Archive of Our Own ^beta

The wooden box sat in the center of the council table, its surface scarred by decades of use. No one spoke as the head elder stirred the folded slips of paper inside with a trembling hand. The only sound was the whisper of paper rubbing against paper — a sound everyone in the room knew too well.

Sungho stood near the back, his arms folded tight across his chest. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp hemp and fear. He could feel the heat of his mother’s gaze on him, her fingers clutching the edge of her hanbok until her knuckles turned white.

One name. One life. That was all the wolves demanded.

It had been this way for generations. Long ago, the townspeople had struck a pact with the wolves that roamed the shadowed woods, a promise forged in fear and blood: one life offered each year, and the pack would spare the village and its fields, leaving beasts and harvest alike untouched. To break it was unthinkable; to obey was only slightly less terrible.

The elder drew the slip, unfolded it with care, and read aloud in a voice that carried through the hall like a funeral bell.

“Park Sungho.”

The words landed in his chest like a hammer blow — and then everything inside him went strangely quiet. Sound thinned to a distant hum, the room warping at the edges of his vision. Faces blurred. Movement slowed. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing, or if the ground was still beneath his feet.

Then— a cry. Raw. Breaking. His mother. The sound cut through the fog like a blade, dragging him sharply back into his body. She lurched toward him, making a low, strangled noise, and he moved on instinct, catching her before she could collapse. Her hands clutched at his hanbok as if holding him tight enough might anchor him to this life.

“No… no, they can’t… please, tell them it can’t be you,” she begged, her voice breaking.

He wanted to say it. He wanted to tell her they’d made a mistake, that he’d fight, that he wouldn’t let them drag him to that post in the square. But he saw the way the elders’ eyes had already moved past him. His name was written. It could not be unwritten.

Sungho swallowed hard. His knees felt loose, like they might give out. A few people turned their eyes toward him, but most couldn’t meet his gaze. Some glistened with pity, others with relief that it wasn’t their own child’s name, and a few burned with a quiet, ugly satisfaction that the lottery had spared them this year.

“It’s alright, Mother,” he lied, his voice steadier than he felt. “It’s alright. Someone has to go. This time… it’s me.”

Her shoulders shook in his arms.

Around them, the townspeople began to disperse. The meeting was over. The decision was final. By nightfall, word would have reached every doorstep. By morning, he would be the one. And in three days, when the sun set, he would walk to the post and wait for the wolves to come.

The elders arrived at the Park household the morning after the name was drawn. Sungho heard them before he saw them — the soft creak of the gate, the shuffle of straw sandals on packed earth, the murmur of polite voices carrying no real feeling behind them. He stepped outside just as they reached the doorstep, their silhouettes framed by the grey light of dawn.

At their center, carried by two younger assistants, was the offering basket. It was larger than he expected. Wicker woven tightly, draped with embroidered cloth, filled to the brim with polished apples, late-season pears, bundles of herbs, and cuts of fresh meat still wrapped in paper to keep the morning chill from touching them. Everything rich. Everything expensive. Tradition dictated that the chosen one should be treated generously in their final days, offered the best foods the village could spare.

His mother appeared behind him, her hands pressed to her mouth as if she could hold her trembling inside her skin. Her eyes were red from the night before — though she had tried to hide it, Sungho had heard her sobbing until her voice gave out.

“Elder Choi,” she said softly, bowing as she slid the door open wider. “Please… come in.”

But Elder Choi shook her head. The woman was small, bent with age, her silver hair tied in a tight knot. She had overseen more sacrifices than anyone alive. Her eyes, though not unkind, were steady.

“There is no need,” she said. “We only bring what is owed. The preparations fall to us, as always.”

Her gaze moved to Sungho, and she offered a smile meant to be comforting — but it didn’t reach anywhere near her eyes.

“You bear a heavy burden, child,” she said. “But know that fate chose wisely. The village endures because of sacrifices like yours. You should hold your head high.”

Sungho’s stomach twisted. Honour. Fate. Duty. Words that had weight only for those who never had to feel the wolves’ breath on their skin.

“I… understand,” he said, though it scraped his throat to force the words out.

