Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.

I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.

Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.

I have loved none but you.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

Jungkook closed the book slowly, his fingers lingering on the worn edges of the cover. Persuasion. He mouthed the title to himself, the name curling on his tongue like a secret. The weight of those words pressed against his chest. Even after all these years, they struck a place inside him that few dared to touch.

He stared at the cover for a long while, eyes unfocused.

Books had always been his truest companions. Pages didn’t lie. Ink didn’t forget. They whispered to him in the silence when no one else would. Because here, within these towering stone walls of the Havana palace, no voice ever truly reached him.

He was royalty — in name only.

A prince whose face was unknown even to his people.

The title meant nothing now. Not since his father died when he was ten. Not since he grew up watching the crown slip from his family’s hands — first to his uncle, then to his cousin. He had been too young to fight for it, and too forgotten to matter.

Jeon Jungkook. Twenty-three years old. A prince of Havana… but a stranger in his own home.

A soft knock broke the stillness, pulling him from his thoughts. The door creaked open with practiced grace, and a familiar presence stepped inside.

Yoon Aerum.

Her smile carried the elegance of a woman who had long served the palace, but Jungkook could see through it. He always could. There was too much fondness in her eyes — and too much worry beneath it.

“My prince,” she greeted, bowing gently.

He offered a smile, one of the few he ever gave genuinely, and took her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it — the gesture instinctive.

“What brings you here, Aerum?” he asked, though he already knew. The same day, every year. The same visit. The same quiet dread behind her eyes.

She sat beside him on the edge of his bed, her gaze drawn to the flickering candlelight, as if trying to gather her words from its flame.

“Tomorrow is your birthday,” she said softly.

His smile faded. The air shifted.

Of course. The ritual.

Every royal, on the eve of their birthday, was summoned before the court. There, the Oracles would search for the signs of eternity — signs of immortality. A rite as old as the kingdom itself. A rite that had become nothing more than ceremony, hollow in the face of time. No royal had turned immortal in over a century.

Still, tradition demanded it.

And Jungkook had been enduring this ritual since he was fifteen.

He exhaled slowly. “So it is.”

There was silence again. The kind that knew too much.

“What will you give me this year, then?” he asked, trying to lift the mood with a teasing raise of his brow.

Her expression softened. “I made something for you,” she said, her voice barely louder than the candle’s breath.

“Really?” he tilted his head.

She nodded.

They sat in that silence, the closeness between them needing no words.

“The next day begins soon,” she murmured at last.

“It’s just tradition, Aerum. No one turns immortal,” Jungkook replied, more to reassure her than himself.

Her hand found his, squeezing gently.

Then came another knock — sharper this time.

The door opened and a royal guard stepped inside, his armor catching the dim light.

“My prince. The Oracles have arrived in the court. They await you.”

Jungkook nodded, rising to his feet. Aerum stood with him.

He reached for his royal brooch, fastening it with steady fingers. Then his girdle. Then the dagger that always rested at his side — not for battle, but for ceremony.

He turned to her, pausing at the threshold.

“You can’t come in past this point,” he said, the unspoken goodbye hanging in the air between them. He smiled, forcing lightness into his voice. “Will you make japchae for me while I’m gone?”

Her eyes shimmered. She grasped his hand tightly.

“I will,” she whispered. “Just… come back.”

Jungkook gave her one last look — a silent promise — and stepped through the door.

Into the ritual.
Into the unknown.

He moved through the long, hollow corridor toward the Royal Court, each step echoing against the stone like the tolling of a distant bell. The torches lining the walls flickered as he passed, their flames bending as if bowing farewell.

At the end of the path stood the towering gates of the court — carved of ancient oak and engraved with the crest of Havana. The two guards standing on either side struck their spears to the ground and pulled open the doors with a groaning weight that matched the heaviness in his chest.

The hall within was vast, high-ceilinged, and deathly silent.

At the far end sat his uncle, King Kyungsoo, upon the throne — a cold figure clothed in velvet and authority. Beside him lounged Crown Prince Jaehwan, golden robes pooling around him like arrogance itself. The sneer in his cousin’s eyes was sharp and unhidden, a blade Jungkook had long grown used to.

Jungkook stepped forward, the eyes of nobles and officials and the Oracles themselves tracing his every breath. He felt as though he stood on trial — not for a crime, but for the curse he might carry.

Immortality.

To be chosen was not an honor. It was a sentence.

A thousand years of law decreed it: Any royal who crosses into eternity shall be surrendered to the Obsidian Dominion — the Kingdom of Shadows. A realm unseen by mortal eyes. Ruled by the eternal King cloaked in darkness, whose throne is built upon bones and silence.

A place whispered of in stories — where ghosts walk and shadows speak. Where no human enters and leaves unchanged… if they leave at all.

Before him stood the ceremonial altar — an aged wooden table carved with ancient symbols. At its center lay the Ether Lily: pale as snow, glowing faintly under the light of enchanted sconces. Its petals were said to react only to blood touched by fate.

Jungkook’s boots creaked against the marble as he approached.

He stopped before the altar.

All watched. Not one soul stirred.

One of the Oracles rose — a tall woman draped in layers of grey silk, her eyes painted in white ash. Without a word, she gestured for him to begin.

The sound of the clock began to echo. A ticking rhythm. Ancient. Final.

Jungkook reached for the dagger at his girdle — a ceremonial blade he had carried for years, though never like this.

He drew it slowly.

Then, without flinching, he pressed the blade against his palm and cut. Blood bloomed instantly, warm and red. It dripped from his hand, drop by drop, onto the Ether Lily’s pure white petals.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick—

The flower began to change.

A gasp rippled across the court — sharp and collective.

The blood no longer red.

It turned gold.

A luminous, iridescent gold that shimmered as if alive.

Jungkook's breath hitched. His hand trembled above the blossom. His knees weakened, and he stumbled a step backward, the weight of fate crashing down all at once.

The Oracle’s voice rang out like a bell:

“It is revealed. He hath crossed into eternity. The blood bears the mark of the undying.”

Silence.

Then voices erupted — murmurs, gasps, exclamations of wonder and fear. The hall felt as though it shifted, as though the very foundation of the kingdom trembled beneath this miracle.

The first immortal royal in over a hundred years. For them, it was a legend reborn.

For Jungkook…

It was exile.

The king rose slowly, his voice deep and commanding as it thundered across the chamber:

“Let it be known throughout the realm — The young prince, Jeon Jungkook, hath become eternal. As written in ancient decree, he shall depart this kingdom, and be delivered unto the Obsidian Dominion, to be bound by rite to its ruler — the King of Shadows.”

The judgment echoed through the vaulted ceilings.

And with that, the court was adjourned.

The gates closed.

Fate had chosen. The path was sealed.

And Jungkook… was no longer his own.

“Please… do not cry,” Jungkook whispered, his voice gentle, pleading.

But Aerum’s tears continued to fall, silent yet endless, carving paths down her cheeks like grief that had forgotten how to stop. She stood before him in the dimly lit chamber, her hands trembling as they cupped his face — the same way she had when he was a boy with scraped knees and frightened eyes.

“How can I let you go there?” she breathed. “How will you survive in a world you do not know? A place no human has seen. What if they do not accept you, my prince?”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered.

He was afraid — of course, he was. Only a fool would not be. To be cast into a kingdom ruled by shadows, where no mortal walked, where whispers of watchers and otherworldly beings fed the nightmares of generations… how could one not tremble?

But fear was a luxury he could not afford.

Especially not in front of the only person who had ever loved him without condition.

“I do not know,” he answered softly. “But I must go. The law demands it… and law is the only thing they truly honor in this place — when it suits them.”

His tone was calm, but inside, his heart twisted like a thread pulled too tight.

He knew what this was.

They feared him now. Not because he was immortal — but because he had become unpredictable. Eternal blood meant eternal power. And in a court that had once forgotten he even existed, that was unacceptable. His removal was not a sacrifice.

It was convenience.

He drew in a breath, steadying himself. “You raised me, Noona,” he said, voice threaded with warmth. “You taught me to be kind, to walk with grace even when the world turned away. I always tried, didn’t I? I never once complained.”

Aerum nodded wordlessly, holding his hands to her chest as if to keep him there a little longer.

“I can survive,” Jungkook continued, forcing a small smile to his lips. “They may not know me… but I have always known how to live in silence.”

Her lips trembled.

“But they say—” she began, then faltered. “They say their king will be…”

Jungkook cut her off gently.

“If I must accept him as mate, I will,” he said, with more bravery in his tone than he felt. “It is written in the ancient bond. And I will not bring shame to it.”

But his thoughts betrayed him the moment the words left his mouth.

A mate?

A king he had never seen. A man cloaked in myth and menace — one said to command legions of shadows, to tear apart any human who stepped foot in his dominion. What kind of being ruled such a place? What kind of creature would claim him?

He did not fear the bond itself. But he feared belonging to someone who might see him as a possession… a symbol… or worse, a prisoner.

Still, he could not let Aerum see that flicker of doubt in him.

So he swallowed it. Smoothed it down like silk over armor.

“Where is my japchae?” he asked suddenly, feigning a pout, lowering his voice in playful protest.

Aerum let out a soft, watery laugh. “Look to the table, my prince.”

He turned — and there it was. A steaming bowl, still warm, the scent instantly filling the room like comfort in edible form.

He picked it up and sat slowly, letting the weight of the meal, the moment, and her gaze anchor him. He took a bite.

The flavor — sweet, savory, tender — hit harder than he expected. He blinked quickly, looking down.

His eyes burned, just a little. But he would not cry.

He must not cry.

If he did… she would break.

“I will miss this,” he said instead, softly.

“I will make it again,” she promised, her voice cracking as she ran her fingers through his hair. “When you visit me… I’ll make it for you again.”

Neither of them spoke the truth.

Neither dared say aloud that he might never return.

That no one knew what waited beyond the veil of the Obsidian Dominion — not even him.

So instead, they stayed there in the warm quiet of the chamber — he, dressed in farewell robes of silk and solemnity, and she, holding him like the child he no longer was.

And through the night, they talked.

Jungkook ate his favorite japchae with slow reverence, and laughed when she teased him about how pale he had become, and listened as she reminded him of the stories they once made up together to chase away the dark.

And for one night more… he was not a prince cursed with eternity.

He was just Jungkook.

Her boy.

Jungkook stood amidst the garden he had cultivated with his own hands — a quiet sanctuary tucked away from the grandeur and scrutiny of palace halls. No servant dared step here without his leave. This place belonged only to him… and the blooms he had coaxed to life over the years.

Petals brushed against his fingertips as he knelt beside the flowerbed, the sun casting soft gold over the dew-laced leaves. He caressed a cluster of lilies, their heads drooping slightly, as if in mourning.

Here, in the hush of soil and roots, he felt a little less like a symbol.

A little more like a boy who had once dreamed of simple things.

A rustle stirred the branches.

Jungkook’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

“My eyes are closed,” he whispered into the air, voice light, playful.

Moments later, something warm shuffled into his lap.

He opened his eyes.

A small grey cat had curled herself atop his robes, purring softly against his stomach. She looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, tail flicking once in approval.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Got time to see me, hmm?”

She purred louder.

He chuckled, rubbing her head in gentle strokes. “You little devil.”

They sat there in silence, the only sound the whisper of wind in the leaves and the distant ticking of the palace clock tower.

His hand stilled.

“Jihu,” he said softly, “they’re sending me away.”

The words settled into the stillness like ash.

“It’s not like I get a say in it. The law is clear — no immortal may remain in Havana. The Eclipsers… they’ve claimed me.”

His eyes stayed fixed on the flowers, though they blurred slightly as emotion rose unbidden.

“Will they accept me, Jihu?” he whispered. “Even my own people never did. Strangers… how could they?”

The cat blinked up at him, unmoving but present.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed under his breath, as if the blooms might carry his secrets better than humans ever had. “Their king — what if he’s cruel? They say the shadows feel no love, no remorse. That they tear through intruders like mist through moonlight.”

He laughed softly, bitter and small.

“But books also say they are loyal. Fiercely. Utterly. If I offer mine… my loyalty… will they offer me a place?”

Silence answered him.

The kind that knew too much and promised nothing.

“I will miss you, little brother,” came a voice from behind.

The stillness shattered.

Jungkook’s shoulders stiffened. His eyes closed, holding back the instinctive anger that curled hot in his throat. He felt Jihu leap from his lap and vanish into the bushes — she never liked strangers, especially not him.

He rose slowly, brushing dirt from his sleeves, and turned with composed grace.

“Crown Prince,” he greeted, bowing with measured politeness. “What brings you to my garden?”

Jaehwan stood at the edge of the path, all velvet and venom, the smirk on his lips a poor attempt to mask the malice in his gaze.

“I came to offer my condolences, Jungkookie,” he said, voice like syrup dripped over poison.

Jungkook did not flinch. Not for him. Never for him.

He had been locked in darkness by that boy. Starved of warmth, blamed for misdeeds he hadn’t committed. Crown Prince Jaehwan and his mother had always seen him as an inconvenience. A silent reminder of another bloodline.

He had endured it all — not with defiance, but with elegance. Because Aerum once told him, “Your patience will be your sword, Jungkook. Let no one stain your name with their cruelty.”

And so he never did.

“My apologies, Crown Prince,” Jungkook said gently, the tilt of his head impeccable. “Did I lose something worthy of mourning?”

Jaehwan’s smirk widened, his teeth showing. “You are to be handed over to the King of Eclipsers. A creature of shadow. You may call it a union, but to me… it is exile.”

Jungkook let out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. “Why should a marriage be mourned?”

That struck deep. Jaehwan’s jaw twitched. He hated it — the calm, the grace, the composure he could never crack.

“Marriage?” Jaehwan scoffed. “You think a king will accept you?”

Jungkook only smiled. “That will be decided tomorrow, will it not? Then let us wait for dawn before writing the end of this tale.”

He bowed again — elegant, measured — and turned away without waiting for a reply.

Behind him, Jaehwan stood fuming, his words silenced not by Jungkook’s rank… but by his restraint.

And as Jungkook stepped back toward the edge of his garden, the blooms brushed gently against his legs as if to remind him:

No matter where they cast him, this place once bloomed by his hand.

And somewhere deep within… he would bloom again.

He stepped into his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Silence greeted him like an old friend.

The air inside was still, familiar — scented faintly of parchment, old wood, and a hint of lavender from the satchels Aerum always tucked beneath his pillow. This space, tucked within the cold stone walls of the castle, was the only place that ever felt truly his.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers lacing loosely in his lap.

Tomorrow, he would leave it all behind.

Twenty-four years spent within these walls — most of them in shadow, in silence, in the safety of solitude. He had never walked beyond the castle grounds, never roamed streets as others did. His world had always been narrow, but it was his.

He would miss this room.

And Aerum.

Everything else… not so much.

He exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

When he opened them again, night had deepened. The moonlight outside was pale and shy, barely reaching through the tall windows. He rose to his feet and moved across the room, his fingers steady as he lit the candles along the wall.

Darkness made him uneasy.

It wasn’t fear — not truly. But it reminded him too much of locked doors, of childish tears muffled under heavy blankets. Of nights when no one came to check on him but Aerum. He had long stopped fearing the dark, but he still never welcomed it.

The candles cast a warm, golden glow across his things — his books stacked neatly on the old writing desk, their spines worn from time and love.

He walked to them, fingertips tracing along familiar covers.

I should pack them, he thought. They’re the only things I’d like to carry with me.

He didn’t know what would wait for him in the Obsidian Dominion — if he’d ever find books there. If words even mattered in a place ruled by shadows.

He began sorting them, gently placing them in the travel case set aside for him.

Then his hand paused.

At the bottom of the stack was a smaller volume, the spine cracked, the corners soft with age. He didn’t remember where it had come from — only that it had always been with him. Like a whisper. A memory without edges.

He picked it up.

The pages were delicate, curling slightly from use. He opened it slowly, turning to the one passage he had read more times than he could count. It was a passage that always felt too close to something he didn’t know how to name.

“I’ve loved him in every story I ever read, in every quiet moment that stayed too long. I’ve found him in the spaces between words, in the ache of endings, and the hope of beginnings. I’ve loved him in every silence that pressed too heavy on my chest, in every glance I was too afraid to return. Before I knew his name, before I saw his face — I think some part of me was already his.”

Jungkook let his fingers drift over the words, slow and reverent.

There was something sacred in them. Something he’d never dared say aloud, not even to himself.

Oh, he thought, to be loved like this.

Not for blood, or duty. Not out of law, or legend. But loved — wholly, deeply, as if his soul had been known before it was seen.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and bittersweet.

Sentimental fool.

Even now, on the eve of exile, his heart found time to dream.

He placed the book carefully in the case with the rest, sealing it like a promise.

And then, in the quiet of the candlelight, he returned to packing — graceful as always, his hands moving with the patience of someone who had long made peace with silence.

But beneath his calm exterior, something ached.

A small, quiet hope.

That maybe, just maybe…

In that strange, far-off kingdom of shadows…

Someone was already waiting.

The Grand Hall of Havana stood flooded with courtiers, emissaries, noble families, and curious spectators — a sea of silks, jewels, and murmurs. Every seat had been taken. Every gaze turned forward, not in reverence, but in anticipation.

For them, this was a spectacle.

For Jungkook… it was a farewell to the only world he had ever known.

He sat at the eastern edge of the court, where the lesser royals were placed — a single figure clothed in the soft glow of white. His robes shimmered like first snow beneath torchlight, a mint-green girdle tied neatly at his waist, his ceremonial dagger resting in its sheath with quiet pride.

His posture was composed. Chin held high, hands folded in his lap. He did not fidget, nor speak, nor let his eyes drift. Yet all who looked upon him could not help but feel something unspoken. Every inch of him bore the grace of someone raised with care — not in gold or glory, but in gentleness.

Aerum had raised him as a prince — even when the world did not see him as one.

His eyes, soft as silk and yet unyielding, flicked upward as the entire court rose to its feet.

The great doors opened with thunderous grace, and King Kyungsoo of Havana entered, his robes trailing behind him in violet waves. His crown caught the light, but his eyes held none.

Jungkook rose as well, silent and poised, his gaze drifting only briefly to the left — where Crown Prince Jaehwan stood smugly by his father's side. His smile was sharp. Poisoned. Mocking.

Their eyes met.

Jaehwan’s smirk widened.

Jungkook offered nothing in return.

He then looked to his uncle — the king whose blood ran in his veins, yet who had never once drawn near to know him. There was no hatred in that gaze, only distance. A polite silence stretched across years of indifference.

They were family only in name.

Once Kyungsoo gestured, the court slowly took their seats.

A hush fell.

One of the royal messengers stepped forward and bowed low before the king, offering a sealed parchment. Kyungsoo broke the wax and scanned the contents.

Something flickered in his eyes.

It was brief — there, then gone. Like doubt, or surprise, or sorrow swallowed too quickly.

Then he looked up, gaze brushing past courtiers and nobles… and briefly landing on Jungkook.

The prince did not flinch.

The king stood and raised his voice, clear and commanding:

“We are gathered here to witness the departure of Prince Jeon Jungkook of Havana, who hath been touched by eternity.”

The words fell into the hall like stone into still water.

“As written in our oldest laws — those born of royal blood who attain immortality shall be delivered unto the Obsidian Dominion, where the King of Shadows resides, in accordance with the binding pact of our ancestors.”

Jungkook’s hands tightened in his lap. He felt the familiar press of the dagger's hilt against his robes. Cold. Final.

He was not angry.

But gods, how cruel it was — that a single thread of fate could pull the entire tapestry of one’s life into the fire.

Not a question. Not a choice.

Only duty. Only law.

The king continued, holding the parchment.

“We sent word to the Dominion. They have answered. The Watchers of the Eclipsers shall arrive to receive him… They may appear at any moment.”

A tremor passed beneath Jungkook’s skin. Not of fear — not quite. But of stillness breaking. The kind of stillness before a tide turns, or the final note of a song falls into silence.

So it begins.

The court shifted — whispers stirred like wind through reeds.

“Is he not meant to be the king’s mate?”

“Shouldn’t the King of Shadows himself be here?”

“What if this is rejection?”

“No one has ever seen him. What if… he is hideous?”

“But look at Prince Jungkook. He is… ethereal.”

“Poor soul. To be handed over to shadows.”

He heard it all.

He kept his eyes forward.

Each word was a dagger, but he had long grown used to quiet wounds. Still, something in his chest throbbed — not from fear of the unknown, but from the bitter taste of being spoken of like a gift passed between hands, or worse — like a sacrifice.

He blinked once, slowly.

His spine stayed straight. His head did not bow.

He would not weep. Not here. Not now.

Let them call him beautiful. Let them pity him. Let them whisper.

He was not theirs.

He had never truly been.

And soon, he would belong to a realm that did not speak his name — yet had already claimed his fate.

A moment passed.

Then the heavy gates of the court creaked open — not with the cry of iron, but with the hush of inevitability.

All conversation died.

The Grand Hall fell utterly silent, as though even the air feared to breathe.

Through the open archway, five figures entered.

They moved with precision, like shadows cut into human form — clad in robes darker than midnight, stitched with silver that shimmered not like thread, but like starlight. Four of them trailed like a stormfront, silent and grim.

But it was the one who led — the one who did not bow — who held the court in stillness.

He stepped with exact purpose, neither hurried nor hesitant, every motion measured like the swing of an ancient pendulum.

His face was veiled — not out of modesty, but as rite.

He was Watcher.

And Jungkook knew what that meant.

He’d read of them in the forbidden archives Aerum once let him explore in secret — the Watchers of the Obsidian Dominion. Chosen by oath, shaped by silence. They did not serve lightly, and they did not kneel — except to their king… or to the one destined to stand beside him.

Gold buttons shaped like eagles glinted from the Watcher’s chest — the sigil of the Eclipsers, their wings always watching, always near.

No one moved.

Even King Kyungsoo’s posture shifted, subtly. Not fear, but caution. Eclipsers were not of this realm — and no mortal born could match them in strength, will, or silence.

The Watcher stepped to the center of the hall.

He did not bow.

He did not speak.

He simply stood — still as carved obsidian, older than memory, untouched by the flicker of torchlight.

Behind him, two Eclipse guards in armor dark as death flanked the rear. They, too, said nothing. They had not come to speak.

Then, at last, King Kyungsoo spoke, voice strained despite its weight:

“Is it not your king who should be here, to receive the young prince?”

The Watcher finally moved.

His voice was like dusk — quiet, firm, strangely reverent.

“The Shadow King does not attend offerings. He sends his eye, his voice, his will.”

He bowed his head slightly.

“I am Watcher Cael. Sent to receive the Immortal.”

Jungkook blinked, his breath catching.

Immortal.

So that is what I am now…

Watcher Cael turned to him.

Jungkook sat perfectly still — composed, graceful, though the beat beneath his ribs was unsteady.

And then, without warning…

The Watcher bowed.

Low.

Deliberate.

Before him, before all.

Gasps rippled through the court.

Jungkook’s lips parted, stunned.

He had not expected this. Perhaps they bowed only to immortals. Perhaps this was ritual. But still — someone bowed to him.

He returned it — a soft incline of his head, not proud, but quiet and sincere.

Watcher Cael straightened, unreadable behind the veil.

Then, he turned toward the king once more, voice echoing with law older than any crown in the room:

“By the command of the eclipse and the law of the ancient stars, sealed in pact and shadow — the Immortal, born of Havana, shall walk with us this night.”

A hush.

And then — a voice broke it.

Sharp.

Mocking.

Too loud.

“So the mighty king sends his pet instead of facing the truth himself?”

Crown Prince Jaehwan.

His smile curled like smoke.

His gaze darted sideways, to Jungkook.

“Or perhaps he hides because he knows what he’s been given — a doll dressed in silk. Too fragile for the night.”

The court winced.

Too bold.

Too cruel.

But Jungkook did not flinch.

He had heard worse — behind locked doors, through walls too thin to block hatred.

Watcher Cael turned his veiled head slowly. There was no rush to it, no anger. Only silence that deepened like water rising.

He took a step forward.

Not threatening.

But the air shifted — dimmed.

The shadows at his feet thickened slightly, like something alive gathering there.

His voice was soft. Almost… kind.

“You speak of fragility,” he said, as if observing a cloud.

“Yet I smell fear on your tongue.”

Jaehwan bristled. “I fear no man—”

Cael’s tone turned sharper, not louder, but cutting:

“Let me offer you clarity, Prince.”

He stepped closer — just one stride — and yet it felt as though the hall had shrunk.

“The Shadow Realm does not waste its time on the unworthy.”

The silence that followed was razor-thin.

Jaehwan stepped back.

Slight.

Barely a motion.

But he did.

The balance of the room had shifted — not toward chaos, but toward something else.

Toward Jungkook.

Watcher Cael turned once more, now facing the Immortal Prince.

There was something in his voice this time. Not warmth. But a kind of respect, earned through silence rather than words.

“The eclipse awaits, Your Highness.”

Jungkook rose, robes whispering softly around his ankles.

He looked to Cael. And then — briefly — to Jaehwan, whose smile had vanished.

And for the first time in his life…

Someone had defended him.

Not for gain.

Not for politics.

Not for show.

But because it was right.

Something bloomed in his chest — quiet, strange, unfamiliar.

Maybe the shadows are not so cold after all.

The moment came far swifter than he had wished.

Jungkook stood at the edge of the palace grounds, beside the dark carriage that had arrived to receive him. It was unlike any he’d ever seen — forged in black wood and metal without seams, its surface dull like scorched glass, its wheels silent on stone.

Beside him, Aerum stood with trembling hands.

She had tried to stay composed, to be strong for him. She had even wrapped bundles of his favorite food — tucked neatly in cloth, kissed with lavender. Foolish, beautiful Aerum. Still thinking of his hunger when he would be gone from her forever.

He smiled gently at her, even as his throat tightened.

She gave everything for me.

Her years. Her youth. Even her own life. She had not married. Had not left. Had not faltered.

He pulled her into a tight embrace.

His voice was barely a whisper, but it trembled.

“I will come for you, Noona. I will.”

Her hands clutched the back of his robe, stifling sobs into his shoulder.

But then he stepped back.

He could not break here. Not now. Not while every gaze was fixed on him.

His uncle stood nearby, with Jaehwan beside him — as always, shadowing him like a serpent poised to strike.

King Kyungsoo approached, and for a foolish second, Jungkook thought perhaps he might embrace him. A final kindness, even if belated.

But the king merely placed a hand on his shoulder — brief, firm, meaningless.

No words. No warmth.

Just duty.

Jungkook bowed.

Kyungsoo turned away.

And from the palace stairs, the Queen watched with unveiled satisfaction. She didn’t even pretend to grieve.

Then Jaehwan’s voice pierced the still air, smooth as ever:

“Goodbye, Jungkookie. May you find peace… or whatever you think you deserve.”

Jungkook’s fist clenched slightly at his side.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Behind him, Watcher Cael shifted ever so slightly — and his gaze, unseen but felt, fell upon the Crown Prince.

Jaehwan’s smirk flickered. He stepped back.

The silence returned.

Jungkook did not look back again.

He stepped into the carriage, its interior dark and cool like nightshade. The door closed behind him with a final thud — and then they moved.

He didn’t even feel the wheels turn.

The road vanished beneath them like wind through silk.

He sat with his back straight, though tears welled in his eyes.

He had said goodbye before.

But never like this.

His vision blurred as he turned to look through the small carved window behind him.

The castle faded — first the towers, then the gates, then the last glimmer of Aerum’s figure, her hand raised, her face streaked with tears.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, a quiet sob escaping despite his composure.

How long has it been since I cried like this?

He did not even know.

The night deepened.

The moon hung high above — pale and solemn.

Around him, the world darkened further.

Until suddenly…

Everything stopped.

He blinked.

Silence.

Utter, devouring silence.

He frowned. There was no sound of hooves. No wind. Not even breath.

He knocked gently on the wall separating him from the Watcher — but no reply came.

His heartbeat quickened.

He opened the door, stepping out cautiously — and gasped.

The carriage no longer rested on the stone path of Havana.

It stood in the center of what seemed a vast expanse of sand, glowing faintly under silver moonlight. The sky was endless, yet starless. The horizon, shapeless. The air — cold.

Where…?

He looked around.

Nothing.

No Cael. No guards.

Only the hum of magic and the taste of something too ancient for words.

Then—

Clink.

A faint sound.

Metal on metal.

Chains.

Clink… clink…

Behind him.

His heart leapt into his throat. Slowly, he turned, hand moving instinctively to the dagger at his waist.

And then—

He saw him.

A figure emerging from the stillness, tall and silent, draped in dark red robes the color of drying blood. Two silver chains hung from his waist, clinking gently with every step.

His hair — long and black — was tied at the nape, strands falling past his shoulders like midnight silk.

And though his face was veiled… it was his eyes that caught Jungkook in place.

Eyes calm as frozen lakes. Deep as dusk. Knowing.

Too deep.

Jungkook could not look away.

The man stopped a few paces away.

His presence was suffocating without being cruel. He did not speak. He did not raise a hand.

But something in the air bent around him.

And then… his eyes wavered.

Only for a moment.

As if something inside him recognized Jungkook — or warred with something that did.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

He had never read of a man like this in any book. Not among the Watchers. Not among the guards. Not among any known rank of the Eclipsers.

And then he remembered.

Red.

Not black.

Only one wore red.

His eyes widened, a chill flooding down his spine.

He took two trembling steps back.

The King.

The King of Shadows.

Before he could even gather himself—

The man raised one gloved hand and snapped his fingers.

Darkness surged — not like smoke, not like shadow — but alive, ancient, and full.

Jungkook’s vision flickered.

And in the last moment before he lost consciousness…

Two strong arms caught him.

And the world fell away.

Chapter Text

When he stirred awake, it was slow — like rising from beneath deep waters. His lashes fluttered once, then twice, until his vision began to adjust to the faint, silvery light spilling through tall windows. For a moment, he lay still, eyes tracing the unfamiliar ceiling carved with swirling patterns, so unlike anything from home.

Then it struck him.

The carriage.
The desert.
Him.

He jolted upright with a sudden breath, sitting up in the vast bed. The sheets slid down his arms — fine silk, too rich for his liking. His eyes scanned the room. It was... grand. Expansive. The bed could house three men. The walls shimmered with dark stones set into delicate silver frames, and tall candle-holders shaped like thorned vines stood in each corner, their flames untouched by breeze.

It sparkled. Too much.

Too polished for someone like him, who had grown used to simpler comforts — a single shelf of books, a narrow bed, soft earth beneath the windowsill. This room was heavy with elegance, and Jungkook wasn’t certain he belonged in it.

As he continued looking, the door creaked open with a soft groan, drawing his gaze. A man stepped inside — clothed in the same black robes he had seen on Watcher Cael, though this man’s face was bare.

Jungkook blinked.

They must veil themselves only in Havana...

The man bowed low.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice composed, respectful. “I have been appointed to serve you during your stay. My name is Han.”

Jungkook looked at him for a breath longer than needed. Then he spoke — soft, but clear.

“I don’t need someone to serve me,” he replied, polite but firm. “I’ve always done my own work.”

He meant it.

He was never the pampered kind. Not in Havana. He folded his robes. Carried his own books. Even cleaned his chamber when no one noticed. His title had never brought him the life people assumed. Why should it now?

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“Just tell me where I’m meant to stay. And... what exactly I’m to do here.”

He said the words lightly, but truth sat behind them.
Because truly — what was his place now?

Was he a guest?
A prisoner?
A future consort?

Or nothing at all?

The very idea of being someone’s mate still felt too far. Too strange. Especially to a man like the King of Shadows — a figure carved from myth and fear. Jungkook could not imagine such a being... choosing someone like him.

Han blinked at his question, unsure.

Jungkook rose from the bed with grace, adjusting the loose folds of his robe. His thoughts flickered to the desert again. The way darkness had swallowed his senses. The way strong arms had caught him just before he’d collapsed.

He shook the memory away.

Curiosity, after all, was a dangerous thing in places ruled by shadow.

“Show me the way,” he said simply.

Han nodded and turned.

Jungkook followed him out the chamber doors — and gasped.

The world outside his room was vast. Far vaster than the castle halls of Havana. The ceilings arched high with crystal-lined ribs. Deep stairways curled like serpents around columns carved from obsidian. Dozens — no, hundreds — of people moved across the great hall below, all dressed in black robes, gliding through their tasks like threads in a loom.

Some hung sweeping curtains, black as ink. Others rolled crimson carpets embroidered with silver constellations. It looked less like a palace, and more like an empire... alive in motion.

Jungkook stepped carefully onto the staircase, descending with slow, measured steps. But when he reached the second last stair, he froze.

All movement stopped.

Every worker turned at once — heads raised, eyes fixed.

On him.

He felt it — the attention, sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t something he was used to. In Havana, he was barely seen. Even on his birthdays, the court barely spared him a glance unless duty demanded it.

Now, hundreds watched.

And then — they bowed.

All of them. At once.

He stiffened.

The image of Watcher Cael bowing back in Havana returned to his mind. And now this. But why?

In every text he read, Eclipsers only bowed to their king.

