Moonlight ripples silver across the stone courtyard. The twelve axe heads gleam like the eyes of the suitors watching her—each one hoping to claim her hand, her title, her throne. Rumi stands tall beneath the hanging lanterns, Honmoon pendant glinting against the collar of her hanbok-inspired jacket. The embroidered tiger curls along her shoulder, its mouth half-open. Waiting.

Like she has.

For twenty years.

Each night, she painted a lie into the shadows. An illusion—fangs and fire, fake demons conjured with flicks of her fingers. They don’t know that every night, I unthread all the work I’ve done. Because I’d rather lie than allow them to think they’ve won.

But the ruse has unraveled. One arrogant stalker followed her past the ink-thin veils, saw her undo the spell. Word spread like demon-smoke.

Now they press in with gold-tongued promises and sharpened smiles.

“I’m supposed to choose a suitor to wear the crown,” she murmurs aloud, pacing before the crowd.

Gasps ripple. The bow is revealed—polished olive wood, once wielded by the only person who ever truly matched her. Its string untouched since the storm that nearly leveled Seoul. The one they both survived. Barely.

"They think I’m still choosing. But I already did."

She places the bow reverently across the stone altar. Her voice steadies. “Whoever can string my lover’s old bow… and shoot through twelve axe heads cleanly… will be the new Hunter. And rule with me as their queen.”

A murmur rises—excitement, disbelief, lust. The suitors step forward, one by one. The first grunts, arms trembling. The second curses. The third cheats with a drop of dark magic, and still the string refuses.

They don’t know the bow remembers.

Rumi watches each failure, heart heavy beneath her polished chestplate. Her hair is braided tight—no room for softness here. Yet her hands tremble when they brush the bow, remembering another’s grip, another’s laugh—

"Just know I’ll be here," she thinks. "But I don’t know how much longer I’ll last."

The wind shifts.

She smells brine. Pinewood. Leather oil. Her breath catches.

A figure in the crowd moves—silent, unrushed, arms folded. No need to try. No need to speak.

"Could it be some kind of sign... that my world is all about to change?"

Her throat tightens. She turns back to the suitors.

“The bow,” she says, “was never meant for cowards. Let the arrow fly once you know that your aim is true.”

They snarl. They demand more time.

Time is fleeting. It’s running out.

Her gaze lifts.

The sea wind rushes past them, warm with the scent of salt and pine. Their eyes—familiar, storm-weathered—hold hers.

No illusion. No trick.

She’s waited. She’s fought. She’s lied and bled and stood alone in a temple of fading hope.

And now—

She exhales.

Waiting, waiting...

Not anymore.