One of the younger assistants stepped forward, setting the basket at Sungho’s feet. He didn’t meet Sungho’s gaze, as if looking directly at him would make the whole thing too real.

“Three days,” Elder Choi reminded them, folding her hands. “Make sure he rests, eats well, and avoids the woods. There is nothing more dangerous than a frightened spirit wandering before its time.”

His mother flinched at that, a shiver running through her.

“I’ll take care of him,” she whispered.

The elders bowed again — respectful, solemn, coldly efficient — and departed just as they came. Sungho watched them walk down the path, their backs straight, their pace unhurried. For them, it was simply the season turning. A duty checked off a list. A tradition upheld. No grief clung to their steps. They had seen too many sons taken, too many daughters, too many names read from that wooden box. The ritual had carved itself into them until even tragedy felt like routine.

When they were finally gone, the silence settled thick and suffocating. His mother knelt beside the offering basket, her hands hovering over the food but not touching. Her breath trembled.

“They act as if you should be grateful,” she whispered, voice cracking. “As if this—” Her hands curled into fists. “As if losing you is something I should bow for.”

Sungho didn’t know what to say. He wished he could lie, tell her he wasn’t afraid, that he accepted this fate with dignity. But the truth clawed at him, sharp and undeniable.

“I don’t want to die, Mother,” he said, voice low. “I’m trying to be brave, but I… I don’t want this.”

Her face crumpled. She reached up and cupped his cheek with trembling fingers.

“You were supposed to grow old,” she whispered. “Work the fields. Marry. Have children. Your father wanted that for you. I want that for you.”

He closed his hand over hers. “I know.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the offering basket between them — bright, beautiful, and obscene. A feast for someone who would not live long enough to enjoy it. Finally, his mother wiped her eyes and straightened.

“I’ll cook your favourites tonight,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “We will make these days good, Sungho. As good as we can.”

He nodded, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

Three days. Three days to pretend everything was normal. Three days to breathe, to exist, to feel the sun on his skin and know it would soon be the last time.

By the third day, Sungho had already exhausted every impossible escape he could imagine. Ending his own life? He wasn’t that brave. Running away? Plenty had tried. And the village always found them.

Three years ago, the chosen one had been a man in his fifties, still strong enough to put up a fight. He’d slipped out before dawn, convinced he could outpace fate if he ran hard enough. By noon, the search party dragged him back—bloodied, limping, half-conscious. The villagers hadn’t even let him catch his breath before beating him again for the trouble, then tying him to the post in the square anyway, punishment and ceremony merging into one. Sungho still remembered the way the man cried out whenever someone touched his broken ribs. If he was going to meet his death, Sungho preferred to reach it with his bones intact. At least until the wolves did their part.

He hadn’t truly slept—just drifted in and out of shallow, frantic thoughts, every one circling back to the same truth: today, he dies.

His mother tried to pretend it was an ordinary morning, but her hands trembled as she set the table. She’d prepared galbijjim, braised short ribs cooked until the meat slid easily from the bone—far too special for a weekday, far too heavy for his uneasy stomach, but he forced himself to eat. Each bite tasted like a farewell she wasn’t saying out loud.

By noon, the elders arrived. A soft knock. A sliding door opening. A silence that swallowed the small house whole.

“It’s time,” Elder Choi said.

They guided Sungho to the washroom. The water was warm, almost gentle, but he shivered anyway. Their hands were steady and practiced—this wasn’t a ritual they performed for the first time, nor the last. The elders washed him slowly, respectfully, as if preparing him for a wedding or a rite of passage. But everyone knew what came next.

When they finished, they dressed him in suui, the burial clothes usually reserved for those already gone. The fabric was pale and thin, folding over his body with a softness that felt like surrender. His mother stood nearby, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had turned white, but she didn’t interfere. She couldn’t. Tradition left no room for her grief.

The elder’s assistant stepped forward with a small wooden box. Inside were pigments, hair ornaments, small tools polished from years of use. She dabbed tint onto Sungho’s lips, the color subtle but unmistakably artificial—life painted onto someone preparing to leave it. Then she slid a flower ornament into his hair, smoothing the strands with a tenderness that made his throat tight.

