In the North, they spoke her name the way one might speak of winter—softly, reverently, as if afraid the cold might hear and come too soon. Every settlement, every barrack, every corner tavern told a different version of her, yet all agreed on one thing: she was not quite human.
They said she was born during a siege that lasted seven nights, her first cry louder than the horns that called men to war. That the blood of the dying turned to frost where it touched her skin. That when she walked the battlefield, even the carrion birds stilled their wings. None could say for certain which story was true—only that she existed, and that was enough.
They called her Foxglove, the Sorceress of the North.
No one could quite agree on what she looked like. Some said she was a pale wraith who walked with her feet never touching snow. Others said her hair was dark as burnt sage, her eyes ultraviolet. One story claimed she'd once been human, before the gods cursed her for learning the names of too many herbs. Another said she'd died once already, and simply refused to stay that way.
Among the battalion ranks, her legend was a weapon of its own. Recruits marched into battle whispering prayers not to their saints, but to her — asking that her curses fall upon their enemies, not themselves. They painted foxglove petals onto their shields, crude and uneven, the color of dried blood. Even the high-born officers who sneered at superstition never dared to cross her. When the Sorceress entered a war council, the room grew colder, quieter, like a chapel before a funeral.
Among the priests, her name was rarely spoken. To them, Foxglove was an abomination — a reminder of the gods' silence. Her art was considered heresy: a communion with death rather than the divine. Yet, when the border wars flared and the North was losing men faster than it could bury them, even the priests prayed for her intervention. They justified it later, saying that perhaps the gods had sent her to do their work in shadow.
The common folk had their own versions. Farmers left foxglove blossoms on their doorsteps before planting, praying the Sorceress would keep their crops safe from frost. Children were told stories of her to make them sleep — or to make them behave. "If you lie," mothers whispered, "Foxglove will hear you from the mountain pass. She'll whisper your name into the frost, and the frost will come for you." But in taverns where soldiers drank, her name was uttered like a toast, a half-proud invocation: our witch, our poison, our shield.
They spoke of how she purified poisoned wells, how she brewed medicine from flowers that killed lesser men. Her magic, they said, was both a poison and a cure, and that was what made her divine. Beneath the superstition, there was pride — a grim, defiant kind. She is ours, they would say. Let the South have their saints. We have our witch.
In the high halls of the Northern Council, her name carried a different weight. To the generals and the old priests, Foxglove was a weapon too powerful to praise aloud. Her art was a remnant of the Old Ways — cursecraft born from blood and breath, outlawed in most kingdoms yet tolerated here because it had saved them time and again. They feared her as much as they depended on her. Some whispered that she had long since ceased to be human, that the magic had hollowed her out until nothing was left but frost and obedience.
The Northerners revered her not merely for her power, but for what she represented: the last remnant of their old magic; the kind that was born from nature's cruelty and beauty alike. Foxglove was proof that the North still breathed — that its spirits had not abandoned them even as the world changed. When she walked through the fortress halls, the soldiers would bow their heads, not out of command, but reverence. Her presence carried an unspoken weight: the scent of hemlock and steel, the hush of snow about to fall.
And yet, for all the worship and fear, no one truly knew the woman behind the myth. The rare few who had seen her up close spoke of an unsettling quiet—a silence that stretched longer than comfort allowed. Her robes were the color of ink and ash, stitched with talismans that pulsed faintly when she breathed. When she moved, she did so with the weightless grace of snowfall; when she spoke, her voice carried the calm of a blade already drawn.
The great hall of the Citadel smelled of melted wax and incense, an old mixture meant to mask the damp that crept in through the stone. Its towers caught the pale light of dawn like shards of a broken blade, and its people moved through the cold as if born to it. Every Northerner had a story of Foxglove. Every Northerner claimed, in some way, to have seen her shadow once. But now, as she passed through the gates in silence, even the most seasoned men forgot their tongues.
The soldiers at the inner gates stilled mid-step, their armor chiming faintly in the frost. A young sentry dared a glance at her hands, where faint sigils pulsed like veins of ice beneath her skin. He muttered a prayer under his breath — not to the gods, but to her.
She passed him without a word.
The halls of the Northern Citadel were quieter now than they had been during the war. Once, they thrummed with messengers, soldiers, and healers rushing through smoke-stained corridors. Now, the echoes of their boots had softened into an almost reverent hush. The banners that had once fluttered in blood-red and black were replaced with pale blue — the color of peace, of thawing ice.
