The fire in the eastern wing hearth had long gone cold, but inside the queen's chamber, Gwi never moved.
Siera lay on the grand bed, her skin pale, her breath shallow. For sixteen days and nights, she had not stirred. The healers had come and gone, their expressions shadowed by worry. The court's murmurs spoke of grief before it was confirmed, of a kingdom on the brink, leaderless once again.
Yet Gwi stayed. He had not left her side. Not once.
Sometimes he held her hand in silence, other times he whispered stories of their shared past. He spoke of the time she gave him the pendant now resting against his heart. He repeated her name like a vow. But she never stirred.
Outside the chamber, the world moved.
Woon had taken the burden of rule. Though younger, less experienced, the fire in his soul had not dulled from his years on Earth. His presence was steady. He signed decrees, spoke to generals, calmed panicked council members. But every night, he sat by his sister's side, clasped her hand, and told her about Earth.
Dan Oh stayed close, worried but supportive, always at Woon's side. Kyung lingered too, cautious, but present. And Eros—Eros had not returned to his kingdom. He paced the palace halls like a restless ghost, refusing to leave while she remained silent.
Then came the unexpected.
A delegation arrived from the woods: Lycaon and Lyn, in human form, flanked by silent werewolves.
The palace guards were wary. Gwi wanted none of it. He refused to leave Siera, and so Woon met them instead.
“We came not for battle,” Lycaon said, his voice firm but not unkind. “We came to offer peace.”
Gasps rose around the council hall as the nobles seated around the circular chamber stiffened. Lord Renar rose slowly, his face tense.
“Peace? After what you’ve done?” he spat, voice laced with disbelief.
Lady Ysara looked uneasy, whispering to the steward beside her.
“Can they be trusted? Or is this just another trick?”
Others said nothing, but their narrowed eyes and crossed arms revealed their doubts.
Woon stood before them all, calm despite the tension.
“Let them speak,” he said, raising a hand to silence the murmurs.
Lycaon’s eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on each disbelieving face.
“The war cost us all. Packs burned. Friends lost. Hope buried.” “The wildfire wasn’t justice,” he continued quietly. “It was destruction born of revenge.”
The room fell still.
“In the reflection of the burned trees and ashes… we didn’t see enemies. We saw the graves of our own. The cost of our blind fury.”
He glanced sideways, and Lyn stepped up beside him, her voice soft but unwavering.
“That was the turning point. We felt it in our bones.”
Lycaon nodded, finishing for her:
“We thought we were burning down the kingdom that killed our kin. But all we did… was light the pyre for more of our own.”
Lyn bowed her head slightly, her voice trembling just once.
“We ask for no forgiveness. Only a chance to live without bloodshed.”
Lycaon’s next words were heavier, slower, shaped by hard-won clarity.
“So we come not in weakness… but in understanding. Strength is meaningless if it only serves grief.”
There was silence—taut and full, as if the air itself dared not move.
Finally, Woon broke it, his voice steady.
“This council cannot make such a decision without the queen.”
“Then we will wait,” Lycaon answered, calm and resolute.
Lyn stepped forward. Her voice cracked, but her gaze, when it lifted, held no deception—only restraint and ache.
“Let me see her. Please.”
Her fingers curled slightly, as though restraining an old instinct. She avoided meeting anyone’s gaze for too long. There was a stiffness in her shoulders, a flicker of hesitation before each step—as if her body obeyed, but her heart resisted. She stood like someone torn between guilt and duty, her face betraying nothing, but her unease whispering doubts she never spoke aloud.
Woon hesitated. Her eyes were not the same as before. They held the echo of burned comrades, of guilt that no pride could mask. But there was something else too—an unease, a subtle resistance that tugged at the corners of her mouth, tightened the curve of her fingers. She wouldn't meet his eyes for long, and when she did, the flicker of doubt there was unmistakable. Woon's jaw clenched. He had seen betrayal before. And yet, he also saw pain—real, ragged pain—and the glimmer of something that might be remorse. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.. Finally, he nodded, slowly. "Under guard," he said, voice low. "But you may see her."
