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Rumi is seven years old the first time she and Celine spar.
She’s been training since she was three. First for thirty minutes a day, then for an hour, now for three hours, they've worked on developing her strength and flexibility. Celine has mercilessly drilled Rumi in TaeKwonDo forms, with and without weapons. She hopes they will help the girl find balance; teach her to center herself.
By the time she turns seven, Rumi’s forms are perfect and the girl is almost disturbingly centered. So when she begs to spar, not for the first time—I have to learn to fight if I’m going to turn the Honmoon gold and fix myself, Celine!—Celine hesitates only a moment before inclining her head and gesturing at the rack of wooden practice weapons.
Beaming, Rumi races over and begins her perusal of the options. She passes over the gok-do and the shin-kal. She hesitates at the scythes, giving Celine a shy glance, but keeps going. She stops at the geom, tugging it awkwardly off of its shelf. She’s used the sword in forms, but this is a different matter and it’s clear Rumi realizes that.
She cautiously swings the weapon in circles, accustoming herself to the weight—too much for a child, but she’ll grow into it—as Celine claims her scythes. Celine rolls her neck and shoulders, loosening up, then leads Rumi into the practice ring.
“Bow,” she says. Then, “Begin.”
She should be easy on the girl. Rumi has watched Celine on hunts, but she’s never fought another person. And she’s small, so small.
But Rumi lifts her sword, her little face set in an intent frown, and races towards her, and instinct has Celine countering with a blow that knocks the sword from her hands and sends the girl sprawling on the ground.
“Again,” Celine says.
Rumi blinks rapidly, surprised rather than hurt, as she clambers to her feet and retrieves the sword.
“Bow. Begin.”
Celine blocks Rumi’s first strike and then uses a low spin kick to sweep her legs out from under her.
“Again.”
Rumi doesn’t race in this time. Instead, she circles slowly, searching for an opening.
Celine doesn’t give her one. Instead, she springs forward, fakes with the scythe in her left hand and slices the blunt tip of the one in her right across Rumi’s shoulder, sending her to the ground once more.
“You’d be dead if this were a real fight,” Celine says, watching her struggle to her feet. “Again.”
Rumi’s chin trembles and one hand grasps her shoulder, where Celine’s scythe dug in hard enough for her to bruise. Still, ever obedient, she gets up.
They go again and again. Each time, Rumi ends up in the dirt. There’s a bruise on her left elbow. Then a scrape along her right calf. Scratches on her right forearm.
Each time, Celine says, “Again.” She doesn’t offer instruction. Experience is the best teacher; the child must learn from her failures.
Eventually, Rumi is exhausted. Her clothes are filthy. “Celine,” she says tentatively, the first time she’s spoken since they started. “Can we be done for today?”
Celine heaves a sigh, disappointed. “Demons will not quit because you’re a little tired, Rumi. Again.”
She surges forward, scythe arcing towards the top of Rumi’s head, but something must finally click for the girl. Rumi’s arm shoots up with impressive speed and she blocks with the sword, though it drops under the force of Celine’s swing. The girl twists out from under her, aiming a kick at Celine’s knee. Celine gracefully dances out of the way and spins, slashing at Rumi’s exposed side.
But Rumi isn’t where she was at the beginning of Celine’s spin. She slips into Celine’s blind spot and it’s only the instinct of decades of training that lets Celine block Rumi’s thrust.
Celine steps back and circles, eyes narrowed, heart racing. Too fast. The girl is too fast. It isn’t natural. It’s…
Demonic.
She glances at Rumi’s shoulder and there it is, a tiny, almost innocuous, streak of purple.
Celine growls, a haze settling over her vision, and lunges forward with a rapid flurry of blows. Rumi’s eyes go wide as she staggers backwards, blocking the first strike, dodging the second. She barely avoids the third swing. She never even sees Celine’s foot coming towards her head in a savage round kick.
The kick, hard enough to break a board, sends Rumi’s small body flying. She lands in a crumpled heap.
Celine’s breath stops. She didn’t mean to—she never wanted to—
She’s never struck Rumi before. The thought of intentionally harming Mi-yeong’s child is obscene.
“Get up,” Celine says, voice cold to disguise her fear.
Rumi doesn’t move.
For a moment, Celine feels like the lowest form of scum. Has she become an abuser like her own father?
