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Chapter Text

Jisung clung to the ragged edge of the window, splinters biting into his palms, moonlight painting cruel streaks across the floor as screams echoed through the manor.

The world smelled of burning silk and spilled ink, sweet and suffocating, and with every thud of booted feet in the corridors below, his heart threatened to leap from his chest.

He was only twelve, or maybe thirteen—the years blurred together in the dark—but he'd never felt so small. His mother's voice still rang out, one last desperate command, choked off by a sound Jisung would remember for the rest of his life.

"Don't look back hannie—run!" Then the shattering of glass, a beast's roar, the clash of steel—Han pressed his fist to his mouth to muffle the sound. He edged along the ledge, toes searching for purchase, smoke rolling under the eaves, hot and choking.

The garden below was a maze of shadows and moonlit stone—neither safe nor familiar. Hand over hand, he lowered himself, his body trembling, every muscle burning. The cool night bit his skin. Somewhere in the distance, His house was alight—fires rising toward the stars. A sword's clang jarred the night, closer.

He dropped, landing on soft earth behind the tangled hedge, the impact driving the air from his lungs. For a moment he lay still, heartbeat a drum in his ears, mind blank except for the urge to move, to hide, to obey his mother's last wish. He crawled through crawling thorns, each scrape a badge upon his shins. Hilts glimmered behind him—armored soldiers whose faces he could not see, voices rough as gravel.

"They said no witnesses—search everywhere!" Jisung pulled himself under the cold stone bench where he'd once read stories with his father, knees drawn to chest, teeth gritted so hard they ached. He could not cry.

A son of the house of Han's could not let his enemies hear him break. Footsteps passed. Breath stopped. The garden was alive with phantoms and terror, each moment thick with the weight of what had been lost—his home, his parents. He forced his mind blank, recalling his mother's stories, Dragons, she always said, are the keepers of power and pain, but even a dragon's fire cannot heal every wound.

Tonight, there would be no miracles. He waited until the screams had faded to embers, until bootsteps receded into the distance and the dawn bled pale silver over the broken lands. When he finally rose, every muscle screamed with pain and silence.

A single bloody handprint marked the garden gate—his own, proof he was still real. Jisung swore beneath his breath, a promise to the ghosts echoing through shattered windows. Never again would he trust the golden lies of crown or dragon. Never again would he be helpless. He would carve his own escape, even if the world turned to ash.

He vanished into the gray dawn, leaving only ghosts and embers in his wake.

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Smoke curled up through shattered arches and half-shorn paintings, swallowing the air Jisung struggled to breathe. The manor—once stately and soft with the scents of old paper and jasmine—was now a ruin choked by night and fire. Echoes of frantic shouts bounced down stone corridors, each one threatening to reveal the small, shadowed figure making his way toward the garden.

Jisung's knees shook as he crawled from one slivered doorway to the next. He was small for his age—slender, pale, with a messy tumble of dark hair sticking damply to his forehead. His suit, which his mother had forced him to wear for dinner not two hours ago, was torn at the elbow and stained by ash and sweat. Around his neck, barely visible above the collar, hung a delicate silver chain—a cherished gift, now another thing he had to hide.

All Jisung could think about was running. He pressed the battered, stitched bear to his chest—the one with crooked ears and glass eyes that still carried the warmth of home. Its fuzzy cheek was damp from his grip, and at moments when fear nearly overtook him, Jisung squeezed it so tightly he thought its seams would split.

Shouts outside made him stifle a gasp. Two figures passed by the rose-tangled window, their silhouettes swallowed by firelight. He flattened himself in a sliver of shadow, heart hammering so loudly he was sure they'd hear it."...they said all of them," one voice hissed. "Order from the Lee family. Came straight from the court in Draconis".

Jisung's ears burned. The Lee family. He'd heard the name slung in wary tones by councilors, whispered in bedtime stories as the keepers of dragons—monarchs whose will could bend kingdoms or break them. Tonight, their reach felt monstrous.

A second soldier stopped, flicking something gray and glowing to the ground. "Doesn't matter who's left. They want it clean. No survivors, no stories for outsiders. Dragons don't stumble—especially not those with orders from the royal blood".

Jisung's fingers shook around the bear. He bit back tears, anger welling in him hotter than his fear. Dragons—those imagined guardians from his mother's tales—had reduced his home to so much wreckage, caring only for their legacy".

They'll send someone down to check the bodies," the first muttered, voice hushed but angry.

"Make sure the entire Han line is gone. Lee family doesn't tolerate loose ends in Thebes".

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, pressing nails into his palms. He understood enough—the order hadn't come from Thebes, nor from the faces that haunted his nightmares tonight. It came from somewhere distant and powerful, a family so mighty their word tore through stone and bone. He waited, barely daring to breathe as the men's footsteps grew distant.

Moonlight flickered across the broken garden tiles. Jisung slid his body deeper beneath the marble bench, wincing as thorns grazed his legs and he caught the scent of scorched roses—charred sweetness above all the smoke.

He remembered with agonizing clarity the last moments with his mother, the way she had thrust him behind a closet door and whispered, "Don't look back, Hannie. Run." Her voice had been fierce, not afraid—maybe she too had known that this night would bring monsters with crowns. Trembling, Jisung forced himself to listen for danger, mind replaying every scrap of the conversation he'd overheard.

"No witnesses..." "Order from the Lee family..." "Dragons don't stumble..." He felt those words dig claws into his heart, settling there as a wound that would never quite heal. At last the garden emptied, footsteps and shouts moving off into the manor's burning wings. Jisung crawled from his hiding place, bearing new bruises and a tear in one battered sock, and surfaced in the sick glow of midnight. He was alone now—small and shaking, but very much alive.

The garden beyond the ruined path writhed with moon-silvered shadows. Jisung ducked beneath broken hedges and zigzagged through pools of firelight, body so tense it nearly ached. He didn't dare call for help—didn't trust that anyone in this city could offer it, not with the Lee family's word ringing above every law.

He reached the far gate, its iron latch cold as fate against his skin. For a moment Jisung paused, listening to the faint crackle of flames behind him, the last shouts of men who would kill a child if their masters asked. He pressed his bear close, letting the familiar musty scent fill his nose and dull his fear.

"I won't let them find me. Not ever," he whispered, voice hoarse as he forced the gate open and stepped into the wild.

Past the walls, Thebes was night-black—fields rolling under a heavy sky, distant forests waiting with uncertain promise. Jisung limped toward the shadows, silent but watchful, every sense alive with the faint threat of pursuit.

As he ran for the safety of trees, Han did not look back. The manor would fall, the Han family's name would fade, but the truth—of the Lee family's order, of the dragons' merciless justice—would echo in Jisung's chest for the rest of his life.

He vowed, quietly and fiercely, to never trust royalty or dragons or anyone who claimed to rule through fear.

No matter how many years passed before someone asked for his story, Jisung would remember tonight's lesson: crowns and monsters often shared the same shadow. At the edge of the forest, most of the night ahead, Jisung paused to rest. He gazed at the stitched bear, at the silver chain, and at the darkness beyond.

With every breath, sorrow tangled with anger—a resolve forming out of a ruined heart—before he pressed onward into exile, determined not just to survive but to never be claimed by dragons' laws.

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Moonlight cast its pale gleam over the scorched ruins of the manor in Thebes. Even as lingering embers hissed in the garden, the soldiers gathered at the outskirts, breath curling in the chill.

The mission had gone differently than planned—the youngest son missing, the house destroyed yet incomplete. Without a word, the leader glanced to his companions, a silent signal. The trio stepped away from the last gate, boots crunching in ash.

Then, with practiced ease born of royal blood, their eyes flashed—a deep violet, the color of storms and distant secrets.

Bones stretched, scales rippled, armor vanishing into scales. Their flesh elongated and twisted, wings erupted from their backs in sheets of glimmering purple and midnight blue, claws stretching to rend the night. Three dragons reared up amid the ruins: one immense and broad-winged, one lithe and streaked with scars, the last perched with a regal, wary gaze.

They towered above the garden, each beast a monument to the power of Dracoris. With a soundless leap and the mighty sweep of wings, the dragons vaulted skyward. Firelight danced across their scales, sending fractured shadows tumbling across Thebes. The wind carried their passage, stirring the smoke to spirals and scattering the final traces of their visit.

Above the city—now quiet save for the distant crackle of flames—they soared, swift and determined. Their destination was set: toward the jagged peaks and black stone palaces of Dracoris, where the night was deeper and the air held the subtle pulse of ancient sorcery.

The journey north was silent, save for the heavy beat of wings and the low rumblings in their chests. Each dragon carried the weight of unfinished business, knowing the eyes of royalty awaited their return.

At last, the towers of Dracoris rose out of the darkness, each spire crowned with shimmering banners and the symbol of the Lee family—a dragon clutching a crown. The trio spiraled downward, landing with thunderous grace upon the polished obsidian courtyard where only the royal guard was permitted to tread.

They shifted back into human form, grim-faced and marked by the ordeal. The King and Queen awaited in the high hall, seated beneath the vast mosaic of their family’s legendary dragons.

The leader bowed deeply, his voice echoing in the marble chamber. “The fire in Thebes is quenched. The house is destroyed as ordered, but… the youngest son is unaccounted for. Our search yielded no trace; it seems he escaped before we arrived.”

The Queen—a woman with striking features and eyes that missed nothing—tapped thin fingers upon the arm of her throne. Her power was subtle but absolute, her gaze shifting between the messengers in silent judgment.

“Was there any witness, other than that boy?” she asked, voice as cool as wind at midnight.

“None, my queen. The operation was swift, the evidence buried with the ashes. But we cannot confirm the fate of the child—he may still pose a risk.”

The King considered, dragon fire gleaming behind deep-set eyes. “Trackers will be sent. Thebes must not know of our involvement in todays affair. There will be wars waged if any other kingdom finds out we are infiltrating their countries and all peace treaties will be nulled. If rumors grow from embers, return immediately.”

The soldiers bowed again. From a distant corridor, A boy lingered just out of sight, hearing only echoes—fire in Thebes, a son escaped, risk, war, infiltration. He pieced together fragments of warning and urgency but none of the names or heart of what had truly happened.

