The late afternoon light slanted through the canopy in ribbons of gold, dappling the forest floor with shifting patterns. The air smelled faintly of earth still damp from morning dew, laced with the gentler sweetness of blossoms newly anchored in their beds. Foxglove let out a small, quiet breath as she surveyed the neat rows of flowers she had finished vitalizing. Their petals—once wilted and pale from their long journey in crates—now shone with renewed color: blues vivid as a summer sky, reds pulsing with warmth, pale whites tipped with green as though kissed by frost.
The day's work had been quiet, unremarkable in the grand tapestry of Foxglove's usual missions, but it left her body loose and her mind surprisingly light. By late afternoon the crates had been emptied, the fragile saplings carefully planted along the northern edge of the park's designated trail, and the soil infused with the subtle lattice of her magic. She had moved slowly, methodically, letting the runes across her arms glow with each pulse of energy. The blossoms from the far northeastern provinces were delicate—thin-petaled bell-shaped flowers, crimson or pale lavender, carrying the faint scent of frost and mountain air. They had not belonged to this soil, not at first, but now, with each hum of her sigils, they had begun to take root, their stems strengthening visibly within hours.
Now, with the task nearly finished and the park workers satisfied, Foxglove wandered. She left the open clearings behind and slipped into the quiet hush of the forest where sunlight filtered down in fractured shafts through tall pines and oak. Her dress, a long, loose thing dyed in deep violet, swayed as she walked, fabric brushing the ferns and undergrowth. Her bare arms gleamed faintly in the dimness, runes glowing with residual power. The sigils had cooled from the steady flare of spellwork but still shimmered faintly in the gloom, threads of violet that curled along her skin like living veins. Her eyes, too, retained their luminous violet hue, catching and reflecting light whenever she tilted her head toward the shadowed canopy.
She liked these hours best, when her appearance needed no concealment. As Foxglove, she could let herself exist without the careful restraint demanded of Choi Bora. Her glowing eyes did not invite suspicion here, only startled birds and the occasional deer that froze, watched her for a moment, and then bounded off deeper into the brush.
She slowed her steps near a patch of wildflowers that had crept into a clearing. She crouched, skirts pooling softly around her, and brushed her fingers along a spray of pale yellow blossoms. "Arnica," she murmured under her breath. The petals quivered faintly beneath her touch, responding to the hum of magic that always lived beneath her skin. "Good for bruises, swelling. Useful if prepared as an oil." Her mind ran easily to cataloguing—each plant she passed became a memory of its properties, each flower a potential solution for pain, sickness, or poison.
A little further along she found white wood anemones scattered beneath a birch grove, their five-petaled faces swaying like small lanterns in the breeze. She smiled faintly at them, remembering how their dried roots could be ground into a mild analgesic. Not as powerful as crafted mixtures, but good for common folk who could not afford more complex brews.
She began to wander, letting her feet follow no particular path. Flowers flanked either side of the trail, their colors brighter than before. Some had medicinal purposes she recognized instantly: golden corydalis, good for easing pain; bell-shaped gentian, whose bitterness could flush poison from the stomach; violet columbines that helped calm fevers. Others were more ornamental, their purposes lost or unknown to her, but she admired them nonetheless. She brushed her fingers along a stem here and there, humming faintly as she remembered recipes from old manuals, herbal mixtures that had once lined the shelves of her childhood home.
Foxglove tilted her head, studying a patch of wild anemones growing at the base of a pine. Their pale petals shivered in the breeze, delicate but hardy. She crouched down, brushing her fingers over them, murmuring half-formed thoughts about their properties. Anemones for fevers, if crushed and steeped long enough. The bark of the pine they grew beneath was good for brewing into teas that calmed the lungs. A few paces onward, she found a spread of goldenrod, already tall for the season. She touched their blossoms lightly, considering. Anti-inflammatory, yes, but too much could damage the kidneys.
Each blossom carried memory. A pale violet that once soothed soldiers' burns. A thin-stemmed bloom that could numb pain if chewed, bitter enough to curl the tongue. Tiny red flowers that, steeped long enough, coaxed fever dreams vivid enough to break a mind. Foxglove turned each thought over like a jewel, admiring not only the plant itself but the histories hidden in its veins. Her glowing eyes narrowed slightly, and the runes on her skin answered her mood, brightening when she considered a dangerous remedy, dimming when she passed harmless ground-cover.
A patch of foxgloves —her namesake— stood half-hidden beneath a leaning pine, their tall stalks dotted with blossoms of pale lilac and deep rose. She paused there, kneeling, her glowing runes illuminating the delicate veins of the petals. "Pretty, poisonous thing," she murmured, voice low, almost affectionate. The digitalis could kill a careless drinker, but in measured doses it could slow a racing heart, lend steadiness where panic reigned. Like her, it was a plant that balanced between healing and harm, one face for mercy and another for cruelty.