But no. That isn’t right. This is training. It was a training accident. Those are bound to happen. Rumi should have blocked or gotten out of the way. And she’ll be fine. Children, especially half-demon children, are resilient.
“Rumi, get up.”
When the girl still doesn’t stir, Celine crouches and gingerly grips her by the chin, tilting her head. She winces at the ugly bruise already forming at her temple. Rumi’s eyes are partially open but unfocused.
“Ce—Celine?” Rumi slurs.
“You’re all right,” Celine tells her. “Come on. I’ll make us some lunch.” She helps the girl to her feet, careful not to let her fingers brush against that horrifying splash of purple. “Put your weapon away and clean up.”
Rumi stumbles as she complies. There’s a pang of some unidentifiable emotion in Celine’s chest as she watches the small, so small, girl wrestle the sword back onto the rack.
Good work, she imagines saying.
Instead, she says nothing at all.
By ten, Rumi has become a fierce fighter. Incredibly advanced for her age—for any age, really. She and Celine spar for hours every day, after which Celine sets her to doing drills until she can hardly move. The girl is always covered in bruises and scrapes, but they’re earned honestly and they’re exactly what she needs. Every day, Rumi gets a little stronger, a little faster.
A little too strong, Celine thinks sometimes. A little too fast.
Rumi has to be the best. Celine knows this. It’s the only way the girl will ever fulfill her destiny, wash away the shame of her unclean existence. But it’s the human in Rumi that must excel, not her demon side. Sometimes it’s disturbingly difficult to tell the two apart.
“It’s time for you to receive your weapon from the Honmoon,” Celine decides on a random Tuesday when she looks at Rumi and, for whatever reason, sees Mi-yeong and not the creature that took Mi-yeong’s life. (Rumi’s demon father. That’s what Celine means. Rumi isn’t a creature. She’s the closest thing Celine will ever have to a daughter.)
(Celine will never have a daughter.)
Rumi’s smiles are never as big now as they used to be. Still, her eyes light up at this pronouncement. She hurries to finish her breakfast.
Outside, Celine explains the process. “Reach for the Honmoon. Feel it in your soul. Visualize your geom appearing in your hand.”
Rumi squeezes her eyes shut and holds her hand out.
The seconds tick by. Eventually, Rumi opens her eyes, shoulders sagging. “What am I doing wrong?”
“You aren’t trying hard enough.”
Rumi wants to protest. Celine can see it in her eyes. Instead, she nods, accepting the familiar criticism, and closes her eyes again.
Still nothing.
Celine exhales. “Very well.” She strides over to the well-used weapons rack. “We’ll try something else.” She retrieves her scythes and takes a fighting stance. “When you fight a demon, your Honmoon weapon and your body will be your only protection. I suggest you find a way to defend yourself.”
With that said, she swings into motion.
It’s been a long time since she truly dominated their matches, though of course Rumi has never won against her. The girl has gotten good at dodging and blocking.
They’ve never fought this way, though, with Rumi unarmed. There’s a flash of terror in the girl’s eyes before she back flips out of the way of a strike. She blocks the next blow with her forearm, wincing as the wooden scythe smacks into her.
Celine shakes her head. “Don’t cheat, Rumi. You can’t block an edged weapon with your arm unless you’re prepared to lose it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Rumi protests, but Celine has already moved on.
“Focus. Summon your sword.”
Again, Celine attacks. Rumi stretches her arm out, desperately reaching for the Honmoon, and takes a kick to the side that sends her stumbling.
“Again.”
“Again.”
Bruises blossom on Rumi’s face, her arms. More than she’s carried in a long time.
Rumi is getting tired. So is Celine. Instead of slowing down, though, she goes harder. Demons won’t relent, which means Celine can’t either. Rumi must never expect a demon to be merciful. They don’t know the meaning of the word.
They slowly circle each other, sweating dripping into their eyes. Celine decides to try a different tactic.
“I know you’re trying, Rumi, but it’s not good enough.” Her voice is soft. “If you can’t even protect yourself, can’t do this little thing I’m asking of you, how will you ever be able to protect the other hunters?”
Rumi goes still. Ever since she was a little girl (she is still a little girl) Celine has told her of the other two hunters, the ones whose souls and voices will harmonize with hers. Celine knows that Rumi longs for the day they will finally meet. Rumi, who has never been around other children—who knows few adults other than Celine—imagines the other hunters will mean an end to her loneliness, her isolation.
She’s wrong, but Celine hasn’t yet found the right time to shatter that dream.