When they finally turned him toward the mirror, Sungho froze. He looked… pretty. Too pretty. His skin was clear, his lips tinted, his hair arranged with delicate care. If he didn’t know better, if he ignored the burial clothes wrapped around him, he might think he was being prepared for some celebration.

But the reflection didn’t look alive. A boy dressed like a corpse. A body waiting to be claimed. He wasn’t dead yet, but staring at himself now, he felt like a ghost already—like the world had started forgetting him even before he was gone.

Elder Choi stepped back, studying Sungho with the cool, ceremonial calm of someone who had done this more times than she could remember. Then she glanced at his mother—at the way the woman swayed on her feet, as if any stronger wind might topple her.

“It’s time to say goodbye,” she said softly. “We’ll give you a moment.”

The elders bowed and slipped out, sliding the door shut behind them. Silence filled the room, thick and airless. Sungho stood there in his burial clothes, lips tinted like a doll’s, hands trembling despite how tightly he tried to hold them still. His mother reached for him first—her fingers brushing his sleeve before curling around his wrist. He could feel how cold she’d become.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, and it was meant for her, but the words sounded like a plea to himself. He blinked hard, refusing to let tears form. If he broke now, he knew she would shatter completely.

Her breath hitched. She stepped closer, cupping his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing his temples as if trying to memorize the shape of him. He leaned into her touch instinctively—childlike, desperate—and then he covered her hands with his own.

For a moment, his mask slipped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “No. No, my boy… none of this is your fault.”

He felt something inside him twist. His hands came up to hold her cheeks, mirroring the way she held him. Her skin was warm beneath his palms. Real. Alive. Something he could still anchor himself to.

He bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead—slow, lingering, leaving a faint smudge of tinted red where his lips touched, a goodbye he never imagined giving.

“I love you,” he said, barely louder than a breath.

“I love you more,” she answered, her voice breaking completely. “Always.”

He swallowed hard, afraid if he spoke again his courage would crumble. So he just held her. One last time. One last anchor before the world took him away.

The post stood in the center of the square, older than any of the houses around it. The wood was blackened from years of weather, deep grooves carved into it where ropes had bitten into the grain. He didn’t need to imagine how those marks were made — every name in the box had left their shadow here.

The elders led him forward. The square was silent. No one watched from the streets; the townspeople had already gone inside, shutters drawn tight. It was custom — and law. During a sacrifice, no one was allowed outdoors after sundown. Too dangerous, the elders always said. Privacy for the chosen, safety for the rest. But Sungho knew better. They were behind those windows now, holding their breath, waiting for the first howl.

The rope was coarse against his wrists as they bound his hands behind the post. The assistant’s hands worked quickly, without hesitation. It was not an act of cruelty, nor kindness — just a duty, carried out for the town’s survival.

“Stand straight,” the man muttered.

The rope cinched tighter, cutting into his skin. A second coil went around his chest, pressing him hard against the wood. He could smell it — old sap, rain, and something faintly metallic. Blood, maybe.

When the last knot was secured, the elders and their assistants lowered themselves to their knees before him. One by one, their foreheads touched the dirt — a gesture reserved only for the dead, and for those about to join them. Elder Choi rose first, lifting a thin stick of incense toward the line of trees as she spoke the ritual words, her voice low and steady, shaped by generations.

“By the pact our forefathers forged, we present this life to the woods. By his name, Park Sungho, we honor the bond that guards our homes, our blood, our fields. May the wolves accept what is given, and may his spirit walk unforgotten among us.”

The others echoed the closing line, a whisper that shivered through the empty square.

“Unforgotten among us.”

Then, without another word, they rose, bowed once more to him, and stepped back. Their sandals scuffed softly over the packed dirt as they retreated down the road, their figures growing smaller in the evening light until they slipped behind the nearest shuttered doorway and were gone.

The square was empty now.

The silence pressed in, heavier than the ropes. Sungho shifted his weight, the wood rough against his spine. The air was cool enough to sting his cheeks. Somewhere far off, a dog barked — sharp, quick, then cut off.

