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Chapter Text

In the dawn of ages, when men still feared the dark and raised marble temples to beg for blessings, the gods walked openly among mortals. They were worshipped in hymns and sacrifices, their names carved into stone, whispered by trembling oracles. But time is a ruthless sculptor. Centuries passed, prayers grew faint, temples crumbled, and myths became little more than bedtime tales.

Yet the gods did not vanish. They adapted, hidden in the folds of the world, surviving in the crack of thunder where Zeus still raged, in the shifting tides of Poseidon’s restless seas, in the hushed murmurs of Hades’ shadowed realm. They lingered in forgotten sanctuaries, in the gleam of the moon, in the wild laughter of wine, in the tremor of music and the rustle of leaves. They endured, veiled, watching mortals run faster and farther from them, convinced they were free.

Among them, two stood forever opposed. Artemis, the huntress, guardian of chastity, stern and unyielding, who loved the silence of forests more than the noise of men. And Dionysus, god of wine and ecstasy, reckless desire and endless laughter, who unsettled every quiet glade with his revels. Their quarrel was ancient: silence against song, restraint against indulgence. Yet the gods are not above pettiness, and it was through pettiness that fate was shaped.

One moonlit night, Artemis hunted beneath the silver canopy. Her arrows never missed, her hounds never faltered and the forest itself bent to her command. But Dionysus, stung by her scorn after she forbade him from courting one of her sworn maidens, devised a cruel trick. He lured into her path a creature unlike any other: a Maltese tiger, the last of its kind, a beast radiant as if carved from moonlight itself.

The arrow flew swift. The tiger fell.

When Artemis reached its side, grief tore through her like a wound beyond healing. Though she was the goddess of the hunt, her heart was bound to the balance of nature, to the protection of life itself, and she mourned the violation of that sacred order. The huntress who upheld balance had broken it with her own hand. To slay the last of a species was an affront to everything she guarded. She dropped her bow, knelt in the blood-soaked grass, and pressed trembling hands to the still flank.

Her breath came ragged. She tore the silver clasp from her cloak and hurled it into the earth. Her nails raked her skin as if she could claw the guilt free. And when she wept, her tears were golden ichor, burning as they touched the tiger’s fur. A thick pink mist rose, coiling like breath from the underworld. Overcome, Artemis sank into the haze and slept.

When she woke, the beast was gone. In its place lay a child.

Dionysus, watching from the shadows, let a sly smile tug at his lips. Mischief satisfied, he lingered only long enough to see grief and confusion take root. Then, eager for the next indulgence, he vanished into the night, never caring what consequence he had left behind.

Artemis stared at the infant, her chest hollow. She was alone and devastated, watching what she could not understand. The child was small, his eyes striking and feline, glinting with the same brilliance as the creature she had slain. His breath was fragile, yet steady; a life that should not exist. She was the untouched huntress, untouched still, and yet here was her son, born not of union but of sorrow.

She would not name him. To name was to claim, and her heart was bound too tightly by guilt. She gave him to her nymphs to raise under Olympus’ watch, but never too close to her heart. He would one day be called Minho, the only son of Artemis, as rare as the tiger whose death had summoned him.

And in the shadows, something stirred. Silent, patient, older than the mountains and deeper than the seas, it lingered… drawn to grief, drawn to discord, tasting opportunity. It left no shape, no face, only a single blackened golden flower fallen upon the grass, glimmering with a sombre light that belonged to no sun. A quiet promise. A predator waiting. Attentive and expectant, threading its malice into the very fibres of what had just begun.

Chapter Text

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Minho

The dawn found Minho on the high terraces of Olympus, where marble met sky and the wind carried a chill no mortal could endure. He moved silently among the columns, barefoot, feeling the stone’s cold bite beneath his soles. His day began as it always did: a solitary run through orchards and gardens, the air filled only with the rustle of leaves and the distant drip of a fountain. Silence here was a living thing, thick and tangible, broken only by the faint rhythm of his breathing.

“Don’t dawdle, boy,” a nymph called, her voice like wind through chimes. “The morning hunt waits.”
“I’m perfectly aware,” Minho replied, lips quirking into the faintest smirk. “Though even a nymph must admit the value of a stroll before the world demands we spill blood... or wisdom.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “And you will always find the excuse to run away, won’t you?”
“I prefer to call it exploration,” he said, striding past her. “Even Olympus, in all its perfection, needs to be hunted for something interesting.”

During the hunt, Minho’s bow felt like an extension of his arm, the string humming with each arrow he loosed. Every target was a silent challenge, a test of patience and precision. He welcomed the hush around him, each shot a conversation with the wind, answered only by the flight of the arrow. Yet even in the ritual, his gaze drifted often to the horizon, to the mortal world far below, where stars seemed to rest closer to the earth and the breeze carried scents Olympus had never known.

He returned home carrying a basket brimming with fruits and small creatures taken during the morning hunt.

“You’re late for the meal,” Dryope said, her voice warm but edged with gentle reproach as her eyes flicked to the bounty he bore.

“Late?” Minho let his bow rest against the wall, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I call it arriving with style.” He set the basket on the table, presenting his catch with a flourish.

Dryope shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You do love to boast about your hunts, don’t you?”

He shrugged, sadness flickering beneath his casual posture. “One must honour one’s mother,” he said, half in jest, half in truth. “Even if the mother isn’t… exactly aware.”

Dryope stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your mother does care, Minho. Perhaps not with words, not in the way mortals do, but she watches. She remembers. She carries you in her own way.”

Minho looked aside, unconvinced, though the corner of his mouth softened. “I suppose that’s… comforting?” he muttered, masking the warmth he felt for her behind a veil of sarcasm.

Dryope’s chuckle filled the quiet room like music. “Do not make it so hard, child. Even gods and their children need ease sometimes.”

He nodded, a reluctant smile breaking through, before slipping away to his preparations. To the gods who watched, Minho was exemplary: silent, disciplined, the perfect son of Artemis. But in the solitude between each breath, he was a boy born of grief, longing for a place that did not exist.

As night fell over Olympus, Minho crouched at the edge of a cliff, the wind tugging at his hair, carrying the faintest scent of the mortal world below. He watched the lights flicker like distant constellations, a city alive with voices he would never join, laughter he would never share. He let the silence enfold him like a cloak, listening to the crackle of the forest, the distant roar of a waterfall, the steady rhythm of his own heart.

‘Somewhere down there, life goes on without me,’ he thought, ‘and yet it calls to me with every breath I take.’

He packed lightly: a tent, his bow, a few essentials. Then he slipped quietly from home, a shadow among shadows, eager for the fleeting freedom of mortal nights. Beneath the stars, Minho found solace in the hum of crickets, in the scent of pine, in the way firelight danced across the earth. Here, he was not a child of grief nor a son of a god; he was just a boy learning the quiet poetry of the world, tasting a peace Olympus had never truly offered him.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

Far below, in the mortal world, another morning unfurled with noise rather than silence. Jisung Han stepped from a van into a crush of flashing lights. His stage name, J. One, was shouted from every side; signs waved, cameras snapped, hands stretched towards him as if he were not a man but a constellation brought to earth. He smiled, because he had learnt long ago that smiles were currency. He lifted a hand, signed an album cover thrust before him, let a fan clasp his sleeve for a heartbeat before security ushered her away. Every gesture rehearsed, every breath measured.

Inside, the company building was vast and gilded, yet quiet in a way that stung. He made his way to the recording studio and dropped his jacket onto the sofa, the weight of sequins thudding against leather, then crossed to the mirror. The reflection stared back: styled hair, painted skin, the mask of J. One. He pressed his fingertips against the glass, almost expecting the boy beneath to respond. None did.

Studio lights blazed overhead, cables snaking across the floor, and the faint scent of coffee mingled with the tang of electronics. Microphone poised and headphones snug over his ears, he sang into the air with a kind of ease that made his voice feel both intimate and impossible to grasp.

“Take it from the top,” the producer called. “More feeling this time.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, though a small smile played at the corner of his lips. “Right, because my feeling apparently hibernates during the morning.”

He launched into the verse again, each note a story. Even here, in the hum of machinery and the measured control of a recording session, he felt the undercurrent of isolation. After the last take, Jisung leaned back in his chair, exhausted but alive with the thrill of creation. Fame wrapped around him like silk and fire; he had been adored since childhood, celebrated for every nuance of talent inherited from his mother, Hyori Han.

Hyori, a singer whose voice had graced stages across continents, enchanted audiences with a rare, almost otherworldly brilliance. Her songs lingered in memory long after the applause had faded, and among those captivated was Dionysus himself. Night after night, he lingered at her performances, invisible to the mortal crowd, until even the defences of her heart could not resist the god’s quiet, insistent charm.

Their union was brief, tempestuous yet tender, a storm of desire and fascination. From that night, Jisung was born. Hyori had known from the beginning that Dionysus was a god, but she chose to raise her son entirely among mortals, teaching him the language of music, the rhythm of life, and the joy of earthly pleasures, shielding him from truths she considered too vast, too dangerous for his young mind.

Jisung grew up believing that his father had been Hyori’s former lover, a man who had died before he could remember his face or the warmth of his touch. In his place, Dionysus remained as a distant, charming “uncle”, occasionally sending gifts or appearing at family gatherings with an air of nonchalance and mirth, but never revealing the full extent of his nature. Jisung knew nothing of his semi-divine heritage, of the power quietly thrumming through his veins, or of the celestial bloodline that linked him to a god of unrestrained bliss.

Returning home after a long day in the studio, Jisung pushed open the grand doors of the family mansion, the polished floors gleaming under the warm lights. The scent of lavender and honey lingered in the air, carrying the quiet reassurance of home. Hyori looked up from her music sheets in the expansive living room and gave him a warm smile.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I’m fine,” Jisung replied quickly, offering a small smile, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

Hyori studied him for a moment, her eyes sharp yet gentle. “Are you really? Come, sit with me for a while,” she said, patting the arm of the nearby chair.

He hesitated, then eased down beside her, the silence stretching comfortably between them.

“Sometimes I don’t know if I belong here,” he admitted softly, staring out at the city lights beyond the windows. “All the music, the applause, the lights… It's wonderful, but it feels like it’s not really mine. Like I’m watching it from the outside.”

Hyori reached out, placing her hand over his. “I see,” she said gently.

He nodded, biting his lip. “I don’t know if I should say it… but sometimes I feel invisible, even when everyone is looking at me. It’s like I’m here, but not really here at all.”

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, Jisung,” she said softly, tilting his chin so he would meet her eyes. “Sometimes, feeling it, letting it settle, is enough. Let the melody of your heart guide you, even when you cannot find the words.” He gave a small, bittersweet smile, the warmth of her presence easing the edges of his doubt.

“I know,” he whispered. “It’s just strange to feel… all at once.”

Hyori squeezed his hand gently. “Then let the songs be your voice. They are yours, even when you feel uncertain. That is all anyone can ask of you.”

They stayed together in silence for a long moment, the mansion humming softly around, the weight of unspoken feelings lightened by the understanding between them. That night, after settling briefly in his room, Jisung stepped onto the balcony. The city sprawled beneath him, a river of lights and muted laughter, but his gaze rose to the sky. The hum of music that always lingered in his mind softened, blending with the gentle night breeze.

“Do I really belong here?” he whispered, his voice lost to the dark expanse. ‘Or am I just passing through, watching, never truly part of it?’

The stars offered no answer, yet their cold, steady brilliance seemed to listen, comforting in their impartiality. He let the quiet fold around him, the hum of the city fading beneath the rhythm of his own heartbeat. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to simply be, untethered from the applause, the expectations, the constant performance.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Miles away from mansions or any human construction, Minho lay beneath the open sky, the firelight of his small camp flickering at his side. His eyes traced the same stars that now cradled Jisung above the city, each twinkle a shared witness across the vast distance. A silent chord threaded through worlds apart. One in silence, one in song, neither aware of the invisible connection already beginning to weave between them. The winds carried the first hints of a meeting yet to come, and the night seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for two lives so different to collide.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

It was a morning unlike any other on Olympus. The usual calm had been replaced by flurries of activity. Nymphs hurried to arrange garlands, the huntresses polished their bows, and the scent of herbs and incense mingled with the crisp mountain air. Even the fountains seemed to bubble with anticipation, reflecting the tense preparations for the imminent visit of Artemis herself.

Unlike many other gods, Artemis did not live permanently on Olympus. She preferred the company of her sworn band of huntresses, roaming both mortal and immortal lands in pursuit of the hunt and in fulfilment of her duty as goddess of the moon. Her visits to Olympus were rare and thus eagerly awaited by her retinue who remained there. Minho moved through the commotion quietly, noting the sharpness of the morning light and the faint tremor of expectation in the air.

In an instant, the terraces erupted with preparation, nymphs and huntresses hurrying in every direction, the clatter of sandals and the rustle of fabric filling the air. And then, as if the world itself had exhaled, a sudden calm settled, a serenity that only the presence of a god could enforce. Artemis had arrived.

“Minho,” a commanding voice called. He turned, and there she stood atop the central terrace, her presence luminous, radiating effortless authority. The goddess’s form was that of an eternally young maiden, perfect and poised: long silver hair, like his own, cascading down her back, adorned with a delicate diamond tiara set with a small moon at its centre. Her eyes gleamed with the weight of countless eras witnessed, and her lithe, strong body betrayed the grace of a huntress in constant motion.

Minho’s chest tightened as he took in the familiar vision, a mixture of awe and the ache of distance. “Mother,” he murmured under his breath, though he dared not speak aloud beyond the word.

Artemis’s gaze swept over him, appraising yet distant, her concern hidden beneath an unyielding demeanor.

“Are you ready for your duties today? Your skills have yet to face trials most seriously, and your mother watches you closely. Will you honour her?”

Minho’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “I am ready, mother,” he replied, keeping his tone measured. Still, a familiar ache stirred in his chest, a quiet reminder that affection was a language Artemis never quite spoke.

“Remember,” she said, her voice softening, “the path of the hunt teaches more than skill; it shapes the spirit. Fail not, for your actions here echo far beyond your sight.”

He bowed his head briefly, resisting the sting of her detachment. “I shall strive, as ever,” he murmured, and she moved on, leaving only the echo of her words and the faint scent of mountain herbs.

Later that morning, Minho understood that Artemis had arrived not as a visitor but summoned by duty. She approached Minho with the same measured grace she always carried, her steps silent on the marble floors.

“I have been called to a council,” she said, voice steady yet carrying an unspoken weight. “You will accompany me, not as a gesture of courtesy, but so that you may learn the ways in which our world governs itself. Observation is as much a duty as the hunt.”

Minho nodded, a flicker of anticipation mingled with hesitation in his chest. The journey from her private chambers to the council hall was cloaked in a heavy, almost tangible silence. Columns stretched overhead, statues of forgotten heroes and minor gods lining the halls, their eyes frozen in eternity. Minho could not decipher what pressed on him so; the familiar mixture of Artemis’ disapproval and distance had always been a thorn in his chest. Guilt? Disappointment? He could never tell, and the silence that followed her every word offered no answers.

When they reached the council hall, Artemis swept to her throne, tall and imposing, her silver hair catching the sunlight streaming through the high windows. Minho took his place among the lesser gods and demigods, bow resting lightly against his arm, ears straining to catch every whispered word.

Zeus presided, his presence heavy with authority. Poseidon stood nearby, the faint scent of salt clinging to him despite the distance from the seas. Athena’s eyes, sharp and vigilant, scanned the assembly, noting every twitch of unease.

“Hermes has brought troubling news,” Athena began, her voice precise, leaving no room for ambiguity. “Rumours and whispers circulate among mortals and immortals. A force, subtle yet insidious, stirs in the world below; its nature obscured, its intent unclear.”

Poseidon’s deep voice rolled like a distant wave. “I have sensed shifts in tides, currents and winds that do not obey their natural courses. Something gathers strength beneath the mortal seas and lands alike.”

Zeus’ nod was grave. “It is clear that this matter cannot remain unobserved. A group must be dispatched to the source of these disturbances, vigilant, discreet, and capable of protecting the innocents.”

A murmur ran through the hall. Artemis’ gaze flicked to Minho, her eyes inscrutable as always, a faint spark of something almost approving, or merely acknowledgement, passing between them.

“The council decides,” Athena continued, “that a select party of heroes shall descend to the mortal realm to investigate. Their target: the festival known as Lunapalooza, a gathering of sound and spectacle, rumoured to pulse with energies most unnatural.”

Minho did not hesitate. He stepped forward, bow in hand, chest tightening with resolve. “I shall go. I am ready to serve,” he declared, voice steady, each syllable weighed with intent. Artemis’ expression did not change, yet for a brief heartbeat, the faintest inclination of her gaze met his, a silent recognition that his words had not gone unnoticed.

Spurred by his resolve, other gods and demigods began to stir. One by one, they stepped out from the gathered ranks, voices rising with pledges of loyalty and eagerness to prove themselves. Some held their weapons close to their chests, others bowed their heads in solemn respect, but all shared the same fire burning in their eyes.

The decision made, whispers of preparation began to ripple through the hall, the council breaking into murmurs as the heroes chosen readied themselves for the journey to the mortal world. Minho stood quietly, heart alight with anticipation, a mix of pride and the familiar ache that came with every glance from Artemis.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

The first light of dawn barely brushed the terraces of Olympus as Minho adjusted the straps of his pack, the weight familiar yet lighter than the tension in his chest. Today, he was to leave, crossing the veil that separated the divine from the mortal, stepping into a mission unknown. Artemis approached silently, her silver hair catching the fragile glow of morning, her expression inscrutable as ever.

“Minho,” she said, her voice calm yet carrying the gravity of a mountain, “you will go to the festival. Observe, protect, intervene if necessary. Do not underestimate what lies beneath mortal frivolity.”

He inclined his head, ears catching the soft cadence of her words. “I am ready, Mother.”

Her hand emerged from the folds of her robe, delicate yet strong, holding a small object wrapped in moonlight’s reflection. Minho’s eyes widened as he realised what it was: a dagger, small, but forged from moon-silver, the metal of Artemis herself. Its hilt was etched with tiny crescents, the blade catching the light even in the shadow.

“For this,” she said, placing it in his hand, “not only as a weapon but as a talisman. Let it remind you of your path, of the hunt, and… of me.”

Minho’s grip tightened, the cold metal warm against his palm, and for the briefest instant, he felt something unfamiliar: a direct affection from Artemis, subtle yet undeniable. Almost too quickly, the moment passed, the goddess stepping back, her gaze flicking to the horizon.

“Go now. The world awaits, and the moon will not always guide your steps.”

The journey down from Olympus was swift, the minor gods and demigods moving as a coordinated horde. Minho remained quiet, observing, cataloguing every mortal artefact, every flicker of unnatural movement as they neared the festival grounds. The air shifted as they emerged from the hidden veil: lights, colours, and sounds assaulted him. A sea of mortal bodies moved like water, the smell of sweat and food mingling with the scent of unfamiliar perfumes. Music blared, rhythms pounding like the heartbeat of some immense creature.

His companions pressed forward, their focus sharp and unwavering, attentive for any sign of disturbance, fully absorbed in the mission rather than the spectacle surrounding them. Minho moved with quiet precision, scanning the crowd, noting exits, potential threats, and every subtle shift in the mass of mortals around him. Each step was intentional, each glance measured, as though the festival itself were a labyrinth he had to map before engaging. Despite the careful calculations of a hunter, a single thread of sound began to tug at his attention: a melody weaving through the cacophony, delicate yet insistent. His eyes lifted, drawn almost unconsciously to a stage where the lights converged upon a single figure. The performer moved with a fluidity that made the mortal crowd gasp, every note and gesture crafted with impossible accuracy.

