The Last Fallen Star: Chapters 4–8

His large sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat obscure most of his face.

“Mong and I will keep the coast clear,” Emmett says, taking a seat at the reception desk in front of the shelves of dried herbs and roots in apothecary jars.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips when we crouch down and pull back the black drapery to reveal a discreet wooden box in the corner.

The ancient wood is covered with a tawny lacquer that makes it almost look wet, and shiny brass cutouts of suns and moons decorate its front.

Hattie gingerly passes the vial of tears to me.

My hand gravitates toward the precious volume like a moth to light, and I pull it out.

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the book like an ominous storm cloud.

Even Mong comes to huddle over the spellbook with us, as Hattie, Emmett, and I silently read the preamble: Casting this spell will allow a witch’s gift to be shared temporarily with a saram subject for seven days. The witch’s strength will be reduced by half for the duration of this period.

Post-spell, all the saram subjects’ memories must be wiped with a strong dose of Memoryhaze potion to preserve the privacy and sanctity of the clans.

“Pfft, I am not having my memory wiped,” I quip.

Hundreds of witches have gathered to watch her become a full-fledged healer, and looking around at all the expectant faces, I start to get cold feet about our plans to hijack the ceremony.

She assesses him thoroughly while calming him with reassuring words.

Mrs. Kim reveals the second test, and it’s obvious to everyone what this patient’s ailment is. She is missing big chunks of flesh from her legs, and the other clans, who aren’t used to seeing so much blood, cover their eyes.

Hattie needs to do a muscle- grafting spell, followed by a flesh-replenishing spell.

As Hattie’s chanting grows in volume, the patient’s wasted limbs begin to transform, the hollowed cavities of sinew and bone filling with muscle and flesh.

Then she stands confidently and announces to the council, “This man is not alive. And while there are certain spells that can bring mortals back to life, it is against the council’s code of conduct to do so, as it would break the sacred covenant the clans have with the Spiritrealm. For this reason, I will refrain from casting any spells to revive this patient.”

A deep guttural wail escapes from the cauldron as Hattie’s Gi and gifted mark glow Gom gold.

When the light subsides and we can see again, all the food and drink have disappeared to the Godrealm, and Hattie is grinning widely.

She shakes her head and glances at me with a disoriented look on her face. “Rye, what’s going on?”

Eomma and Appa have clambered up to the cauldron and are now looking at me as if I’ve grown a Haetae horn on my forehead.

I guess she wasn’t as quiet as I thought she was, because another wave of appalled gasps ricochets through the congregation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other elders gathering and whispering conspiratorially to one another.

“And we knew the future for the Horangi was bleak and lonely at best. What wrong had you committed but be born to foolish parents? We had to do everything in our power to protect you.”

Before I can even stand up and get my bearings, Mr. Pyo, the Samjogo elder, has convened with his fellow elders and begins addressing the congregation.

Not only have these two children attempted to perform an illegal spell today, but also it is clear in our code of conduct, as stipulated by the Godrealm, that anyone seen colluding with the excommunicated clan must have their gifts stripped, too.

“We will put the girls’ transgression aside and revisit it at a later date. As for these three adults, harboring a cursed fugitive—and for almost thirteen years, no less—is the very definition of colluding with the cursed clan.”

We will allow you to choose a punishment you feel is commensurate to your crime.

“I told him,” Hattie quickly says, “about how, after our spell failed, Eomma and Appa created a huge scene, demanding you be allowed to initiate into the clan. And when they wouldn’t let up, the elders charged them with contempt of the code of conduct. As punishment, they have been given seven days to choose between disowning you or losing their gifts.”

The reminder of today’s events sobers me up.

My eyes glance down at the mess of clothes strewn across the floor.

Summoning the mother of all creation and asking for a wish is a radical plan, if ever there was one.

The training studio is drab and outdated, with peeling wallpaper and way-too-bright lights.

The sound of voices chanting Taegwondo commands reverberates through the walls.

“I told you so,” Hattie says to me, looking smug.

“I’ll write down the incantations for you, but you’ll also need to find some ashes of death and the elixir of life to complete the spell. That, and a willing initiated witch.”

He once told me, in a rare moment of candor, that the ring was special to him because it represented his parents’ love—and their love created him.

The Joseon Chalice is kept here at the dojang, yes. It’s the sacred chalice of King Sejong the Great from the Joseon dynasty. Did you guys know he was gifted? Anyway, the artifact itself is not the elixir of life. The witch has to collect the elixir in the chalice along with the ashes for the spell to work.

Noah walks across the room and bends over to pick up a dusty trophy hiding behind a photo of some people in Taegwondo whites. It’s a small, unassuming cup that’s been sitting there so long the metal has dulled to a tawny brown.

He polishes the trophy’s face with the bottom of his T-shirt, and a golden sheen emerges.

One thing is for sure—I would be utterly and overwhelmingly lost without my sister and best friend.