As the night deepened over Dracoris, the weight of unfinished fate hung in the high halls. The dragons had returned, duty complete—but somewhere beyond the mountains, a single survivor from Thebes was running, carrying secrets and scars meant never to be spoken. And in the crown city, not even the heirs could guess what storms their legacy had just unleashed.

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Jisung crouched on the wooden bench at the stern of the ferry, the engine’s low purr humming beneath him as gray water cut steadily toward Neapolis’s distant harbor. Passengers—restless, hopeful—clustered everywhere: dragons in human form peering suspiciously at magicians, Thebesian traders swaddled in new cloaks, a family from Neapolis offering bread to all. 

Jisung, just thirteen and looking even younger in the oversized, torn clothes hanging off his small frame he still couldn't get himself to remove his coat wanting to keep it close as the reminder of his pain, sat quietly on the edge of the bustling dock. The early morning mist curled around his ankles as he hugged a bundle of warm bread to his chest—a gift from a kind-eyed family who’d noticed his hunger and the lost look in his eyes. Crumbs dusted his fingers and his cheeks were smudged, but for the first time in days, a little hope flickered in his gaze as the rhythms of the busy harbor moved around him.

Just as the early sun flickered off the waves, a teenager with ink-stained hands darted through the crowd, waving papers. “For newcomers! Don’t get lost when you dock—read what everyone’s too polite to tell you!” She thrust a copy at Jisung, who was surprised by the title: ‘Four Lands: What the People Know’. He unfolded the unofficial guide, reading as the boat rocked and the wind tangled his hair.

DRACORIS — ‘Land of the Big, Cocky Dragons’

“Everybody knows Dracoris is full of dragonborn—real dragons, too proud for their own good. The stories say everybody gets at least one special power, some get more, but most never use them outside their mountain homes unless someone from Zephyris comes along to taunt them. The royal Lee family has ruled forever and basically controls everything, but good luck getting close to any dragon —they think they’re above the rest. 

Sure, Dracoris supplies minerals and meat, but don’t antagonize them. Wars with Zephyris have scarred both for centuries, and if you cross a member of the crown family—especially in another country—they’ll be forced into endless bureaucracy. Dragons are useful, but that’s the only reason other nations keep them around.”

All we know about Dracoris an unofficial guide:

Dracoris: The Land of Dragons. 

Dracoris is a nation carved from legend, where every heartbeat echoes the ancient song of dragons. Ringed by volcanic highlands and lush, mist-laden valleys, the land pulses with the magic of its people: every citizen is dragonborn, blessed with the ability to shift between human and dragon at will. 

The skies above Dracoris perpetually flicker with flashes of iridescent scales, wings slicing the clouds as dragons of all sizes roam freely above the citadels and vast trading towns. Power is not just metaphorical in Dracoris but a literal force, woven into the very blood of its people. 

At birth, every dragonborn displays at least one unique power—a handful can tame flames, others command storms, manipulate stone, or move water with a flick of claw or finger. The most ever recorded in a single being is four powers: a prodigy so rare, songs are still sung about them in the royal halls. The culture reveres strength and ability, but not every talent is combative; healers, weather-weavers, and artists who channel their gifts into sculpture or song are equally respected.

The Lee family has ruled Dracoris since its founding, a dynasty universally known and both revered and resented for their immense powers and the awe their dragon forms inspire. 

The royal dragons are immense—Lee Minho, the crown prince, is known to transform into a creature rivaling legendary heights, his scales a deep, rare midnight black that marks him unmistakably as one of royal lineage, If he is so powerful at the age of 18 one may definitely  wonder how much more he will grow powerful when he turns 21, which is the age where all dragons reach the peak of their powers. 

The family has produced some of the most powerful beings in the world, but theirs is a legacy tinged with isolation. The one thing that is constant in the lee family is the power of healing, This is what separates them from other dragons, no other family can inherit a power other than the Lee lineage.

The sheer might of the Lee dragons can intimidate, leaving them surrounded by admiration laced with distance—even their closest allies rarely forget how quickly admiration for dragons can turn to fear. Dracoris’s history is written in the fire of conflict: repeated clashes with Zephyris, the land of magicians, have shaped generations. 

The core of their rivalry is pride—dragons and warlocks, both powerful, both fiercely protective of their histories, mingle rarely and awkwardly. The cockiness of dragonkind, matched stride for stride by the warlocks of Zephyris, frequently leads to standoffs and diplomatic mishaps. This mutual arrogance has meant that true partnership is elusive, and alliances are forged more out of necessity than affection. Still, Dracoris values pragmatism. 

The powers of magicians are formidable—if Zephyris and Thebes (the human nation) ever truly aligned against them, Dracoris could face genuine extinction. This recognition drives the dragon nation’s foreign policy: dragons make a calculated effort to underscore their utility, reminding the world of the countless uses of dragonfire, scale, and wisdom. 

They work to maintain civil relations with both Zephyris and Thebes, softening their outward pride with gifts of rare minerals, gemstones mined from volcanic caves, and masterfully cured dragonhide used in the world’s best garments and armor.

Dracoris was especially chastened after the signing of peace treaties, which explicitly warn against dragon hotheadedness. Crown family members are banned from crossing into other nations without official notice to the ruling government—an indignity chafing for the proud Lee lineage, but one they have come to respect. The threat of coordinated opposition lingers just beneath the veneer of every diplomatic ball.

Despite the storms of international politics, daily life in Dracoris pulses with vibrant festivals, aerial displays of draconic power, and a constant undercurrent of ancient song. Loyalty, strength, and restraint form the pillars of dragon identity—a nation powerful but perpetually negotiating its place among rival wonders.

ZEPHYRIS — ‘Magicians: Flashy, Proud, Hard to Impress’

“Zephyris is the country of big-headed warlocks and elegant magicians. Everybody practices magic from childhood; the Jeon family’s been in charge for generations, famous for both dazzling spells and civil arguments. If you’re from Dracoris, don’t expect a warm welcome unless you’ve brought rare minerals—they need those for magic to work. 

Their prince is dating someone from Thebes, and that keeps things friendly. Zephyrians can be cocky, but they’re clever—they trade rare herbs and can charm their way into anything. Dracoris tries to look strong, Zephyris tries to look wise, both will end up bickering unless Thebes mediates.”

All we know about Zephyris  an unofficial guide:

Zephyris: The Country of Magicians.

Zephyris, resting high among windswept cliffs and secreted groves, is a realm where magic permeates every aspect of existence. The streets of its cities shimmer with barely contained spells, cobblestones alive with charms for luck and guidance.

Every citizen, from youngest child to wizened elder, is a warlock—magic is considered a birthright, and learning to harness the arcane arts is as fundamental as breathing. The ruling Jeon family has reigned for centuries, each generation producing a crown prince or princess of exceptional magical prowess. 

The current prince, Jeon Jungkook, possesses a remarkable intuition for magic, known for conjuring beauty and power with equal ease. His long-standing boyfriend is Kim Taehyung—youngest son of the Thebes crown family—a partnership that symbolizes the deep alliance between Zephyris and Thebes. 

Magicians of Zephyris are renowned for their confidence, which, at times, edges into the very arrogance that sets Dracoris on edge. Ancient wars between the two powers were often sparked by slights and the inevitable friction between immense magical pride and draconic prestige. Even so, officials on both sides recognize the risks of open hostility—were Zephyris to unite fully with Thebes, the combined might could challenge even the greatest dragons. 

Thus, Zephyris treads carefully: politeness is a weapon, and trade is a shield. Minerals from Dracoris are invaluable: rare metals imbued with draconic energy, essential for spellcasting and the production of magical artifacts. The Zephyrians trade their own treasures—potent herbs, arcane crystals, and ethereal fabrics—ensuring both sides remain entangled, unable to fully sever ties. 

This shrewd statecraft sustains a delicate peace. Zephyris’s alliance with Thebes is deep and sincere. Thebes’ skilled craftspeople provide intricate tools and attire used in Zephyrian rituals, and their soldiers have fought as trusted auxiliaries beside the warlocks in centuries past.

Thebes’ acceptance of Kim Taehyung’s romance with Prince Jungkook further solidifies this friendship, their families supporting the union as a symbol of hope and unity. For they are termed as childhood lovers who are betrothed now at the age of 18 

Yet, Zephyris never forgets its own security. Defensive wards encircle cities; magical academies train the next generation in martial and healing arts alike. Zephyrians, though luminous in politics and art, are never naive. Cunning and diplomacy are as prized as magical potency, ensuring that, in conflict or conversation, Zephyris always has options.

THEBES — ‘Humans: Masters of Trade, Cautious Friends’

“Thebes is built on real people, not powers. The Kim family runs things—lots of traditions, but everyone likes their garments and armor. Kim Taehyung is famous for loving Zephyrian prince Jeon Jungkook, which keeps the peace. Thebes stays away from dragons unless trading minerals, gems, or meat. 

They’re practical; wars are rare; alliances last forever if you don’t betray them. If you want to do business, start in Thebes. Just don’t expect magic; their genius is in their hands and hearts.”

All we know about Thebes an unofficial guide:

Thebes: The Human Realm.

Set among sweeping plains, fertile valleys, and bustling trade routes, Thebes is the heart of humanity on the continent. Its people are skilled with their hands, minds, and hearts. Artisans craft the world’s most coveted gowns and armor, while merchants ensure Thebesian goods are found in every household across borders.

The Kim family sits atop the Thebes hierarchy—Kim Namjoon, their crown prince, is renowned for his wisdom, often sought for his solutions in times of crisis. His partner, Kim Seokjin, is celebrated for his diplomacy and charm. The youngest, Kim Taehyung, has become a luminary in his own right thanks to his high-profile romance with Zephyris’s crown prince, He has fortified an alliance with Zephyris at the age of only 18. 

This bond is not just personal, but political: it’s proof that the alliance between Thebes and Zephyris runs bone-deep, each treating the other’s people as kin. Unlike the dragons and magicians, Thebesesians have no supernatural powers. Instead, they pride themselves on ingenuity, honor, and adaptability, weathering every storm by standing together. 

