Seori The Wounds We Choose
Seori
The Wounds We Choose
The sky was still black when the first scream hit the Guild walls. I bolted upright, hand already on my blade. Smoke—sharp and bitter—curled under the door before I could even steady my breathing.
The Guild was on fire, and blood filled the air like a curse. Through the chaos, I saw figures in the smoke—shadow-cloaked, too fast to be human.
Demon signatures.
Jisoo.
Taeyang.
They came for him. I sprinted toward the shrine. The warded floor was scorched. The chains that held Rheon shattered—no, melted. The stone cracked from where he must’ve fought to get free.
He was loose.
The hunter in me screamed to act. But the bond—gods, the bond—screamed louder.
I felt him.
Through the smoke. Through the fear.
Alive.
And moving fast. I followed chaos through the Guild corridors, slipping past enforcers battling shadows that clawed from the walls. Taeyang was a storm—blades swinging in brutal arcs, his magic tearing through steel.
Jisoo smiled like a devil as he launched spells like falling stars. But Rheon— Rheon didn’t fight. He ran.
Swift. Silent. Purposeful.
I chased him, hiding in the flames, half-blinded by smoke and guilt. I had to see for myself what he would do once he was free. And that’s when I saw her.
The ceiling cracked as they passed the inner hall.
A child—maybe ten—barely able to stand, stumbled into the corridor from one of the dorm rooms. Guild robes, too large. Eyes wide with terror.
The beam above her groaned. No one else saw her.
No one… except Rheon. Time slowed. He could’ve run past her. Should have. The Guild had chained him. Branded him. Nearly bled him dry. But he didn’t. He lunged for her, just as the ceiling gave.
The girl screamed.
Rheon slammed his body over hers, shielding her with his own. The debris crashed down, fire raining from the rafters. When it cleared— He was still there. Still shielding. Still breathing. I stood frozen, blade half-drawn, breath caught in my throat. I didn’t understand.
He was a demon. He should’ve let her die. But he didn’t. He rose slowly, carrying the child—burnt, shaking, but alive—into the arms of a stunned apprentice.
He never looked at me. He didn’t need to. Because I already knew.
Something’s wrong with the oath I swore.
Because nothing in my training prepared me for a demon who chooses mercy.
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That night, long after the fires died, I sat in my room in silence. The mark pulsed faintly under my skin.
And I whispered to myself, like a sin:
“He saved her.”
I was trained to see monsters. But no one warned me what to do when one saves a life instead of taking it.