Minho’s pulse slowed despite the tumult around him. Something in the music, the posture, the sheer grace of the figure, ensnared him. His trained hunter’s gaze traced every line, every movement, every gesture, until his breath caught. The mortal before him was astonishing: a body of flawless proportions, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, legs perfectly sculpted, movement fluid and graceful. Above it all, a face that defied reason: a sharply defined jaw softened by round, almost childlike cheeks, eyes impossibly large, brimming with an emotion Minho could not decipher. Black hair, soft and fluffy, fell in gentle waves around the mortal’s face, a little long, catching the stage lights with a subtle gleam. His presence was intoxicating, magnetic in a way that left Minho both alert and strangely unmoored, caught between admiration and the urgency of his mission.

Yet the vision sharpened beyond the mortal allure. Shadows stirred around the stage, creatures that did not belong. Figures half-human, half-monster, with eyes glinting in unnatural ways, twisted shapes moving with predatory intent. Empousas and corrupted satyrs, hunting unseen, waiting for an opportunity. Minho’s instincts flared. He did not hesitate. He broke from the cluster of heroes, moving like a phantom, weaving through the crowd, his hand brushing the hilt of the moon-silver dagger. Every step brought him closer to the stage, closer to the mortal whose life now hung on his intervention.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

The final note of the song lingered, shaking the air in a shiver of sound. Jisung straightened, chest heaving lightly, sweat glinting on his skin beneath the stage lights. Something felt… off. The applause, the flashing cameras, the roar of the crowd, yet beneath it all, a pulse of anxiety, a presence almost tangible, pressed against his senses.

He stepped off the stage, back to his dressing room, every nerve alert. “It’s nothing,” he murmured to himself, shaking a hand through his dark hair, still tasting the melody of his own voice. But the pressure persisted, a weight he could neither see nor name.

And then the door burst open.

Jisung stiffened. The room’s shadows shifted, and there he was: a man, impossibly beautiful, as though a perfect fusion of Renaissance ideals and classical Greek had conspired to craft him. Silver hair gleamed in the dim dressing-room light. Angular, perfect features, a nose sculpted with flawless symmetry, long lashes framing eyes so catlike and deep that Jisung felt his chest tighten. He had never seen anything like him. Could someone truly exist with hair like spun moonlight? Jisung didn’t understand, he could only gape. The man’s gaze was steady, piercing, assessing. Jisung stumbled backward, words tangling in his throat. And then, faintly, the sound of movement outside: a scuffle, distant cries, the echo of chaos. Jisung blinked, leaving the silver figure momentarily forgotten.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jisung finally managed, voice uncertain, eyes narrowing.

The man’s mouth curved ever so slightly, calm, imperious. “Neither should you. Now move.”

Jisung raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Excuse me? Who even are you? And who gave you the right to barge in here? Young artists deserve respect, you know! I’ve worked my entire life for this stage…”

“I’m Minho… the new security,” Minho said, voice low, almost detached. “Designated for you by festival management. You need to leave. Now.”

Jisung flailed his hands, disbelief written across his face. “I’m positively not going anywhere with someone I’ve never met. I want to call my manager!” he finished with a pout.

“For all the gods, of course, I’d have to protect a brat…” Minho muttered, eyes scanning the room, tension barely contained.

Jisung blinked, affronted. “Brat?! I am not…”

Minho’s voice cut through, flat and unwavering. “I said move.” His eyes flicked to the windows, to the distant roar of the crowd, to the shadows creeping closer. A sudden crash: the dressing-room door exploded inward with a deafening boom. Minho’s hand flew to the dagger, a flick of silver in the dim light. He exhaled, calm, controlled. “Fine. Too late. Hunt begins.”

Jisung stiffened, his gaze sweeping the room, and stiffened further. Through the shattered doorway, shapes moved. One figure lingered near the edge of vision, female at first glance: unnaturally tall, curves impossible, eyes gleaming red. But then, the vision shifted, blurred, monstrous. Limbs elongated, jaw widening beyond human, fangs glinting. The air itself seemed to warp around her, thickening as she stepped closer.

Jisung stumbled back, mind struggling to process, throat tight. “What… is that?”

Minho’s voice, flat and steady, cut through the panic: “Do not go away. This is no mortal trouble. Just stand beside me. Trust me.”

And suddenly, Jisung’s perception snapped. The veil lifted. The world he had known, the mortal, safe, structured world; fractured and revealed the unseen: the creatures of myth, the predators hidden in plain sight, the threads of magic interwoven with sound and chaos.

He swallowed, heart hammering, eyes wide. “Oh… my fucking God.”

Minho didn’t answer. He just advanced, dagger gleaming like moonlight, silent, pulling Jisung into a reality that had always been waiting, unseen, beyond mortal comprehension.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

The chaos in the dressing room escalated into something unrecognisable. Shadows twisted and writhed as monstrous forms poured through the shattered doorway, their eyes aglow with unnatural malice. Jisung pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering, while Minho moved with meticulous care.

Minho’s daggers flashed through the air, each strike accompanied by a whisper of moonlight. Creatures fell into black dust, dissipating as if they had never existed. His movements were a dance, each step resolute, every gesture deadly yet fluid. An arrow sang from his bow, striking another beast mid-leap, reducing it to the same inky ash. Minho alternated seamlessly between firing arrows and striking with his moon-silver dagger, a rhythm both elegant and lethal, a breathtaking display of fluid strength. Jisung could scarcely believe his eyes. He had heard of heroes and monsters in the stories his mother told him as a child, but this… this was real. Were they hallucinations? Had he been drugged? Or were those bedtime tales of Greek myths true?

“Why in the name of the gods are so many of these things after you?” Minho called, dodging a claw that would have ended him. “What’s so special about you?”

Jisung bristled, indignation and fear mingling. “Hey! I am special! I am Jisung Han, I mean J. One! The youngest artist ever to win a Grammy!” His voice shook with both pride and terror. ‘I am not just some brat!’ he thought, but before he could argue further, a massive, horned satyr lunged at Minho, teeth bared. Minho struck out, but a dozen more creatures pressed in, overwhelming even his skill.

“Stay back! Just stay back!” Minho barked, voice tight with strain.

Jisung’s instinct refused to obey. He grabbed the nearest object he could see: a rare, vintage electric guitar, a limited edition, its polished mahogany body gleaming under the lights, strings almost humming with energy, resting against a chair. With a racing heartbeat, he charged forward, brandishing it like a weapon.

What happened next left him trembling with disbelief. As he swung the guitar, a shockwave of energy pulsed from his hands, vibrating through the instrument. The monsters nearest him staggered, eyes wide, unbalanced, as if struck by an invisible force. Each impact sent them crumbling into black dust, the air thick with the acrid scent of their dissolution. One of them, a snarling empousa, evaporated before his eyes, leaving only a puff of shadowy residue.

Minho’s eyes flicked to him, an eyebrow raised in both surprise and exasperation. “Well… that was unexpected,” he muttered.

Jisung’s chest heaved as adrenaline and newfound power coursed through him. Heat surged in his body, muscles taut, hair damp with sweat, every nerve alive with the electric awareness of the magic flowing through him. He had not merely fought the monsters; he had controlled them, somehow channeling energy through the music. The guitar had not cracked; it had amplified him, protected him even as it destroyed the creatures.

Once the last beast fell into ash, silence returned, punctuated only by their heavy breathing. Minho gave a curt nod, sheathing his dagger. “Ok Jisung Han, we need to get out of here, now. Do you know a way?”

Jisung’s hands trembled slightly on the railing as he nodded, voice unsteady, still processing everything that had happened. “Yeah… there’s a way out through the artists’ private exits. I, I can lead us,” he said, pausing as if the words themselves were heavy. He adjusted the guitar on his back, the strap swinging loosely but securely, the instrument now a part of him.
Minho’s eyes flicked to him, silent and piercing. “Are we going or not?”

Jisung swallowed hard, drawing a shaky breath, and started moving, guiding them carefully through the twisting corridors. The guitar bounced slightly with each step, the strap tight across his chest and back, a strange reassurance amid the chaos. Minho followed silently, every sense alert, scanning shadows, listening for the faintest hint of movement. They moved in tense silence, footsteps and the occasional creak of the floor the only sounds. Jisung’s pulse raced, his mind struggling to reconcile what he had done with what he had seen, every sense heightened, every instinct screaming. Minho’s focus remained absolute, a living shadow alongside him, scanning, calculating, ready to strike.

Finally, they reached the door that led to the artists’ private parking area. They emerged into the empty car park, neon lights casting long shadows over the asphalt. Jisung immediately spotted his car, relief washing over him. He always kept the doors unlocked and the keys in the glove compartment, a small habit born of laziness and foresight, and now he silently thanked himself for it. He grabbed the keys and climbed in, still shaken but alive.

“Where are we going?” Minho asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Jisung replied sharply, starting the engine. “Stop complaining and just sit tight.”

Minho allowed it, lips pressed in a thin line, scanning the empty parking lot as they pulled away. Silence settled between them, fragile yet heavy, charged with unspoken tension, innumerable questions, and awe at the powers they had both just witnessed.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾
Minho

A mansion rose into view, calm almost unreal after the violence of the festival. Minho’s senses remained alert, perceiving light patterns, shadows, and the subtle creak of the driveways’ gravel under the car tyres. Jisung drove with hands tense, voice trembling as he recounted the events, words spilling in a torrent of disbelief and adrenaline. ‘Typical brat’, Minho thought, ‘but also quite the yapper’. Minho kept silent, observing. Even here, in domestic quiet, danger could linger.

Jisung stumbled into the mansion, breathless, the door slamming behind him. Minho followed at his heels, gaze sweeping across the interior with a soldier’s instinct. The place exuded wealth and history: polished wood, muted art on the walls, marble glinting under the hallway lights. Yet behind the elegance, Minho’s mind marked exits, cover, vantage points, always reading a space as a battlefield first.

A woman appeared almost at once, her presence imposing despite the domestic setting. She was older than Jisung, but bore the same delicate features, tempered by calm strength. Her eyes widened when she saw them, first Jisung, flushed and shaken, then Minho, standing behind him like a shadow.

“Jisung… what on earth? Why are you home so early? Weren’t you meant to be at the festival?” Her voice was sharp, tinged with both alarm and disbelief. Her gaze darted to Minho. “And who is this?”

Minho inclined his head, posture formal, voice steady. “Minho, of Olympus. At your service, madam.”

The woman’s face drained of colour. Minho noted every flicker, the tightening of her jaw, the sudden stillness of her hands. Recognition, then fear. Meanwhile, Jisung was pacing, words tumbling out in disjointed bursts, muttering half to himself, half to the room. Minho could sense the boy’s mind spiralling, thoughts spilling faster than his breath. The woman, Jisung’s mother, he gathered from context, fixed her gaze on him, drew a slow breath, and spoke, her voice calm through the chaos.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minho from Olympus. I’m Hyori Han. I think it’s time we had a serious talk. I’ll make some tea, and I expect both of you to explain what’s happened”.

Minutes later, they sat at the dining table, steam curling from porcelain cups. Jisung clutched his tea as though it were a lifeline, drinking in gulps, the tremor of delayed shock still running through him.

Hyori placed her hands neatly on the table, spine straight.

“So, Minho… can you tell me what happened?”

Minho recounted the night in clipped, accurate detail: the beasts, the battle, the way they had surged not at the crowd but at Jisung on stage. “What I do not understand,” he finished, “is why he seemed to be the primary target.”

Jisung slammed the cup down, voice cracking with anger. “I don’t know either! That’s the point! I want answers. How are you both so calm when none of this makes any sense?”

Hyori drew in a deep breath, then turned to Minho with grave eyes. “Perhaps I can explain.”

She leaned forward, gently taking the teacup from Jisung’s unsteady hands. Her own enclosed his, firm yet tender. “Jisung… there is something I should have told you long ago. I was afraid. I delayed, thinking it would protect you. But now I must speak.”

Hyori’s voice was steady, but her eyes glistened. “Your father… your real father… is not an ordinary man. He is Dionysus.”

Minho remained silent, watching. He had suspected divine blood, Jisung’s aura carried that unmistakable thread. Yet most demigods were catalogued, recorded, claimed. This boy had slipped through the cracks. Dionysus. It could only be Dionysus, bending rules as he pleased.

The words struck Jisung like a physical blow. He froze, his breath stuttering, colour draining from his face. “What do you mean, Dionysus? Dionysus… as in Uncle Di?”

“Well, yes… and no. You have known him as Uncle Di. But he is more than that. Dionysus, as in the Greek god of wine, revelry, ecstasy, and madness.”

Jisung’s face was a mask of pure disbelief.

“I should have told you sooner,” Hyori continued, her voice thick with remorse. “But I wanted you safe. I feared the gods might deny you your freedom, force a path upon you before you could choose your own. All I wished was that you might discover life in your own way.”

For the first time since Minho had entered the house, Jisung was silent. The stillness was almost unsettling. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked with hurt.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” Hyori whispered. “And I am sorry.”

Jisung’s eyes hardened, a spark of fury breaking through the hurt. “And him? ‘Uncle Di’? He was never a father, never wanted to be, huh? Just some shadow that popped in and out. And now I’m supposed to what? Pretend this makes sense?”

Minho’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. He could not judge the boy. He had grown without a true mother’s presence. Gods rarely made good parents.

Hyori moved in a way that startled Minho at first, though it was nothing threatening, merely a mother embracing her son. They stayed that way for a while, Jisung sobbing quietly against her shoulder, fragments of regret, apology, and understanding passing between them. Minho felt it was an intimate moment, one that did not belong to him to share. Yet the sight of such maternal love, so deep, so openly declared, made him admire Hyori and envy Jisung. He had never known a father; that had never troubled him. But if only he might have had a true mother…

The woman’s voice drew Minho out of his reverie.

“What happens now?”

Minho straightened. “I must report back to Olympus. My companions will already be searching for me. The fact that Jisung was targeted… it changes matters.”

Hyori hesitated, then said quietly, “I have a way to reach Dionysus.”

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Hidden in the hush of darkness, a presence observed. They saw the chaos unfold, a slow smile curling at their lips. The plan had been set in motion, though not precisely as intended, for it had been hoped the boy would perish and Minho would take the blame. Yet the chain reaction promised even greater delight. By orchestrating this connection, the figure could weave mischief, intrigue, and ruin, watching the threads of mortal and divine alike unravel.

The game had only just begun.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Hyori positioned the ritual chalice at the centre of the living room table. Its crystalline surface shimmered with a light of its own, the ruby liquid inside rippling gently, reflecting the flickering flames of the fireplace. She touched the rim with delicate fingers and muttered ancient words, syllables vibrating against the polished crystal. Minho watched silently, impressed by the extraordinary calm amid the divine chaos that had invaded her home.

“Dionysus gave me this chalice as soon as he knew I was pregnant,” Hyori said softly, her eyes never leaving the dark liquid. “Whenever I fill it with wine and speak the words he taught me, I can speak to him directly. It was necessary… I begged him to hide Jisung from the other gods.”

Jisung, however, refused to hear the name Dionysus. He turned sharply and bolted towards his bedroom, the guitar still strapped across his back, swinging with every hurried step. Minho watched as Jisung retreated to the room, alert to any unseen threat. Hyori exhaled deeply before concentrating on the chalice again. A golden mist began to rise, coalescing into a diffuse portal above the liquid.

“Dionysus, listen. It is urgent. Our son is in danger and needs protection,” she said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother who had been holding her fear in check for far too long.

A carefree laugh echoed in reply, mischievous and almost musical. “My dear, you worry far too much! The boy is safe, isn’t he? And you are always so dramatic…”

Hyori’s brow furrowed. “Dionysus, now is not the time for games. We both allowed him to grow up without protection, but now that the truth is out, do not you dare leave him unguarded!”

The god’s tone shifted instantly, adopting a gravity that seemed almost foreign. “Alright, alright, you have a point. I have been briefly informed of what occurred, but I would like to hear the full account from Minho.”

Hyori gestured, making way for Minho in front of the chalice. He stepped forward and recounted the events succinctly: the beasts at the festival, the attacks, and how Jisung had become their apparent target. Dionysus listened intently, his usual levity replaced by attentive seriousness. When the account was finished, the god nodded. “Very well. I shall inform the Council of Olympus. He will remain under your protection until further notice, and no harm shall come to him or his mother.”

The connection ended with a faint glow, and the chalice was once more merely glass filled with crimson liquid. Hyori looked at Minho, gratitude clear in her eyes. “Thank you for protecting my son. He is full of life, but still so young and impressionable,” she said softly. She then added, her tone gentle, “And you… you are young as well. You deserve to be protected too.” Minho kept his gaze lowered, feeling a pang of melancholy.

Hyori then led Minho to a guest room, urging him to rest. He protested, determined to maintain guard, but she was resolute: “While under my roof, you obey. And you shall have a proper night’s sleep.”

Minho acquiesced, feeling, for the first time in many years, cared for in a maternal way. Even so, the room could not fully quiet his senses; he remained alert, attuned to the slightest disturbance. From the stillness of the late night, faint strains of music drifted from Jisung’s room, and for a brief moment, Minho allowed himself the smallest smile. The boy was always loud, even in the quietest of moments.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

Morning came with soft, lingering music spilling from the high-end sound system in his room. Jisung lay on his bed, attempting to piece together the previous day’s events: the battle, his sudden control over the monsters, and the revelation about his father. For a fleeting moment, he dared to hope it had all been a delusion, induced by fatigue and overwork.

Descending to the kitchen, he sought normality and found none. Hyori and Minho were cheerfully preparing breakfast, the aroma of fresh coffee filling the air. He observed quietly, still tense, and couldn’t help but admire Minho, now relaxed, moving with ease. The faint curve of his lips revealed teeth that looked almost like a bunny’s, and his strong, well-defined physique and toned legs were impossible to ignore. Jisung’s pulse quickened, a sudden, uncomfortable awareness of his own desire washing over him. He clenched his fists, muttering under his breath with a mix of sarcasm and self-reproach, “Well, good morning to me, apparently.”

Hyori noticed him. “Good morning, my dear,” she said warmly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Morning…” Jisung muttered, his voice small, still unsettled and self-conscious after the thoughts that had just crossed his mind.

“You must be hungry. Drink some coffee before breakfast. Today, you need not worry about a thing,” she insisted, handing him a steaming cup with a gentle smile.

Minho cleared his throat, shifting slightly as he tried to gather the right words. “Jisung, do you not wish to know what happened last night?” His tone was firm yet careful, aware of the tension in the room.

“Now? I’d rather not know too much,” Jisung replied, avoiding eye contact, still wrestling with the enormity of everything he had learned. “Call me old-fashioned, but blissful ignorance has its perks.”

“That is not a valid choice,” Minho said, raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with quiet insistence. He moved a little closer, speaking evenly but with a palpable urgency, recounting his discussion with Dionysus.

Before Jisung could respond, a sudden flash of light filled the living room, followed by thuds that shook the floorboards. The air thrummed with energy, scented with wild grapes. Figures materialised as if from another realm, utterly out of place in the ordinary household. Dionysus stood at the centre, golden aura faintly shimmering, eyes alight with playfulness, laughter carrying warmth and carefreeness.

Around him, a small entourage had gathered. A satyr leaned against the sofa, horns catching the light, hooves tapping. Two nymphs hovered near the edges, robes shimmering, eyes alert. A few demigods followed, weapons sheathed, radiating the quiet confidence of those raised among the divine. Jisung’s gaze swept the room. Dionysus’ unruly hair, the subtle scent of wine, the effortless way he gestured to his companions. It was disorienting. Awe mingled with disbelief, and a spark of irritation flared; learning his father was divine was one thing, seeing him in full splendour another entirely.

Dionysus’ eyes landed on him. He waved broadly, voice booming with liveliness. “Ah! My son! And the gorgeous mortal and the brave god who kept him safe!” Jisung instinctively shrank back, struggling to reconcile the playful uncle he had known with the extravagant god before him. His heart raced, caught between anger and wonder. His father was here in all his magnificence, and the room seemed pressed by the weight of immortality.

