Chapter Text
Threnvale rose each morning to the sound of steel, echoing throughout the village.
Swords rang against shields before the first rays of sunlight fully cleared the mossy stone walls, the rhythm steady and reassuring—proof that the village still stood, that its fearless protectors were awake and ready. Laughter and shouting from the warriors cut through the noise as they trained, breath ghosting faintly in the spring air before vanishing again. The colder-than-usual temperatures were a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Spring would settle in when it was ready.
Because the monsters brooding in the surrounding forests did not care about the season. So neither, Threnvale believed, should they.
And yet the chill lingered longer than spring usually allowed—unusual, but not yet impossible. Stone held the night too closely. The earth resisted warmth with quiet stubbornness. By midday the cold thinned, retreating where heavy boots scuffed the ground or fires burned hot enough to argue with it; and yet by evening, it returned as if it had never left. Winter seemed to overstay its welcome.
But Threnvale endured it the way it endured centuries of hardship: focusing on survival, strength and grit. A pinnacle and symbol of safety surrounded by harsh landscape
The gates stood open as they always did during daylight hours, iron-bound and scarred from old battles, their hinges groaning softly like something half-asleep. Moss crept along the stone at their base, stubborn and dark, where even the frost hesitated. Trophies hung from their inner beams—splintered horns, cracked claws, bleached bone charms etched with dates and victories—each one carefully labeled, remembered, revered. Smoke rose from chimneys in steady, disciplined lines, dark against the washed-out sky. The air smelled of damp wood and boiled grain from the last harvest, of iron oil and old smoke that never quite left the stones.
The village square continued ringing with steel on steel as warriors trained, the sound sharp and confident, echoing off stone and timber. Voices layered over it—counting strikes, shouting directions and corrections, the occasional bark of laughter when someone stumbled. A recruit complained loudly about the cold biting through gloves; someone else told him spring had always been fickle. Weapon racks lined the perimeter, freshly oiled blades and spears gleaming beside dented shields etched with sigils meant to ward off ill fortune. Faded banners hung above them, their colors muted by sun and age, snapping weakly in the wind. A row of children sat along the low wall, wide-eyed with admiration, counting strikes, arguing over which fighter would rise fastest through the ranks. Laughter followed the clash—easy, loud, alive.
Almost invisible amidst the bustling crowd, a small figure stepped through the iron gates, covered in an oversized cloak to ward off the chill. Ryeowook passed along the edge of the village square, clutching a basket of dried herbs against his chest, the wicker biting into his palms. He moved the way he always did through the village—not straight through its heart, but along its margins, where footpaths narrowed and walls cast longer shadows. He knew where the stones dipped, where carts habitually passed, where to step so he would not interrupt the flow of bodies larger and louder than his own. As he treaded carefully along the cobblestone ground, a quiet hum slipped from him without thought—low and threadbare, more breath than sound—folding itself into the rhythm of his steps before he realized he was doing it and swallowed it back down. The boy focused on carefully maneuvering his way through the narrow alleys, avoiding collision with folks too engrossed to notice his small presence in their surroundings.
As he passed the bakery, the gruff woman near the ovens argued with her sister about whether to light another fire so early in the season. A pair of children raced past him, swinging sticks and shouting about monsters they would slay someday. He had learned early which paths were meant for warriors—broad, cleared, proudly worn by repetition—and which were left narrow, uneven, and tolerated for everyone else.
The frost cracked faintly beneath his boots, a brittle, almost resentful sound.
Out of habitual instinct, Ryeowook kept his head down as he crossed the square, careful not to drift too close to the training ring. Still, his path curved just enough that he could see it—the packed brown earth scarred with old cuts, flanked by a ring of watching bystanders. Within the grounds stood dozens of sparring fighters in training, donned in armour, clutching weapons and shields. As his eyes scanned the training grounds, Ryeowook stumbled on a loose rock barely managing to catch himself before bumping into a nearby villager.
