Chapter Text
Rumi dropped to her knees with a hard thud, the hardwood floor biting into her legs as Celine collapsed into her.
Shaky hands flew up on instinct, holding Celine upright. Somehow, she caught her. Somehow, she stayed steady. Celine’s head rested heavily on Rumi’s shoulder, her breath warm and shallow against her neck.
One bloodied hand clutched at Rumi’s soft hoodie, gripping tight. Anchoring herself, refusing to fall all the way.
She was still conscious.
Good.
“Celine?…” Rumi whispered, her voice trembling.
She was scared, scared that if she spoke too loud it would make everything worse, that it might hurt Celine more.
Her throat felt tight.
A few heartbeats passed.
The world felt painfully still. All Rumi could hear was her own pulse thudding in her ears and Celine’s breathing. Shallow, strained, wrong.
"C-could you help me to the kitchen, dear?" Celine finally spoke. Her voice was slow and heavy, each word strained. It took everything she had just to say it.
With a small nod, Rumi shifted her position, carefully angling herself to support Celine. At Celine’s weak signal, Rumi slowly stood, bracing herself as she helped lift the woman to her feet.
It wasn’t easy — Celine was heavy and unsteady, and Rumi had to plant her feet firmly to keep from toppling over.
Together, they began a slow, uneven walk down the hallway. Celine leaned into Rumi like a crutch, her weight pressing down with each step. Her hands clutched Rumi’s small shoulders, firm enough to hold on but never hard enough to hurt her.
It felt like ages before they finally reached the kitchen. Rumi guided Celine to one of the wooden dining chairs, her small hands trembling as she helped ease her down. Panic still clung to her chest, but she pushed it down. Celine needed her now. When Celine opened her mouth to speak, Rumi shook her head and nodded instead, a silent promise already forming.
She turned, eyes darting to the familiar drawer. Her heart still raced, but her breathing began to slow. She dragged a chair across the floor, the legs scraping softly against the wood. Climbing up, she reached for the top drawer where Celine always kept the emergency supplies. Her small fingers gripped the edge, tugging it open.
Her fingers found the edge of the kit and pulled it out. She hopped down carefully, landing with a soft thud, and brought it to the table, placing it in front of Celine with quiet determination.
With a faint smile, Celine gently patted Rumi’s hand. It was soft, comforting, and full of quiet affection. Her touch lingered for a moment before she turned to the supplies, her fingers moving through the kit with slow care. They trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop. There was a steadiness in her now, something calm beneath the pain.
She pulled back the torn fabric of her shirt, revealing three shallow gashes along her abdomen. They stretched in a diagonal line, each about five inches long, clean and precise. The kind of wound that could only come from a claw.
Meanwhile, Rumi brought a small bucket of clean water for Celine to wash the drying blood from her hand and abdomen. She stood quietly at Celine’s side, lips pressed tightly together, eyes wide and focused on every careful movement. She said nothing, only watched, small hands clenched into the fabric of her hoodie.
After cleaning around the wound, Celine dipped a cloth into antiseptic. The sharp scent filled the kitchen, clean and sterile. As she dabbed it against the wounds, her breath caught, a low hiss slipping past her teeth. But she didn’t pause. She stayed focused, if only to keep Rumi from falling into fear.
The air between them held a heavy stillness. It wasn't empty, but thick with worry, love, and something unspoken. Rumi’s presence anchored her, and Celine’s quiet resolve held them both together.
After patching up her deeper wounds, Celine turned her attention to the smaller scrapes and scratches along her arms and legs. Her hands moved gently, cleaning each mark with care, then applying ointment and soft bandages. There was a quiet tenderness in the way she worked — as if reassuring Rumi, without words, that she was still here, still okay.
She then turned her attention to Rumi who had been watching the entire process in silence.
The worry had not completely left the girl’s eyes, a flicker of fear still lingered there but it had softened.
She was reassured now. Celine was not fine, not exactly, but she was safe. Alive. Steady enough to tend to herself. That was more than Rumi could have hoped for just minutes ago.
"Rumi"
Rumi’s eyes darted to Celine’s, a silent conversation passing between them.
I’m here.
You're hurt
Don’t worry.
I love you.
I love you too.
“Can you help me with my face, dear?” Celine asked softly. A faint chuckle escaped her, though it turned into a wince. “I can’t quite see the dirt and scratches,” she admitted.
Rumi’s eyes widened, and she stepped forward without hesitation, her small hands hovering uncertainly.
Celine smiled despite the sting in her cheek. “Here, like this,” she murmured, guiding the child’s hands. Rumi followed every instruction with careful concentration, her brows knit in determination.