“I will protect them,” Rumi vows. The fatigue washes off her face.
“Then prove it.”
Celine attacks. Between one blow and the next, there is a hum and a flash of light, and before she quite knows what has happened, a gleaming blue Saingeom slices through both of her practice scythes, sending the loose ends flying.
Terror at finding herself suddenly unarmed drives Celine to toss away the useless handles and call her own Honmoon weapons. She doesn’t look at Rumi’s face, doesn’t pause to see how the girl stares in wonder at the magnificent sword clenched in those too-small hands. Instead, she moves like lightning as she uses the curved edges of her scythes to rip the sword away, then snaps out a front kick that smashes against her opponent’s solar plexus.
Rumi falls to her knees, gasping for air with lungs that aren't quite working. The glowing Saingeom lies in the dirt for a moment, then fizzles away as if it never existed.
Celine, panting, stares down at the girl.
She didn’t truly think Rumi would be able to retrieve her weapon this young. It should be impossible. Celine was nineteen when the Honmoon gifted her with the scythes. She spent weeks trying, under the patient coaching of her mentor. She’ll never forget the way Mi-yeong glowed when Celine succeeded at last.
Celine lets the scythes go. She fights to catch her breath, to slow her heart.
Impressive, she imagines telling the girl. You are a credit to your training.
“Don’t ever drop your sword,” she says instead, and leaves the girl to pick herself up.
When Rumi is eleven, Celine takes her demon hunting for the first time. Correction: she has Rumi participate in a hunt for the first time. Rumi has seen countless hunts by now, but always from a safe distance. Celine has always believed it’s important for Rumi to know how foul, how loathsome, how utterly diabolical demons are.
“Don’t hesitate,” she tells her now as they wait for the tear in the Honmoon to spit out its monsters. “Innocent lives are at stake.”
“I won’t,” Rumi promises, her Saingeom held firmly in both hands.
She’s almost preternaturally calm as they wait, as if she’s truly prepared, as if she isn’t afraid.
The tear widens and two demons emerge. Celine relaxes a little as Rumi races towards them. These are the perfect targets for Rumi to face for her first real fight. The hulking brutes are strong, yes, but they’re slow and not terribly intelligent. Rumi should be able to—
The demons are dead.
Celine blinks. Rumi turns, Saingeom raised, as she looks for other targets. For a lingering moment there’s a haze of purple in the air—the only sign the demons were ever there—and then even that’s gone. The Honmoon seals itself and the silence that follows weighs on Celine like a chain around her throat.
She’s never seen a demon kill another demon. Rumi did it so quickly Celine didn’t even register it happening. She’s proud, but that pride is drowned under an ocean of terror.
What has she done? What monster has she created?
“Celine!” Rumi says, running back to her, eyes sparkling. “Celine, I did it!”
“Yes,” Celine says numbly. “We’re going home.”
Rumi no longer droops when Celine fails to congratulate her for successes. She just nods as if the cold response is expected and begins walking towards their car.
Celine watches her go, watches the way her long purple braid swings with each step. “Wait.”
Rumi turns, a tentative glimmer of hope on that small face.
“Those were not the right demons for your first experience,” Celine tells her. “It was too easy. You can’t afford to become complacent.”
Rumi’s face twitches as if she might protest. All she says, though, is, “Yes, Celine.”
“Call your sword.” Celine summons her scythes.
Rumi does. Is Celine imagining that the reflected glow in the girl’s eyes is a different color than the warm, comforting blue of the Honmoon?
“Real demons are cunning,” Celine reminds her as their weapons crash against each other in a dance that’s long been familiar to both of them. “Real demons are quick and vicious and you won't always see them coming.”
At eleven, Rumi is almost as good as Celine. Her shorter reach and height are her primary disadvantages and neither will hinder her much longer.
Celine lashes out with a kick; Rumi dances away and brings her sword around almost quickly enough to catch Celine on the cheek.
Almost. Thankfully, the girl is a touch too slow.
She’s also off-balance from her swing. Celine takes advantage of the moment of weakness to step inside Rumi’s guard and elbow her across the face.
Rumi twists as she falls, landing on her hands and knees, blood dripping from her nose. She reaches for her Saingeom. Celine kicks it away and puts her foot on Rumi’s back between her shoulder blades, shoving her down until she's flat on her stomach, face in the dirt.