“Mind your step,” a middle aged man called without looking at him, already turning away, whom Ryeowook recognised as one of the assistant trainers of the fighting ring.
He murmured an apology anyway, voice soft and careful, as if shaped to avoid taking up space.
The boy paused briefly at the well to set the basket down and warm his hands against the stone. Water sloshed faintly within the well, colder than it ought to have been at this time of year. The chill became more noticeable in the village water source, sharp enough to sting someone looking to quench their thirst. Ryeowook cupped his palms together and breathed into them, the warmth brief and easily stolen. A thin fog bloomed between his fingers as he rubbed his palms, trying to stave off the stubborn cold.
The sound of cheers erupted suddenly from the training field.
Ryeowook didn’t mean to look. He never did, and yet his curiosity always got the better of him.
Standing at the center of the ring was Cho Kyuhyun, sword lifted, posture immaculate even in stillness. His hair was pulled back neatly, dark against sunlit skin, and there was the faintest smirk gracing the corner of his lips—not quite a smile, but the confidence of someone who did not mind the many pairs of eyes on him. When he adjusted his grip, it was with a deliberate ease, a flourish small enough to deny if challenged. Sunlight caught on his blade and turned it bright as water. He moved with the kind of ease that rendered effort invisible—each strike precise, each step measured, each correction instinctive. The other warriors fell back instinctively, grinning, breathless.
“Again!” someone shouted.
Kyuhyun obliged.
Ryeowook watched the way everyone watched—openly, admiringly, without fear of being seen—though he did so from a distance, far behind the main spectators, as if observation itself were something he needed permission for. His gaze found Kyuhyun again and again, slipping past the other fighters no matter how he tried to school it elsewhere. He told himself it was only natural, that he would be watching the training ring’s most promising and admired fighter. Kyuhyun moved into position once again.
There was a pull to it, quiet and insistent. Ryeowook watched with unwavering attention - the set of Kyuhyun’s shoulders before each strike, the brief lift of his chin when a blow landed clean, the way confidence rippled outward from him—nods, grins, the ring subtly rearranging to make room. He felt it like an ankle-deep tide, wanting and knowing better all at once.
He wondered—absently, shamefully—what it would be like to stand where Kyuhyun stood, to be looked for instead of overlooked. If his father’s eyes would follow him then. If the village would learn his name without being reminded. The thought warmed and hollowed him simultaneously..
When Kyuhyun laughed, sharp and brief, something in Ryeowook’s chest tightened. He ducked his head, fingers curling around the basket handle until the wicker pressed crescents into his palms, as if pain might anchor him where he was. He watched the way Kyuhyun poised himself before he moved, the way his grip on the sword never wavered, the way even his stillness felt purposeful. Strength gathered around him like gravity, bending attention toward him whether he sought it or not.
This calibre of fighters, the village seemed to say, is what keeps us alive. This, and nothing else.
Ryeowook quickly dropped his gaze before anyone noticed him staring. He turned to go.
A sword slid loose behind him—discarded with careless confidence—and skidded farther than intended across the packed earth, clattering against the cobblestone path. It struck a crate near the edge of the square with a dull, hollow knock, close enough that Ryeowook flinched despite himself.
“Woah Kyu, careful!” someone laughed.
Kyuhyun glanced over his shoulder at the sound, expression flickering with brief surprise before smoothing back into easy composure. His eyes swept the periphery of the ring, passing over crates, baskets, shadowed edges, the gawking spectators—over Ryeowook’s retreating form without pause.
“Didn’t mean to send it flying,” Kyuhyun said lightly, already reaching for another weapon.
The moment was gone almost before it existed.
Ryeowook did not look back. Warmth lingered where attention had brushed past him, unfamiliar and sharp, like standing too close to a fire you were never meant to touch.
He lifted the basket again and continued on, towards his destination of the healer’s house. Leeteuk was standing over a table on the front porch, hands turning a grindstone filled with what Ryeowook could only assume was a villager’s prescription. Upon noticing the boy’s arrival, the grindstone came to a halt and Leeteuk accepted the herbs with a warm smile and a distracted thank you. The healer’s hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, fingers brushing Ryeowook’s sleeve as if to warm him.