Rumi treated Celine with the same care she remembered receiving whenever she came to her with scraped knees and tiny cuts from playing. Her touch was gentle and soft, a quiet attempt to return the kindness Celine had always shown her.
Celine watched Rumi with quiet fondness, a small smile never leaving her lips as the little one tended to her. The girl’s face was set in determined concentration, carefully cleaning and disinfecting each scratch.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered—the pain, the fatigue—none of it compared to the warmth blooming in Celine’s chest as she watched Rumi care for her.
When she was done, Rumi hurried off and took two adhesive bandages from the kit, the kind she always thought made scrapes feel better. She stuck one carefully just above Celine’s left eyebrow and the other on her right cheek, a few centimeters above her lips.
With both hands, she gave them a gentle little pat—just like Celine used to do for her—before stepping back to inspect her work. Her brow, once furrowed with worry, now lifted into a beaming smile.
“There! All better!” she declared, as if her bandages had worked pure magic.
And in a way, they had. Not the bandages themselves, but Rumi. Celine already felt lighter, warmer, just from watching her patch her up. Just like magic.
With an appreciative hum, Celine took Rumi’s small hand in hers. “Thank you, dear,” she said softly. “I’m already feeling so much better.”
Rumi’s smile brightened, her voice full of earnest warmth. “Anytime, Celine,” she replied.
"I love you Celine"
"I love you too, Rumi"
It had been a week since that night.
A week since Celine had come home late, bloodied and injured.
A week since she’d truly rested.
With a weary sigh, she set down the paper she’d been holding. Seated at her desk in the quiet of her bedroom, she leaned forward, resting her forehead in the palm of her hand, elbow propped against the wood.
The clock read 11:45 p.m., its ticking loud in the stillness.
There had been five more tears in the honeymoon since that night. None as large as the one before, and with fewer demons, but still—five more than Celine would have liked.
She had tucked Rumi into bed an hour ago. The poor child had been waiting by the door when Celine left to hunt earlier, her small figure silhouetted in the lamplight. Since that night, Rumi’s worry had only deepened, she always asked to come along, “just in case something goes wrong.”
“She’s not ready yet,” Celine murmured to herself, shaking her head.
“Too young.”
The words lingered in her mind, heavy with resolve. She could still see Rumi’s face from that night—the wide eyes, the shock, the fear etched deep.
That memory clung to her like a shadow.
“I need to find the others soon.”
Celine gathered the scattered papers on her desk, aligning the edges with practiced precision before stacking them neatly. She lingered for a moment, fingertips resting on the pile, then pushed her chair back and rose.
Crossing the quiet room, she sat on the edge of her bed and reached for the lamp. A soft click, and the warm light vanished, leaving the room in muted shadow. With a slow exhale, she lay back against the mattress, the day’s weight sinking into her bones.
She lay still, gazing up at the ceiling as the faint blue glow of the honmoon seeped through the window. Tonight, its gentle hum carried a melody that slipped through the glass and into her bones, easing her into stillness.
She needs to find the other hunters soon.
She can't do this alone.
Rumi can't do it alone.
But right now, she needs to sleep
It was a peaceful night at the estate, the wind blowing softly, trees and grass swaying in gentle rhythm.
It was 3:30 a.m.
The moon shining brightly through the window, casting a narrow streak of silver across the darkened room.
In the middle of the bed lay Celine, curled on her side with one arm tucked beneath her pillow and the other draped loosely over the blanket.
Her breathing was slow and steady, a soft snore escaping now and then—the first truly peaceful sleep she’d had since that night.
The door eased open without a sound, too quiet, as if whoever entered wished to go unnoticed.
A shadow slipped inside, moving with measured steps toward the desk. It paused there, its gaze lingering on the neatly stacked papers, fingers hovering but never touching.
Then, almost soundlessly, it drifted toward the bed. Celine lay in peaceful slumber, unaware.
The figure stood over her, watching… studying. A hand began to reach out.
The honmoon screamed.
Threads pulsed, the honmoon’s glow surging in jagged bursts across the floor and walls, warning the woman on the bed.
Celine’s eyes snapped open, heart slamming against her ribs.
Her gaze locked on the silhouette beside her bed. Sharp claws stretched toward her, glinting in the dim light. Its ears were long and pointed, its mouth lined with two fangs jutting from the upper jaw and one from the lower. Jagged markings crawled over its skin like cracks in stone, each one pulsing with a harsh, unnatural purple glow.
In an instant, her instincts took over. With her nearer hand, she seized the demon’s collar, and at the same time summoned her starlight weapon, the saingeom—the honmoon answering her call without hesitation.