Celine can feel the girl fighting to take in ragged breaths beneath her heel. “Real demons,” she says, “belong at the feet of real hunters.”
She waits a few seconds to ensure the lesson has sunk in, then steps away.
The world is a little safer tonight, she imagines telling the girl—a tiny bone she could throw her way.
Instead, she says, “We’ll do it again tomorrow. Find you a real challenge.”
When Rumi is seventeen, Celine finally locates the other two hunters.
“Remember, they have no experience,” Celine tells her as they wait in front of the house for the girls’ arrival. “It will be up to you to lead them. To guide them. And, most importantly, to protect them. Their safety is your responsibility.”
“Yes, Celine.”
“Whatever you do, you must conceal your patterns.”
“Yes, Celine.”
Rumi is tall and slender now. She’s been hunting demons for six years, often with Celine, but more and more frequently on her own. She bears the scars of her battles, most of them easily hidden along with those foul, steadily creeping patterns, as well as the scars of their daily training sessions, which have only become more vicious as Rumi has grown.
It’s the only way to keep her safe. Celine believes this with all of her being.
Mira and Zoey are the other girls’ names. Celine liked them the moment she met them and she can tell that Rumi feels the same. For Rumi, they are her first friends. For Celine, they are the beloved apparitions of the Sunlight Sisters in their youth. Before everything went wrong.
They’re both still in shock at having been chosen for the new group. Their delight gives way to consternation when Celine explains demons and the Honmoon to them. Mira is no stranger to violence, but she’s clearly uneasy when she says, “You want us to become…hunters?”
Zoey, only a little younger but far more innocent than the other two, bobs her head furiously. “Like, you want us to kill people?”
“Not people,” Celine corrects sharply. “Demons.”
Despite their reservations, both girls quickly yield to the seductive song of the Honmoon, as Celine knew they would. There has never been a hunter who could resist the Honmoon’s call.
They begin training. Mondays are for strength training. Tuesdays are for dance. Wednesdays are for cardio. Thursdays are for singing. Fridays are for fighting. Saturdays are for fighting. Sundays are for fighting.
“I’m never going to get this!” Mira fumes one Sunday. She’s on the ground for what must be the tenth time today, Rumi’s wooden practice sword at her neck.
“You’re getting better,” Rumi offers, helping the taller girl to her feet. “You lean so heavily on offense, sometimes you forget about blocking.”
Mira scowls, but she softens quickly and says a grudging, “Yeah, maybe. Thanks.” She gives Rumi a gentle elbow and a half smile.
This is a major improvement. Six months ago, Mira would have exploded upon getting advice from one of her peers.
Celine is pleased the girls have started bonding. She likes seeing Zoey and Mira lean on each other, developing complementary fighting styles. She likes seeing Rumi look at the other girls as if they are the most precious thing on Earth, as if she would give her life to keep them safe.
She doesn’t like when the girls look at Rumi the same way. Rumi can protect herself; Celine has seen to this through years of sweat and blood. It is not, cannot be, the hunters’ duty to keep a demon safe. Not even if the demon is Rumi.
“Rumi,” Celine says sharply, drawing the girls’ attention.
Rumi takes a tiny step away from Mira, as if she’s heard Celine’s thoughts.
“Draw your Saingeom.”
Rumi takes a deep breath before nodding. It’s almost noon and the girls have been training since just past six. All three are exhausted, though Rumi is less so than the others.
“Celine,” Zoey says cautiously, “maybe Rumi can have a break before you guys spar?”
Her concern, well-intentioned as it may be, only solidifies Celine’s resolve. They need to see Rumi as the strong, independent hunter she is. And Rumi needs a reminder that defeating a few novices in training isn’t the same as going up against someone far wiser and more experienced than she.
They settle into their regular rhythm. The two of them have sparred less frequently since the girls arrived, but this is an old dance that’s been written into every muscle, tendon, and bone.
Rumi attacks first; Celine blocks.
Celine attacks; Rumi dodges and almost takes Celine by surprise with a punch.
“Too slow,” Celine chides.
Rumi is still incredibly fast, but it’s a human type of speed. She’s talented, but not talented enough to beat her mentor. Nor will she ever be, Celine has recently concluded, both relieved and despairing at the revelation.
It’s a relief to know that if Rumi ever gives in to her demon nature, Celine will be able to put her down. It’s devastating to know that Rumi will not be the best. How can she ever hope to turn the Honmoon gold if she can’t even defeat Celine in a simple sparring match?
