Bones That Hold Faith
Chapter 14 – Bones That Hold Faith
(Eun-ha's POV)
Eun‑ha had noticed things about Si‑woo for a while now.
Little things, at first.
The way his eyes slid past old raid photos on her wall without the usual twitch of his mouth. The way he stared a beat too long at the Red Dragon crest, like he was checking the name on a stranger’s door.
He used to grumble, curse, and was more lively.
Now, he was just too quiet.
When she mentioned, the ramen shop they’d gone to after their first promotion, the elevator in the old building that always stuck on the third floor—
Nothing.
It was as if his existence was replaced.
No shared smirk. No “Don’t remind me.” Just a polite, distant, “Is that so?”
She believed it was shock.
Trauma.
That if she just held him long enough, tightly enough, and killed that filthy woman, the old reflexes would come back.
Then the wolves came.
***
The snow stopped screaming before she did.
Eun-ha stood in the middle of the butchered field, her breath harsh, mana still coiled tight in her veins, while holding one of his hands.
The monsters were dead.
Her headache wasn’t.
Her mana was slowly settling. His never had moved.
He hadn’t cast..
Even when the largest hound had come for his throat. Even when he’d slipped on blood. Even when they’d pulled him so hard his bones had complained.
His mana felt… flat. Like a lake in winter. No ripples.
Si‑woo never was like that.
Si‑woo cursed about being “just support” and then buffed three squads at once while complaining. Her Si‑woo put shields on the party before they even asked for it. Her Si‑woo grumbled and still reached for his power every time someone looked at him like they needed something.
This one just stood there and let her burn everything.
He looked back at her. Calm. Tired. Mouth pressed in that way he used to get when paperwork piled up.
But the eyes were wrong.
They slid off the ruins. Off the corpses. Off her.
Like he was cataloging, not there.
Eun‑ha ground her heel into the snow, putting out a final stubborn tongue of fire, and said, almost conversationally.
“You know what’s bothering me?”
“Your entire existence?” Yeon‑hwa offered.
“He didn’t cast once,” Eun‑ha said, ignoring her. “Not even a basic buff. Not even when that thing almost bit his face off.”
Her gaze moved up to him.
“You’re S‑rank support who knows how to fight,” she said. “Your body should move before your brain does by now. Why didn’t it?”
He met her eyes.
He was good at that. Holding her gaze, steady, like he wasn’t afraid. Like he wasn’t lying.
He said something about being pulled around. About them “having enough firepower.”
“Is it because you forgot?” Yeonhwa said. “Because of the memories?”.
“Memories?” she repeated.
“You never told that you lost your memory,” she said.
“No, I did tell you,” he replied. “That day, when we went on our date.”
“Then why don’t I remember?” she asked.
For a moment she almost said: no, you didn’t.
Her brain shoved the memory in front of her face.
That day when Si-woo was stolen from her.
Him, slumped over that cheap table.
She’d removed that entire conversation out of her own brain.
Her mind simply refused to believe that Si-woo had lost his memories.
To her that conversation never happened.
Because it hurt too much.
Yeonhwa’s lips curled.
“Maybe because you were too busy chaining him to remember anything,” she said. “Iron tends to drown out conversation.”
“Or maybe because you were too busy dragging him into your criminal empire,” Eun‑ha shot bck without missing a beat.”
“Both of you, stop,”Si-woo said. “My head already hurts.”
They stopped talking.
The pain didn’t leave.
It just… focused.
On him.
On her.
Eun‑ha stared at him.
Lost his memory.
Didn’t cast.
Didn’t flinch the way he used to when she mentioned stuff about their life.
He looked at her like those things were stories, not things he’d lived.
Her throat tightened.
If it was really memory loss—
If it was really him, and he just didn’t remember—
Then all those years they spent building Red Dragon were gone for him.
He wouldn’t remember her dragging herself back from raids covered in other people’s blood and only relaxing when she saw him sitting at his desk.
He wouldn’t remember the way she’d broken that first Director’s nose when he’d tried to reassign him.
He wouldn’t remember any of the reasons she’d ever given herself to justify what she’d done to him later.
He would never remember the first time he’d called her “Guild Master” half‑teasing, half‑proud.