Their history with Dracoris is complex: wary of draconic power but unwilling to lose access to the precious minerals, meats, and gems offered in trade. Thebes remains independent in spirit but never foolhardy enough to provoke the dragons outright. All sides know that even if human armies lack magical might, their strategic brilliance and mastery of weaponry and armor make them partners no one should underestimate.

Thebes’s unique position—as friend to magicians and cautious trading partner to dragons—means that the nation often acts as a vital bridge. Thebesian goods fill Draconian halls and Zephyrian marketplaces alike, and when conflicts flare, it is often Thebesian diplomats who step forward to cool tempers or reforge alliances, always eager to keep their people safe, prosperous, and respected.

NEAPOLIS — ‘Sanctuary: No Powers, Just Peace’

“Neapolis is the only place you’ll find total peace. No powers, no fights, no government coups—if you use magic or dragon fire here, you’re banished forever. Neapolis stands for the new city, they hope to make this the place completely different from the others. The Min family is legendary, somehow always elected even though it’s democratic; everyone says they’re fair. Dragons rarely live here, since there are no powers allowed its hard for them to survive without relying on their powers, and refugees come when they need to escape fighting or complicated loyalties. Treaties are sacred; if you break the rules, you’re done. People who want a quiet life, who hate cold wars, settle in Neapolis. You’ll be surprised how fast you feel at home.”

All we know about Neapolis an unofficial guide:

Neapolis: The Sanctuary

Neapolis is an island of peace in a stormy world—a sanctuary at once ancient and ever-new. Unlike the other continents, power and magic are forbidden here; no one is allowed to use their gifts, be they dragon, warlock, or any other. 

Neapolis was established as the world’s first and only true neutral ground—the dream of a coalition who longed for an escape from endless rivalry and war. 

Its government is a democracy in spirit and form, yet fate has favored the Min family for generations. Min Yoongi, the current president plus the youngest ever at the ripe age of 28, leads alongside his husband, Min Jimin. Though elections are open and fiercely contested, the steady and just rule of the Min family has won them nearly unanimous support. 

Their ability to keep Neapolis free of war, violence, and foreign influence has made them legends—a family that has steered a nation through centuries without a single coup, scandal, or war. 

No country may wage battle or bring conflict within Neapolis’s borders. Anyone, no matter their status or power abroad, is forbidden from using gifts here. There is zero tolerance for major fighting—those who do are banished for life, regardless of their rank. By treaty, all other nations must inform Neapolis of royal visits, especially Dracoris, whose people are known for their volatility. 

The Lee family, for all its power, cannot send a single member here without written permission. This enforced peace has made Neapolis a haven for those weary of war. Survivors, pacifists, and dreamers seeking a gentler way of life settle here—many from Thebes or Zephyris, though only a handful of dragonborn ever risk residence, for the ban on powers chafes at the core of draconic identity. 

It was, however, dragons themselves who initially advocated for a place where none could be forced to fight, seeking rest for their most battle-weary kin. Neapolis remains small, its population far fewer than any other country. Its streets bypass glamour and grandeur for serenity: gardens, libraries, amphitheaters filled with music rather than politics. The air here is calm, the people fierce in their pursuit of harmony.

Choose your destination well. At the end of the day these are just words of a stranger, for where your heart guides you is bound to make you the happiest.

Jisung read quietly, watching how passengers glanced at their own copies—laughing at the gossip, shaking their heads at local prejudice, nodding where the information rang true. Official histories were heavy and slow; this was sharp, breezy, written by survivors, traders, and travelers who knew what to avoid and where to find help. His little mind too drowsy to comprehend half the names mentioned but one named stood out the most to the grief stricken boy The Lee's the name he is bound to never forget.

As the harbor drew closer, the unofficial guide became more valuable than any royal decree. Jisung tucked the paper into his tattered jacket, determined to remember every tip—never forgetting that in Neapolis, information passed from hand to hand was the surest way to belong.

Jisung stood at the very edge of the dock, his thirteen-year-old frame swallowed by clothes at least a size too large, patches barely concealing the newest tears from his flight. The early morning light painted the water in shifting silver, the salty air tickling the bruises blooming on his arms. He clutched a rough bundle of bread, handed to him moments before by a soft-spoken Neapolis family—strangers who had seen too many forlorn faces to ignore another. Their kindness lingered, but could not quite fill the gnaw in his chest.

As the boat shuddered, ropes casting off, the dock seemed to shrink under the press of hurried passengers and restless bodies. Jisung squeezed his battered stuffed bear closer, the last vestige of comfort from the world he’d lost. For a moment, he didn’t want to step away from the only shore that felt like it might still hold pieces of his parents—echoes of whispered jokes, gentle touches, even reprimands he’d given anything to hear again. But the press of the crowd nudged him forward, and he forced his feet into motion.

He remembered the way his father used to warm the kitchen each morning, the scent of fresh tea and a soft smile for the day ahead; his mother’s stories by lantern light, painted with laughter and her gentle hands smoothing his tangled hair. He’d had dreams last night of their arms wrapped tight around him, of whispered assurances that the world was still kind.

Chapter Text

Ten years. A decade since I last called this place home-and still, nothing had changed. The palace walls whispered the same silence, the same chill that had always lived between my father and me. The throne room was as I remembered: vast, empty, and suffocating in its grandeur. I stood taller now, the fire in my veins locked behind layers of hardened skin and pride-armor forged from every rejection, every glance that told me I'd never be enough. My clothes, too perfect, too tight, bit into me with the same precision he once demanded from every movement, every breath. In Dracoris, emotion was weakness, and weakness was unforgivable. That was his creed-my curse. His eyes, colder than I remembered, met mine across the room. And in that silence, I realized: the boy he broke had learned to stand in the ashes he left behind. But maybe I still craved his approval or did I?

"There's a smuggling ring at the southern docks," he said. "It's grown bold. They've been moving illegal gems, artifacts...even Blue steel. It's beneath the dignity of a member of the crown, but these times call for caution. You'll go and find out more about this matter. Your presence mustn't spark conflict".

My jaw tensed. So, not trusted with statecraft or battle or anything meaningful-sent to root out thieves and play the prince in disguise. I kept my posture perfect, refusing to let him see how much it stung.

"Shouldn't the guards handle this?" I asked, tone even. He didn't flinch.

"The guards are corrupted. If we send an outsider, they'll never know who's watching. You're clever, Minho-use it for once".

Behind him, my mother was a silent statue, hands folded, gaze fixed on the high window where the sun only touched the glass. Even now, she would not defend me. I felt young again, trailing after grownups' arguments, forced to carry burdens I hadn't chosen.

"You think I'm clever now? After years of telling how you got the stupidest kid out of the bunch" I said, bitterness slipping out before I could stop it.

Father's lips thinned. "I think you like to play wounded more than you like to take responsibility. This kingdom needs clarity, not pride."

"Maybe this kingdom needs to stop using its strongest weapons to scare away its own family," I shot back. My voice echoed through the marble like a thrown stone. "You treat honesty and feelings as a threat, not a gift."

Mother's face flickered, but she said nothing.

Father's reply was clipped as ever. "You'll leave tonight. Dress simply. No insignia, no posturing. Remember-if you draw attention, you'll make us all vulnerable, not just yourself. If you're discovered, no one will intervene."

For a heartbeat, I almost felt a chill of fear. Not for myself, but for all those years spent hungering for approval I'd never get. Not even worthy enough to be brought back if caught.

"I understand," I answered, and forced myself to bow a little deeper than necessary. When I straightened, my father was already turning away, signaling the end of my audience. My mother's head was bowed, an unreadable mask. I left, my steps echoing down the hall-with all their disappointment following after.

When I reached the stairwell, my thoughts circled like hungry vultures. This wasn't just about illegal gems or petty theft. The steel in question, I'd heard whispers of it-a rare alloy, cold and nearly blue in the torchlight, said to wound dragons as easily as it did humans. For our kind, nothing was more dangerous. If smugglers could move such steel, what else could they do? What did they plan to do?

Father's warning replayed in my head as I walked. 'This is not ordinary contraband, Minho. I fear these plots run deeper-deeper than even the crown can predict. If someone means to threaten dragons, they mean to threaten Dracoris itself'. He hadn't looked afraid, exactly, but there was a tightness in his voice. I recognized it from years ago, when war was close and trust was rare.

So my mission was not just about pride, I thought. If they succeeded, if that steel flooded the underground, every dragon in the kingdom could be in danger, myself included. I pictured fire meeting metal in the alleys, dragon hide sliced open by something meant for our destruction. I tensed, fingers curling. This was hardly just a job for the guards. It was the kind of secret faintly remembered in stories-the kind of threat that could change everything if allowed to grow.

I left the palace that night without fanfare, dressed in simple gray clothes, my insignia hidden in a pocket. It was a strange feeling, disguising what I was-the prince stripped down to an ordinary citizen. Each step through the city was raw; the weight of responsibility pressed at my spine. All the years spent trying to prove myself felt shallow now, compared to this.

If I failed, if I let my anger cloud my judgment, it wouldn't just mean my father's disappointment. It could mean pain, chaos, war. For all my pride, for all the distance between us, I still loved Dracoris-and the people who trusted their crown, if not the boy who wore it.

I made my way to the southern docks, feet scuffed and careful, eyes wary for any sign that the smuggling ring knew who walked among them. The air was thick with the scents of fish, salt, and smoke. Lanterns bobbed as men and women moved cargo, every shadow looking sharper than the last.

Steel that could harm dragons. I repeated it to myself. It was not just a crime-it was an attack on the very root of our identity. Whatever was coming, I needed to see it for myself. I needed to stop it before it grew beyond control. And, for once, I needed to trust that my father's fears weren't just for show. I moved quietly, fiercely determined to prove that-even when everyone doubted me-I could be worth the crown I wore.

The docks were busier than usual, humming with a restless energy. I kept my steps measured, careful not to walk too quickly or meet too many eyes. The moon was a sliver, barely lighting the crates stacked three-high along the wharf. I breathed in deeply, searching for anything out of place.