Her boots whispered against the polished stone. Frost trailed briefly in her wake — not real frost, but a lingering shimmer that seemed to gather wherever she went, like the ghost of her own legend following close behind.
"Foxglove," he greeted, inclining his head just enough to be respectful but never fearful. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"You summoned me, Minister. I assumed it was urgent." She regarded him with the same flat composure she offered all her superiors. "Is the truce broken already?"
Daeryeong blinked. "Truce? No, no, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually." He gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing, her cloak pooling like dark water around her boots. He smiled anyway, unbothered by her frost. "In fact, I wanted to speak with you about life. About peace."
Cho Daeryeong was a tall, spare man, silver beginning to streak his hair, the corners of his eyes softened by years of smiling too much for someone in politics. He moved without the stiffness of the councilmen she'd seen before; his presence filled the room not with authority, but with warmth. He gestured toward the chair across from him.
He leaned back, folding his hands neatly over the council desk — a relic of pre-war governance, its surface scarred with years of debates and decrees. "You see, Lady Foxglove, our people are rebuilding. The North and South stand as one for the first time in a century. It's a fragile thing, but it's growing roots. People are planting again. Marriages between old enemies, children born without banners. Life returns to the soil when we stop feeding it blood."
Her expression didn't shift. "And what has that to do with me?"
Daeryeong hesitated for half a breath, then smiled — the faint, nervous smile of a man about to test the patience of a living legend. "Everything," he said lightly. "You've been the face of our struggle for so long — the North's protector, the embodiment of its will. You've given everything to the war. But now…" His eyes softened. "Now there is a world beyond it. You should have a chance to live in it, too."
She regarded him silently, the faint flicker of the council's hearth reflecting in her violet-tinged eyes. It almost looked like she was trying to discern whether this was a trap, or a joke. "You brought me here," she said slowly, "to… convince me to enjoy peace?"
Daeryeong's eyes, bright and unthreatening, held a glint of mischief. "Tell me, Lady Foxglove," he began, "how long has it been since you went on a date?"
Foxglove blinked once. "You summoned me to the Citadel," she said, her tone utterly flat, "to arrange a date."
"Yes," he said cheerfully, as if discussing budget reports. "Dinner. Conversation. Something ordinary." He leaned back in his chair. "The Republic is rebuilding. The world has gone from battlefields to dinner tables, from curses to coffee. You, of all people, deserve to remember what living feels like."
"True," he said. "But it can be a beginning. The North is healing, and so should you." He leaned back, hands clasped. "I hear that some of the Southern task force men will be stationed here for the reconstruction project. Perhaps one of them would make for… tolerable company?"
Her eyes flickered up — just a small movement, but he noticed. A shadow of recognition, irritation, and something unspoken.
Daeryeong folded his hands together, his tone perfectly diplomatic. "There's a rumor circulating in the Southern Order. Something about one of their Task Force Delta men developing… an attachment."
Foxglove internally thanked herself for the glowing runes across her skin making the sweat dropping down her head less noticeable. Her mission that had been hunting down to end Kang Taemin of Task Force Delta had been confidential, meaning only the highest ups knew about it. Cho Daeryeong, was not one of those people in the know.
For the first time in a long while, she did not have a ready reply. Outside, the sun was melting the last of the frost from the Citadel's walls, the light refracting into a thousand glimmers on the snow below. Somewhere in that brightness, in that tentative quiet, the world was trying to start over.
And whether she liked it or not, it seemed determined to take her with it.
The sky over the Northern capital had begun to bruise into evening — pale lavender deepening toward indigo, the streets slick with the last of the melting frost.
Her reflection caught briefly in a shop window. For a moment, even she almost didn't recognize herself. The white hair was gone, replaced by the soft black of her natural color, pulled into a simple braid that fell down her shoulder. The faint glow that used to shimmer beneath her skin had faded entirely, and her eyes—once illuminated by a blinding light if you had dared to meet her direct gaze—were now softer, human-like. Her coat was plain wool, the kind any civil servant might wear. Just a woman waiting for a ride.
But the cabs kept passing her.
For a fleeting second, the thought crossed her mind: If I were Foxglove right now, this wouldn't be a problem.
In that other face —with silver hair like spun frost and eyes that gleamed like glowing amethyst— she could have raised a hand and the streets would have parted. People would have offered not just their cars but their silence, their service, their obedience; the North revered the Sorceress like a living saint.