“Ah, Hyori, as radiant as ever,” the god said smoothly, bowing slightly, the faintest flirtation in his tone. “And you, my brave son, I see you’ve grown… quite impressively.”

Hyori’s hands tightened at her sides. “Dionysus, the gods know now. About Jisung. What happens next? How is he to be protected?”

“Protected? My dear, fret not. He is safe, isn’t he?” Dionysus replied, leaning casually, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His gaze lingered on her just a beat too long, playful and teasing.

Minho stepped forward, head slightly bowed, voice careful and measured. “Lord Dionysus, may I inquire as to the decision of the Council and what role my charge, Jisung, is to play in the current circumstances?”

Dionysus waved a hand, chuckling. “The Council, yes… a minor matter. The boy must meet the oracle, as all known demigods do when they come of age. It determines their importance, potential, even dangers. Depending on what it says, training or protection follows. It is… routine.”

Jisung groaned, backing up a step. “Oracle? Protection? Training? I can’t! I have work! I can’t just stop my life for this divine nonsense!”

Hyori’s voice softened, empathy threading every word. She stepped closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Jisung, perhaps… perhaps this is for the best. Remember, you requested a break after the festival. You’ve been working without pause for five years. This is not being taken from you; this is being given to you, a moment to breathe, to be guided safely.”

He muttered, sarcasm heavy in his tone, “Guided. Of course… because being flung into a divine conspiracy is exactly how I wanted to spend my break.”

Dionysus clapped his hands, laughter bright and musical, echoing off the walls. “Oh, see? Everything aligns perfectly! The plan unfolds! And you, devoted Minho, shall carry out your duty with honour, yes? Protect both mother and son, as always?”

“I shall, Lord Dionysus,” Minho said, tone firm yet reverent, head slightly bowed, “with all diligence and discipline, guided by the wisdom of Artemis.”

The god’s brow lifted in mock horror, a faint grimace flashing at the mention of her name, before he turned back to Hyori with that teasing grin. “And you, my vigilant Hyori, I trust your skill. You will keep him safe as well as I do; no pressure, of course.”

Jisung pressed his lips together, disbelief etched on his face. “Right… no pressure, got it,” he muttered, voice dry, half to himself. “Because having my father show up in golden sparkle mode, flanked by goat-legged jazz players, glittery wood fairies, and sword-swinging cosplay extras, is exactly how I dreamed of starting my week.”

Dionysus laughed lightly, spinning on his heel to gesture to his companions, “Look at them! All here for you, dear boy. Isn’t it delightful?”

Jisung groaned, burying his face in his hands. Minho’s steady, respectful gaze caught his attention, and he realised he could not avoid it forever. He took a shaky breath. “I… I can’t just leave my life behind.”

Hyori’s tone softened even further, compassionate and soothing. “You’ve already planned a break. Please… trust us, Jisung. This is for your safety and understanding. Perhaps it is exactly what you need right now.”

Dionysus leaned forward, grin broadening, eyes twinkling. “Yes, yes, let’s not fuss. The oracle is the first step. Think of it as… destiny checking in on you. Training, guidance, protection… all depending on what the oracle says. Simple, really.”

Jisung threw up his hands. “Simple! Oh, absolutely. Just pop into a god-approved fortune booth, get my life stamped and sealed, and voilà, crazy godness deluxe package. Yeah, sounds as casual as checking the weather app.”

“Ah, yes, what fun it will be!” Dionysus chuckled, swirling his hands theatrically. “And Minho, ever so disciplined and honour-bound thanks to dear Artemis, will ensure no chaos sneaks past. How… noble of him.”

“I shall,” Minho replied, shoulders squared. “Lord Dionysus, I treat my duty with the seriousness it deserves, regardless of the amusement it may bring you.”

Jisung shook his head, still speechless, disbelief and confusion mingling with a faint thrill. The music from his room hummed softly in the background, a tenuous thread of normality. He muttered under his breath, “So much for ‘Today I need not worry about a thing,’” before retreating to the sanctuary of his room, leaving Dionysus’ laughter and Hyori’s worried gaze lingering in the kitchen.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

The morning light spilled softly through the windows, brushing over the array of equipment Minho had meticulously laid out. Each item had its place: sturdy boots, well-worn cloaks, small pouches of provisions, and the carefully checked sleeping bags. Hyori moved alongside him, calm but insistent, packing and preparing her son’s bag, though the boy still lingered in that half-denial, half-resistance that made his presence both endearing and exasperating.

Minho inspected his dagger, then his quiver and bow, each string taut and polished, and paused to breathe in the quiet of the house before it erupted with movement. Jisung finally appeared from his room, hair tousled, eyes wide and uncertain. Minho’s gaze caught him, and for a moment, all mission preparations melted away.

The boy was like the first light of dawn spilling across the horizon, radiant in a way that did not clamour for attention, but once noticed, stole the breath as surely as a sunset lingering on the edge of the world. Minho remembered the vision on the stage, the confidence and charisma that had enchanted him from afar, and now he saw the stark contrast before him: a bundle of nerves, trembling beneath the weight of divine revelation. That very dichotomy only made Jisung more captivating, something fragile and strong all at once. Minho chastised himself in silence. ‘Focus’, he thought. ‘Artemis’ mission cannot fail because of distraction’. Jisung’s beauty, his unexpected presence, all of it must be set aside. Duty had to come first.

“Hyori, are we ready?” Minho asked, regaining composure.

“Yes,” Hyori replied, her voice soft but firm, “though Jisung still needs some encouragement.”

Minho nodded. “The Oracle’s site is not far from here. A few days’ journey at most, but it is necessary we travel carefully.”

Hyori smiled faintly. “Dionysus insisted we settle here because the region’s divine influence would protect both of us. Now I understand why. It was meant to be a safeguard.”

Minho turned to Jisung, “Even so, we must walk approximately four days through the forest. That is, if you do not impede our progress.”

Jisung arched an eyebrow, offended. “Impede? I’ve survived plenty of things before, you know.”

Minho’s lips twitched. “I am simply being realistic. You have no formal training. You are a city boy, accustomed to comfort and indulgence…” He let the last words fall as a quiet whisper, “…much like your father.”

Jisung’s face darkened. “Excuse me? I have camped with friends plenty of times!”

Hyori intervened, a gentle amusement in her tone. “Yes, darling, in a luxury camp with running water, a proper chef, and fully serviced tents. Let us not exaggerate the hardship.”

Jisung pouted, mumbling indignantly, while Hyori softened her voice, a note of hope threading through her words. “You will manage perfectly if you have the guidance and companionship of Minho.”

She stepped back, leaving the two alone. Their gazes met, full of challenge and reluctant understanding.

“I will need you to obey and not cause trouble,” Minho said quietly, eyes locking on Jisung.

“The only trouble will be surviving the monotony of spending days with someone as serious as you,” Jisung countered, smirk tugging at his lips.

Finally, everything was packed and ready. They stood at the threshold, taking a moment to bid farewell to Hyori. Her eyes glistened with tears, her hand lingering on the doorframe. “Be careful, both of you. And remember to trust each other, protect each other.”

Jisung’s eyes were also shiny, but he tried to play it cool. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ve got this.”

Minho felt a pang, wishing once more that someone like Hyori had been a presence in his own life.

The two began to step outside, Jisung instinctively heading for the garage. Minho’s hand shot out.

“We walk the entire way. No shortcuts.”

Jisung groaned. “What? Walk? That’s…”

“Do not argue,” Minho interrupted, voice firm. “You will walk. I will carry your pack if necessary.”

Jisung tilted his head, a defiant glint in his eyes. “And my guitar? I’m not leaving it behind. It saved my life, you know.”

Minho raised a sceptical eyebrow, glancing at the case on his back. “The one that saved your life? You do realise it was me who saved you, right?”

Jisung shot him a bratty look. “Whatever…”

Minho exhaled, steadying himself. The journey ahead would be long. May the gods grant him patience.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

None of this made sense.

Jisung trudged along the narrow path, boots scuffing against the dirt, each step carrying him deeper into a story that did not feel like his own. It was as though he were watching someone else’s life unfold, a stranger’s myth written across his skin. Yet beneath the confusion, there was a strange familiarity, a tug he had always half-felt but never named. The lonely silence that had followed him all his life, which he had always tried to fill with sound, the sense that he did not belong in his own world, suddenly seemed less a flaw and more a clue. Perhaps now, maddening as it was, he was one step closer to understanding why.

The path led them out of the city, gradually giving way to greenery, the edges of civilisation shrinking behind them. The forest waited ahead, dappled sunlight slipping through the branches above. Hours blurred together, each one heavier than the last. Minho strode ahead, steady as stone, a rhythm that did not falter. His shoulders remained square, gaze fixed forward, pace unyielding. Jisung, on the other hand, shifted the strap of his guitar case for the twentieth time, groaning under the weight of his backpack, sweat prickling at his neck.

Finally, he couldn’t hold back.

“How much longer until we stop? I’m starving,” Jisung muttered, dragging his feet dramatically.

Minho didn’t even glance back. “We’ve only walked for three hours.”

“Three hours?” Jisung gasped, scandalised. “You expected me to walk three hours without food? What am I, a camel?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Minho’s lips. “You’ve survived worse, haven’t you?”

“I’ve survived breakfast being served late,” Jisung shot back, clutching his stomach.

Minho exhaled, slowing his pace as he spotted a small park on the corner of a quiet street. A solitary bench sat beneath an elm tree, its shade cool and inviting. Without a word, he lowered himself onto it and retrieved a pouch of dried fruit and bread from his pack. Jisung collapsed beside him, as if the very act of sitting had rescued his weary soul.  They ate in silence for a while, the simple food offering a grounding rhythm. The air was warm, leaves whispered faintly overhead, and the calm, ordinary stillness of the street corner felt like a well-deserved balm.

At length, Minho spoke. “Since I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet.”

Jisung scowled, cheeks puffed as he chewed. “That’s because it’s the first time in my life I don’t know what to say.”

Minho studied him with softened eyes. “Do you want to ask me something?”

Something seemed to break open inside him. Jisung straightened and words tumbled out, unrestrained. “Alright, fine! What even are those monsters? Do they all smell weird or was that just the last one? Do satyrs really play flutes all the time? What happens if a god gets drunk, like, more drunk than usual? Do demigods have a club or something? Are we supposed to fight with swords or can I just throw my guitar at them again? Oh, and do you think Zeus actually…”

“Enough,” Minho interrupted, eyes widening. He rubbed his temple as though fighting a headache. “You’ll overwhelm yourself if you keep that up.”

“You asked if I had questions!” Jisung protested, crumbs flying.

Minho exhaled slowly. Then, with the air of someone bargaining with a sphinx, he said, “Let us make a deal. Each day, you may ask me three questions. Any three. And I shall answer them truthfully.”

Jisung’s eyes gleamed. “Any questions? Even personal ones?”

A pause. Then Minho gave a short nod. “Yes. But once a day, I reserve the right not to answer.”

Jisung grinned, holding out his hand. “Deal.”

Their palms met in a firm shake, sealing the promise. Jisung could not help but notice the warmth radiating from Minho’s pale skin, the grip steady yet careful, and the faint spark of electricity that ran between them at the contact.

Jisung hesitated before speaking again, his voice softer this time. There was, after all, a question he had carried for days, one he had never dared to put into words. “Then… Here's one. Do you really think someone wants to hurt me? To… kill me?”

The humour slipped away. Minho’s gaze met his, steady and grave. Compassion glimmered there, and something else, an oath unspoken. “Yes. It seems you are at the centre of whatever is stirring. The attacks prove that. But the oracle will give us clarity. Until then, know this: I take my duty seriously. Your safety is not negotiable.”

For the first time, Jisung felt the weight of Minho’s words not as an obligation, but as a shield. Something tightened in his chest: fear, gratitude, and a strange, fragile trust. They finished the food in silence. Minho rose, brushing the crumbs from his hands. “Chop chop! We have ground to cover.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, slinging his guitar back over his shoulder. ‘Great. And here I was starting to like him. Give it five minutes and I’ll be annoyed again.’

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

The forest was a balm.

With every step deeper into the winding trails, Minho felt more himself. The hush of leaves underfoot, the unbroken canopy above, the scent of moss and damp bark. This was home. He had always sought such places, far from Olympus and its clamour, slipping away whenever he could to the silent margins of the world. Solitude had been his shield, silence his companion. But this time, he was not alone.

And strangely, he did not wish to be. Since Jisung’s unguarded question on that first day, something had shifted. Minho found himself… fond of the boy. Fond of his chaos, his chatter, the way sound seemed to follow him like a halo. If he wasn’t talking, he was humming; if not humming, he was whistling; if not whistling, then simply laughing at nothing at all. He marvelled at birdsong with childlike delight, stopped in his tracks for wildflowers, and most often froze, enchanted, at the sight of squirrels darting up tree trunks. Minho could not ignore the resemblance: quick, restless, bright-eyed, unpredictable. Jisung was a squirrel in human form.

And restless he was. Always shifting, bouncing a leg, stumbling on roots, or flinging himself to the ground at the faintest crack of twigs. More than once Minho laughed at his antics, though he never allowed Jisung to notice. By the third day, he had already drawn his conclusions: First, Jisung had the worst survival instincts Minho had ever witnessed. Second, they would never reach the oracle in four days if they kept this pace. Third (and most dangerous of all) Minho did not mind. The longer the road stretched, the more he anticipated Jisung’s questions, his rambling stories, the unpredictable twists of his mind.

Minho wanted to tell him, to confess how much he admired the curious workings of that brain. But he could not. Jisung was temptation, an apple from the garden of the Hesperides, a backward glance at Eurydice. To yield would be to fail, and failure was a weight Minho could not bear. He was the son of the moon, of discipline, of chastity, of vows unbroken. He was already the son of regret, the son of a mistake. He could not also become the son of disappointment. Artemis’ guilt-laden gaze haunted him enough; he would not give her any more reason.

So he listened instead. It was midday when Jisung began his first official round of questions of the day.

“So… tell me,” Jisung said, munching on dried figs as he trudged alongside him. “What’s Olympus like? I mean, actually living there. Is it all clouds and golden temples and gods strolling around with laurel wreaths? Or do they just lounge about drinking and playing harps?”

Minho considered his words carefully. “Olympus is… radiant. Breathtaking in beauty, yes. But also heavy with expectation. Every hall is gilded, every word measured. For a child, it is not paradise. It is… a place of rules, of scrutiny.”

Jisung wrinkled his nose. “Sounds exhausting. At least the harps would help.”

Later that afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Jisung struck again. “Ok, so deal question number two. Oh, maybe we should call them Olympian Pop-Quiz, just to differentiate from my random day-to-day questions. Anyway… do you have friends there? Other demigods? Gods? What do you all do for fun? Karaoke night in the Pantheon?”

Despite himself, Minho’s lips twitched. “No karaoke. The gods find their amusement in games of power, in contests of skill. For demigods… training is both survival and sport. Friendships form through duty, not leisure.”

Jisung leaned back, grinning. “So… this is what you do with your friends? Remember, you have to answer! It’s the Olympian Pop-Quiz!”

Minho exhaled slowly. “Yes, I do many of those things, with some friends and acquaintances. I have a few companions I consider very close, but Olympus is not necessarily a welcoming place. Most minor gods and demigods prefer to remain on earth, so it can feel a little lonely.”

Jisung huffed. “Figures. Me? I’ve got plenty of friends, at least on paper. Bandmates, colleagues, even fans who think they know me.” He paused, his voice quieter. “But if I’m honest… none of them really know me. Not here.” He tapped his chest lightly, gaze drifting to the forest. “It’s… lonely sometimes, being surrounded but unseen.”

Minho felt the words settle heavily inside him. They were more alike than Jisung realised.

Night fell, and the forest stilled under the silver wash of the moon. They camped by a stream, the fire casting a warm glow across their faces. Jisung lay sprawled on his blanket, eyes half-lidded with sleep, when his voice broke the quiet.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “Olympian Pop-Quiz… last one for today, right?”

Minho looked up from the fire. “You do have one remaining.”

Jisung rolled onto his side, cheek pressed to his arm. His voice was soft, almost fragile. “So… what’s it like, being the son of a greater god?”

Silence stretched. Minho’s gaze lifted to the stars, the pale curve of the moon watching from above. The question lingered, too close, too dangerous.

“I have the right not to answer one question a day,” he said at last, voice low, steady. “And tonight… this is that question.”

Jisung groaned faintly, “Urgh… boring. You just don’t want to talk anymore, humph” already succumbing to sleep. Minho added gently, “Rest. Tomorrow, we will reach the oracle.”

The boy’s breathing evened out, soft against the night air. Minho remained awake longer, staring not at the constellations as he once did, but at Jisung’s relaxed, peaceful face, feeling the tug of duty clash with something far more risky in his chest.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

The forest breathed in silence.

Cloaked by the veil of night, a figure stood still among the trees, eyes fixed upon the flicker of fire where the two boys rested. Word had reached them. Olympus had finally stirred. The hidden child of divinity was no longer secret, no longer sheltered. Sent now upon the path to the oracle, guarded by Artemis’ own son, his steps were finally exposed to watchful eyes.

And what a vision it was. The heir of moonlight and the trembling, unpolished boy who bore far greater weight than he knew. Together, bound in fragile trust, in hesitant words and half-suppressed laughter. It was almost tender to watch the threads of something forming between them.

A bond.

A spark.

A dangerous thing.

How exquisite. The plan had been set long ago, threads spun carefully across years of silence and waiting. Yet perhaps there was something sweeter now, sweeter even than foreseen. For what provokes greater discord among gods and mortals alike than affection where there should be only duty, than love born where no love ought to be?

The figure remained in stillness, lips curling faintly, like one savouring a secret feast. Let Olympus believe it held the board in its hands. Let the boy believe himself safe. Let Artemis believe her son is unshaken. Let Dionysus think his charming interludes could shield the boy. They would all learn soon enough.

Nothing sews sharper wounds in heaven and earth than the stirrings of the heart.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

 Jisung woke to the soft sizzle of eggs in a pan, the warm, homely scent weaving through the small clearing where they had camped. He rubbed his eyes, voice thick with sleep, and mumbled, “Good morning…” His gaze landed on Minho crouched by the fire, calmly turning the pan.

Only then did Jisung blink fully awake, his nose twitching at the smell. “Wait… how did you even find eggs out here? Is there a convenience store hidden in the woods or something?”

Minho’s eyes widened, incredulity dancing across his face. “Convenience store? I woke early, harvested in the forest. Eggs and fruits are fresh, straight from the source.”

Jisung’s eyes went wide, shimmering with tears. “You mean… we’re eating baby bird eggs?” His voice trembled, panic lacing each word.

Minho froze for a fraction, then softened. “No. They would never have hatched. Just… fresh eggs. You’re safe.”

Doe's eyes found Minho’s gaze. “You’re lying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

“Do you really want the truth,” Minho replied calmly, “or do you want a good, fresh breakfast, something we haven’t had in days?”

Jisung’s nose twitched at the smell, and he exclaimed, voice higher and sharper than normal, “AIN’T THAT LUCKY! YOU’RE AN AMAZING RANGER AND YOU KNOW HOW TO FIND STORE EGGS IN THE JUNGLE!” He grabbed a plate and began loading it with eggs and fruit, catching the soft, amused laughter of Minho behind him.

After breakfast, they resumed their trek through the forest. Minho’s steps were steady, silent. Then he glanced at Jisung. “We are close,” he said.

Jisung nodded slowly, a strange certainty curling in his chest. He could not explain it, but before Minho even spoke, he already knew. There was a shift in the air: the forest’s colours deepened, the light bending in unfamiliar ways, the fragrance of moss and flowers sharpened and sweet, and a subtle hum seemed to vibrate beneath the soles of his boots. The world had grown older, older and heavier, with a power that was beautiful, magical, and treacherous.