It wasn't hard to find-the tension here was different from normal market business. At every corner, groups talked in whispers and a pair of men lingered near a lantern, haggling over something in a wrapped cloth. My instincts told me the steel could be there, concealed among the ordinary goods headed for other kingdoms. I watched in silence.

A low whistle signaled a shift change at one of the main warehouses. I blended into the crowd, my hands buried in my coat pockets, pretending to be nothing but another late-night trader. The smuggling ring must have been well-organized: as I passed, I noticed coded gestures, silent nods, careful avoidance of the guards. It would all be invisible to the untrained eye-except my father had spent years teaching me how to spot what was hidden in plain sight.

I let myself drift near a group unloading crates. They worked fast, barely speaking, and their leader was marked by an odd band around his wrist-blue steel, polished to a faint shine. At one point, he opened a crate and flashed the contents to a buyer: inside lay rods of deep blue metal.

My heart raced. That was it-the steel that wounded dragons. The dragon in me starting to fight to be let out and end this right here but this was bigger than me and my dragon, I fought the urge to step back instantly.

The buyer looked nervous. "It works on them? On their kind?", The seller nodded, voice low.

"Tested on a small one. Scaled hide, but this cuts through. The dragon kept begging on his knees, he said it hurt as if someone was pricing needles on every part of him." I felt my anger spike. Fear, too. This was more than petty theft-this was sabotage, planned and ambitious. There was something coming, something big, and my father had been right to worry.

I memorized every face, every movement, pressing the details into memory like a map. As much as I wanted to intervene, I held myself back. I needed evidence, needed to know how far the rot had spread. If I missed someone, if I sounded the alarm too quickly, the whole ring would vanish and Dracoris would be blind.

I watched as the buyer slipped away with a small bundle. The leader turned and melted into the shadows, others following silently. I counted crates-there must have been dozens of rods, enough to arm a battalion. My hands shook, barely contained, knowing how close the danger truly was.

Tonight, I couldn't afford a mistake. Whatever was destined to happen, I'd have to stop it before Dracoris itself paid the price. Navigating the shifting shadows, I tried to stay unnoticed. Everything in me wanted to lash out-to use his power to manipulate the shadows and kill the corrupted ones. But my father's warning held me back: draw attention, and the ring will scatter. If I failed tonight, those steel rods would be everywhere. I had to stay calm.

A gruff dock worker called out for help moving crates, his face half-hidden beneath a battered cape. I stepped up, offered my hands, masking my strength. The box was lighter than it should have been; no doubt the contraband was divided and shipped in small pieces. As we carried it, the worker shot me a narrow look.

"You new here?" His tone carried suspicion, but also a shred of hope-everyone here was afraid something big was coming. "I'm just moving cargo," I replied, keeping my voice quiet but clear. I'd learned how to be invisible, even as a prince.

"Long night." He let it go, turning back to the others. As I watched him slip a package to a courier waiting by the water, everything in me screamed for action. But I held back. Father always taught that the biggest players wait; if I showed my dragon's anger now, I'd lose the chance to uncover the whole network.

A cold breeze cut through my cape. I moved deeper into the docks, ears tuned to the snippets of talk, eyes alert for anything that would tell me where the steel was headed and who was truly involved. I picked up the rhythm of coded exchanges, simple hand signals-two fingers for steel, a tap for delivery. Every time I caught one, I felt a flash of pride and frustration. I could do this. I was good at it, even when nobody acknowledged it at home.

I saw a woman with silver hair trading with the lead smuggler-her presence unmistakable, belonging to a house known for quiet deals. The reach of the ring was greater than I'd guessed. Not just ordinary thieves, but players from other countries too. I listened for names, dates, anything that would help expose the network when it was time.

A shipment left for Thebes that night. Another was bound for Zephyris. The world was changing; the old alliances were fraying, enemies gathering leverage against dragons. Steel that could kill was flooding the edge of civilization, and I was the only royal here to see it for myself.

Before I left, I marked the location of every steel crate, slipping unnoticed behind a pile of ropes and recording faces, notes, clues in my mind. This was bigger, messier, more dangerous than anyone had admitted. My father's fears were real-but my own were growing with each shadow that passed.

I promised myself: I would find the center of this web and destroy it-even if it cost me the last shreds of comfort I had left in Dracoris, or even my life cause this is what a prince should do, kill or be killed for his country.

I left the docks in silence, shoes slick with salt and night dew. The city glimmered under oil lanterns; laughter and whispers rose from alleyways and tavern porches, but I felt distant from all that life. Each step away from the smuggling ring left me tense, unsettled. The knowledge of what I'd seen sat heavy in my stomach-the steel, the faces, the blue-banded leader who knew exactly what he was selling.

Most princes would summon the royal guard and round up every suspect. But if I did that we would only be removing a smaller part of it rather than adressing the bigger problem, the ring would get more stealthy and cautious; Father had warned me that corruption ran deep. If the people around us in the palace were involved-even in the smallest way-capturing these smaller sellers would only push the smugglers deeper underground.

If steel that harmed dragons kept flowing, our enemies would gain strength overnight. I needed a plan, not brute force.

I returned back to the palace right after not finding any more new information it was just few small scaled sellers and buyers. Back in my study room, I scribbled notes by candlelight. Names. Symbols. Routes from the docks to train depots, from merchant squares to border towns. I wrote, tore pages, wrote again, desperate to put order to the chaos of the day.

Tonight, I was neither prince nor dragon-just a son trying to protect the only home he'd ever known. My pride flickered, smaller now, almost irrelevant in the light of so much danger. At sunrise, I went to Father's study. I found him already awake, scanning letters and sipping bitter tea. He looked up, face sour and tired. I reported the facts: what I saw, what I heard, where the steel was going. He only nodded, slow and thoughtful.

"You did well not to intervene," he said. "But you understand how severe this is?".

"Yes," I said plainly. I wanted him to see how it felt-knowing that our kind might bleed, or die, if we failed to react.

"The network is huge. If we unsettle them, they'll vanish-then we'll lose all hope of stopping them." Father sat back in his chair, considering. "You will keep investigating." There was something softer in his tone-uneasiness, maybe-but he didn't offer encouragement or comfort. Instead, he listed instructions and warnings, a recitation of danger that fell like weights on my shoulders. Mother entered then, silent, gazing at morning clouds through the high windows. I almost hoped she'd speak up, reassure one of us.

But she said nothing-just watched and waited, hands twisted in folds of her robe. I left the study feeling both determined and alone, head pounding. The threat grew with every sunrise; the pressure to succeed-and prove myself-grew heavier still. If I failed, it wouldn't be pride on the line. It would be the safety of every dragon in Dracoris.

That was a duty no crown could ever ignore. Days blurred together as I tracked the ring, each morning bringing news of fresh shipments and hidden deals. I moved through the city in my commoner robes, avoiding old acquaintances and familiar guards. Every new face carried a hint of suspicion, every alleyway echoed with coded words.

I spent hours scanning ledgers at merchant stalls and shadowing couriers as they slipped past the limits of the law. Some nights, I crept into warehouses before dawn to trace which crates were swapped, which were hidden, which disappeared by sunrise. The more I searched, the bigger the network became-driven by greed, fueled by old grudges against Dracoris.

Despite my best efforts, progress was slow. Information came in fragments; people kept secrets or twisted stories, afraid of retribution or eager to profit. Once, I overheard a pair of smugglers joking about dragon weakness and how ecstatic they will be to hurt the most powerful dragons of our clan having more than one power-how many crowns would fall if the steel found its way into the right hands. I did my best to remain calm, but my knuckles ached from clenching with anger.

Each night I returned to room I rented for work in the city's heart, scrawling new clues in a battered notebook. I found myself replaying my father's words, hating how much truth lay in his warning. If I moved too soon, I'd lose everything. If I hesitated, someone else would get hurt.

I kept returning back to the palace for reporting back important information to the king but he never had time for me, he didn't bother asking me how am doing not like I even expected that out of him, at this point am just another face in the court for him. I met his advisor and reported back to him. The days I was tired I simply sent sealed letters with made up wax seal that is used by the royals to communicate secretly without others finding out who sent the letter by the very obvious royal wax seal.

The only person I saw regularly whenever I visited the palace was Mother, who drifted through the empty halls as silent as ever. She never asked after my health or my progress, never offered a word of pride or encouragement. Her silence was as sharp as Father's bitter criticism and avoidance, but less cruel-sometimes I thought she cared in her own hidden way; sometimes I thought she was just another part of the palace, unmoving and immovable.

The tension at home worsened, a growing gap between us every time I passed Father's office or crossed the echoing throne room. My pride clashed with his cold refusal to meet me, but I pressed on, determined to finish this task. If I could expose the ring, maybe I'd earn the respect he'd long denied me. Maybe I'd prove that even the son he doubted could protect Dracoris from its enemies.

Every hint of progress brought hope-and every setback made pride feel like a burden. But I refused to give in. I was Lee Minho, crown prince of dragons, and this was my kingdom to protect. I'd stop the smuggling ring, break the flow of dangerous steel, and defend my family's legacy even if they never saw me as anything more than a shadow in their halls.

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The breakthrough finally came on a rainy afternoon when I caught sight of the silver-haired woman from the docks slipping into a nondescript garden near the old city wall. I followed her, cautious but determined. Using shadows for cover, The shadows were my ever companion. Every dragon was born with powers. I had multiple powers one of them being the ability to rule the shadows. A power both terrifying to others and extremely powerful.

I watched as she exchanged coded signals with two men carrying covered bundles. They spoke quietly, glancing over their shoulders every few seconds. I pressed myself against the damp stone and listened.

"The next shipment's leaving tonight," she whispered. "If the rumors of the prince sniffing around are true we have to keep an eye around, we'll move everything sooner." My heartbeat quickened. They were talking about me-but their words also confirmed the urgency of their plan. The steel was going to Thebes first, then on to Zephyris. If I failed now, it would be too late; the ring would dissolve and reappear somewhere else, and Dracoris would lose its chance to act.

Waiting for just the right moment, I stepped from the shadows and approached, voice calm. "Moving cargo in the rain? You risk a fortune if it gets damaged." They stared, startled, weighing whether I was another guard or a rival.

