Norahn didn't appear, even as the candles burned low, their wax dripping onto the table. Seong knew Norahn wouldn't ignore his summons without reason, and a growing sense of worry gnawed at him. He considered going to the Ministry to check on him, but the hour was late, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him. There was no room for concern for others when his own mind and body were weary. He collapsed onto his bed, the events of the past few days swirling in his mind.

The power hidden within the blood of the Celestial Scions. As Yeong had pointed out, he had always known about it. The stories of the founder of Wi and the Twelve Subjects had been ingrained in him since childhood. The pride, or perhaps arrogance, of the Scions stemmed from the belief that they were blessed with superior blood, as described in the Azure Scripture. But their kingdom had fallen long ago, overthrown by a lowborn warrior. The mystical powers of the Scions, now mere words on a page, seemed meaningless.

Most of the Twelve Houses had been wiped out by Yeongshin Hyeon(永晨賢), the founder of Dahn. Perhaps some distant relatives had survived, their lineages hidden, their identities forgotten. But those who had fled to Birahng, the last scions of the Jang'gyeong and Keumpyeong, had left with Hwan. Of those who remained in Wicheong Palace, only the Wi royal family, the Myeonghyeons, and the Kyeongseons could claim a direct lineage to the original twelve. And even the Myeonghyeons, the inherent ability of their bloodline unmentioned in the Azure Scripture, were often looked down upon by the other Scions. As for the Kyeongseons, though the scripture claimed they were impervious to weapons, Kyeongseon Ung, Joon, and his sisters all bore the scars of countless trainings and childhood scuffles. It seemed the blessings bestowed by Sahngjon had faded over time. Though the Scions healed faster than ordinary humans, they still bled, they still succumbed to disease. Sometimes, Seong wondered if it was all an illusion.

There was one exception: Norahn. Though the High Emissary Divine wasn't considered a separate house, the position was hereditary, passed down through generations of Scions. Apart from the Guardian Crimson, Yeong, Norahn was the only one in Wicheong Palace who had displayed any supernatural abilities. Seong recalled his words:

"These trials... they open my eyes and ears. It's not just me. All High Emissaries had endured this."

Perhaps those scars, those trials, were the key. Seong examined his hands. They seemed ordinary, with no hint of hidden power. He thought of the founder of Wi, his legendary invulnerability, his ability to command fire and lightning. He touched his own skin, so easily bruised, so easily burned. Is that the mark of a true Guardian, the power Yeong spoke of? If so, then he was far from worthy.

Seong, still lying on his bed, turned his head. His gaze fell upon a stone chest, its width the span of his arms, resting on a table in the farthest corner of the room. He had inherited it after his father's death, but he had never opened it. He rose from his bed and carried the flickering candle towards the chest. His hands trembling slightly, he opened the chest. Inside, wrapped in silk and paper, lay a sword.

It was the ancestral sword of the Cheon royal family. The scabbard, dyed with iridescent black, shimmered even in the dim candlelight. Intricate gold and silver inlay adorned the hilt, and a large sapphire was embedded in the pommel. He lifted the sword with both hands, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the scabbard. With a soft click, he released the lock and drew the blade. The steel sang as it slid free, revealing a pristine white surface, its edges gleaming.

Yeom'myeol (念滅). The inscription, its meaning unclear, was etched into the blade. The sword, forged from celestial metal, was said to be eternally pristine, its white surface gleaming like a pearl, its edges forever sharp. It was said that the founder of Wi had wielded this very blade in countless battles, but Seong couldn't believe it. How could such a pristine weapon have ever tasted blood? The blade was impossibly sharp, as if it had just been forged.

Members of the royal family were exempt from punishment unless they committed treason. And when they were executed for such crimes, it was always with this sword. Only the king could wield Yeom'myeol against his own blood. But for the founder, it had been a weapon of conquest, not execution. The sword was perfectly balanced, its weight ideal for battle. But only for Seong and Hwan. It was a mystery, a testament to the unique bloodline of the Wi royal family, the only tangible proof of the Azure Scripture before the Crimson Star appeared. No one outside the Wi bloodline could wield it. Or rather, they could lift it, but its weight would make it impossible to use effectively. He remembered the day his father had presented the sword to the people. Even Kyeongseon Joon, a skilled warrior, could barely lift it. But Seong and Hwan had wielded it with ease, their strength a marvel to behold.