He thought about what would happen when the wolves came. Usually it was fast. They didn’t waste time playing with their food. They’d lunge for the limbs, teeth crushing bone, tearing away flesh in mouthfuls. The elders said it was better that way, better not to drag it out. Sungho hoped they were right. He hoped his mind wouldn’t have time to register the pain before it was gone. Still, his stomach twisted. Would his mother hear the howls? Or would she bury her face in her pillow until they stopped?

The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched long and thin across the square. His shoulders ached from the strain of being tied upright. His legs were already stiff.

He waited. And waited.

The air cooled further, the light dimmed to gold, then to gray. A wind stirred the dust in the square, lifting the scent of old wood, rope, and dried blood. Somewhere beyond the fields, deep in the forest, a howl rose — long and low, shivering through the stillness. It was answered by another. Then another. Sungho closed his eyes. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

The wolves were coming.

The first shape broke from the shadows, landing on the packed earth with a muted thud. Paws striking the dirt in quick, heavy thuds. Another followed. And another.

They emerged in uneven intervals, as if the forest were exhaling them one by one — pale shapes, brown shapes. They spread out with eerie precision, forming a loose ring around the post. Their eyes shimmered in the dying light, bright and glassy like stones dredged from the bottom of a river.

Two… three…four…

Sungho forced himself to count, though his vision wavered at the edges.

A fifth shape stepped forward — larger, broader, its fur a true, unbroken black, darker than the spaces between the trees. It stepped forward, unhurried, its paws silent on the dust. The other wolves gave way without a sound.

Sungho’s knees trembled. His breath hitched and caught somewhere high in his chest. Heat flooded downward, uncontrollable, and he felt the mortifying trickle of urine slip down the inside of his thigh, soaking the strap of his sandal and the dirt beneath his feet.

The black wolf stopped a few feet away. Its gaze locked with his, and the world narrowed to the line between those eyes and his own. There was something in them — something that didn’t belong in an animal’s face. Intelligence. Calculation. Almost… recognition.

The wolf leaned forward, nostrils flaring, its breath hot and rank — a mix of blood, meat gone sour, and the damp earth of the forest floor. It circled him once, then tilted its head back and let out a single, cutting howl.

The others moved instantly.

Teeth closed around his arms and legs — not deep enough to maim, but deep enough to pierce skin. The pressure was brutal, the points of their fangs burning like hot nails as they tore at the ropes. Each jerk of their heads dragged the rough hemp across his flesh, scraping skin raw. He felt the wet slide of saliva on his wrists, the sharp scrape of enamel over bone. One wolf’s breath came in rapid huffs, hot and damp against his ankle, stinking of fresh kill. The rope snapped around his chest, and his body lurched forward, only to be yanked again as the others worked at the knots behind him.

When the last tie gave way, the sudden absence of pressure sent him collapsing to his knees. His palms hit the dirt, gritty and cold. Pain flared up his shins where teeth had grazed bone, bright and searing. He gasped and then the sobs came — short, sharp, ugly. His clothes clung to him, wet with sweat, piss, and the tacky smear of blood.

The wolves backed away just far enough to give him space, but their eyes stayed on him, unblinking. Their bodies were a wall of fur and muscle, the sound of their breathing loud in the stillness. They didn’t pounce. Not yet.

The black one stepped closer, and Sungho froze — heart coiled, stuck in his throat. It lowered its head until its teeth were inches from his face. The wolf’s breath fanned hot against his cheek. The smell struck him so sharply he gagged, swallowing down the urge to retch.

Then it moved. A sudden burst of muscle and weight slammed into his chest, driving the air from his lungs. His back hit the dirt with a dull, bone-shaking thud, dust rising around him in a choking cloud. Sungho’s hands scrabbled weakly against the ground, nails filling with grit. “Please… please…” The words cracked in his throat, broken and small.

The wolf’s weight pinned him. He could feel the dense fur against his bare wrists where his sleeves had been shoved back, the twitch of muscle under its skin. Then there was a sound, rrrip, the coarse tearing of fabric under claws. His suui gave way in strips, the cold air hitting his skin in patches. The wolf’s jaws hovered over his collarbone, warm drool dripping onto his chest in slow, viscous strings.