"We risk nothing. Business is business," the woman replied, her chin tilted in defiance.

"I saw you at the docks three nights ago," I said, eyes fixed on hers. "Blue steel. Dangerous work for a merchant." One man flinched but the leader only smiled.

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who works as a loader of shipment." I shrugged, keeping my tone neutral.

"I might just be a worker but am also a buyer at every sale, being a loader helps one identify the best sellers around here and maybe you should pay attention to who's watching you are too easy to weed out at every sale."

That was enough. She signaled the men to leave, their departure quick but not panicked. The warning had been sounded; tonight would be decisive. I made a mental note of their route and slipped away before anyone else spotted me. My job wasn't direct confrontation-it was tracking, observing, reporting so we could uproot the whole network at once.

That evening, I returned to the palace in silence. Father greeted me with the same stony glare; Mother lingered at the window, unmoving. I delivered my update to him for the first time in months-known faces, expected routes, vulnerabilities. If we acted, we could destroy the ring before more steel bled into enemy hands. Father nodded, saying little. He gave new orders, assigned trusted officials, told me to stay vigilant.

That night, thunder rattled the palace windows. Alone in my room after long time staying away from the palace, I felt both pride and dread-knowing I was closer to catching them, but further from ever gaining what I sought most. No matter. I pressed on. I was the crown prince; so long as my kingdom was at risk, I would not stop fighting. I spent the next hours laying my own traps.

Using the clues I'd gathered, I informed the only two guards I trusted-men who'd served my family since I was a child-of where and when the smuggling would happen. I warned them to stay subtle: no arrest unless they had absolute proof, no open confrontation unless it couldn't be avoided.

We watched silently as the ring's members returned, arms heavy with crates of blue steel, pockets stuffed with silver bribes. Their leader-the blue-banded woman-moved through the docks with a practiced grace, her true face hidden beneath a hood. The rain soaked everything, making it harder for them to see us and easier for us to listen. In the half-light, I caught fragments of their plan: Thebes contacts waiting at a tavern, Zephyris traders offering double for forged documents. Everyone wanted the steel-even those who claimed loyalty to Dracoris.

I kept my anger in check, relying on observation. If I slipped, if I blew my cover, I'd lose the chance to end this now. Father's words echoed: 'This kingdom needs clarity, not pride.' I repeated them like a mantra, forcing myself to be patient and calculating. At midnight, the signal came. My allies moved in, swift and silent, cornering smugglers in alleyways and storage rooms. Some fought back, others fled, but we caught most of them red-handed, blue steel gleaming under lanterns. The evidence was undeniable.

I led the raid myself, using only the power of shadows to tread through the hidden attacks aimed at me. No dragon breaths, no show of royalty cause am infamous for using multiple breaths at once the thunder and shadows-just strategy and quiet command. Afterward, the captured criminals were brought to the palace. Father listened to my brief report, his expression mostly unreadable.

"You acted well," he said at last. "Not rash. Not reckless. You gave the crown what it needed."

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling both satisfaction and the familiar ache of wanting more-approval, pride, maybe just a nod that I was finally worthy. Mother stood watching, her face as unreadable as ever. That night, I looked out over the rain-soaked city and swore silently that I'd do whatever it took to protect Dracoris-even as I chased the impossible dream of changing my family's heart.

For days after, the city buzzed with rumor. The smuggling ring's destruction made waves through Dracoris, drawing admiring whispers and jealous grumbles alike. I was called before the council, where advisers praised my restraint, my vigilance, my refusal to use force. They spoke as if I'd succeeded alone, but I knew the truth: so much depended on the right moment, the right allies, and the courage to do nothing at times.

Yet at home, the atmosphere was unchanged. My father was as cold as ever, reading reports from his desk, offering praise only as a tool for obedience. He demanded a detailed account, grilling me about every choice. "Why not act sooner?" he asked.

"Because a dragon's strength isn't just in their breaths. Sometimes it's in patience." He nodded, but didn't smile. Mother lingered by the gardens, silent. I wondered if she remembered when I was small-when I used to tell her everything,. Now, even triumphs felt muted in her presence, lost between us. Despite everything, I forced myself to stay sharp. The smugglers had been caught, but the steel hadn't all been traced. Some had already slipped into the hands of merchants in Thebes, warlocks in Zephyris.

Our enemies were changing their methods. My victory was only one battle in a greater war, and pride in achievement was edged with fear for what came next. Night after night, I sifted through intercepted messages, piecing together fragments of deceit, searching for the pattern that would reveal their next strike.. Sometimes, in the quiet, I wondered if Father cared for the kingdom's peace, or for the strength it promised him alone.

Each night, as the palace grew silent, I promised myself: Dracoris would not fall to greed or old grudges. If I had to fight alone to secure its future-so be it. All I wanted, finally, was to be seen-by the people, by my parents, by the legacy I carried. Even if love never grew in that brittle soil, I would not let my determination die.

Lee Minho. Prince. Protector. Outcast in his own home, but never a coward.

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Minho stood before his father's imposing desk, He was called to the office probably after a month after the raid, the air in the room thick with contempt and unsaid challenges. His father didn't bother to look up from the documents in front of him, fingers tapping with calculated impatience.

"Neopolis is crawling with rumors- even if I don't believe in your abilities completely I should send you, try investigating there," he said, voice laced with mocking venom.

"I've already informed their president you're arriving, so don't embarrass our family name more than you usually do." The dismissal stung, but Minho masked it behind a cold nod, clenching his jaw as he turned on his heel. Outside, the weight of responsibility pressed against him, but there was a burning ember beneath his chest-he would prove his father wrong. With a determined stride, Minho set off, gathering his closest allies for the uneasy journey ahead.

Bang Chan, solid as stone and sharp as a blade, always ready to weather any storm by Minho's side, fell into step naturally, his silent strength a comfort.

Jeongin, keen and calculating, flipped through the maps, already charting paths through the diplomatic snares awaiting them abroad. The trio's bond was unspoken but unbreakable; together, crossing the borders of home into the bustling, electric sprawl of Neopolis felt less daunting.

As they entered Neopolis, the world exploded into color and sound nothing like anything they'd experienced before-towering structures gleamed beneath endless rails of neon, street vendors beckoned with strange, tantalizing foods, and every turn hummed with danger and opportunity. Awe flickered across their faces, but purpose anchored their wonder as they began their search for the infamous black market. Down winding alleys thick with shadows, the city's beating heart pulsed beneath their feet and the air grew heavy with secrecy.

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Minho hated crowds almost as much as he hated the desperate, sweaty haggling that defined Neopolis' legendary black market. Even with Bang Chan and Jeongin flanking him, the stink of humanity settled under his skin, prickling his nerves. People got in the way-always talking, always interfering, always pretending they knew more than they did. He'd crossed half the world for a lead on the smuggling operation that had threatened his race, but as he pressed through throngs of merchants and thieves, he found his patience thinning by the second.

Amid the noise, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. People shifted aside as a stranger stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of a long black coat. His mask, the darkest shade of black it almost mirrored my shadows, a reflection of the chaos around them. What caught Minho's attention, though, wasn't the mask-it was the posture. The stranger stood with an easy, almost bored confidence, not much taller than Minho but he looked fit and lean, his dark hair a tousled mess brushing the collar instead of the sleek style worn by the city's enforcers. A silver chain flashed on his gloved wrist, and when he turned, Minho caught the quick glint of an earring-small, deliberate, and as intentional as every move the man made. He bumped into the guy cause he was too lost to notice the stranger was right in front of him.

Minho scowled at the sudden brush, there is plenty of space to walk around him was this dude that egoistic that he couldn't move two steps aside and walk away. Before he could speak, the stranger cut him off.

"Watch where you are going idiot. Walking around dressed like you own my place? Lose your bodyguards and let's see how long you last in my territory." The voice, muffled by the mask, was playful in a sharp, sneering way, each word fired with the kind of irritation only reserved for rich visitors poking their heads where they didn't belong. Minho bristled, contempt overflowing.

"You could clearly step around me but you had to walk right in my way, I'm just here for business, now if you'll excuse us we have matters to attend to" The masked man didn't move. His glare, though hidden, was palpable, radiating through the metallic shell, and Minho couldn't miss the way his lip likely curled in distaste.

"If I had a coin for every private-school brat pretending to care about illegal contrabands here as if you don't get all this in the white market at request, I would be the richest man in the world, as for the push you should be the one giving space for others to walk past but you were too into your head to notice anything around you" the stranger shot back, his words doused with practiced cynicism. Around them, the crowd returned their gaze to whispers and exchanges, sensing something electric in the bitter exchange between two men who disliked each other before words were even traded.

Bangchan shifted at Minho's right, ready but silent, aware of how these things could spiral. Jeongin watched the masked figure with clinical interest, noting the subtle gestures-the tapping fingers, the guarded sideways glances, the way he never showed his back even as he feigned boredom. Minho squared his shoulders, unafraid.

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a damn mask. Why should I move for someone like you. Is arrogance what passes for power here?"

The man responded with only a short laugh, not moving aside. "No, but it's what gets me through conversations with fucking pompous idiots like you." The words sliced diagonally through Minho's temper. He felt an urge to retort, to maybe even threaten; humans never failed to disappoint, especially when it wore expensive shoes and a sense of entitlement. The tension grew, coils tightening in the charged space between them. Both could feel the crowd pushing closer, hopeful for a show. Neither wanted to be the first to give ground.

Minho's hand fell to his sword hilt, fingers brushing the cold metal, just to be safe he kept his hand close to his sword. As if instinctively, the masked figure mirrored him, a flash of silver appearing in his grip in one smooth, practiced motion. This fucking idiot took caution as a threat, I mean what the fuck was I even expecting at this point. Since he drew out his sword like a dumb child I drew mine out too. I mean who wants to stay unprotected in someone else's territory.

The moment hung-swords unsheathed but still lowered, eyes locked, irritation flaring and respect refusing to bloom. It was not yet violence, but it was a promise: two men disgusted by the other's existence, pride and principle balancing on the edge of their blades, held in check only by the faint hope of something useful coming from the encounter. The air between them vibrated, the city's pulse stalling, as if Neopolis itself was waiting to see if hate alone would be enough to start a war.