Before he could ask, a voice called gently from the side.

“Your Highness.”

He turned toward it — and his face lit up.

A man stood near the base of the stairs, dressed in black, marked by the glint of eagle-shaped buttons at his chest.

Watcher Cael.

Jungkook’s lips curved into a wide, genuine smile.

“Watcher Cael,” he said, the warmth in his voice unhidden.

Cael returned the smile — brief, calm, but kind. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Up close, he looked older than Jungkook expected — perhaps in his late thirties, with a presence that felt steady, unshaken. A soldier, certainly. But not cruel.

Jungkook stepped toward him, words tumbling out as his thoughts caught up.

“Where did you go? Why... was I in the desert? I—”

He stopped, realizing the workers were still watching. His voice faltered, and he looked around, unsure, shoulders drawing in slightly.

Cael noticed. With a single wave of his hand, the workers bowed again and returned to their duties, the sounds of cloth and footsteps resuming as if nothing had paused.

Cael turned to him.

“Your Highness,” he said gently, “allow me to guide you. There is much yet to see.”

Jungkook nodded, and a small smile returned to his lips.

Han followed as they walked together down the steps.

He hadn’t known what to expect upon waking in the Obsidian Dominion. Fear, maybe. Loneliness. A kingdom of silence and stone.

But here, in these grand halls bustling with life...

Jungkook felt something stir inside his chest.

For the first time since leaving Havana...

He felt a little less alone.

They stepped beyond the stone arches and out into open air.

Jungkook slowed, breath catching softly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. The space before him stretched wide, framed with long beds of blooming flowers — unfamiliar varieties, glowing softly beneath the pale light of an unseen sun. Vines curled along silver trellises, and small fountains whispered over smooth obsidian stones.

It was not like his garden in Havana — quieter, simpler, where he knew the name of every bloom. This place was vast, almost wild in its beauty, yet too carefully tended to be accidental.

He took a step forward, his robes brushing the grass.

Watcher Cael, walking beside him, came to a halt near a low-blooming tree.

“You must be somewhat confused,” Cael said, his voice calm as ever, “about your arrival... and perhaps the people here.”

Jungkook nodded once, fingers grazing the edge of a lavender-colored petal. It shimmered faintly beneath his touch.

“A little,” he replied. “I did read of your customs — though only what few books Havana permitted. The knowledge was limited.”

Cael inclined his head. “Then you know who I am.”

Jungkook glanced toward him, lips curving slightly.

“Watcher Cael,” he said softly. “The Eye of the King.”

A rare smile passed over Cael’s face.

“Correct.”

He gestured lightly toward Han, who stood a few paces behind them.

“Han is among His Majesty’s most trusted. He was appointed to serve you directly.”

Jungkook’s brows drew slightly together. His heart gave a single, uneven beat at the word.

His Majesty.

Appointed?

The realization echoed in his chest like a soft chime.

“But... why?” he asked, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them. He wasn’t ready for an answer, and yet — he needed something. A reason. A sign.

Cael’s expression remained composed, but his silence said more than words might.

“We do not question the commands of our King,” he said simply. “We follow.”

Jungkook looked away, blinking.

So he had been chosen. Or at the very least... noticed.

A strange warmth stirred in his chest. Not joy. Not quite fear. Something in between — a flickering thing he dared not name yet.

“It looked as though preparations were being made,” he said after a pause, seeking to change the direction of his thoughts. “The halls were filled with movement. Is there a festival?”

Cael shook his head. “No, Your Highness.”

Jungkook frowned faintly. Then what were they preparing for?

He bit his lower lip in thought — a quiet habit — before he looked up again.

“That place you left me in… the desert under the moon. Why was I left there alone?”

Cael did not hesitate this time.

“It was His Majesty’s command,” he said. “The carriage was instructed to stop at that exact point. No further.”

Jungkook’s breath caught for a moment.

He chose that place.

He opened his mouth again, but no words came. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask anymore. Why him? Why like that? Was it a test? A ritual?

But before the questions could gather fully, Cael spoke again — gently.

“His Majesty remained only long enough to ensure your safety,” he said. “Then he departed for urgent matters.”

Jungkook looked down at the grass. He nodded once, though his thoughts spun too fast to grasp.

Cael waited, then seemed to understand the silence that followed.

“We shall leave you to rest,” he said.

Jungkook didn’t speak. He simply stepped forward a little, into the sun-warmed clearing.

With a brief bow, Cael turned. Han followed after him.

And then, he was alone.

Jungkook lowered himself to the ground, letting his fingers trail along the soft grass. It was warm beneath his touch, alive. The scent of the flowers drifted lightly through the air, unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

His thoughts — quiet at first — returned, like waves at the edge of tide.

The desert. The man in red.

Those eyes — calm, ancient.

That veil, hiding a face he was almost afraid to see.

The silence that had passed between them.

The arms that caught him before he fell.

He swallowed.

Why do I remember that part so clearly...?

He could still feel the weight of those arms — strong, steady, the gentlest thing in a night full of fear.

And for a moment — just a breath — he had wanted to stay there.

He scoffed quietly to himself, brushing the grass again as though it might anchor him.

“Foolish,” he murmured under his breath.

He didn’t even know the man’s face. Perhaps he never would. A king like that — old as shadow, wrapped in mystery — would never...

No.

That hope was too fragile to feed.

And yet — wasn’t he here because of him?

He looked up at the sky — silver-blue, too still to be real — and let the questions float there, unanswered.

For now.

Jungkook sat there, still trying to make sense of it all when the sound of footsteps approached from behind. He turned his head and saw a man approaching, dressed in a robe of deep blue — far different from the black attire of the others in the castle. There was an elegance about him, something that immediately caught Jungkook’s eye. His movements were fluid, confident, and graceful.

Jungkook rose to his feet, not sure what to expect. He was royalty here, too, yet something about the man’s presence made him feel the weight of his own status, as though it were not enough to fit in.

The man bowed slightly, his smile warm but without formality.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” he said, his tone light and easy.

Jungkook, a little taken aback by the casualness of the greeting, returned the smile.

“I am Jimin,” the man said, his smile broadening. “Your brother-in-law.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise. He cleared his throat slightly, startled by the sudden claim.

Jimin chuckled lightly, a playful glint in his eye.

“You look mesmerizing, Your Highness. His Majesty is lucky,” Jimin said with sincerity, though there was something about his tone that didn’t quite match the gravity of his words.

Jungkook blinked, unsure of how to respond. This man, Jimin, was so effortlessly easy-going that it made Jungkook uncomfortable. Brother-in-law? He hadn’t expected such words from someone he had just met.

“Cael told me you were here,” Jimin continued, stepping forward slightly. “I thought I should meet you.”

Without waiting for a response, he motioned to the ground beside him. “Sit with me, Your Highness. Let’s get to know each other a little.”

Jungkook, still bewildered, nodded and sat down beside him on the grass. The openness of Jimin was... refreshing, yet disarming in a way he wasn’t used to.

“You must be nervous here,” Jimin said after a pause. “Leaving your home behind is not easy.”

Jungkook remained still for a moment. In truth, if someone had asked him that while he was still in the carriage, crying as he left Havana, he would’ve been too overwhelmed to respond. But now? Now, he could speak with more composure.

“I am okay,” he said quietly, “Just a little nervous. Maybe about what will happen to me here.”

Jimin furrowed his brow slightly, sensing the depth of Jungkook’s uncertainty.

“What do you mean, ‘what will happen to you’?” he asked, voice soft but insistent.

Jungkook hesitated, unsure how to explain. He had spent his life in a kingdom where he didn’t belong, always on the outside, always uncertain of his place. Now, in a new world, he felt the same uncertainty.

“I don’t belong here,” Jungkook admitted. “And I don’t know if there’s a place for me here.”

Jimin blinked in surprise, his gaze softening. He let the silence hang for a moment before speaking again, his voice almost incredulous.

“You’re here for my brother,” he said. “Why would you think like that? You haven’t seen how much people here are waiting for you.” He gestured toward the castle in the distance, where workers were busy setting up. “They’re decorating the whole place, preparing for your arrival. For you.”

Jungkook blinked, his heart catching at the realization.

“For me?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jimin chuckled. “Yes, for you. The king is getting his mate after so many years. The people have waited for you. Too long, Your Highness.”

Jungkook’s gaze turned inward, the words settling heavily in his chest. They waited for me? But what of the king? Had he waited for him, too? The thought stirred a mix of emotions in him that he couldn’t quite name.

Jimin’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Will you accept Taehyung?” he asked, his tone light, though his eyes searched Jungkook’s with curiosity.

Jungkook’s heart stilled at the name. Taehyung. So, that was his name. His mind swirled. He had so many questions, but his own feelings were tangled, too. Who am I even?

He found himself speaking before he fully understood his own thoughts.

“Who am I to accept or reject?” Jungkook said, his voice soft but firm. “Isn’t it his majesty decision?”

Jimin studied him for a moment, then his expression softened, as though he understood something Jungkook had not yet grasped.

“Why wouldn’t he accept you?” Jimin said, the question simple, yet laden with something more. “You’re a gem, Jungkook.”

Jungkook looked away, the weight of Jimin’s words pressing down on him. He wasn’t sure what to make of them. “How can you all trust me? I’ve just arrived. You barely know me.”

Jimin chuckled, a genuine warmth in his voice. “I knew you would say that,” he said, pausing before continuing. “It’s not about knowing, Jungkook. It’s about what happened when you entered Eclipse.”

Jungkook’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked, a quiet unease settling in his chest.

Before Jimin could answer, they were interrupted by a figure approaching them. Han, the attendant, walked toward them, his footsteps measured.

“Prince Jimin, Your Highness,” Han said, bowing slightly. “His Majesty has returned. He is waiting in court.”

Jimin’s face tightened slightly at the news. He turned to Jungkook.

“Shall we, Your Highness?” he asked, his voice still warm but tinged with an undercurrent of tension.

Jungkook fidgeted with the hem of his robe, feeling a slight knot in his stomach. He had never liked politics, and he had avoided them for as long as he could in Havana. But this? This was different.

Jimin, noticing his discomfort, smiled softly and reached out, gently taking Jungkook’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll be with you.”

Jungkook had prepared himself for many things — but what awaited behind the doors of the Eclipse court left him breathless.

As he stepped through, the sheer grandeur of the space made him falter. It wasn’t a courtroom as he imagined. It was a hall of silence and silver, vast and alive, dressed like a ballroom yet held with the solemnity of a sacred place. A wide path of crimson velvet cut through the center, leading towards a raised dais where a single throne stood beneath carved moonlight.

Rows of velvet-cushioned seats lined either side, filled with people draped in dark finery, each face turning toward him as he entered. He tried to remain composed, his fingers tightening slightly over the folds of his robe.

And then… his gaze lifted. His breath caught.

There — seated upon the throne — was him.

Even across the distance, Jungkook felt the weight of his gaze. The man wore a veil that obscured his features, but his presence was undeniable. Long, dark hair framed his face, half-tied at the back, with loose strands falling against his brow like shadows playing at dawn. The crimson robe he wore shimmered with dusk-like detail, his posture regal — still as the night sky, and just as vast.

Their eyes met, and something in Jungkook's chest shuddered.

He looked away too quickly.

Too much, he thought. Too intense.

Jimin walked beside him and gently guided him toward the front row. Jungkook barely registered the motion until they sat upon a low, broad cushioned seat. The proximity to the throne made him feel exposed. He adjusted the sleeve of his robe, only to realize many eyes still lingered on him.

The murmurs had quieted, but the stares had not.

His fingers trembled faintly. So many eyes. He never liked this much attention — not in Havana, and certainly not now, in a kingdom still foreign to his heart.

Jimin leaned closer and whispered softly, keeping his voice low.

“You must not know much about Eclipse court… Let me explain.”

Jungkook nodded silently, grateful.

“The front row,” Jimin continued, gesturing slightly, “is reserved only for the royal family. Where you sit now — no one outside of blood or bond is allowed.”

Jungkook absorbed the words, uncertain if he felt reassured or even more out of place. He had read a book once — the only one he ever found on Eclipse — but it had little detail about structure or law. And after that, no other knowledge ever reached him.

Jimin lifted his chin subtly. “Those seated ahead of us… they’re the Oracles. The one in green is Lady Nyra — highest among them.”

Jungkook followed his gaze and saw a woman in her late thirties, cloaked in deep forest green. Her beauty struck him like still water — graceful, clear, composed. Her long black hair fell over her shoulder in silent waves, and something about her reminded him of Aerum.

A pang touched his chest. Aerum… Noona…

Beside Lady Nyra, another girl sat — younger, perhaps closer to his own age. Her expression, however, was colder. She looked at him with eyes that did not hide their discontent. Jungkook blinked, caught off guard.

“Beside them,” Jimin said, “are the Masters of Secrets. They oversee intelligence, diplomacy, shadows.” He wrinkled his nose. “That is Master Elias. I don’t like him.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted again. The man had a clever face, not aged, but lined with calculation. Sharp eyes. Quiet hands. The kind of man who spoke little, but knew everything.

“Then comes the Shadow Binder — Ryan,” Jimin added, lowering his voice. “He deals with the old magic here.”

Jungkook turned in time to see Ryan mid-yawn, blinking lazily around the room until their eyes met. Ryan’s posture stiffened as though caught, then he awkwardly looked away, frowning as though embarrassed. Jungkook fought a small chuckle.

“And lastly, our commander — Yoongi.”

Jungkook’s eyes moved further along the row. Yoongi’s presence was calm, but commanding. His posture sharp, his expression unreadable. But Jungkook noticed something — Yoongi wasn’t looking at him. He was glancing toward his side.

Jungkook turned his head slowly, only to find Jimin also staring at Yoongi. There was a softness in Jimin’s gaze, a familiarity not spoken aloud. Jungkook smiled faintly to himself, choosing not to say a word.

But then — as if pulled by instinct — his eyes returned to the throne.

The king had not looked away.

That veiled gaze was on him again — unwavering, heavy, unreadable. It made his chest tighten, his fingers draw into the fabric of his robe. There was something in those eyes. Something unspoken. Something he couldn’t place.

He dropped his gaze quickly.

Does he see through me? Or am I only a stranger to him?

Before his thoughts could drown him, a figure stood — breaking the spell.

Lady Nyra.

Her presence commanded silence, and it was given without resistance.

Lady Nyra stood with grace and bowed deeply toward the throne.
“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice calm but commanding, “in accordance with our ancient rites, we are gathered to witness the truth of the prince from Havana.”

Jungkook stiffened slightly where he sat.
Why again?
He had thought the matter settled — his blood already proven back home, turned gold before a court that offered only silence in return.
But here it was again.
Another room. Another test.
As though his truth needed to bleed again to be seen.

Lady Nyra’s eyes met his briefly — not unkind — and then turned toward the king.

“We require confirmation of the Immortal’s blood,” she spoke.

Jungkook lowered his gaze. His palm twitched faintly. That familiar sting wasn’t fear — no, he had never feared the blade. It was weariness.

He glanced at the man seated high above them, his breath catching — not from awe, but from a quiet ache. What will he think of this? Will he see the ritual… or the boy beneath it?

Their eyes met.

And the king gave a single, slow nod.

Jungkook exhaled softly. So be it.

He glanced down at his palm — the faint scar crossing it like an old thread. A mark from every year this ritual demanded proof. It had healed roughly. He always thought it looked strange on his otherwise careful hands. Not ugly — but like something the world had carved there against his will.

Across the court, the sound of footsteps echoed as a guard placed the Ether Lily at the center table — soft, white, waiting.

Jimin leaned close, placing a hand gently on Jungkook’s shoulder. A silent reassurance. Jungkook offered a small smile in return and rose, stepping forward with quiet steps until he stood before the table.

Lady Nyra approached as well, her hand moving toward the ceremonial dagger at her side.

But before she could draw it, Jungkook unsheathed his own.

There was no need for another to do what he could do himself.

Lady Nyra paused, perhaps surprised by his readiness — but said nothing. Her gaze softened as she stepped back slightly, allowing him space.

Jungkook glanced at his palm once more, then upward — toward the throne.
Still watching. Still veiled. Still… unreadable.

His fingers closed around the blade.

Don’t look away, he thought.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he drew the edge across the old scar.

Blood welled up instantly, bright against his skin. It dripped softly onto the lily.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

The pain was nothing. But the weight of those eyes… it pressed gently against his chest.

What are you thinking?
What do you see when you look at me?
He couldn’t tell. The veil robbed him of answers. But the gaze — steady, unwavering — remained locked with his own.

And then came the voice of Lady Nyra, soft yet echoing.

“He is immortal.”

A hush followed. But Jungkook didn’t look away.
Even as the petals beneath him began to shimmer gold, even as the room settled into stunned quiet — he held that gaze.

Why are your eyes so deep?
Why does the unknown in you stir something in me I do not yet understand?

The man above did not move, nor speak. But something in his stillness made Jungkook's chest flutter.

He found himself wishing — only faintly — that he could tear away the veil and see him, truly. Not out of defiance, but out of the quiet ache that had lived in him longer than he cared to admit.

But the moment was shattered.

A voice—sharper than it needed to be—cut through the stillness like a rusted blade.

“Your Majesty,” Elias spoke from the right, rising from his place with that ever-cunning air, “he used his own dagger. There may be… something laced upon it that we do not yet understand.”

Jungkook’s gaze flickered toward the speaker, but his heart thudded when he noticed movement from the throne.

Taehyung had turned his head—no longer looking at him. That gaze, once so steady, now turned ice-bound as it fell upon Elias.
Even from a distance, Jungkook could feel the shift in the room.

“He is to be your mate,” Elias pressed, his voice colder now. “We cannot place blind trust in a stranger—especially one who may rule beside you.”

And like dry grass to flame, the court ignited in whispers.

Doubt. Suspicion. Rustling cloth, uneasy glances, hushed tones building like a rising tide.

Jungkook felt the sting—not from their words, but from the familiarity of it.

So here too...

No matter where he walked, it seemed, his existence must be defended.

But then another voice rang out—clear, young, defiant.

“Master Elias, you are turning senile,” Jimin said lightly, though the fire in his tone made it anything but playful. “The shadowmark turned gold the moment he stepped into Eclipse. The Realm itself accepted him. Or are you doubting the will of your own land?”

A quiet gasp rippled through the room. Elias stiffened, jaw set tight.

“Your Majesty, we—”

But he stopped.

Because Taehyung stood.

He did not raise his voice. He did not glare.
Yet the entire court fell silent. Even the air seemed to bow to him.

Jungkook held his breath as the king stepped down from the throne — each step echoing in the hall, deliberate and quiet like falling dusk. He stopped before the table where the ether lily still glowed softly, faint traces of gold dried on its petals.

Only the table stood between them now.

Jungkook’s heart thrummed wildly, unsure what it meant to be so close to him again.

Taehyung’s eyes swept over the court — unbothered, unreadable — then shifted to Lady Nyra.

He extended a hand.
A simple gesture, but it spoke of command.

She blinked — surprised, perhaps — but then reached into the folds of her robe and produced a small, darkened stone, set in an ancient silver frame. She placed it in his hand with the reverence given only to sacred things.

Gasps fluttered around the room.

Jungkook furrowed his brow. What is that? He had never seen such an object, not even in the oldest books buried in Havana’s forgotten halls.

The stone pulsed faintly — almost waiting.

Then Taehyung turned to him again.

Jungkook stilled when he heard it — a voice deeper than shadow, richer than silence.

“May I?” Taehyung asked.

Just two words.

But Jungkook felt the tremble in his bones.

He looked down at his injured hand — still faintly bleeding — then slowly extended it, unsure why his breath caught the way it did.

Taehyung’s hand took his own. Gently. Almost reverently.

He placed Jungkook’s palm atop his own — where the stone rested.

And then—something bloomed.

A flicker of darkness emerged from the stone, like smoke rising from still water.

And then—gold.

A ribbon of golden light wrapped around the shadow like silk around a blade, not suppressing it, but cradling it — as though two truths had found their answer in one another.

The court fell breathless.

Jungkook stared — not just at the stone, but at the king holding his hand.
Taehyung was watching the glow, then slowly lifted his gaze to Jungkook’s.

And for the first time, Jungkook thought he saw something soften in those eyes.
Recognition? Relief? He couldn’t tell. But it made his chest flutter unexpectedly.

And just as quickly — the moment passed.

Their hands parted. Jungkook’s palm felt cold without the warmth of his.

He did not understand what had just occurred.

But he knew one thing.

He did not like how empty his skin felt now that Taehyung’s hand was no longer holding it.

The hush that followed the golden-lighted stone had barely settled when Jimin, ever too bold with his tongue, spoke from Jungkook’s side:

“Now I believe there is nothing left to question,” he said, with a teasing tilt to his voice. “Shouldn’t it be time to discuss the marriage date?”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. He turned sharply to look at Jimin, whose grin only deepened as he winked at him like it was a harmless jest.

But Jungkook’s gaze wandered—unwillingly—to the taehyung.

Taehyung was still watching him.

He didn’t look surprised.

And that only made Jungkook’s heart twist further.

Does he truly want this? They hadn’t exchanged a word—only glances, a brief touch, a silence cloaked in ceremony.

Shouldn’t they… talk? Shouldn’t there be something before this bond is sealed?

A voice—this time colder, female—broke in:

“Is it not too early for that?”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted. The younger woman seated beside Lady Nyra was now staring directly at him. There was something unkind in her eyes. Disapproval, perhaps. Or jealousy.

“Lady Kaira,” Jimin replied, voice still light but edged with steel, “let His Majesty decide when the time is right.”

Kaira’s lips tightened. She did not speak again, but her gaze lingered on Jungkook, heavy and unpleasant.

Then, finally, Taehyung spoke.

“It will be decided when the time comes.”

His voice was low. Controlled. But cold—so cold it left a strange emptiness in Jungkook’s chest.

And then the king turned, vanishing into the darkened halls of the court.

One by one, courtiers began rising and leaving, murmuring low amongst themselves. Jungkook turned slightly, intending to ask Jimin about Kaira—about the strange weight behind her gaze—but another voice froze him in place.

“Don’t think you can so easily take what is mine.”

He turned slowly. Kaira stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes hard.

He blinked at her. He had no idea what she meant—but the tone, the entitlement, the way it mirrored Jaehwan’s bitterness—it irked him.

Still, he said nothing.

He merely stared at her for a long, quiet moment… then turned to leave.

It only seemed to provoke her further.

“Are you deaf?”

That made him stop.

He clenched his fist, quiet rage curling low in his chest.

Before he could say a word, Jimin stepped in.

“Lady Kaira,” he said sharply, tone no longer playful, “you forget your place. Apologize. This is your Crown Prince you speak to.”

Kaira’s jaw tightened. Her glare didn’t ease, but she did not hold the rank to argue.

Lady Nyra, who had risen silently, stepped in between them.

“Our apologies, Your Highness,” she said calmly, but firmly. “She is… spirited. I will see to her manners myself.”

Kaira gave a stiff bow, voice thin: “I’m sorry.”

And with that, she turned and walked out of the court without another glance.

Jungkook smiled faintly to himself. So fragile is her pride, he thought. Like a child denied a toy.

“Truly, Your Highness, I must apologize again,” Lady Nyra said gently.

“There is no need,” Jungkook replied softly. “She only embarrassed herself.”

Jimin snorted at that, grinning as he led Jungkook out of the court. They walked quietly through the long corridor back toward the heart of the castle.

“If you want,” Jimin said after a beat, “we can issue a formal warning to her. She crossed the line.”

Jungkook chuckled under his breath.

“That would be giving her too much importance. It was childish. Not worth it.”

But Jimin’s expression turned more serious.

“She might try again,” he warned. “Especially now that you’re here.”

“Why?” Jungkook asked, brows furrowing.

Jimin hesitated for a moment, fidgeting with his sleeve.

“Because she’s the daughter of Master Elias. And Elias… has long hoped to see her married to the king.”

Jungkook stopped mid-step, the words landing heavier than expected.

He whispered, “Oh.”

Jimin offered a shrug.

“Don’t let it trouble you. His Majesty already rejected that proposal. More than once, actually.”

Jungkook’s heart thudded. He looked down at the stone beneath their feet.

“He… never liked anyone?” he asked softly.

Jimin looked at him, then smiled faintly.

“It’s his story to tell. And perhaps, one day, he’ll choose to share it—with you.”

They walked in silence then, the castle walls echoing gently with each step.

And for the first time since arriving… Jungkook wasn’t sure if the sound he heard in his chest was dread, or the start of something else.

They hadn’t walked far when Han appeared from a nearby corridor, bowing respectfully.

“The feast is ready, my prince. Everything has been served.”

Jimin gave him a gentle nod, and both continued toward the dining chamber in quiet steps.

The hall, though grand, felt far too vast with only the two of them entering. Jungkook’s gaze settled on the long table — adorned with silken runners, fine porcelain, and golden dishes filled with all manner of foods. From stews and roasted meats to glistening fruit and delicate confections — it looked like a banquet for twenty.

Yet only two places were set.

He lowered his gaze, stepping forward and sitting beside Jimin.

“Is… no one else going to eat with us?” he asked, voice soft.

Jimin bit his lower lip briefly, before replying, a tinge of sadness shadowing his expression.

“Here, it’s usually just me and Taehyung.”

He turned toward one of the servants, a young woman in uniform black, who bowed.

“Where is His Majesty?” Jimin asked.

“He said he isn’t hungry,” she answered.

Jungkook blinked, surprised. No appearance. No words. No gaze across the table. His heart sunk a little — he'd hoped for at least a moment of shared breath.

Jimin seemed to notice. He picked up his spoon and nudged Jungkook lightly with his elbow.

“Let’s eat, shall we?”

Jungkook nodded, though the enthusiasm had waned. He took a small portion, quietly placing it on his plate and tasting a bit of the broth. It was good — rich and warm — but he could barely feel the flavor settle on his tongue.

“Tell me about yourself?” Jimin asked gently, spoon in hand.

Jungkook smiled faintly.

“There’s not much to tell. I’m just… a quiet boy. Human once. Then one day, I wasn’t. And then they sent me here.”

Jimin tilted his head, frowning.

“Did they ask you? Whether you wanted to leave?”

Jungkook chuckled bitterly under his breath.

“It’s law. The moment they knew I had mirror blood, they sent the letter. I didn’t have a say.”

Jimin blinked. He leaned forward.

“Wait… the letter they sent us said you wanted to come. That you asked for it — that you knew your blood had turned golden and you sought your rightful place. That’s what it said.”

Jungkook froze. The spoon halted near his mouth, trembling in his hand. Slowly, he set it down.

“What?”

“Yes,” Jimin said quietly, confused himself. “It said you asked for sanctuary here… and for the union to be honored. That you wrote it.”

The breath caught in Jungkook’s throat.

So his uncle had lied. They hadn’t just discarded him — they had scripted his voice, forged his will. Framed his silence as desire. He swallowed thickly, his throat burning.

What must Taehyung have thought, reading that? A stranger begging to be taken as mate.

“I… never said those things. I didn’t write anything.”

His voice cracked ever so slightly.

Jimin’s eyes narrowed, anger flickering beneath the surface.

“I knew something was off. It didn’t sound like a prince’s request. It sounded like... desperation.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together. He could feel his appetite leaving him, replaced by that ache he knew too well — the one he wore like a second skin back in Havana.

So even here… it began with a lie.

He stood from his seat.

Jimin looked up quickly.

“You didn’t eat enough,” he said gently.

“I’m full,” Jungkook replied softly. Then turned to Han. “Could you… show me my room?”

Han stepped forward, bowing low.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

But before he could move, Jimin rose too.

“I’ll take you. Come.”

They walked in silence through the castle’s long, stone corridors, candles flickering along the walls. The deeper they went, the quieter the halls grew. The hush reminded Jungkook of ancient temples — places where voices felt too loud.

At the very end of the corridor stood two doors.

Jungkook paused. He couldn’t tell if either of them was familiar — had he awakened in one of these rooms after falling unconscious? Or had they brought him somewhere else entirely?

Jimin gestured to the one on the left.

“This one’s yours. Rest well. If you need anything, my room is right across from you.”

He offered a small smile.

Jungkook nodded, fingers tightening on the door handle.

He was tired — not just in body, but in spirit. The court, the rituals, the lies that followed him across kingdoms — they pressed on his chest like invisible hands.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

And then he stepped inside, leaving the quiet corridor — and the ache of what the letter had cost — behind him. 

It was the same one he’d woken in—he was certain now—but the space felt smaller, somehow. Or perhaps it was his thoughts that had grown heavier.

The chamber was dimly lit, a gentle warmth humming from the hearth. On the nearby table, he noticed the few books he'd brought from Havana. A faint sense of familiarity tugged at him. He moved toward the closet and opened it to find robes of varying colors—midnight blue, ember red, silver-gray. They were soft to touch, too fine for someone who had lived his life with simple linens and muted hues.

He chose one in ivory and gold, something light for sleep, and slipped into the bathing room. The water was warm, almost too luxurious, but it soothed him. As he dressed and returned to the bed, his mind wandered—back through the echoes of the day.

Back to the throne room.

To that voice.

To those eyes.

His fingers drifted to his palm—the same hand Taehyung had held. The cut was still there, clean but tender. He stared at it, not with dread, but something gentler. It was strange—how a mark born of ritual could carry warmth.

And yet… something deeper gnawed at him still.

The letter.

He never wrote it.

Taehyung believed he had asked for this fate. That he’d begged to be here. Jungkook’s chest tightened. What must he think of him?

Before the ache could settle too deep, he remembered—he’d never asked Jimin about the morning. Was there a ritual? A routine? Anything expected of him at dawn?

He rose from bed, barefoot and quiet, and stepped into the hall. The cold stone beneath his feet did little to ground his nerves. Across from him, as Jimin had said, was the door.

He knocked gently.

Soft shuffling answered from the other side. Then the lock clicked open.

Jungkook blinked—and froze.

It's not Jimin. 

It's the same eyes. 

Taehyung stood in the doorway.

The veil was gone.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat. The king’s face, now fully revealed, was carved from silence and shadow. High cheekbones, soft but unreadable lips, eyes like dusk—calm, ancient, and unreadable. His hair fell over his shoulder in inky waves, half tied, half loose. He looked like something drawn from a myth and pressed into reality.

Jungkook stared far too long.

Ethereal. Terrifyingly beautiful.

Taehyung merely raised a brow.

“I… forgive me,” Jungkook said quickly. “Is  Prince Jimin here? .”

A pause.

“Why should he be?” Taehyung asked, voice even, gaze steady.

Jungkook blinked, confused.

“Jimin… he told me to come here if I needed anything,” Jungkook replied, softly. " Is not it's his chamber? "

“This is my room,” Taehyung said.

Jungkook blinked. “O–oh… I see.”

He fidgeted. He was about to apologize and leave when Taehyung suddenly turned away. But just as Jungkook made to step back, Taehyung spoke again.

“Wait.”

Jungkook paused, looking back.

Taehyung crouched and placed a pair of slippers before him.

“You are barefoot.”

Jungkook blinked down, startled. He hadn’t even noticed. A small, sheepish smile tugged at his lips as he stepped into them.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Taehyung stood tall once more. “Jimin’s room is down the stairs.”

“I… I shall speak with him in the morning,” Jungkook said quickly.

" There is a ritual every month in eclipse. Tomorrow is the day." Taehyung speak up again, voice low. Calm. "Your presence will be..... Expected." 

Jungkook bite inside of his cheeks. He blink and then. " I will be present. "

He bowed his head slightly and turned, retreating with his heart thudding in his chest.

Back in his room, he closed the door with a shaky breath.

His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them to his chest. His heart was still racing. The face. The voice. Those eyes.

“His eyes…” he whispered to the silence. “If he continues looking at me like that… I might lose my mind.”

He dropped onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow, still smiling despite himself. Despite everything.

He didn't even know when sleep finally claimed him. The room was foreign, but tonight, he dreamed as if it had always been home.

Chapter Text

Jungkook stirred at the soft sound of knuckles against wood.

The knock was not hurried. It came like a whisper—intentional, practiced. He rose from the bed slowly, as if not to disturb the silence that still clung to the air. His robe had slipped from one shoulder during sleep, and he pulled it tighter around himself before unlatching the door.

Outside stood Han, shoulders dipped in deference, eyes lowered. Behind him were three others—workers, each bearing items in careful hands: a folded robe, a tray of jewelry, the glint of silver girdles and finely wrapped cloth.

“I hope I did not disturb your rest, Your Highness,” Han said, voice soft as dusk.

Jungkook offered a faint smile, not out of warmth but courtesy. He hadn’t slept deeply—not with those eyes still imprinted on the backs of his own.

“No… it’s alright,” he murmured.

Han bowed slightly. “Your accessories and garments for today. The ritual will begin in two hours.”

Jungkook stepped aside, allowing them to enter. The chamber brightened a little with their presence, yet still felt like standing beneath water—everything slowed, everything still.

The workers moved with precision, laying the robe across the bed, placing ornaments and rings beside it like offerings at an altar. Jungkook watched in silence. He'd never been fond of opulence. Back in Havana, his days had passed in worn cotton, soft earth-toned linens. He had always preferred simplicity. He felt most himself in quiet things.