His trance was broken as Minho halted at the edge of a clearing. “Here,” he said, voice calm but heavy with meaning. “The oracle. Are you ready to find the answers?” Jisung’s stomach clenched. No, he thought. He was not ready. At least, not alone.

They stepped into the clearing together. A sea of cosmos flowers stretched before them, a riot of green and pink, almost impossibly vibrant against the muted greens of the forest. The air shimmered, carrying a delicate perfume that seemed to hum in resonance with the ancient power of the place.

Minho’s gaze softened as he addressed Jisung. “You must go to the centre. Stand alone. Wait for the oracle’s word. I will be just outside the clearing when it is done.”

Panic flickered across Jisung’s face. He clutched Minho’s arm, voice breaking. “Don’t leave me here! Please, not alone… I can’t, I can’t stay here by myself!”

Minho bent slightly to meet his eyes, his expression shadowed with worry. “It is not like that. The oracle only speaks to one soul at a time. If I stay, it will not answer you. But you will not be left in danger, Jisung. I swear it. Trust me.”

As Minho spoke, his hand lifted almost without thought, brushing lightly against Jisung’s cheek in a fleeting, steadying touch. It was gone as quickly as it came, as though Minho himself had not noticed what he had done. But Jisung felt it linger, quiet and pacifying, an anchor in the sea of his panic. ‘I really need him here,’ he thought, heart stumbling in his chest.

Jisung’s shoulders sagged, the weight of fear pressing down, when a sudden ripple passed through the clearing. Leaves stirred though no wind blew, the flowers seemed to shiver, and a presence, immense and silent, glided into view. He felt Minho’s chest tighten, his heart stuttering.

“This is impossible,” he whispered. “I- I should not be here. This… this has never happened before.”

The figure emerged fully. At first glance, it seemed like a woman. Then a child. Then an old figure, wrinkled and wise. Every age at once, as if the being had always existed and always would. The face was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, a living paradox that evoked past, present, and future all at once. The eyes were fathomless, dark as the void between stars, and yet within them sparkled the birth and death of worlds, the beginning and the end of time itself.

The oracle spoke, voice soft yet impossibly deep, echoing as though vibrating in every corner of the clearing:

“Hear now the song of fate entwined,

The path of wine's child, the path of virgin’s child.

Beneath the stars, where cosmos bloom bright,

The worlds converge in shadow and light.

 

Between the whispers and the silent breath,

The lost seals hide, beyond life, beyond death.

The son of wine and the son of huntress’s grace,

Shall mend the bridge that time cannot erase.

 

Listen to the echo where silence sings,

And song and stillness sway on fragile wings.

The bridge is the tether of mortal and godly heart,

Only together shall the worlds not fall apart.

 

The seals are the key, the unity of the divine,

And only as one shall the realms align.”

Minho’s fingers tightened into fists at his sides. Jisung’s eyes widened, heart thudding in his chest. The weight of the prophecy, heavy and luminous, settled on them both. Jisung clung to Minho’s arm, still trembling, his mind spinning. Minho remained motionless, silent, lost in thought. They stayed that way for a long moment, while the figure of the Oracle receded, as ethereal as it had appeared, dissolving into a mist of smoke and light.

Jisung whispered, uncertain, “I… I don’t really understand, but… our mission is to fix a bridge?”

The question lingered in the still air, fragile and hesitant, when a voice, light, teasing, and almost mischievous, drifted from the shadows.

“Well, that was unexpected!”

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho’s thoughts were still entangled in the Oracle’s words, each line of the prophecy echoing like a brand on his mind, when another sound cut through the silence. A voice. Light, teasing, achingly familiar. ‘Oh, wait. That voice… could that be…? It’s not possible. By the gods, this day refuses to stop growing stranger.’

He turned sharply, Jisung still clinging stubbornly to his arm, and there he was. The figure who stepped from the treeline was at once changed and unchanged. Dark hair framed his face neatly, skin pale against the faint suggestion of makeup. A grey blazer draped elegantly over a black shirt, sharp lines tempered by the glint of thin chains at his neck. He carried himself with the cool assurance of someone older, someone skilled, and yet Minho could not mistake him.

Minho’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Seungmin? This… this cannot be. My eyes must be playing tricks on me.”

Seungmin’s lips curved faintly, his tone dry. “Much as I enjoy tricks, Min, I promise this is neither the place nor the moment for them.”

Before Minho could respond, Seungmin added briskly, “We should move. Quickly. I just slew a Makhai in the woods, nasty creatures; and another fled the instant it sensed me. That means it could be circling even now.”

Minho stiffened. “They pursued you?”

Seungmin shook his head. “Unlikely. If anything, they’re after you and Jisung. Or worse… the prophecy itself.”

Jisung, wide-eyed, finally found his voice. “Wait, wait, wait… you know me?”

With exaggerated flourish, Seungmin gave a half-bow. “Seungmin. At your service. And for your information, by now every god, demigod, and creature of shadow knows your name, Jisungie.”

Minho felt Jisung’s body tense beside him. Almost instinctively, he slid an arm around Jisung’s waist, steadying him. The contact, however brief, was a mistake, his pulse surged, his thoughts tangled.

‘No, not now. Not here.’ Danger was at their heels, and he could not afford such weakness.

Forcing his focus back, Minho asked tightly, “Why are you here, Seungmin?”

Seungmin smirked. “Father’s orders. Hermes thought it wise I ensure your safe return to Olympus. Both of you.”

At that, Jisung groaned miserably. “You mean after all this emotional trauma, I still have to walk all the way to Olympus?”

Seungmin burst out laughing, casting a sly look at Minho. “Ah, but unlike our friend here, I’m not such a purist. I rather approve of faster routes.”

Minho muttered, half to himself, “Your faster routes usually involve theft, deceit, or worse.”

Feigning offence, Seungmin clutched at his chest. “I’ll have you know I am a perfectly honest, innocent young man. I merely lack the shame to waste my talents.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Minho’s lips. “Minnie, you may look different, but you still peddle misinformation like always.”

“And you,” Seungmin countered smoothly, “should know by now that I am never wrong or misinformed. I am either right or I am lying.”

That broke the tension. Minho chuckled, Seungmin laughed outright, and Jisung stared at them both with round, curious eyes, as though watching an odd ritual.

Seungmin gestured towards the edge of the clearing. “Accusations aside, I am a son of Hermes. Messenger, transporter, courier of the divine. And today, I brought something to speed our little journey.”

Minho followed his gaze and blinked. Parked just beyond the cosmos flowers was a Harley Davidson, sleek and black, its chrome catching brief shafts of light filtering through the forest boughs. The engine sat silent, coiled and ready, poised for the next wild ride.

Jisung’s gasp shattered the stillness. “WOW! AMAZING!” He then shot Minho a mock-accusing, playful look. “I can’t believe you made me walk all this way when we could’ve had that!”

Before Minho could stop him, Jisung slipped free from his grasp and all but skipped over to Seungmin, his yapper energy reborn in full force. “What’s the horsepower? Do you need a license for divine roads? Is it faster than Pegasus? Can I sit in the front? Oh my god, do you have helmets?”

Seungmin only grinned, basking in the boy’s enthusiasm as he fielded questions.

Minho stayed back, watching the pair move towards the machine, Jisung animated and Seungmin smug. A heavy sigh escaped him. Five days of walking through the dense forest would have been peace itself compared to the five minutes he was about to endure on Seungmin’s motorcycle with Jisung in tow.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

The wind tore past his face, crisp and wild, as the Harley roared along the forest path. Jisung laughed so hard it nearly hurt, his hair streaming behind him, eyes sparkling with exhilaration. Seungmin rode with effortless control, every twist of the throttle precise, while Minho clung tensely to the back, jaw tight, knuckles white. Jisung’s hand found Minho’s, squeezing gently, sensing the subtle tremor of nerves beneath the disciplined exterior.

“Relax, it’s fun!” Jisung shouted, his voice whipped away by the roar.

Minho’s grip did not loosen, but Jisung felt a faint pulse of warmth in response, a quiet reassurance beneath the fear.

The forest blurred around them, sunlight flickering through the trees and dappling the path. Jisung’s heart thudded wildly, a mixture of fear and joy (though mostly joy) for being here, on this ride, hand in hand with Minho, the world spinning yet somehow perfect. He caught Seungmin’s mischievous grin from the corner of his eye and grinned back.

“Faster! Let’s see if we can touch the clouds!” he called.

Time and distance lost meaning. Then, as if the world itself drew a breath, they emerged from the forest, and Jisung’s stomach dropped, not from speed this time, but from wonder.

Before them stretched the bridge between worlds. It was impossibly long and delicate, an arc of crystalline filigree and shimmering bronze, seeming both ancient and modern, like a melody frozen in the air. Below, water glimmered with a rainbow of colours, reflecting the sky in dazzling ways. Each step of the bridge seemed to hum, vibrating with magic as old as the earth itself.

Jisung’s mouth went dry. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“Don’t gape too much,” Minho muttered, his voice tight, though Jisung caught the flicker of awe in his eyes too.

The ride across the bridge was dreamlike. Every gust of wind carried hints of Olympus: the scent of gardens, incense, and sunlight turned to gold. Jisung tilted his head back, half tempted to stretch his arms wide like wings, until Minho tugged him sharply against his chest.

“Keep your balance, Jisungie,” Minho said, half scolding, half laughing, his fingers brushing against Jisung’s side.

When the bike finally slowed and rolled onto marble streets, Jisung felt a dizzying rush of awe. Towers gleamed like molten silver, fountains sang in complex harmonies, and clouds hovered in impossible arcs above terraces lined with golden railings. He pressed a hand to his chest, speechless.

“Careful,” Seungmin called, glancing back with a smirk. “You’ll trip if you keep staring at the sky like that.”

Minho’s voice broke through the reverie.

“Steady. Are you all right?”

Jisung looked at him, still trembling slightly.

“I… I’m nervous. It’s like discovering I’m royalty and being led to meet the British royal family for the first time.”

Minho chuckled softly.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. In the end, the gods are just like a large family, full of quarrels, conflicts, and gossip. Only the stakes are higher, and the consequences echo through the mortal world.”

Jisung laughed, a little breathless, tension easing.

“Now I feel much calmer,” he admitted with a smile.

Minho smirked.

“I was of absolutely no help, wasn’t I? You’re welcome.”

Jisung blinked at the dry humour, a nervous laugh escaping. Their uneasy glance was cut short as a herald’s voice rang clear, summoning them to the chamber of the gods. Jisung inhaled deeply, steadying himself. Olympus awaited, and with Minho at his side, he felt a curious mixture of dread and anticipation. Together, they crossed the gates into the immortal city.

The path led swiftly to the great hall. Jisung’s jaw fell open despite himself. Marble columns soared upwards, gleaming as though lit from within, while stained glass bathed the floor in fractured colour. The scent of ambrosia and incense drifted faintly through the air, making his head swim.

He stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the grandeur, and Minho’s hand shot out, steadying him.

“Eyes ahead,” Minho murmured.

“Sorry,” Jisung whispered, cheeks flushing.

The great doors swung open, and the three stepped inside; Minho steady, Jisung uncertain, Seungmin composed as ever. Silence fell as every gaze turned upon them. Gods, demigods, and courtiers fixed their eyes on the newcomers, the weight of expectation pressing like stone on Jisung’s chest.

From the high seat, Zeus’s voice rolled across the chamber, calm yet commanding.
“You have returned. Speak, then. Tell Olympus what transpired in the forest.”

They moved forward together, footsteps echoing in the vast space. Seungmin spoke first, recounting his encounter with the monsters; his words crisp, intentional, with a mischievous edge that never quite left him. Minho followed, precise, relaying the prophecy exactly as it had been spoken, each detail chosen with care, leaving no shadow of doubt.

The chamber murmured. Jisung lifted his gaze, searching the faces of the gods, and faltered. They radiated splendour and menace in equal measure. He had never seen Artemis before, yet when his eyes fell upon her, that silver gaze, so strikingly like Minho’s, left no doubt. He avoided Dionysus, though he felt the god’s intoxicating presence seep into every corner of the hall.

Zeus’s voice thundered above the restless voices.

“The prophecy has been declared. Its signs are upon us already. The sons shall act to mend the rift between worlds. But danger circles, monsters drawn like vultures. Olympus cannot afford hesitation.”

Athena’s eyes gleamed with calculation.

“Their value is clear. With proper guidance, they could turn the tide.”

Ares leaned forward, smirk cruel.

“Or they could fail, and drag Olympus into disaster. Untested children are a liability.”

The chamber erupted in discord. Voices clashed like steel on stone. Jisung winced, hands half raised to cover his ears, but Minho’s steady presence kept him grounded.

Artemis rose, her voice like a blade.

“This would never have come to pass if Dionysus had not meddled! He hid his child, neglected and untrained, until too late. The balance is broken because of him!”

Dionysus laughed, sharp and mocking.

“Balance? You dare? And you, Artemis, would lecture me? The so-called virgin goddess with a mysterious son? Shall we speak of him before all Olympus?”

A suffocating silence fell. Minho flinched beside Jisung, shoulders tightening as if the words had pierced him. Without thinking, Jisung slid his fingers into Minho’s, squeezing firmly. Minho’s hand was tense, unyielding, but he did not pull away. Jisung’s heart twisted; this was not the Minho of the forest, laughing and alive. This was Minho bound in chains of duty and shame, caged beneath the unrelenting gaze of gods.

Other gods attempted to redirect the chaos, calling for focus.

“Enough of old quarrels! The bridge is what matters. The integrity of the realms is at stake!”

Hermes and Hecate arrived, breathless from hastening to inspect the seals. Hermes spoke first, voice grave.

“Two seals are missing: the tiger’s pelt, a gift of Artemis, and the seed of the primordial vine, given by Dionysius. The bridge is vulnerable.”

Artemis’ eyes flared, voice sharp as flint.

“Did you tamper with the pelt?”

Dionysus’ grin was infuriating, tone teasing yet cutting.

“And did you meddle with the vine, oh virgin goddess? Old quarrels never die quietly, do they?”

The chamber erupted into a cacophony of accusation, blame, and divine pride, the voices weaving a tapestry of ancient grievances. Minho shrank further, jaw tight, a cold wall shielding him from the storm. Jisung’s heart ached.

Finally, Zeus spoke, authority cutting through the clamor.

“It matters not whose fault it is. The seals must be recovered to preserve the integrity and safety of the bridge. As the prophecy declares, the children shall take up this task. Minho and Jisung, your mission begins.”

Athena and Ares nodded.

“Preparations will commence immediately. Instructions for the mission will be delivered to you as soon as possible.”

Jisung leaned slightly toward Minho, whispering, “Shouldn’t we at least say we agree before they start making plans?”

Minho’s gaze snapped to his, hard and unwavering.

“This is how it works in Olympus. The heirs of the gods do not get to negotiate the terms.”

Jisung swallowed, absorbing the weight of the words, and forced a small nod. The room hummed with energy, but his hand remained locked with Minho’s, a tether to the familiar amidst the overwhelming tension.

Jisung scarcely had time to absorb the tumult of the hall when a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. He turned, frowning, and found Dionysus, expression playful.

“Come along, my boy,” the god said, guiding him to a quieter corner. “We need a little father-son conversation.”

“I don’t want to speak with you,” Jisung muttered.

“Oh, come now,” Dionysus said, smirk playing across his lips. “You’ve had quite the adventure, haven’t you?”

“Adventure?” Jisung snapped. “I was in danger! You left me! You put me in peril so I wouldn’t be a bother! Do you even care for me at all?”

Dionysus’ expression hardened. “Jisung, you are spoiled. You understand nothing of the gears of time, the delicate mechanisms of divine power. Take this mission seriously. Do not allow the son of Artemis to outshine you. Trust no one, especially the mysterious son of the virgin goddess.”

Jisung’s fists clenched, his voice trembling with emotion. “I don’t care for time, or power, or anything else! I merely wanted… I merely wanted the truth. But now… now it does not matter at all.”

With that, he wrenched himself free from Dionysus’ grasp. Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the hall, searching desperately for Minho. Every step was driven by the certainty that the older boy was the only one who had truly treated him with care and respect, the only one whose presence had felt real amidst the weight of Olympus.

Without awaiting a reply, Jisung tore himself through the corridors of Olympus, each step echoing with frustration and sorrow. He called after every passing deity, every shadowed attendant, “Have you seen Minho?” Each vague, bewildered reply only stoked the fire within him.

At last, he arrived at a structure that seemed less a palace than a garage, its walls alive with murals and graffiti, constellations and archaic symbols twisting across the surfaces. The tang of metal and oil hung thick in the air. At the centre rested Seungmin’s Harley Davidson, gleaming, formidable, like a sentinel awaiting its riders.

Jisung barely dared step forward before voices reached him. Minho. Seungmin. And another, belonging to a figure shorter than the two, arms sculpted, presence striking, a face carved with both strength and allure. He pressed himself against the shadowed doorway, heart hammering, as Minho spoke:

“He’s… weak. He has no training at all. I’ll have to guard him every step of the way. I cannot fathom why the gods would send someone so unprepared. And being Dionysus’ son complicates matters, particularly with Artemis. It is… a fraught arrangement.”

A rush of heat flooded Jisung’s veins, a storm of betrayal and disbelief. How could Minho speak so poorly of him? Did he see him as nothing more than a burden? The thought that all the gods cared only for themselves, their whims, their petty quarrels, filled him with bitter certainty. Perhaps Dionysus was right. Perhaps he could not trust anyone, not even Minho. Yet, more than ever in these past days, Jisung clung to the memory of Minho; the one who had shown genuine care, who had offered friendship and steadiness amidst the chaos and the dizzying turbulence of new discoveries. Could he be mistaken about that?

Without another word, Jisung retreated into the shadow, swallowing the wrath and despair that seared through him. He needed none of their sympathy, no commendation or protection. With resolute steps, he returned to the main hall. He did not seek Minho’s company, nor did he acknowledge anyone beyond the steel of his own resolve. He would fulfil his destiny, accept what must be endured, and in time, return to the life he had always sought: free from gods, from prophecies, and from hearts so easily misread.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho’s gaze followed the retreating figures of Dionysus and Jisung, unease gnawing at him. He stepped forward, intending to trail at a discreet distance to keep Jisung safe without drawing attention, but a sudden presence halted him. Artemis emerged, as if materialised from the very shadows of Olympus itself, her eyes piercing and relentless.

“Minho,” she said, voice firm yet low, “where are you going? What interest do you have in the son of Dionysus?”

Minho faltered. “I… I was only…”

“Do not make excuses,” Artemis interrupted, her gaze pressing down like the weight of the heavens. “Beyond fulfilling your mission, you must not draw close to him. You know who his father is. You know my distrust of Dionysus, his ways, his influence. You are not to be swayed, Minho.”

He bowed his head slightly, heart quickening, as Artemis’ tone softened fractionally. “I see the way you lingered, the care you wished to show. I am not blind to your concern for him. But your duty comes first. You must carry out this mission with discipline and seriousness, as you always have. Your allegiance is to me, to Olympus, and to the tasks entrusted to you. You have proven yourself competent and capable. Many may doubt your right to stand among the gods, yet with your heart true and your choices wise, you will prevail.”

Artemis extended her hand, brushing her pale, moonlit fingers over Minho’s silver hair. “I am rigorous with you, I know,” she murmured, her voice gentler now, “but it is always for your good. I see your posture, your training, the fulfilment of every mission until now. You have made me proud.”

For a heartbeat, Minho could not draw air. Words like these had never passed her lips, never with such directness, never with such warmth. Pride and affection, long restrained, shimmered in her eyes, brighter than the constellations themselves. Tears pricked at the corners of his own eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. “I… I will not disappoint you, Mother.”

Artemis inclined her head, solemn. Her gaze lingered, tethering him, steadying him. Minho drew a measured breath, determination settling over him like armour. He would protect Jisung, fulfil the prophecy, and honour the trust of the mother he revered.