"End this right here you snob this isn't the place, You come into my fucking territory and try to fight me?, Spies are not welcomed in my market leave at once, You will regret this". The masked figure yells out still cautiously gripping his sword.

"I pulled the sword cause you did it first am simply protecting myself from imbeciles like you. You tell its your territory then look at how you treat people who have come here for trade and contrabands, First you bump into me then proceed to make false claims, Get out of your fucking head not every guy you meet who has company with him is a spy", Minho replies back biting back half the retorts after hearing the stranger tell its his territory, he has to tread carefully cause this egoistic bastard might be who gives him the most clues in this place.

Steel and silence hung in the air, neither side willing to yield-the marketplace itself seeming to hold its breath, as if sensing that tonight, something far greater than pride was about to be set in motion.

Chapter Text

For a moment, neither Minho nor the masked stranger moved the space between them stretched taut, every eye in the market glued to their poised swords and the simmering storm of words that had just cut through the black-market haze.

The night pressed in, gilded in the sharp sheen of metal and bruised with the heat of unsaid threats. Minho's pulse thundered, slow and steady, refusing to lower his blade first even as the weight of caution settled over his shoulders like a shroud. He could feel the stranger measuring him, not just as a rival but as something deeper a threat, a puzzle, maybe even a mirror reflecting his own guarded pride.

The crowd around them drew close like moths to a flame; Bangchan and Jeongin stood ready in the space behind, their eyes flicking over every flicker in the masked figure's stance, muscles coiled for whatever came next.

"Drawing swords doesn't solve anything," the stranger finally spat, his voice as sweet as a blackbird's call but buoyed by the bitter pride that ran through this city's veins like poison. His hair caught the neon light dark and wild, that same unruly recklessness Minho had clocked earlier, a tangle that spoke of nights spent dodging shadows and sharpening edges.

"You want answers? Then put the toy away and try asking a question without acting like you own the ground you're standing on." Minho eased his grip, but didn't surrender his stance. There was too much at stake to trust this kind of bravado, yet here where loyalties twisted like alleyways and every truth was bought with blood, sometimes caution was the sharpest weapon of all.

"I didn't come here for a fight," Minho retorted, his gaze locked unmoving. "But I'll finish one if you force my hand." The stranger made a sound a scoff, half amusement and half warning and stepped back enough to break the deadlock, his sword glinting like a promise in his hand.

"Then start acting like someone with a purpose. Neopolis doesn't take kindly to tourists who get in the way." The tension softened just enough for breath to return, for Bangchan to relax his grip and Jeongin to step forward. Yet even as blades lowered, neither side truly yielded.

There was something serrated in the air: an agreement, uneasy and fragile, forged in the iron press of mutual suspicion. Swords returned to their sheaths, but words remained uncovered tonight the marketplace had chosen not violence, but something wilder, a contest of wits woven into the city's endless labyrinth.

As Minho straightened, he kept the masked stranger in the corner of his eye, knowing this dance was only beginning and that the most dangerous clues might come from the mouth of the city's cockiest resident. A hush lingered, shot through with the promise of tomorrow's schemes, and somewhere behind the cold flicker of swords and egos, Neopolis braced itself for whatever came after pride for the answers traded in shadows, and the reckoning only strangers could bring.

The market's hum resumed around them, as if the tension had been nothing but a fleeting shadow. Yet Minho's eyes never left the masked figure, who now lounged against a crude stall, arms crossed with a lazy defiance that masked a razor-sharp alertness.

"You think you can just walk in here, swagger around like you own the place, and demand satisfaction?" the stranger scoffed, his voice low and dragging with derision. "You don't even understand the game, rich boy."

Minho's lip curled into a sardonic smile, sharp and cold. "And you think pulling out a sword on me and throwing insults will shield you from the truth? I'm here to find answers, not exchange pleasantries with a street rat who mistakes arrogance for authority."

"Street rat?" The man's eyes glinted with amusement beneath the mask. "Better than a spoiled dragon pretending to have claws sharper than the sword we hold. You have no idea how this city breathes how it bites back." Minho stepped closer, his voice dropping to a challenge.

"Maybe it's you who doesn't know. Maybe you're just scared of what a real blade can do." The stranger slapped the hanging stall products with a noisy clang.

"Scared? Please. I've seen better swordsmen in a tavern brawl. You? You're just noise." Then, with a snide grin, "And here I thought you'd finally be a worthy opponent." Bangchan shifted at Minho's side, his eyes flickering with quiet warning, but Jeongin simply smiled, his eyes twinkling at the sharpness of the exchange.

"Keep talking," Minho said, his voice low and deadly. "Keep thinking words can fight for you."

"Words, swords either way, you'll lose yourself before you win here," the stranger shot back, fixing a dagger in his belt with a lazy flourish.

"Welcome to Neopolis. May your mistakes be fewer than your regrets." Their bickering stirred the crowd, whispers riding the night air like sparks ready to ignite. Each insult, each glare, was a dance a tangled step in a game neither was willing to lose. The market watched, breath held tight, as two blades of pride and sharp tongues clashed under the strobe of neon lights, neither ready to concede, both promising trouble that would spill far beyond this moment.

Minho let a brittle laugh escape, ignoring the gawkers as he squared up to the masked figure, his voice icy but controlled. "If you're done showing off your knives, maybe you'd like to actually tell me something worth hearing. Or are you worried too much truth might chip your precious mask?" The stranger cocked his head, unimpressed, arms folded as if barricading himself with attitude alone.

"People like you never want the truth. You want your version some shiny story that won't stain your fancy shoes. Newsflash: this market is full of filth and secrets that will ruin you. If the precious dragon is scared to get dirty, maybe go home and let the real work alone." Minho rolled his eyes but pressed his luck.

"Save it. If you're as important as you pretend, you should know what's happening beneath your nose. Contraband, smuggling, something bigger. So? Prove you have more to offer than attitude." The masked guy scoffed, but his fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh.

"If it's trouble you want, don't worry. You'll get it. But forget finding answers just by asking nicely. This place has rules, and you don't know any of them." Bangchan cleared his throat, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Shame, really. We just wanted directions, not your whole autobiography." That earned a genuine snort of reluctant laughter from the masked figure, his posture relaxing for the briefest moment before he returned fire.

"Careful, you two. Watch his back. You never know who's aiming for it." Jeongin stepped forward, his chin tipped up in bold challenge.

"Or maybe you're worried we'll find something you missed." The stranger glanced between them a quick calculation, then a half-smile that barely hid a warning. "You might last longer than most. Or maybe you'll just burn brighter before you crash. Good luck, Dragon," he said, before melting into the shadows with that signature swagger, leaving Minho and his friends with a tangle of unanswered questions and the promise of trouble they couldn't yet see.

Minho stared after him, frustration rippling under cool ambition. One thing was clear: in Neopolis, answers came dressed as enemies, and every step forward was a gamble. The night wasn't over just recalibrated, suspense thrumming like heat beneath the city's skin. Minho wandered through Neopolis's black market, the memory of steel and insult still tracing fire along his veins, but the current pulled him elsewhere into the riotous pulse of barter and laughter, spilled spices, leaden smoke wreathed with old tales and newer lies.

He allowed himself to lose Bangchan and Jeongin somewhere in a press of buyers, his focus split between the goods arrayed beneath tarpaulins and the faces slipping in and out of shadow. It was something in the way the market moved a living thing, patient yet restless that forced Minho to adjust the set of his shoulders, to look for connection beneath the petty bickering that had marked his entrance. Here, commerce was more than trade; it was survival, revelation, a map of allegiances worn into the city's bone.

He browsed, fingers dusted with pepper as he examined rare silks and the cracked spines of banned books, always attentive to the slight, charged glances from vendors judging whether he was friend, foe, or fascinating foreigner. Minho leaned into it, his voice smooth, not too proud, letting small pockets of conversation spark into secrets: "Did you hear about last night's shipment? They say something new is brewing in the west alley." Every word, every half-smile planted another root in the city's sprawling network, and Minho cataloged the whisper and rumor as if they were as tangible as wares themselves.

It was this openness, an easy curiosity, that drew an old woman's attention as he lingered near her stall. Her eyes were sharp, narrowed in a way that seemed both knowing and half-amused at the foolishness of men. Minho paused, drawn by her quiet gravity, and watched as she traced the outline of a pendant wrapped in a coil of smoke-scented ribbon. She spoke in a voice sunk deep in rhythm, a melody of half-warnings and gentle invitations.

"You're one of ours, aren't you?" she murmured, the words settling on Minho's skin in a way that made him want to hide and confront all at once. "Dragonborn don't do well untethered in Neopolis." She pressed the charm dark stone, etched in runes that rippled against his pulse into his palm with the same touch as she might offer a secret. "Luck. Protection. Something old enough to matter, even to you, don't lose this as song as you are in neopolis, it will keep you safe."

Minho hesitated, reading something heavy and restless in her gaze. He thought, for a moment, of his father's mocking instructions and the masked stranger who'd made every answer a puzzle. But this gift felt more sincere, a reminder he was seen in ways few strangers were willing to admit. He tucked the pendant in his pocket, his mouth shaped in gratitude, and the old woman's smile split wide, tossing a final benediction after him, soft as smoke.

"Don't lose yourself," she said. "Neopolis eats the lost alive."

Minho walked on, the pendant burning a quiet promise between his fingers, weaving himself into the night's tapestry, certain now that trading words and amulets was another kind of battle one that might deliver answers or transform him in ways steel never could.

The old woman's eyes held Minho for a lingering moment; her voice, soft as midnight velvet, struck him with a warmth rare in this city. He asked her about the origin of the pendant how old the runes were, what dragonborn before him had carried it and she answered with stories as tangled as the incense smoke curling above her stall.

"It's not just luck you need, child," she confided, "but respect for the shadows you walk through. Neopolis remembers who crosses it, it doesn't forgive people who offend them." Minho bent his head, offering thanks not just for the gift but the fleeting comfort of her wisdom before the city began to swallow him again.