Under strict guard, Woon led them through the quiet, torch-lit corridors to the queen's chamber. As they walked, he cast sidelong glances at Lyn. Her posture was tense, eyes flickering over the paintings on the wall but never settling. Doubt tugged at him. He remembered the stories Ryu had told of betrayal dressed as loyalty. Could he trust her? Would bringing her into Siera's presence prove a mistake? His heart twisted, and for a moment, he considered stopping.
But then he saw something else—a tremor in Lyn’s breath, barely perceptible, like someone walking willingly into a storm, not for pride, but because they had no choice. The guilt was real, and maybe—just maybe—the hope for change was too.
He let out a breath, steeled his spine, and said quietly to the guards, "Open the door. But stay close."
The moment the doors creaked open and Lyn stepped into the chamber, followed by Lycaon, Gwi's entire body tensed. His hand instinctively tightened around Siera's, and his eyes flared with raw, uncontained fury.
He stood slowly, shoulders squared, as though shielding her with nothing but his presence. His gaze locked onto Lycaon first, then lingered on Lyn—not with rage, but something more complex. Not hatred. Not even betrayal. But understanding that cut deeper.
When Lycaon and Lyn appeared again, Gwi didn’t explode in fury. Instead, his first instinct was to shield Siera, not because he saw Lyn or Lycaon as pure evil, but because he knew what grief and vengeance could lead to.
He had empathy for them. He knew the pain of being hunted and mistrusted—and what happens when that pain controls you. He had nearly lost everything to it.
“I don’t hate you,” Gwi said quietly, voice steady as steel. “But I won’t let the sorrow we share be the reason she dies. So get out. Now”
Lyn didn’t flinch. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes flickered briefly to Gwi’s hand still gripping Siera’s, then to the faint rise and fall of the queen’s chest. She bowed her head slightly—in respect, or perhaps in guilt.
“We came for peace,” she said quietly, her voice a tether stretched between them and the storm they had once set loose.
Gwi didn’t move, but his jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might cast them out then and there. But slowly—reluctantly—he stepped back, still anchoring Siera with the weight of his presence, his hand never leaving hers.
He said nothing more. His silence was permission, but not acceptance.
Lyn stepped to the side, her gaze resting on Siera’s still form. Lycaon joined her, his wildness tempered now by something quieter, perhaps reflection.
After a long silence, Lycaon spoke—softly, for once.
“We will wait for the queen’s decree.”
Lyn glanced back one last time before the door shut. She said nothing—but her eyes lingered on Siera’s hand, still held tightly in Gwi’s. Then they left. The door closed behind the retreating werewolves.
A heavy silence dropped in their wake, thick as the lingering smoke after battle. The sound of the doors shutting echoed far too loud in the solemn chamber. The air remained still, yet something had shifted—intangible, weighty.
Gwi did not speak. He continued holding Siera’s hand, his shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the closed doors as if willing them to never open again. The firelight etched sharp lines across his face, jaw tight, brows drawn with the pressure of unspoken thoughts.
Woon stood a few paces back, arms folded, lips pressed in a grim line. He glanced between Gwi and Siera, then exhaled through his nose. The distrust still lingered in his chest—toward Lyn, toward everything she hadn’t said. But now was not the moment to voice it. His gaze softened as it drifted toward his sister.
He stepped forward slowly and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. Gently, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. She looked fragile, smaller somehow. But she was still warm.
"You should’ve seen the moon last night," Woon murmured, voice low, almost to himself. "It was the color of fire. Like it was waiting for you."
Beside him, Gwi finally moved. His breath left him in a low hiss, the rage easing from his spine—but not his heart.
Only moments after that, something stirred.
A breeze slipped through the sealed windows. The flames in the hearth sparked without touch.
Time passed like falling embers—slow, glowing, uncertain.
And then—
A twitch.
Barely more than the flicker of a candle flame, but Woon saw it. Her fingers shifted against his palm. Gwi, ever alert, leaned forward sharply, disbelief clouding his face.
“Siera...?” his voice barely dared to hope.
Her fingers twitched again, and then her lips parted—dry, cracked, uncertain.
Her brows furrowed as if struggling through a fog.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, pupils adjusting to the glow of firelight as if waking from years of slumber. Gwi let out a trembling breath.