Minho navigated the narrow paths of the Olympus estate, the echo of Artemis’ words still warming and anchoring him, yet the image of Dionysus and Jisung’s parting lingering at the edge of his mind. His heart felt a jumble of confusion, pride at Artemis’ rare praise, unease at the way Jisung had been taken by Dionysus, and a consuming worry for the boy’s safety. Instinctively, he sought counsel with those he trusted most, those who could offer clarity and perspective.

As he stepped inside, the riot of colours in the garage struck him. It had always been a refuge for Olympus’ heirs; a hidden corner where they could gather, speak freely, and share the weight of their duties. It grounded them, if only briefly, in a space that felt theirs alone.

Seungmin was the first Minho noticed. Something had shifted. His usual arrogance was tempered by a delicate flirtation; his composure now carried quiet devotion. Minho’s suspicion was confirmed: Seungmin was hopelessly smitten with Changbin. Then he saw Changbin, the son of Ares, formidable, well-built, laughter cutting through the air, yet with the same soft, almost innocent look lingering in his eyes.

Minho stepped further into the garage, scent of metal and oil thick in the air. “Binnie! Seungmin!”

“Min!” Changbin exclaimed, half surprise, half delight. “You vanish for days and then only appear when it’s time to talk strategies for the morning hunt! You really do disappear!”

Minho chuckled. “I’ll try to appear more often. The duties… they keep me busy.”

Seungmin leaned on a workbench, eyes twinkling. “Oh, Min. You could use a little carpe diem. What’s the point of all your duties if you never enjoy the perks of being a child of a greater god?”

Changbin shot him a look, amused. “Unlike some, Minho takes things seriously. He doesn’t waste focus.”

Seungmin smirked at Changbin. “Perhaps, but I enjoy seeing him try to maintain composure when you’re around.”

Changbin huffed, mock-serious. “Alright, then. How was the meeting? I wasn’t called to the council, but the heirs of the greater gods were summoned to assist with the mission.”

Minho and Seungmin exchanged glances, recounting the essentials: the prophecy, the tension in the hall.

Binnie’s eyes sparkled. “And… Jisung?”

Minho exhaled, chest tightening. “He… he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” Silence followed.

“He’s… weak. He has no training at all. I’ll have to guard him every step of the way. I cannot fathom why the gods would send someone so unprepared. And being Dionysus’ son complicates matters, particularly with Artemis. It is… a fraught arrangement.”

Another pause lingered, filled with reflection. Seungmin raised an eyebrow, smirking knowingly. Binnie tilted his head, warm eyes inviting Minho to continue.

“And yet?” Binnie pressed.

Minho hesitated, the hardness softening at Jisung’s memory. “And yet, it doesn’t matter. His weaknesses, the prophecy, the danger, they’re irrelevant. Being around him… it relaxes me. When he plays his little question game, it distracts me, makes me laugh, think, feel lighter than I have in days. Even amidst the cold expectations, that small joy is grounding. I feel happy with him here.”

Binnie grinned. “Aww, Minho, that’s adorable. Completely insane, but adorable.”

Seungmin leaned back. “Insane? Perhaps. Or maybe you’ve finally found someone worth a little recklessness. Either way, it’s entertaining.”

Minho shook his head, half-smile breaking through his usual mask. “I know it sounds foolish. I barely know him, and yet… he has this effect. He makes the world less quiet, a welcome noise in some strange way.”

Binnie’s hand brushed his shoulder. “At least you admit it. Most heroes would deny feelings like that.” A quick glance passed between Binnie and Seungmin, unspoken acknowledgment of the rare sight.

Seungmin laughed, sharp and bright. “Yes, Minho, admit it and suffer the consequences! You’re hopelessly tangled already, and it’s amusing to watch.”

Minho exhaled softly. Reality pressed in. He could not indulge such thoughts, not with Artemis’ counsel, the mission looming, the stakes high. “It’s not what you think,” he said firmly. “I don’t… feel this way as you imagine. I just… need to protect him. His situation is complicated. That’s all.”

Binnie exchanged a brief, knowing glance with Minho, granting silent understanding.

Seungmin rolled his eyes, mock-offended. “Endearing, but utterly ridiculous.”

Minho straightened. “I cannot think of this now. The mission comes first. What have you two heard? What do you know?”

Binnie considered. “Chan and Jeongin will assist. The chosen heirs are being prepared.”

Seungmin grinned. “At least Chan’s age and wisdom help. Heaven forbid we leave it all to the reckless youth.” Minho and Binnie laughed briefly, aware Chan was only slightly older.

Minho tilted his head. “And… the other two, the lovers, are they going to be part of it too?”

Binnie chuckled. “Easier to cut off seven hydras’ heads than sever their bond… especially in bed.” Laughter erupted from all three.

Minho leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “So… have they finally sorted themselves out?”

Seungmin smirked. “With a little help from me and a nudge from Cupid, I managed to give my BFF a hand. Things are progressing nicely.”

Minho exhaled, warmth spreading through his chest. He had missed the closeness of friends, from whom he had kept distant. And yet, Jisung’s face flickered in his thoughts, a spark drawing him back to fleeting happiness he had begun to forget. Even under the weight of duty and Olympus’ endless expectations, there were moments worth cherishing.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

Jisung wandered through the marble corridors, still adjusting to the constant hum of Olympus around him, when a familiar voice called out.

“There you are!” Minho emerged from the corner, energy radiating from his steps. “I was looking for you. Come on, we’re heading to the war room soon; they’ll reveal the plan to recover the lost seals.”

Jisung turned sharply, the warmth in Minho’s tone only fanning the quiet anger still burning in his chest. He met Minho’s eyes, his own colder than he intended. “Oh. Great. Another council where I’ll just be… displayed for them to dissect?” His voice came out clipped, harsher than he meant, but he did not pull it back.

The brightness in Minho’s expression faltered, dimming into something subdued. He cleared his throat, the enthusiasm softening into seriousness. “No. Not this time. The gods have already given their commands. It’s been decided; the heirs of the greater gods will lead. You and I…” His gaze held, searching Jisung’s face. “…we’ll execute. That’s what the oracle foresaw.”

Jisung scoffed, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Good. Then maybe you can stop looking at me like I’m helpless. I may not have been born into this world, but I learn quickly. I don’t need your pity.”

Minho blinked several times, surprised by the bite in his words. His brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his features, as though he could not fathom the source of Jisung’s resentment. Instead of pressing, he simply fell silent. The moment stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Jisung pressed his lips together, refusing to break it first. Finally, Minho inclined his head and said quietly, “Let’s go. They’re waiting.” Side by side, they walked toward the war room.

Jisung stepped into the high chamber where the heirs had gathered. The air was thick with anticipation, the subtle hum of divine energy prickling his skin. Six figures stood before him, their presence filling the room, making his breath catch.

The first to move was a very athletic man, his posture steady, his expression calm as if nothing could shake him. He rose with measured grace and inclined his head.

“Chan, son of Athena. Strategy and foresight are mine to carry.” Jisung felt the weight of that calm, as though this one could already see through him, calculating every possibility before a single word was spoken. He shifted slightly, reminded of how small he felt in comparison.

Another heir, shorter but broad-shouldered, his body sculpted with strength, stepped forward with arms crossed. Jisung recognised him as the other boy from the garage. “Changbin, but you can call me Binnie. Son of Ares and Hebe. You’ll work out the rest.” Power radiated from him, every line of his figure alive with force. Yet behind the warrior’s edge, a gentle warmth shone in his eyes. He straightened instinctively, meeting Binnie’s gaze with quiet curiosity.

From the side, a figure brushed dark hair away from his face, each motion unhurried and gracious. “Hyunjin,” he said smoothly, lips curving as though he found amusement in the sound of his own name. “Son of Aphrodite and Adonis.” Jisung nearly looked away. Nearly. Beauty like that was unfair. The kind of beauty that bent the air around it, fragile and intoxicating all at once. He swallowed, trying to focus.

Before he could recover, another presence leaned naturally toward Hyunjin, radiating sunlight. “Felix, son of Apollo and Eros,” he said brightly, freckles catching the divine glow. He rested against Hyunjin without hesitation, a smile spreading across his face. If Hyunjin was disarming beauty, Felix was comfort itself, a quiet radiance that drew people in without them realising. Jisung caught himself frowning slightly, unsettled by the natural closeness. Together, the two seemed untouchable.

A tall figure raised a hand lazily, eyes sharp with sly amusement. “Seungmin. Son of Hermes,” he said with mock solemnity. “Messenger, trickster, occasional voice of reason… depending on the day.” Jisung already knew that grin, already knew how much it irritated him that even behind jokes, Seungmin always seemed to see further than anyone wanted him to.

Then, the shyest one spoke. Pale, still, eyes steady enough to unsettle him. “Jeongin. Son of Hades and Persephone,” he said, voice soft and surprisingly warm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jisung. I hope we can get along well.” The gentleness of his words clashed with the chill of his aura, so disarmingly kind. A son of the underworld, greeting him like a friend. Jisung inclined his head slightly, uncertain how to respond.

Finally, a voice he knew called to him.

“Minho. Son of Artemis. The hunt is my duty, the moonlight my guide.” He required no formality. Minho had always held that disciplined gaze, posture tight like a drawn bowstring. Yet hearing it aloud only emphasised the distance between them: Minho, heir of the eternal maiden; Jisung, son of the boastful god, still stumbling through a world not made for him.

 One by one, they had carved their names into the chamber, heirs of gods whose legacies weighed heavily. And then there was him: Jisung. Heir of Dionysus. The final name in a list that felt too large for his own skin. He adjusted his stance, trying to claim a fraction of the space.

Seungmin tilted his head with a crooked smile. “Welcome, Jisung, to the select group of heirs. Not that it matters much; you’ll soon learn being one of us is… complicated.”

Minho’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, voice calm, almost neutral. “We all have our roles. But listen closely. Considering your situation, we’ll go through the plans carefully and explain the details you’ll need. You haven’t been trained since childhood like we were.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, the words stinging more than he’d admit.

Chan, seated cross-legged near the centre of the chamber, inclined his head. “Before we speak of the mission itself, you need to understand the history. The heirs of the gods have dwindled for centuries. Some abandoned Olympus altogether. Hercules, for example, renounced his divine ties and chose the mortal world, to Zeus’ absolute dismay. Others died in battle against monsters, defending mortals. Each loss weakened not only the bridge between worlds but the gods themselves.”

He paused, gaze sweeping the chamber before settling briefly on Jisung. “We are different. As heirs of the greater gods, we carry their blood in its strongest form. Our power is direct, tied to the divine itself. But Olympus is not sustained by us alone. The children of lesser gods, the countless demigods and heroes scattered across the earth and the realm… they fight as well.” He glanced at Felix, who shifted slightly on Hyunjin’s lap, catching Jisung’s attention. “They adapt, weaving their lives into mortal causes, arts, battles, and dreams, keeping the connection alive in their own way. It is their existence, alongside ours, that still allows Olympus to matter.”

Jisung shifted on his feet, the weight of Chan’s words pressing against him. As a mortal, he had always been used to privilege, the silver-spoon life of a famous mother’s son, never truly worrying about power or survival. But now, to hear about divine heirs, bloodlines, and the responsibilities of gods’ children, it was a shock. He had never imagined having a father who was a god, and yet here he was, counted among the heirs.

Hyunjin, twirling the Homaika ring on his finger, added softly, “It isn’t just strength that matters. The bridge between worlds is woven from bonds, mortal and divine. When an heir leaves or falls, another thread frays.” Felix nudged Hyunjin slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips, yet the thought continued. “So those who remain adapt. They become artists, defenders of causes, guardians of freedom, fighters for justice or the earth. They intertwine themselves through mortal lives, forging connections that sustain Olympus indirectly.”

Seungmin’s grin sharpened. “But don’t think the enemy sleeps. Those who oppose the gods adapt as well, thriving on war, greed, inequity, prejudice. They amplify cruelty and fear, trying to tear apart what little hope binds the worlds together.”

The words sank into Jisung’s chest. He raised his head, voice low. “But… if the bridge breaks, wouldn’t that affect the monsters too? Don’t they need it to exist?”

All eyes turned toward Minho. He held Jisung’s gaze steadily. “No. Monsters are not born from divine lineage. They come from chaos itself, the remnants of the void before creation. Where gods are tied to order and those held by the threads of creation, monsters are tied to entropy and discord. If the bridge collapses, the gods fade. The monsters remain.”

A chill traced Jisung’s spine.

Jeongin, until then silent, finally spoke, voice smooth and grave. “And that is why we are here. This mission isn’t a simple ritual. The balance rests on it. A single mistake could unravel the thread that still ties Olympus to relevance.”

Changbin straightened. “Which is why the heirs must stand together. The gods may have power, but it’s our knowledge of mortals, and each other, that matters. Especially you two.” His gaze flicked between Jisung and Minho. “The oracle named you both.”

Minho’s eyes swept the group, lingering briefly on Jisung. “We are few, and the stakes are high. You may not have our years of training, but your presence matters. Your insight, your bloodline, they have purpose.”

Jisung swallowed, chest tight with a mix of doubt and reluctant pride. His voice was barely above a whisper. “So… you’ve all existed in this balance for so long. Does that mean your lives never truly end?” He blinked, suddenly struck by the thought. “Wait… does that mean I’m… immortal?” He looked at Minho with a questioning glare, as if asking why all the fuss over protecting him.

Chan chuckled gently, warmth in his voice. “In a way. As a demigod, you won’t wither or die of age. But you’re not invulnerable. Violence, weapons, monsters; those can still kill you. Immortality only lasts as long as you can protect it.”

Seungmin smirked, stretching lazily. “So, welcome to the team, Wine boy. The burden’s heavy, the lessons brutal, and the company…” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “…occasionally unbearable. But you’ll get used to it.”

Minho’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Frustrations aside, the bridge will not hold without unity. That’s why we’re here.”

Jisung nodded, his heart pounding with equal parts dread and determination. Among them, he was the newest, the least trained, and yet somehow essential. The prophecy had not placed him here for glory. It had placed him here because the fragile thread connecting Olympus and the mortal world still had a chance, and he was now part of it.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho observed Jisung closely as he met the other heirs and listened to the history being laid out, a history he himself had known since he could remember. Each subtle gesture, each small interjection, each fleeting expression that crossed Jisung’s face drew Minho in. There was a delicate tension in the way he shifted his weight, the tilt of his head when he absorbed a fact, the way his eyes flickered with curiosity.

And yet, beneath it all, Minho saw something new: a thread of anger, a hint of disappointment he had never noticed before. Not before Dionysus. What could the god have said to unsettle him so? Minho had long accepted that the immortals could be cruel, but it still pained him to see it reflected in Jisung’s beautiful, youthful face. Gods insisting on being parents, he would never understand it. Always balance and fear, never love.

Chan finally moved to present the information and plans they had gathered so far, opening his laptop with practiced ease. Minho noticed the way Jisung’s eyes widened slightly at the screen, surprise flickering across his face. He leaned closer, fingers unconsciously tightening around the strap of his guitar.

“Did you expect us to use papyrus?” Chan asked, tilting his head toward Jisung.

Jisung let out a nervous laugh, a little embarrassed. “Uh… maybe I did, I guess?”

Minho’s lips curved in a small, almost imperceptible smile. “The gods still grant gifts and favours to mortals even today. Technology is simply one more of those offerings.”

Seungmin chimed in, leaning back casually. “And like Pandora’s box, some gifts bring good, some bad. Humans choose how to use them. See the internet, for example.”

Felix, ever playful, glanced at Seungmin and raised an eyebrow. “Still upset about those League of Legends players the other day, Minnie?”

Seungmin made a small pout, eyes narrowing mock-seriously.

Felix shrugged with a grin. “Haters gonna hate, you know.”

Minho watched quietly, his attention fixed on Jisung, whose presence stirred both worry and an unfamiliar, protective tenderness in him. He noticed how Jisung’s gaze lingered on the screen a moment longer, curiosity mingling with apprehension.

Chan began explaining. “We have the complete prophecy here. Every line has significance, and every phrase has been considered. From it, we understand that the lost seals were stolen from the bridge and are now hidden in a place beyond life and death.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “We believe that place is Kiyomizu-dera, in Kyoto, Japan. It is one of the few locations on Earth that serves as a liminal space, a crossing between the mortal world and the divine, even touching the underworld in belief. This matches the prophecy’s description perfectly.”

Hyunjin leaned forward, his fingers brushing lightly across the laptop screen. “It’s also been the site of unusual monster attacks on humans recently. Small villages nearby have reported assaults that don’t follow any natural pattern. That alone ties the prophecy to this location more than we expected.”

Binnie nodded, pointing at a phrase on the screen. “‘The son of wine and the son of the huntress's grace shall mend the bridge.’ That is you two. You must retrieve the seals together. The bridge cannot be restored unless both of you act as one.”

Minho saw Jisung’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of apprehension mixed with the familiar stubborn determination. His chest tightened. Every line of the prophecy seemed to amplify Jisung’s presence, as though he was both fragile and essential at once. Jisung shifted on his feet, adjusting the strap of his guitar instinctively, as if grounding himself.

Chan continued, voice low and tactical. “We have mapped out the initial approach. Jeongin and Seungmin will guide you through the passage to the underworld that lies at the edge of the forest surrounding the temple. From there, you two will proceed through the woods and approach the temple itself.”

Changbin leaned forward with a subtle grin. “Expect resistance. The temple will not be empty. Monstrous guardians, traps, and perhaps followers of those opposed to Olympus. You will need to move carefully and anticipate threats.”

Hyunjin and Felix exchanged a glance before turning to Jisung. “We will prepare weapons, clothing, and protective charms for your journey. You will need to blend agility with endurance. Nothing fancy, just practical and enchanted.” Felix lightly nudged Hyunjin, a grin tugging at his lips, but continued, “Consider this a rehearsal for strategy, not fashion.”

Jisung’s hand instinctively brushed the strap of his guitar. “Will I be allowed to bring this? It saved my life before.”

A silence stretched between them. Minho finally broke it, voice clipped but low. “It was me who saved your life.”

Jisung shrugged, unconcerned. “Whatever.”

Minho’s jaw tightened slightly, watching him with quiet intensity. The familiar protective instinct rose as he considered every possible danger waiting for them. Even in his usual composed demeanour, the warmth of concern was impossible to hide. He subtly adjusted his stance, shifting closer to Jisung, his presence an unspoken shield.

Seungmin leaned back against the pillar, smirking at the pair. “Do not worry. We will see you through the underworld path. But after that, it is all on you two. We have set the stage, now you play the game. While you retrieve the seals, the rest of us, guided by the gods, will investigate the source of these attacks and formulate contingency plans. When you return to place the seals for protection, we must be ready. If you succeed, our enemies will likely strike at the bridge directly.”

Jisung blinked, absorbing the weight of the responsibility.

Seungmin added, voice serious, eyes scanning the group. “We still need to understand who is behind all this. It does not appear random. Whoever orchestrates these events has a plan, and it is up to us to uncover it before it escalates.”

Jeongin’s expression remained serious, but there was a faint softness in his eyes. “Every choice matters. Every misstep could mean disaster. Trust each other, but stay alert. The bridge, the seals, Olympus itself relies on it.”

Minho exhaled softly, his gaze never leaving Jisung, who seemed both braver and more vulnerable than anyone he had ever known. They would face whatever waited in that temple together. Despite the tension, the prophecy, and the dangers, Minho felt a singular, unshakable certainty. He would protect Jisung, and they would restore the bridge side by side.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

After the council meeting, Jisung left as quickly as he could. He avoided speaking alone with Minho, not after the tense moments of their last encounter, and not after the words Minho had spoken about him. In the days that followed in Olympus, he moved through the halls like a ghost, only crossing paths with Minho during meetings with the other heirs, careful to maintain his distance whenever the older boy was nearby.