Minho barely had time to catch his breath after the old woman's cryptic kindness before another presence blocked his path a second masked figure, stockier and radiating suspicion, his mouth set in a line beneath the shadows of his hood. The stranger's eyes darted over Minho's clothes, lingering on the new pendant and the unfamiliar poise of someone who didn't quite blend in with Neopolis's night-worn regulars. His voice was all business, shot through with accusation.

"You're not from around here. Who sent you? What're you after contraband, territory, or something bigger?" The questions came fast, sharp, his stance squaring as though bracing for a challenge or an exposed lie. Minho straightened, meeting the scrutiny with cool defiance.

"I'm not here for turf wars. I have my own business nothing to do with yours." The stranger scoffed, clearly unconvinced.

"Everyone says that until they start undercutting the locals. You look like someone who wants more than you're letting on. Who're you working with?" Their words echoed, quickening with every volley a battle of wits and suspicion that sharpened the mood around them; a few onlookers cast furtive glances, sensing trouble brewing. The masked man crowded closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous edge.

"Competition doesn't last long here if it can't back its talk. I'll warn you now: Neopolis eats the green and the greedy first. Don't become a problem."

"What is wrong with the masked people of this godforsaken place? Why am I suddenly the target out of all the people? Move away, dude I'm not here for anything that concerns you." Minho replied, the confrontation sliding toward heat and challenge, blade to blade, suspicion sparking into open conflict and drawing the black market's attention once again.

Minho could sense the escalation coming, the fight about to spiral. The sword in the stranger's hand lifted, wild and haphazard; his footwork was messy, fueled more by pride than training. Minho blocked most attacks, but the last swipe caught him across his hand. Pain lanced bright, and for a moment, his grip weakened. Minho gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay steady.

He had a very large gash on his left arm.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, can this day get any worse?" Minho groaned. As he was taking in the wound on his hand, the jet-black mask guy who he'd fought with first walked back again and might he say, ready to step in place of that obviously not high-ranking guy whose mask was just cheap cloth compared to the first guy's. His mask was obviously of very good cloth by how deep that color dye was and the way it looked. Now not only did he have a gash, he also had to fight the egoistic bastard he'd met earlier once again.

The guy drew his sword and stormed toward Minho. Minho's hand was slick with blood, his dragonic breath needing time to heal this wound. How the fuck was that possible? What were the swords laced with? It obviously wasn't blue steel then what else lurked in this godforsaken country?

His breath came in shallow bursts as the duel sharpened between him and the masked figure. The world had narrowed into neon arcs and ringing steel, every move a challenge, every parry sending pain shooting up Minho's arm. They circled each other, boots grinding across uneven stone, swords flashing under market lanterns. The crowd pressed close, hushed and almost hungry, straining to catch every clash, every insult, every moment when it looked like something would finally give.

The masked figure struck quick and clean, his blade humming through the air. Minho blocked, spinning out of the way, burning adrenaline fueling every movement. His wound stung where sweat ran through it, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to show a single ounce of weakness. They traded blows, sharp and close steel biting through the hum of voices, the heat of bodies packed around them. Minho's sword slid under the masked man's guard, forcing him back; a grin flashed beneath that mask, reckless and giddy.

"You really like starting trouble," the masked figure breathed out, his voice rough with exertion and laughter. "Can't go anywhere in this city without someone dragging you into a fight?" Minho spat air, glancing sideways at Bangchan and Jeongin, who hadn't moved from their defensive stances they seemed to be enjoying Minho's predicament.

They were Minho's friends first then his subordinates. They obviously love Minho getting his hands dirty by himself, but if need be they were ready to step in to help. But they trusted Minho, he is skilled enough to fight 4 people at once.

"Maybe you bring the fights to me, you are like a walking Hex" He slipped in again, his blade catching and sending sparks as it scraped the other's sword. The rhythm was fast, breath hot, each step measured but wild like they both craved the storm of it, like neither knew how to walk away.

But the duel was more than muscle and pride. It was a language of footwork and intent, every backward step a dare, every slam of metal a story for the black market to carry into dawn. Minho's grip tightened each time pain screamed in his palm, demanding his focus; the masked figure saw it, nodding with grudging respect even as he pressed for weakness.

"Not bad," he muttered, swinging for Minho's uninjured side, testing for bravery or recklessness. Minho matched him, sweat running into his eyes, pride refusing to simply break. Steel rang out, punctuating the thick tension crowding the market air. Minho's hand throbbed around his sword, the masked figure's eyes locked on his, each movement sparking between rivalry and the shadows of understanding neither wanted to address.

The tension between Minho and the masked figure didn't dissolve when their swords finally lowered the wound in Minho's hand throbbed, sharp and stubborn, but the deeper ache was the raw edge of unfinished business hanging thick between them. Neither wanted to admit it, but neither could just walk away. The market's murmurs built around them, confusion and anticipation rippling like waves beneath the lantern glow. Words of grudging respect had been exchanged, but the space between them was still charged, brittle with the memories of every clash and counterstrike.

There was no peace here not yet. Neither did Minho feel the comfort of camaraderie, nor did the masked man soften beneath the city's restless watch. Their breathing was heavy and uneven, every glance a small battle. The air was thick with the promise of more to come, a collision waiting to break free. 'Fucking finally,' he thought, his wounds having started healing by themselves.

Then the sound erupted: boots pounding sharp and relentless through the alleys, orders blasted through the thick night. Neopolis guards stormed past startled vendors, slicing through the crowd like a blade through cloth, eyes cold and uncompromising. Their arrival shattered the fragile balance, authority looming as an undeniable force.

"Drop your weapons!" the command cut deep, sharper than any blade they'd faced. The crowd hushed instantly, the weight of consequence crushing everything else. Minho and the masked figure froze, swords half-raised, the sting of fight fading into a sudden, chilling reality.

They were no longer opponents, no longer rivals but prisoners caught in the tightening grip of the city's law. No words were exchanged as guards closed in, rough hands gripping sword hilts, pulling steel back into sheaths, binding wrists with iron-cold chains. The fight was over not by choice, but by force. And as the two were pulled apart and marched away, the simmering heat between them threatened to ignite again, waiting for a moment when freedom or vengeance would call them to clash once more.

Minho didn't fight the guards. There was blood on his hands and bruises along his jaw, but the iron grasp was tighter than fear. Restraints bit into his wrists. He saw the masked figure hauled beside him jacket sliced, lips bleeding through the seams, face unreadable even as someone twisted his arm behind his back. He did not go down without a fight, he definitely broke few bones of the guards. None of the crowd looked away.

Applause for a brawl could turn to glee for an arrest in Neopolis. That was how fast the story changed. They were dragged down twisting alleys, cold stone scraping Minho's knees as he stumbled over uneven flagstones. Lanterns blurred past.

Somewhere, Jeongin yelled calling out Minho's name, but the guards silenced him with a shove. "Outsiders and trouble, both of you," one spat, pushing them through a crooked doorway that closed like a promise. Minho and the masked man were dumped into a cell with nothing but splinters on the bench and dirt on the floor.

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For a while, anger and exhaustion were the only things that filled the room. Minho watched blood drip down his arm, his wound was almost healed but it still kept bleeding, ignoring the dried smudge on his cheek. The other prisoner sat silent with his head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling, breathing sharp in the cold. Neither spoke first. There was too much pride, too much memory of sparks and blades, too much of the fight still trembling in their bones. The cell smelled of old sweat and rust. The city's sounds boots, distant laughter, an argument over coins filtered through the bars. But in that space, it was just two rivals forced into pause.

After what felt like hours, the masked man finally sighed. "You should have given up after the first cut." There was no bite in it, just tired grit.

Minho laughed, the sound dry. "You should have stayed out of my way." He didn't want to look at the wounds the tenderness in his jaw, the cut on his shin, the ache running along his side. But he remembered each hit he'd landed just as well. He saw the bruising coloring the masked man's knuckles, the way his breathing caught when he moved his arm.

Time moved differently in a cell; it felt like the market duel and the arrest belonged to another night, someone else's fight. But every now and then, Minho's heart pounded as if ready for another round. Their silence became its own kind of conversation.

The masked guy finally muttered, "You're not from here, but you don't run like the others do. People in Neopolis learn fast: fight and bleed, or get out before the city spits you out."

Minho let his eyes wander to the metal door. "Not everyone is lucky enough to leave. Or stubborn enough to keep swinging." He wanted to ask about the mask, about why someone so dangerous picked a side in a place where loyalty cost more than gold. He didn't. Not yet.

Night thickened beyond the walls, the torches flickering low. The prison's chill crept in the edges of Minho's sleeves, but his anger kept him warm more familiar than comfort. Every now and then, boots paused outside their cell; guards peered in like they were sizing up animals, not men. Resentment flared in Minho's throat, but he swallowed it, refusing to give the guards a single reaction. It didn't matter who spoke first or who had the worst wounds. For now, both were alone together, enemies sharing a bench and a slow bleed. In Neopolis, maybe that was the closest thing to trust anyone got.

The cell was too quiet, and it just sharpened its silence as the hours wore on. Minho sat hunched on the edge of the splintered bench, sharp eyes roaming every inch of the stone wall across from him, still pulsing with the aftershocks of adrenaline and righteous, exhausted pride. Being a dragon had its perks for sure his wounds were all healed with just some faint bruising left and some phantom pain but he wore a kind of wild satisfaction from knowing the masked guy didn't have the same privilege.

He was still upright, still egoistic as ever, stained clothes flecked with both his blood and he noted with a half-smirk the other guy's as well. Opposite him, in the dim yellow spill from the corridor light, was the brawler who'd matched him swing for swing.

He was dressed in a plain black shirt that fit his arms a little too well, shadows cutting along his jaw where the bruise was blooming. If it weren't for the devil-may-care slouch in his chair, or the annoyed tilt to his mouth, he might have passed for one of Neopolis's quieter threats but he couldn't hide the fire in his eyes. He looked up and caught Minho staring.

"What?" The guy in black glared. "Trying to memorize my face for your next punch?"