Am I truly worthy of this sword? Can I ever imagine wielding this blade, as the founder did, as my ancestors did, even against my own blood?

The sword belonged to another. To Hwan. His swordsmanship was a match for its beauty, his movements as fluid and graceful as the blade itself. Even the pristine white surface and the ornate hilt seemed to mirror his handsome features. Even the Guardian Crimson, who had waited so long to appear, seemed to think him unworthy. Why did Uncle choose me over Hwan? If only Myeonghyeon Seung had made a different choice. Then perhaps he would still be alive, and Hwan would never have left Wicheong Palace. Perhaps they could all have been happy.

Seong's grip tightened on the hilt.

"Why did you summon the High Emissary Divine?"

The sudden voice, cold and sharp, startled Seong. The sword slipped from his grasp, clattering into the chest. He fumbled to retrieve it, the sharp blade slicing into his palms. The sight of his blood staining the pristine surface sent a wave of panic through him. He hesitated, unsure whether to tend to his wounds or clean the blade. Yeong approached, her gaze fixed on his bloodied hands. Seong clenched his fists, his blood staining the floor.

"You couldn't even bother to knock?" Seong spat.

"You were the one who didn't hear me enter," Yeong retorted flatly. "I asked you why you summoned the High Emissary."

Seong glared at her. "He's my Emissary," he said. "I can summon him whenever I wish. What's wrong with that? Do you think I would break my promise after less than a day?"

Yeong ignored his words, her gaze falling to his clenched fists.

"You're bleeding," Yeong observed.

"Thank you for letting me know," Seong muttered.

Seong rummaged through a cabinet and retrieved a jar filled with a greenish-brown powder and some bandages. Yeong watched from a distance as the chest became smeared with blood.

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"Don't just stand there," Seong said. "Help me."

Yeong hesitated, then reluctantly approached him. She picked up the jar, examining it with a curious frown.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's powdered Bul’hu leaves(不朽草)," Seong explained. "It prevents wounds from festering. You won't lose a limb if you apply this."

"Bul’hu Leaves?"

"It doesn't rot, even if you leave it piled up in the hottest summer sun. That's why it's called Bul’hu. You seem to know everything about this world and my life. How do you not know about this trivial thing?" he teased.

"Cause it's trivial," Yeong replied.

Seong held out his hands, the cuts from the sword clearly visible. Yeong, though her eyes were filled with a mixture of doubt and apprehension, opened the jar and carefully scooped out a pinch of the powder. She gently applied it to his wounds, her gaze lingering on the cuts. The memory of that night on the ship, the night she had met Hwan, flashed through her mind. If Hwan ever encountered Seong, he would show no mercy. She imagined the sword slicing through his flesh, and a wave of nausea washed over her. She quickly finished applying the powder. Seong winced, a sharp cry escaping his lips. The Bul’hu powder, as Seong mentioned, prevented amputation, but the pain it caused was so intense, one might immediately pray for amputation.

"Pathetic," Yeong remarked, watching him grimace.

Seong, his face contorted in pain, didn't reply. The burning sensation subsided after a while, and Yeong began wrapping his hands with the bandages. Her movements were clumsy, and Seong winced again as she tightened the bandage.

"That sword is a thousand years old," he remarked. "How can it be so sharp? It was just a graze."

"It was a graze," Yeong countered. "You're just being dramatic."

"I'm the one who's injured," Seong retorted. "I know how much it hurts."

"The Scions heal quickly," Yeong said dismissively.

"Even if we heal quickly, the scars remain."

Yeong, no longer interested in bickering, focused on the bandages. Seong's hands weren't as soft as the baby's skin she had touched earlier, but they were warm and surprisingly smooth. She pulled the bandage tight, securing it with a knot. Seong winced again.

"Please!" he spat.

"I'm done," Yeong said flatly.