“You’re cold,” Leeteuk murmured, his concern soft but unmistakable. “You should have someone walk you back next time.”
“I’m fine,” the boy replied, a beat too quickly.
The village healer studied him for a heartbeat, eyes kind and tired, then sighed. “If it worsens, tell me,” he said, before turning his attention back to the grindstone on the table. Inside the house, someone groaned softly, and Leeteuk muttered something under his breath without pausing his work. The wooden shelves were haphazardly lined with poultices and tonics meant to keep fighters standing—scars half-healed, bones knit just enough to be broken again. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, brushing the air with bitter, resinous scents. Having fulfilled his task, Ryeowook mumbled a polite farewell, before taking his leave.
He continued past the blacksmith’s forge, where heat from the furnaces roared and laughter followed Shindong’s booming voice. Charms of knotted twine and carved bone dangled near the doorway, blackened with soot, swinging in time with the sharp clang of a hammer striking steel. The forge smelled of scorched metal and sweat; sparks snapped and died against the grindstone as an apprentice joked that at least the cold weather made the heat bearable. Racks of half-finished weapons crowded the walls, far more numerous than plowshares, their collective weight a promise the village trusted more than soil, rain, or time. Just behind the blacksmith were the stables and vast animal pens, where Ryeowok was certain Sungmin would be tending to the horses or raking the hay bales. If the cold weren’t nipping at his fingers, he would’ve paid the friendly cattle a visit
By the time he rounded the final corner towards home, his shoulders were visibly trembling, the oversized cloak hanging from his frame doing little to shield him from the unforgiving cold air.
The house sat closer to the inner wall, standing tall but quieter than it used to be, its stonework cleaner, its rooflines sharper than those of neighboring homes. The doors were reinforced with iron bands etched faintly with old warding marks, and a carved sigil—weathered by years of wind and rain—hung above the lintel, marking it unmistakably as the residence of the village chief. Old tapestries—hunting scenes and victories long past—lined the walls, their threads thinning with age. The heavy oak door creaked softly when Ryeowook pushed it open, and he stepped in quickly, sighing in relief as warm air gave him respite from the chill.
Shutting the door behind him, a quick glance to his right showed an empty space where boots and fighting equipment usually lay, an indication that his brothers had not yet returned from their training. There was, however, a large figure hovering near the fireplace.
“Father?”
The chief stood at the table, maps spread beneath his hands. His frame was broad with decades of diligent training, shoulders heavy with old muscle, his face carved by scars and sleepless lines alike. He looked older than the stories ever said he should—lines deep around his mouth, his hair pulled back tight to hide the silver threading through it.
“You’re late,” he replied in a gruff voice, not unkindly, which somehow made it worse.
“I was asked to—”
“You were told to return before the cold set in.”
Ryeowook swallowed meekly. “Yes, Father.”
The chief finally tore his gaze from the parchment to look at Ryeowook. His gaze lingered, sharp and searching, as if measuring something he could not quite name—how narrow Ryeowook’s shoulders looked beneath his cloak, how his fingers still trembled faintly from the cold. His jaw tightened.
“You don’t need to be running errands that far into the forest,” he said. “We have people for that.”
“I don’t mind,” Ryeowook replied quickly. “I can—”
“That’s not the point.”
The words snapped out harsher than intended. The chief exhaled a curt sigh, dragging a hand down his face. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, threaded with restraint. “Next time, I’ll inform Leeteuk to send someone else from the patrol team to gather herbs.”
The meaning settled heavily between them: you are not built for this; you should not have to be.
“Yes, Father,” Ryeowook replied softly, because it was the only answer he had.
He retreated down the hall, up the stairs before the silence could stretch any further.
~♪ ♫ ♩ ♬ ♬ ♩♩ ♬♪~
That evening, Ryeowook began preparing for dinner as he always did.