But here, in the Obsidian Dominion, nothing was quiet. Even the silks breathed.

Still, his eyes caught on one detail that comforted him—the robe’s base was white, pearled softly beneath the shadows of the chamber. The top layer shimmered faintly, like smoke over snow.

At least that… that felt like light.

He turned to Han.

“What is the ritual about?” he asked, voice low. “I would know, if I’m to stand before it.”

Han’s gaze flicked up briefly, then down again. “It is the Rite of Eclipse, Your Highness. The day when fated ties may be claimed or challenged. When the marked may be recognized.”

Jungkook’s breath caught, only slightly—but enough to feel it.

Fated mates.

So the stories were true, then.

“In this kingdom… do all Eclipsers have a fated one?” he asked.

Han hesitated, as if unsure whether he was permitted to speak. “I… I am not well-studied in the matter, Your Highness. Forgive me.”

“It’s alright.” Jungkook offered a slight nod, but something in him stirred—something half-ashamed, half-hopeful. Foolish.

Still, his mind wandered back to the night before.

To the doorway.

To the king.

To the way his name sounded in that voice.

And the last night just a mere seconds of his face. 

To the way those eyes had looked at him—like they saw past bone, past skin, into something else entirely.

Could it be fate?

No. It was nonsense.

A passing thought wrapped in the warmth of midnight.

And yet…

After the others left, Jungkook turned toward the bathing room.

The water was already drawn, steaming faintly, perfumed with crushed herbs he didn’t recognize. He stepped in slowly, letting the warmth pull the cold from his bones. The ache of yesterday eased from his shoulders, but not from his thoughts.

This kingdom is not home.

Here, the silence holds its breath.

Here, every kindness is lined with law.

And yet, here... he is seen.

After the others left, Jungkook turned toward the bathing room.

The water was already drawn, steaming faintly, perfumed with crushed herbs he didn’t recognize. He stepped in slowly, letting the warmth pull the cold from his bones. The ache of yesterday eased from his shoulders, but not from his thoughts.

This kingdom is not home.

Here, the silence holds its breath.

Here, every kindness is lined with law.

And yet, here... he is seen.

He dressed alone.

The white robe fit well, the girdle cinched with practiced hands. He fastened his dagger at his side—not for protection, but for grounding. Something of Havana. Something familiar.

He glanced at the tray of accessories. Dozens of rings and chains gleamed back at him. He ignored most of them.

Instead, his hand found a simple black bracelet—leather, unadorned, save for a twist of thread binding it closed.

He slid it on.

It felt like restraint and memory in one.

He didn’t know why he chose it. Only that he did.

Before he left the room, he passed the mirror once more.

The reflection was quiet, dressed in white and shadow. His hair fell soft at his collarbone, a few strands still damp. His eyes lingered on their own shape—widened slightly, unsure.

“This is me now,” he thought.

And yet, he wasn’t sure who that was becoming.

He stepped out into the corridor.

Beyond him, the day waited. Ritual waited. And the king—wherever he stood—may be waited too.

The halls were awake before he was.

Footsteps echoed quietly across the stone floors, voices low but quick. The castle moved like a beast stirring—its many arms shifting in time. People passed by fast, carrying cloth and trays of silver, their faces calm but focused. It felt like even the walls were getting ready for something holy.

Jungkook stepped out gently, the half-white robe brushing his ankles, the plain black bracelet cool on his skin. He moved without orders, led more by feeling than clear thought, until he saw shapes he knew ahead.

Lady Nyra stood with Prince Jimin at the far end of the hall, near an arch of dark stone and soft light. Nyra’s robe was like soft spring—light colors blooming like quiet memories on silk. Her dark hair flowed smooth down her back. Jimin, unlike her, wore blue again—deep, calm, easy. He looked natural in it. Maybe blue was what he liked most. Maybe it was his shield.

As Jungkook came closer, both of them turned to him.

Jimin smiled first—easy, kind. But Jungkook’s breath caught for a different reason.

The letter.

Even now, it hung between them—words he hadn’t written, a wish he hadn’t claimed. He still felt the weight, the quiet pain of being mistaken.

“You look truly beautiful,” Jimin said, his voice light and full of praise.

Jungkook gave a small smile, nodding in thanks, though the praise stirred something unsure inside him.

Nyra's eyes stayed on him a bit longer. Her look was softer than he remembered, and her smile... it didn’t seem fake. But somehow, that made him more uneasy. Could someone show such warmth so quickly in this place? Or were they taught to? Was it trust—or something quieter, more tricky? Pity?

“You are truly a vision, Your Highness,” she said, her voice smooth and warm like late sunlight through thin curtains.

The words stayed—a vision—and Jungkook’s mind, without meaning to, thought of Aerum. Her laugh, her calm nearness in his hardest days in Havana. Just then, the hurt of missing her wrapped around his chest.

Still, he lowered his head to Nyra, saying softly, “Thank you.”

“Shall we go?” Jimin asked, glancing at the hall ahead.

Jungkook nodded.

They walked without words, the three of them moving like dream figures, the silence between them made gentler by the quiet excitement filling the halls.

But halfway to the courtyard, someone known stepped out—tall, quiet, and cloaked in shadow.

Watcher Cael.

He moved like moonlight in trees. Quiet and sure. As he bowed, Jungkook noticed how Lady Nyra’s stance shifted just slightly, her breath changing. It passed fast, but he saw it.

Still, Cael stayed calm as always—his voice smooth, face calm and closed.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing deeper than the rest. “You must come with His Majesty.”

Jungkook’s breath paused, just a little.

His Majesty.

The words curled in him like smoke. His heart skipped—once, then again.

He looked to Jimin without meaning to, searching for comfort he couldn’t ask for.

Jimin nodded, his eyes calm. Steady. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

Jungkook gave a small nod back.

He stepped ahead, following Cael, each step softer than before.

Behind him, he heard the faint sound of Nyra’s robes and Jimin’s steady steps as they went on to the palace courtyard—toward the ritual he now knew was about true love.

Jungkook followed in silence, the corridor narrowing with each step, though it was wide as ever. His heart beat a little faster now—not from exertion, but from the question he dared not ask.

Why had he asked for him?

Was there something the King wished to say? Something to reveal? Or was this yet another thread in the tapestry he didn’t understand?

Cael finally stopped before a tall, obsidian door marked with silver detailing. It looked less like a royal chamber and more like a study—an office, perhaps, though Jungkook couldn’t be sure.

“His Majesty is inside,” Cael said, bowing with practiced grace.

Jungkook stood still for a breath.

Then another.

And then he inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

He won’t harm you, Jungkook thought. He wouldn’t. Would he?

But still—those eyes. Those dangerous, disarming eyes.

He reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

The room was large, quiet, and drenched in a stillness that felt sacred. Shelves of books lined the far wall, tall and ancient. A wide table stood at the center, scattered with scrolls and glass ink wells. Heavy curtains fell like dark rivers beside tall windows, filtering the light into something softer—muted gold and grey.

And there, hunched slightly over the table, stood Taehyung.

His figure was draped in deep red and black, layers of fabric cut clean and elegant. His long hair cascaded like silk down his back, half tied with a crimson ribbon. Chains hung around his waist, catching faint glints of light with every movement. A black veil covered the lower half of his face, concealing what should never be hidden.

And yet—Jungkook thought, That veil will be the very thing that ruins me.

The thought came unbidden.

Taehyung straightened then, as if sensing the presence behind him, and turned.

Their eyes met—and the world quieted.

It was a gaze that halted air in his lungs, that pierced past the surface and into something more private. Jungkook stood, caught in the quiet storm of it.

And from some forgotten corner of memory, a line from his favorite novel returned to him:

“Nothing touched me more than his eyes do.”

Taehyung’s gaze lingered. Too long. Too steady.

Then he opened a nearby drawer, reached in, and retrieved something—small and dark.

He stepped forward, and the sound of his chains filled the hush of the room like wind chimes in a still garden. Each click echoed louder in Jungkook’s chest than in the air.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Taehyung stopped in front of him, and with long, elegant fingers, lifted a veil—black, sheer, familiar.

Without a word, he reached up, hands brushing Jungkook’s cheek as he carefully fastened it around his face. His touch was precise, gentle. Almost reverent. His fingers grazed the nape of Jungkook’s neck as he tied the knot behind.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His gaze fell low. His hands trembled where they rested at his sides.

The knot was tied. The veil settled.

And Taehyung stepped back.

“When you are around others,” he said, voice low, calm, almost coaxing, “cover your face.”

Jungkook looked up slowly, eyes flickering toward his.

He nodded.

Just once.

But Taehyung did not move. He continued to look at him—longer than necessary, longer than Jungkook could bear. Under that gaze, Jungkook found himself shifting slightly, fingers fidgeting with the folds of his robe.

Then came a question.

“You didn’t like the accessories?”

The words caught Jungkook off guard.

Did he send them?

That thought alone made his throat tighten.

Was I supposed to wear them?

Was there meaning in everything this man gave him? Was every gesture deliberate?

“I… I don’t wear much,” Jungkook said softly, careful not to sound ungrateful. “I’ve always kept things simple.”

Taehyung made a low sound—something like a hum, but unreadable.

He turned then, moving back to the table with slow, measured steps. He picked up a quill, dipping it into ink. This time he stood at the front side of table facing him. 

“You should sit,” he said, still facing the scroll. “We’ll leave in a little while.”

Jungkook nodded and moved to the nearby couch, the cushions sinking gently beneath him.

He glanced back toward the desk, where Taehyung’s figure was bent slightly forward, quiet, focused. His hand moved with purpose across the page, but Jungkook couldn’t stop looking.

What are you writing?

What are you thinking?

What are you not saying?

He did not ask.

The silence between them stretched—but it did not suffocate. It settled.

And Jungkook, in his quiet corner of the room, let himself watch the man no one dared to name.

Jungkook’s gaze wandered, tracing the lines of the chamber—high arches, carved pillars, and the quiet hush of knowledge that lingered in the air like perfume. His eyes caught on the shelves that stretched along the wall, thick with spines worn by time. Books—hundreds of them.

He felt something soften in his chest.

Always, books had been his escape. His solace. Even back in Havana, when the walls felt too small and the expectations too loud, he had clung to pages and ink. Sometimes he would sneak into the city just to browse the library stalls. Other times, Aerum brought them to him—her arms full of bound stories and poems that smelled of dust and old sun.

Now, here in this kingdom of shadows, he hadn't dared to hope.

But the shelves stood here. Lined with quiet promise.

His eyes lit with something like longing. Would Taehyung let me read them? The thought stirred hope and hesitation in equal measure. Should I ask? Or would it be overstepping?

He didn't know the boundaries yet. He hardly knew anything at all.

A soft movement pulled him from thought—Taehyung was straightening from the desk. Jungkook rose from the couch immediately, smoothing the crease in his robe out of habit.

The king stood still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the page before him, unreadable.

Something flickered in his gaze then—too swift to name—and he rolled the parchment with careful fingers before placing it on the table.

Jungkook tried to glimpse it, curiosity rising like a tide, but the page was already lost to the roll.

Whatever was on there would remain a mystery.

They left the room together, the great door closing behind them with a soft click.

Taehyung lingered a step behind, his presence as silent and steady as a shadow. Jungkook felt it—felt him—even without turning. He slowed his pace slightly, hoping to walk beside him. But Taehyung didn’t move forward, keeping just behind.

Jungkook glanced back—only for a heartbeat.

Their eyes met.

And Jungkook quickly turned forward again, throat tightening.

Because Taehyung’s expression was unreadable. Unblinking. Eyes like nightfall, fixed directly on him.

Now he could feel it—feel that gaze on the back of his neck, like gravity.

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, trying to ground himself. He swallowed hard.

What is in your mind?

What did those eyes hold, cloaked so completely, yet so loud in silence?

He couldn’t name it.

Couldn’t understand it.

But he felt it. Deep and strange and growing.

They turned the corner toward the courtyard. And this time, Taehyung moved ahead.

Just before they reached the final archway, the king passed him, robes brushing gently against stone, chains at his waist chiming like wind in a distant storm.

Jungkook followed.

And together, they stepped into the light of the courtyard.

The courtyard stretched wide beneath them, stone steps descending into a sea of black.

From above, it looked like the night sky had spilled onto earth—rows and rows of Eclipsers, all robed in shadow, standing in solemn formation. The air buzzed with unspoken anticipation. Every robe shimmered faintly with dusk-dyed threads, their veils soft and wind-touched. As though darkness here was not absence—but tradition.

And then—

Taehyung stepped forward.

At once, the entire courtyard moved.

In perfect silence, every figure bent onto one knee, heads bowed, the air thick with reverence.

Jungkook stilled.

The hush was total.

Even his breath felt loud.

Before his thoughts could fully scatter, Taehyung lifted one hand, a simple, fluid gesture—and the sea rose.

Every person stood as one. Wordless. Obedient. Like dusk itself bowed to him.

Jungkook’s fingers curled by his side, heart thunderous.

And then—

Taehyung turned.

And extended his hand to him.

His breath caught. For a moment, he simply looked at it—long, pale fingers open in offering. He could almost feel the echo of their last touch in the court, where blood had mingled and bound. That strange heat that still hadn’t left him.

He bit the inside of his lip, then—slowly—placed his hand into his.

Their fingers met again.

Taehyung’s grip was steady, silent.

He led Jungkook forward, down the remaining steps, and toward the twin thrones carved into obsidian and ivory. Without a word, they sat side by side.

Jungkook glanced sideways.

To the right, he spotted Jimin, graceful as ever smiling at him , seated next to Lady Nyra—who gave him a soft smile. Others were there too—courtiers cloaked in night, some familiar, some not. He saw Kaira near the edge, her eyes sharp, fixed on him like he’d stolen something sacred.

He averted his gaze.

But here, beside Taehyung, the stone beneath him didn’t feel cold.

It felt… steady.

The moment held him. Strange and warm and too deep to understand yet.

His fingers flexed faintly over the armrest, his eyes drifting again toward the one beside him—veiled in black and red, still as silence, yet loud enough to tilt the world.

Suddenly, a deep sound broke through the air.

Drums.

A slow, rhythmic pulse. Like a heart too large for one body.

From the far end of the courtyard, figures emerged. Cloaked in black, veiled like shadows. Red ribbons curled from their wrists like streaks of fire.

Their arms rose.

And then they began to move.

Dancers.

Not quite like anything he had seen in Havana. Their steps were fluid, but sharp—feet whispering across stone, arms swaying like flame. The drums built slowly beneath them, deep and hollow and alive.

And then—

As one of them twirled, a flicker split the air.

Jungkook blinked.

It wasn’t cloth. It wasn’t light. It was—

Shadow.

They were dancing with shadows.

Each spin, each leap, each ribboned motion left behind a trail that curled in the air like smoke. Phantom limbs of dusk followed them, and it was not frightening—it was beautiful. Like magic woven through breath and bone.

His lips parted slightly.

How is this possible? He watched, entranced, as more shadows danced behind the dancers, echoing their every move. As though the very dusk obeyed the rhythm.

His eyes shimmered in the light. Wonder blooming like a secret garden inside his chest.

This place may have been foreign…

But in this moment—watching shadows dance beneath the open sky—it almost felt like it was dreaming him back to life.

As the last note of the drum faded into the courtyard’s hush, a new rhythm took its place—footsteps.

Soft and many.

Jungkook lifted his eyes to see a procession begin at the edge of the gathering. Men, women, and children walked forward, their arms full with small boxes wrapped in silks and ribbons. Offerings, perhaps.

He straightened slightly in his seat.

They bowed low before the steps of the throne, and then began their slow ascent. One by one. Each holding something, each expression filled with calm reverence.

Gifts for their king, Jungkook thought. Perhaps a ritual.

He watched closely as the first man reached the dais, lowered his head, and held the gift forward. Taehyung received it with a silent nod. His movements quiet, composed. The man’s eyes lingered, not in fear—but in deep respect. In something close to devotion.

Jungkook’s gaze softened.

They love him.

Each new figure who stepped forward seemed to echo the same: not fear, but affection. A kind of trust rarely seen in Havana’s courts. Even in silence, their eyes spoke—He is ours, and we are his.

Then—

Some of them turned to him.

Jungkook stiffened slightly, unsure if he should accept what was meant for another.

An old woman stepped closer. Her eyes wrinkled with age, but they gleamed with kindness. She reached out gently and took his hand in both of hers.

Her touch was warm. Too warm. Like sunlight caught in fragile skin.

Jungkook blinked, heart fluttering behind his ribs. He offered her a small smile beneath his veil.

“Thank you for coming to this kingdom, Your Highness,” she said softly. Her voice was trembled silk. “You are Selene to our king. May you both prosper together.”

Then she placed a small box into his hands.

His throat tightened.

He barely whispered his thanks, bowing his head. She smiled again, patted his hand once more, and stepped away.

But others followed.

One by one, they came. Bowing. Blessing him. Pressing gifts into his arms, wrapped in dark velvet and golden thread. He caught their words—light, hope, balance. Small children smiled at him. Men nodded with quiet pride. Women looked at him with gentle eyes.

None of them knew him.

And yet they gave him everything.

It was too much.

He placed the final gift beside the others, carefully, hands trembling faintly. His eyes lifted—and found the crowd still watching.

But they weren’t just looking.

They were seeing.

Seeing him.

As though he were something precious. Something that mattered. Like he belonged among them.

His heart ached at the thought.

He had never mattered before.

Back in Havana, he had been no more than a whisper inside stone walls. A prince in name, but never in presence. His uncle barely acknowledged him. The court rarely remembered he existed. His days were quiet—books and solitude, always.

But now…

Now he was seated beside a king who had given him all this without a word. Who had placed him beside him. Who had let the people see him.

He blinked down, quickly.

The moisture in his eyes was too sudden, too tender.

He stared at the stone beneath his feet. Tried to breathe. To steady the beat of his heart. To hold himself together.

Because for the first time…

He did not feel invisible.

He felt seen.

And that… was harder to bear than anything else.

And then—Watcher Cael stepped forward.

His cloak moved like water behind him as he bowed once before the throne.

“This month,” he spoke, voice calm and echoing, “two among our people have come to challenge their love and devotion before His Majesty. Come forth and bind your fates, should they be true.”

A hush fell again.

Jungkook watched as a young man stepped forward from the crowd. His robe was plain, his hands slightly trembling at his sides. And then a girl came to meet him, standing in front of him with grace in her step, but tears already caught in her lashes.

An oracle approached.

She moved with a soft authority, standing beside the pair.

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, eyes tracing every small movement. The boy extended his hand first—palm open, heart exposed. The oracle placed something gently atop it.

A stone.

No, not just a stone.

His heart seized.

That was the same stone—the one Taehyung had placed in his hand the day before. Cold and silent, yet pulsing somehow. Waiting.

His chest tightened painfully.

He watched, breath caught, as the girl placed her hand atop the boy’s. She shut her eyes. Her brows furrowed, lips parting like a prayer. The boy stared at her hand like it was both salvation and ruin.

Then—

A flicker.

A shadow shimmered between their palms. At first, faint, trembling like smoke. Then growing, deepening, until it wrapped itself in a radiant white light.

Jungkook’s eyes widened. That light.

He’d seen it.

In the court. When Taehyung’s hand touched his.

His fingers twitched in his lap.

And then oracle’s voice echoed.

“They are fated.”

The girl burst into tears.

The boy pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her shoulder as she sobbed. Her hands clutched his robe like she feared waking from a dream. Like she had feared the truth might betray her—but it hadn’t. It had chosen her.

The whole crowd cheered up. But Jungkook senses were long gone. 

Jungkook felt the air disappear from his lungs.

His eyes drifted sideways—drawn before he could stop himself.

To the man beside him.

To King.

To Taehyung. 

His gaze was ahead at the crowd.

Steady. Intense. Quietly devastating.

And in that silence, Jungkook saw something he hadn’t expected—softness?

Not sharp command. Not veiled indifference. But something more fragile. Eyes that shimmered not with cold, but with depth.

Expectations, maybe. Or perhaps Jungkook was seeing too much again. Reading poetry where there was none.

Still—his breath tangled in his throat.

And then he turn to look at him. 

Because in that moment, it almost felt like Taehyung had looked not at him, but into him.

And it was too much.

Too much for a heart that hadn’t yet healed from never being seen.

The ritual had ended.

He did not wait for anything, excused and left. 

But inside him, the tide had only begun to rise.

The silence afterward was louder than the drums.

Han walked beside him down the corridor, but Jungkook wasn’t fully present.

He kept seeing the flicker of light.

The shadow wrapping around it.

The way the oracle had said the words—

They are fated mates.

He could still feel the weight of Taehyung’s gaze on him. Not cold. Not distant.

But unreadable.

And then—

A voice, smooth as glass, sliced through his thoughts.

"What did you do to His Majesty?"

Jungkook stopped.

Kaira stood near the wall, veiled in black, her smile pleasant. Too pleasant.

He turned to her slowly, unsure if she was truly speaking to him.

She stepped closer.

He said nothing. Only looked.

Her gaze narrowed, but her voice remained soft.

“You’ve bewitched him, haven’t you? Carrying his scent around you?”

Still, he did not speak. His head ached. His chest was already full.

He turned to leave.

“Just because you’re fated to him,” she said, slower now, “don’t think for a moment that means he will accept you.”

He paused.

Not because he believed her.

But because something in her tone felt too practiced, too intentional.

He turned back, face calm, but eyes cold.

“…Lady Kaira,” he said finally. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

She tilted her head.

“You really don’t, do you?”

A quiet scoff left her lips.

“You humans,” she said, voice dropping lower, “are such simple creatures. Always mistaking kindness for belonging.”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched at his side.

He said nothing.

“You wonder why the court welcomed you so quickly?”

She took a step closer. “Why the people bowed so easily?”

Another step. “Why even the Watchers stayed silent?”

Jungkook’s silence was not out of fear.

It was how he held himself together.

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like it was a secret.

“He is cursed,” she said softly. “By his own blood. His power locked away… sealed generations ago. Everybody knows here.”

Her eyes searched his face.

“And the curse,” she whispered, “can only be lifted if he accepts his fated mate.”

The words fell like ice in his lungs.

His heartbeat faltered.

But on the outside—he was still.

Her lips curled.

“Now do you understand?” she murmured. “You weren’t chosen. You were needed.”

He looked at her, breath quiet.

Han took steps to speak. But Jungkook stops him. 

" It does not mean he will choose you." Jungkook said and it was more than a question. 

Her expression faltered a little. 

She took one final step back, smoothing her robe.

“But that doesn’t mean he’ll keep you,” she said, voice light as smoke. “Once the curse lifts, he’s free to want whoever he chooses.”

And she smiled—like that was the gift she came to give.

Then turned and disappeared into the corridor.

Han remained. He looked at Jungkook, unsure.

“Your Highness… please don’t take her words to heart.”

Jungkook turned to him, voice low. “Was she telling the truth?”

Han’s lips pressed into a thin line—his silence spoke for him.

“I’d like to rest,” Jungkook murmured. “You may go. And don’t speak of this to anyone.”

Han blinked, then bowed.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He walked to his room with quiet, clipped steps.

The world outside him sounded too far away.

The door shut behind him with a thud that echoed like a warning.

He stood there. Still. Barely breathing.

Then, slowly, he moved to the bed and sat down.

His hands lay folded in his lap. His chest rising in careful breaths.

He had always protected his heart.

Even when Jaehwan used to mock him, step in his boundaries that he did not want anyone to, 

Even when courtiers ignored him,

Even when no one looked twice at him in Havana—

He had stayed whole.

So why did this fracture feel so deep?

He reached up and pulled the veil from his face.

It burned like it no longer belonged to him.

And yet the scent lingered.

Sandalwood. Strawberries. Warmth.

It was still feels like his favorite kind of ache.

But now it felt dangerous.

Because maybe everything he was beginning to feel…

had only been usefulness.

Not desire. 

Not even choice.

Just fate, rearranging him like a pawn.

His hands curled around the veil in his lap.

But even through the weight of her words,

there was another thought, one he couldn’t shake—

He is cursed.

And somehow, that hurt too.

Jungkook shut his eyes.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of sorrow either.

He had come here already bruised.

But he hadn’t realized he is here to put ointment to someone's wounds. 

Still, it didn’t quiet the storm inside him. 

Because what if he was only a key?

A way to open a locked door?

And once opened—

What would become of him then?

And today, every smile that found him felt like a hand reaching not to hold, but to use—for what he could become in their hands.

Chapter Text

It had been a week.

Seven days, and yet the truth still sat in his chest like a heavy stone.

Jungkook had not asked Jimin, nor had he gathered the courage to ask anyone else. The silence between the truth and himself remained untouched. But now, even without words, it screamed at him.

He knew.

He knew what he was here for.

Not as a guest.

Not as someone chosen.

But as someone needed—to lift a curse.

Ever since the ritual, something had shifted in the air. The warmth he once thought he felt began to peel away. Every passing glance now felt calculated. Every smile a mask. Every greeting dipped in something he couldn’t quite name.

He no longer felt seen.

He felt watched.

As if any moment, they expected him to vanish.

But where would he even go?

There was no place left for him to run—not back to the halls of Havana where he was invisible, nor forward, into a future that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

And Taehyung?

He hadn’t seen him since that day.

Not even a glimpse. Not even a shadow brushing by.

The man who bound his fate to him… had vanished like mist.

And the silence left behind was deafening.

In those days of quiet, Jungkook was told by Han that he would begin training. No reason. No further words. Just a quiet instruction passed down like a formality.

And so he trained—with Ryan.

Ryan was light-hearted, the kind who spoke like wind and moved like rhythm. There was kindness in his eyes, but also curiosity—a kind that weighed on Jungkook’s skin like the rest.

Here in Eclipse, everything was different.

They trained not with mere weapons, but with shadows. With magic pulsing through their veins like second skin.

Jungkook had neither. He carried no echo of power. Only flesh and blood. Human, through and through.

“You first have to build resistance,” Ryan explained one morning, tone light but focused. “The shadows will try to manipulate you. You must learn to bend without breaking. Feel it without letting it own you.”

It sounded poetic—almost beautiful.

But when Jungkook tried, it all went wrong.

The shadows did not bend for him. They swallowed him whole.

The small sphere of shadow he was meant to pull around himself turned volatile in his hands. It flickered, cracked, then dissolved altogether—like he wasn’t worthy of even touching it.

Again. And again.

Each attempt ended in the same failure.

The shadows recoiled from him as if he was something foreign, something they refused to accept.

After hours, Ryan finally sighed and moved toward swords. “Let’s try this instead. Blade manipulation. Shadows follow your intent.”

It sounded promising. But Jungkook could barely lift the sword properly, much less guide a shadow with it. The blade slipped twice, then glowed dimly before sputtering out—no form, no echo.

The sun was sliding down by the time they paused. The sky stained gold and rose.

Ryan finally huffed and let himself fall to the ground with a dramatic exhale. Sweat painted his brow. “Your Highness… I think we should stop here. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

But Jungkook stayed standing, hands still clenched at his sides, breath uneven.

He wasn’t ready to stop. Not yet.

“I’m not done,” he said softly.

Ryan blinked up at him, then stood again, scratching his neck with a sheepish smile. “Your Highness… forgive me, but your mind is somewhere else today. This requires all of you. Not pieces.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Jungkook’s heart hadn’t been here. Not in this courtyard, not in this moment.

It was back in that courtyard, beneath veiled dancers and flickering shadows.

It was in the hall, when he sat beside a man with unreadable eyes.

It was with him—with the man who hadn’t appeared for days.

The man who was cursed.

That thought still lingered in his chest, unspoken.

Taehyung, the powerful, mysterious ruler—was cursed.

And Jungkook… was the answer. Not a lover. Not a partner. Just a key.

And still… something inside him ached at the thought.

A part of him, quiet and buried deep, felt sorry for him.

What did it mean to carry a curse so great that your kingdom wrapped itself in silence for it?

What must it have cost to live with such chains, unseen?

Maybe that was why Taehyung kept his distance.

Maybe it was shame. Or guilt. Or maybe it was easier this way—for both of them.

Still, Jungkook whispered, “Can we try one more time?”

Ryan looked at him carefully.

“I’ll do my best,” Jungkook said again, voice steadier. Though it trembled slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

Ryan nodded once. “Then let’s try again.”

Jungkook steadied his stance, fingers curled tightly around the hilt of the sword. The ache in his palm was beginning to dull, but he forced himself to focus. Again.

Across from him, Ryan moved with ease—a fluid sweep of motion, his blade slicing through the air with calculated grace. The shadows followed him like they belonged to him, curling obediently around his limbs, dancing between his feet.

Jungkook mimicked the movement.

For a second—a fragile, flickering second—it worked.

The shadows stirred beneath his blade.

He felt it: the shift, the pulse, the control.

A smile tugged at his lips—

—but then the shadow twisted the wrong way. Recoiled. Turned.

And in a blink, the hilt slipped from his grasp.

His blade hit the ground with a sharp clang. A hot sting followed.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, staring at the sudden streak of red blooming across his hand.

Ryan’s sword clattered down next.

He was at his side instantly. “Your Highness—”

Jungkook flinched when Ryan took his wrist, though not from pain. The concern etched across the man’s face felt unfamiliar—too tender, too kind.

Ryan frowned. “It looks deep.”

His hand moved quickly. He unwound the cloth from around his own head—something simple, a sweatband—and wrapped it around Jungkook’s hand, his fingers gentle, movements precise.

“You should rest,” Ryan said quietly, voice lower now. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Jungkook nodded, withdrawing his hand with a quiet, almost invisible motion. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. Ryan only offered a small bow before leaving the training grounds.

And Jungkook stood alone for a moment, the warmth of the cloth around his palm already beginning to fade.

He fastened his girdle, pulled his robe into place, and stepped into the marble halls.

He hadn’t expected to see him.

But there he was.

Taehyung.

Just as he remembered. Clad in crimson and black, shoulders wrapped in silence and power, that same dark veil masking half his face. His long hair, like onyx silk, fell loose down his back. Untouched. Unbothered.

Untouchable.

A week had passed, and Jungkook hadn’t seen him once.

And now, just like that, he was standing there. At the end of the corridor, in the heart of the palace—hands clasped behind his back, body still as carved stone. Watcher Cael stood beside him. And her.

Kaira.

She was laughing. Soft and lilting. Like everything was beautiful and bright. Like curses weren’t real and fate wasn’t cruel.

Something in Jungkook’s chest curled inward.

They looked whole. Perfect. As if nothing had changed since the ritual.

And he? He stood on the edge of this place like a misplaced thing—half-shadowed, half-seen.

Just a curse-breaker.

The ache rose again. A quiet, persistent thing.

He didn’t want to walk through this corridor. Didn’t want to pass by their world like a ghost drifting through someone else’s life.

But there was no other way to his room.

So he stepped forward.

And Taehyung turned.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But his head lifted slowly, eyes following every step Jungkook took like a silent command. Like he had been waiting.

But Jungkook didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

Because those eyes—they broke something in him. They pulled at all the pieces he had tried so hard to keep together. And now wasn’t the time to fall apart.

“Your Highness,” Cael greeted, bowing.

Jungkook nodded beneath the veil.

The veil.

He still wore it.

He hadn’t taken it off in public since he asked him to keep it on.

Ironic.

That he still listened to the man who hadn’t said a word to him since.

The man who probably only saw him as a means to an end.

“A wound?” Kaira's voice rang out, light and deceptively warm.

Jungkook glanced at her. She was smiling.

His frown deepened, unsure what she meant—until he noticed her eyes on his bandaged hand.

“I got a cut,” he said, voice flat. “During training.”

A flicker. From the corner of his eye, he felt it.

Taehyung was staring. Not at his face, but at his hand. Eyes sharp. Dark. Intense.

And then they lifted—to him.

Jungkook’s breath faltered for half a second. He looked away.

He didn’t want to see whatever it was in those eyes. Not now. Not when he was this raw.

Kaira opened her mouth again, but Taehyung spoke before she could.

“We’ll speak later,” he said quietly, eyes still on Jungkook. “This isn’t the time.”

The amusement dropped from her face.

She bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

And then she turned and left, her laughter gone like it had never existed.

Cael, too, gave a respectful bow and stepped away.

Leaving just them. Still. Silent. A shadow of something unnamed hanging between them.

Jungkook fidgeted with the folds of his robe, fingertips brushing the embroidery with no reason except to anchor himself. He didn’t understand. Not the silence. Not the sudden attention.

Taehyung said nothing, only tilted his head slightly—then gestured toward the garden doors.

Jungkook turned to follow the motion, uncertain.

The two of them walked side by side down the empty corridor and into the night-washed garden. Neither spoke. Only the soft hum of cicadas and the faint rustling of leaves filled the air. And yet Jungkook’s heart beat like a warning.

This man—he always brought something unfamiliar into his chest. Something too close to fear, too near to longing.

The sky hung low above them, navy-touched with silver. The flowers in bloom bowed under the weight of dew, quiet in the moonlight.