Frustration makes Celine strike faster, harder. Rumi blocks with ease. The girls watch with wide eyes, letting out the occasional gasp or unhelpful cry of, “Look out!”
They come in close, weapons pressing against each other. Then Rumi pivots away and swings her Saingeom in a wide arc that comes inches from hitting Celine in the side of the head with the flat of her blade. Celine barely manages to get out of the way.
Her lip curls. “We need to work on your aim.”
There’s something curiously flat and distant in Rumi’s expression. Is it her demon nature shining through, ashamed of being beaten in front of her friends?
Rumi punches Celine in the stomach and gets a hard kick to the side for her trouble.
“Maybe you should call it a draw,” Mira says, uneasy.
Celine laughs, exhilarated. “A real demon fight will never end in a draw. A real demon fight—” she feints towards Rumi’s face “—ends with the demon dead.”
Rumi’s hand comes up to block the feint and Celine takes the opening, slicing her scythe across the girl’s stomach just below the hem of her crop top.
Rumi goes pale and drops to a knee as a thick red line forms on her stomach. Zoey and Mira cry out and rush forward, pushing Celine away, hands hovering over the wound as if it's some sort of mortal injury.
Celine’s eyes fix on that splash of red, so much more vibrant against Rumi’s skin than those sickly purple patterns could ever be. Demons don’t bleed. The red that gathers and then drips in the wake of Celine’s blade is Rumi’s humanity seeping through, smothering her demon nature. Something in Celine thrills to see it.
“She’ll be fine,” Celine tells the girls. “It doesn’t even need stitches.”
Zoey stays by Rumi’s side as Mira stands, fists clenching. “You think you’re tough, cutting Rumi up after she’s been working her ass off for the past six months—hell, probably the past six years—trying to make you proud? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
Celine can’t help but smile at the girl’s fire. It will serve the hunters well, she’s sure. For now, though… “You aren’t ready to face me, Mira.” It comes out a bit more condescendingly than she intended.
Mira’s scowl deepens. She grits her teeth. And a beautiful gok-do materializes in her hands.
They all blink and stare. This is the first time Mira’s successfully called her weapon after two weeks of trying. She gazes at it with childlike wonder before tightening her grip, taking a fighting stance, and sending Celine another challenging stare.
Celine inclines her head in respect. “Well done, Mira. Very well. If you’d like to spar, let’s spar.”
Zoey has removed her headband and is pressing it against Rumi’s stomach.
“Be careful, Mira,” Rumi says urgently. “She’s fast and strong.”
Mira rushes in, her strikes powerful but too wild and untrained to present a real threat. Celine dodges with ease and hits Mira’s ribs just hard enough for Mira to feel it. “You’re dead,” she says. “Again.”
Mira attacks; this time, Celine blocks and brings her knee up, stopping just before it slams into her ribs, then slices her scythe a hairsbreadth from Mira’s throat. “Dead again,” she says. “Rumi’s right—your defense is lacking. Keep your hands up. Turn your body sideways. Stop presenting so many targets.”
They continue for another ten minutes, Celine offering advice after each quick round. Mira’s anger doesn’t burn out, but it fades to a low simmer as Celine so easily dismantles her defenses again and again.
Eventually, Mira sags with exhaustion, leaning on her gok-do to stay upright. “I’m done. For now.”
Celine nods. “You did well. Be patient. In a few years, you’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”
Mira glares at her before stomping away. Zoey helps Rumi to her feet and looks after Mira anxiously.
“Go on,” Rumi tells her. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Are you sure? I still think we should take you to a doctor.”
Rumi smiles gently. It’s an expression Celine has never seen her make before. A glimpse of the leader Rumi has the potential to become. “I’m sure. I’ll be fine.”
Zoey bites her lip and gives the girl a quick side hug before hurrying after Mira.
Celine brushes past Rumi, trusting that she’ll be fine to make her way to the first aid kit in the bathroom.
“Celine,” Rumi calls after her.
Celine turns, raising an eyebrow.
Rumi studies her face as if searching for something. Her brow furrows. “You’re…a good teacher.” She says the words slowly, as if each one is an unexpected flavor.
Celine imagines saying, You are, too. They look up to you.
“Patch yourself up,” she says instead. “Don’t stain your clothes.”