He worked quietly at the hearth, moving between the counter and stove—knife slicing with precision, nimble hands steady despite the chill. He salted the meat sparingly, stretched the stew with root vegetables cut small so they would soften faster, added pepper a little heavier than usual in an unspoken hope it might chase warmth into the bones. Steam rose thick and fragrant, fogging the small windows.
For a moment, standing alone over the pot, he allowed himself the faintest curl of satisfaction of a delicious stew made with the simplest ingredients.
The family gathered in the main room, the long table already set beneath the weight of old banners and carved beams darkened by age. The room itself spoke of authority—high-backed chairs worn smooth by generations, weapon mounts along the walls, a map of the surrounding territories printed on yellowing parchment. This was not just a home; it was a place where decisions were made, ones that decided the future of the village.
Ryeowook served in order without being told. Father first. Then Heechul. Then Yesung. Then Kangin.
By the time he reached his own bowl, the ladle scraped the bottom of the pot. His portion was smaller—not intentionally cruel, simply the way things settled when no one was watching closely. He took his seat only after everyone else had begun eating.
Kangin ate loudly, shoulders broad and solid, already talking between mouthfuls. “Training went well,” he said, thumping his bowl down and licking his lips. “Kyuhyun was in top form today. Nearly split a shield clean through.”
“Nearly?” Heechul scoffed, leaning back with his chair balanced on two legs. “That’s putting it lightly. I saw it crack from the viewing gallery. Little brat looked smug about it too.”
The topic of Kyuhyun’s fighting abilities landed on the dinner table like a coin—bright, undeniable.
The corner of the chief’s mouth twitched, the closest he came to a smile. “Confidence suits him,” he said. “Especially when it’s earned.”
“Yesung glanced up from his meal then, eyes dark and thoughtful beneath his fringe. “He’s skilled,” he said quietly. “But skill alone isn’t everything.”
Kangin snorted. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t like being outmatched.”
“Yesung ignored him, gaze drifting instead toward Ryeowook for a heartbeat too long before returning to his bowl. “The monsters have been changing,” he added, softer. “Strength hasn’t stopped that.”
“Strength keeps us standing,” the chief replied through a mouthful of stew. “That’s enough for now.”
Ryeowook kept his eyes on his stew. He blew gently across the surface, watching the steam curl and vanish. Despite it being one of the most appetizing suppers he had made in recent weeks, the boy had abruptly lost his appetite.
“He’s going to outpace the rest of you if you don’t keep up,” Heechul added lightly, flicking a crust of bread toward Kangin. “Practically the whole village was watching him.”
As if summoned by the words, an image rose unbidden in Ryeowook’s mind—Kyuhyun in the ring, sword lifted, that faint, knowing tilt to his mouth when a strike landed true.
“This,” the village said again, through their praises and shouts of awe, “is what keeps us alive.”
Looking for any distraction from his own thoughts, Ryeowook reached for the bread bowl. Kangin’s arm brushed his, solid and unyielding.
“Careful,” Kangin said, already pulling his bowl closer. “Don’t drop it.”
“I won’t Hyung.” Ryeowook replied quickly, fingers retreating.
Their father looked up then, gaze sharp and measuring. “Eat,” he said. “You’re too thin.”
Ryeowook nodded at once. “Yes, Father.”
He ate because he was told to. Each swallow tasted faintly of ash now, pride burned down to something smaller and quieter.
Heechul tilted his head, expression unreadable for a heartbeat. “You know Wook,” he said, almost casual, “if you trained more—”
“That’s enough.”
Their father’s deep voice cut clean through, completely halting the conversation. Silence followed, abrupt and marked a tone of finality. A breath later, his tone roughened. “He just needs to do what he’s told.”
Ryeowook lowered his gaze, shoulders folding inward, and said nothing.
When the meal ended, everyone rose, chairs scraping back. The chief quickly excused himself, walking with quick strides to the study to prepare for the evening meeting with the village elders.
