Page 54 of Reign of the Talon
Seojin was the only boy her wicked, wicked heart ever stumbled for. Except for that childhood kiss, nothing ever happened between them. And now, nothing ever will, because Ryu Seojin is a cruel, uncaring, disloyal, conniving, pig-headed, obtusebastard—
The cruel, uncaring, disloyal, conniving, pig-headed, obtuse bastard yanks her over to another cot and so rudely interrupts her sad wallowing. Underneath the sheets lies a sallow-faced human woman. The venom has taken the left side of her face, and it is clearly too late to save that side of skin. The ravaged skin is red, oozing. Iseul wrinkles her nose. Ugh.
“Ijun,” Seojin greets quietly, dipping the spoon back into the glass vial. “How is the pain today?”
Ijun licks dry lips. She smells of sickness and death. Iseul tries to hold her breath. “My boy,” Ijun rasps. “Where is my boy? Where is Jae?”
“Eomma! Eomma!” A scampering of feet, and then Jae is rushing to the cot, eyes wide. “You’re awake!” He shoves past Iseul, and Seojin tenses, glancing to Iseul…
But she keeps her face carefully blank. And she fights for it to remain so, watching as the child clambers onto the bed, the woman grimacing from the pain of his embrace yet attempting to smile anyway. The smell of death sours further in her nose. Ijun does not have much time left, and her son—Jae—knows it. As Ijun plants a kiss on the top of his black-haired head, Iseul is transported suddenly to a dense thicket, the smell of ferns and pine heavy.
She is a small thing, white-furred and slender, only a kit. She has not yet obtained her human form. Her eomma and appa, in their fox forms, are speaking to her urgently.
They are coming,they’re saying.Run, Iseul. Run.
Iseul can smell them—the sweat, the fire, the pitchforks, the rage and hatred. She wants to know if her parents will run with her. She whimpers nervously, and then in grief as the answer comes to her. Her parents kiss the top of her head, bumping their black noses atop her white fur.
Run, Iseul. Run.
With a firm nudge, her appa sends her off, racing through the forest, scared and small and utterly alone. The sound of heavy feet crashing into the thicket sound behind her.
Keening wails—and then…nothing.
She swallows hard as a familiar rage burns inside of her. It is so dreadfully unfair, for these humans to still know love and family while she is so completely alone.
Yet her fiery rage flickers as she watches this mother hold her son tight, fighting off death for a little while longer, just to be with him.
Ijun takes her medicine, Jae nestled in her arms. Iseul looks away.
“Thank you,” Ijun murmurs. And then Iseul feels her gaze upon her. She forces herself to meet the woman’s eye, expecting to see blame there. Hatred. Disgust.
Instead, she sees something sad and warm. “My mother was part of the 43rd Division,” she says, and Iseul frowns, confused.
“The 43rd?” Seojin asks, equally confused, and Ijun nods, eyes flickering.
“A Bonseyo rebel troop,” she whispers, stroking her son’s hair. “They tried to stop the Fox Hunt. Many of them were killed for their insolence.”
The ground drops out from beneath Iseul’s feet.
“My mother fled to Wyusan. But not before she tried to stop them.” There aretearsin Ijun’s eyes.Lies, Iseul wants to hiss. Yet something…tells her that the woman is honest. “She passed last year. Her only regret was failing the Gumiho.”
“I’ve never heard of this division,” Seojin says, and his eyes are worried as he glances over at Iseul. She sways on her feet. Her face is pale. Sweat beads on her forehead.
Iseul has never heard of the 43rd, either. Not once. Not ever.
“Just as the Gumiho were wiped from the history books, so was the 43rd.” Ijun coughs, and a trickle of blood leaks from her mouth. Jae stares at it and begins to cry. Underneath her son’s wails, Ijun whispers, “But they existed. And they fought.”
The rest goes unsaid, but Iseul hears it as plainly as the cry of a frightened kit in the wilderness.
And they were human.
…
“I’m not sick, Seojin,” she snaps as Seojin all butforcefully pullsherinto the small room they share near the medical bay the moment he is released for a short break. She scowls as Seojin drags her over to the bed and gestures for her to sit down. Seething, Iseul complies, the chain between them rattling awkwardly as she seats herself before him.
“You look ill,” he replies, brows knitted together. Fine, somaybethat’s true. Her face is clammy and damp with a cold sweat. It’s that Ijun woman. She did this to her.
Seojin takes her free wrist in his, measuring her pulse.