“How is your training going?” Taehyung asked.

His voice broke the silence gently, like a ripple on still water.

Jungkook's eyes remained on the garden beds ahead. "I’m trying my best," he said softly.

Because that was all he had. Effort. But no result.

Taehyung was silent for a moment. Then, “Why have you been so withdrawn this past week?”

Jungkook turned to him, startled. The question came out of nowhere—sharp, quiet. Unavoidable.

He blinked.

They hadn’t seen each other. Not once. Not since the ritual. Not a glance.

And yet… he had noticed.

The realization knocked something loose in his chest.

Taehyung waited.

“If something is weighing on you,” he said after a pause, “you should ask. Silence won’t heal it.”

Jungkook looked back to the flowers again. A soft wind stirred the petals, making them tremble.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to demand the truth: Is that why I’m here? Just to lift your curse? Am I anything beyond that to you?

But some truths slice deeper than lies. And Jungkook—he wasn’t sure he could survive the cut.

“Sometimes,” he said instead, voice low, “being clueless is a blessing.”

The garden hushed around them.

Then, quietly, Taehyung stepped closer.

Jungkook turned toward him again, instinctively—and his breath caught when Taehyung reached out.

His fingers were delicate. Reverent. He took Jungkook’s injured hand and gently unwrapped the soiled cloth Ryan had used earlier, discarding it without a word.

He held the wounded palm between his own, brows drawing faintly as he examined the cut.

Then, with a ghost-like touch, his thumb brushed across the wound.

The sting vanished. Jungkook blinked, breath stalled.

It was like the pain had never existed.

With his other hand, Taehyung reached for the band around his own head—unfastening it, smooth and slow—and without looking up, wrapped it around Jungkook’s hand with tender precision. A knot of silk. A gesture that said nothing, but meant something.

Jungkook stood frozen, unable to move.

Taehyung’s fingers were still around his hand. His head slightly bowed in concentration. And up close, Jungkook could see it clearly now—the line of his cheekbone, the softness of his jaw beneath the edge of the veil.

He wanted to see him. All of him. To know if the man behind the silence was as cold as the rumors or as gentle as this moment.

Because right now—Taehyung looked too careful. Too gentle.

Too human.

And that was dangerous.

“Can you remove your veil?”

The words slipped out before Jungkook could pull them back. A whisper. A request. A quiet crack in his restraint.

Taehyung didn’t move for a second.

Then, slowly, he reached behind his neck.

His fingers worked at the knot. The veil slipped loose.

And then it was gone—folded softly into his hand.

Jungkook stared.

He forgot how to breathe.

There was no monster beneath it. No cruelty etched into bone.

Only a man with tired eyes and a face too soft for the rumors carved around it.

Jungkook turned away abruptly, eyes dropping to the roses along the stone path.

He hated it.

How innocent he looked.

Because it made everything harder. The veil, the voice, the curse—it had all been easier to carry when Jungkook could believe Taehyung was untouchable. That he deserved the curse. That Jungkook was only here to fix something broken.

But now—he couldn’t stop thinking about how lonely he looked.

And it terrified him.

Because Jungkook knew loneliness like second skin.

A moment passed. Then Taehyung quietly replaced the veil.

His voice was calm when he spoke again. “There’s a hunt arranged. You can join It may help with your training.”

Jungkook nodded. He didn’t trust his voice just yet.

They remained in the garden a little longer, neither of them moving. Just the moonlight between them, soft and silver and unsure.

The morning of the hunt came sooner than expected.

Jungkook washed in silence, fingers brushing over cold water as if it could rinse away the unrest in his chest. He dressed in the clothes laid out for him—leather-bound and laced, tailored to allow movement. It felt unfamiliar. Like stepping into a role written for someone else.

He had never hunted before. Not in Havana.

There were no rituals like this in the sunlit kingdom.

Yet today… something felt lighter. He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way Taehyung had looked at him yesterday—not with duty. Not as a bearer of a curse.

But something else. Something softer.

It didn’t change everything. But it made breathing easier.

He adjusted the red cloth in his hand—the one Taehyung had wrapped around his wound—and tied it through his hair, folding half of it back into a knot. The silk rested against his neck, faintly warm.

A small rebellion. Or maybe… just something to hold on to.

He made his way toward the stables.

They were already gathering. Watchers. Nobles. Servants adjusting saddles and reins. The air was cool, damp with the scent of morning earth.

Jimin caught sight of him first.

“You’re late,” he teased.

Jungkook offered a faint smile.

But then Jimin's expression shifted. A frown tugged at his lips as he stepped closer. His gaze fell to the ribbon in Jungkook’s hair, and then flicked to his face.

“Is this Taehyung’s?” he asked, nodding toward the cloth.

Jungkook nodded, quiet.

Jimin’s eyes shifted again—this time toward where Taehyung stood by his horse, speaking to Commander Yoongi. Then back to Jungkook.

A small, amused smile bloomed.

“He’s not subtle at all,” Jimin murmured.

Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

But before Jimin could answer, the voice that always stole breath interrupted the air.

“We shall go in two groups,” Taehyung said, calm and low, barely above the hush of the wind. “I will lead one, as always. Prince Jimin shall lead the other.”

Jungkook turned toward him instinctively.

And, just like always, the noise of the world dulled around him.

Just that voice.

Just those veiled eyes.

And the weight that always came with both.

Watcher Cael stood beside the horses. Commander Yoongi crossed his arms nearby. And Lady Kaira, painted in scarlet and pride, stepped forward.

“I will ride with you as always, Your Majesty,” she said smoothly, lips already curved. “Watcher Cael shall accompany us.”

Jungkook looked at her—then at Taehyung.

The King said nothing. No glance. No refusal.

Just silence.

It pressed against Jungkook’s chest. He recognized it too well.

It sounded like the empty corridors of Havana, when his name was a burden too heavy for anyone to say aloud.

It sounded like being tolerated.

So he spoke. Before he could stop himself.

“I… I do not know how to ride the horse. ”

Not entirely true. But truth was flexible when pain needed a way out.

Heads turned. He kept his eyes lowered, fixed on the hooves in the dirt.

Jimin’s laughter broke the stillness.

“Then it seems you’ll need to ride with someone.”

Jungkook tilted his head, lashes brushing his cheeks. “Someone?”

His voice was soft. Not innocent. Just unreadable.

There was a pause.

Then Taehyung’s voice came again, clear and sharp as a blade drawn.

“Lady Kaira,” he said without inflection, “you shall ride with Prince Jimin. I will take Prince Jungkook—with Watcher Cael.”

The silence that followed was tight and clipped.

Like held breath.

Kaira’s lips parted, but before her tongue could form protest, Taehyung turned from them.

That was the end of it.

And somehow, Jungkook felt worse.

Because it didn’t feel like a choice.

It felt like necessity.

He is here for him.

That reminder sank like a stone in his chest.

He turned to look at Taehyung, who was already gesturing silently toward the horse.

Jungkook walked toward it. He didn’t need help—but the King extended his arm.

Without a word, Jungkook placed his hand on it and lifted himself into the saddle.

Taehyung followed, mounting behind him.

The closeness settled like heat against his spine. Not burning. Not urgent.

Just present.

The red cloth in his hair brushed against Taehyung’s shoulder as they steadied the horse.

There was a moment of stillness behind him.

Then—an arm slid around his waist.

Not tight. Not seeking.

Just enough.

Just there to steady.

The other hand reached past him, curling over the reins.

And the horse began to move.

They slipped into the forest like dusk slipping into night—

quiet, unhurried, inevitable.

Leaves stirred overhead in the hush of morning wind,

and birds murmured in soft, secret tones above.

Jungkook let his eyes fall closed, just for a moment.

The veil brushed lightly against his jaw. The leather beneath him was warm. And behind him, Taehyung’s presence pressed in—not close enough to touch his skin, but close enough to feel.

Steady. Silent.

Undeniably real.

His thoughts turned, slow and painful.

To the letter.

To the lie.

To the ache of being sent away—not chosen, but discarded.

And then to Kaira’s words.

The curse.

The cruel truth that chained him to this place.

He wondered—

Is that all I am to him? A bearer of ruin to be cured and cast aside?

But Taehyung…

Taehyung didn’t look at him like that.

Didn’t touch him like that.

In his presence, Jungkook never felt like something broken.

He only felt seen.

And yet—he still couldn’t trust it.

Because nothing in his life had ever been that kind.

He wondered what it might’ve been like…

if they had started differently.

If there were no thrones. No fate. No curses.

If they had met in the wildness of the world

as no one and nothing.

Would you have chosen me then, too?

The forest thickened around them with each passing hour. Sunlight broke only in scattered beams, soft and dappled across the dirt path. The air turned cooler, heavier with scent—pine, moss, rain clinging to bark.

Their horse slowed to a halt.

Jungkook blinked, pulling himself back to the moment.

His body ached faintly from the ride, legs stiff, arms reluctant to move. He shifted slightly, preparing to climb down—

But paused.

Taehyung stood beside the horse already, gaze tilted up.

Arms lifted slightly.

Waiting.

An unspoken offer. A quiet command.

Jungkook swallowed.

He was meant to act like he didn’t know how to ride.

Like he needed help.

And yet, the thought of Taehyung’s hands at his waist made something stir inside him—low, uncertain, unformed.

He leaned forward.

The King’s hands caught him gently. Firm, but not demanding. His palms settled at Jungkook’s sides like he had touched him before, like he knew how to hold him without breaking him.

For one breathless second, Jungkook hovered—neither on the horse nor the ground.

Suspended between the fall and the catch.

Then, with quiet precision, Taehyung lowered him to the forest floor.

“Thank you,” Jungkook murmured, eyes lowered, voice barely a whisper against the trees.

Taehyung’s gaze lingered. “We shall hunt now,” he said. Calm. Clipped. His words like arrows, never missing. “It will be done before evening.”

Watcher Cael stepped forward, hesitation hidden poorly behind protocol.

“But Your Highness, the prince is unfamiliar with these woods.”

Taehyung’s eyes flicked toward Jungkook—

cool, unreadable, unwavering.

“He shall follow me,” he said.

And that was that.

No questions. No room for refusal.

The hunting party began to split—

disappearing one by one into the forest,

into branches and silence,

into paths that led away from them.

Only the trees bore witness

as Jungkook followed him—

deeper, still deeper

into the dark.

Jungkook followed Taehyung’s lead, steps measured and light upon the underbrush. The King moved ahead with quiet certainty—bow in hand, eyes scanning the trees, each movement deliberate, each breath like part of the forest’s rhythm.

Jungkook carried a bow, too. But it felt ornamental in his hands—something borrowed from another life.

His gaze often slipped to the man in front of him.

The way Taehyung’s leather attire clung to his frame, functional yet regal. The dark length of his hair, half tied, half cascading in inked waves down his back. And the veil—still drawn, still hiding what Jungkook wanted so badly to see.

Why does he hide it?

Always so careful.

Always just beyond reach.

His thoughts drifted—to silence, to distance, to the earlier moment when Taehyung had offered his hand without warmth, without hesitation. Formal. Measured.

And yet…

"I believe I see a deer!" Jungkook said suddenly, too loud, pointing ahead into the trees.

Taehyung turned in one fluid motion, bow raised, eyes sharp.

Nothing.

Jungkook offered a sheepish smile. “It was there. It must have fled.”

The King studied him for a heartbeat too long before turning back without a word.

Jungkook pouted at his back. No reply. Just the sound of leaves underfoot and the breeze threading through pine.

They walked on.

A few moments later, Jungkook tried again.

"There, I saw it again!"

Taehyung stopped, shoulders still. He looked over with narrowed eyes, clearly unimpressed.

The look—calm, unbothered, faintly unimpressed—nearly broke Jungkook’s composure. He had to press a hand against his mouth to stifle a laugh.

But again, Taehyung said nothing. He simply resumed walking.

He won’t speak unless I tear the words from his lungs, Jungkook thought with a sigh, trudging behind, part amused, part defeated.

He was about to give up entirely when—

A sound.

Real this time.

A rustle, light as breath, from the thicket to their left.

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty,” he whispered this time, gentler, pointing with care. “Look… over there.”

But Taehyung didn’t stop.

He didn’t even glance. Clearly expecting another false call.

Jungkook frowned, stepping forward quickly. “I—”

His fingers closed around Taehyung’s arm.

Taehyung turned, swift and sharp—but in the same instant, Jungkook’s foot caught on an uneven stone.

The world tipped.

A breath caught in both their throats—

Then the thud.

They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and breath and startled silence.

Jungkook blinked.

He was sprawled atop the King—half on, half off, robes askew, bows flung somewhere beside them.

Taehyung lay beneath him, eyes unreadable beneath the veil, the edges of his hair haloed by fallen leaves.

“I… apologize,” Jungkook whispered, breath shaky. “Are you harmed?”

A beat of quiet.

Then Taehyung spoke, voice as dry as dust and just as sharp:

“Truly?”

Jungkook bit down on a laugh, lips twitching behind the cloth that shielded his face.

But then—a real rustle. Close. The brush parted.

The deer stepped into the open, quiet and small, eyes wide.

“There—!” Jungkook gasped, beginning to rise.

But a hand found his mouth, firm but not cruel.

“Silence,” Taehyung murmured.

He shifted, moving Jungkook gently aside before rising in one fluid motion—silent, composed, the bow already in his hand.

A moment of stillness.

Then the arrow.

It flew with clean, deadly grace—striking true. The deer collapsed without a sound.

Jungkook stood slowly, awe flickering across his face.

“Your aim is… remarkable.”

Taehyung moved without reply, retrieving the deer with practiced ease, lifting it effortlessly and securing it to the horse.

When he returned, he held out a water skin in silence.

Jungkook reached for it. Their fingers brushed—only for a breath—but the touch lingered.

“This way,” Taehyung said, stepping past him into the trees. “You will hunt the next.”

Jungkook blinked. “Must I? Is this not enough?”

“We are six who hunt,” Taehyung replied. “But many mouths wait at camp.”

Jungkook nodded, a little ashamed. He accepted the water, drinking in small sips before following behind again, steps softer now.

Around them, the forest breathed in quiet.

And within him—though his lips remained closed—his heart pulsed a little louder than before.

They had been walking for what felt like hours.

The forest had thickened into a wall of green and shadow, and the sky above dimmed with the slow descent of dusk. Still—nothing stirred. No prey. No birdsong. Only the crunch of boots against brittle twigs, and the unbroken quiet that stretched between them.

Jungkook's legs throbbed. The ache bloomed from his calves to the arches of his feet, a dull weight that only grew heavier. Still, he said nothing.

Ahead of him, the King moved as if untouched by time. Steady. Effortless. Not a hint of weariness in his steps.

It made Jungkook feel small. Undisciplined. Like a child playing pretend in armor that didn't fit.

He bit the inside of his cheek, and walked on.

But pain has a way of deepening. Of blooming.

The ache grew sharp. Then it numbed. His pace slowed, his breath catching as the weight in his limbs grew unbearable.

Still, he didn’t speak.

Until finally—he had to.

"Your Majesty…" Jungkook called, quieter than usual, like the forest itself might shatter if he raised his voice. “Forgive me, but… is this still the right path? The sun sinks lower, and we’ve yet to see even a hare.”

He crouched without thinking, fingers rubbing at the sore twist of his ankle—but straightened fast as Taehyung turned.

The King’s gaze met his. Calm. Cool. Faintly narrowed.

“Do you believe I have led you astray?”

Jungkook’s spine locked straight. “N-no. That wasn’t my meaning. Only that… perhaps the path changed. Or... perhaps you were distracted.”

There was a pause. The quiet kind. The kind that wrapped around the ribs and waited.

Then Taehyung stepped closer.

“We are deep within the forest now,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “One more. Then we return.”

Jungkook nodded, the gesture small, almost unseen. He hid the grimace that tugged at his mouth, swallowed the sharp breath climbing his throat. He walked.

But each step dragged.

His stomach coiled with emptiness—a twisting hunger he had ignored too long. He hadn’t eaten that morning. Overslept. Again. Han had reminded him, but he hadn’t listened.

Now the edges of his vision frayed.

He stumbled once.

Then again.

And then—

A sharp snap of pain.

His foot twisted, caught on uneven earth. His balance vanished. The trees spun, and the ground rushed up.

A cry tore from his lips as he hit the forest floor, pain slicing through his ankle like fire.

“Ah—!”

Footsteps. Swift. Then—

“What happened?” Taehyung was beside him in seconds, kneeling. His voice sharper than usual—but his hands were steady. Always steady.

“My ankle,” Jungkook whispered, his breath caught. “I… I think I twisted it.”

Taehyung didn’t speak. His expression didn’t shift. But his hands moved.

Without asking, he removed Jungkook’s boot.

Jungkook flinched at the touch—then again at the sight. The skin around his ankle had turned dark—swollen, bruised, already purpling beneath the flesh.

Taehyung’s eyes lingered on it. Still unreadable. Still composed.

But something flickered behind them.

A shadow. Regret? Frustration? Jungkook couldn’t tell.

“You cannot walk with this,” Taehyung said at last.

Jungkook’s heart dropped.

The light was nearly gone. The woods dimmed, the wind colder now, threading through the trees like a whisper.

“But… we have to return,” Jungkook said, trying to push himself upright. “We can’t stay here. The dark—it's coming—”

Pain surged up his leg and sent him collapsing back with a hiss. “Ah…”

“Do not move,” Taehyung commanded, firmer now. “We are too deep. To walk would take hours. And at your pace… longer.”

“But—” Jungkook’s voice cracked. Panic leaked in, sharp and childish. He hated it. “We’re not safe here either. The dark—”

He faltered. His throat ached.

“I did not mean to raise my voice,” he said quickly, voice thinned to a whisper. “It’s just…”

A breath. Shallow. Shaking.

“I do not like the darkness.”

He couldn't meet Taehyung’s eyes.

A silence followed. Long and weighted.

The forest groaned with wind. A raven cried far off, once.

Jungkook clenched his fists, hating how vulnerable he felt. How small. How helpless.

Then—a sudden shift.

A quiet rustle of cloth. Movement.

And without a word, Taehyung stepped closer. Crouched. Slid one arm behind Jungkook’s back, the other beneath his knees.

And in a single, effortless motion—lifted him from the ground.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

Jungkook gasped softly, his hand instinctively clutching at the King's shoulder, heart thundering in his chest like a war drum.

“I am heavy,” he murmured, breath catching. “You shouldn’t—”

“You are not,” came the quiet reply.

That was all. Nothing more.

Taehyung turned and began walking—steady and unfaltering—not in the direction they had come, but deeper into the woods.

Jungkook blinked, eyes narrowing faintly. Shadows thickened around them, and still the King moved forward.

Why?

He opened his mouth to ask, but the rhythm of Taehyung’s steps—the quiet determination etched into his movements, the unwavering strength in his arms—made the question dissolve on his tongue.

Instead, slowly, Jungkook let his head rest against the King's chest. Eyes half-lidded. Breath light. His pulse still fluttering in that fragile, aching way.

And in that warmth—in the quiet rise and fall of Taehyung’s breath beneath him—he felt safe.

It unsettled him.

Soon, thick brush appeared ahead—tangled, wild, towering.

“Close your eyes,” Taehyung said, voice low but firm. “Do not lift your head.”

Jungkook obeyed without hesitation, lashes brushing his cheeks as he pressed his face close, arms lightly curled in. He felt the King shift his weight, ducking, the brush of thorns against robes. One bramble caught across the back of Jungkook’s hand—a thin, stinging line—but he made no sound beyond a quiet hiss.

Then—

Stillness.

“You may open them.”

Jungkook blinked, slow and dazed. The world reappeared in shades of green and gold.

And before them—

A small wooden structure, tucked away where the forest grew deepest. Modest. Weathered by time. Half-hidden in ivy and moss. A cottage, or something like it, though simpler. More forgotten than lived in.

Taehyung stepped forward and pushed the creaking door open. Inside: a low wooden bed lined with clean furs, a clay water vessel resting in the corner, and on the shelves—books, folded cloth, dried herbs hung with care.

A hush settled over Jungkook.

Gently, Taehyung lowered him onto the bed.

Jungkook sat there, stunned. His fingers curled around the frame like he needed to feel something solid.

“This place…” he whispered, barely above breath. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” came the reply.

Taehyung didn’t turn to face him. He was already moving—searching through a stack of neatly kept cloth.

Jungkook blinked again. “Yours…?”

The King didn’t answer. Not really. Not beyond that one word.

But something in his posture—low, weary, unguarded—made Jungkook stop pressing.

He nodded faintly, eyes falling to his lap.

Then Taehyung returned. He knelt beside him, and without a word, reached for his injured foot.

Jungkook tensed.

The King’s touch was neither harsh nor tender—just steady. Assured. His hands carried the same quiet strength as his silence.

Still, a strange shiver threaded up Jungkook’s spine.

“It will heal by dawn,” Taehyung said, winding a strip of white cloth around the swelling. His fingers lingered.

Then—two fingers pressed gently against the bandage. A faint shimmer of shadow glowed and vanished beneath his touch.

“Your bone is unbroken. The pain shall subside.”

Jungkook stared. First at the cloth, then the King’s hand. Then slowly, up at his face.

“…Thank you,” he said at last, voice hushed. Barely a breath.

Taehyung stood, quiet once more. He crossed the room and picked up a small dagger from the wall.

Jungkook sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”

“We need food,” Taehyung replied simply. “I will not be long.”

And then—he was gone.

The door creaked shut behind him.

Jungkook didn’t move. The pain in his ankle had dulled—but not the storm in his chest. The hush inside the little hut felt heavier now, thick with words unspoken.

He stared at the door.

He hadn’t asked to be carried. Hadn’t asked for bandages or a hidden shelter deep within the forest. Or for shadows that could heal.

But somehow… Taehyung had given all of it anyway.

And something about that felt so strange.

So right.

It didn’t look like Taehyung only wanted him for the curse. Or… did he?

The question gnawed at the corners of his heart.

Jungkook leaned back slowly, letting the furs cradle him. His hand brushed the place on his arm where Taehyung’s touch had lingered.

He closed his eyes.

And whispered to the silence, voice trembling and soft,

“Why do you make my heart ache like this…”

Jungkook lay on the low wooden bed, eyes tracing the lines in the wooden beams above, where shadows swam like ghosts in the dimness. The air had grown colder. Still, the King had not returned.

A full half hour—maybe more.

The silence began to claw.

He turned his head, eyes flicking toward the door. No footsteps. No creak of branches. Just the hush of wind slipping through the wooden slats and the occasional groan of the cottage settling into night.

Taehyung should have returned by now.

Jungkook sat up slowly. His hands trembled faintly in his lap.

He didn’t like this—not the quiet, not the waiting, not the dark.

The warmth that lingered in the hut had begun to fade, swallowed by nightfall. The golden haze from earlier had long vanished. Now, only a faint ribbon of moonlight spilled through the narrow window, casting silver streaks across the floor like blades.

A part of him wanted to stay—wanted to curl back beneath the furs and wait in silence, eyes shut against the dark, against the ache in his chest.

But worry gnawed at him. Worry... and something else.

He rose slowly, bracing against the wall. His ankle still held a faint ache, but it was minor now—quiet. The healing shadows had done their work.

And still, as he reached the door, his hand paused on the wood.

He stared at it for a long moment, jaw clenched.

He hated the dark.

And out there... it stretched, endless and cold.

But Taehyung hadn’t returned.

Jungkook took a breath—sharp and shallow—and pushed the door open.

The world beyond was black.

Moonlight hung low, filtered through shifting clouds. Trees loomed tall, gnarled arms reaching toward the stars. The wind whispered through the leaves, and every sound felt distant, wrong.

Still, Jungkook stepped out. One foot, then another.

Each step felt like a betrayal to the voice inside him that begged him to stay.

He moved slowly toward the wall of brambles. The same path Taehyung had carried him through. His fingers pushed into the thick branches. Thorns snagged at his sleeves.

One branch scratched across the back of his hand, splitting skin.

“Ah—!” he hissed, watching blood bead up along the cut. Cold air kissed it.

Still, he pushed forward.

The thicket gave way—and the forest opened before him.

Darkness waited.

“Your Grace...?” he called out, voice wavering.

No answer.

Only the trees. Still. Watching.

He stepped forward.

“Your Grace?” softer this time. A whisper.

Still, no reply.

The ache in his chest bloomed. A slow, heavy thing.

He turned. Tried to find the hut again—but the path behind him had vanished. The woods looked different. Or maybe they always looked the same—just endless shadow.

Panic whispered at the edges of his mind.

His breath came faster now. Cold nipped at his skin. His heart thudded, shallow and sharp.

Then—he felt it.

A shift in the air.

A presence.

Behind him.

His breath hitched. His body locked.

Slowly, Jungkook turned.

And the scream tore from him.

A towering shadow stood in the dark. A man-shaped void—made of nothing but thick, swirling smoke. No eyes. No mouth. No face. Just cold, crushing presence.

Jungkook stumbled back. His foot caught the edge of a root—his balance wavered.

The thing reached for him.

“No—!” he gasped, stumbling away—but too late.

Its hand gripped his wrist—ice-cold, searing where it touched.

With impossible strength, it hurled him to the forest floor.

He landed hard. The wind left his lungs in one jagged breath.

Above him, the thing loomed.

Closer. Closer still.

Tears welled in his eyes.

Not like this. Not alone. Not in the dark.

It hovered over him, swallowing the air around his face. The shadows of its body curled inward, hungry.

He raised his arm to shield himself, fingers trembling.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t speak.

He hated the dark—and now it had come for him.

And still, he waited.

For pain.

For death.

For anything.

Eyes squeezed shut, chest trembling.

A moment passed.

Then came the sharp sound of something slicing through the air-swift, clean-and then... silence.

Jungkook slowly lowered his trembling arm.

His breath hitched when he saw it.

The towering shadow was gone.

Taehyung stood in its place, chest heaving, a faint gleam of sweat at his brow. In his hand, he held a weapon that shimmered unnaturally-a carved log, or so it seemed, until the edges rippled with shadow. A blade forged not of steel, but of something darker. Something alive.

The shadow-wielder had been slain in a single stroke.

Taehyung turned sharply, eyes locking onto Jungkook. The quiet of the moment fractured.

"Did I not tell you to remain where you were?" His voice was low, but laced with anger. "Why did you leave?"

Jungkook bit down on his trembling lip.

His shoulders shook despite himself, body still weak from fear, limbs cold as the night air that wrapped around him. His heart had not yet calmed. His voice was lost.

"Had I arrived but a moment later..." Taehyung took another unsteady breath, gaze sharp. "Do you even understand what might have happened?"

He crouched now, closer, shadows moving beneath his feet.

"That was no mere creature of the woods. That was a Soulwielder. He would have drained you-emptied you of breath, of soul, and left you... nothing."

Jungkook's eyes widened, breath catching.

Taehyung rubbed at his temple, the weight of his words suddenly heavy in the air. "This is not Havana. This is Eclipse. And you cannot afford to be careless."

Still, Jungkook did not lift his eyes. He sat frozen, gaze fixed on the forest floor. The leaves rustled gently. Somewhere in the distance, a bird stirred.

Taehyung's anger faded as quickly as it had risen. He knelt fully now, his tone softer.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, more gently this time. "Let me see."

Jungkook didn't respond. Not a word. His body remained hunched, eyes still hidden behind lashes.

A flicker of frustration rose in Taehyung, and he reached forward to steady him by the shoulder, to pull him upright.

But as soon as he did-

Another sob slipped from Jungkook's lips.

Taehyung stilled. Completely.

His hand loosened.

"I..." he murmured. ""

Jungkook shook his head quickly, still not looking up.

"No?" Taehyung asked, voice low.

And finally, Jungkook lifted his face.

His eyes glistened. Cheeks flushed. Lower lip trembling, bitten raw.

"You were late," he whispered, breath uneven. "I... I went to find you. I was worried. I did not know that thing would be out here..."

He swallowed around the rest of his sentence. Hiccuped. Looked away again, as if embarrassed by his own fear.

Taehyung's brows furrowed. His gaze dropped to Jungkook's hand-blood marked the back of it, a thin red line.

"It's your blood," Taehyung said quietly.

"Huh?"

"They are night-borne Soulwielders. Drawn to scent. To warmth. To blood," he explained.

Jungkook looked down at his hand, suddenly recalling the sting of the thorny bush he had pushed through.

"It... must have been this," he said softly.

Without a word, Taehyung reached forward. He took Jungkook's hand in his own, cradling it gently. His fingers brushed over the cut. A faint pulse of something unseen stirred between them-and then the wound disappeared, as though it had never been.

Jungkook blinked. The skin was whole.

Taehyung rose, his hand still beneath Jungkook's arm.

"Come," he said.

He pulled Jungkook to his feet, steadying him with ease.

Neither of them spoke as they made their way back toward the hidden hut, the moonlight guiding their path.

But something had shifted.

Not in words.

In silence.

And in the way Taehyung's hand remained lightly at Jungkook's back... long after the danger had passed.

“I shall return in a moment,” Taehyung said quietly before stepping out.

Jungkook gave a faint nod, watching the door close behind him.

Only then did he exhale—long and shaky—as if he’d been holding it in for far too long.

His legs felt hollow beneath him as he moved to sit once more at the edge of the low bed. The quiet returned, but it wasn’t the same as before. Now it hummed with the memory of breathless terror and the faint echo of a cry he hadn’t meant to let slip.

He looked down at his hand—the one Taehyung had touched. The one that had bled.

Whole now.

He turned it over in the moonlight, fingertips brushing the smooth skin where a scratch had been.

“His hands are... soft,” he whispered to himself. The words came unbidden.

It wasn’t just the touch—it was the stillness it left behind. A hush. As if something in him had stopped trembling, if only for a moment.

His gaze flicked to the wall, where a stack of worn books rested, edges frayed from use.

He hesitated. Then curiosity stirred, soft as breath.

He rose with care, ankle still tender, and knelt before the pile. One by one, his fingers passed over the spines. He didn’t recognize some of the titles, but there was something comforting about their presence. As if someone had left parts of themselves here—quiet pieces of a quieter man.

The door creaked.

Jungkook startled slightly, turning sharply.

Taehyung entered, arms full. Something bundled in linen.

Before the King could speak, Jungkook moved toward him.

“Allow me,” he said gently, reaching out to take the bundle from his arms.

Taehyung didn’t protest.

Jungkook brought it to the bed, unwrapping it with care. Steam curled softly into the air—two bowls of something simple, warm.

They sat beside each other, shoulders not touching but close enough that the silence felt like it belonged to both of them now.

Jungkook removed his veil and set it aside without thinking.

And then—

Taehyung did the same.

The moment held its breath.

Jungkook’s eyes drank him in—the sharp planes of his face, the fine edges carved like shadow and starlight. That beauty—it was unreal. Not cold, but distant, like something remembered from a dream.

He forgot the food. He just looked.

Taehyung turned slightly, catching his gaze.

“Are you not hungry?” he asked, quiet, eyes unreadable.

Jungkook blinked. Once. Twice.

“I am,” he murmured, softer than he meant.

A faint smirk ghosted across Taehyung’s lips as he picked up his bowl.

Jungkook blinked again, heat rising in his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean that—” he blurted, too fast.

Taehyung raised a brow, amused. “I said nothing.”

Jungkook ducked his head quickly, finally lifting the bowl to his lips.

The warmth of the food did more than soothe—it grounded. Softened. The fear still lingered in the corners of his mind, but the quiet between them wove a thin barrier against it.

Taehyung didn’t mention the Soulwielder again. Didn’t ask about the trembling. Didn’t press.

But his silence wasn’t indifference. It was... offering.

A new shape of kindness—one Jungkook hadn’t known he needed.

And so they ate. Quietly. Together.

Not as king and guest. Not as shadow and light.

Just as two souls, breathing the same stillness.

A small silence passed between them.

“You enjoy books?” Taehyung asked, gaze still lowered.

Jungkook’s eyes lit with a quiet, private joy. “Very much. In Havana, they were my only companions. My sanctuary.”

Taehyung hummed—low, noncommittal, but not unkind.

“Do you read?” Jungkook asked in return, voice lighter now.

Taehyung gave a slight shrug. “At times.”

Jungkook nodded thoughtfully, then gestured toward the modest stack near the bed.

“Those books... they’re yours?”

A soft nod.

“They’re my favourites,” Jungkook said warmly. “Especially that author—Serenade. His words feel like they come from someone who’s lived a hundred years in silence.”

“It’s only two books,” Taehyung replied, a trace of dry amusement in his tone.

Jungkook’s smile faltered, just a little. “Yes, but... I wish he’d written more.”

His gaze fell. Fingers picked at the edge of the blanket draped over his legs.

“The way he writes of love...” Jungkook’s voice softened, turned reverent, as if speaking to the memory of something fragile. “It’s as if he’s seen it in a dream, but never touched it in waking life. He waits... always waits. His heart aches, even when no one is listening. And he never says whether the love finds him in the end.”

Taehyung’s hand stilled around his bowl. His eyes shifted—subtly, but entirely—toward Jungkook.

Not just looking. Seeing.