"Siera..."
She blinked, eyes finding his. Then she looked at the other side.
“...Woon?” she croaked, voice hoarse and feather-light.
Woon froze. His hands tightened instinctively around hers.
“You came back...” she said, eyes glassy, barely believing.
A soft, pained smile broke across Woon’s face. His voice wavered.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”
Siera’s eyes searched Woon’s face, still heavy with the haze of waking, yet somehow piercing through the quiet weight between them.
“Are you going to stay here now?” she asked softly.
Woon hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded slowly, the motion deliberate and steady.
“Yes,” he said finally, his voice low but certain. “I belong here.”
A faint smile curved Siera’s lips, but it was not quite happiness—more like bittersweet understanding.
Her gaze softened, her eyes filling with quiet compassion, as if she could finally feel the deep, tangled ache that had kept her brother’s heart torn apart all this time.
For a moment, they simply held the silence between them, two souls reunited yet shadowed by all that had been lost and all that still lay ahead.
Siera’s gaze softened as she whispered,
“Woon… I saw you in the flames. I saw you rise.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His shoulders tensed, a flicker of memory passing through his eyes—of fire, distance, and the ache of a world he had chosen to leave behind.
“I want to give it back,” she murmured. “The throne… the crown. You were born for it.”
Woon’s breath caught, but he was already shaking his head, slow and firm. He stepped closer, knelt beside her bed, and reached for her hand. His fingers brushed hers gently, grounding them both.
“No,” he said at last, voice steady but layered with quiet ache. “I didn’t leave for pride… I left for love. I followed someone who gave me a reason to feel alive again. But in chasing that love, I turned away from everything I was meant to protect.”
His brows furrowed. He looked down briefly, eyes clouded by the weight of his choice—then lifted them again, meeting hers with renewed strength.
“But that love didn’t make me weaker. It made me see the world through different eyes. I’ve learned what it means to lose, to miss, to long. And in that, I found something stronger than a crown—purpose.”
He gave her hand a soft squeeze.
“I came back to protect you. You and Gwi. This kingdom doesn’t need a king who left—it needs the Queen who stayed. The one who lit the fire when everyone else turned to ash.”
Siera blinked, lips parting, and he continued—his voice a whisper now, choked with reverence.
“I was a king once. But you… you’re a flame no storm could put out. You lead not with power, but with grace. And when they tried to tear peace apart, you were the one who bled for it.”
Her hand clutched his just a little tighter.
“This kingdom needs you, my sister,” he said, smiling faintly, eyes shining. “Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re brave.”
Siera’s eyes lingered on her brother a moment longer—her hand still in his—before slowly turning her gaze.
Gwi had not spoken. He hadn’t moved since she awoke, as if even breath might shatter the fragile miracle in front of him. But now, as her eyes met his, he finally stepped forward.
The weight of sleepless nights and gnawing dread sat heavy in the curve of his shoulders. His armor was gone, but the pain still clung to him like a second skin. He approached slowly, reverently, like a man returning to the altar of his faith.
Without a word, he sank to his knees beside her. His hands trembled as they reached up—one brushing back the hair from her face, the other clasping her hand where Woon’s had gently let go.
Then, he bowed his head and kissed her crown.
A kiss that wasn’t just love—it was relief, apology, grief, and hope all tangled into one breathless moment.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words cracking like dry earth after a storm. “I watched the light leave you. I held your hand and begged you to stay, and you were slipping through my fingers like mist.”
Siera’s lips parted, eyes glimmering. She leaned faintly into his touch, her fingers twitching against his palm.
Her other hand drifted slowly downward, resting gently on her belly.
“Our child?” she asked softly.
Gwi looked up, eyes already wet, but steadied by the question. His free hand came to rest over hers, protective and warm.
“He is safe,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against her temple. “You both are.”
A breath, deep and shuddering, left her lips. Her body relaxed slightly, and she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, as if absorbing that truth into her bones.
From nearby, Woon stepped back quietly—his arms crossed, his eyes unreadable but softened by witnessing the reunion. He said nothing, did nothing to interrupt the moment. But the silence between the three of them held an unspoken bond—one of shared pain, survival, and something close to grace.