Celine stared down at her hands.
"You always said we couldn’t trust them,” Miyeong continued. “That they weren’t capable of feeling. But he... he was kind. He cooked breakfast and brought me tea in bed. He picked wildflowers for the table. He never raised his voice. He never tried to hide who he was."
Celine’s voice barely rose above a whisper. "Miyeong... he was a demon."
"So are we, some days." Miyeong folded her arms over her stomach. "You fight with rage in your throat. I grieve with spite in my lungs. Jieun died and we drowned in our own darkness. You think I don’t know what that feels like?"
Celine shook her head slowly, voice thick. "We fought beside Jieun. We bled together. We were chosen . The three of us—our voices—we could’ve reached the golden Honmoon. And now she’s dead, and you—"
She stopped. Bit down on the words: betrayed us. Betrayed her.
Miyeong’s eyes narrowed. "Say it."
Celine couldn’t.
"You think I shamed her memory. That I shamed you . But I loved her too. You weren’t the only one left behind. You weren’t the only one who broke."
Silence again. Just the faint creak of the old floorboards and the wind outside.
Then, softly, Miyeong said, "I’m pregnant."
Celine looked up sharply. "What?"
Miyeong’s voice was calm, but brittle. "His child. Ours."
Celine swayed. Her knuckles went white around the edge of the table.
"How could you... how could you be with him?"
"He was a man before he was a demon," Miyeong said. "A farmer conscripted into war. He fought, and killed, and hated himself for it. That shame twisted him in death, yes—but it didn’t erase the man he had been."
Tears slipped down her cheeks. "He married me three months ago. We lit candles. We sang the old songs. He swore he would protect me."
Celine covered her face. Her shoulders trembled. Not just from horror—but from fear . Of what this meant. Of how much she had just destroyed. And maybe, deeper still, from the terror of being alone. If she lost Miyeong too...
"I don’t expect you to understand," Miyeong said, her voice breaking. "But I do expect you to look me in the eye when I tell you: I chose him. And now he’s gone. Because of you."
Celine slid from her seat and knelt before her on the cold linoleum floor. The sword was gone. The firelight flickered over her bowed head.
"I didn’t know," she whispered. "Miyeong, I didn’t know. Please... I didn’t know."
Miyeong closed her eyes. "That’s the worst part."
They sat in silence. In the other room, a radio crackled.
Celine reached out, hesitantly, and took Miyeong’s hand. It was cold.
"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I swear, I will protect you. And the baby. For as long as I live."
Miyeong didn’t speak, but she didn’t pull her hand away.
And Celine bowed her head, her promise settling heavy in her bones.
Miyeong stayed.
Celine begged her to come back to Daegu. “The hospitals are better there. Electricity that doesn’t flicker every time it rains. Running water. A heater that isn’t older than we are.”
Miyeong smiled softly. “My parents are here. The fields are here. This is where she should be born.”
Celine wanted to argue. Wanted to scream about insulation and infant mortality and war scars that still hadn’t healed. But Miyeong’s mind was set.
So she relented. Of course she did.
When the time came, the midwife came with her tools wrapped in linen and her prayers murmured through chapped lips. Miyeong’s mother lit candles while Celine boiled water and gripped her friend’s hand through every cry, every push, every wave of pain.
And then, at last, a child’s cry split the night.
Miyeong wept.
She pressed her forehead to the baby’s, breath shaking with joy, and whispered, “Rumi. Your name is Rumi.”
The child had tufts of soft purple hair and just the faintest birthmark, like a brush dipped in violet ink and flicked gently against her right shoulder.
Celine rejoiced with her. Laughed and wept and kissed Miyeong’s forehead.
But when she looked at the mark again—purple, curling faintly like smoke—something in her twisted.
What will you become? she wondered, and held the thought tight and silent.
The first time Miyeong felt the lump, Rumi was barely three months old.
She said nothing at first. Just a clogged duct, she thought. She’d read about it. Warm compress, gentle massage, feed the baby more often on that side. It would pass.
It didn’t.
By the time she agreed to Celine’s urging and traveled to Daegu for tests, months had passed. The doctors said the word no one wants to hear. The cancer was advanced.
There were treatments, they said. Radiation. Surgery. Chemotherapy. And the newly established National Health Insurance would cover most of it.
But nothing could give her back the time.
She fought, though. For Rumi.
For every sunrise. For every song she could still hum into her baby’s hair.
And Celine stayed. Every step. Every needle. Every fall. Every good day and every dreadful one.