A faint blue glow flared to life in her palm, threads of light weaving into a long, straight blade. Its edge gleamed like moonlit glass, humming softly as if alive.
With the creature pinned in place, she drew back to strike—then froze.
A pair of familiar brown eyes locked onto hers.
Mi-yeong
No.
"Rumi?"
Under the moonlight’s glow, she saw Rumi’s face clearly now, her small body stiff with fear, tears already spilling down her cheeks.
The sight burned through Celine’s chest. She let go of the girl’s collar as if it had seared her skin, her weapon dissolving into fading wisps of blue light.
“I’m so sorry,” Celine breathed.
Slowly, she reached toward Rumi, and when the little one made no move to pull away, her fingers gently threaded through the girl’s hair.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“I’m okay.”
Celine’s gaze lingered on the drying tear tracks along Rumi’s cheeks, her frown deepening. “Then why are you crying?” she asked softly, her hand sliding down to brush the tears away.
Rumi broke eye contact, her lips pressing into a thin line.
She hesitated, brushing away the last traces of tears before muttering, “I can’t stop thinking about what happened last week… and I keep having bad dreams about you getting hurt really badly again.”
Oh Rumi…
“I don’t want to lose you too, Celine,” Rumi confessed, her gaze lifting to meet Celine’s. Her eyes were wide with fear—not of her, not anymore, but for her.
“Like how we lost mom,” she added, her voice trembling as fresh tears welled and shimmered in the moonlight.
Oh my sweet Rumi
Celine wanted to reassure her, to tell her it would never happen, to promise she would always come home.
The words sat on her tongue, aching to be spoken. But to let them slip free would be cruel, wouldn’t it?
To hand Rumi a promise she couldn’t be sure she could keep—especially when the road ahead was nothing but shadow and uncertainty.
She knew too well how fragile such vows were, how easily they could shatter. She had learned it in the worst way possible.
After all, Mi-yeong had once made the same promise.
With trembling lips, she finally spoke. “Sweetie…”
Instead, she asked, “Would you like some company while you sleep?” It wasn’t what Rumi truly wanted to hear—Celine knew that—but it was the most she could give. Doubt flickered in the girl’s eyes, lingering for a heartbeat before she nodded anyway.
Celine gave a small smile and shifted to the left side of the bed, making space for Rumi. Once they were both settled, lying side by side, Celine spoke again.
“I’m sorry, Rumi. I’m just… not used to having you here with me yet.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll check up on you every night,” Celine added softly, “and even sing you a song to help you sleep.” she said as she reached for the blanket and carefully draped it over them, tucking the edges in just enough to keep the night’s chill away.
Rumi smiled at that, the faintest glimmer of relief in her eyes. Celine took the girl’s small hand and sandwiched it between her own, holding it as if to keep her there forever.
“So promise me you won’t sneak up on me again.”
Well, wasn’t that ironic?
“Okay?”
Rumi nodded, her free hand lifting. All her fingers curled in except for her pinky.
A promise… when you can’t make one yourself?
“I pinky promise,” she said.
But it's alright.
Celine smiled, lifting her own hand to hook her pinky with Rumi’s. Their fingers locked, and the two shared a quiet smile.
This one was just a simple promise.
Just as her breathing began to slow, Rumi murmured drowsily, words slurring at the edges.
“…love you, Celine.”
“I love you too, Rumi.”
The honmoon’s threads pulsed with quiet delight, basking in the calm that had settled over them. It could feel the warmth between them, the love flowing as clear as starlight, and it swelled with joy.
Right?
Yet again, fate was cruel.
Celine should’ve learned from the first time.
But she hadn’t.
She still clung to that warmth, even knowing how easily it could be ripped away.
Celine’s grip on the sickle tightened until her knuckles blanched, the cold metal biting into her palm.
She heard it then, the honmoon’s screams, raw and aching, not just a cry but a plea. It begged, it wept, it called out for help.
Help
It trembled. Celine watched as the wounded threads of the honmoon unraveled outward, splitting and fraying like torn sinew, each quivering strand shuddering with a pain so raw it made her chest ache.
Please
"How did this happen?"
Save
“Rumi… they were about to…” She shook her head, the words breaking apart before they could leave her lips.
Her breath hitched.
Something loomed behind her—not someone, but something—its presence vast and crushing, a force so immense it rippled through the air and made the honmoon shudder to its very threads.
With a sharp twist, she swung around, sickle pointed toward the source. Her grip tightened, left foot sliding ahead of the right as she braced herself to block or strike at a moment’s notice.
A pair of familiar brown eyes locked onto hers.
A pair of eyes locked into hers, one brown she had known for years, the other a golden amber, unfamiliar, glowing unnaturally.
Fate is cruel indeed.