Huntr/x is an international pop sensation. They’ve won the Idol Awards five times running. The Honmoon is the strongest it’s ever been.
Celine could not be prouder of her girls. They are going to succeed and turn the Honmoon gold. The world will be safe, and she and Rumi will finally be free of the curse of Rumi’s demon nature.
She doesn’t see the girls often anymore. They’re frequently off on tour. Even when they’re home in Seoul, they tend to stick to their tower rather than making the drive to Celine’s house in the countryside. She isn’t surprised by Mira and Zoey, who have their own lives and families. There is a part of her, though, that expected Rumi to be a more regular visitor.
“Rumi, stay after, please,” she says at the end of the monthly board meeting.
The girls always attend. Rumi is a board member herself, being a major stockholder due to her inheritance from her mother. Celine isn’t sure why Zoey and Mira feel the need to be present, but inevitably they come and sit on either side of Rumi, stalwart sentinels.
Rumi’s shoulders stiffen. Zoey and Mira eye Celine warily; it’s a wariness that’s been present since that unfortunate first time they saw Rumi and Celine spar. The only time they ever really saw it; since then, Celine and Rumi have been careful to save their matches for when they’re alone.
“Rumi?” Mira says.
Rumi gives her a tiny nod. “It’s okay.”
She and Celine wait as the others shuffle out. Several of the board members pause to congratulate Rumi on Huntr/x’s latest album and tell her how proud her mother would be to see her now. Rumi’s well-practiced smile flickers and Celine knows they are both thinking about those insidious patterns.
Not long now, Celine thinks. It won’t be long until the stain is washed away, until she can love Rumi as the girl deserves.
Once they’re alone, Rumi’s face smooths into a neutral expression. It’s been years since she gave Celine a sincere smile. She doesn’t speak first; she never does.
“How are they?” Celine asks.
Rumi swallows, unable to meet her eyes. “Mostly the same. A little wider than last month. They’re…they’re starting to come close to my throat.”
“This is why we have to be more dedicated now than we’ve ever been. You’re so close, Rumi. So close to fixing everything.”
“I know. Trust me, Celine. No one wants the golden Honmoon more than I do.”
“And the demons?”
“They’re scared,” Rumi says. “More are coming each time Honmoon tears and they fight harder. I think they know they’re running out of time.”
“Good. You’re staying sharp, I hope.”
“Of course.”
Celine nods. “Show me.”
Rumi’s face twists. “Mira and Zoey are waiting for me.”
“They can wait a little longer.”
“Celine, I spar every day. You don’t have to test me.”
Annoyed by the girl’s unusual obstinacy, Celine materializes her scythes. “The fact that you’re trying to avoid this tells me you’re afraid. You’ll never improve, Rumi, if you don’t sharpen your edge against someone superior to you.”
Rumi sighs heavily. Her Saingeom forms almost in slow motion, as if even the Honmoon is reluctant.
“No damage to the conference table,” Celine reminds her. “Be mindful of our surroundings.”
“Yes, Celine.”
They fall into their old waltz, exchanging blows, testing each other’s speed and strength. Rumi has the advantage of youth as she does a flip over the conference table and lands on a rolling chair, perfectly balanced on one foot.
Unnatural.
Celine kicks the chair out from under her, but Rumi is already springing away, leaping onto the massive table. Celine jumps on as well, less gracefully, and their blades form a blur as they block and parry with ferocious speed and skill.
Rumi has gotten better, or perhaps Celine has gotten worse as age begins to take its toll. Celine is still wiser, still more skilled…
And yet, she can’t get a strike through. Rumi’s sword is always there to block.
Celine can’t beat her.
She can’t beat the demon.
Celine disengages their blades and stumbles back, taking a guard position as she looks at Rumi with terror pulsing in her heart.
It’s too late, she fears. Even if Rumi succeeds and turns the Honmoon gold, the demon inside of her is too deeply entrenched. Her humanity has always been such a fragile thing. What if the pressures of touring and fame have snuffed it out?
Is this Rumi she’s facing, or a monster? Is there a difference?
Rumi locks eyes with her for a long, considering moment. The girl has always read Celine’s thoughts with eerie skill. Now, she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and briefly inclines her head, as if resigning herself to something.
Then she attacks.
She must be getting tired, though, because her blows come more slowly. She barely dodges as Celine round kicks towards her face with a speed borne of fear. Two more exchanges and then Celine manages to smash the Saingeom from Rumi’s hand, pressing the blade of her scythe to Rumi’s throat just hard enough to form a thin red line beneath its uncompromising edge.