“What do you think?” he asked, voice quiet as dusk. “Does he ever find the one he waits for?”

Jungkook looked up slowly.

Their eyes met.

A beat passed.

Then another.

The air stretched, drawn taut by something unnamed—threaded with quiet longing neither dared speak.

Jungkook’s throat tightened. He lowered his gaze.

“He will,” he whispered. “His love is pure. That should be enough.”

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. His expression gave nothing away. But when he looked back to his bowl and resumed eating, the silence that followed felt different.

Beside him, Jungkook did the same.

Though now, the food tasted like something distant—like his heart was still folded around the words he had just spoken.

Outside, the wind whispered through the forest.

Inside, silence held them both.

Not in absence.

But in understanding.

Jungkook’s gaze fell to the single bed.

They had changed into fresh robes—Taehyung’s, soft and clean, faintly perfumed with a scent Jungkook could only describe as him. Something earthy, quiet, and deep. The memory of the King’s hands lingered on his skin—his wrist, his shoulder, his ankle—like a warmth that refused to fade.

And now... there was only one place to rest.

He stood there, unmoving. Caught between politeness and uncertainty.

But before he could speak, Taehyung had already moved.

The King crossed the room in silence and lowered himself to the floor, his robes folding beneath him with a quiet grace. No protest. No pause.

Jungkook blinked. “Are you not—” he began, hesitant.

“You should rest,” Taehyung said, without turning his head. “Your foot needs it.”

“But—”

“There is no need,” Taehyung said, not unkindly. His voice held no edge. Just a decision—like a line drawn in soft sand, not to divide but to offer clarity.

Jungkook said nothing more.

There was no pride in Taehyung’s gesture. No performance. Only choice.

So, he obeyed.

He climbed into the bed and curled slightly to one side, the blanket drawn up to his chest. This time, he left the veil off. It felt heavy now—like it didn’t belong in this quiet.

The candles were still burning. Their light draped the room in a muted gold, casting gentle shadows across the wooden walls.

He lay still.

Somewhere behind him, the faint shift of robes. The soft sound of breath.

Just presence.

And then—

“Did you wish to come to Eclipse,” Taehyung’s voice came low through the stillness, “or were you sent?”

The question hung in the air like a thread of smoke.

Jungkook’s breath caught. “I... I was told I must leave Havana. So I came.”

A pause.

“And if you were given the choice now?”

His throat tightened.

After everything—after learning what he was really here for. The curse. The breaking. The unspoken cost.

“I never had choices,” Jungkook said, barely above a whisper. “So I learned not to think about them.”

The quiet stretched.

Then Taehyung asked—so softly, it felt like a thought escaping him, not a question:

“If you came to know... the one you are bound to is not good? . And you were given a choice?”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

Not good... Was he speaking of himself? Of the curse? Did he not want to bind him? Did he see Jungkook as more than that?

And today meant real? 

Jungkook swallowed. His voice trembled as he answered.

“If he is good to me...” he said slowly, “then I do not care what the world says. I will stay.”

The silence that followed was heavier now.

It wrapped around them like a second blanket.

“Are you certain?” Taehyung asked at last. “You are not merely bound. You are kept. And not all prisons have locks.”

Jungkook smiled faintly, though his eyes prickled with heat.

“I’m certain,” he whispered. “Even if the door stays shut.”

He meant it.

Tonight, he was certain.

Because he needed him to give him reasons and he did it today. 

Because today... this man, with his silences and sharp eyes and hands that steadied instead of claimed—had made him feel things he had never known he was allowed to feel.

And that was enough.

Taehyung said nothing after that.

Jungkook shifted slightly, turning toward the candlelight. His eyes traced the soft flicker of flame on the wall. Every breath he took now felt steadier—like something inside him had quieted the moment he had spoken those words aloud.

He did not know if Taehyung was still awake.

But knowing he lay close by, silent and still in his own way, made sleep easier.

And maybe... just maybe...

It wasn’t so bad that he had fallen in the forest and bruised his ankle.

Not if it meant tonight.

Not if it meant this.

Chapter Text

A week passed since their return from the hunt.
The memory of that night—the warmth of Taehyung’s presence, the strange gentleness in his voice—still lingered in Jungkook’s chest, like an ember refusing to die out. At times, when the corridors felt too wide and the faces of the court too unfamiliar, he found himself replaying the way Taehyung had seen him, had listened to him. For a while, that had eased something sharp inside him.

Yet as the days stretched on, an unease began to creep into his bones. His senses felt sharper than before, unbearably so. Every laugh in the hall sounded edged with mockery. Every glance seemed laced with suspicion. Even Han’s polite smile, once harmless, now unsettled him—as though hidden beneath it was some darker intent. It was as if the entire world had turned into a mirror with warped reflections, all strangers disguised as kin.

He did not know why this shadow had settled upon him. Nor whom he could trust with the truth of it. And so he carried the weight in silence, suffocating a little more with each day. Only when Taehyung was near—when that quiet, grounding scent filled the air—did the storm within him still. He could not explain it, but Taehyung’s presence alone seemed to anchor him to earth, as though without it he might drift apart into nothing.

The sharp clang of steel rang out, snapping him back.

“You are doing well.”
Ryan’s voice came from behind, steady, almost kind.

Startled, Jungkook lowered his blade at once and slipped it back into its sheath, his body instinctively straightening. He gave a small nod in reply, unwilling to trust his voice.

“You have almost mastered this form,” Ryan continued, circling him with a measured gaze. His eyes dropped briefly to Jungkook’s ankle, then rose again. “And yet, you have not healed?”

Jungkook followed his gaze downward. The cloth around his foot was still tied, stained faintly from the week past. It clung to his ankle like an old memory.

“It keeps the warmth,” he said softly. “It helps with the pain.”

Ryan regarded him for a moment, then gave a single nod, choosing not to press further. They returned to practice, steel ringing against the quiet of the courtyard, until another voice intruded.

“Your Highness.”

Han stood at the edge, bowing low.

Jungkook lowered his sword, his hand unconsciously brushing down his robes as though to compose himself.

“I trust I have not disturbed you,” Han said with a careful smile. “But Prince Jimin has summoned you. He wishes to speak.”

Jungkook glanced once toward Ryan, then nodded. “We shall continue tomorrow.”

Ryan bowed, stepping back into silence. Jungkook slipped into his shoes, the ache in his ankle a familiar pulse, and followed Han down the corridor.

The study was quiet when Jungkook stepped inside.

The faint fragrance of ink and old parchment lingered in the air, a softer weight compared to the clamor of the training grounds. Behind the heavy desk, Jimin sat bent over a sheet, his hand moving in steady strokes until the door’s creak pulled his attention upward.

“Come, Jungkook,” Jimin said, a smile breaking his stillness.

Jungkook lowered his gaze, moving forward with cautious steps. He settled on the chair across from him, folding his hands in his lap to hide their restless tremor.

“I have something to discuss with you,” Jimin began, his voice calm yet carrying a gravity that made Jungkook’s stomach twist.

He nodded, curiosity stirring against the undercurrent of unease.

“Taehyung,” Jimin paused, the name itself like a stone dropped into silence. His gaze softened. “He shall soon turn twenty-seven.”

Jungkook blinked at the information, uncertain what weight it carried. He waited, heart beating slower yet heavier.

Jimin slid a page across the table toward him. Symbols and delicate markings sprawled over it—lines woven like threads of a seal, letters shaped in an ancient hand he could not read.

“We would see the marriage take place soon,” Jimin said.

Jungkook’s breath faltered, catching against his throat. His eyes shifted between the page and Jimin’s calm expression. He had known—since the day he was brought here—that this was his fate. To wed the King. To bind himself in a kingdom that felt like both a cage and a mystery. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so soon—it hollowed something within him.

“What is this?” His voice was soft, almost wary, as he traced the signs on the page with his eyes.

“A calendar,” Jimin replied gently. “The dates fixed according to our rites.”

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on him. Something in Jimin’s tone did not sit well—it was too light, too careful. As though truth hid behind the words. Why would they not speak of the curse? Why keep him wandering in shadows, blind to the weight he was meant to carry?

“What of him?” Jungkook asked, hesitant. His lips felt dry. “Is… is he ready for it?”

Jimin leaned back slightly, a smile tugging at his mouth, though his eyes softened in a way that unsettled Jungkook more than reassured him. He looked at Jungkook’s hair for a lingering moment before meeting his gaze again.

“Did he not tell you himself?” Jimin said.

Jungkook frowned, confusion knitting his brows. “What do you mean?”

“The hunt,” Jimin replied, his voice lowering, tinged with something almost fond. “It was he who arranged it. Only so he could draw nearer to you.”

The words struck through Jungkook like the sudden lift of wind. He blinked, uncertain if his heart had stumbled or quickened. The thought—Taehyung’s quiet orchestration, the silent watching—made his chest burn with something he could neither name nor control.

Jimin studied him, lips curving into a knowing smile. “It was he who asked me to speak to you. To know whether you are ready.”

Jungkook’s fingers fidgeted in his lap, twisting against each other as though they could tether his racing thoughts. Ready? Was he? He had never known readiness, only what was chosen for him. And yet… he could not shake the unease. Why then, if Taehyung desired this, was the truth of the curse kept from him? Was he not owed honesty?

“When would you have it held?” Jungkook asked at last, his voice faint, uncertain, but steady enough to reach across the table.

Jimin’s smile lingered, almost too calm. “In a week.”

The words settled heavy in the room, pressing into the silence like a seal upon his chest.

The echo of Jimin’s words still lingered long after Jungkook had stepped out of the study. Marriage. A week. The syllables clung to his chest like thorns, pricking deeper with every breath. He walked without knowing where his feet carried him, until the cool air of the gardens swallowed him whole.

There, among the hush of evening, he lowered himself onto the grass. The earth felt steady beneath his palms, though his heart was anything but. Fingers drifted through the blades, restless, as if he might untangle his thoughts in their green threads. Shadows lengthened around him, and still his whisper rose, fragile, almost breaking, though no one was there to hear.

Above, unseen, two pairs of eyes marked him—one with quiet worry, the other with a heaviness unspoken.

Jimin’s voice pierced the silence as he joined Taehyung on the balcony. “What holds your gaze so firmly down there?”

Taehyung did not turn. His figure remained still, carved against the dimming sky. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles pale. Below, Jungkook sat hunched over himself, tracing the grass as though seeking solace in its silence.

“He is closing himself off… more and more with each day,” Jimin said softly, his gaze fixed upon the boy.

Taehyung’s jaw tightened. “He is anxious. It is too much for him.”

Jimin’s tone grew heavier, laced with quiet warning. “Han told me he has learned of your curse. From Kaira. Perhaps now he believes you mean to use him.”

Taehyung’s fingers clenched harder against the railing until the metal creaked faintly beneath his grasp. His silence said more than words could. He only stared at Jungkook, the distance between them colder than stone.

At last, his voice came, low and steady, though something trembled at its edge. “Send word to Havana. They are to attend the marriage. Within a day they should arrive.” A pause, his eyes lingering too long on the small figure below. “Especially his noona. He is missing her.”

He turned then, steps heavy, leaving the balcony hollow in his absence.

Jimin remained, watching as Jungkook finally rose from the garden and disappeared indoors, shoulders bent, as though weighed down by truths he could not share.

The knock roused him from slumber, soft yet insistent against the chamber door. Jungkook stirred, adjusting the folds of his robe, fingers fumbling as he drew the veil over his face before opening it.

Han stood on the threshold, bowing low.

“Your Highness,” he said evenly. “His Majesty bade me inform you—your family shall arrive today. If you wish aught to prepare for their welcome, you need only command.”

The words struck Jungkook like sunlight breaking cloud. His eyes widened, bright with a fragile hope.

“My family?” he whispered, as though testing whether the promise might vanish upon his tongue.

Han inclined his head. “Indeed. And…” a pause, careful, “His Majesty also asks if you are at leisure. He would speak with you.”

Jungkook’s heart stirred restlessly. Would Aerum be among them? His noona—whose absence gnawed at him with every passing day. He longed to ask outright, but the question tangled in his throat.

“Where is he?” Jungkook managed instead.

“In the backyard, with his horse,” Han replied.

Jungkook nodded, dismissing him with quiet grace before turning back within. He dressed with unsteady hands, choosing a robe of pale white, girdled neatly at the waist. In the mirror, his own reflection gazed back—veiled, unfamiliar, fragile as glass. He smoothed the red cloth into his hair, the color like a flame against his darkness, and at last stepped out into the open air.

The backyard stretched wide and hushed, filled only with the steady rhythm of hooves. Taehyung rode across the clearing astride his black steed, his posture straight, regal, yet softened when his gaze fell upon the figure at the gate.

Their eyes met across the distance. Something unspoken passed between them—wordless recognition, a pull neither could deny. Taehyung slowed his horse, reining it to a halt before Jungkook. For a moment he simply looked at him, as though weighing the fragility of his presence. Then he extended a hand, silent invitation in the gesture.

Jungkook’s breath caught. His fingers hovered, trembling in hesitation—yet at last, he laid them against Taehyung’s palm. The King’s hold was firm yet careful, guiding him upward with ease until Jungkook sat before him, the closeness startling, his heart tripping over itself in his chest.

Taehyung’s arm came around his waist, steady, protective, as he urged the horse forward once more. The world blurred into movement—the wind in their robes, the rhythm of hooves pounding beneath. Yet all Jungkook felt was the warmth at his back, the quiet steadiness of the man behind him, and the way his own pulse beat as though it belonged not to himself but to that touch.

After some time, Taehyung drew the horse to a halt in a secluded corner of the grounds, where the trees leaned close and the air was thick with stillness. They dismounted together, the silence pressing between them like an unseen tether, fragile yet binding.

They walked side by side, the air thick with silence, only the faint rustle of robes brushing against grass. Jungkook kept his gaze low, fingers grazing the hem of his sleeve as though the threads might anchor him. The weight of Taehyung’s presence lingered beside him—comforting, and yet almost unbearable in its intensity.

It was Taehyung who broke the quiet. His voice, calm yet edged with something heavier, slipped into the stillness.

“Why did you not ask about the curse?”

The words struck Jungkook like an arrow loosed into still water. He faltered mid-step, nearly stopping altogether. His breath caught, eyes snapping to Taehyung’s back as the King came to a halt as well, hands clasped neatly behind him, his stance composed yet strangely vulnerable.

Jungkook swallowed hard.

“I… I thought perhaps… you would tell me if it were needed,” he replied softly, the words uncertain, as though they might shatter between them.

Taehyung’s gaze turned toward him, unreadable. “Did you not read the letter I sent you in Havana? The reply to your own?”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, confusion prickling through him. Letter? His chest tightened with the faintest ache.

“Letter?” he echoed. Then it dawned—the one written under his name. A letter he had never seen. His heart stumbled. “I… I never received such a letter. And I told Jimin—it was not me who wrote it.” His voice steadied, quiet but resolute. “It was not me.”

Something flickered in Taehyung’s eyes then—something sharp, gone as swiftly as it appeared. He stood still, a pause stretching heavy between them before his voice came again, low and deliberate.

“In my letter, I had spoken of the curse. I laid it bare because I would never bind anyone to myself through deceit.” His jaw tightened faintly. “It seems Havana did not wish for you to know. Did not wish for you… to be chosen.”

The words twisted inside Jungkook, raw and cutting. He had known, deep down, that Havana’s hands had shaped his fate without care for his heart. But hearing it aloud, from Taehyung’s lips, made it feel like betrayal carved into bone. His chest ached, his throat tightening as he blinked back the sting that rose unbidden.

Taehyung’s voice softened, yet carried a weight that pressed against the quiet.

“I am cursed. Half my power sealed, shackled. And it can only be broken through marriage—with my mate.”

Jungkook’s head lifted sharply, eyes wide beneath the veil. The word mate trembled in his chest like a forbidden echo.

“Why?” he whispered, barely finding his voice.

Taehyung shook his head faintly. “It is not necessity you must concern yourself with. What matters is that your will is free here.” His gaze lingered, steady and earnest. “Always.”

Jungkook’s heart lurched, skipping painfully, as though it longed to trust but feared the fall. When Taehyung stepped closer, the air itself seemed to press in. His hand reached forward, taking Jungkook’s with unexpected gentleness, his thumb brushing across the scar etched into the younger’s palm. His eyes, dark and searching, lifted to Jungkook’s own.

“Remember this,” Taehyung said quietly, each word a vow. “This marriage shall happen only if you give your consent.”

The weight of it pressed into Jungkook’s chest. His heart flipped and tightened all at once, the sting of moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes. He managed a small nod, words failing him.

Taehyung released his hand slowly, as though reluctant to let go, then gestured forward with quiet composure.

“Shall we?”

A faint laugh escaped Jungkook—small, breathless, easing some of the weight in his chest. “Yes,” he murmured, stepping ahead.

They walked on together, the silence no longer heavy but warm, softened by the echo of unspoken promises. Jungkook glanced sideways, again and again, to the man beside him—the man who seemed to give without demand, who offered care without condition.

And in that moment, his heart trembled with a strange, overwhelming warmth. It felt, impossibly, as though they had known one another far longer than this fleeting time. As though Taehyung’s voice, his gaze, his every step, had been carved into the shape of his life long before their paths had crossed.

It was too much. And yet… Jungkook could not look away.

The carriages rolled to a stop just outside the castle gates, wheels crunching softly against the gravel path. The late afternoon sun slanted across the walls of Eclipse, gilding stone in pale light, yet the air carried an edge of unease.

There were no crowds waiting. Only a scattering of workers, their heads bowed as they stepped forward to help. A few oracles lingered at the side, their expressions unreadable, their whispers too faint to catch. Kaira stood among them, her posture stiff, her eyes sharp—bitter, though she had still come.

Watcher Cael was the first to move, stepping forward with practiced ease, his cloak catching the faint breeze. Behind Jungkook, Jimin stood steady at his shoulder, presence calm and grounding. Jungkook’s heart beat erratically, nerves tightening as he scanned the carriages.

The eclipsers had begun to gather along the edges of the road, curious eyes flickering over the Havana guests. They did not cheer, nor did they jeer; it was more like they were watching, weighing, as though uncertain whether to welcome or to judge.

The carriage door opened. Aerum stepped down slowly, her dress catching the light. She looked around, searching, until her eyes landed on Jungkook. In that moment her face crumpled, tears gathering before she could stop them.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His throat tightened, his chest aching with a sudden, overwhelming rush of longing. He glanced sideways at Jimin, who gave a single nod. Cael, too, caught his eye and stepped back with the faintest smile.

That was all it took. Jungkook moved before he realized, almost running across the space between them. He fell into Aerum’s embrace, burying himself against her shoulder.

“My baby,” Aerum whispered through her tears, her hand cradling the back of his head like she used to, her touch gentle and trembling.

A wet chuckle escaped Jungkook, half laughter, half sob. He pulled back just enough to see her face, his own eyes burning.

“How much I missed you,” he said, voice breaking.

Her lips trembled into a smile. “Me too, my love.”

He held onto her warmth for a moment longer, before reluctantly stepping back. His gaze drifted past her—to the others.

Kyungsoo stood nearby, his posture straight, his expression carefully composed. When his eyes met Jungkook’s, there was no warmth there, only a distant acknowledgment, as if looking at a nephew he had long ago stopped trying to understand. The weight of that glance pressed into Jungkook’s chest with familiar heaviness.

Jaehwan, beside him, shifted slightly, his eyes roaming the castle walls, the assembled onlookers. His mouth pressed into a tight line, jaw tense. When his gaze finally cut toward Jungkook, there was no fondness—only a flicker of scrutiny, sharp and assessing, as though trying to measure the place his cousin now occupied.

Jimin stepped forward then, voice carrying with easy poise.

“Welcome to Eclipse,” he said, warmth threading his tone. “I hope your journey will be a memorable one.”

Kyungsoo inclined his head. “I hope so as well.”

Behind them, workers began to gather luggage, careful and quiet.

“I do not see the King here,” Kyungsoo remarked after a pause, his tone neither rude nor warm, simply cool.

Jimin smiled lightly, unbothered. “He will meet you soon.”

Kyungsoo’s brows pinched, faint but noticeable. Before he could reply, Jaehwan’s voice slipped in, quiet but edged.

“Perhaps he is not pleased to see us.”

The air shifted, tension crackling. But Jimin only turned to him with that calm, unflinching smile.

“He is the one who requested your arrival, Prince Jaehwan. Without his will, none of you would stand here.”

Jungkook blinked at Jimin, startled at the sharpness veiled within his soft tone. It was rare to see someone shut Jaehwan down so quickly.

Jaehwan’s jaw tightened further, but he said nothing more.

“I think you should all rest,” Jimin continued smoothly. “Your rooms are ready.”

The family began to move toward the castle, steps echoing against stone. Aerum kept close to Jungkook, her hand brushing against his arm as though unwilling to let him go again.

Behind them, Jaehwan lingered, his steps slow, his eyes wandering. He studied the great walls, the towers, the watchful eyes of the eclipsers around them. When his gaze slid forward, he caught sight of Kaira standing apart, her stare fixed squarely on him. Cold. Unblinking.

Jaehwan froze for the briefest moment, instinctively glancing behind to see if she meant another. But no—her eyes did not waver.

He turned his gaze away sharply, his jaw working as he quickened his pace to catch up with the others.

Jungkook, unaware of the exchange, guided Aerum toward her chamber, eager to see her settled, his chest still warm from the first familiar embrace he had felt in weeks.

The courtroom was heavy with silence, broken only by the rustle of robes and the faint scrape of chairs as the courtiers settled into their places. Jungkook sat among them, fingers laced tightly with Aerum’s, drawing strength from her quiet presence.

Across the chamber, he noticed his uncle’s jaw stiffen, the muscle twitching as though barely containing displeasure. Jungkook knew the reason well—Kyungsoo had expected a royal welcome at the gates, not silence from the King himself.

The double doors opened. A hush fell over the hall as Taehyung entered, each measured step echoing against stone. His presence filled the room, cold and commanding, and when he seated himself upon the throne above, all eyes followed.

For the briefest moment, his gaze flickered to Jungkook—then lower, to the way Jungkook’s hand was clasped in Aerum’s. Something unreadable passed through his eyes before he turned to face Kyungsoo.

“I trust your journey was not difficult,” Taehyung said, voice smooth, carrying easily across the chamber.

Kyungsoo inclined his head, offering a brief smile. “It was not.”

The air shifted when Jaehwan leaned forward, his words cutting into the calm.

“It was, however, disappointing,” he said, his voice sharp with disdain, “to arrive without being received by the King himself. Especially when it is we who entrusted to you our most precious treasure.”

The room froze. Whispers died in throats. Jungkook’s entire body stiffened at the word—treasure. An object. A thing. His stomach turned with loathing.

All eyes went to Taehyung.

The King regarded Jaehwan in silence, his face an unreadable mask. Then, slowly, he spoke—calm, deliberate, and cold as steel.

“Yours?” The single word cut through the chamber like a blade. His voice was soft, but it held the weight of command, of something ancient and immovable. “Tell me, Prince Jaehwan, since when do kingdoms own the hearts of their blood?”

The force behind his tone silenced the room. Jaehwan’s mouth parted as though to answer, but no sound came. His jaw worked, frustration darkening his face, yet he could not force a reply.

Jungkook drew in a shaky breath, his chest tight. When he dared to glance upward, Taehyung’s eyes were already on him—steady, unflinching, a silent vow: You are not alone here.

Taehyung lifted his hand slightly, and Lady Nyra stepped forward with practiced grace. She bowed, then let her voice rise clearly across the court.

“You are all gathered today to receive the decree of His Majesty,” she announced, her words ringing with formality. “The marriage ceremony of His Majesty, King of Eclipse, shall be held on the seventy-seventh night of the eclipse. Only two nights hence. Each soul of Eclipse is summoned to partake in this celebration, to honor the union that binds not only our King, but our realm itself. All hail His Majesty.”

The courtiers rose as one, voices echoing the salute:

“All hail to the King.”

The chamber filled with the resounding chorus, but Jungkook sat frozen amidst it all, Aerum’s hand still clasped in his. His ears rang with Taehyung’s earlier words, the steel behind them, the quiet defense that felt like a shield wrapped around him.

For the first time in that hall, he did not feel entirely small.

The courtiers began to rise, their silks rustling, whispers breaking out in low currents that followed them out of the hall. Yet the weight of the Taehyung's words lingered, heavy and immovable, as if the stone walls themselves had swallowed them whole.

He called his heart " Precious treasure ".

Aerum sat down carefully upon the bed, her hands smoothing over the silken sheets as though testing their softness. The chamber was bathed in warm lamplight, shadows pooling at the corners, and beyond the window, the night stretched deep and endless.

“This room… I personally asked for it,” Jungkook said, unable to hide the little spark of pride in his voice. He moved about like a restless bird, brushing the curtains, tugging at the folds of the quilt. “I know you like the view outside, and the bed—it is so soft. Everything here… it feels the best.” His words tumbled out with an almost boyish giddiness.

Aerum’s eyes softened, her lips curving into a smile. She reached for his arm and guided him down to sit beside her. The movement stilled him at once.

“You look alive,” she murmured, her gaze steady on him.

Jungkook nodded faintly, though his throat felt thick.

“You truly look different,” Aerum continued. Her voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it, as though she spoke not only of appearances but something far beneath. “It is as if… you belonged here.”

Jungkook’s brows drew together. His heart gave a small, unsteady beat.

“Different? How?” he asked, almost defensively. “I am the same Jungkook, noona.”

She only smiled, smoothing her palm over his hair as she had done when he was small. The tenderness in the gesture unraveled something inside him. Her fingers brushed against the strip of red cloth woven into his dark strands, and she lingered there, tracing it gently.

“Did he give this to you?” she asked softly.

Jungkook tilted his head, puzzled. “This? It’s just… his head cloth.”

“I know what it is,” Aerum whispered. Her thumb pressed lightly against the fabric. “But you do not know the meaning it holds here, do you?”

His breath caught. He shook his head.

“Here,” she said, her tone almost reverent, “when a man gives his head piece to another, it means he accepts them—for a lifetime.”

Jungkook’s heart flipped violently in his chest. His fingers curled into the sheets, grounding himself as heat rose to his cheeks. He did not know what to say.

“The King… he does not seem as he was described to us, does he?” Aerum asked after a pause, watching him closely.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice softer than before. “No. He is not. We… we have spoken many times. He is… good to me.” His heart drummed faster with each word, betraying the storm inside him.

Aerum’s smile deepened, a trace of wonder in her eyes.

“I see how he looks at you.”

Jungkook bit his lip, his lashes fluttering as if to shield his eyes from her knowing gaze.

“I never imagined I would see him with you like this,” Aerum said. “And yet… he follows every ritual with you.”

Jungkook blinked, his head lifting. “Ritual?”

“Yes,” she said gently. “First, giving you the head piece in such a way. And then… the veil.”

Jungkook stared at her, the words striking him like a chord he did not understand. “The veil?” he repeated, frowning.

Aerum tilted her head, her smile tinged with fondness and just a trace of sadness. “Ah, my dear… you always read history but never the other books. In royal custom, before marriage, it is a ritual to cover the face of the chosen one with a veil until they are bound. Few follow it now, but perhaps… he is traditional.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened painfully. The red cloth, the veil, the way Taehyung looked at him—had all of it been deliberate? For him? Because of him?

For a long while, he sat in silence, staring at his hands, the weight of her words pressing into him. Aerum did not disturb his thoughts, only resting her palm lightly over his knuckles, as if to remind him he was not alone in this foreign place.

They spoke a little more, of small things, of the journey, of memories from home. But Jungkook’s mind kept returning, again and again, to the meaning of cloth and veil, and to the man whose steady eyes lingered on him longer than anyone else’s.

At last, he bid Aerum goodnight, pressing her hand tightly before leaving her chamber. Yet as he walked down the silent corridor, his heart refused to still. Every beat whispered the same question—had Taehyung already chosen him long before Jungkook even realized it?

“Oh my, you surely are looking very happy.”

The voice made Jungkook freeze mid-step. His shoulders stiffened before he slowly turned. Jaehwan leaned against the corridor wall, arms folded, that mocking smirk etched on his face.

Jungkook’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you out here roaming?” His voice was calm, but his fingers curled slightly at his side.

“Why can’t I?” Jaehwan replied smoothly, as though the castle corridors belonged to him.

Jungkook said nothing, unwilling to waste words.

But Jaehwan wasn’t done. His eyes roamed over Jungkook—his robe, the faint glimpse of the veil—before his smirk deepened. “This is all short-lived, Jungkook. Do you really believe it? That a king… a man of his stature… would shower you with all of this?” His tone dripped with derision. “Doesn’t it feel unreal to you?”

Jungkook’s frown creased deeper, anger sparking at the way he spoke. “I am his mate, Jaehwan,” he said firmly. His voice trembled, but only slightly. “Who else do you think he would care for, if not me? You?”

Jaehwan chuckled lowly, shaking his head as though pitying him. “Naïve,” he drawled. “Always so naïve. And what is with that veil? Why do you cover your face like him?” His eyes glinted with something sharp. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer.

Jungkook barely had a chance to react before Jaehwan’s hand lifted, reaching toward the veil. His breath caught, his body freezing—

But then, his wrist was caught in midair.

The sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed. Jaehwan’s eyes widened, startled. His gaze flickered down to where his wrist was enclosed firmly in Taehyung’s grip.

The King’s hold was unyielding, almost careless in its strength, and in the next breath, Taehyung jerked Jaehwan’s arm backward. The force made Jaehwan stumble, nearly losing his footing.

Jungkook’s breath left him in a rush. His eyes snapped to Taehyung. The King’s face was calm, too calm—but the familiar warm scent Jungkook always felt around him was different now, soured with something dark, dangerous.

“Are you forgetting something, Prince Jaehwan?” Taehyung’s voice was low, steady, the kind that carried easily even without being raised. His eyes glinted cold. “You are not in Havana.”

Jaehwan’s jaw tightened, his lips pressed in a thin line, though he didn’t dare move.

Taehyung didn’t loosen his hold until he leaned closer, voice quiet but cutting enough to send shivers crawling down Jungkook’s spine. “With one order of mine… you will be thrown out of here.”

The air grew heavy. Even Jungkook found it hard to breathe under the sheer weight of those words.

Jaehwan opened his mouth, a protest forming—but Taehyung stepped forward before he could, his presence pressing down like a storm. His tone dropped even lower. “And one more thing. I don’t like you near him.” His gaze cut through Jaehwan like steel. “So take the time to understand what distance means.”

He finally released Jaehwan’s wrist with a flick, as though it was filth that clung to him.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Jaehwan’s chest rose and fell, rage simmering in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Taehyung turned then, his gaze softening just slightly as it fell on Jungkook. He gave a small tilt of his head—an unspoken command, or perhaps an assurance.

Jungkook blinked, his heart thundering, and without a word, obeyed. He walked forward, each step quick but unsteady, his hands fidgeting nervously with his fingers.

Behind him, he felt it—the weight of Taehyung’s glare burning into Jaehwan one last time before footsteps followed, steady and certain, catching up to him.

Jungkook slowed down, adjusting his pace until it matched Taehyung’s stride. The silence between them stretched, heavy but not suffocating, and though Jungkook’s chest still trembled from the encounter, he felt it—an invisible shield that wrapped around him, warding off the shadows that dared to touch him.

“Was he always like that?” Taehyung asked suddenly, his voice calm, but carrying an edge that made Jungkook’s chest tighten.

Jungkook’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. His steps faltered. What was he supposed to say? Because what Jaehwan had just done here… it wasn’t even one percent of what he’d endured before.

“…It’s not that much,” he finally murmured, eyes fixed on the floor as if ashamed. “I’m used to it.”

Taehyung’s head tilted slightly, his gaze sharp. “What did he do, that you became used to it?”

The words made Jungkook’s chest ache. He slowed until they both reached the quiet stretch near their rooms. His fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeve. “…It’s in the past,” he whispered. “And I am here now. He can’t do anything anymore.”

But Taehyung didn’t move, didn’t let him slip past with that half-answer. His voice was firmer this time, but still gentle. “I want to know.”

Jungkook swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, the words like thorns pushing up from places he kept buried. He hesitated—then exhaled shakily.

“Before Aerum noona came,” he said slowly, “he used to…” His voice cracked, and he paused, gathering strength. “He used to lock me up in my room. No candles. No light. Sometimes… he threw my food away, didn’t let the cooks bring me meals. It was a lot of little things. I… I don’t even remember everything.”

His voice trailed off, softer and softer until it was barely a whisper.

Taehyung stood still, his dark eyes fixed on him—not pushing, not questioning further, but holding that silence like a shield for him to lean into.

Then he spoke, low, almost to himself. “Is it because of him… that you hate darkness?”

Jungkook’s head lifted at that, startled. His breath caught. He blinked up at Taehyung, the answer written in the sting at the corner of his eyes before he managed a small nod.

Heat flushed his cheeks, embarrassment crawling over him. “I—I’m not that much afraid,” he said quickly, trying to disguise the truth with a weak smile. “I was young then. It’s just… sometimes, when it’s too dark, it feels the same. So I get a little… nervous.”

