📜 NEW CHAPTER 4 — THE FIRST SPARK

The sun broke over the ragged fields behind House Ryu just as Tae pulled the old gelding from the stable. Jin stood by the gate, the frost crackling under his boots, a scrap of parchment in hand.

“Gil won’t trust you,” Tae said. He patted the horse’s flank, careful of its winter-thin ribs. “He’s a drunk. A coward.”

“Then remind him who kept him alive when Baek hung his son’s feet over a salt pit,” Jin said. He slipped the parchment into Tae’s gloved hand — an IOU, signed with the old seal, half rotted from the damp well.

Tae tucked it inside his tunic. “And if he spits in my face?”

Jin’s eyes were hard and amused at once. “Then spit back. And tell him I know about the three barrels of brined fish he stole from Baek’s tax crates five years ago.”

Tae barked a laugh, swung into the saddle, and turned the horse toward the salt pans.

Jin watched his brother ride until the frost-dusted fields swallowed him. The gelding’s breath steamed in the dawn — a ghost in the dying lands that were, for now, still theirs.

He turned back to the courtyard. Soha waited under the old pomegranate tree, arms folded, her breath pluming white. She held the moth-eaten ledger close like a shield.

“Will he come back with Gil’s promise?” she asked.

Jin shrugged. “Gil loves money more than life. He’ll come.”

Soha narrowed her eyes. “That’s not a yes.”

Jin stepped closer, plucked the ledger from her arms, and flipped through the brittle pages. Numbers, names, IOUs — ghosts of a house that once commanded half the valley.

“Not yet,” he said. “But it will be.”

By noon, the house stirred awake.

The hearth crackled with half-rotten barley straw. Jin sat cross-legged by the fire, ledger open on his knees, eyes moving fast.

He sketched columns in the margins: who owed what, who could be threatened, who would break for Baek when the pressure came.

Soha crouched beside him, hair tied back, ink smudged on her fingers. She watched him work — faster, sharper than she remembered.

“You didn’t care about any of this before,” she said.

“I was blind before.”

“To what? This?” She gestured at the ledger — worthless numbers for a worthless house.

“No.” He tapped the page with a blackened nail. “To how easy it is to lie with numbers.”

She flinched — the old Jin would never have spoken like this. The old Jin would have drunk himself stupid and cursed the sky.

But this man — her brother, her heir — drew lines in the dust like a general planning a siege.

The door creaked open. A figure stepped in — thin, stooped, wrapped in a patched winter cloak that smelled of hay and old wine.

Master Oh — once the stablemaster of House Ryu, now half a beggar living off stale barley cakes and pity.

Jin looked up, lips twitching. “Master Oh.”

The old man flinched at the title. “No ‘master’ left here, Young Lord.”

“There is today,” Jin said. He rose, ledger in hand, and crossed to the old man. “Do you still remember the salt routes?”

Master Oh’s eyes darted to Soha, then back. “I might.”

Jin pressed the ledger into his hands.

“I need a team at the north pass before Baek’s men get there. When Gil switches sides, Baek will move to choke the supply lines. You know the roads — you know who’ll take a coin to keep quiet.”

Master Oh opened his mouth, closed it. “Young Lord… it’s been years.”

Jin’s voice softened — just a hair. “So take my coin. Or take Baek’s boot. Your choice.”

Soha watched the old man leave, bent under the ledger’s weight. She turned to Jin.

“You’re gambling on beggars and drunks.”

He didn’t deny it. “Beggars and drunks built this house the first time. They’ll do it again.”

Out by the well, Jin found the old iron ring in his pocket.

Dragon curling over a cat — the first crest, before the exiles fled west.

He slipped it on beside the new signet. The metal was cold, biting at his skin.

He remembered the founder’s oath, half legend, half lullaby: One claw buried, one hidden.

Jin flexed his hand — two rings now, two lives. The boy they killed, and the man who refused to stay dead.

Hours later, Tae returned — salt dust caking his cloak, cheeks ruddy from the wind.

He led Gil behind him — a stooped old drunk, beard crusted with salt flakes, eyes darting at every shadow.

They sat at the hearth where Jin waited, fire spitting sparks at the winter dark.

Gil dropped to his knees without a word. The salt smell clung to him — brine, sweat, old fear.

“You come crawling, Gil?” Jin asked mildly.

Gil flinched. “Lord Jin — I never turned on your father. Never once—”

“You turned the day you took Baek’s silver,” Jin said. “You turned when you let him lease the pans for half price while your men starved.”

Gil swallowed. Tae crossed his arms, looming behind the old salt keeper.

Jin leaned forward, eyes sharp as a blade’s edge.

“You owe me three barrels of brined fish, Gil.”

Gil blinked. “What—?”

“Baek’s fish. The ones you hid five winters ago. I could let his steward know. Or—”

Jin flipped the IOU onto the table.

“—you sign this, and I forget. You get the pans back at the old share — minus Baek’s cut. You pay the tax yourself. And you feed my men.”

Gil’s lips worked. He looked to Tae, to Soha. No pity there.

He signed.

Jin pressed a small copper coin into the man’s shaking hand.

“Good,” Jin said. “Tomorrow you send word. Tell the pans — Ryu pays fair. Baek’s time is done.”

Gil clutched the coin like a dying man clutches a prayer.

When the old salt keeper shuffled out, Jin turned to Tae and Soha. They stared at him like he’d just conjured gold from sand.

“This buys us three weeks,” Jin said. “No more.”

Soha stepped close. “And when Baek comes?”

Jin bared his teeth — not quite a smile.

“Then we show him that House Ryu still has claws.”

Late that night, Jin stood at the gates again, alone.

Wind battered the courtyard walls. Somewhere beyond the hills, Baek’s steward would already be moving, sniffing for betrayal.

Jin drew the iron dragon ring off his finger, pressed it to his lips, then slipped it back on.

“Your blood runs cold tonight,” he murmured to the dark. “But not for long.”

He turned, cloak snapping like a banner in the wind.

To be continued.