She stood again, letting the hem of her dress sweep along the grass as she continued into the thicker woods. Birds startled at her approach but did not fly far; the glow of her eyes reflected faintly in their small gazes. Foxglove didn't often indulge in this—taking a commission that was more relaxing than necessary, allowing herself the rhythm of soil and growth instead of the sharpened edge of poisons or curses. But the quiet soothed her. The flowers had responded to her magic as though eager for it, stretching toward the light with a vitality that fed something quiet in her chest.
There was something soothing in being Foxglove without restraint—in allowing the magic to ripple freely across her body, in not needing to dim the glow of her eyes or bind the runes under layers of cloth. Here, she was exactly as she was meant to be: a figure half-shadow, half-light, moving through the trees like a story whispered in the dusk.
And as she came to a small clearing where wild asters had colonized the ground, she sank onto a fallen log, gathering the air of the place around her. The flowers leaned faintly toward her presence, as though her pulse set the rhythm of their growth. She sat in stillness, listening to the forest's low murmur, letting herself rest in a moment that was quiet, gentle, and hers alone.
Still, a flicker of unease tugged at her thoughts. The squad of Southerners would be in the city still, perhaps at the lakeside she had pointed them to. Junwon's steady gaze came back to her mind unbidden, as did the shadow of Taemin's half-concealed pain. She dismissed it with a slow exhale. Here, in the filtered green light of the forest, such thoughts felt distant. She let the weight of her double life slip off her shoulders, if only for a little while.
The thicket had grown too still. A moment ago the woods had been alive with the whisper of leaves and the occasional call of a bird. Now the air felt taut, stretched thin, as if holding its breath. She wasn't alone.
Her runes flickered awake, violet light spiraling down her arms and into her fingertips. With a silent gesture, she pressed her palm against the bark of a nearby tree, and the forest answered. Vines slithered down from the canopy, thorned creepers snapping to life as they wound themselves together, weaving into thick coils that lunged toward the unseen presence. Branches bent at her command, bristling like spears, driving forward to ensnare the intruder.
But the figure who emerged didn't hesitate. A flash of steel, a sharp crack of wood—and the bindings tore apart as though they were paper. Mu-hyeok stepped through the wreckage of her spell, eyes hard, the faint sheen of sweat catching on his temple. His muscles rippled with each swing of his blade, every strike clean, efficient. Those abs of his, Foxglove realized with irritation, were very much not just decorative.
Her instincts surged—fight or flight. Recognition meant exposure, and exposure meant danger. Without a second thought, she spun on her heel and bolted deeper into the woods.
Recognition was the greater danger. If he saw her for who she truly was, all her careful weaving of lives would unravel. Heart pounding, she chose flight. Gathering the hem of her dress, she spun on her heel and darted into the denser thicket. The glow of her runes flickered through the trees as she wove spell after spell to hinder pursuit. Roots surged from the ground to trip his steps. Bushes thickened into walls. Illusory trails shimmered, drawing false paths away from her. Each trick was designed to delay, to confuse—but none intended to maim. Not like before.
But Mu-hyeok was relentless. Every time she thought she had slowed him, she heard the steady pound of his boots drawing close again.
"Wait!" his voice cut through the thicket. "Slow down—listen to me!"
She didn't. She couldn't afford to. Her spells crackled with precision but restraint—nothing lethal, nothing that would leave behind the kind of ruin that would draw unwanted questions from passing civilians. She bit back the urge to summon her mist. The spell that had once been her signature—a sweeping shroud of fog—would end this chase easily, but it would also alert any nearby eyes. A veil of death rolling through a public park would cause panic, suspicion. Too much risk. She could not afford it.
Instead she wove smaller snares, barriers meant to hinder, not harm.
Still, he pressed after her. "I don't want to fight!" he called, his words strained with exertion but steady with intent. "Just hear me out!"
She burst through the last line of trees and back into the clearing where the flowerbeds lay. Her eyes darted immediately to the small satchel resting by the tools. Snatching it up, she tugged free a sheer veil and swept it over her face, covering her features in a shimmer of white fabric. Her hand dipped again, pulling free a rune-carved stone that pulsed with violet fire, and she lifted it high, the threat clear. By the time Mu-hyeok emerged, she was already standing in the center of the clearing, veil concealing her identity, stone held aloft like a warning flare. Her runes glowed fiercely against her skin, making her a figure of sharp light against the dimming woods.
To her surprise, he halted. The tension in his posture melted, and instead of charging, he dropped to one knee before her. His head bowed, though his voice was steady. "Foxglove," he said, reverent almost, "I beg of you—save my friend, Kang Taemin."
His plea disarmed her more than his blade ever could. She had expected suspicion, threats, perhaps even vengeance. Instead, there was desperation edged with respect.
He looked up, meeting her glowing eyes with his own unwavering gaze. "Your skills are unmatched. I know what you can do. If anyone can turn this, it's you."
A faint huff escaped her veil, half-scoff, half to mask the flicker of unease in her chest. "Flattery," she said, her tone cool, "will get you nowhere with me."
"I'm not flattering," Mu-hyeok pressed, rising slightly but keeping his distance. "I'm telling you the truth. We're not enemies anymore. Whatever our past was, the world is different now. We fight for the same side, for the same peace. I have no reason to raise a sword against you—and neither do you against me."
