The first time Taekwoon meets him, Wonshik is seven years old and dying from pneumonia.

The little clay brick dwelling is misty with steam in an attempt to ease the shallow breaths that rattle in his throat with every flutter of his fragile lungs, but there's nothing that can save him now. He's already straddling the divide between the living and the dead, and his mortal shell is unable to contain his spirit for much longer.

The enclosed space is barely able to accommodate Taekwoon's raven-feathered wings as he stoops inside, and they unfurl, the glossy plumage hugging the walls. The usual tint of green and purple gleams orange in the sickly light of the fire flickering in the hearth, a reflection of the unforgiving fever gnawing away beneath the boy's skin.

His mother and the village physician are dark, blurry shapes hovering at his bedside, still tied to the mortal realm, but they're of no interest to Taekwoon.

Wonshik's eyes crack open, sensing his presence, and sweat is glistening on his brow. It's creased with suffering, and though Taekwoon knows it's a cruel fate for one so young, second chances are not in his power to grant.

The boy knows why he's there and his dry lips peel apart. "No."

It's a hoarse utterance, exhausting energy he doesn't have, but it rings with the innocent defiance particular to children when told playtime's over and it's time for bed. But Taekwoon is a resolute parent.

He reaches out, upturned palm promising mercy, but the boy shrinks back and Taekwoon sees it's not just his cheeks that are fever