But the words felt flimsy in the quiet hallway, especially under Taehyung’s unwavering stare.

Taehyung didn’t look away. His silence wasn’t judgment, though—it was heavy with thought, as if every piece of Jungkook’s confession was being etched into him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that pressed softly against Jungkook’s heart. “Are you able to sleep alone in your room? At night?”

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard by the concern woven into the question. He shifted his weight, fiddling with his fingers again, his ears burning.

“Oh—it’s fine,” he said quickly, a small laugh slipping out, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I use candles. Han… Han provides me with plenty.” He looked down, his voice gentler now. “So it’s not bad anymore.”

But deep inside, Jungkook knew Taehyung had already seen through the cracks in his words.

Taehyung nodded once, his gaze unreadable.

“May I see?” he asked, voice low, deliberate.

Jungkook froze. For a moment, he did not understand—then his eyes widened. His heart skipped and then thudded painfully against his ribs.

“O–oh… yes,” he stammered, stepping aside quickly, almost clumsily. His palms were damp.

Taehyung opened the door without another word, entering as though the space already belonged to him. Jungkook trailed after him, breath shallow.

The room glowed faintly, candles already lit along the shelves and tables, their small flames trembling against the walls. Taehyung’s dark gaze swept over the space in silence, each step unhurried. His presence alone filled the room more than the light of all the candles combined.

He stopped at the table, his long fingers brushing over the spine of a book. Without asking, he picked it up and opened it, the quiet sound of turning pages echoing in the stillness.

Jungkook stood motionless near the door, his hands twisted in his robe. He felt like a trespasser in his own chamber. The sight of Taehyung—so casual, so at ease in this private space—unsettled him in ways he could not name.

After a few moments, Taehyung lifted his gaze. Jungkook’s breath faltered under that look, even though no words passed.

“You should rest,” Taehyung said at last, his tone calm, unbending. “I will stay here for a while.”

The words struck Jungkook’s heart like an arrow. Stay? Here? With him? His throat bobbed.

“I… I am not afraid that much,” he whispered quickly, the denial slipping out before he could stop himself. His voice sounded smaller than he intended.

Taehyung did not look up again, his eyes scanning the page as though he had not heard the tremor in Jungkook’s tone.

“I intended to read this book tonight,” he said simply. “You should sleep.”

There was nothing left to argue. Jungkook nodded, his fingers fumbling at the fabric of his sleeve, and turned away. His legs felt unsteady as he gathered his nightclothes and slipped into the adjoining chamber to change.

Inside the small restroom, he pressed a hand to his chest. His heart was hammering, reckless, as though it could betray him at any moment. He is in my room. Sitting there as though… as though he belongs here. Can this be real? Or am I caught in some cruel dream?

When he returned, Taehyung had not moved from his place. He sat in the chair, veil removed, the golden glow of candlelight softening the sharp planes of his face. Jungkook’s breath stilled at the sight—so unguarded, so impossibly beautiful.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jungkook slipped beneath the covers. The bed felt too large, too soft, too vulnerable with Taehyung still seated across from him. Yet his eyes betrayed him; they kept drifting toward him. 

In the gentle flicker of flame, Taehyung’s features seemed carved from something ethereal. His dark hair fell across his forehead, strands catching the light. His jaw, his lips, his steady presence—it made Jungkook’s stomach twist with something he dared not name.

“You are staring,” Taehyung murmured, his gaze never leaving the book.

Jungkook’s heart jolted violently. Panic rose in his throat, but instead of retreating, words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.

“Can’t I?” he asked, voice fragile but daring.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Taehyung’s hand stilled on the page. Slowly, he raised his head.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His courage wavered under the weight of that gaze, but he forced himself to speak again, softer now.

“I mean… you look… you look good in candlelight.”

Taehyung studied him for a long moment, the air between them thick with unspoken things. Then, without breaking his composure, he lowered his gaze back to the book.

Jungkook bit his lip hard. Fool. Why would you say that? He does not need your clumsy words. Heat spread across his cheeks, shame curling inside him.

But then, Taehyung spoke. His voice was steady, yet something lingered beneath it—something heavy enough to make Jungkook’s breath falter.

“Do not trouble yourself, your highness. Wait but two days. Then this view will be yours for a lifetime.”

The words struck Jungkook with such force he thought his chest might break. His throat tightened, his face burned. He turned quickly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling in desperate silence, as if the plaster could calm the chaos in his heart.

He tried to steady his breathing, though every rise and fall of his chest felt too loud, too revealing. The faint scratch of paper as Taehyung turned another page only made the silence heavier.

Jungkook closed his eyes, then opened them again. The flickering glow of candlelight painted faint shadows across the ceiling, and each time the flame wavered, it felt as though his thoughts wavered with it. He shifted beneath the blanket, restless, turning once on his side, then again onto his back. His ears strained, catching the smallest sounds—the rustle of Taehyung’s sleeve, the soft exhale of his breath. It was unbearable, knowing he was not alone, and yet… comforting, in a way that tangled his heart into knots.

At last, exhaustion began to creep in, gentle and slow. His lashes grew heavier, his thoughts drifting even as he fought to stay awake. He wanted—he did not know what—but he wanted this moment to last,  his breaths finally steadied into a soft rhythm. 

Moments passed, Taehyung lifted his eyes from the page. He did not move immediately, only watching. The veil no longer hid Jungkook’s face—only the faint tremble of his lashes, the soft parting of his lips, the innocence that made him seem untouched by cruelty.

Taehyung closed the book quietly, setting it upon the table without sound. Then, with deliberate steps, slow as shadows, he rose from the chair.

For a moment, he stood there, gazing down at the sleeping boy. Jungkook’s body was curled faintly beneath the blanket, one hand clutching the edge near his chin as though holding onto some fragile shield. The candlelight softened the curve of his face, tracing him in hues of gold and warmth.

Slowly, with infinite care, Taehyung reached out. His fingers brushed Jungkook’s cheek, lingering against the warmth of his skin. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, his touch reverent.

“You still smell of fresh rose,” he whispered, so softly that only the walls bore witness. His lips curved faintly. “My rose.”

He let his hand linger, tracing once through the dark silk of Jungkook’s hair, before withdrawing. With one last look—long, unreadable—he turned and slipped from the room, leaving only the flicker of candles and his faint scent behind.

Chapter Text

“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

— Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

Jungkook traced the words with the tip of his finger, as though the letters themselves carried warmth. His gaze softened, his lips parting ever so slightly, but before the thought could settle, the sound of his chamber door opening drew him back to the present.

Aerum stepped inside, her smile bright as always, two workers trailing behind her with arms laden.

Jungkook rose quickly from his bed, smoothing the folds of his robe as if to greet her properly. She gestured for the servants to place the items upon his bed, but when her eyes fell to his girdle, her expression shifted—soft smile replaced by a small frown.

Her steps carried her closer, her voice quiet but firm.

“Where is your dagger?”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. He lowered his gaze to the empty girdle, fingers brushing over the place where the weapon should have rested. He glanced around the room as though it might reveal itself by chance. A crease formed on his brow.

“It was with me… I don’t know where—”

“You never forget it,” Aerum interrupted gently, her eyes narrowing in worry. “Even in your sleep, you keep it near.”

Jungkook gave a faint, boyish smile, as if to soothe her concerns.

“Perhaps I left it in the training grounds,” he said lightly.

Her frown deepened at the word.

“Training grounds?”

He reached for her hand, guiding her to sit at the edge of his bed. His voice softened, careful.

“It’s a long story. Too long to tell properly now. But… during the hunting trip, I was caught by a shadow. So… His Grace ordered me to train, so that it will not happen again.”

His words faltered, the corners of his mouth tugging upward though his cheeks betrayed him, blooming faintly pink.

“I mean—Taehyung told me so,” he corrected himself, eyes lowering.

For a moment Aerum’s lips curved into a smile, but it did not quite touch her eyes. She turned, dismissing the servants with a quiet command. They bowed and departed, leaving the room hushed and heavy.

Jungkook followed the door with wide eyes until it shut, and then turned back toward her, still smiling softly. But that smile dimmed as soon as he noticed her pensive silence, her gaze distant.

“What troubles you, noona?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes returned to him, warm but shadowed. She reached out, her fingers curling around his hands.

“Nothing, my love,” she said with a tender pause. “Only… you should not speak so freely in front of others. You do not yet know this place. Words can be used against you, and you never leave your dagger behind—yet now, you have.”

“Aerum…” Jungkook exclaimed softly, almost like a child defending himself. “You saw me yesterday. You told me yourself how alive I seemed.” His smile returned, fragile but bright, as though it might push away her worry. “What matters here is only one person. And he—”

He stopped, breath catching, his words hovering on the edge of confession. His lashes lowered, and his cheeks warmed again. “He is good with me.”

Aerum’s hand tightened around his, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease she could not disguise.

“Forget it,” Jungkook said quickly, rising to his feet with sudden energy, as though eager to escape the tension. He reached for her hand, his smile a little too wide. “Come—I will show you around. Did you know there is a garden here that mirrors the one in Havana?”

“We will see,” Aerum said at last, her voice carrying both warmth and an unspoken weight. “But first—you must look upon the clothes prepared for you. You will wear them on your wedding day. Only a single day remains.”

Jungkook’s gaze lowered shyly toward the garments laid out before him, rich silks and delicate embroidery catching the faint glow of the candles. His heart stumbled in his chest, each beat a reminder of how close the day truly was. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to Aerum, cheeks faintly flushed.

“You know I have never been fond of material things,” he murmured.

Aerum’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You may not be, but I have heard from Prince Jimin… His Majesty has quite the fondness for jewels.” Her tone turned teasing, her eyes dancing.

Jungkook scrunched his nose at that, his boyish defiance surfacing. “He should accept me as I am.”

A soft laugh spilled from her lips, light but brief. “Sure, sure,” she said, though her gaze lingered on him as though she wanted to believe his words more than he did himself.

Their small moment was interrupted by a gentle knock upon the door. Before Jungkook could answer, it opened, revealing Jimin’s familiar figure stepping gracefully inside.

Jungkook’s face lit up instinctively, offering him a smile.

Jimin walked closer, his eyes flickering toward the garments on the bed before resting on Jungkook. His lips curved with a teasing edge. “I trust you find the dress to your liking, Your Highness?”

Jungkook smiled again, softer this time, his voice modest. “If it is chosen by you, then surely it will be good.”

A low chuckle escaped Jimin as he tilted his head. “Ah… you are skilled at making hearts warm, Prince Jungkook.”

“Truly, he is,” Aerum added, her voice firm, as though to anchor Jimin’s words in truth.

Jimin’s expression shifted then, more thoughtful. “As for the rings,” he began, “I thought it best if you both chose them together.”

Jungkook blinked, his wide doe-like eyes reflecting both surprise and hesitation.

“It will hold more meaning if it is decided by the two of you,” Jimin continued gently.

Jungkook’s fingers twisted nervously in his lap, his voice dropping small and uncertain. “We… we will decide together?”

“If that is your wish, then yes,” Jimin replied warmly.

Jungkook hesitated, biting softly at his lower lip, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles. Would he… would Taehyung wish to share such a choice with him?

“He is comfortable with it,” Jimin said quickly, almost reading the question etched across Jungkook’s face. His tone was reassuring, almost playful. “He is.”

Jungkook blinked at him, still doubtful, still too hopeful.

“I will arrange your visit to the market,” Jimin added, already turning toward the door. “You may leave in half an hour.”

And with that, he left, his presence lingering like a soft echo.

Jungkook sat still, his lips curved into a small, helpless smile. The thought of walking beside Taehyung, of choosing something that would belong to them both, stirred his heart in ways he did not dare name.

Jungkook adjusted the veil that fell lightly against his cheeks, his fingers lingering at the knot as though it could somehow steady the restless beating of his heart. The stables smelled faintly of hay and polished wood, the soft whicker of horses blending with the quiet rustle of leaves outside. He idly kicked at a small pebble on the ground, watching it skitter across the dirt, when the sound of light footsteps reached his ears.

His heart leapt—unreasonably hopeful—and he turned quickly, only to falter when the figure before him was not the one he longed to see.

“Ryan,” Jungkook breathed, startled enough to step back a little.

The young knight’s eyes widened and he bowed immediately, his tone apologetic. “Your Highness. Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you. Are you well?”

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly beneath the veil, the kind of smile meant to put the other at ease though his chest still felt tight. “I am fine,” he said gently.

Ryan exhaled, shoulders easing. “I was passing by and saw you here, alone. I thought I should greet you, since we no longer train as often.” His voice carried an earnestness, tinged with hesitation, as though he weighed every word before offering it.

Jungkook’s smile deepened, soft and small, visible in the way his eyes curved. “I am waiting for His Grace,” he confessed quietly, before adding, “and I think I do not need much more practice. I can manage now, thanks to you.”

Ryan’s expression fell into something wistful. “Ah… that is a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I will miss our conversations, then.”

Jungkook shifted slightly, the weight of the words pressing against him. He wanted to reply, but another thought surfaced, tugging at his memory. His tone turned hesitant, almost boyish. “Ryan… may I ask something? Did I perhaps leave my dagger in the training grounds? I cannot seem to find it.”

Ryan’s brows furrowed in thought. “You carried it with you when you left last time,” he said slowly. “I did not see it left behind.”

Jungkook nodded, lowering his gaze in mild frustration. “Perhaps it is still in my chambers. I must be clumsy to misplace it.” His laugh was small, almost self-conscious.

A soft chuckle escaped Ryan, gentler this time. “You are, a little,” he said with a trace of fondness. Then, without warning, he stepped closer.

Jungkook froze, wide-eyed beneath his veil, when Ryan’s hand reached toward his hair. He held his breath as fingers brushed lightly against the strands. Something small fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Ryan straightened and gestured toward the discarded insect, his face composed. “It was poisonous,” he explained calmly. “It might have harmed you if it had bitten.”

Jungkook’s breath eased out in a rush, a shaky laugh following. He bowed his head slightly. “No, no—it is alright. Thank you.” His words carried awkward warmth, trying to match the gravity of Ryan’s gesture with something lighter.

Ryan returned the smile, faint but steady. Then his gaze shifted, flicking past Jungkook’s shoulder, and a subtle bow followed. His lips curved knowingly. “Your companion is here,” he said, stepping back with the respect of someone who knew his place.

And Jungkook felt his pulse stutter, the world narrowing in anticipation before he dared to turn.

Jungkook turned at Ryan’s words, his breath catching as his gaze fell upon the figure moving toward them.

Taehyung.

He walked with the quiet command of someone who did not need to announce his presence. A robe of deep crimson draped across his tall frame, silk fabric brushing the ground with every step. His hair, dark and flowing, cascaded down his back like a river of night, a single chain at his waist glinting in the faint light. The sight was sharp, regal, and unyielding—everything Jungkook was not, clad in his simple white robe with no jewels or ornaments. He felt small, fragile, beside him.

Taehyung’s eyes, steady and unreadable, lingered not on Jungkook but on Ryan.

Ryan bowed politely, his voice carrying an ease that Jungkook suddenly envied.

“Are you not so free these days?” Taehyung’s voice was low, even, but it carried an edge that cut the air between them.

Ryan straightened, still wearing that easy smile. “Ah, my trainings have been limited of late. And now—” his eyes flickered briefly toward Jungkook “—one of my disciples is not attending. So I am quite free.”

Jungkook’s lips curved into a small laugh, nervous but genuine. For the briefest moment the air lightened—until he caught Taehyung’s gaze turning toward him.

Those dark almond eyes pinned him in place, the smile on his lips faltering instantly. His breath hitched. He lowered his gaze quickly, but not before he saw something unreadable flicker there, deep and weighty.

When Taehyung turned back to Ryan, his tone carried finality, the kind that left no space for argument. “He is not your disciple,” he said evenly. “Address him as Your Highness.”

The warmth drained from Ryan’s face. His smile stiffened, then fell. He lowered his head quickly, lips pressing together before he whispered, “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I meant no disrespect.”

“Watcher Cael is looking for you,” Taehyung continued, voice calm but firm. “You will find plenty of work with him.”

Ryan bowed deeply, a shadow of unease crossing his features before he stepped back. As he turned, his eyes sought Jungkook’s once more, softening with a small smile, as though to reassure him. Then he disappeared into the distance.

The silence that followed pressed heavily on Jungkook’s chest. He lingered a moment, staring after Ryan, before slowly turning back—only to falter, his breath stuttering.

Taehyung was watching him. Not idly, not casually. Those eyes were fixed on him with a depth that felt suffocating, as though they could strip him bare. Jungkook’s body stiffened. His hands trembled where they hid beneath his sleeves.

“I do not like people touching what I adore.”

The words were spoken with such quiet intensity that they struck straight into his chest, sending shivers racing down his spine.

“H–huh?” The sound left him weakly, more a breath than a word.

Taehyung moved toward him. Step by step, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Jungkook could not move. His feet rooted to the ground, his pulse hammering so wildly he thought it might betray him.

And then—Taehyung’s hand rose, firm and unrelenting as it curled around the back of Jungkook’s neck. The touch stole his breath away, his body jolting in shock, yet he could not bring himself to resist. His face was drawn forward until only a breath of air separated them.

Jungkook’s heart leaped, frantic and helpless. His lashes fluttered, his lips parted as though to speak but no sound came.

With deliberate care, Taehyung’s fingers shifted the veil at Jungkook’s throat, tugging it aside just enough to bare a small expanse of pale skin.

And then—light as a whisper, softer than the wind—his lips brushed against that vulnerable place.

It was nothing more than a feathered touch. A fleeting ghost of contact. Yet it set Jungkook ablaze, his knees threatening to buckle beneath the sudden rush of heat and confusion. His hand clutched at the folds of his robe, desperate for an anchor.

Taehyung lingered there only a heartbeat longer, his breath warm against Jungkook’s skin. Then, just as suddenly, he released him and stepped back, the space between them yawning open once more.

Jungkook stood frozen, every nerve still alight, his mind unable to piece together what had just happened. His heart thundered, echoing louder than any sound in the courtyard.

Jungkook stood motionless, his fingers twisting together in front of him, clutching as though they might anchor him to the earth. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his mind still reeling, unable to name what had just unfolded.

Taehyung’s voice broke the silence, low and near enough to stir the air against his cheek.

“Only roses suit you. Nothing else.”

The words slipped into him like a secret meant for no one else. Jungkook’s lashes fluttered, then lifted slowly. His gaze, uncertain yet drawn, rose to meet Taehyung’s.

Those dark almond eyes were waiting for him—steady, unreadable, carrying an intensity that made Jungkook’s breath falter. For a heartbeat, he thought time itself had stilled.

Then, with unhurried grace, Taehyung’s hand slid from his neck, leaving behind a trail of heat that refused to fade.

He turned without a word, crimson robe swaying lightly as he walked toward the waiting horse. Jungkook remained rooted to his place, every beat of his heart loud enough to echo in his ears, his body trembling as though the ground beneath him had shifted.

“Shall we?”

The calm voice pulled him back. Jungkook startled, blinking rapidly as he turned. Taehyung stood beside the horse, one gloved hand extended toward him.

For a moment Jungkook only stared, the world narrowing to that single hand. Then, hesitantly—shyly—he reached forward and placed his smaller palm against it.

Taehyung’s grip was sure, steady, guiding him upward. Jungkook’s body moved almost of its own accord, his heart racing as though in protest. Soon he found himself seated upon the horse, the leather cool beneath him.

Taehyung mounted smoothly behind, and before Jungkook could fully gather himself, strong arms wrapped securely around his waist.

The contact sent a rush of warmth surging through him, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the faint press of Taehyung’s chest against his back, the steady rhythm of his presence so close it made his own heart falter.

The horse stirred, hooves striking the earth, carrying them forward into the winding path that led to the market.

Jungkook sat silent, yet inside his chest his heart danced wildly—giddy, unsteady, as though it might burst free at any moment.

The horse slowed to a halt, hooves scattering dust into the quiet air. Jungkook lifted his veil slightly, glancing around with a faint frown. Before them stretched nothing but open fields, their emptiness softened by the sway of tall grasses. A narrow stream glistened nearby, catching sunlight in broken shards.

“This… isn’t the market,” Jungkook whispered to himself.

Taehyung dismounted in one smooth motion, his crimson robe falling around him like a flame against the pale earth. He glanced up, wordlessly gesturing for Jungkook to follow.

Jungkook hesitated, then slid down from the horse, landing lightly on the ground. His eyes searched the empty horizon, then flicked back toward the taller figure. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice carrying a touch of confusion.

Taehyung turned to the saddle, retrieving a small leather bag. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. When he finally looked back, the corners of his mouth softened, though his tone remained even.

“You will see.”

He walked toward the stream, steps steady, as though he had known this path long before bringing Jungkook here.

Jungkook’s frown lingered, but curiosity tugged stronger than hesitation. He followed, the breeze brushing against his veil, carrying the faint scent of water and wildflowers.

The stream sang softly as it passed over smooth stones. Tiny blossoms—pale blue, nearly hidden in the grass—bloomed at its edge. Taehyung crouched, brushing a space clear of petals and grass, leaving a small patch of earth bare. Then, without hesitation, he reached for Jungkook’s hand.

“Sit here,” he murmured.

Jungkook’s eyes widened, his heart tripping over itself at the unexpected touch. Still, he obeyed, lowering himself carefully to the spot beside the stream. His wide gaze lingered on Taehyung, half wondering, half waiting.

Taehyung seated himself beside him with the same quiet certainty, setting the leather bag between them. From within, he drew out charcoal sticks and folded sheets of parchment. The faint black dust marked his long fingers as he arranged them with care.

Jungkook tilted his head, blinking in surprise. His soft voice broke the silence.

“Aren’t we supposed to choose the rings today? Prince Jimin said we don’t have much time left…”

He trailed off, watching Taehyung’s hands move with calm precision, as though time itself bent differently around him.

Taehyung slid a wooden board beneath a sheet of parchment, then held it out toward Jungkook.

Jungkook hesitated, brows furrowing, before finally accepting the offering. The weight of the page in his lap felt heavier than paper should.

And still, those almond eyes lingered on him, deep and unreadable.

Taehyung placed the parchment gently into Jungkook’s hands, then slid a charcoal pencil across the paper with long, elegant fingers. He mirrored the motion for himself, arranging another page on the wooden board resting upon his lap.

“We are here for the same thing,” he said, voice calm, almost too calm.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, his doe eyes darting between the paper and Taehyung’s composed face. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Taehyung’s gaze lingered, steady as the stream flowing beside them. “We are going to design it ourselves.”

Jungkook blinked, stunned into stillness. His lips parted before sound followed. “Our… rings?”

Taehyung gave a single, deliberate nod.

Jungkook’s throat tightened. He dropped his gaze back to the blank parchment, then back up again, his teeth catching his lower lip in hesitation. The weight of the moment pressed heavier than the paper.

“But… I don’t know how to sketch,” he confessed softly, his voice lined with apology.

For the first time that morning, a faint laugh broke from Taehyung—low, quiet, but it curled into Jungkook’s ears and stayed there. “It is not about perfection,” he murmured. “Draw something you want me to wear. That is all.”

Jungkook’s heart jolted, almost painfully, at the words. He immediately ducked his head, eyes fixed on the untouched paper. His lips trembled as he bit them again, as though to keep his heart from leaping out into the air between them.

“Now,” Taehyung said, his tone firm yet unhurried, “we have an hour. You should begin.”

Jungkook’s hands twitched against the paper. He glanced sideways, only to find Taehyung shifting slightly away, his crimson robes brushing against the grass.

Jungkook blinked. “Why… are you moving farther?”

The man’s dark eyes met his, unblinking, the silence stretching before he answered. “We should not see each other’s designs. It must remain a secret.”

“Why?” Jungkook’s voice cracked with earnest confusion. His gaze darted down, then back up again, his tone near pleading. “At last… it is me who will wear it.”

Taehyung’s lips curved, though it was not quite a smile. “Yes. You will. But not now. You will see it only on the day itself.”

The certainty in his voice allowed no argument.

Jungkook let out a small sigh, shoulders sinking. He stared down at the page again, the charcoal trembling faintly in his grasp. His eyes wandered over the open field, the soft current of the stream, the scattered wildflowers—searching, searching for something that might guide his hand.

And all the while, Taehyung, already bent over his own page, remained a mystery beside him.

Ten minutes slipped by like grains of sand. Jungkook pressed the charcoal to the parchment, sketched a crooked line, then frowned and crossed it out. Another attempt—another failure. His shoulders sagged. He risked a glance at Taehyung, who sat motionless except for the steady glide of his hand across paper, utterly consumed by his task.

Jungkook chewed at his lower lip, fingers smudged with black. How can he be so calm, so precise… while I cannot even imagine a shape worth giving him?

Half an hour bled into silence, broken only by the murmur of the stream and the distant rustle of grass. His page was a mess of abandoned attempts. With a frustrated sigh, Jungkook tugged his veil from his face, letting the air touch his skin, as though the fabric itself had clouded his thoughts. Still, nothing good appeared beneath his hand.

His gaze drifted sideways again. Taehyung had not moved except to draw, his posture serene, his focus unshaken. Jungkook, restless, began to edge closer—quiet as possible, holding his breath, as though even sound might betray him.

Just as he lifted his head to steal a peek, a low voice cut through the air.

“I can sense you even in the dark, you sneaky human.”

Jungkook startled, eyes going wide. He met Taehyung’s gaze, those dark almond eyes sharp yet unhurried. Taehyung calmly flipped his parchment over on his lap, shielding the design, then tilted his head.

“I am making it for you,” he said softly. “It will reach you. Just wait.”

Heat crept to Jungkook’s cheeks. He puffed them slightly, retreating to his place with a pout. “Mine will be terrible. You’re going to hate it.”

A low chuckle escaped Taehyung, warm and fleeting. “I would wear it even if you bound only a thread around my finger.”

The words struck Jungkook like an arrow to the chest. His heart thudded so violently he thought Taehyung might hear it. His lashes lowered, trying to hide the way his lips trembled.

“Now,” Taehyung added, voice steady, “get back to your page. Time is running.”

Jungkook exhaled shakily and forced himself to turn back to the parchment. His mind wandered, then settled. He let his eyes sweep the field—the gentle stream, the scatter of small flowers, the open sky above—and suddenly, something inside him clicked. His hand moved with a hesitant certainty, sketching lines that at last seemed to carry meaning.

Taehyung, finished with his own work, lifted his gaze. He leaned back slightly, watching the boy beside him. Jungkook was leaning over his page, wholly immersed now, his lips pressing together when he frowned, curving faintly when something pleased him. He smiled at nothing, scolded the paper with a sigh, then smiled again.

Taehyung blinked slowly, something unspoken flickering in his eyes.

Jungkook suddenly gasped, tilting his page toward the light. “Ah—it’s cute!” he exclaimed, his voice bright, glancing up at Taehyung with a sparkle in his eyes.

For once, Taehyung allowed the corner of his lips to lift.

Jungkook folded the page carefully, holding it close to his chest as though it were a secret treasure. “I’m done,” he declared, pride softening his tone.

Taehyung chuckled, a sound that rumbled low. “Yes. It looks like you are.”

Jungkook jumped to his feet, restless energy spilling through him. “We should give it now, otherwise it won’t be finished in time!”

Taehyung’s laughter deepened, quiet but rich. “You forget,” he said, rising with effortless grace, “who I am here.”

Jungkook froze, realization dawning late. His hand flew to the back of his neck, scratching awkwardly, his lips parting in a sheepish little “ah…”

Taehyung only looked at him, the chain at his waist catching faint light, the veil over his face making his expression unreadable—save for his eyes, which never let Jungkook go.

Taehyung extended his hand, palm steady and open.

“Give it to me,” he said.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, clutching the folded page a little tighter. “No. You said it is meant to stay secret.”

A soft chuckle slipped from Taehyung, low and rich. “I know. But if you want it to come into life, it must be given. Do not worry—I will not look.”

Jungkook hesitated, his doe eyes lifting to study that veiled face. The certainty in Taehyung’s voice was enough to coax his fingers loose. Slowly, carefully, he placed the paper onto Taehyung’s palm, as though surrendering something far more fragile than charcoal on parchment.

Taehyung tucked both designs into the leather bag, setting it aside upon the ground. His gaze then lowered—not to Jungkook’s eyes, but to his ink-smudged hands. A faint curve touched his lips.

“You should wash your hands,” he murmured.

Jungkook blinked, following his gaze downward. His fingers were dark with charcoal, smudges across his skin like evidence of his struggle. He let out a sheepish laugh. “Ah… yes.”

“Come,” Taehyung said simply, reaching forward. His long fingers closed gently around Jungkook’s wrists, tugging him closer. The touch sent Jungkook’s chest fluttering, his pulse quickening in a way he could neither control nor understand.

They crouched by the stream, its waters clear and cool. Taehyung dipped his hand, gathering water in his palm, and then, with deliberate care, began rinsing Jungkook’s fingers one by one. His touch was not hurried, but steady—thorough, as if the smudges were precious stains he alone was permitted to wash away.

Jungkook’s lashes trembled. He dared to glance up. The man’s profile was so close, the fall of his dark hair brushing against his cheekbones, the faintest curl of his lips softening the veil of mystery that always surrounded him. Jungkook’s chest bloomed painfully, almost sweetly, until he thought he might forget how to breathe. Why him? What fate has granted me this?

His thoughts shattered in an instant—when a splash of water struck his face. Cold, sudden, shocking. He gasped, eyes snapping shut. And then he heard it: laughter. Rich, unrestrained laughter spilling from Taehyung’s lips as though the world itself had loosened his guarded silence.

Jungkook blinked his eyes open, droplets clinging to his lashes, and saw him—Taehyung laughing so freely his eyes curved shut, one hand still holding onto Jungkook’s wrist for balance.

“Look at your face,” Taehyung teased, voice colored with mirth. “You look like a kicked puppy.”

Jungkook frowned, lips jutting. “I am not a puppy.”

“You are.” The reply came with another quiet chuckle.

Jungkook wiped at his wet face, cheeks warm despite the cold water. Taehyung rose to his feet, still grinning. For a moment, Jungkook simply stared, then lowered his gaze to the rippling stream. Mischief sparked in his chest.

Before he could doubt, he scooped a handful of water and flung it upward. The droplets scattered across Taehyung’s robe and cheek, glistening like jewels against his skin.

Taehyung paused, wiping the water from his face, eyes narrowing in mock offense.

“Now you look like a baby bear just fished from the river,” Jungkook said, laughter tumbling out of him.

A beat of silence. Then Taehyung’s voice, low and amused yet dangerous: “Ah… you just wait.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. A giggle escaped him before he could stop it. He scrambled back, stumbling a little as he called over his shoulder, “You cannot catch me, Your Grace!”

“But I can chase you,” Taehyung’s voice replied, firm and certain.

And so he did. Their laughter rang across the open fields, Jungkook darting like quicksilver, Taehyung’s steps measured yet unrelenting behind him. The stream glittered, the flowers swayed, the sky stretched endless above, and for that fleeting span of time Jungkook’s heart felt as though it might burst from joy.

Yet high above, unseen by their joy, a figure stood at the ridge. Kaira’s gaze burned, her hands tightening into fists.

“How?” she whispered, venom in her tone. “How can he breathe life into him—when I, for years, could not?”

Her voice was swallowed by the wind, but her fury lingered, dark and heavy against the bright laughter below.

The palace corridors stretched wide and hushed as Jungkook walked alongside Aerum, their steps echoing faintly against the stone. He was lighthearted, still carrying laughter in his chest.

“It was open land,” he told her, turning to walk backward so he could face her. His hands moved animatedly as though painting the memory in the air. “A stream running clear, flowers bending to the wind… it was—” he paused, eyes bright, “—beautiful.”

Aerum chuckled at his enthusiasm. “And when,” she teased, “will you take me to this place of wonders?”

Jungkook shook his head, lips curving. “I will not.”

Her brows arched in feigned offense. “And why not?”

“Because it is our place now,” he said, voice softer, almost to himself.

Aerum’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in playful shock. “Is this truly my Jungkook speaking?”

He laughed, turning forward again—yet the sound faded, as if stolen from his lips. His gaze caught on a figure ahead. Lady Kaira, approaching, her steps measured, her eyes sharp as blades, trained upon him.

Jungkook slowed but did not falter. He turned his head as though not to see her, as though her presence could be brushed away. But her voice cut the air.

“You look happy.”

He stopped, heart tightening against his ribs. Slowly, he turned. “Why should I not be?” he answered, steady though his voice was quiet.

Kaira’s gaze swept from his feet to the crown of his head, her lips curving without warmth. “ I heard  You encountered the shadow in the forest?”

Jungkook frowned, the words foreign to him, meaning lost. His lips parted, but before he could speak Aerum stepped forward, her fingers tightening around his hand.

“Lady,” Aerum’s voice was firm, protective, “are you not too bold to address His Highness in such manner?”

Kaira’s head tilted, her eyes narrowing upon Aerum. “And who are you to speak to me so?” She advanced a step, her tone laced with venom. “Do you know who I am? My father carries half this kingdom in his hand.”