But that was exactly why she couldn't. Attention, even reverent attention, was a dangerous thing. The kind that gathered eyes and questions she did not want. So she stayed as Bora — an ordinary woman, invisible and inconveniently human. She shifted her weight, hands buried deep in her coat pockets, her thoughts drifting absently back to Cho Daeryeong's well-meaning words at the Citadel. Try to live, he'd said. As if living were something one could simply choose to resume after so many years spent surviving.
The wind carried the smell of pine and snowmelt. She was still thinking of the absurd conversation —the tea, the suggestion of a date— when a prickle ran down her spine. A subtle wrongness, almost imperceptible but unmistakable. Someone was nearby; watching.
Her body reacted before her mind caught up.
In one fluid motion, she twisted on her heel, her handbag whipping through the air like a striking weapon. The leather thudded against an arm —a firm, solid block— and the man who'd caught it absorbed the blow with surprising ease.
"What the—?" His voice was startled, low, and before she could fully register it, he'd already caught her wrist. He had reflexes — fast ones.
Bora shifted, feinted with a punch to his ribs, then pivoted and kicked at his knee. Her boot connected with a satisfying thud, and only when the man hissed in pain and stumbled back did she finally see his face in the dim streetlight.
"Kang Taemin," she breathed.
Her arm went slack. The face over the steady hands was one she had only ever spared short, hostile glances for: Kang Taemin. He wore a simple coat, the collar turned up, the same plainness that made him look younger than his rank suggested. Up close, the scar along his jaw was a pale slash; his eyes were steady and, for a heartbeat, unreadable.
He straightened, rubbing his leg, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. "I wasn't expecting a handbag assault," he said dryly. "But good reflexes, though. I'll give you that."
Bora blinked once, twice, then immediately lowered her hands. "I thought you were a street burglar," she said quickly, her tone clipped with embarrassment. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."
"I wasn't sneaking," Taemin replied, brushing off his coat. "I was walking. You're the one who nearly gave me a concussion with a purse."
Her eyes flicked away. "Old habit."
His gaze softened slightly, though the amusement never quite left it. "That's… one way to put it." He tilted his head, studying her as though seeing —or paying attention to— her for the first time. "You're far from the capital, Miss Choi. What brings you out here?"
"An errand," she quipped simply, not wanting to reveal too much— that she had just been at the Council Citadel.
He raised an eyebrow. "An errand that involves attacking pedestrians?"
"Only suspicious ones."
Taemin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Fair enough." He didn't press further, though she could tell he was curious; he always was.
She tilted her head slightly. "And you? What are you doing here? Is your squad with you?"
His expression shifted, closing off almost imperceptibly. "Business," he said vaguely. "Just business. The guys are around somewhere."
"That's… not an answer."
"Didn't think you were the curious type."
"I'm not," she said, but her voice softened around the lie.
Something flickered in her eyes. Back when they'd met in passing—her as Bora, them as distant acquaintances—none of the men had ever mentioned what they actually did. They'd laughed, made small talk, teased each other like old friends, but never once had she heard the words Task Force Delta. They never mentioned their occupations, never spoke of the war, never addressed each other as if they were part of the same unit.
And yet, when she'd been Foxglove, the same five men had been soldiers—operatives working the Southern line, deadly efficient, known across both sides. The thought lingered like a thread she couldn't quite untangle.
Bora stored the thought quietly in the back of her mind. Secrets had weight, and she'd learned long ago that some only revealed themselves in their own time.
A cab finally slowed, its headlights cutting through the mist. The driver rolled down his window and looked between them warily.
Taemin took a step back. "Looks like you finally caught one."
"Apparently I just needed to start hitting people," she said.
He smiled at that — a real one, faint but genuine. "Take care, Miss Choi."
"You too, Mr. Kang."
She slipped into the backseat, the door closing softly behind her. As the cab pulled away, she glanced back through the rear window. Taemin still stood at the curb, hands in his pockets, watching her go.
The city lights blurred into motion. Bora sighed, her reflection in the glass faint and human — no silver hair, no glowing eyes, no marks of power. Just a woman returning home, clutching her handbag and the uneasy thought that peace had a way of hiding its wars in plain sight.
She leaned back into the sofa cushions, letting the silence of the penthouse seep into her bones. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound. Yet… something felt wrong. A subtle unease prickled against her senses. She stilled, frowning. The air carried a faint chill that hadn't been there before, curling along her skin in ghostly wisps.
Slowly, her eyes shifted to the far end of the living space. The curtains swayed lightly against the night breeze, and her heart stopped. The balcony door was ajar, letting in the cold air from outside.
Her pulse quickened. That door had been shut. She knew it had been.