They both freeze. Celine pushes the scythe in a little harder. She imagines tearing through skin and cartilage, carving Mi-yeong’s voice out of the demon’s throat. Rumi refuses to lean back, enduring the pain.
“Not the throat, Celine,” she says quietly. “Think of the Honmoon. Think of how Mira and Zoey would react.”
Celine can barely hear her over the pounding of her heart. A trickle of red traces its way down Rumi’s pale skin.
“You won,” Rumi reminds her, that same unreadable something in her eyes. “You always win.”
At that, Celine comes back to herself. She yanks the scythe away, suddenly acutely aware of what she almost did. What she’d been so tempted to do.
Rumi’s right, after all. It was a good fight—an impressive fight—but Celine won. The demon is gaining strength, but her Rumi is still in there, still confined within human limitations.
I’m sorry, she imagines saying.
She clears her throat roughly. “I’ll see you in a month,” she says instead.
In the aftermath of the Honmoon turning iridescent, Celine floats like a spirit around her home. She sleeps fitfully when she sleeps at all, dreams haunted by the sight of Rumi, so desperate, so demonic, with claws and a glowing eye and those godforsaken patterns pulsing like the malevolent heartbeat of Gwi-Ma himself.
Rumi had asked Celine to kill her. To erase the stain made by Mi-yeong’s mistake, now so many long years in the past.
Thinking back to that night, to Rumi on her knees, offering her Saingeom as an executioner’s blade—the second most awful moment of Celine’s life—she cannot say whether it was love, fear, or shame that had stayed her hand.
A part of her had wanted to do it. To grant Rumi her wish.
Yet in the wake of her refusal, Rumi had done something impossible. Something not even hinted at in the ancient texts of the hunters. Yes, the old Honmoon is gone. But in its place is a new one that drapes across the world with gentle, inexorable pressure. There are no more tears in the veil. No more demon attacks. No more demons at all.
Except for Rumi.
Rumi, whom Celine has not seen since that night.
Rumi, who now appears in tabloids and news segments walking alongside Zoey and Mira, shoulders bared, patterns exposed as if they are something to be proud of.
Rumi, who created a new Honmoon. Who protects the world, and her girls, with a ferocity that could never have been taught. Rumi, who believes Celine does not love her.
One evening, when the world is dark and the full moon is hidden behind a curtain of low-hanging clouds, Celine receives a text.
Can we meet?
It’s the first she’s heard from Rumi in weeks. Part of her rejoices, but a much larger piece shrinks back in something like dread. She doesn’t want to face Rumi. She doesn’t want to acknowledge the damage she’s caused. She doesn’t know if, even now, she can look at Rumi and her exposed patterns and feel anything other than hate.
I am here, Celine sends back.
She’s sitting on the stoop, hands clasped in her lap, when Rumi’s car pulls up, the bright yellow headlights resembling Rumi’s eye from the night of the Idol Awards. Wearily, Celine pushes to her feet as the car turns off and the door opens. A figure steps out.
And oh. It’s still Rumi. Even with those silvery patterns decorating her face, her shoulders, her exposed calves. Even with a newfound confidence Celine has witnessed in performances but never at home.
It helps that there’s no claw, no glowing eye.
“Hello, Celine,” Rumi says.
It’s unsettling how calm she is. There’s no demonic echo to her voice, but it carries a quiet power Celine feels in her bones.
“Hello, Rumi.”
Rumi walks toward her. It takes everything Celine has not to step back. Her animal instinct has always recognized the girl as a predator, even when she barely came up to Celine’s waist.
“The Honmoon has been sealed,” Rumi says.
Celine swallows, her throat dry. “Yes.”
“The world is safe.”
“Yes.”
“My patterns—” Rumi lifts her arms as if to illustrate “—are still here.”
Celine closes her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers. Acknowledging what they both know to be true: the patterns will never go away. They are an intrinsic part of Rumi’s being.
It was always easier to imagine that within one small girl there was Rumi the human and Rumi the demon, battling over her soul. The reality, this half-human, half-demon woman, is more than she ever imagined Rumi could be.
More successful. More effective. More dangerous.
“My girls accept me,” Rumi says, a note of awe in her voice. “They love me.”
I'm glad, Celine wants to say, but the words stick in her throat.
