Sleep did not come quietly that night.
Ji-hwan slept beside Seong-min, their hands touching only lightly under the thin cover. He had not spoken since departing the temple.
Nor had Seong-min.
But during the darkness, Ji-hwan slept.
Not of the palace. Not of the now.
Of another existence.
Another name.
The battlefield burned red with flames and blue.
Ji-hwan wore armor that was not his own—bloodied and silver-plated, carrying a sword slick with treachery.
Before him, a young king knelt. Not Seong-min.
But… him.
Same eyes. Same voice. Same pain.
"Why?" the king whispered, a sword pressed to his throat.
"I gave you everything."
Ji-hwan—no, the man he had been—cried.
"I know."
The blade shook. Lowered.
"I couldn't kill you," he said. "So I let them do it."
Ji-hwan woke up with a start.
Sweat stuck to his back. His hands trembled.
Beside him, Seong-min woke up. "Another dream?"
Ji-hwan looked at the ceiling. "No… a memory."
Seong-min sat up, quiet. Waiting.
Ji-hwan's voice cracked. "I killed you. Not in this life. In the first. I betrayed you to save you."
Silence.
Then: "And I forgave you," Seong-min said. "Even then. Didn't I?"
Ji-hwan looked at him. "You did."
Seong-min stroked his cheek. Gently. "Then forgive yourself now."
But Ji-hwan wasn't sure he could.
Because he finally knew:
the prophecy wasn't a curse.
It was a promise.
Of return.
Of choice.
Of cost.
And the black moon was rising.