He would never remember looking at her and saying, “If you fall, I’ll catch you. Even if it’s from the sky.”
Si‑woo? Forgetting her?
Her chest hurt.
No.
No, no, no.
That was worse than death.
It was easier to believe that this thing holding her hand wasn’t him at all.
That's right. Si-woo would have never left her or held that rat’s hand.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
And her Si‑woo was somewhere else. That something had taken his face and his body, left a copy behind.
It was all a trick.
Yeonhwa’s trick.
Or—
Something took him: soul, memory, everything. left a puppet, and laughed while she clung to it.
Her.
That bitch in white.
The Sword Saintess.
The holy freak who always used to stand next to him in Association briefings, smiling politely, speaking softly, and watching him with eyes that said, Mine. Someday.
She could still see that woman’s face clearly.
“Guild Master Cha Eun-ha,” the Saintess had said once, after a joint raid. “May I borrow Han Si-woo for a day?”
If anyone could pluck a soul out of a body and hide it in some “sanctified dimension,” it would be her.
Eun-ha wondered If someone dug her up and cracked her ribs open, would there even be a human bone inside?
He loses his memory conveniently right after he disappears? Right after he walks into Yeonhwa’s building? Right when it would hurt her the most?
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“Then don’t think too hard,” Yeonhwa said. “He’s here. Breathing. That’s enough.”
“It’s not,” Eun‑ha snapped. “Not for me.”
Her nails dug into her palm until she felt skin break.
She would rather believe the world was lying than accept that Han Si‑woo had simply decided to erase her.
She would rather believe some divine bitch ripped him out and left a puppet.
Her eyes dropped to his hand.
He was holding on to both of them.
Too calmly.
Too cleanly.
She slid her hand under her coat, fingers fumbling for the thing she’d shoved against her chest the moment she stole it.
Cold metal met her skin.
She pulled it out.
A small orb, smooth as glass. Light moved lazily inside it like trapped breath. Delicate runes turned under the surface, slow and steady.
Eun‑ha had walked in during a joint operation, smiled politely, and stuffed it into her own pocket when no one was looking.
The Saintess had noticed.
Yet she didn’t say anything.
She’d kept it ever since.
Close to her heart.
Waiting.
Yeon‑hwa’s expression cooled when she saw it.
“You kept that there the entire time,” Yeonhwa said. “Close to your heart. Cute.”
“Shut up,” Eun‑ha said. “You keep your knives in your back, I keep my tools up front. Different styles.”
Snow wind clawed at the burnt corpses around them.
She ignored it.
He hesitated.
She drew in a breath.
Her heart thudded too hard.
Her Si‑woo was somewhere.
He had to be.
The one who laughed in cheap ramen shops. The one who dragged her out of collapsing gates. The one who looked at her and said, “You’re doing well, Guild Master.”
He wouldn’t leave her.
He wouldn’t smile for another woman like that.
He wouldn’t forget her.
So this one, standing here talking about blank spaces in his head and shrugging at their past, had to be something else.
A fake.
A puppet.
A bad joke the world was playing on her.
She looked at him.
“Are you,” she asked, her voice too calm, “Han Si‑woo?”
Silence.
The runes inside the orb glowed, then steadied, waiting.
“Answer,” Eun‑ha said it sounded almost like whispering. “Please.”
His mouth opened.
“…No,” he said.
The orb flared red.
The light stabbed up through their fingers, hot and sharp.
Eun‑ha’s breath caught.
"Lies," the old Saintess's voice seeped into her memory. "Red is the mark of falsehood, Guild Master Cha. Blue… truth. It binds the soul, not the mind or the heart."
Her hand tightened around his without meaning to.
He flinched.
“You,” she said slowly, “said no.”
“It reacted,” Yeonhwa observed. “Lie.”
He licked his lips, throat moving.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he said. “I don’t remember being him. That’s not—”
“Again,” Eun‑ha said.
“Cha Eun‑ha,” Yeon‑hwa warned. “He just told you—”
“Again.”
Her tone cut everything else.
She forced her fingers to ease up just enough that he could breathe.
“Say it,” she ordered. “Are you Han Si‑woo.”
His brows drew together.
“…No,” he said again.
The orb burned redder.