Aerum did not retreat. Jungkook tugged gently at her hand, wanting to ease her back, but she stood her ground, voice calm as steel. “And your father bends to His Majesty. Prince Jungkook is his chosen mate. Do you understand the weight of that word?”

Kaira’s jaw tightened, her eyes flashing dark. Then she laughed—low, humorless. “You are bold. Too bold. I could have your head severed here and now, and no soul would dare question me.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened, breath caught. “Lady Kaira,” he spoke sharply, “watch your tongue.”

Her gaze flickered back to him, cold amusement lingering in her smile. She arched a brow, then shifted her attention to Aerum once more. “You will pay for speaking so.”

With that, she swept past them, her steps echoing into the corridor, leaving behind a chill heavier than stone.

Jungkook clutched Aerum’s hand tighter, his voice lowered with urgency. “Noona, why did you say such things? She is dangerous. Jimin warned me—avoid her, do not cross her path.”

Aerum’s gaze lingered upon the space where Kaira had vanished, her expression unreadable. Then she turned back to him, her tone softened. “Forget her. Come now—you must be hungry. Eat, and let not her shadow trouble your heart.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, nodding. He let her lead him away. Yet behind them, the corridor seemed to hold Kaira’s presence still, like a warning carved into the very air.

Morning light spilled in fractured streams across the polished stone, scattering like fragments of gold upon the palace floor. The day had come heavy with purpose, every worker moving swiftly, every hand burdened with the weight of preparation. The wedding would begin by nightfall; little time remained, and Prince Jimin himself strode through the halls with Lady Nyra at his side, his eyes sharp upon every detail.

He paused often, correcting, adjusting, ensuring nothing fell short of perfection. Nyra, silent yet steady, matched his pace, her gaze flitting now and then to the restless bustle of the servants.

From the far end of the corridor, Watcher Cael approached. His presence was a shadow drawn upright—calm, firm, composed. Jimin’s eyes flickered briefly to Nyra, who had already turned to look, her expression softening though she said nothing.

Cael bowed when he reached them, and Jimin offered a smile in greeting. But Cael’s eyes did not linger on Nyra; his posture remained stiff, as though he dared not falter.

“Prince Jimin,” he began, his tone even, “His Majesty must leave for urgent matters. He has promised he will return within two or three hours.”

Jimin’s brow furrowed, disbelief pressing lines into his forehead. “What? It is his wedding day.”

Cael’s lips curved faintly, though not in joy. “You know he is more eager than any soul beneath these roofs. But…” his words trailed, heavy with meaning, “…at the borders, his presence is needed. Last night, four of our men fell to shadows.”

A silence stretched. Jimin’s worry surfaced in his eyes, shadowing them. “Are they not in control? I thought—”

“We do not know,” Cael interrupted gently. “We must be certain. His Majesty swore he would return before evening, before the rites begin.”

Jimin exhaled slowly, resigned though restless. “He should,” he murmured, more to himself than to Cael.

Cael bowed again, preparing to leave. Nyra had stood still all this while, her hands clasped before her, her lips pressed together. But as Cael turned, she spoke, her voice so low it nearly dissolved into the air.

“Take care,” she whispered.

Cael halted, his shoulders tightening. He turned just enough to lift his eyes to her, though only for a breath, before he lowered them again. “I will,” he replied softly, and with that, he moved away down the corridor.

Nyra’s gaze followed him long after his figure had disappeared. Her eyes glimmered, the light catching upon unshed tears she would not allow to fall.

Jimin regarded her, his sigh slipping into the silence. “I do not understand why you both insist on hurting each other so.”

Nyra smiled faintly, though it trembled. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice like the hush of wind, “love must wound us, if only to show us how deep it runs.”

Jimin shook his head, lips twisting in dismay. “You are both clearly foolish.”

Her smile broke into a laugh too fragile to last. She turned away, searching the busy hall with her eyes as though composure could be pieced together from the chaos around them.

Jimin lingered on her for a moment, his concern unspoken. Then he shifted, his voice firm, redirecting the weight of the day. “Come. We must go to Jungkook. He must be ready before the evening falls—and there are still rituals he must learn.”

Nyra nodded quietly. Together they walked toward Jungkook’s chambers, the light of morning stretching before them, gilded yet heavy with the hours that pressed swiftly toward night.

Jimin knocked softly before easing the door open. The room was quiet, bathed in the pale glow of morning. Jungkook sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing the embroidered hem of his wedding robes as though trying to gather courage from the threads. At the sight of Jimin and Lady Nyra stepping inside, he rose quickly, straightening his veil though his hands trembled faintly.

“How is our prince charming doing?” Jimin teased gently, though his tone carried more warmth than jest.

Jungkook offered him a small, nervous smile.

Jimin’s eyes softened, reading the silence in his expression. He stepped closer. “Why does your face seem dim, Jungkook?” he asked, his voice hushed with concern.

The young prince bit at his lip, his lashes lowering. A single tear, unbidden, slipped free and traced his cheek.

“Hey—what is it?” Jimin asked, alarm flickering across his face. Nyra moved forward too, her silken robes whispering against the floor, her brow drawn in worry.

Jungkook’s gaze fell to the gown in his hands, his fingers twisting the fabric. His voice came so low it was almost a confession to the air. “I… I miss my parents.”

Jimin’s chest tightened. He reached forward, clasping Jungkook’s trembling hands between his own. “They would want to see you smiling, not weeping,” he said softly, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “They would want you radiant, not bowed down.”

Jungkook nodded, though the ache in his heart did not ease. The thought of the coming night pressed heavier on him—the rituals, the sacred blessings, the traditions that should have been carried by his mother and father. His breath caught, and he whispered brokenly, “But… who will perform my rituals then?”

The weight of his loneliness pressed into the question. Taehyung had Jimin beside him, but Jungkook—his uncle despised him, his cousin despised him. He could not bear for hands filled with disdain to guide his most precious day. And Aerum… Aerum was all he had, yet she was not of royal blood. Would they even allow her to take that place?

Jimin smiled gently, as though already knowing where Jungkook’s thoughts had gone. “You have Aerum noona,” he said. “You are not as alone as you think.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. They shimmered with unshed tears, but light flickered there now. “Can she?” His voice was small, trembling with a fragile hope.

“Of course,” Nyra said, stepping forward at last. Her voice carried quiet certainty. “I came here to guide her, to show her how the rituals must be done.”

For the first time that morning, Jungkook’s smile blossomed brightly, soft and unguarded. His heart swelled with relief, with gratitude. At that moment the door creaked again, and Aerum entered the room, startled to find them all gathered.

“Noona!” Jungkook exclaimed, his voice laced with joy. “Lady Nyra is here to speak with you.”

He turned to her with shining eyes, as though already entrusting her with the most sacred part of his heart.

Aerum walked closer, her steps measured, her eyes searching Jungkook’s face as though she needed to read what words could not yet tell her. His expression was bright despite the faint trace of tears that still clung to his lashes, and her heart ached with both pride and worry.

“You should be ready,” Jimin said, his gaze warm as it shifted to Aerum. His tone carried the gentle weight of command. “Your son is getting married today. You will carry many responsibilities.”

Aerum’s eyes widened, as if the truth had only just struck her. She looked back at Jungkook, uncertainty shadowing her features. “But… I am not of royal blood,” she whispered, almost apologetically, as though the absence of titles made her unworthy.

Nyra’s lips curved into a soft but certain smile. “But you are his mother, are you not? That is what matters.” Her voice steadied the room, quiet yet resolute. “His majesty himself told me—you will be the one standing for Jungkook today.”

Aerum blinked, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. She pressed her lips together, and then her smile broke through—fragile, trembling, but filled with devotion. “I will,” she whispered. Her eyes shifted to Jungkook, who was already gazing at her with the kind of radiant joy that no crown could grant. He smiled so brightly it seemed to light the room. “I will,” she repeated, firmer this time.

“Then you should take Jungkook to the cliffside castle,” Jimin said, his voice softening as he turned the moment back to order. “He should prepare there. Lady Nyra and the attendants will accompany you.”

Aerum nodded with resolve. “I will gather everything that is needed.” Nyra gave her a knowing glance, then moved with her to begin preparations.

Jimin was also about to take his leave when Jungkook’s voice broke softly behind him. “Where is he?” The words were quiet, hesitant, yet threaded with yearning he could not conceal.

Jimin turned, one brow arched in teasing. “Oh? Already missing him?”

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed faintly, his lips parting in protest. “No—it’s not like that. I only… I only wanted to ask about the rings. He—” His voice faltered, embarrassment creeping up his neck.

Jimin chuckled, the sound gentle rather than mocking. “He did not tell me where he meant to have them made. But he will be there, Jungkook—he will be at your side, as he should. That much you need not doubt.”

Jungkook nodded, though a shadow of worry passed through his eyes. “But… where did he go?” he asked again, unable to let the question rest.

Jimin’s tone grew quieter. “There were troubles near the borders. Shadows stirring. He went to ensure the people’s safety.”

The words brought both pride and unease into Jungkook’s heart. He understood, of course he did—yet a thread of anxiety wound itself around his ribs, tugging each time he thought of the danger Taehyung might face. Still, he forced himself to smile, to believe. “I see,” he murmured, then rose to his feet, smoothing his robe as though steadying his own spirit.

With Jimin at his side, and Aerum already preparing, Jungkook stepped forward. The day was waiting for him—yet so was the weight of his longing.

Jungkook left with Aerum, the steady rumble of the carriage wheels carrying them forward through the dimming light. He sat quietly, fidgeting with his hands in his lap, unable to still the restless tremor within him. It wasn’t fear—not entirely—but a heavy, anxious thrum that he could not name. His heart seemed to press against his ribs, asking questions his mind could not answer.

By the time the carriage slowed to a halt, the sun had already begun its descent. Evening stretched itself languidly across the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of gold and crimson. Jungkook stepped down first, the cool air brushing against his skin as his eyes lifted toward the towering silhouette of the cliffside castle. Its walls gleamed faintly in the dying light, both solemn and imposing, as though it had been waiting for this night as long as he had been dreading it.

Aerum followed close behind, her presence a fragile tether of comfort. Yet even with her near, his stomach twisted.

When his gaze drifted across the courtyard, he caught sight of his uncle and Jaehwan already standing among the arrivals. His uncle’s face was unreadable, but Jaehwan’s glare cut sharp as a blade. Jungkook’s throat tightened. He averted his eyes quickly, refusing to let the bitterness of their disdain soil what was meant to be his day. Not today. He would not let them see him falter.

A soft rustle of fabric pulled his attention away. Lady Nyra descended gracefully from another carriage, her calm eyes meeting his. At her side, Lady Kaira walked with her head held high, her expression sharp and unbending. The contrast between the two women was as striking as night and dawn.

Nyra approached him with her usual composure, her voice quiet yet firm as she gestured to the waiting servants. “Show his highness to his chamber. All his belongings should already be there. Keep guards outside his door.”

Jungkook managed a small, grateful smile at her kindness, his heart steadying if only for a moment under her gaze.

“Lady Aerum,” Nyra continued, turning with a soft nod. “Might I have a word with you? There are matters we must prepare before nightfall.”

Aerum’s hand came to rest gently on Jungkook’s arm. Her touch lingered there, reassuring, even as she prepared to leave him. “I will be back soon,” she promised.

Jungkook nodded, though his chest ached at the thought of her absence. With quiet obedience, he followed the waiting maids through the vast corridors of the castle. Their footsteps echoed against the stone, carrying him deeper inside until finally they stopped before a heavy door.

When he entered, the room opened wide before him. His belongings had already been arranged with meticulous care—his ceremonial robe laid neatly upon the bed, the jewelry gleaming like droplets of starlight beside it. Headpieces carved with delicate precision shimmered faintly in the candlelight, waiting to crown him as though they had belonged to him all along.

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on the fine things spread across the bed, each piece glimmering as though it carried a story he had yet to hear. He traced them with his eyes, one by one, until the stillness in the room pressed too close against his chest.

“You all may leave,” he said softly.

The workers bowed low before withdrawing. Their footsteps faded down the hall, and the chamber grew silent.

Jungkook moved slowly toward the window, fingers brushing the carved frame as he pushed it open. A rush of wind spilled inside, cool against his skin, yet it did little to ease the storm in his body. His heart remained restless, thudding unevenly.

He leaned forward, eyes sweeping across the distant grounds. Below, carriages rattled in, people gathered in clusters, and the palace grounds blossomed with restless movement. He caught sight of Jimin among the crowd and felt a brief swell of relief—only for it to fade when he realized neither Taehyung nor Cael was there.

His thoughts slipped, unbidden, into dark corners. What if something had happened? What if the borders kept him longer? What if—

He shook his head, as though the motion alone could scatter such shadows. His gaze fell toward the great open hall below, draped in silks and lanterns. The decorations sparkled in the fading light, a stage prepared for vows and union. Perhaps this is where we will stand, he thought, the image both dizzying and surreal.

But then his eyes caught on a figure. Lady Kaira, standing among the nobles, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him. The intensity in her eyes sent a chill crawling down his spine. Jungkook drew in a sharp breath, his hands gripping the sill before he quickly turned away. With hurried hands, he shut the window, closing her presence out.

Silence pressed heavier now. He turned to the bed and reached for the robe, the fabric spilling over his arms like water. He changed slowly, each movement deliberate, as though buying time, though his mind refused to still.

When he emerged, he was dressed in white. The robe gleamed softly under the lantern light, its delicate embroidery tracing quiet stories across the borders in muted colors. He adjusted the fall of the garment, then sat before the mirror, combing his hair into place with careful strokes.

On the bed, Taehyung’s chosen headpiece waited. Jungkook lifted it with trembling hands, placing it over his hair. He closed his eyes as it settled into place, inhaling deeply, as if the weight of it might somehow anchor him.

Piece by piece, he adorned himself. A small bracelet of red and black slipped onto his wrist, the colors bold against his pale skin. The jewelry gleamed faintly as he lifted each one, fastening them in silence.

At last, his hands fell upon the veil. He lifted it slowly, the sheer fabric whispering as it draped over his head, softening his reflection in the mirror until he could barely make out the curve of his own face.

Jungkook stood, then sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands pressed against his knees. His breaths came shallow, the chamber heavy with waiting.

He frowned faintly. Aerum had not returned yet. By now, she should have been here.

The silence thickened, carrying with it a whisper of unease.

He waited. One breath, then another, counting the stillness in his chest. Yet the silence pressed heavier with each passing moment, until it became unbearable.

At last, he rose. His steps carried him to the door, and with hesitant fingers, he pulled it open.

The guards outside immediately straightened, heads bowed.

“Your Highness,” one spoke firmly. “You should not leave this chamber. We were given strict orders to keep you here until His Majesty returns.”

Jungkook bit his lip, shifting slightly under their stern gazes. “I am not going far,” he murmured. “Just… along this corridor.”

The guard’s hand twitched as if to stop him. “But—”

“You are told not to let anyone inside, yes?” Jungkook cut gently, his tone soft but steady. “Then do as you were instructed. I will come back.”

Before they could answer, he stepped past them. His robe whispered against the floor, veil swaying as he moved down the corridor, heart pattering with anxious urgency.

He turned a corner—and nearly collided with someone.

Jungkook startled, straightening quickly, his breath catching.

“Oh—Your Highness.” Ryan’s voice carried mild surprise as he bowed. “You should not be wandering here. It is unsafe.”

Jungkook shook his head, gaze already wandering past him. “I only need to check something. I will return.”

Ryan’s brows furrowed, as though he might follow, but Jungkook’s soft insistence left no room. He walked on, steps quickening, unwilling to linger in explanations.

Then—just ahead. A familiar figure turned into another corridor, the edge of a dress sweeping like a fleeting shadow.

Jungkook’s lips curved, relief breaking through the heaviness in his chest. Noona.

He quickened his pace, eager, a boyish smile tugging at his lips. He wanted to show her his dress, to hear her say he looked beautiful. To anchor his restless heart in her warmth.

Without a second thought, he followed.

Jimin stood with his hands resting at his waist, gaze fixed on the palace gates. The steady rhythm of hooves broke the hum of the evening, and soon Taehyung appeared—his figure draped in fatigue, his robes dusted with the long road’s burden.

He dismounted with practiced ease, passing the reins into Cael’s waiting hands. The horse whickered softly, stamping its hooves, as if echoing the prince’s restlessness.

“You are too late,” Jimin said, his voice sharp, though beneath it worry throbbed. “You know that.”

Taehyung’s lips curved faintly, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. He stepped closer, his breath still heavy.

“I know,” he murmured. “Is he ready?”

“He is.” Jimin’s reply came with an edge of guilt. His gaze faltered before returning to Taehyung. “He asked about you… more than once. I had no answer, so I haven’t gone to him since he dressed. He must think I’ve abandoned him.”

“What?” Taehyung’s tone hardened, the smile vanishing. His eyes darkened as he turned toward the castle doors. “Why is he alone? I told you—he is not to be left by himself in this place.”

He was already striding forward when Jimin’s hand shot out, grasping his arm. “Wait.”

Taehyung stilled, impatience flickering in the set of his shoulders.

Jimin’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the prince. “You have blood on your clothes.”

Taehyung glanced down briefly at the stains darkening his sleeve, almost dismissively. “It is nothing. I need to see him.”

Jimin’s grip tightened, holding him in place. “You know it is ill omen—blood on a wedding day.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to answer—but the air split with a scream.

A sound raw and piercing, echoing through the stone walls of the castle. The kind of cry that silences even the restless wind.

Jimin’s face drained of color, his breath catching. His eyes met Taehyung’s, wide and sharp with realization.

“It’s Aerum,” he whispered, voice breaking against the weight of dread.

The two of them turned, hearts seizing, as the scream bled into silence.

They ran.

Taehyung and Jimin—two shadows flying through the marble corridors, their robes trailing like wounded banners. The stairs loomed, and they climbed, breath shallow, hearts pounding with dread.

By the time they reached the landing, the air was already thick with murmurs. A crowd had gathered—courtiers, oracles, servants, their faces pale, their bodies pressed together in fearful awe. Yet as soon as they caught sight of Taehyung ascending, the sea of bodies parted instinctively, bowing in reverence, leaving a hollow path that led to the heart of the horror.

The first thing Jimin noticed was the smell. Metallic, sharp, impossible to ignore. His chest tightened, and then he saw—his eyes widened, a choked sound leaving his lips as his hand flew up, covering his mouth. His stomach lurched.

Lady Nyra stood rigid at the edge of the hall, her silken hand pressed to her lips, eyes glistening in horror. Jungkook’s uncle and cousin were also there, their faces curiously unreadable, as if carved in the same cold stone. From the far side, Ryan approached with measured steps, while Kaira lingered just behind him. Her gaze was eerily steady—first lowering to the ground, then slowly rising, calm and unblinking, until her eyes locked with Taehyung’s.

But Taehyung was not looking at her. His focus was only forward, his feet heavy yet unrelenting as he stepped toward the figure crumpled in the center. His voice came low, almost a whisper, as though his throat refused the words.

“...Jungkook.”

The boy lifted his head. Wide, tear-soaked eyes found him, pupils blown wide in terror. His face was streaked with blood, lips trembling, breath broken. His hands—his small, trembling hands—clutched a dagger, its silver drowned in red.

And then, as though the truth dawned too heavily, Jungkook let out a ragged scream. The dagger clattered against the stone floor, ringing sharply, echoing through the chamber like a cruel judgment. His gaze fell to the floor, and the weight of the world collapsed onto him.

There—Aerum lay sprawled, her dress soaked crimson, her body still.

“Noona…” His voice shattered as he collapsed to his knees beside her, clutching her face in desperate hands. “Noona—open your eyes. What happened?” His cries fractured into sobs as he pulled her limp body against his chest, rocking her as if warmth could be breathed back into her.

The whispers began then, serpentine and merciless, rippling through the hall.

“He was holding the dagger…”

“he stabbed her?”

The words spread like poison, eyes turning sharp, suspicious, condemning.

Taehyung’s jaw locked, his fists clenching at his sides until his knuckles blanched. 

And then it came.

A sound not entirely human, not entirely of this world—a guttural roar that rose into a thunderous voice, shaking the very foundation of the palace.

“LEAVE!”

The command cracked like lightning, reverberating in every rib, in every trembling soul present. The walls themselves seemed to shudder. Courtiers stumbled backward, oracles bowed their heads low, even the guards faltered where they stood, the crowd scattering like startled birds.

Silence fell, save for the ragged sobs of the boy on the floor.

Taehyung’s gaze returned to him then. Jungkook was no longer a prince, no longer the one they had adorned with jewels and silks—he was only a child, broken and weeping, clutching the body of the woman who had been his anchor, his comfort, his only family in this cruel kingdom. His robes, once white, were drowned in red. His hands trembled against Aerum’s still face.

And his cries—his cries tore through the chamber, wild and helpless, as if the sound itself could bargain with fate.

Taehyung took a single step closer, the sight burning into him. He saw everything—Jungkook’s innocence, his grief, his terror—and something inside him twisted, raw and merciless.

Because in this moment, Jungkook was not the boy chosen by prophecy, not the prince claimed by destiny.

He was simply a soul undone.

And Taehyung could not look away.

Chapter Text

Flashback

The market buzzed beneath the golden hush of morning—vendors calling out soft bargains, fabric stalls breathing color into the dusty air, and the distant clang of metal echoing like a heartbeat through the streets.

Through the noise, a young boy walked with steady grace. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, his head held high beneath a faint shimmer of veil that concealed most of his face. The robe he wore—dyed in deep crimson and gold threads—fluttered lightly with each of his steps. At his hip, a sword gleamed, slender and sharp, whispering authority even in silence.

Beside him walked another boy—shorter, younger, eyes darting with curiosity and fear alike. His robe was simpler, the color of warm earth, and his expression betrayed the unease in his chest.

“Prince Taehyung,” he whispered, his voice trembling like an uncertain flame, “if your father learns we’re here... I swear I’ll lose my head.”

Taehyung did not slow. His gaze lingered on the path ahead, every step measured, as if even the dust beneath his feet knew to obey. “Then perhaps,” he murmured, his tone calm but edged, “you should learn what to do with your life before worrying about your death. You’re far too naïve, Ryan.”

Ryan huffed, half a nervous laugh. “I’m not naïve. I just... look like one. When I decide on something, I see it through. No matter what it costs.”

A faint smile curved beneath Taehyung’s veil. “And yet you tremble at my father’s shadow.” His words weren’t cruel—merely truth, wrapped in a prince’s composure.

Ryan’s lips twisted into a small grin. “Perhaps your father’s shadow is larger than my courage.”

The prince didn’t answer. His pace was quiet, his robe brushing against the stones with a whisper. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, lower—almost distant. “Library.”

Ryan blinked, confused. “Library?”

Taehyung’s eyes glinted through the veil, their depth unreadable. “That’s where we’re going.” He lifted a gloved hand, pointing ahead where the towering marble pillars rose from the heart of the market. “There it is.”

They turned down a quieter street, the noise fading into echoes. The library stood like a relic of time itself—stone etched with golden runes, wooden doors tall enough to touch the sky, the scent of parchment drifting through the cracks.

Ryan stopped at the entrance, glancing around nervously. “You’re sure we should be here?”

Taehyung’s reply was calm, assured. “Stand by the door. I’ll only be a moment.”

The prince walked ahead, his steps silent, each echo swallowed by the weight of centuries inside. Shelves towered, dust shimmered in the thin light, and the air was thick with the stillness of old secrets waiting to be disturbed.

Ryan watched from the threshold, the edge of unease pricking the back of his neck.

Taehyung’s silhouette disappeared between the shelves—red robe and quiet authority dissolving into shadows, leaving only the faint glint of his sword and the hush of something ancient waking around him.

The air inside the library was still—thick with dust and the quiet scent of parchment, as though even time dared not breathe too loudly here.

Taehyung’s boots pressed softly against the floor, each step measured and precise. His gaze swept along the rows of shelves, eyes tracing the faded inked spines and the glint of gilded letters until they landed upon one—an old volume resting in the corner shelf, wrapped in the faintest shimmer of gold leaf. His favorite. The one he had longed to read since childhood.

He moved closer, the hem of his robe brushing gently against the ground. The light filtering through the tall windows trembled over his face as his hand reached out—long fingers brushing the air—

And another hand touched the same spine.

A soft, bell-like giggle filled the silence.

“I got it,” a small voice said, full of innocent triumph.

The prince’s hand froze midair. His breath caught—not from anger, not from surprise—but from something strange, sharp, and unknown that rippled through his chest.

He turned.

And for the first time, Taehyung forgot to breathe.

Before him stood a boy—young, delicate, and almost unreal in his beauty. His robe was pure white, bound at the waist with a simple silver chain that glimmered in the light. His hair, dark as silk, fell across his brow in soft waves, and his eyes—shaped like crescents—lifted toward him with startled innocence. His cheeks, flushed from laughter, glowed faintly beneath the falling light.

But what struck Taehyung most was the scent—

roses.

He smelled like roses in full bloom after rain.

The boy blinked, realizing who stood before him. His grip tightened protectively on the book, as if the mysterious person in front of him might steal it away by force.

Taehyung’s gaze softened, but his voice when it came was low and firm, the kind that did not know how to ask—only to command.

“I want this book.”

The boy’s eyes widened. His voice was small, uncertain.

“But… I got it first.”

“Still,” Taehyung said without hesitation, “I want it.”

The boy frowned faintly, confusion flickering over his gentle features. “But… isn’t that unfair?”

“I don’t care.”

The answer came too fast, too sharp, even for Taehyung himself. He didn’t understand why his chest felt tight, why this stranger’s voice seemed to echo somewhere deep within him.

The boy hesitated, biting his lip, though his hands trembled around the book. “I don’t want to give it.”

A corner of Taehyung’s lips curved, not in cruelty but in curiosity.

He took a slow step forward. Then another. The boy instinctively stepped back, the distance shrinking between them like a thread drawn taut.

The silence trembled between them—the prince’s steady breath, the boy’s racing one.

Taehyung lifted a hand slightly, his eyes fixed on the boy’s. “Then what if I—”

The boy’s hand darted up, gesturing quickly. His eyes widened in alarm.

“L-look behind you.”

Taehyung blinked, the command sharp enough to cut through his trance.

For a heartbeat, the prince stood still, the boy’s warning still lingering like a whisper in the air.

Taehyung turned his head sharply, golden light glancing off his earring—only to find nothing but stillness, shelves standing quiet like sentinels.

A trick.

When he turned back, the boy was already gone.

Only the soft flutter of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, quick and fleeting as a bird taking flight. The prince blinked once in disbelief before striding forward, his robe sweeping behind him. “Wait—”

He reached out, but his hand caught only air. For an instant, his fingers brushed silk—a chain glinting at the boy’s waist—before it snapped loose with a soft, brittle sound. The weight of it fell into his palm, cold and delicate, the faint warmth of the boy’s touch still clinging to it.

The boy stumbled at the threshold, nearly losing his balance, yet laughter—breathless, startled, alive—slipped from his lips before he disappeared beyond the door.

Taehyung stood frozen, his chest tightening with something he could not name. His gaze fell to the chain coiled in his hand—fine silver links catching the sun like strands of captured light. He turned it once between his fingers, then lifted his eyes to where the boy had fled, his pulse drumming slow and heavy in his throat.

By the time he stepped outside, the market was awash with noise again—the hum of people, the calls of merchants, the smell of spices rising like incense. His eyes followed the movement just in time to see the boy stumble into Ryan.

“Oh, my apologies!” the boy stammered, his head bowing low, voice soft and sweet as the rustle of wind through silk.

Ryan, startled, blinked at him, muttering something Taehyung didn’t catch before the boy darted off, vanishing into the crowd like a drop of light swallowed by the sea of colors.

Taehyung’s lips curved faintly, a quiet chuckle slipping out as he looked down at his hand—the chain still resting there.

“Cute,” he murmured under his breath, his voice carrying the faintest trace of wonder.

For a prince born into war and duty, it was the first time something—someone—had slipped past his guard and left him breathless.

Present

Jimin’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the prince. “You have blood on your clothes.”

Taehyung glanced down briefly at the stains darkening his sleeve, almost dismissively. “It is nothing. I need to see him.”

Jimin’s grip tightened, holding him in place. “You know it is ill omen—blood on a wedding day.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to answer—but the air split with a scream.

A sound raw and piercing, echoing through the stone walls of the castle. The kind of cry that silences even the restless wind.

Jimin’s face drained of color, his breath catching. His eyes met Taehyung’s, wide and sharp with realization.

“It’s Aerum,” he whispered, voice breaking against the weight of dread.

The two of them turned, hearts seizing, as the scream bled into silence.

They ran.

Taehyung and Jimin—two shadows flying through the marble corridors, their robes trailing like wounded banners. The stairs loomed, and they climbed, breath shallow, hearts pounding with dread.

By the time they reached the landing, the air was already thick with murmurs. A crowd had gathered—courtiers, oracles, servants, their faces pale, their bodies pressed together in fearful awe. Yet as soon as they caught sight of Taehyung ascending, the sea of bodies parted instinctively, bowing in reverence, leaving a hollow path that led to the heart of the horror.

The first thing Jimin noticed was the smell. Metallic, sharp, impossible to ignore. His chest tightened, and then he saw—his eyes widened, a choked sound leaving his lips as his hand flew up, covering his mouth. His stomach lurched.

Lady Nyra stood rigid at the edge of the hall, her silken hand pressed to her lips, eyes glistening in horror. Jungkook’s uncle and cousin were also there, their faces curiously unreadable, as if carved in the same cold stone. From the far side, Ryan approached with measured steps, while Kaira lingered just behind him. Her gaze was eerily steady—first lowering to the ground, then slowly rising, calm and unblinking, until her eyes locked with Taehyung’s.

But Taehyung was not looking at her. His focus was only forward, his feet heavy yet unrelenting as he stepped toward the figure crumpled in the center. His voice came low, almost a whisper, as though his throat refused the words.

“...Jungkook.”

The boy lifted his head. Wide, tear-soaked eyes found him, pupils blown wide in terror. His face was streaked with blood, lips trembling, breath broken. His hands—his small, trembling hands—clutched a dagger, its silver drowned in red.

And then, as though the truth dawned too heavily, Jungkook let out a ragged scream. The dagger clattered against the stone floor, ringing sharply, echoing through the chamber like a cruel judgment. His gaze fell to the floor, and the weight of the world collapsed onto him.

There—Aerum lay sprawled, her dress soaked crimson, her body still.

“Noona…” His voice shattered as he collapsed to his knees beside her, clutching her face in desperate hands. “Noona—open your eyes. What happened?” His cries fractured into sobs as he pulled her limp body against his chest, rocking her as if warmth could be breathed back into her.

The whispers began then, serpentine and merciless, rippling through the hall.

“He was holding the dagger…”

“he stabbed her…?”

“He killed her.?”

The words spread like poison, eyes turning sharp, suspicious, condemning.

Taehyung’s jaw locked, his fists clenching at his sides until his knuckles blanched. Blood—Aerum’s blood, Jungkook’s innocence, this hall’s cowardice—everything pressed against his chest, a storm begging release.

And then it came.

A sound not entirely human, not entirely of this world—a guttural roar that rose into a thunderous voice, shaking the very foundation of the palace.

“LEAVE!”

The command cracked like lightning, reverberating in every rib, in every trembling soul present. The walls themselves seemed to shudder. Courtiers stumbled backward, oracles bowed their heads low, even the guards faltered where they stood, the crowd scattering like startled birds.

Silence fell, save for the ragged sobs of the boy on the floor.

Taehyung’s gaze returned to him then. Jungkook was no longer a prince, no longer the one they had adorned with jewels and silks—he was only a child, broken and weeping, clutching the body of the woman who had been his anchor, his comfort, his only family in this cruel kingdom. His robes, once white, were drowned in red. His hands trembled against Aerum’s still face.

And his cries—his cries tore through the chamber, wild and helpless, as if the sound itself could bargain with fate.

Because in this moment, Jungkook was not the boy chosen by prophecy, not the prince claimed by destiny.

He was simply a soul undone.

And Taehyung could not look away.

The world had gone eerily still—no whispers now, no gasps, not even the sound of breath dared to stir the air.

Only the faint crackle of torches along the corridor flickered against the stone, casting unsteady light over the crimson-stained floor.

Taehyung stood a few paces away, his heart pounding in his ears. For a moment, he could not move. The sight before him rooted him where he stood—Jungkook’s small, trembling frame hunched over the still body of Aerum. Her lifeless hand lay open against the floor, her face pale, lips parted slightly as though she had tried to speak one last time.

When Taehyung finally took a step forward, the floor groaned softly under his boots. He knelt beside them, the folds of his royal robe whispering against the ground.

“Jungkook,” he called, his voice low, careful—like speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment.

But the boy did not hear him. His shoulders shook, his fingers clutching Aerum’s robes desperately as if his touch alone could call her back to life. His sobs came broken and uneven, tearing through the silence like a wounded animal.