The days melded together, almost surreal. Yet, paradoxically, Jisung found himself drawn closer to the group of heirs than he had ever been to anyone on the mortal plane. It felt as though destiny had woven them together, binding them as a unit before he even realised it. Perhaps this group of eight, united in purpose and bond, was fate. Among them, he learned more about his divine origins, the fragile, intricate balance of the worlds, and the mortal realm he had left behind.

Finally, he had received permission to contact his mother. Just knowing they would speak, that she would know he was safe, gave him a quiet happiness he had not expected. He did not voice it aloud, but he could not help but discern from listening to the others’ conversations that it had been because of Minho pleading with the gods. That thought made him turn away instinctively; it was best not to think of Minho at all.

And yet, try as he might, his mind refused to obey. Every new detail he absorbed, every observation, every small thing he wanted to share drew him back to Minho. He remembered their moments together before the prophecy, when the world had seemed simpler. Those times now felt like another era, a lifetime away.

Felix caught him once, glancing up from preparations in the common room. “You’re avoiding him,” he said softly, tilting his head.

Jisung stiffened. “I… I just don’t want to make things more complicated.”

Felix smiled knowingly. “It’s not complicated, Ji. It’s trust. You have to trust Minho if this is going to work. He doesn’t speak much, not because he’s cold, but because he carries a lot of pain and guilt. He’s just too stubborn to show it. But he… he deserves to receive exactly what he gives back to the world, even if he doesn’t realise it: love. Protection.”

Jisung swallowed, feeling the weight of Felix’s words. “I… I’ll do my best, Lixie. I promise.”

Finally, the day came. Jisung, Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin mounted the magical motorcycle that had been meticulously prepared, its frame shimmering as if alive, stretching just enough to fit the four of them. It moved with impossible speed, weaving through the landscape like a flashlight. No obstacle could touch them, even when Seungmin drifted off at the handlebars, head tilting back for brief naps, Minho’s anxious warnings sliding off his ears.

“This is insane,” Minho muttered, gripping tightly. “He’s asleep again… how is it even-”

“Relax,” Seungmin replied with a smirk, eyes half-lidded. “The bike knows the way.”

Guided by Jeongin through the twisting, shadowed corridors of the Underworld, the path seemed alive, shifting subtly to accommodate their passage. Shadows moved with purpose, faint whispers of spirits brushed past, and distant echoes of unseen creatures set Jisung’s nerves alight. The bike carried them unharmed, cutting through the gloom with a luminous trail. Jisung’s heart thumped, not just from speed but from thrill, tension, and the unspoken awareness that after this journey, everything would change.

Hours later, they arrived at the edges of the forest surrounding the temple in Japan. Minho and Jisung dismounted first, the gravity of what lay ahead pressing down on them. The towering temple, ancient and beautiful, seemed to hum with quiet, otherworldly energy. Its moss-covered stones glimmered faintly in the dim light, and the air was thick with the sense of the mortal and divine worlds brushing against each other. Shadows clung to the trees and stones, moving as if alive, while faint rustlings hinted at creatures unseen.

Jeongin and Seungmin exchanged a final glance with Minho and Jisung. “Stay sharp,” Jeongin said quietly, his usual calm accentuated by seriousness. “We’re heading back to Olympus to investigate the source of these attacks and prepare contingencies. When you return to place the seals, we must be ready. If anything goes wrong… Min, you know how to send a signal.”

Seungmin grinned, leaning casually against the bike. “Good luck, you two. Try not to get eaten by monsters.” With a final nod, he and Jeongin mounted the bike again and vanished along the winding path back through the Underworld, leaving Minho and Jisung completely alone.

 “So… it’s just us now.” Jisung swallowed hard.

Minho’s gaze met his, steady, resolute. “Yeah. You and me.”

A gust of wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of moss and something faintly acrid, like burnt incense. Jisung shivered. Every beat of his heart reminded him of the stakes, the prophecy, and the menace ahead. He tightened his grip on his guitar and took a deep breath. Together, they would face whatever waited within the temple, and whatever shadows of the past and present clung to the path ahead.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho noticed immediately that Jisung had been keeping his distance, a subtle wall between them that had not existed before. He could not pinpoint the reason; the boy’s frustration or anger remained a mystery, yet the barrier it created tugged at his chest. It was clear that Jisung wanted to avoid him, and that small distance felt heavier than any monster or threat they might face.

They left the forest behind as the trail opened toward the temple grounds. Sunlight filtered through the last stretch of cedars, scattering across the mossy stones in golden fragments before fading away. The air carried the perfume of blossoms and earth, sweet and sharp all at once, and in the silence Minho could hear the faint hum of cicadas. It should have been peaceful, an earthly reflection of divinity, but unease pressed harder with every step.

The wide stone staircase of Kiyomizu-dera rose before them. Minho slowed. The temple grounds stretched out in the distance, but something felt deeply wrong. The usual murmur of visitors, the shuffle of shoes, the clatter of cameras, the voices of children chasing each other, all of it was gone. The silence that replaced it was suffocating, unnatural.

His hand lingered near the strap of his bow as his eyes swept the empty railings and abandoned lantern posts. Too still. Too empty. “This does not make sense,” he muttered, shifting his stance and setting himself into an attack position, every muscle tight and ready to react at the slightest movement.

“Really, do you ever relax, or is ‘tense bow guy’ your permanent personality?” Jisung muttered, dragging his feet against the stone steps louder than Minho could bear, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Minho shot him a sharp glance, lips twitching as he fought to keep his composure. “Every sound carries. If something is here, you will be the one leading it straight to us,” he said, voice low and clipped.

Jisung’s jaw clenched. “I am not just baggage, Minho. You do not get to order me around like some helpless idiot. I am part of this mission too.”

Minho exhaled, patience thinning like frayed rope. “I am trying to keep you alive.”

“I do not need you to protect me all the time,” Jisung shot back, though Minho did not miss the way his eyes flicked nervously toward the shadows.

The tension between them crackled as Minho turned back toward the temple. If the main path felt too exposed, there was another route, one that would take them past Joju-in. “We will go through the Tsuki-no-niwa, the Moon Garden,” he decided. “It is quieter, less open, and we can spend the night there under the protection of the moonlight.”

Jisung did not argue, though he muttered something under his breath that Minho did not catch. They followed the side trail, a winding ascent through moss-covered stones and weathered lanterns. The vermilion gates rose like sentinels against the darkening sky, and the trickle of hidden springs echoed faintly in the distance. With each step, the silence grew heavier, settling over them like a shroud.

Wanting to ease the weight pressing between them, Minho risked a glance back. “What, no more Olympian Pop-Quiz questions?” he asked lightly, forcing a small smile. “Thought you would at least try to stump me again.”

Jisung’s gaze did not soften. “Not now,” he said flatly, eyes fixed ahead.

Minho felt his chest sink at the coldness in the reply, the memory of their earlier banter turning bitter in the back of his mind. He let the silence stretch after that, heavier than before.

By the time they reached the entrance to the Moon Garden, dusk had bled into night. The garden unfolded before them, a vision of serenity. The sand patterns glimmered silver under the rising moon, mirrored perfectly in the still surface of the central pond. Above, the landscape was a rich tapestry of stones, sculpted pines, and carefully tended shrubbery. Yet in the pond’s reflection, the garden was transformed into elegant simplicity, the distractions of the world reduced to calm perfection.

Minho’s gaze swept the garden, taking in the raked sand, the wooden teahouse at the far end, and the quiet ripple of water reflecting the moon. “We will spend the night here,” he said, voice low but firm. “Before that, I need to check the place. Stay out until I am done.”

Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but Minho’s sharp look stopped him. He stepped aside, keeping close to the edge of the garden, arms crossed, eyes alert.

Alone now, Minho moved toward the teahouse. Bow slung over his shoulder, dagger in hand, he entered the building with care, scanning shadows and corners for any sign of threat. The weight of duty pressed down on him; failure was not an option. Artemis was watching, he felt certain of it, her scrutiny reflected in the moonlight pouring through the glass windows.

And yet, his mind would not quiet. Jisung’s face intruded on every thought: the curve of his lips, the way his smile formed a perfect heart, the tilt of his head when he laughed, the quiet moments where he seemed most unaware of his own beauty. Minho wanted to stay close, to protect him constantly, to savour even the smallest glimpses of his joy.

What was happening to him? He had trained to be disciplined, to place duty above desire, to control every impulse. But, his heart wavered. It was a battle between devotion and longing, between the need to guard the prophecy and the irresistible pull of the boy who had claimed a part of it and, somehow, a part of him.

Every shadow, every faint creak of the wooden floor, reminded him of the dangers lurking unseen. And still, Jisung lingered in his thoughts, a constant ache beneath his resolve. He wanted to fail, so he could stop thinking of him. And he wanted to succeed, so the boy would remain safe. The contradictions twisted inside him. Minho steadied his breathing, gripping his bow tighter. He would fulfil the prophecy, he would protect Jisung, and yet his heart refused to settle, trapped in the impossible balance between duty and surrender.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

Jisung remained outside, leaning against the smooth wooden railing of the Moon Garden’s teahouse. The moon hung low, spilling silver across the sand and pond, turning every stone and pine into delicate silhouettes. He shifted slightly, eyes scanning the water as it caught the light, doubling the garden into a world both real and impossible. For a fleeting heartbeat, he felt as though he might dissolve into that quiet perfection, forgetting the weight pressing on him.

But reality returned too quickly, sharp and cold. The sour weight in his chest grew heavier as he crossed his arms tightly. He felt exposed, unsettled. Why had Minho left him outside, forced to linger while the older boy scouted the teahouse? It was meant as protection, yet it felt like accusation. Like Minho did not trust him. Like he was nothing more than a liability. The thought twisted in his gut, cruel and unrelenting.

It hurt more than he had anticipated. Deep down, he feared Minho did not like him, that he might not see him as someone worthy of care. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he truly was a burden, tolerated out of duty rather than affection. Felix’s words returned, soft and cutting all at once: Minho carries so much inside, but he deserves love and protection.

Jisung swallowed hard. Could he be the one to give that to him? Could he ever be the person to protect Minho, to care for him, to meet all the unspoken needs weighing so heavily on the older boy’s shoulders? Probably not. If Minho saw him as a burden, if he held him in such low esteem, how could Jisung ever be enough?

Frustration and helplessness twisted inside him. He paced a small circle on the porch, every step tight with tension. He hated feeling powerless. He hated that Minho was just out of reach. The thought lingered, bitter and persistent: Minho deserves someone better. Someone strong enough, worthy enough to share the weight alongside him. Could he ever be that person? He doubted it fiercely.

And yet, against all reason, he stayed, heart stubbornly fluttering, wishing for a chance to prove it.

The rustle came first, a whisper of movement from the far side of the teahouse. Jisung stiffened. Heart hammering. He wanted to call for Minho, to rely on the older boy to take control. But some reckless, determined part of him refused. ‘I can do this. I am part of the mission too.’

He crept toward the sound, wooden planks groaning under cautious steps. A shadow detached itself from the grove beyond the garden, emerging into fading light. The creature was terrible, serpentine, scales glistening, a single burning eye fixed on him. A drakon, known for striking those who wandered too close to sacred grounds.

Jisung froze, then leapt aside as the drakon whipped its long body, venom spraying toward him. He stumbled backward, guitar clutched like a shield. Heart hammering, lungs burning. He twisted again, narrowly evading the corrosive strike. The drakon hissed, snapping and coiling with predatory precision.

“Shit!” Panic rose in his throat. Every instinct screamed to flee, but he knew he could not outrun it forever.

Then, with a blur, Minho appeared. Arrows loosed. One struck the drakon’s head. A final screech. Then nothing but ashes, drifting slowly in the cool evening air.

Through the falling dust, Jisung saw Minho’s face, exasperated, eyes blazing, a storm of emotion barely contained. Before he could recover, Minho’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm with a strength that left him breathless. Within seconds, they were inside a small room in the teahouse, the door shutting with a solid click.

“Are you hurt? Tell me you’re not hurt!” Minho’s voice shook. Hands searching scratches, scanning for damage. Fingers brushing Jisung’s arms, shoulders, face. Urgent.

Jisung blinked, tears pricking his eyes. “I’m fine! Stop! Stop it, Minho!” His voice sharp, chest heaving. “I’m not your responsibility! I’m not some fragile thing that breaks if you look at me wrong!”

Minho froze, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. Frustration melted into something darker, fiercer. Finally, his patience snapped.

“Enough, Jisung! I am not asking. I am not begging. Do you think I’ll let you throw yourself in front of monsters like some fool? Do you think I’ll watch you get killed while pretending this is a game?”

Jisung’s throat went dry, the weight of Minho’s fury and concern crashing into him. Words caught, trapped between pride and fear. Minho’s hands did not release him. They held firm, grounding him.

“If you ever, ever do that again, I swear I won’t just yell. I’ll drag you by force and make you listen. Understood?”

Jisung trembled slightly, chest tight, words bubbling up.

“No… I don’t understand!” His voice cracked, echoing in the small room. “I don’t understand because you pretend to care. You pretend I matter, that I’m important to you… but then I heard you, Minho! I heard you talking about me like I’m nothing. Like I’m a burden. A piece of shit stuck in your boots!” He lifted his chin, eyes flashing. “I heard you… in the garage. You and Binnie and Minnie… discussing me.”

Minho froze. Shadow crossed his face. Shock flickered in his eyes. “You… you listened?”

Jisung pressed his lips into a thin line, unwavering. “I did. Every word I could catch.”

Minho’s brow furrowed, voice dropping, tense. “Did you… hear all of it?”

“I didn’t listen to every word,” Jisung admitted, cheeks flushed, eyes glimmering with anger. “Just enough. Just enough to realise that maybe everything you do is just… performance.”

Minho’s fists tightened, jaw rigid. Space between them charged. He stepped closer. Voice low, dangerous.

“Of course you didn’t hear everything. Because of course you never pause to listen, Jisung. When have you ever cared to hear when you’re loud, chaotic, frenzied… a fucking brat?”

Jisung didn’t flinch. Gaze met Minho’s, defiant despite the tremor in his voice.

“Better to be a fucking brat than live in the shadow of a duty that won’t let me breathe. That won’t let me take what I want like you do!”

Minho’s eyes narrowed. Hand shot out to grip Jisung’s jaw, tilting his face upward.

“What the fuck did you just say about me?” His voice low, harsh, trembling with more than anger.

Jisung’s chest heaved, heat radiating from Minho, acutely aware of every inch so close.

“You know perfectly well,” he said firmly, meeting his gaze without blinking. “And if you want, I can repeat it. As many times as necessary.”

Minho’s glare should have been pure fury, but Jisung saw through it. Beneath the anger, beneath the edge of exasperation, there was something else. Desire. A heat that burned, pressing insistently, consuming Minho from the inside out. A hunger far beyond punishment or rage. Jisung’s own breath hitched, chest tight, pulse thrumming against his ribs. The room shrank, walls closing around them, space between vibrating with unspoken truths. Every look, every movement charged. Every pause a temptation. Everything they had avoided clawed its way to the surface, raw and undeniable.

Minho’s hand lingered on Jisung’s jaw, guiding his gaze to his lips with an insistence that made his chest tighten. Voice dropped, low and rough:

“Then I’ll have to find a way to keep that mouth of yours quiet.”

He leaned in, and the kiss landed with a force that stole Jisung’s breath. Slow at first, tentative, it was warm and savoury, threaded with an urgency that made his skin hum and blood thrum. The taste of night clung to them; damp earth, faint silvered moonlight, and something entirely impossible to name, yet impossible to resist.

The kiss deepened, persistent now. Lips pressed, tongues brushing in a rhythm both teasing and demanding. Each movement carried fire and care, a dangerous tenderness that made Jisung’s fingers curl into Minho’s shoulders. He anchored himself to the older boy, craving the weight, the heat, the closeness. Minho’s strength pressed around him, firm but careful, every touch claiming without harm, every breath shared between them electric. Desire spiralled through them, a current that pulled Jisung forward even as his heart leapt with anticipation and fear.

When Minho finally drew back, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. The Moon Garden outside seemed distant, irrelevant, the night reduced to the scent, warmth, and fire between them. Jisung’s mind spun, knowing this moment would linger forever, seared into memory with a heat that neither time nor distance could ever cool.

Minho lunged into another kiss and after that their lips never parted. Each kiss was deeper than the last, an ache that seemed to steal the air from the small room. His hands roamed possessively, tracing the heat beneath Jisung’s clothing, desperate to erase every distance between them. Every brush of skin ignited fire, each gasp and shiver confirming the desire that had been building far too long. Jisung responded instinctively, pressing closer, tilting, moving, their bodies aligning as if two halves of a single, burning heartbeat.

The kisses grew more urgent, tongues tracing, tasting, claiming, each one a plea, a surrender, a promise. Minho’s hands memorised every curve, every hollow, every shiver, removing barriers between them inch by inch. Jisung’s own hands followed, exploring, anchoring, discovering the heat and power of Minho as he pressed impossibly close. Their breaths mingled, ragged and pressing, the world reduced to the fire they shared.

Minho’s hands moved with purpose, fingers circling Jisung’s chest, brushing over the sensitive peaks of his nipples. Each touch sent sparks racing through him, drawing tremors that laced every nerve. Jisung arched instinctively, a soft gasp slipping past lips already pressed to Minho’s, his body responding before his mind could catch up.

Minho’s fingers teased and rolled over the peaks, drawing shivers and quiet moans before his mouth followed. Warm lips and a flicking tongue traced each nipple, circling and sucking lightly, sending jolts of heat rippling through Jisung as though every nerve ending had been tuned to him alone. The sensation was electric, intoxicating, a hunger that twisted and pulled, leaving Jisung breathless, trembling, consumed by the feeling of Minho against him.

Jisung’s hands clutched Minho’s shoulders, trying to anchor himself while surrendering completely. His heart hammered, breath ragged. Every lick, every teasing stroke of fingers, every flick of the tongue was a claim, a wave of sensation that left them both teetering on the edge, bound together in a private rhythm of desire and surrender.

Even in the brief pause that followed, the aftershocks of sensation lingered, a warm pulse radiating through Jisung and leaving him alight and aching for more. Minho’s gaze held him captive, promising that their exploration had only just begun.

The stimulation of his nipples sent Jisung spiralling, a tremor racing through every fibre of his body. Impulsively, he pressed Minho back against the wall, holding him fast, desperate to feel every shiver, every subtle reaction. A searing heat coursed through him. He sank to his knees almost instinctively, desperate for the hard weight of Minho against his lips, unwilling to waste a single moment without taking him fully into his mouth.

Looking up, he saw Minho’s head thrown back against the wall, body surrendered to the pleasure of the moment. Each gasp, each movement, each tremble made the air denser, charged with a tension that seemed to vibrate through their very bones.

Jisung’s hands travelled down Minho’s waist, reaching for and undoing the zipper of his trousers until they were loosened enough to start sliding them down. His gaze fixed, entranced, on the outline of Minho’s cock, still confined within his boxers. The heat beneath the fabric hit him first, sharp and alive, making his mouth water and his pulse hammer. He pressed over the cloth, tracing the edges of Minho’s length with teasing strokes, feeling him grow hard and massive beneath his touch. “Do you feel how much I want every part of you?” he murmured. “Every shiver, every gasp… only for me.”

The world shrank to that moment alone: the scent of skin, the shared warmth, the low, ragged sounds of Minho’s pleasure, and Jisung’s insatiable need to explore, taste, and lose himself completely in that surrender. Jisung slid the waistband of Minho’s boxers down, finally revealing him fully. He was so hard, already glistening, as though every fibre of his body ached for release. The sight alone made Jisung’s breath catch, a shiver running through him.