Hotter.
Pain licked across his palm, up his wrist. He hissed.
“Stop it,” Yeon‑hwa snapped. “Are you gonna burn him?”
“Shut up,” Eun‑ha said. “He doesn’t get to throw out that kind of answer and expect me to swallow it.”
“He’s telling you how he feels,” Yeon‑hwa said. “He doesn’t remember! Of course he says ‘no’!”
“The stone doesn’t care about his feelings,” Eun‑ha said. “It cares about what he is.”
She stared at him.
At this man who wore her Si‑woo’s face, spoke with his mouth, and yet said “I’m not him” like it was a favour.
Her skin crawled.
“You really want him to be a fake that badly?” Yeon‑hwa said, soft. “So you can blame someone else for losing him?”
“Yes,” Eun‑ha said without hesitation. “I want it to be her. Or you. Or the gods. Anyone but him.”
Her voice shook.
“Anyone but me.”
The wind carried the words away as soon as she said them, but they still rang in her skull.
She swallowed.
“Once more,” she said.
“This is enough,” Yeonhwa said. “You’re just torturing him now.”
“Once,” Eun‑ha repeated. “Last.”
Her eyes burned.
Her grip around his hand softened, just a fraction.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did.
There was fear in his eyes.
Good.
Fear meant he was still something alive. Something she could hold on to, even if he didn’t remember why.
“Answer honestly,” she said. “No tricks. No twisted sentences. No ‘in my heart.’ Just yes or no.”
She dragged in a breath that scraped her throat.
“Are you really,” she asked again, “Han Si‑woo.”
The wind fell away.
The world shrank to the space between their faces and the weight in their joined hands.
His throat moved. Once. Twice.
“…Yes,” he said. Quiet, but clear.
The orb’s light cooled.
The furious red bled out, leaving a steady, soft blue. The runes inside settled into a slow, even rotation.
Truth.
Yeon‑hwa let out a breath she’d been holding.
“There,” she said. “You hear it? He’s him. Your toy is working. Stop before you break him.”
Eun‑ha didn’t respond.
She couldn’t.
Her legs went loose.
The next thing she knew, her knees hit the snow.
Cold soaked through her pants.
That artifact had never been wrong.
Hah. It was useless. No matter how many times she asked, the truth wouldn’t change.
Her Si‑woo.
Not a puppet or a trick.
The real one.
The one who had smiled at Yeon‑hwa in Spain.
The one who had walked into Black Sun of his own will.
The one who had looked at her in the basement and said, “I forgive you,” with eyes that didn’t remember why they needed to.
The one she had almost burned alive in a Seoul street.
She’d been telling herself this entire time that the worst thing would be if he wasn’t real.
She’d been wrong.
The worst thing was knowing he was.
Her hand went to her own throat.
It felt tight. Too tight. Like someone had tied something invisible there and pulled.
He said no twice.
Tried to claw his way out of a name that was wrapped around him like steel wire.
The only reason the stone had screamed ‘lie’ was because something deeper than his confused head still answered to it.
He was Han Si‑woo.
He had lost his memories.
He had chosen, in that fog, to go to someone else.
And she had hurt him so badly that his first instinct was to say he wasn’t himself anymore.
“Good job,” something in her sneered. “You really did it this time.”
Her shoulders shook.
She pressed her palm into the snow until it hurt, like pain there might drown out the burning behind her eyes.
“Eun‑ha,” Si‑woo said carefully.
She didn’t look up.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the orb half‑buried in snow.
Steady blue.
No escape hatch.
No Saintess to blame. No shaman to curse out for lying. No shadow‑puppet theory to cling to like a life raft.
Just the fact that it was him.
Han Si‑woo.
Her Si‑woo.
Broken.
Because of her.
Because she had wanted to keep him so badly she’d sold everything else she had to buy a future that didn’t include his choice.
Her fingers dug into the ice.
In the ruined silence of that Russian wasteland, surrounded by monsters’ corpses and the women who’d chased one man across continents, Cha Eun‑ha bowed her head.
“So it really is you,” she thought, the words too heavy to say out loud. "And you’ve forgotten… everything we were."
And she really almost killed him.
The wind didn’t answer. Neither did he.
