Chapter 2 – The War God’s Bride

The night was long and the road was unkind.

Han So-yeon sat atop a horse she did not know, surrounded on all sides by armored riders. Their torches swayed like fiery stars, their banners whispering with every gust of wind. The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed against her chest like a drumbeat of doom.

She had treated countless soldiers in her short life, but she had never ridden with an army before. The air was heavy, tinged with smoke and steel. Every breath reminded her that she was no longer a healer tending villages—she was cargo being carried to the lair of a man whose very name made children cry in the night.

The War God. Jin Seung-hwan.

So-yeon pressed her hands together in her lap to still tremble. Fear battled with defiance inside her heart. She had chosen not to resist in front of the villagers, but now that choice weighed heavily. Could she truly face a man whose sword had cut down thousands?

Beside her rode Do-jin, silent as a shadow. Of all the soldiers, he seemed the least cruel, though his face bore the hardness of one who had seen too much war. She had tried to ask him questions, but he gave no answers beyond the barest words: “We ride to Gyeongsa. You will meet him there.”

The rest of the men treated her as if she were fragile glass—and a dangerous blade at once. They did not strike her, but neither did they look her in the eye. It was as though carrying her was as perilous as carrying fire.

So-yeon understood. She had heard the prophecy once, whispered among priests: When War weds Healing, the world will either end or be reborn.

Perhaps that was why he wanted her.

The thought chilled her to her bones.

---

They arrived at the war camp by dawn.

The field stretched endlessly, a sea of black tents like an army of shadows. Soldiers moved with discipline, sharpening weapons, mending armor, tending to wounds. Even in the quiet of morning, there was no peace—only the anticipation of the next battle.

So-yeon’s heart ached at the sight of so many injured men, bandaged and limping. She longed to run to them, to press her hands against their wounds, to offer salves and comfort. But the soldiers leading her gave no room for such mercy.

Do-jin dismounted first and gestured for her to follow. “Come. He waits.”

So-yeon slid clumsily from her horse. Her legs wobbled, unused to the ride, but she forced herself upright. The soldiers parted for her, their stares heavy, some curious, some openly hostile.

They must hate me, she thought. To them, I am a weakness. A distraction.

At the heart of the camp stood a grand tent, larger than the rest, its black fabric stitched with red thread in patterns of dragons and flames. Two guards stood before it, spears crossed. At Do-jin’s signal, they moved aside.

So-yeon’s breath caught. She was about to face the War God.

The tent’s interior was dimly lit by braziers. Weapons lined the walls—swords, spears, axes—each meticulously kept, each no doubt stained with countless deaths. Furs covered the floor, trophies from conquered lands.

And at the center sat Jin Seung-hwan.

He was taller than she imagined, broad-shouldered, his long black hair tied back, his armor half-removed as though he had just come from battle. His eyes—cold, sharp, and impossibly dark—rested on her with the weight of a storm.

So-yeon froze. It was not merely his size or the aura of power around him. It was the silence. He radiated danger in stillness, like a blade drawn but not yet swung.

At last, he spoke. His voice was deep, steady, carrying command even in its calmness.

“So. You are the healer.”

So-yeon swallowed hard. “I am Han So-yeon.”

Seung-hwan studied her, his gaze moving slowly from her plain robes to the satchel still slung at her side. He noticed the faint stains of blood on her sleeves—not her own, but from those she had tried to save.

“You are smaller than I expected,” he said bluntly.

So-yeon lifted her chin, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And you are crueler than I expected, to drag me here against my will.”

A dangerous silence filled the tent. The soldiers at the entrance stiffened, expecting his wrath. Do-jin closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing for impact.

But to their shock, Seung-hwan laughed.

It was not a warm laugh. It was edged with something sharp, like steel scraping stone. Yet it was laughter all the same.

“Bold,” he said. “Good. I would not want a wife who trembles at every word.”

So-yeon’s heart skipped. Wife. The word echoed in her ears like a curse.

“I did not agree to be your wife,” she said firmly.

“You will,” Seung-hwan replied, rising to his full height. His presence filled the tent like a thundercloud. “The gods themselves have woven it. War and Healing. Death and Life. Together.”

“I am not some tool for your curse,” So-yeon snapped, anger breaking through her fear. “I heal to save lives, not to serve your blood-soaked throne!”

Gasps came from the guards. No one spoke to him this way. No one dared.

Seung-hwan’s expression hardened, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, she thought he might strike her down where she stood. But instead, he stepped closer—so close she could see the faint scar across his jaw, the calluses on his hands, the faint red flecks still staining his armor.

His voice dropped, low enough for only her to hear.

“And yet, healer, it is precisely because you save lives that I need you. I am cursed for an endless battle. Perhaps you are my only chance to end it.”

So-yeon faltered. The weight of his words pressed against her. For the first time, she glimpsed something beneath his iron exterior: not just arrogance, but desperation.

Still, she clenched her fists. “I will not marry you.”

Seung-hwan’s gaze did not waver. Instead, he gave a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

“Then you will stay in my camp until you change your mind.”

---

The days that followed blurred into a strange rhythm.

So-yeon was not locked in chains. Instead, she was given a tent of her own, guarded day and night. She was not treated cruelly, but neither was she free. The soldiers regarded her with suspicion, some even hostility.

Yet wounded men soon came to her tent, whispering of injuries they dared not bring to their commander. Against her will, So-yeon found herself healing once again—binding wounds, mixing herbs, whispering prayers she had learned in childhood.

And with every life she saved, the soldiers’ gazes softened. Resentment gave way to grudging respect.

But Seung-hwan himself was another matter.

He visited her often, sometimes in silence, sometimes with questions. He would watch as she worked, his dark eyes unreadable. He never raised his voice, never forced his hand, yet his presence was suffocating.

One evening, as she ground herbs into paste, she finally demanded, “Why me? You have power, armies, wealth. Why not any noblewoman from the capital? Why chase a healer no one cares about?”

Seung-hwan leaned against the frame of her tent, arms crossed.

“Because noblewomen bring dowries, not salvation,” he said simply. “You… bring something I cannot seize with a sword.”

So-yeon’s hands are still over the mortar. His words unsettled her more than any threat could have.

“You speak as if I am an answer to your curse,” she said softly.

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “Perhaps you are.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She wanted to deny it, to laugh at the absurdity. And yet, deep within, a voice whispered: What if it’s true?

Before she could answer, a horn blared outside the camp—long, harsh, urgent. Soldiers rushed to arms, shouts rising.

Seung-hwan’s expression hardened instantly, the softness gone. He turned toward the entrance.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “This is not your battle.”

But So-yeon’s healer’s heart clenched at the sound of chaos. Already, cries of pain rose from beyond the tent.

And she knew, no matter what he commanded, she could never stay idle while men bled.

---

Thus, on her first night in the War God’s camp, Han So-yeon would step into battle—not as a soldier, but as a healer.

And in doing so, she would begin to bind herself to him in ways neither could yet foresee.

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