The full moon crowned the skies of Hwon, silver and solemn, casting long streaks of light through the trees. Deep in the ancient forest, the colossal tree — glowing faintly blue from its roots to its reaching branches — stirred. The gate to Earth had opened.
The air was thick with a hush, like the forest itself was holding its breath. Leaves quivered despite the stillness. Magic hummed underfoot.
Woon stood by Dan Oh's side, his expression calm, almost unreadable — but his fingers trembled lightly as he held her travel satchel. His grip on the leather strap was white-knuckled. He hadn’t said a word since the sky began to pulse with light.
Ryu, ever warm and dramatic, fussed over Kyung's coat, brushing invisible dust from the sleeves. Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Dan Oh, clinging to her with every ounce of affection he could muster.
"Don't forget us," Ryu said, almost sternly, his voice cracking. His eyes shimmered like pools about to overflow. "You better write. Somehow. Figure it out."
Dan Oh laughed softly, adjusting her backpack. Her laughter was gentle, but her eyes were wet. "I’ll find a way. I promise."
Kyung rolled his eyes, trying to lighten the moment. He gave Ryu a confident grin. "We’re not dying, you sap. We’re just going home."
But only Dan Oh looked back — her gaze lingering on Woon, who still hadn't spoken. He simply stared at her, unmoving, his jaw clenched tight, as if memorizing her every breath. As if afraid that blinking might erase her.
She stepped toward him, slowly. Her boots crunched against the forest floor. "I finished my story, Woon," she said, voice low, almost a whisper. "The last chapter ends here."
His throat worked, but no words came. None would do. Instead, he took her hand, pulling it close. He pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles — reverent, desperate. Her other hand rose to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw. A thousand unspoken things passed between them in silence.
And then the light flared — bright and blinding, like a second sun had erupted from the tree's core.
Wind howled.
The earth trembled.
And Dan Oh and Kyung vanished — swallowed by brilliance, their silhouettes pulled into the ancient tree’s heart. The glow faded.
And Woon stood alone.
He didn’t move. Not for a long while. His arms lowered, slowly. His fingers curled into fists.
Behind him, Ryu sniffled loudly and turned away, muttering something about dust in his eyes.
But Woon only stared at the space where she’d stood — as if the forest might give her back.
High above the forest on the castle's terrace, Siera and Gwi stood side by side, watching the moon. The wind played gently with her hair, and the distant hush of the forest echoed faintly across the stone walls.
Moonlight bathed them both in silver. Below, the faint blue glow of the ancient tree shimmered like a dying star.
Siera’s arms were folded tightly, as though holding herself together. Her face was unreadable — calm, but too calm. A practiced stillness. Gwi knew that kind of stillness.
She finally spoke, her voice nearly carried away by the breeze. "You think she’ll be alright?"
Gwi didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the sky, his expression solemn. Then he gently pulled her into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her with slow certainty. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"She’s stronger than most," he said, after a long pause. "Braver than most."
Then, his voice dropped just a little, warm and quiet. "Like someone I know."
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hands gripped his coat tighter.
"I hate goodbyes," she murmured.
"This isn’t goodbye," he replied. "It’s just... another chapter."
She tilted her head, looking at him sideways. "You and your metaphors."
He chuckled, low and soft. "You married a poet, remember."
Her smile finally touched her eyes then, and they stayed like that — watching the moon, the forest, the flickering memory of light — until the sky turned deep with stars.
Six Months Later
The cries of a newborn shattered the quiet of the dawn, ringing out through the high marble corridors of Hwon Palace like a bell tolling through mist. Outside the royal wing, the stone halls trembled under a wave of energy — cheers and howls, laughter and weeping, as word spread like wildfire.
The prince of Hwon had been born.
In the royal chamber, the world seemed to slow. Thick silk curtains swayed softly in the early morning light, casting gold across the room. Lanterns flickered low, their flames pale compared to the radiance of the moment. A faint scent of myrrh and crushed herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp metallic tang of birth.
Siera lay back against a mound of pillows, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes red from tears and sleepless pain. Yet she glowed — not with exhaustion, but something else. Something deeper. In her arms, wrapped in a soft quilt embroidered with moonflowers and wolves, lay their son. Dark tufts of hair crowned his tiny head, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyelids fluttering faintly as if dreaming.
Siera touched his nose with the tip of her finger, then let him curl his hand around it — his grip so faint, yet so purposeful it stole her breath.
She hadn’t cried this much in years.
Gwi knelt beside the bed, still in his ceremonial tunic — the dark silk stained slightly with blood where he’d helped deliver his own son. His hands were still trembling, but his gaze never left the boy’s face. Slowly, he leaned in, kissing Siera’s forehead, then the baby’s brow, as if sealing them both into a moment outside of time.
"We did it," he whispered. "After everything... we’re here."