Jisung let his fingers wander over the length of Minho’s cock, curling around him with a slow rhythm that drew ragged reactions and left Minho trembling. The tip glistened with precum, and Jisung could resist no longer. He flicked his tongue over it, tasting and gathering. “God, you taste so good… I might get addicted to you,” Jisung whispered, and the shiver that ran through Minho made his knees wobble, nearly buckling beneath him.

Jisung then took him fully into his mouth, slow at first, savouring the warmth, texture, and subtle saltiness, tasting every droplet of desire. He bobbed his head deeper with careful rhythm, following the pulse and movement. Minho’s hands threaded into his hair, gripping lightly yet firmly, anchoring them both to the moment, his moans spilling freely now, echoing the storm that consumed them.

Finally, Minho broke the silence that had held him captive, his voice low and trembling. “Stop… or I won’t last…”, his voice thick with lust.

Jisung obediently paused, pulling back just enough to place a soft, tender kiss on the tip of Minho's cock before guiding him downwards. Their eyes met, locking in a gaze so profound that no words were needed to convey the meaning of the moment. Everything else, the thoughts, the explanations, the judgements, melted into silence.

Jisung kissed him again, deep and fervent, heat rolling through them in waves. Minho returned the passion with equal urgency, nipping and licking at the hollow of Jisung’s neck. His hands trembled slightly as they explored the waistband of Jisung’s trousers, eager and unsteady with need.

A fleeting clarity struck Jisung as he noticed Minho’s unsteady hands. Leaning close, he whispered into Minho’s ear, gently, “So… child of the goddess of chastity… does this mean that you, hum…”

Before he could continue, Minho smiled, answering for him and sparing him the words. “Yes. As a follower of my mother, I honoured that vow my entire life.”

Jisung’s eyes widened, caught between surprise and intrigue. “You… don’t exactly seem innocent,” he murmured.

Minho’s grin was playful, a spark of daring in his gaze. “Though I honoured the vow, the gods of Olympus… They are not known for restraint. On the contrary. So, while I may not have acted, I have seen, I have heard… and imagined far too much.”

Jisung let out a low, teasing laugh. “Finally… Perhaps, just this once, I’ll be the one to guide you.” His eyes gleamed, lust flickering beneath the playful edge of his words.

Slowly, Jisung took Minho’s trembling hand and guided it along his own cock, showing him the pressure, the rhythm, and the motion that drew soft, melodious moans from his lips. Each brush of skin, each subtle movement, became a silent conversation, a new song escaping from Jisung’s throat.

Minho’s breath hitched, eyes darkening with awe. “That… that sound,” he whispered, voice rough with longing. “It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever heard. I could listen to it forever.”

Jisung trembled at the words, heart hammering. Encouraged by Minho’s voice, he pressed his hands against both their cocks, letting the warmth of his fingers draw them together. They moved as one, a careful, fiery friction, an entwined dance of skin and craving, sliding and teasing, eliciting soft cries and shivers from each other.

The rhythm between them grew, each movement more insistent than the last, a rising tide of need neither could resist. The inevitable peak hung in the air like a storm ready to break, and Minho’s voice cut through the haze, low and husky.

“I’m close… but I want you, Jisung. I want all of you. Every inch. Every part. I want to leave myself in you,” he murmured, teeth grazing his bottom lip.

Jisung’s pulse raced, gaze locking with Minho’s, burning with surrender. “Then take me, fill me. I’m yours… whenever, however, wherever you want.”

For a fleeting moment, Minho’s eyes softened, a glimmer of shyness breaking through the tension knotting him. “Then… hum… won’t we need… something… I don’t want this to hurt you, and I didn’t think to include it in the end-of-the-world provisions.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, heat pooling low in his stomach. “I might have an idea to solve this problem…” He intensified the rhythm, one hand sliding over Minho’s length, pumping him slowly, while the other rubbed along his own cock. The friction, skin against skin, sent shivers through both of them, teasing them ever closer to the edge.

Bodies pressed together, shifting, perfectly matched, gasps and low moans filling the room. As they neared climax, Jisung guided Minho’s hand over both their cocks, letting him feel and drive them to the brink together. Their releases came simultaneously, each tremor mirrored in the other’s hands, a shared surge of heat and pulse binding them in synchrony. Jisung let out a low, breathless laugh, fingers brushing through the warmth still glistening on their skin.

“Well,” he whispered, voice low and naughty, “seems we have everything we need.”

Without pause, Jisung’s hands guided Minho’s toward him, an unspoken invitation to explore further. Minho’s eyes flickered with sudden understanding, a spark of both surprise and eagerness crossing his face. Instinctively, he gathered what he could, spreading it over Jisung’s rim, the slick warmth of their mingled release easing the way, and his fingers traced that intimate path, sliding in with careful, urgent wanting.

Jisung’s head fell back, a sharp, gasped sound escaping him, caught between shock and the rising tide of pleasure. “Fuck… Minho… don’t stop,” he breathed. Every movement, every touch, was amplified, a delicate symphony of sensation, their bodies pressed so close not only in lust but in intimacy.

Minho’s hands were both gentle and insistent, searching and exploring, guiding Jisung open with slow, patient movements, preparing him for what was to come. Every touch was fluid, a tender choreography that made Jisung shiver. He began with a single finger, sliding it slowly inside Jisung’s hole, letting him adjust to the delicious stretch, the warmth that welcomed him. Jisung gasped, hips lifting involuntarily, and Minho’s movements followed, a rhythm attuned to every shiver, every moan.

One, two, then three fingers moved in concert, each glide drawing soft cries from Jisung, his body trembling beneath the intoxicating attention. Minho’s touch found the sweet spot that made Jisung’s breath catch, the precise point that unraveled every spiral of tension within him, sending tremors of pure pleasure through his body. Each thrust of Minho’s fingers was both a possession and an invitation, a note in a symphony that played across their bodies. Waves of sensation rose and fell like a carefully composed crescendo, each movement striking a chord that resonated deep within Jisung. His hands gripped Minho as if tuning himself to the rhythm, each tremble and gasp woven into the music they created together, a delicate duet of control and surrender, tension flowing into release.

“Oh gods… I swear I’m ready. Please… please, Min… just take me.” Jisung’s voice was shaky, trembling. Without hesitation, Minho laid him gently on the floor, their bodies pressed together, absorbed in the sensation of skin against skin, heat against heat, breath mingling with breath.

Catching Jisung by surprise, Minho guided the fingers of his free hand into Jisung’s mouth. Instinctively, he closed his lips around them, swallowing, coating Minho’s fingers with his saliva. A low, husky laugh escaped Minho. “Your mouth… it has always driven me crazy,” he murmured, eyes dark with need. Without pause, he withdrew his hand and brought it to his own cock, slowly covering it with the damp traces of Jisung’s mouth. The single movement sent a shiver racing through Jisung, nearly pushing him to the edge again, hips arching, moans slipping free.

Minho positioned himself at Jisung’s entrance, aligning his cock with the heated stretch of his hole, slow and steady, letting the tip press against him, teasing and testing as he gave Jisung time to adjust. Each fraction of an inch drew soft, gasped moans and tremors from Jisung, his body quivering. For the first time, he saw Minho fully surrender to the sensation, the exquisite tension of being so close, moving in perfect alignment with him. Heat, friction, and intimacy intertwined, each movement pulling them into one another until the world narrowed to nothing but their shared embrace.

Minho slid forward slowly, each inch sinking into Jisung, attentive to every shiver, every hitch of breath. The stretch sent tremors through Jisung’s body, and he met Minho’s movements with gentle hands on his back, fingers threading through his hair, whispering softly, “It’s alright… take your time… feel me.” Each subtle press, each careful shift, became a conversation of touch, their bodies learning each other, melting into the heat and friction, wrapped in the quiet intimacy and unspoken trust that bound them.

With a steady push, Minho sank deep, filling Jisung completely, pressing against him until every inch of him was claimed. Jisung gasped, his belly marked with the delicious pressure of Minho’s thick cock stretching him open, leaving him dizzy with sensation. Their eyes locked, and he saw shock and hunger mirrored there, the sight of Minho buried impossibly deep driving them both wild. Jisung’s body arched instinctively, every nerve singing as he took him fully, lost beneath the perfect, weighty pressure, trembling and breathless in the overwhelming ecstasy of being entirely possessed.

Minho moved inside him, hesitant at first, a frantic, almost desperate rhythm that made Jisung’s body tremble. Each thrust was uneven but charged with urgent need, his inexperience clear in the tremor of his hips, the grip of his hands, and the way his breath stuttered against Jisung’s ear.

Even so, there was a carefulness beneath the frenzy, an instinctive attentiveness that made Jisung arch into him, guiding him without thought. His hands roamed Minho’s back, threading through his hair, murmuring soft, encouraging words. “Just like that… don’t stop… feels so good,” he whispered, letting his voice steady the chaotic thrusts, giving Minho permission to settle.

Gradually, Minho’s movements found a rhythm, rough at first, then smoother, more attuned to Jisung’s responses. Each push, each pull pressed him deeper, the weight and stretch sending waves of pleasure through his body. He could feel Minho surrendering too, his motions adjusting instinctively, the shared urgency softening into a delicate exchange of giving and taking, trust and sensation merging until there was nothing left but the two of them moving together, perfectly, completely entwined.

Minho’s hips began to move with a fevered determination, sliding in and out with a chaotic rhythm that sent jolts through Jisung’s body. Every movement pressed him differently, stretching him, filling him, making him shiver with the delicious strain of being taken. Jisung felt the subtle tilt of Minho’s hips, nudging the spots that spiked his pleasure, instinct guiding him beneath the frenzy.

Minho leaned down, capturing Jisung’s lips in a hungry kiss, teeth and tongue teasing, grounding them as he fucked him rough and hard, just as Jisung craved. Each thrust drove deep and fast, every curve and hollow of Jisung’s insides struck perfectly, sending him spiraling closer to the edge. The musky scent of Minho mixed with the taste of his mouth, overwhelming Jisung’s senses. His hands tangled in Minho’s hair, clutching his shoulders as every push carried him higher.

Every thrust teased him mercilessly toward release, pleasure pooling and pressing through him in relentless waves. When it hit, it tore through Jisung in a shuddering rush, his hands gripping Minho, their bodies slick with sweat and pressed tightly together, hips rocking together. He spilled over, mewling into Minho’s mouth, coating their skin with heat, lost in the intensity. Minho stayed buried, still hard and pulsing, his own need evident in every tremor and gasped breath, driving Jisung even wilder as their bodies stayed tangled, mingling, the friction and fullness binding them in bliss.

Minho groaned sharply as he felt Jisung’s body clench around him, the tight, shuddering pressure of Jisung’s orgasm gripping his cock intensely. The sensation sent him teetering on the edge, lost in a heady, almost overwhelming pleasure, each thrust pushing him deeper into delirium. He didn’t hold back, driving mercilessly into Jisung, each movement fierce, relentless, that made Jisung melt beneath him.

Jisung’s senses whirled, every nerve raw and exposed, every inch hypersensitive. Overstimulation threatened to break him, but he adored it, craving every press, every drag of Minho’s hips, the way his body filled him completely. He moaned, cried, and gasped, the intensity crashing over him like a tidal wave, surrendering to Minho’s relentless pace.

Minho caught Jisung’s gaze, wet and unfocused, and the sight of him, tears of pleasure shining, lips parted, hair tousled and wild, body quivering, was the final spark. It pushed him over the edge, his release tearing through him in a violent, consuming surge, filling Jisung with a heat that left them both shivering. Groaning, he collapsed into Jisung, pressing kisses to his face and neck, arms wrapping him close, devotion and awe woven into every touch.

In that moment, Jisung felt it too, their bodies, their ecstasy, the surrender, they had shifted. He was no longer merely receiving; he had become the god of Minho’s worship, the axis of his pleasure, the blazing centre binding them together.

They lay together, slowly descending from the intensity of what they had shared. Heat and tremors faded, their breathing slowly steadying. Jisung felt the softening weight of Minho still inside him, the stillness sacred, like the earth settling after a quake. Their eyes met, silence comfortable and charged with unspoken understanding. Jisung breathed in the night’s cool scent, while the pale light of the moon spilled through the glass windows, painting them as if suspended in their own private paradise.

Minho leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss against the tip of Jisung’s nose, a quiet, tender punctuation, before carefully withdrawing. Jisung felt him slip out, freezing as Minho’s eyes caught sight of his release sliding from him his rim. The way it glistened in the moonlight held him spellbound. “You… you make everything so beautiful,” he whispered thickly. Jisung laughed softly, cheeks warmed with affection and shyness.

Minho reached into his backpack, pulling out towels to clean them gently, making sure both were soothed and cared for. Wrapped in the lingering warmth, the scent, and the quiet safety of Minho’s presence, Jisung felt the edges of wakefulness blur. The world outside could wait; here, he was held, cherished, completely seen.

As his eyelids grew heavy, Jisung’s last image was Minho’s calm, radiant face, a soft smile on his lips. “You can sleep,” Minho murmured tenderly, “without a worry in the world.”

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, while the night pressed in on him like a living thing. Sleep refused to come. Every touch from the night, every whisper and smile of Jisung lingered in his mind with a heat that made his chest ache. The warmth of his skin, the soft breath of Jisung sleeping carefree at his side, the way he looked so beautiful and serene, everything intertwined with a feeling he could not quite name.

Eventually, he rose, seeking a moment in the soft night breeze, careful not to awaken Jisung. He grabbed his clothes and, for precaution, the dagger he always carried. Outside the teahouse, the cool air bit at his skin, and he drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm the storm inside his head. The moon peeked from behind clouds, casting a pale, reluctant light, as though it did not wish to shine for him tonight. Minho frowned. The vow he had made, the promise that had shaped his existence, suddenly felt fragile, almost meaningless.

A sudden heat flared where the dagger rested at his waist. He reached for it and froze. The silver of the moonlit metal was gone. Now the blade gleamed with a blackened gold, dark and strange. His fingers trembled around the hilt, uncertain and uneasy.

Then a voice cut through the quiet night, impossible to ignore.

"Minho."

He turned. Artemis stood there, pale as the moon, her silver hair catching the light of the clouds. Yet there was something in her gaze that made his stomach tighten, something unfamiliar, sharp and piercing.

"Mother…" he murmured, voice barely steady.

"You know why I am here," she said, stepping closer. "You broke your vow, as though it were trivial. And for what? For a son of Dionysus. Do you care to explain yourself?"

Minho felt his chest constrict. He wanted to run, to hide, yet her presence pressed down on him, heavy and inescapable.

"Mother, please. I… I don’t know how to explain. But I know how I feel… and I don’t feel wrong."

Artemis’s eyes narrowed, the silver of her irises sharp and cold.

"Wrong?" she repeated, voice almost cruel. "You were born for a purpose, Minho. You, the child of an untouched goddess, a life that exists only because of fate, and yet you give in to desire like a careless boy. Do you understand what that entails?"

Minho shook his head, his throat tight.

"I can’t… I just… Jisung… I feel…"

"You feel?" Artemis cut in, her voice low, dangerous, yet tinged with a rage Minho scarcely recognised. "You feel, and yet you have no idea what that cost is. All your life, the sacrifices, the loneliness, the self-denial… and for a fleeting warmth? You think that matters? Do you even realise what it means to betray a life made sacred, one that exists only because I allowed it?"

Minho swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

"I… I don’t want to hurt anyone…" he whispered. "I didn’t mean to… I just… I didn’t choose this…"

Artemis’s gaze softened for a heartbeat, just enough to make him tremble.

"No, Minho. You never chose to exist. Not like this. Not as anyone expected. But you were made for something greater than desire. You were made to serve, to endure, to hold the weight of what others cannot bear. And yet… you let it slip through your fingers for a boy who barely knows the shadows you carry."

Minho’s chest ached, torn between the longing Jisung had awakened and the crushing weight of Artemis’s words.

"I… I don’t know what to do…" he admitted, voice breaking. "I don’t understand why… why this… why him…"

Artemis stepped closer, the wind tugging at her hair, making it glow around her like liquid moonlight. Her voice dropped, softer now, yet still sharp enough to cut.

"Do you think your desire is the first you have felt? Do you think it will be the last? Every joy you experience will come wrapped in this torment. Every pleasure, every warmth… will demand a choice between who you are and what you are meant to be. You must understand, Minho… some things are not yours to claim, not even your own heart."

Minho’s hands tightened on the dagger, the metal warm and unsteady beneath his fingers.

"But… I can’t stop thinking about him…" he breathed. "I can’t… I can’t help it…"

Artemis’s eyes flashed, hard and unyielding.

"Then you must decide. Choose wisely, Minho. Restore the grace you were born under, or let it slip into shame. Between this reckless, consuming feeling… or the duty that gives your life meaning. You are nothing but a disappointment to me, a stain on what could have been sacred, a disgrace who would throw away a life I granted you for fleeting pleasure. I trust that, in the end, you will remember what is owed to me and take the path that redeems you, for I will not tolerate failure."

Her figure shimmered one last time in the pale moonlight before she vanished. Minho was left alone, the cold night pressing against his skin, the blackened-gold dagger clutched to his chest. His heart hammered, every breath a struggle. He felt the unbearable weight of a life not his own, a destiny he could never escape. Artemis’s disappointed gaze burned into him, relentless. He had never truly had a choice. He was the son of regret, the bearer of discontent, condemned to a life of atonement, forever reaching for a grace he might never reclaim.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

Jisung awoke with a lightness he had not felt in months, as though a fragment of the sun had taken residence in his chest, warming every corner of his body. A smile, involuntary and radiant, tugged at his lips as he stretched beneath the sleeping bag. The night had been indescribable. Every laugh, every touch, every whispered word with Minho lingered still, flickering in his mind like candlelight.

But when he opened his eyes fully, a pang of unease struck him. Minho was not there.

Jisung sat up, brushing back his hair, and let himself remember. Minho had always been his anchor, the point of quiet and steadiness amid the storm of his life over the past months. All the chaos, the confusion, the shifting tides, it had been Minho who kept him grounded, offering calm when everything threatened to collapse.

Rising, he stepped quietly to the door, letting the cool morning air brush against him as he left the room. The Moon Garden sprawled before him, silvered and silent, dew glinting faintly on sand and leaves. There, at the edge of the garden, Minho stood motionless, gazing into the distance.

Jisung paused, captivated. The morning light caught the contours of Minho’s side profile and the way he held himself, strong yet weighed down by a gravity that seemed to belong to the world itself. A smile began to form, gentle, tender, filled with the warmth of affection he could barely contain.

Then Minho turned.

Jisung’s smile faltered, dissolving into nothing. Minho’s gaze was sharp and cold, sending a chill coiling down Jisung’s spine. It was not anger aimed at him; no, it was far more complex. Rage, guilt and resolve intertwined, slicing through him with a cold, relentless edge.

"Min…" he said softly, stepping closer.

The other did not turn further toward him. The silence stretched taut, heavy with unspoken things.

"Good morning," he tried again, forcing lightness. "I woke up and you weren’t by my side…"

A calm, controlled, distant voice replied. "Because I was outside getting things ready. Just eat something and be ready to leave. It’s time for us to move."

His brows furrowed. "Move? Where? Aren’t we going to talk about last night?"

Minho’s eyes did not waver. "There’s nothing to discuss. Last night… let’s just say nothing happened. We didn’t do anything."

"We didn’t? Minho… come on, what the hell are you talking about?" Jisung’s chest tightened.

"I said nothing happened. That’s the truth. Our focus’s the mission. That’s all." The tone sharpened, precise.

Jisung stepped closer, daring. "You’re pretending. You’re pretending like it was… nothing, like it didn’t matter. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare push it aside."

Minho’s jaw tightened, eyes steely. "I’m not pretending. I’m prioritising what’s necessary. Our actions last night… they’re irrelevant to the task."

He laughed softly, almost bitterly, a little bratty. "Irrelevant? That’s cold even for you, Minho. Are you always this… this heartless? Or is it just with me?"