Taehyung’s hand hesitated in the air before finally settling on Jungkook’s shoulder. The contact made the younger boy flinch—a tremor running through his entire body. Slowly, painfully, Jungkook lifted his head, eyes glassy and empty.

There was no recognition there, only despair so deep it looked bottomless.

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to tell him something—anything—but his own voice felt trapped somewhere deep inside his chest.

Jungkook blinked, the smallest of movements, his lips trembling as he spoke in a hollow whisper.

“Noona… she’s not waking up.”

He looked down again, his hand brushing Aerum’s cold cheek with a tenderness that broke Taehyung’s heart.

“She… she has to stand beside me,” Jungkook murmured, the words spilling out like a child lost in a nightmare. “It’s getting late. You—” he turned his gaze up at Taehyung, eyes wet, pleading—“you should tell her. Please. Tell her she has to get up. She will listen to you.”

He tried to smile through his tears, but the sight was unbearable—a shattered thing trying to hold itself together.

Taehyung’s hands trembled. He could feel his nails digging into his own palms, sharp enough to draw blood. His jaw locked as he forced himself to keep breathing.

He looked away briefly—to Jimin and Lady Nyra, both standing at the edge of the corridor. Jimin’s face had gone white, his expression caught between fury and grief. Nyra’s lips quivered, a hand pressed against her mouth as her eyes glistened with restrained tears.

Taehyung turned back to Jungkook, his gaze softening. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Jungkook’s blood-streaked face.

“Jungkook…” he whispered, his voice rough with the weight of the moment.

The boy didn’t move. His eyes dropped again to Aerum’s face, his hand still resting on her cheek as if he could not bear to let go.

And Taehyung knew—no king’s order, no divine power, no ritual under heaven could soothe the grief blooming in that fragile heart now.

The torches along the walls flickered weakly, their light bending and breaking against the rising tension that hung in the air like a storm about to break. The smell of blood still lingered, heavy and bitter, as if it had seeped into the stone itself.

Taehyung drew a slow, steady breath—his chest tight, his throat raw. His hand trembled as he gestured toward Nyra. She caught his silent command and nodded once, her expression grave.

She stepped forward with the slow, careful grace of someone walking into sacred ground. The faint rustle of her robes was the only sound that dared move between them.

Jungkook was still bent over Aerum, whispering to her in broken, trembling words that no one else could understand. His voice cracked, each syllable falling apart under the weight of disbelief.

When Nyra knelt beside them, the air shifted.

Taehyung’s eyes softened—he knew what she was about to do, yet every instinct in him screamed against it. Still, he said nothing. He could only watch as Nyra reached out, her fingers brushing against Aerum’s still hand before she slowly began to lift the body away.

Jungkook froze. His voice stilled mid-word.

Then his head shot up—eyes wide, glistening, terrified.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hand darted forward, clutching at Aerum’s arm. “Leave her! Leave her!”

Nyra’s breath trembled, but she kept moving, her face tight with sorrow.

“No—No, please!” Jungkook’s voice rose, panic swelling in his chest. He tried to pull her back, his hands trembling so violently he almost stumbled.

Taehyung stepped forward quickly, catching him before he could fall. His hands gripped Jungkook’s shoulders, firm but gentle.

“Jungkook,” he called quietly, but the boy wasn’t listening. His body writhed in his arms, struggling against him.

“Let me go!” Jungkook cried, pounding his fists weakly against Taehyung’s chest. “She needs me! Why are you taking her away—why are you separating us?”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Taehyung held him tighter, though his own hands shook. “Listen to me,” he tried again, voice low, hoarse. But Jungkook’s sobs drowned out the sound.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung said again, firmer this time. He turned him by the shoulders, forcing the boy to face him. Jungkook’s face was streaked with tears and blood, his breaths short and uneven, his chest heaving with every sob.

“Look at me,” Taehyung whispered.

Jungkook blinked up at him, lost, trembling—his lips quivering like a child begging for something no one could give.

“You can heal,” Jungkook said between sobs, voice small and desperate. “You can heal her, can’t you? Please… please, I can’t live without her.”

He reached for Taehyung’s hands, holding them as if clinging to hope itself. His tears fell freely, wetting Taehyung’s knuckles—hot trails that burned deeper than any fire.

Taehyung’s heart twisted. His jaw clenched until the muscles ached. The truth weighed heavy on his tongue, but how could he say it? How could he tell him that even kings were powerless against death?

His hands trembled as he reached up, brushing the strands of hair sticking to Jungkook’s wet cheeks.

“Jungkook…” he murmured, his voice almost breaking.

The boy only cried harder, shaking his head, pressing his forehead against Taehyung’s hands as his body crumbled in his hold.

Taehyung shut his eyes. He wished—just for a moment—that he could command time itself to stop, to turn back, to fix this single cruel mistake of fate.

But the world stayed still, mercilessly unmoved, as Aerum’s body was carried away under Nyra’s silent tears.

And all Taehyung could do was hold Jungkook—his trembling, broken prince—while the weight of grief settled like dusk around them both.

Jungkook’s voice broke through it all.

“Why aren’t you answering me?” he whispered, tears streaking his face, his tone wavering between desperation and disbelief.

Taehyung sat before him, still as a carved statue, but inside his chest a storm raged — his heart and his mind at war. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached up, brushing his thumb along Jungkook’s cheek. The boy’s skin was cold, sticky from blood and tears, yet soft as silk beneath his touch.

For a long breath, he simply stared — into those wide, pleading eyes that begged him for a truth he couldn’t give.

And then he whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook’s lips parted — confusion flashing across his face like lightning. “W–what?” he breathed, the sound breaking in his throat. But before his words could form again, Taehyung flicked his fingers gently against the air.

A soft pulse of power brushed through the space — quiet, unseen, but enough to still Jungkook’s breath.

The boy’s lashes fluttered, his tears hanging mid-fall. His body went slack. And then he collapsed forward, falling into Taehyung’s arms like a wilting petal.

For a moment, the world stopped.

Taehyung held him there, frozen — his own breath trembling as he pressed Jungkook’s head against his chest. The faint, warm puff of the boy’s breath touched his skin, fragile and real.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, and turned.

“Take her back to the palace,” he said, his voice low but steady — carrying the weight of command.

Lady Nyra bowed her head, her eyes glistening. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispered, and motioned to her attendants to take Aerum’s body away.

Taehyung didn’t watch. He couldn’t.

He shifted Jungkook in his arms —  cradling him against his chest— and began to walk.

His steps echoed down the long marble corridor, slow and deliberate at first, but heavy enough that each one sounded like thunder. The courtiers and guards bowed their heads low, eyes glued to the floor. None dared to breathe too loud.

The silence followed him — reverent, suffocating, fearful.

Some bowed deeper, others moved out of his path entirely, pressing their backs to the wall as the King passed, his robes trailing dark and red, the boy’s white garment streaked with blood resting against him.

Jungkook’s faint breaths brushed against his heart, a reminder that at least life still lingered in his hold.

Taehyung didn’t stop until he reached the grand doors. They opened before him, and the fading sunlight poured in — crimson and gold, the color of endings.

Outside, Jimin waited with wide, trembling eyes. He said nothing — just moved forward quickly, opening the carriage door without a word.

Taehyung stepped in, carefully settling Jungkook in his lap. His hand went to the boy’s face again, brushing the strands of dark hair from his closed eyes.

For a long time, he didn’t look away. His thumb traced along Jungkook’s jaw, over the faint pulse at his neck — as if reassuring himself that it still beat.

Jimin’s voice trembled through the silence.

“Taehyung…” he called, the worry in his tone almost fragile — as if a single wrong note might shatter the moment entirely.

But Taehyung did not answer.

He didn’t even lift his gaze.

His eyes were fixed on the boy in his lap — on Jungkook’s pale, tear-streaked face, his lashes clinging together from the weight of what had just happened. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only movement that told Taehyung he still breathed.

Jimin hesitated, lips parting as if to speak again, but something in Taehyung’s stillness silenced him. Perhaps he understood — there were no words that could reach him now.

He swallowed hard, closing the carriage door softly. The latch clicked into place, and the world outside fell away.

The horses stirred, hooves pressing against the stone. The carriage began to move, rocking gently — the sound of wheels on cobblestone like a slow, mournful heartbeat.

Inside, Taehyung drew Jungkook closer to his chest.

The boy’s hair brushed against his chin, and his scent — faintly sweet, faintly floral, now mixed with the metallic tang of blood — struck something deep within him.

With his sleeve, Taehyung tried to wipe away the blood on Jungkook’s cheek. The fabric dragged across the skin, but the red marks clung stubbornly — as if fate itself refused to let go of its cruelty.

He paused, his hand trembling, and then leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against Jungkook’s temple. His breath came out heavy — slow and shaking.

Outside the window, the night stretched endlessly.

The world that once glimmered with stars now looked hollow — drenched in the dim orange light of torches, where shadows ran wild along the palace walls.

The cold air seeped through the cracks of the carriage, brushing against his knuckles where they clenched the boy’s robes.

And in that silence, he thought — of the vows that were never spoken, of the laughter that now would never echo again in the same way.

The gods, it seemed, had mocked him well.

Ah, the cruelty of fate — to give him light only to drown him in the dark.

The very day he had longed for, waited for with such restless hope… now turned to ashes in his grasp.

He looked out the window again — at the winding roads ahead, at the night that refused to end. His reflection in the glass was a stranger’s: a king with eyes too hollow, lips pressed too tight to hide the tremor of grief.

Inside, the boy slept on — unaware of the storm that broke the heavens above him.

And Taehyung, the mighty ruler who bent the world to his will, could only sit there — helpless, silent — clutching the one fragile soul that tethered him still to life.

The carriage came to a slow halt before the palace gates, the sound of hooves echoing faintly against the silent stone courtyard. The night hung heavy — too still, too hollow — as if the air itself dared not move.

Taehyung stepped out first, his robes brushing the ground, the weight in his arms unmoving. Jungkook’s head rested against his shoulder, his face pale beneath the dim torchlight that flickered across the courtyard walls.

Another carriage stopped behind them, and Jimin emerged, his expression drawn and uneasy. He said nothing — he couldn’t. The stillness around Taehyung was too sacred, too suffocating to be broken.

The palace doors creaked open, and Taehyung stepped inside. The vast hall greeted him with silence — no servants, no guards, no sound save the distant echo of his footsteps. The darkness seemed to breathe, pressing close around him, following him like a shadow that would never lift.

He ascended the marble stairs, each step slow and deliberate, the boy’s weight in his arms both unbearable and precious.

At the end of the corridor, he pushed open the great wooden doors to his chamber. The hinges groaned low, a sound too fitting for the grief that clung to him.

He entered and shut the door behind him. The click of the lock sounded final — like the world had ended outside those walls.

Walking toward the bed, Taehyung lowered Jungkook onto the silken sheets with a care that trembled on the edge of reverence. The boy’s hair fanned across the pillow, his lips faintly parted, breath soft and shallow.

Taehyung’s hand lingered above him for a long moment — uncertain whether to touch or simply watch. Finally, he drew the blanket over him, adjusting it up to his shoulders as if the simple act could shield him from everything cruel and cold that waited beyond this room.

He turned then, eyes finding the row of unlit candles on the table. With a flick of his fingers, the wicks caught fire one by one, small flames blooming into life. The light spilled across the chamber — revealing the gold-threaded drapes, the carved pillars, the faint shimmer of tears still drying on Jungkook's cheeks. 

The shadows retreated, but not far enough. The grief still lingered, alive in every corner.

He crossed the room to the adjoining washroom. The sound of running water filled the silence — gentle, almost human. He soaked a towel and wrung it out carefully.

When he returned, he passed by the bed again, his gaze catching on the fragile rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest.

He placed the towel and the bowl of water on the nightstand beside him — the gesture deliberate, quiet, as though the smallest noise might wake the storm he’d only just silenced.

For a moment, he simply stood there, staring down at the boy, his breath shallow — as if afraid that if he breathed too deeply, even that might take Jungkook away.

The flames flickered. The air stilled.

And the night continued — slow, merciless, endless.

Taehyung lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight. The faint glow of the candles trembled across the room, casting a gold hue over Jungkook’s still form.

He dipped the towel into the bowl of water, his movements slow — deliberate, almost ceremonial. He wrung it out carefully, then reached for Jungkook’s hand.

The boy’s fingers were cold — delicate and pale against the warmth of Taehyung’s skin. He began to wipe them gently, each stroke unhurried, reverent. The traces of dried blood faded slowly beneath the damp cloth, leaving behind only soft skin and silence.

When he was done, he placed the hand back upon the sheets, straightening each finger as though afraid to cause the slightest discomfort.

He wet the towel again, squeezing the excess water until it dripped back into the bowl, rippling softly. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing Jungkook’s.

Taehyung lifted the towel once more, this time to the boy’s face. He brushed it over the cheek first — light as a whisper. Then below the eyes, wiping away the faint stains that the tears had left behind. His touch lingered near the corner of Jungkook’s lips, careful, hesitant — as if he feared that even a gentle press might wake the ache that slumbered there.

When every trace of blood was gone, Taehyung laid the towel aside. His hands, however, did not move away. He sat there, staring.

There was a calmness on Jungkook’s face — soft, unguarded — but to Taehyung, it was a terrifying calm. The kind that followed storms, not peace. The kind that made the world feel too still, too fragile.

He reached down again, fingers trembling slightly as he took Jungkook’s hand into his own. He drew it close, pressing it to his cheek. The warmth of his skin met the coldness of Jungkook’s, and for a moment, his eyes fluttered closed.

“You are making me restless,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, “even when you are sleeping.”

He turned his face slightly, lips brushing against the boy’s palm. The kiss lingered there — not desperate, but heavy, filled with everything he could not say aloud.

He kept the hand there, pressed between his own, as though it was the only thing anchoring him to the world that still remained.

And in the quiet flicker of candlelight, Taehyung stayed like that — unmoving, silent — as the night stretched on, merciless and unending.

The morning light seeped softly through the thin curtains, casting pale gold streaks across the room. The night’s silence still lingered there — heavy and cold.

Taehyung stirred, his lashes fluttering open. The stiffness in his body spoke of a sleepless night; he was still seated in the same chair beside the bed.

His hands were still clasped with Jungkook’s — his fingers resting between the boy’s delicate ones as though he feared that letting go would shatter something fragile.

He blinked slowly, his gaze moving from their joined hands to the still figure on the bed.

Jungkook’s breathing was steady, soft — his expression calm now, untouched by tears or fear. Taehyung exhaled, the faintest of sighs. He placed Jungkook’s hand gently over his stomach, arranging it with a care that spoke of quiet tenderness.

Then, he reached forward, his fingers brushing over Jungkook’s cheek — tracing the faint curve of his jaw, the softness of his skin. The morning light caught against his features, and Taehyung’s heart ached with something he could not name.

He straightened slowly, pressing two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes for a brief moment — as though grounding himself before stepping back into the world.

He rose from the chair, his steps soundless on the marble floor. From the side table, he picked up his dark veil, drawing it over his face — a mask of composure for the storm that brewed behind his eyes.

When he opened the door, the chill of the early hour greeted him. He stepped out, his robes brushing softly against the floor as he moved through the corridor.

Each echo of his footstep carried the weight of silence.

Descending the staircase, the air around him felt still — too still. Even the guards, upon seeing him, bowed low and did not dare to raise their heads.

He entered the courtyard hall — the room that once felt alive with chatter now steeped in unease.

The murmurs that had been weaving through the air stopped abruptly when he stepped inside.

Taehyung walked forward, his stride unhurried but steady, the veil swaying lightly with each movement. He reached the throne and sat, his back straight, his presence commanding without a single word.

The courtiers followed in silence, taking their places, the rustle of robes the only sound breaking through the tension.

Taehyung’s gaze drifted over them — cold, calculating, unreadable. His eyes met each face — one by one — and lingered just long enough to make them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Jaehwan.

Kaira.

Elias.

Ryan.

Each name carved into his thoughts, each face weighed against the storm in his mind.

Finally, his gaze settled on Cael, who stood at the side awaiting a signal. A faint nod from Taehyung was enough.

Cael stepped forward, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.

“Lady Aerum has died yesterday,” he announced. His tone was firm, respectful — but the weight of the words drew sharp breaths from many.

“As she was a guest, and she was murdered in the eclipse, every individual present at that time — including those who arrived from Havana — will be investigated after her funeral.”

He paused, letting the words sink into the tense air.

“Those who refuse,” his eyes moved around the room, “will face severe consequences.”

The room erupted in low murmurs — disbelief, fear, whispers of defense. Taehyung did not move.

His gaze, dark behind the veil, swept across the room once more. Jaehwan’s jaw clenched, his father sitting beside him far too calm — too collected for a ruler. 

The murmurs rose like a tide, low at first and then gathering teeth and voice. One courtier—thin-lipped, anxious for favor—stepped forward, words sliding from his tongue before thought could temper them.

“Did we not all see Prince Jungkook with the blade?” he asked, voice sharpened by rumor. “Why, then, shall we be set to answer? Is he not the guilty one already?”

The question splintered the hush. Whispers multiplied, quick and hungry, and a dozen faces turned inward, seeking argument or excuse. Kaira’s lips curved with a small, pleased smile; Elias’ eyes glittered with dangerous interest. Both found sport in the scandal—so easy, when a man falls, to feast on his ruin.

Jimin sprang to his feet as if struck. “Are you mad?” he roared, and the sound cut through the clamor like a blade. He stepped between the throng and the boy on the bed in his memory, voice fierce with betrayal. “You speak of a child as though he were a monster. Aerum was as a mother to him—have you no shame?”

Taehyung’s jaw tightened beneath the veil; the motion was slight, but it held the force of an approaching storm. He watched the exchanges as one watches the weather change—calmly, until the moment to act arrives. Elias, unused to being hushed, raised his hand and cleared his throat.

“Not to offend Your Majesty,” Elias began, oily and measured, “but the hunts are dangerous. We all know how the shadows work—how they bend a man’s hand, how they make the innocent strike as if pulled by cords. And Prince Jungkook faced one during his hunt with you...He was found over her with a blade; it is not unreasonable to say—”

“Enough.”

The single word came from Taehyung and the hall fell to ice. It was not merely a command; it was an edict carved in the very air. Conversation broke like thin glass. Even the torches seemed to shiver.

Elias’s lips stilled. Kaira’s amusement flickered, then died in the hard, cold air of the throne room. All eyes turned, not with supplication but with the wary, immediate attention given to lions.

Taehyung rose. He moved not like a man who seeks spectacle but like a thing of consequence—slow, inevitable, each step a drumbeat. When he spoke again, his voice was low, a thunder under the earth that people felt more in their bones than in their ears.

“We shall have answers,” he said, each word measured with the patience of a blade being whetted. “When he wakes, And whosoever did this.” His fingers tightened on the arms of the throne; for the first time since he entered the hall there was a raw break in his restraint. “I will see their throat cut by my own hands.”

A silence so complete it hummed followed. Courtiers bowed, some out of fear, some out of the old obedience that had kept the realm turning. Jaehwan’s face paled; even he, so practiced in scorn, felt the king’s displeasure like a physical thing. Kaira’s eyes flashed as though stung.

The hall still echoed with the last of Taehyung’s words when Kyungsoo rose from his seat. His voice, calm but firm, broke through the uneasy silence.

“We will cooperate in every investigation,”

he said, bowing his head slightly. His tone carried the weight of diplomacy—steady, composed, careful to balance between loyalty and survival.

Taehyung’s eyes met his for a brief moment. Something unreadable passed in that gaze—acknowledgment, perhaps, or warning—and without another word, he turned. The hem of his dark robe brushed the marble floor as he strode toward the grand doors. Cael followed him at once, silent as his shadow.

The courtiers parted as he passed, none daring to speak. The echo of his boots against the stone carried longer than his presence itself.

Jimin moved after him, breaking the rigid order of the assembly. He caught up with Taehyung in the long corridor, the sound of his hurried steps against the cold floor chasing the king’s steadier ones.

“How is he?” Jimin asked, voice low, the words almost trembling out of him.

Taehyung did not slow. His veil swayed slightly with his breath. Only a flicker—one brief, fleeting twitch in his gaze—betrayed that he had heard.

“Alive,”

he answered, and continued walking.

The word landed heavy, more like a wound than a comfort. Alive. That was all.

Jimin felt something tighten in his chest. Alive—but broken, tainted, wrapped in the blood of the only person he called family.

Cael gave Jimin a glance as he walked past—brief, acknowledging—and then disappeared down another hall, leaving the two brothers alone in the dim corridor.

Jimin reached out, catching Taehyung’s arm. The motion stopped him mid-stride. The silence between them thickened.

“Talk to me,” Jimin said, his voice softer now, pleading against the storm he sensed behind the veil. “What are you thinking?”

Taehyung turned, his eyes sharp even through the thin layer of silk. His voice came out quiet, almost too calm to be safe.

“I’m thinking,” he said, “to burn everyone right now.”

The words were not shouted, but they seared through the air.

Jimin froze, his grip faltering. He could see it now—the edge of Taehyung’s control, the king’s fury pressing against his ribs like fire begging to be loosed. He reached forward, his hand steadying on Taehyung’s, as though trying to tether him back to reason.

“You and he came a long way,” Jimin said, softly. “You found him, even when he was human. You fought the world for him. Just… bear it a little longer. It will be alright.”

Taehyung’s head tilted slightly, and for a moment Jimin thought he might laugh. But when the king spoke, his voice was hollow.

“

I saw my mate covered in blood,” he said, “on my wedding night.”

His eyes blinked slowly, as if each memory cut him anew.

“How much more should I bear, Jimin? Tell me.”

The question was not meant to be answered. It carried no plea, only grief too heavy to contain.

Jimin stood still, his lips parted but no words came. What comfort could bridge that kind of loss? What could he say to a man whose joy had turned to ash in his hands?

He only tightened his hold around Taehyung’s wrist, silently—I’m here.

But Taehyung gently pulled his hand away.

“Prepare for the funeral,”

he said, his tone composed again, but empty.

“I’ll take him there.”

And then he walked away, each step controlled, deliberate—like a man walking through fire who refuses to burn.

Jimin stood for a long moment, staring after him. His throat ached with unspoken words. The air itself seemed to weigh heavy with sorrow.

He only turned when Han appeared behind him, bowing lightly.

“Prince Jaehwan and King Kyungsoo wish to meet you,”

Han said.

Jimin’s brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He nodded wordlessly and followed.

They crossed the long gallery, light filtering weakly through high windows. Outside, the world seemed dimmer, even though morning had long passed.

When they reached the courtyard, Jimin saw them—Jaehwan standing with careless ease, laughing softly with Kaira as if the night’s horror was nothing but a passing storm. Kyungsoo stood beside them, hands folded behind his back, face composed in that way only seasoned kings could manage: still, unreadable, dangerous.

As Jimin approached, Kaira stopped laughing. Her eyes flickered toward him; her lips curved in a thin, knowing smile before she bowed lightly to Jaehwan and excused herself.

She glided past Jimin with her perfume trailing behind—a sweet scent that turned bitter in his lungs.

Jimin’s gaze followed her for a heartbeat, then he turned toward Kyungsoo. His posture was straight, his eyes calm but cold. The scene before him—Jaehwan’s ease, Kyungsoo’s restraint—made the anger rise quietly in his chest.

The air between them was still, heavy, and waiting.

And in that silence, Jimin understood: this meeting would not be one of sympathy or mourning. It would be a reckoning dressed in courtesy.

The door creaked open, heavy and slow, as Taehyung stepped inside. The faint scent of candle wax and herbs still lingered in the air, yet the silence that greeted him was not peaceful—it was hollow.

He removed his veil, placing it aside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The bed was empty. The blanket lay folded neatly, untouched. His heart, once steady, stumbled.

For a fleeting moment, everything around him stilled—until he heard it.

A sound, small and broken, spilling from the adjoining chamber.

Whimpers.

His pulse surged. He moved quickly, each step louder than the last until he reached the washroom door and pushed it open.

The scene before him struck like a blade to the chest.

Jungkook was on the cold stone floor, sleeves rolled up, water pooling around his knees. His trembling hands rubbed furiously with a sharp stone—again, and again, and again—until angry red welts marked his pale skin.

He was crying—small, choking sobs, like a child lost in the dark.

Taehyung’s breath hitched. He moved forward in two strides and dropped to his knees beside him, his hands immediately reaching out. He caught Jungkook’s wrists, firm but gentle, forcing the stone from his grasp. It clattered against the tiles, rolling to a stop.

“What are you doing?”

Taehyung’s voice was low—hoarse, as though he feared it might break if he spoke louder.

Jungkook froze for a moment, his breath shaking. His wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted to him, shimmering under the dim light.

“It’s blood,” he whispered, voice trembling. “It’s everywhere. It’s not going away. I can still feel it—on my hands, on my face—it’s suffocating me, I can’t—”

His words dissolved into broken sobs. His fingers twitched as though they still sought to scrub themselves raw.

Taehyung caught his hands again, pressing them between his own, trying to still their trembling. His voice softened into something that was almost a plea.

“Look at me,” he said quietly. “It’s nothing. There’s no blood. Not anymore.”

He took the edge of his sleeve and wiped Jungkook’s wet, reddened hands, slow and deliberate, until only the angry marks remained. Then he reached up, cupping Jungkook’s cheeks. His thumb brushed away the streaks of tears and water, tracing the soft skin beneath.

“There’s nothing here,” Taehyung murmured. “You’re safe. Do you hear me? You’re safe.”

Jungkook blinked at him, lips trembling, his breath catching in short, shallow gasps.

“I didn’t—” he stammered. “I didn’t kill her. I would never—Noona—was I…?”

The last words broke apart into hiccups, his voice so small that it barely reached the air between them.

Taehyung’s chest constricted painfully. He pulled him closer, his hand resting against the back of Jungkook’s head.

“You can never hurt anyone,” he whispered. 

He pressed his forehead gently to Jungkook’s temple, his voice steady but low, carrying the weight of a vow.

"It was not you.”

The sound of Jungkook’s sobs softened against him, fading into quiet gasps. His body trembled still, but his fingers clutched weakly at Taehyung’s robes, as though anchoring himself there—between breath and breaking.

He laughed once—brittle and unbelieving—then covered his face with both hands as if to hold himself together. “Am I turning mad?” Jungkook’s voice came raw, a thin thread pulled taut. “Do you think—do you think I will go mad? I hurt her. I—” He forced words out like stones. “I will hurt you too.” He pushed Taehyung’s hands away roughly, stumbling back as if the touch itself might burn him. “Don’t come near me. I will hurt you. I will hurt everyone.”

Taehyung’s fingers trembled where they hung at his side. For a long breath he said nothing; only his eyes moved, fixed on the trembling shape before him. The king’s face was a mask of something deeper than anger—of fear, of fierce, helpless devotion.

“Jungkook…” Taehyung began, the name soft and raw on his tongue. “It is not—”

“No,” Jungkook cut him off. He pushed himself upright and fled from the washroom, the sound of his own uneven breaths chasing him down the corridor. Each step was a plea and a punishment all at once.

Taehyung rose and followed, but the boy would not let him close. Jungkook turned, eyes wild, a small, broken thing on the palace stones. “I will hurt you—like I hurt Noona,” he said, and the words tore through the quiet like a blade.

Taehyung halted. He let the accusation strike him and pass, like winter air. He forced his feet forward again, steady as a march. “You will not hurt me,” he said at last, voice even, measured—an order gentle only in its steadiness. “Nothing will happen.”

Jungkook shook his head until the motion made the world blur, folding into himself. He closed his eyes as if by shutting out sight he might hold back the memory. For a moment, the only sound was the ragged rise and fall of his chest.

Taehyung shortened the distance between them with slow steps, the kind that do not rush, because some things must be approached as one approaches a sleeping thing. He reached out, fingers trembling, and took Jungkook’s face in both hands. The boy’s body gave a small, involuntary shiver.

“You can trust me,” Taehyung said, and there was no command now—only the weight of the promise beneath the words.

Jungkook’s lips trembled. He looked at Taehyung as if seeing him for the first time: the king who had been veiled and distant, now close enough for Jungkook to see the exhaustion beneath his composure. For a long, fragile beat he searched Taehyung’s face, then bowed his head and nodded.

Taehyung brushed the last wet tracks from his cheeks with a cloth, rough and oddly tender. “Now stop crying,” he murmured, as a father might, though there was no paternal air in it—only the fierce protectiveness of a man who would carry the hurt of another as his own. “You must be strong.”

Jungkook tried to obey. He folded his hands into his lap and tried to steady his breath. Taehyung’s gaze slid to the boy’s damp wedding robes—the white hunched like a shame about him—and the king’s jaw tightened.

He moved to the wardrobe and drew out a plain robe of dark cloth—simple, spare, without adornment. He looked back; the shadow of a question trembled in his eyes. “Can you wear this for me?” he asked.

“I will wait outside,” taehyung said, voice soft. He lingered for a moment longer, gaze lingering on the boy until something like duty tightened his features, and then he closed the door behind him with a sound that seemed to seal the world away.

The silence in the room was heavy—so heavy it pressed against Jungkook’s ribs until his breath came uneven. The scent of candle smoke lingered, faint and melancholic, mingling with the faint trace of Taehyung that clung to the robe in his hands—cedar, steel, and the quiet depth of night rain.

He sat still for a long while, his gaze shifting between the white wedding garment clinging to his frame and the dark robe Taehyung had handed him. The contrast felt cruel. One spoke of beginnings, of vows and promises under the gods’ eyes. The other—simple, unadorned—felt like mourning.

His fingers brushed over the cloth. It was soft, yet it seemed to weigh as much as his guilt.

Slowly, almost reverently, he began to undo the ties of his wedding robe. The fabric fell away from him, a ghost of the life that shattered before it began. His hands shook as he lifted the dark robe, slipping it over his body. It swallowed him whole, the weight of it pressing into his skin, grounding him in a way that felt both comforting and cruel.

He smoothed the sleeves, his gaze unfocused. Somewhere beyond the door, he could sense Taehyung—silent, waiting, holding his composure as though the world depended on it.

The robe smelled faintly of the king’s warmth. For a fleeting second, it felt like a shelter. Then the thought returned, bitter and unrelenting.

“I taint everything I touch,” he murmured, his eyes finding the dying candle flame. “Even him."

Kyungsoo stood still, his robe falling in quiet folds against the marble floor. The faint rustle of banners outside echoed softly through the open corridor. The air between them was dense—carrying the heaviness of something unsaid.

“What is the important talk that you have to do with me rather than my brother?” Jimin said, his tone controlled but his eyes sharp.

Kyungsoo’s lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that hides more than it shows. “Maybe you are easier to talk to,” he replied, his voice calm, almost casual.

Jimin raised a brow, his patience thinning. “Then speak.”

Kyungsoo’s gaze shifted, steady and unreadable. “Prince Jungkook will go with us back,” he said.

The words hung in the air, slicing through the stillness. Jimin’s expression faltered for a brief moment before his jaw tensed. “What do you mean by that?” he said, stepping forward. “Are you forgetting he is promised to my brother?”

“He was,” Kyungsoo said, unflinching. “What happened last night, and what is happening right now… I will not allow the prince of Havana to be humiliated in another kingdom.”

Jimin’s eyes darkened. His voice came out quieter, steadier, but it carried a storm beneath it. “You are really talking about humility?” he said, taking a slow step closer. “After using him all his life?”

The courtyard breeze carried the faint hum of prayer bells, their sound too soft to soothe the storm brewing between them. Jimin’s gaze stayed fixed on Kyungsoo when another voice, sharp and amused, broke through the air.

“Are not you and the ruler of Eclipse doing the same thing?” Jaehwan cut in, his tone laced with mockery.

Jimin turned toward him, his brows furrowing. The younger prince stood with a careless ease, a smirk curling his lips as if the tension in the air was a thing to be savored.

Jaehwan stepped closer, the gold thread of his robe glinting under the sunlight. “Eclipsers are using him to break their King’s curse—one that was placed by his own father,” he said. “But we… we only took care of him after his father’s death. For that, my father had to take the crown.” His smile deepened, cruel and proud.

Jimin’s jaw tightened, a faint tremor in the muscles near his temple. “Prince Jaehwan,” he said, his voice quiet yet edged like a blade. “Do not speak words that you will later regret.”

Jaehwan’s grin faltered just enough for the threat to land. The air between them thickened.

Kyungsoo exhaled, breaking the silence. “We do not seek rivalry with anyone, Prince Jimin,” he said evenly. “We will take him back with us.”

Jimin’s eyes burned with disbelief. “Do you truly think he will allow his mate to go?” he asked, his voice lowering, filled with restrained fury.

Kyungsoo looked at him then, calm and knowing. “If his mate wishes to leave, he cannot say no,” he replied softly, his words deliberate. Then, turning slightly, he gestured for Jaehwan to follow.

Jaehwan lingered a moment longer, smirking. He bowed mockingly before stepping away, his footsteps echoing faintly through the empty corridor.

Jimin stood still, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His heart felt heavy—too heavy—his mind running back to the image of his brother, the one who had waited all his life for light, only to be drowned in darkness once again.

The bells chimed once more in the distance,

their sound now hollow.