Kangin clapped Wook on the shoulder - a tad too hard for his small frame before retreating to his room. Heechul offered Ryeowook a quick, unreadable smile before following suit. Yesung lingered a second too long, worry etched deep between his brows. He reached out to gently pat the youngest’s head before retiring to the living room.
As always, Ryeowook quietly cleared the table by himself, stacking the bowls and carrying them to the wash basin.
~♪ ♫ ♩ ♬ ♬ ♩♩ ♬♪~
In the small, albeit cozy attic he called his room, Ryeowook knelt and pulled aside a loose floorboard beneath the bed. Stashed away in the small space was a folded scrap of cloth, frayed at the edges, and a lyre wrapped carefully within it. The wood was dark with age, etched with intricate carvings and polished smooth by careful hands, the strings dulled but intact.
He did not take it out. He never did.
Instead, he rested a careful hand over the bundle and closed his eyes.
For a moment—just a moment—he lightly hummed the opening notes of a song. The sound slipped out low and careful, barely more than breath shaped into tone. It vibrated faintly beneath his ribs, a warmth he felt, threading through him in a way nothing else ever quite did. The melody had no words, only a slow, circling cadence his mother used to favor, meant for listening rather than being heard.
The air in the room responded almost imperceptibly. Shadows softened along the corners. The tightness in his shoulders loosened. The chill that had clung to his fingers all evening eased slightly, retreating as if coaxed rather than chased away. Even the flickering candles seemed to settle and burn brighter, bathing the attic in a warm ambient glow. It felt almost like an eerie answer to his melody.
Ryeowook cut the sound off abruptly as the thought struck him, the last note swallowed back into his chest. The warmth fled just as quickly, leaving his hands cold again.
A floorboard creaked outside the door.
Ryeowook cut the sound off instantly and pushed the lyre back into hiding beneath the floorboard. His heart pounded, too loud, too fast.
There was a knock.
“Wook?”
Heechul leaned in without waiting for an answer, bright and familiar as ever, hair loose and slightly wild, grin sharp enough to hide whatever weight he chose not to show. “You missed training again,” he said lightly. “Kangin’s complaining. Again.”
“Sorry Hyung, I was busy.”
“You always are.” Heechul snorted, before his expression shifted into something softer. “You should come watch sometime.”
Ryeowook responded with a tight-lipped smile and nodded because he knew he was expected to.
Later, when the Kim household settled into sleep, Ryeowook lay awake listening to the quiet and the unease it concealed—the distant clank of a few fighters training well into the night, the low murmur of voices carrying through shutters, the soft hiss of a cold draft slipping through the window pane.
Even in darkness, the village never truly rested. Guards changed shifts along the perimeter walls, heavy boots crunching over frostless stone that still felt too cold, spears tapping in steady rhythm. Eyes scanning the horizon, into the endless abyss of pitch black darkness for any sign of threats. As night deepened, watch bells rang from the towers—low, measured notes marking the changing of the guard. Torches flared along the walls, their smoke curling sharp and oily, carrying the smell of pitch and iron. A brief prayer drifted from a doorway, murmured to old names that promised protection without comfort.
Spring should have been softening the air by now. Instead, dusk brought a coolness that lingered too long on bare skin, the kind that asked for cloaks before anyone meant to reach for them. Breath showed only when someone laughed or spoke too sharply, a thin ghost of white that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Just beyond the walls, the forest stood silent, its dark canopy rising in a dark silhouette against the pale night sky. No wind stirred its upper branches. No night birds called. It loomed as it always had, ancient and patient, but something in its stillness felt newly deliberate, as though it were listening just as carefully as Ryeowook was.
Ryeowook lay on his side, knees drawn in, clutching the fur blanket tightly around his shoulders. The distant clang of metal faded as the night patrol settled. Somewhere on the ground floor, his father’s footsteps crossed the hall towards his room at the back of the residence.
He closed his eyes and breathed, small and steady, until he fell into a light sleep.