Siera nodded, too choked to speak. The baby made a soft sound — not quite a cry, more like a sigh — and nestled closer to her skin.
"He’s beautiful," she murmured, her voice hoarse.
"He’s perfect," Gwi said. "Just like you."
A soft knock.
The heavy doors parted, and Woon stepped into the chamber.
At first, he hesitated. For a man who had faced death and gods, assassins and monsters, this moment unraveled him. His shoulders lowered. His jaw slackened. His steps slowed as though the floor beneath him was sacred.
Siera looked up and smiled at him through fresh tears. "Woon..."
He moved closer, his eyes wide, shimmering with something rare and unguarded.
"He’s... tiny," he breathed. Then a small, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "Is he supposed to be this small?"
Siera chuckled weakly. "So were you, once."
Gwi smirked. "And you were louder, I remember."
Woon leaned in — hesitant — and held out a finger.
The baby reached for it. Caught it. Gripped.
Just like Woon once had.
For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. The moment coiled around them — golden, eternal.
Siera’s smile faltered, the edges quivering as a wave of memory overtook her. She was no longer here, not entirely. She was a girl again, holding newborn Woon — the little brother she once resented before he was even born. But the moment his tiny hand touched hers, all of that hatred melted away.
Her eyes rose to Gwi’s. He was already watching her.
Gently, he reached out and brushed a damp lock from her face. Then, in that quiet voice he used only when the world was soft and honest, he said, "You’ve grown into a fine sister."
He leaned closer and kissed her hair. "Now you’ll be a wonderful mother."
And for a while, there was nothing but the baby's breathing. The golden light. The warmth of hands and hearts, no longer reaching — but finally holding.
Yet even amid the joy that now filled the kingdom — peace between humans and werewolves, the laughter of a little prince echoing through the palace, and years untainted by blood or fear — Woon often walked alone.
He wasn’t lost.
Just... unfinished.
The corridors of the palace felt too polished, too still for a man who had once burned with purpose and command. And so, when the sun began to dip and the air cooled, Woon would disappear — drawn by something wordless, a pull beneath his ribs he never spoke of.
The ancient tree stood deep within the forest, half-remembered by time, yet ageless. It no longer glowed the way it once had. Its light had faded the day Dan Oh vanished into it. But Woon still came, again and again. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes to speak. Sometimes just to listen.
That evening, the sky was painted in amber and rose, bleeding slowly into twilight. Long blades of grass tickled Woon’s knees as he lowered himself to the earth beside the tree’s massive roots. He rested his elbows on them, his eyes locked on the orange-streaked clouds.
"His name is Aeren," he murmured, as though the wind had asked. "He held his wood sword today. Arms shaking, legs too small to plant firm... but he lifted it. Refused to drop it. Just like Siera did, once. But there’s something gentler in him too. A quiet patience. Like Gwi, maybe. Like me."
A smile ghosted across his lips.
"He’ll be a good king one day."
The breeze stirred the grass again, and Woon chuckled softly, as if it had answered. "You’d like him, you know."
A pause.
Then — another voice.
"Well, it seems like he would turn into a great king someday."
Woon’s body tensed. Every muscle locked in place.
That voice. It couldn’t be.
He turned slowly, breath caught in his throat.
There was no one.
The wind whistled. Leaves rustled. He almost told himself he imagined it.
Until he heard it — the soft crunch of leaves behind the tree.
He rose to his feet in a single breath.
And she stepped into view.
Eun Dan Oh.
Her hair was a little longer. Her boots were scuffed from travel. Her cloak clung with dust and wind. But her smile — that unshakable, maddening, radiant smile — was unchanged.
For a heartbeat, Woon didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His heart thundered so hard he wondered if the tree could feel it too.
"Eun Dan Oh?" His voice broke on her name, barely more than air. "I must be dreaming."
She stepped forward without hesitation and placed her hand on his cheek. Her palm was warm. Real. Solid.
"No dream," she said gently. "I’m here. I came back to where I belong."
Her fingers lingered on his skin.
"At your side."
The weight of her words sank in like sunlight through frozen soil. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d been — how long he’d gone without warmth — until she spoke.
And now?
He could breathe again.
Earlier — In the Rift Between Worlds
Their return to Earth had not been smooth.
It had been violent.
The space between dimensions, once a whisper-thin veil, now cracked and howled with instability. What had been a hidden pathway had become a battlefield of colliding realities. Light twisted unnaturally, warping into jagged prisms that pulsed like living wounds in the air.
Kyung’s grip around Dan Oh’s arm tightened as they were thrown into a spiral of soundless screams. A rift opened too close—searing, white-hot—and he wrapped his entire body around her, shielding her from the brunt of the impact as they crashed through one of the collapsing tunnels.