The bandages were crudely tied, the blood seeping through the rough cloth. Seong stared at his wounded hands, the deep cuts a stark reminder of his vulnerability. He couldn't help but question his worthiness as a descendant of the legendary founder of Wi, who was said to be impervious to harm. To be injured by his own sword, in a moment of panic, was humiliating. His gaze fell upon the ancestral sword, lying abandoned on the table. He rose and carefully wiped the blood from the blade with a damp cloth, his movements slow and deliberate. Yeong watched him.

"Why are you staring at me?" Seong asked.

"You truly have the blood of the Wi running through your veins anyway," Yeong replied. "Only a true descendant can wield that sword."

"Yeah, it’s surprising to me everytime, either," Seong admitted, his gaze fixed on the blade.

He turned the sword, the gleaming edge catching the light. Yeong's eyes followed his movements.

"You didn't believe in the power of the Scions, yet you acknowledge the legend of this sword?" she asked.

"It’s different," Seong replied.

"It is the same thing," Yeong countered. "One is inherited, the other awakened. But the power is the same."

"And you?" Seong asked, turning to face her. "Is your power inherited or awakened?"

Yeong shook her head. "I don't remember," she replied. "It was simply in me."

Seong wanted to ask about the cost of awakening that power, but he bit his tongue. He doubted she would answer, and a part of him didn't want to know.

"Can you wield this sword?" he asked instead.

"It's the ancestral sword only your bloodline can wield," Yeong replied. "I am not a descendant."

"Try it," Seong said. "I'll help you."

He smiled, but Yeong scoffed. "I know more about that sword than you do. I do not need to touch it myself," she retorted.

"You’ve only seen it, haven’t held it, have you?" Seong insisted.

She cautiously approached him. Seong stepped behind her, his hands reaching out to grasp the hilt. Yeong held the sword, her grip awkward and uncertain. Even with Seong's support, the weight of the blade was almost too much for her to bear. Her gaze fell upon the inscription, Yeom'myeol, and her breath caught in her throat.

"I never thanked you for saving me," Seong said behind her. "I would have died without your help."

"You wouldn't have been in danger if it weren't for me," Yeong said.

"That may be true," Seong conceded, "but you still saved me. It's better to remember who saved you than who put you in danger, wouldn't you agree?"

"Then, isn’t it better for the Myeonghyeon siblings to know the truth you saved them?" Yeong asked.

The smile vanished from Seong's face. Yeong turned to face him.

"You've become a burden, a liability since that night," she stated coldly. "You shouldn't be dwelling on the past."

"I don't want to talk about it," Seong said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Are you truly going to seek out Hwan?" Yeong asked.

"Why else would I threaten you with a dagger?" Seong countered.

"Don't go," Yeong said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous."

A warmth spread through Seong's chest. "Is that why you came?" he asked.

"No. I just... felt compelled to say it."

"You're worried about me?" Seong asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Yeong's eyes widened slightly. Seong was standing close, his arms, still holding the sword, brushing against her. She felt a strange fluttering in her chest and quickly averted her gaze.

"I'm not worried," she said. "I remember what Hwan did to those Emissaries. It would be a tragedy if he did the same to you. You carry the blood of the Guardian."

Despite her dismissive tone, Seong smiled. He found her awkward attempts to hide her concern endearing. He sheathed the sword, his gaze softening.

"How did you know I summoned Norahn?" he asked. "Did you plant spies everywhere after I released you?"

"I summoned him as well," Yeong admitted. "I told him not to go when I heard you had called for him."

"Were you worried I would tell him something?" Seong asked, his brow furrowing. "Is that why you came here so late?"

"You're not one to gossip," Yeong replied.

"Then what am I?" Seong asked.

"Naive and reckless," Yeong said after a moment's silence.

Seong chuckled. "Despite your harsh words, I'm glad you're here," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Because you know me," Seong explained. "You see through my facade. And I have many secrets, just like you."

"I also have secrets," Yeong said.

"You can tell me when you're ready. I won't rush you."

Yeong didn't reply, her gaze fixed on him, her clear eyes unreadable. Seong, mesmerized by their depths, reached out and gently cupped her face in his hands. Yeong stiffened, her eyes widening in surprise. He slowly moved his hands to her shoulders, his grip tightening as he gazed into her eyes. He couldn't look away, couldn't let go. Then, abruptly, he turned and fled.

I'm losing control, Yeong thought. The warmth of his touch still lingered on her skin.