"Always. Duty comes before everything. Feelings have no place in my life." Minho’s expression did not soften.

Jisung’s smile faltered, then sharpened into defiance. "So it’s just about finishing the mission. About getting rid of me, isn’t it? You want to complete it so you can be free from me."

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. Silence. No denial. No affirmation. Only the weight of the unspoken.

Something inside Jisung broke. His chest felt hollow, as if a ball of light had been ripped from him by Minho’s hands. His heart, fragile and hopeful, seemed to splinter into countless pieces, each one a promise, each one a dream, dissolving into the emptiness reflected in Minho’s eyes. He understood with crushing clarity: he had been nothing to Minho. He had never been more than an obligation, another step in a duty that held no room for him.

His hands clenched, and he stepped closer, trying one last time.  "Minho… are you sure? Are you really leaving it like that?"

"Yes. Nothing else matters but our mission." Minho’s gaze was steady, hard.

Jisung swallowed the lump in his throat, voice low, careful. "Ok then. I… I won’t bring it up again. I won’t bother you. Not ever."

A subtle shift in posture, nothing more. Finally, he nodded toward the path leading from the garden. "We continue to the main temple hall. The seals should be hidden there, and I sense some presence as well. Be alert. It’s possible we’re walking into a trap."

Jisung exhaled slowly, chest tight with resignation, and fell into step beside him. He did not speak again. No song could rise from him. No warmth remained. Every heartbeat reminded him of what he had lost in Minho’s silence, and every glance at Minho reinforced that desire and hope had no place on the path laid before them. The boy he had begun to love, the one whose light he had chased, would never, could never, belong to him. Together, they walked toward the main temple, their steps in tandem but their hearts worlds apart.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

The path to the temple stretched beneath a sky that looked half-burnt, clouds bruised purple and silver from the daylight. The air smelled of iron and salt, like the remnants of a storm that lingered only to haunt them. Jisung walked a few paces behind Minho, though it could just as easily have been a thousand. The silence between them was heavier than the mist coiling around the stones.

They had not spoken since the argument, if it could even be called that. It had been brief, low-voiced, laced with words too sharp to touch. Now, neither dared speak. Minho’s shoulders were set, each movement steady and measured, his bow slung across his back, the faint shimmer of moonlight flickering along its curve. Jisung’s guitar hung across his back, the strap worn but the wood untouched by the dirt clinging to everything else. Felix had strengthened it before they left Olympus “so it won’t break when you do something stupid,” he had said, that soft grin making it impossible to be angry.

Jisung missed that grin now.

The forest thinned as they approached the main temple. Columns rose like the ribs of an ancient beast, walls veined with cracks that pulsed faintly with dark light. The air shifted, electric and wrong. Minho raised a hand without looking back, and Jisung stopped.

He didn’t need to speak; his command was in the movement itself. For a moment, Jisung hated that about him, the way he could say so much without saying anything at all.

Minho knelt beside a fallen stone, fingertips brushing over a faint sigil burned into the surface. His jaw tightened. “The corruption’s deep,” he said finally, voice low, almost swallowed by the wind.

Jisung folded his arms. “You don’t say.”

Minho’s eyes flicked up, the briefest warning flash, before he turned away again. “Stay alert. The air’s wrong.”

“I can feel it,” Jisung muttered. “Feels like something’s waiting to crawl out of the dark and bite my…”

“Quiet.”

It wasn’t barked or cold, but it cut clean through him anyway. Jisung exhaled sharply, biting back whatever reply had been forming. He followed as Minho moved forward through the shattered archway, stepping into the temple proper.

The interior was vast, shadows folding around shafts of pale light breaking through the cracked ceiling. Dust floated like ash. The air trembled faintly, humming against the strings of Jisung’s guitar. It wasn’t sound exactly; it was resonance. Something old, something powerful.

At the far end of the hall, beyond a collapsed altar, two objects rested on a raised dais: the pelt of a great Maltese tiger, its fur silvered with divine sheen, and beside it a vine branch still heavy with small, glowing grapes. They pulsed faintly with life, the power of Artemis and Dionysus bound in their forms. The two sacred seals they had come for.

Around them, the floor was carved with protective sigils but fractured and bleeding darkness.

Minho’s breath left him in a slow hiss. “The seals.”

Before Jisung could speak, the mist stirred. It didn’t move like smoke; it crawled, sentient. It gathered in slow, unnatural motion, spreading across the floor until the air itself pulsed. The cracks bled darkness, and from that darkness, bodies began to take form. Limbs stretched where there should have been none, claws scraped against marble, and eyes, dozens of them, blinked open all at once, burning red in the half-light.

A sour, metallic scent filled Jisung’s lungs. The world tilted for a heartbeat. He gripped his guitar tighter, every instinct screaming that this was worse than anything he’d seen before. The memory of the festival, of smoke and screams, felt almost merciful compared to what now crawled toward them.

The first creature exhaled, a sound like breath dragged through broken glass. Jisung felt the floor tremble beneath his boots. His pulse followed that rhythm, fast and uneven. He looked at Minho: the faint silver light of the hunter’s bow glinting in his hands, calm where everything else had begun to unravel. For a fleeting moment, fear and relief tangled inside him in ways he didn’t have time to understand.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

They had once been guardians, Minho realised. He could sense the divine echo within them, faint and fractured, fragments of sacred purpose corroded into hunger. The realisation hit harder than he expected. Whatever had done this hadn’t merely defiled the temple; it had turned protectors into monsters.

He drew his bow in a single smooth motion, the sound cutting through the air with the clarity of thought. “Stay behind me.”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. “Not happening.”

The first creature lunged. Minho loosed an arrow, slicing through its chest. It convulsed, spewing a slick, foul secretion that hissed as it hit the ground before turning to black dust. More shadows emerged. Minho moved quickly, drawing, shooting, stepping aside, the rhythm of instinct and training. When one creature got too close, he reached for his dagger.

The blade pierced its hide, but the creature didn’t fall. A pulse of darkness shivered up the weapon. Minho pulled back, staring. The silvered edge was dimming, more dark and gold than ever, the glow receding into something sickly. Corruption crawled along the metal like veins of tar.

His chest tightened. Artemis’s weapon, her gift, tainted. Another reminder of vows broken, of the silence of a goddess who had trusted him. He forced the thought aside, drew another arrow, and shot again. The creatures shrieked and collapsed into black dust that clung to his boots.

Jisung strummed his guitar once, and the sound burst through the air like wind. The chord glowed bright green, light spilling from the strings and flooding the hall. The monsters froze mid-motion. Minho used that heartbeat of stillness to unleash a volley of arrows, each strike finding its mark.

But the break was short. Dozens more erupted from the walls and ceiling, crawling with impossible speed. Minho spun, shooting through the blur. A massive creature surged toward him, and Jisung intercepted it, swinging the guitar with a crash that sent a shockwave through the ground. Green light flared around them, luminous and wild.

“Behind you!” Jisung shouted.

Minho turned, released, another monster fell. But they kept coming. He shifted his stance, calculating distances, body responding faster than thought. Jisung moved beside him, every strum sending energy rippling through the air.

The floor trembled. A creature twice the size of the others crawled over the altar, a slick, black titan of twisted limbs. Minho’s next arrow buried itself in its chest; it screeched but kept coming. Jisung darted forward, sliding across the floor to block its path.

He looked back at Minho with a grin, sticking out his tongue. “You always have to put on a show before attacking!”

Minho almost glared, but Jisung was already raising the guitar. The next chord hit like a hammer of thunder, green light surging outward in a wave that shattered the monster’s form. The shockwave rippled across the hall, knocking debris from the ceiling and scattering what remained of the horde.

The final creature crumbled, melting into foul black dust drifting down like ash. Silence followed, heavy, absolute.

Jisung lowered his guitar slowly. The glow faded, leaving only the faint hum of strings. He exhaled hard, sweat mixing with dust on his skin. When the echoes faded, the hall was almost still. Black dust drifted in the air, settling over the broken stone. Minho’s pulse thundered in his ears. He lowered his bow slowly, scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the faint flicker of the seals, their glow steadier now, cleansed slightly by the burst of divine energy.

“So,” Jisung said finally, voice rough, “I guess Felix wasn’t exaggerating about my potential.”

Minho didn’t answer.

Jisung laughed once, bitter. “You could at least pretend to be impressed. I almost died five times back there.”

“You survived.”

“That’s your reaction? Gods, you’re impossible.”

Minho turned, eyes hard but not cruel. “If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t have been hit at all.”

Jisung stepped forward, anger flaring. “If I’d listened to you, I’d be standing behind you like some helpless mortal. You forget I’m not the one who hides every feeling behind orders.”

“You think feelings win battles?” Minho asked, expression unchanged.

“I think they’re the only reason to fight.”

The words hung between them, raw and heavy.

Minho sheathed his dagger. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Of course not. Why talk when you can brood in silence? That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

Minho’s eyes flicked up sharply. For the first time, there was heat there, not controlled, but something that could burn if he let it. “Careful.”

Jisung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Or what? You’ll glare me into submission?”

Minho sighed and stepped away, ready to tend the dais. Carefully, he touched the tiger pelt and the vine branch. Both pulsed faintly under his fingertips, their divine signatures intact but fragile.

He pressed a small rune against his wrist. A silver pulse flared briefly: his signal. Across the distant fields, the other heirs would feel it. Message clear: Seals found. Recovered. Awaiting escort.

The faint tension in his chest eased a fraction.

Jisung sat beside a fallen column, running his fingers absently over his guitar strings. The faint hum of liveliness rippled under his touch. “So now what?”

“We wait,” Minho said. “The others will come.”

Jisung tilted his head back against the stone, sighing. “Fine. But when they get here, I’m asking Felix for something stronger than divine reinforcement. Maybe fancy pedals or golden picks.”

Minho’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “He’d make them.”

They began clearing space near the dais, dragging broken pieces of walls aside. The seals were placed between them, glowing faintly in tandem, breathing like two small hearts.

The corruption on Minho’s dagger still whispered at the back of his mind. The mark of Artemis lingered somewhere in the metal, buried under rot. Every glance twisted the guilt deeper.

They set what little camp they could. Minho kept watch by the archway, bow ready. Jisung rested against a pillar, fingers brushing the guitar strings, soft notes shimmering in the air. For a long while, neither spoke. The hall held its breath, quiet but not at peace. The pelt and vine glowed gently, waiting for the gods who would heal them.

Outside, the wind shifted. Afternoon light bent across the temple floor, long and golden. The shadows began to stretch slowly toward evening. The heirs would come soon enough, guided by Minho’s signal. And when they did, silence and song would walk side by side once more, carrying the pelt and vine back to Olympus, toward whatever awaited them there.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

 Jisung was uneasy. “For how long we are waiting?”

“As long as it takes.”

Jisung sighed, sinking to the floor, back against a pillar. His guitar rested beside him, faintly warm to the touch. He looked around the ruined hall, remnants of battle strewn across the floor. “So… Olympian Pop-Quiz in honour of our victory,” he said a little shyly. “Don’t you ever get tired of always having to get everything right?”

Minho didn’t respond immediately. He crouched near the nearest seal, studying its damaged lines, tracing one with his finger. “I don’t get tired,” he said finally, quiet, almost to himself. “It’s just… the burden never goes away. You can’t escape it, no matter what you do.”

The honesty caught Jisung off guard. He looked at Minho, really looked at him, the set of his mouth, the fine tremor in his hand as he withdrew it from the seal. For the first time since the fight, Jisung saw not the hunter or the demigod, but exhaustion, the quiet kind that never made a sound.

He wanted to say something, something biting or clever, anything to bridge the distance, but the words didn’t come. So he leaned back against the pillar instead, closing his eyes. Minutes passed. The hall settled into uncomfortable quiet, broken only by the faint hum from the seals and the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Outside, the wind shifted. It carried the low rumble of distant thunder and, beneath that, something else, whispers too faint to decipher. Minho’s head snapped up, scanning darkness beyond the doorway. The faint shimmer of divine senses flickered behind his eyes.

“They’re not gone,” he murmured.

Jisung straightened, reaching instinctively for his guitar. “What do you mean not gone?”

“They were fragments. Scouts. Whatever sent them is still out there.”

Jisung swallowed. “Great.” He looked around the ruined hall, then back at Minho. “So we just sit here and wait for round two?”

“Until the others arrive. We don’t move until then.”

Jisung wanted to argue, but saw the tightness in Minho’s jaw, the faint pulse at his temple. He was calculating, listening, already preparing. Arguing wouldn’t change anything.

He nodded, settling back down. “Fine. But when they get here, I will let them do the honours with our guests.” A pout formed on his mouth.

Minho’s lips twitched, the ghost of something that might once have been amusement. “Try not to send them into a terrible death; they’re still part of our family.”

Jisung shrugged. “No promises.”

For a while, that was enough.

The temple’s light dimmed as the afternoon crept in, sun slanting gold through the broken ceiling, warmth fading by degrees. Minho took the first watch, silent as ever, eyes fixed on the shadows. Jisung leaned against the pillar, half-asleep, fingers brushing strings. Faint vibration soothed him, steady and alive, glowing green in fading light.

Outside, the wind softened. Gods would hear the signal, Jisung thought. They had to. Otherwise, cracks beneath their feet would widen, and no silence or song would hold the world together.

He looked at Minho once more before sleep claimed him. The hunter stood motionless at the temple’s edge, sunlight catching in silver hair, eyes fixed on something unseen.

For a moment, Jisung almost reached out.

But he didn’t.

And Minho, for all his stillness, never turned.

Chapter Text

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Jisung

The temple never slept, though the world beyond its walls did. Its stone corridors thrummed with the pulse of ancient wards, and moonlight slipped across the floor like flowing water. Every breath of wind carried the weight of unspoken things, and every flicker of torchlight cast shadows that seemed almost alive. Jisung lay awake, eyes open to the darkness, watching the faint pulse of the seals on the altar. Their light shimmered like slow heartbeats, steady and calm, while his own raced beneath his ribs.

He had fulfilled the gods’ demands. The seals were recovered, the bridge could be restored, and the balance between worlds would be reinstated. The divine order would once again celebrate itself. Yet here, in the heart of the temple’s main hall, there was no celebration, only the dull ache of exhaustion and the hollow space where Minho’s presence had been. Jisung closed his eyes.

He had nothing left to give.

He had done enough for the gods.

He owed them nothing more.

His decision came as quietly as a breath. He rose silently, taking his jacket, the worn guitar case, and what courage remained. At the temple’s back door, he paused. Behind him, the air shifted. Minho’s breath, perhaps, or his own imagination. For one desperate second, he longed to look back, to see if the hunter would stop him. He pictured Minho’s face if he were to wake now: the stillness, the hurt restrained beneath control, the eyes that had once regarded him as both a temptation and a blessing.

He almost turned back. Almost.

Instead, he walked faster.

The night welcomed him. The forest smelled of damp earth and forgotten prayers. His footsteps were soft against the moss, his breathing a steady rhythm that filled the empty spaces between the trees. For the first time in days, he felt free, and the freedom hurt more than it should.

He walked until the temple lights vanished behind him. Only then did he notice it: a faint shimmer among the undergrowth, something glinting gold and black among the roots. A flower, strange and cold, its petals pulsing with a heartbeat that was not his own. He stared at it for a moment before turning away. Behind him, the flower trembled, its petals stretching towards the sound of his retreating footsteps.

☽ • • • ✧ • • • ☾

Minho

Minho knew before he opened his eyes. The silence was wrong, like a note missing from a melody.

He crossed the chamber in three steps. Jisung’s bed was empty, his guitar gone, the faint warmth of his presence already fading. The seals glimmered, untouched, yet something vital had been torn from the room. He lingered, staring at the space where Jisung had been. There was no anger in him, only the cold ache of something he could not control.

For another long moment, Minho remained still. Then he moved to the doorway, resting a hand on the wall as if the stone could steady him. He had sensed Jisung’s restlessness the night before, felt it like a storm gathering before calm, yet he had not spoken. It had been easier not to. Words between them had grown sharp enough to wound.

He could have stopped him, but he had not moved. He could not.

He could chase him, track Jisung through the forest before dawn, drag him back by sheer force of will. But what then? Another chain, another cage. That was not what Jisung needed. That was not what love, whatever this had become, could demand.

Perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps it was cowardice.

Minho closed his eyes, letting the pain crest and break over him like a merciless tide.

‘Let him go’, he thought. ‘Let him run from this. From me.’

When dawn came, he stood outside the temple doors, still and silent, the mist thinning into pale daylight. He had expected the world to feel lighter, yet it did not. Somewhere beyond the forest, a faint echo of music trembled through the mist, one last note before silence reclaimed it.

By the time Felix and Hyunjin arrived, the sun had climbed above the treeline, painting the temple gold. They appeared as though they had barely slept; Felix’s hair was dishevelled, Hyunjin’s tunic stained from travel. They entered quickly, boots scraping stone, eyes searching.

Hyunjin spoke first, breaking the stillness. “Where’s Jisung?”

Minho did not turn immediately. “Gone.”

Felix frowned. “Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Hyunjin stepped forward, disbelief flickering across his face. “You’re telling me he just left? Alone?”

“He made his choice.” Minho’s tone was quiet, almost detached. “He left during the night. Took nothing but his guitar.”

Felix swore under his breath. “And you let him?”

Minho’s gaze finally lifted. “Would you have stopped him?”

Felix hesitated, then looked away. Hyunjin folded his arms, jaw tight. “He wouldn’t have survived half of this without you. You think he’s just walking away because he’s done?”

Minho’s lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. “He believes he’s done with the gods. Maybe he’s right.”

Before anyone could respond, footsteps echoed from the temple door. Chan and Changbin appeared, weary but unbroken, packs slung over their shoulders.

Chan took in the scene with one glance. “What happened here?”

Minho met his gaze evenly. “We fought. Recovered the seals. No other enemies have been sighted so far.”

Changbin’s brow furrowed. “And Jisung?”

Minho’s reply was curt. “He left.”

Hyunjin, standing just behind Minho, made subtle faces and gestures to Changbin, warning him not to press further. Changbin caught the signal and fell silent, understanding in his eyes.

Chan nodded, moving past the tension. “Seungmin and Innie are still on their mission,” he said. “They’ve been tracking the distortions since we split. The bridge is stable without further damage, but it still requires the seals.”

Minho nodded once. “They’re safe. We’ll take them to Olympus.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened, though the edge remained. “What about Jisung?”

Minho met his eyes, as if wishing he could stuff a stack of tissues into his mouth. “He does not want to be found.”

Felix stepped closer, his tone gentle yet firm. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

For a moment, the air between them trembled, a quiet standoff of loyalty and grief. Then Chan sighed, the leader’s calm seeping through his fatigue. “Felix, Hyunjin, if you think you can track him, go. But be careful. The woods aren’t what they were. Something is moving out there.”

Felix’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll move faster.”

Hyunjin adjusted his cloak, already turning toward the trees. “We’ll bring Jisung back,” he said quietly.

Felix gave Minho a long look before following. “Just… make sure that when we bring him back, your head and your heart are in the right place.”

Minho did not answer. He watched them disappear into the forest, their figures swallowed by the golden haze, and only then did he exhale.

Changbin shifted beside him. “You could’ve told them not to go.”

“I could’ve,” Minho replied. “But I won’t.”

Chan stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you thought was right.”

Minho’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then why does it feel like failure?”

Chan did not answer. There was nothing to say.

As the others prepared the seals for transport, Minho lingered by the temple wall. The forest stretched before him, endless and veiled. Somewhere within it, Jisung ran from destiny, from gods, from him.

For a moment, he thought he heard music: faint, fractured, an unchained melody on the wind. It vanished as quickly as it came. He touched the moon-silver dagger at his side, feeling its cold hum. Duty called him forward, but his heart remained somewhere in the Moon Garden, chasing a song that refused to end.