When they landed, Earth felt cold. Not just in temperature—but in spirit. It was wrong.
The moment Dan Oh stood and looked at the sky, she knew: the gate had to be sealed. What had once been a bridge was now a tear, and every moment it remained open, the balance between Earth and the Miracle Planet unraveled. The rift had already taken too much.
Time, energy, truth.
If she didn’t return—if she didn’t stitch it shut—it might take everything.
But she didn’t go immediately.
She finished what she needed to do.
She returned to the old bookstore where her first manuscript still lived, collecting dust beside bestselling memoirs and forgotten love stories. She walked the streets of her childhood, tracing the cracks in the pavement with her eyes, pausing in front of her high school gates, smiling at the phantom echoes of her old self.
She hugged her parents for the last time.
It was longer than it should’ve been.
She wanted to memorize the sound of her mother's laugh, the crinkle of her father’s eyes when he pretended not to cry.
And she made one last promise — whispered at her mother’s ear as they embraced in the doorway.
"I’ll be alright. I’m going where I’m supposed to be. Please be happy even when you miss me."
Then she turned away before she could be asked to stay.
Kyung didn’t follow.
He stood at edge of a city park.
He looked at her like he was memorizing the shape of her — the curve of her jaw, the sadness in her smile, the strength she didn’t know she wore like a crown.
"Don’t wait too long to be happy, Kyung."
"And don’t come back broken," he said, voice thick. "Or I’m dragging you home myself."
They didn’t hug. They had never needed to.
Then — she turned.
And walked into the Rift.
The light devoured her, and she did not scream.
Instead, she stitched.
The gate tried to shake her loose, to burn through her bones and trap her between timelines, but Dan Oh’s steps did not falter. Her presence was thread. Her will was needle. With each stride, she sewed a stitch into the fabric of the world.
Pain curled around her spine. She bled — light, memory, pieces of soul. But still, she moved forward.
Close it behind me, she thought. Not a crack. Not a thread left loose. Balance must return. She didn’t know how long she had been trapped between Earth and Mirac — only that she kept stitching the cracks with her heart, her hope, and every ounce of power she had left.
As the final stitch pierced the veil, the rift sealed with a low thrum, like the sigh of two worlds exhaling at once.
Dan Oh fell forward into the Miracle Planet.
She hit the dirt of the deep forest with scraped hands and gasping breath.
The air was thicker. Wilder. Alive.
And for the first time since she’d left...
She was home.
Under the stars, Woon pulled her into an embrace so tight it nearly stole her breath — as if afraid she might vanish again.
His hands trembled slightly at her back, his warmth anchoring her in a way no world ever could. Dan Oh clung to him just as fiercely, her fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak like they were afraid to let go.
“You’re really here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. Fragile.
“I’m home,” she replied, not as a fact — but a vow.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft rustle of leaves and the hum of wind brushing past the grass.
Then they sat, shoulders pressed together, beneath the ancient tree that had once marked the edge of their worlds. The sky above deepened into velvet, stars flickering awake one by one.
“I missed you,” Woon said, barely audible. “Every day. Every hour. And in between those.”
Dan Oh’s throat tightened. She turned to him, seeing the wear in his eyes — not just from time, but from guilt, from the weight of two worlds pressing on his shoulders.
“So did I,” she murmured. “But I found you in every story I wrote. Every page. Every breath I took.”
A silence followed — not empty, but full of everything they hadn’t said across time and space.
“Then we have a lifetime to make up for it,” she added softly.
Woon didn’t answer right away. He looked up, eyes reflecting the stars. His hand found hers, weaving their fingers together.
“But what if time runs out again?” he finally asked.
Dan Oh leaned her head on his shoulder. “Then we make it count. Every second.”
Their hands stayed locked as the wind curled around them like a promise — no longer between worlds, but inside one they chose together.
Peace reigned. A prince was born. A king and queen ruled with wisdom and love. And beneath the ancient tree, two lovers found each other again.
Dan Oh tilted her head toward Woon, her voice low and certain. "I don’t want the throne," she said "I don’t want power. I just want this. You, the stars, our stories. That’s enough for me."
Woon cupped her cheek, forehead resting against hers. "Then let’s live a quiet life. Hidden, if we must. I’ll build us a cottage near the cliff. You’ll write. I’ll garden terribly."
She laughed, tears caught in her lashes. "You’ll burn the herbs."
"And you’ll laugh just like this. That’s the life I want."
They kissed under the ancient tree, the bark still warm with the echo of the sealed gate. The breeze carried no threat now — just the scent of new leaves, new stories.
But far beyond, in the space between stars and silence, something stirred.
A presence, ancient and half-awake.
The sealed rift pulsed once — faint, almost imperceptible.
And in that whisper of stillness, the wind began to hum again.
Balance has a price.
THE END