Three years later, the grave was nestled under a zelkova tree on the hill behind the village. The stone was simple. Miyeong’s name etched beneath a carving of a flower and a single line of musical notation.
Celine sat before it, her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. Rumi sat in her lap, sniffling.
“Where’s Eomma?” the girl asked, her voice high and tight, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Celine pulled her close. “Eomma is gone, my sweet.”
She stroked Rumi’s hair, kissed the crown of her head.
“I’ll take care of you. I’ll be your yang-eomeoni. You’re not alone.”
Rumi whimpered and buried her face in Celine’s chest, little arms clinging to her like ivy, leaving trails of snot and grief down her shawl.
Celine didn’t mind.
This was Miyeong’s child. Her last promise.
And she would keep it.
It took Kesang six years to regain enough strength to return to the mortal realm.
For most demons, it would have taken far longer—decades, even generations. But Kesang was old. So very, very old. He had borne his shame for millennia, had wandered the mist-choked edges of the underworld with it wrapped around his limbs like chains. And, shockingly, he had actually made some progress at letting it go.
With Miyeong, he had found a chance for something new. Not redemption—he didn’t believe in that—but peace. A life not ruled by the human liege who had sent him to war, nor by Gwi-Ma, the demon king whose voice still echoed through the darker corners of the realm. Kesang had grown strong enough to resist even Gwi-Ma’s voice in his mind. Strong enough to choose.
And he had chosen her.
With Miyeong, he had found gentleness. With Miyeong, he had found laughter again. And with Miyeong—and the child she carried—he had imagined a future. One that didn’t involve blood or death.
When he finally stepped through the veil, it was to the familiar wind-swept fields of Gosan-ri. The hillside beside the house they had shared was just as he remembered: the gnarled persimmon tree, the low stone wall. Winter had not yet taken hold, but the barley fields were pale and dry, teetering on the edge of sleep.
He touched the ground. Solid. Real. The wind tugged at his robes. He inhaled sharply and began walking.
His heart pounded. How had she changed? Would she still hum to herself while slicing vegetables? Would she have new lines at the corners of her eyes? Would she let him kiss every one of them? Had their child grown tall? Did they have her eyes or his mouth?
He crested the final rise—and stopped.
A single gravestone stood in the yard. The name carved into it struck him like a blade:
Ryu Miyeong
His legs gave out. He crumpled to his knees, mouth open in a silent scream. A cry broke from his chest, raw and ragged and utterly inhuman.
He had died once as a man, and many times as a demon. But this—this was the true death.
He pressed his forehead to the earth, trembling. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
Footsteps crunched on the frost-dusted path behind him.
A small voice, high and uncertain. “Celine? Who is that at Eomma’s grave?”
He stood, turning around to look for the source of the voice.
They were standing together at the gate. The hunter who had killed him. And a child.
Kesang drank in the sight of the child. She was plump and strong, in the way a well-fed child should be. A child who had never known starvation or war—so unlike his other children from that long-ago mortal life. Her eyes were bright and she watched him with curiosity. Her purple hair gleamed in the late sun. A small bouquet of white chrysanthemums was clutched tightly in one fist. She stood just behind the hunter’s skirt, peeking out from behind the cloth with wide, uncertain eyes.
The hunter already had her unggeom in hand. That same cursed blade that had ended his last life.
Kesang’s voice was quiet but laced with bitterness: “Going to kill me again, hunter? In front of my child? At my wife’s grave?”
Celine didn’t answer immediately. Her grip on the hilt tightened, then loosened. She reached back with her free hand to touch the child’s shoulder.
The girl tugged on her skirt. “He has patterns,” she whispered. “He’s a bad demon. Are you going to kill him?”
Kesang knelt slowly in the dirt, until his eyes were level with hers. His voice, when it came, was soft and ancient and tired.
“No, child. She’s not going to kill me.”
He looked up at Celine. "Are you?"
Celine’s mouth was a hard line. Her eyes searched his—those same eyes that had once stared down at him as her blade pierced his heart.
She sighed.
The blade shimmered, then vanished.
"Come in, demon," she said, flatly. “I suppose we should talk.”
He stood. For a long moment, he simply looked at the child again—drank in the round cheeks, the flicker of curiosity in her gaze. She had survived. She looked safe. Loved.
Celine led the way.
Kesang followed her into the house. Into Miyeong’s house.
Every board, every nail, remembered.
For the first time in six years, Kesang stepped through the doorway of the life he had lost. And his eyes followed the child he was determined not to lose again.