Rumi nods, as if she knew Celine would have no response to that. “Let's spar.”
Celine frowns. “Now?”
A Saingeom materializes in Rumi’s hand. But this isn’t the Saingeom she’s borne since she was a child. This one is far grander. This, Celine realizes, is the weapon that killed Gwi-Ma.
Rumi follows her stare. “A demon sacrificed himself for me,” she explains with a faint note of sorrow. “He gave me his soul.”
Celine shakes her head—not disbelieving, but uncomprehending. A selfless act from a demon should be impossible. Yet, hasn't Rumi achieved the impossible, more than once?
“Draw your weapons, Celine.” Rumi speaks with a voice of quiet authority, a voice that must be obeyed.
Celine’s scythes seem almost dull in the light of Rumi’s sword. “I’m glad you’re staying sharp,” Celine says, attempting a return to familiar ground. “Even though the demons are locked away for now, we must remain on guard.”
“That isn’t why we’re doing this.”
Then why, Celine thinks, but before she can voice the question Rumi’s sword is slashing towards her head.
She forces her body into a somersault it won’t thank her for in the morning. She leaps to her feet and retaliates with a swing Rumi barely blocks.
At least she still has this, Celine thinks with deep relief. At least she still knows where she and Rumi stand when it comes to this.
They go back and forth for a long time, evenly matched. Neither able to penetrate the other’s defenses. Sweat drips down Celine’s face. Her breathing turns ragged as fatigue sets in.
Rumi must be just as tired, but her face is almost serene when she asks, “Does this make you feel better?”
“What?” Celine gasps, slipping away from a kick aimed for the back of her leg.
“Believing that I can’t beat you,” Rumi says casually. “Believing you’re still in control and I’m still some whipped dog too afraid to fight back.”
Celine’s eyes go wide. Believing?
Suddenly, Rumi is a blur of motion, faster than Celine could ever hope to follow. The flat of her blade gently taps Celine’s thigh. The top of her foot lightly strikes the back of her head. The pommel of her sword stops a breath away from smashing Celine’s face in.
Celine stumbles back, swinging blindly, all thought and reason lost under the need to protect herself from this unstoppable hurricane. She's keenly aware that she doesn't stand a chance. She's outmatched.
Three clever, quick strikes and both of Celine's scythes go flying. They vanish midair and she knows, somehow, that she will never hold them again.
What finally sends her to the ground is a treacherous rock, a loose pebble that gives way beneath her unsteady feet. Her back hits the earth with a thud that steals her breath. Rumi stands over her, terrifyingly impassive face glowing blue from her sword. She pulls back the Saingeom and swings it with vicious intent.
It stops just as the blade kisses the skin of Celine’s neck. Rumi’s control is so precise that she doesn’t even draw blood.
They stare at each other in silence. Even the ever-present hum of Honmoon seems muted.
Rumi breathes evenly. “You and I have always been on the same side. And yet you've always seen me as the enemy.”
No tears glisten in those eyes. Mi-yeong’s eyes. Instead, they carry a hint of sadness. And worse, pity.
Rumi, Celine realizes, has been holding back for this entire fight.
No. She’s been holding back for years. Since she was a teenager. Letting Celine win. Taking her blows and allowing her to crow over her victories, her superiority. Making herself small so that Celine can feel strong.
Celine has never held back with her. Not once. Not even when Rumi was that too-small girl who still had trust in her eyes.
Shame takes hold of her, clutches Celine in a grip so tight it’s a wonder purple streaks don’t blossom on her skin.
“This is the last time we’ll spar,” Rumi states with finality. She lets her Saingeom fade away, drenching them in near-total darkness. “I leave it to you whether this is the last time we ever see each other.”
She turns to leave.
Celine, in an agony of love and self-hatred and the ever-present fear that still won’t release its hold on her, imagines calling Rumi back.
She imagines inviting her inside.
She imagines telling her about Mi-yeong. The good stories, not the ones that end in tears and blood and a lifetime of suffering.
She imagines finally saying, I love you. I’m proud of you.
She’s tired, so tired, of imagining herself as better than she is.
“Rumi,” Celine calls out, voice hoarse. “Please, may I make you some tea?”
The answering pause is a long one. As long as it takes to shatter a dream or to form a new one.
“Not tonight,” Rumi says finally. “But…another time. Perhaps.”
Then she is gone, leaving Celine in the dirt, staring at the black sky.