The bite came without warning.

Fangs sank into the side of his neck, deep enough to pierce through skin, muscle, everything. The pressure was crushing, a vice that refused to let go. Pain erupted — not sharp at first, but searing, like molten metal poured into his veins. It spread from the bite down his shoulders, flooding his chest, racing toward his fingertips.

Sungho screamed. It was a hoarse, ragged sound that tore at his throat, the taste of blood flooding his mouth as his teeth clamped down hard against it. His vision blurred with tears; his ears rang with the wet sound of flesh parting under the wolf’s jaws.

The smell of blood was everywhere now — hot, metallic, and thick, mixing with the wolf’s musk until it was all he could taste in the back of his throat. His body jerked once, twice, then went limp as the pain became too big to hold.

The last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him was the gleam of those pale eyes above him, still locked on his face.

There was no up. No down. No ground beneath him. Only heat. It crawled under his skin like wildfire, searing through his veins until every nerve was lit. It started at his neck — where the bite burned like fresh iron — and spread outward in waves, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

Somewhere in the haze, he felt his hands clench, nails cutting into his palms. He tried to move — to curl in on himself — but his limbs felt heavy, slow, like they belonged to someone else. His chest rose and fell, but each inhale felt like dragging air over raw wounds.

His muscles cramped and twisted, joints aching as if they’d been torn and forced back together. His bones felt too tight in their own shape, stretching and shrinking all at once. His skin was slick, sweat rolling down his temples, pooling at the base of his spine. Every drop felt hot, almost scalding. His throat was dry, but his mouth was wet with saliva, his teeth aching as if something in them was shifting.

The burning didn’t stop — it layered over itself, heat on heat, until there was nothing left but the pain and the rhythm of his pounding heart.

Then, for a moment, there was a scent — faint, strange, cutting through the heat. Musk, fur, and the dark, rich smell of the forest after rain. And beneath it… something that made his stomach knot. Recognition.

The moment he felt it, the heat flared brighter, and the darkness surged up, swallowing the rest of him whole.

Warmth. It clung to his skin, seeping into his bones, softer than anything he’d felt in days. For a moment, Sungho thought he’d dreamed the pole, the ropes, the tearing teeth. But when his eyes blinked open, it was not his home he saw.

He was lying on some kind of wide bedding. Low and broad, it was covered in pelts — thick, heavy furs that carried a faint, citrusy scent, mingling with the earthy smell of rain-soaked ground.The texture was too rich, too real, each strand brushing over his bare skin.

Bare. His chest tightened. He looked down. There was nothing on him — no suui, no hanbok, no bindings of rope. Only the pelts, draped like the hide of some great beast.

A sound cut through his rising panic — steady breathing, not his own.

He snapped his head, and saw him. A young man stood a few paces away, framed by the dim light of an oil lamp burning quietly in the corner. His hair was charcoal black, short and wild, with a few longer bangs brushing his forehead. Eyes dark, round, watchful. He looked close in age— but something about him felt older still, as if the forest had raised him, and not the hands of men.

For one strange heartbeat, Sungho thought of the black wolf.

Memory crashed in — the square, the ropes, the eyes, the bite. His breath quickened.

“What—” His voice cracked. He lurched upright, clutching the pelts to his chest. “What happened to me? Who are you?”

The man didn’t move. His gaze was steady, his voice flat.

“You should sit.”

Sungho’s hands trembled. His mind was still a blur of heat and teeth and darkness. “Tell me where I am!” His voice rose, raw, almost a shout. “Tell me—”

The man’s tone changed — deeper, heavier, carrying something that settled into Sungho’s chest like a stone dropped in water.

“Sit, omega.”

It was not a request.

His knees buckled before he understood what had happened. He fell to the furs, breath ragged, eyes wide. His body obeyed before his mind could resist — a shiver ran through him at the wrongness of it.

The stranger stood over him, that wild, unreadable gaze never breaking. And all Sungho could think was:

What in the gods’ name have they done to me?