Her hand tightened around the rune stone. His words struck deeper than she cared to admit. She stood in silence for a long moment, the runes on her skin flickering faintly, caught between suspicion and reluctant sympathy.
Finally, she lowered her arm slightly. "You'll stay where you are," she warned, her voice even but edged with steel. "One step closer, and this conversation ends."
Relief flickered across his face, and he inclined his head. "I swear it."
Crossing only a few cautious steps, she placed it down upon the ground between them and stepped back swiftly. "Take it."
"This will not cure him," she said, voice low, distant. "But it will ease the pain. It will slow the poison's spread. For now, that is all I can give you. The cure you seek does not yet exist in my grasp."
Mu-hyeok's fingers curled tightly around the vial, his jaw hard with determination. Yet when he looked at her again, there was gratitude burning in his eyes. He clenched the jar tightly, the weight of it heavy in his hand. "Even this will help. More than you know."
Foxglove did not withdraw her hand until Mu-hyeok had tucked the vial carefully into the inner fold of his coat, as though it were a treasure more fragile than glass. Her runes still glowed faintly in warning, her stance poised for escape at the slightest provocation. Yet for the moment, the forest was quiet again, holding its breath between them.
She tilted her head, veil shifting slightly with the movement, her voice calm but edged with formality that bore no resemblance to the breezy, sardonic tone of Choi Bora.
"You owe me an answer," she said. "This region is not frequented by soldiers of your stature. Tell me—why are you here? What business brings you into these woods?"
Mu-hyeok's dark eyes flicked upward to meet the steady violet glow beneath the veil. He did not flinch, though the weight of her stare seemed to press down on him. He drew in a slow breath, his chest rising and falling heavily, still recovering from the chase.
"I came seeking you," he admitted, voice low but firm. "Rumors spread quickly—of a healer cloaked in mystery, wielding power over earth and bloom. They say she walks where the wildflowers rise unnaturally fast, where sick soil breathes again. I had little hope of finding you, but desperation gave me courage."
Foxglove's expression remained concealed, but within, her heart stirred uneasily. So her side work had not gone unnoticed. She had been careful, discreet, her presence cloaked by aliases and misdirection—yet clearly, whispers were already moving through circles she would rather avoid.
Her glowing eyes fixed on him, cold and unreadable. Internally, however, her chest tightened, a pulse of unease rushing through her veins. Why here, of all places? Why now? If he looked closer—if he put the smallest pieces together—would he see her? Would he recognize Choi Bora beneath the veil of Foxglove? The thought alone set her mind spinning, silently pleading that the lines she had drawn between her lives held firm.
She made to leave, boots brushing against the undergrowth, when his voice halted her again.
"Wait."
The single word rooted her in place. Against her will, she turned back. His expression stopped her short—not the wary hostility she had come to expect from his kind, not the simmering resentment that so many of his squadmates carried toward her. No, what she saw on his face was something altogether different. There was no blade in his eyes, no suspicion. Instead, there was a softness she had not braced for—genuine, almost reverent, threaded through with something like hope.
It startled her. It unnerved her.
He seemed to realize his slip, for a moment later his features composed themselves once more, the soldier's discipline returning to his stance. His voice, however, carried something softer beneath the steel. "If… if there comes a time when I must seek you out again, how can I find you?"
The question lingered, heavier than it should have. Foxglove hesitated, thoughts racing. She could not give him this place, it was too far from the city, it would take her a long time to get here. The question made her falter. Panic stirred again in her chest. She could not give him anything true. Not her home, hell no. Not her number, that was dangerous. Seungmin still had her contact saved under her real name.
She let the silence stretch, her mind turning over possibilities. Think. Quickly. Something he can believe, something that keeps you hidden.
Her eyes dropped briefly to the ground, then rose again, gleaming through the veil. "There is a park in the city," she said slowly, deliberately cryptic. "With a fountain marked by three lanterns that burn even when the night is at its darkest. If you stand there and have need of me, I will know."
It was vague enough to keep her untethered, yet clear enough that he could find it with guidance. A half-truth, a breadcrumb.
Mu-hyeok inclined his head, as though committing the words to memory. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he nodded firmly, the soldier's resolve etched back into his features. "Understood."
She gave no further explanation, only turned and let the shadows of the forest embrace her once more, her figure dissolving between the trees. The words landed between them like rain. Foxglove's fingers tightened, the rune-stone biting into her palm. He still did not know. He still could not put the soft, modern face of Choi Bora to the legendary silhouette of Foxglove with violet eyes and runic skin. That ignorance felt fragile and blessed.
Behind her, Mu-hyeok remained still, replaying her words in his mind. A park with a fountain… in the city? His brows drew together as he tucked the vial into his belt. Later, he would ask Bora if she knew such a place. For now, though, he had a salve—and a fragile thread of trust—to bring back to Taemin.
Foxglove's heart only began to settle once the thicket had swallowed her path, but unease lingered. His eyes, his expression, his question, they all carved deeper into her thoughts than she cared to admit.