Minho, smooth even when sore, stretched his neck with deliberate slowness. "If you're worried I broke your nose, I can check. You know, since you cried off so fast."

"Cried off?" The black-shirted guy shot upright, scoffing. "I had you limping by the third round. Didn't realize dragonborn were so fragile."

Minho folded his arms, ignoring the retort cause the guy's hits were actually really painful, but not so much as to make him bend over in pain. "Oh, is that what you call 'getting outclassed'? You were panting like a stuck hog. Actually, I thought you were gonna faint when I tapped your ribs."

There was a pause, then the black-shirt burst out laughing, loud and ungraceful. "Faint? I'm not the one who nearly tripped over his own feet, reptile." He grinned, the kind of grin sharp enough to cut stone. "You got a real long way to go if you want to scare Neopolis locals."

"Locals? You look like you washed ashore last week," Minho fired back, grinning now, too. "Did they forget to tell you 'tough' means swinging a blade, not your tongue?"

The other guy threw up his hands. "Look, sorry if my vocabulary has more range than bad threats and incomprehensible sword moves by the way, is the overcomplicated twirl part of some lost dance, or were you just trying to impress the locals?" Minho slouched, eyes bright.

"At least it wasn't the 'flopping fish technique,' which, I must say, is a bold way to lose your weapon in a street fight. Very new. Very modern." A beat, then both men tried to stifle crooked, half-bitter laughs at the absurdity of the night. For a second, it almost felt easy.

"Also what the fuck are your swords laced with?, Ain't no way they are plain swords", Minho grumbled. He couldn't understand what was hindering his healing.

"It's just Skyrim, my very own creation, it hinders dragonborns powers, Do you like it?", Jisung asks him genuinelyexcited it was the first time his product was tested since there were very less dragonborns he had to fight with in Neopolis. 

"It's yours you say, I should say it does work really well!, What did you use?", Minho questions back genuinely curious.

"It's a secret but I can tell you the base ingredients since you were my very first victim, it's made up of Nirnroot, Chaurus and Oleander. Everything is a little harmful to dragons so coombined products is stronger, I added way more shit but I won't tell you", Jisung lists out proudly. He liked making things from scratch, letting his creativity flow.

"That's smart", Minho replies as he leans back.

The guy gave a little bow where he sat, lazy and mocking.

"I'm Jisung. The city's resident troublemaker. And you're...?" Minho took his time. A flash of something foxlike passed through his gaze.

"Minho. Not a spy, not a tourist. Just the guy who managed to bruise both your ego and your jaw in less than half an hour." Jisung snorted, running a thumb beneath the cut on his lip.

"You wish. Next time, I'm bringing armor. And a dictionary, since someone's clearly collecting injuries and insults." Their eyes met two battered contenders, both restless, both refusing to give an inch. The cell was still cold, but the tension was warmer than any blanket. Outside, the city was spinning and plotting, but inside, the only battle left was the one neither had the sense to forfeit.

And the night, impossibly, was far from over.

The cold from the stone bench seemed to seep into Minho's bones, but he didn't let it show, not with Jisung still slouched across from him grinning like the cell was just another after-hours club. They fell quiet, but it wasn't peaceful just the kind of calm that hinted at another round of sniping whenever one of them got bored. Each shift, every cleared throat, felt like the rumble before thunder.

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They didn't get much time to find comfort in the silence. Keys rattled somewhere down the corridor, big and clumsy. Jisung rolled his eyes.

"Please tell me they're bringing breakfast," he muttered, glancing at the door like he'd bite the next guard who came in. Sure enough, the door creaked open and two officers stood there, stone-faced. But instead of a flurry of questions or threats, they both moved aside stiffly. A third figure stepped in tall, deliberate in her movements, something official and sharp about the way she didn't quite look at their bruises but registered every detail anyway.

"Stand up. You're being summoned. I don't know how you manage to score a place in the cell every few weeks, Ji. At this point, you should start paying rent here," she said, her tone so clipped it left no oxygen for complaints from Minho and a tired glance thrown towards Jisung.

Jisung gave an exaggerated sigh and pushed to his feet first. "Come on, Jen, it's not that bad. But sure enough, the summon was quick this time," he deadpanned, rubbing at his jaw. "Can't wait to see if prison coffee has improved this month." Minho shot him a glare, but stood without hesitation. As they trailed behind the officers, Jisung caught Minho's elbow and hissed,

"No matter what happens, do not under any circumstances let them put you near the window display pastries. They're not real. Chipped a tooth once. Tragic."

Minho's lips twitched. "If I see a tray of cookies, I'll be sure to throw you at them first." They were led through a labyrinth of bleak corridors, each corner watched by impassive guards. The tension only grew with every thick carpet and new patch of gold-trimmed wallpaper, as if the city itself wanted to remind them they were far from home turf now. Jisung lifted his chin, surveying everything like he was casing a mark, not being marched into the lion's den.

Finally, they reached a set of double doors so glossy Minho caught his own reflection, pale and still dusted with dried blood. The officers paused just long enough for the nerves to set in and then pushed the doors open.

The room inside was large, clean, the kind of neat that felt rehearsed dark wood, sunlight streaming through tall windows, papers in tall stacks, a single busy desk before a soaring map of the city. Seated behind the desk was the President of Neopolis, Min Yoongi, flanked by advisors in uniforms and sharp expressions. Yoongi's gaze was unreadable, somewhere between amused and tired. Minho and Jisung were marched in and told to stand.

The President gestured to a cluster of chairs a polite distance from the desk. "Sit," he said, as though they were guests at brunch and not half-shackled, half-bleeding detainees. Minho dropped into his chair, spine straight and jaw set. Jisung just shrugged, dropping back with too much ease, legs stretching out as if daring the guards to complain.

"So." Yoongi's voice was soft, but it seemed to fill every corner of the room. "Street fights, public damages, a few broken patrolmen, and the worst paperwork I've read this month. Care to tell me why exactly you two made such sport of my marketplace?"

Jisung opened his mouth, and Minho expected sarcasm, but Jisung only blinked, measured the President with a slow smile, and said, "Depends. Who won the bets in your office about which one of us would survive?" A tension broke, sharp as glass. One advisor choked on a smothered laugh. Another snapped their mouth shut. Yoongi blinked, then just a fraction smiled.

Minho just shook his head. "We're both bad at sharing. And maybe Neopolis is better at hosting chaos than cleaning it up."

Jisung muttered, without missing a beat, "He's lying. I'm great at sharing. I just don't like sharing with mascots."

Minho kicked his ankle under the table. "Keep talking. The next person to break a bone will be you."

Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on the rich wood desk, eyes bright with some unreadable plan. "You two are trouble. The entertaining kind, but trouble nonetheless. Why should I let either of you walk out of here? Minho, this is not your first trip here you know the rules. Then why did you start a brawl with this idiot here? No violence was mentioned in the approval message as well." For a second, it was quiet, the kind where anything could happen.

"It was gonna be a peaceful visit like always, but this clown over here took me as a spy and started throwing accusations at me, then some other dude drew his sword at me and made a deep gash, might I say. Then out of nowhere, this fucker comes back and starts fighting me," Minho groaned out to his friend.

Yoongi and Minho were acquaintances, who could be labeled as friends too at times. Their relationship confusing due to the country's ever changing politics.

"You imbecile, you didn't have to retaliate when you know you can heal by yourself. We both know that gash was equivalent to a scratch for you, and you had to fight back 'cause your ego couldn't take it," Yoongi chuckled at Minho's answer.

"I mean, you are not wrong. How could I let a peasant who drew my blood go away without a nick? I'm not that big of a person yet, nor will I ever be we both know that," Minho complained.

Jisung groaned, running a tongue over the split in his lip. "Since you both know each other and you guys are clearly friends, you'll let this reptile go, and as for me, I'll be thrown back into the pit for the second time this past month." He turned away from Yoongi to Minho and complained, "Also, man, how the fuck do you heal by yourself? The fight was so biased towards you if that's the case, you could have stopped the fight with me. I was just saving ass of Minnie, he's new."

"I'm a Dragon. I'm bound to have powers. I was nice enough to follow Neopolis rules and not use any of my powers, but healing is something none of us can stop from manifesting it's an automatic process. Also, you should keep a close eye on newbies; he fought with me for a very stupid fucking reason, might I add," Minho shot back.

"Jisung, we have already warned you multiple times not to start fights with people or steal merchandise, but you don't listen, and obviously, you leave us no choice but to imprison you. Fix your issues, then you won't need to spend another week at the cell it's getting exhausting at this point to keep you here for your petty crimes," Yoongi replied back to Jisung, leaning back into his chair. "And tell me why do I even let you go this time? I have to let Minho go since he's a guest and he also has the privileges of being my friend."

"Because nobody brawls that spectacularly and still manages not to kill anyone needs straight jail. Besides, have you ever seen a more promising disaster duo?" Minho glanced sideways one beat, two and despite everything, couldn't stop the laugh that slipped out.

"You could let him work his ass off for work and let me get back to my business. I hear the market's due for a little creative reconstruction make him work for it."

Yoongi steepled his fingers. "Perhaps. After all, Neopolis favors those who don't bore, and you, my dear friend, just found a partner for your private business. There is no one better who knows every single corner of Neopolis as good as this idiot Jisung here."

Nobody in the room missed the glint in his eyes.

"Ain't no way I'm taking this hothead with me for work you know it won't work for what I'm here to do, Yoongi," Minho retorted, sitting straighter than he was.

"I for once trust whatever came out of this reptile here. I can't work with him. I hate reptiles, especially dragons who look like a larger version of lizards but with wings. Oh good lord, imagine a giant lizard with me. Fuck, I swear to god I will not survive that," Jisung yelled out.

"Jisung, if you don't want to get deported, I suggest you start working with this egoistic reptile. I'm sick of you causing problems in my country I can't keep dealing with your antics every other month," Yoongi said, his tone final. "As for you, Minho, I was supposed to help you by sending a local with you for helping you check out every single place, and no one is better than Jisung here so everything actually worked in your favor."

Minho and Jisung both looked at each other for a beat, expecting another retort from the other.

"All the best, Minho. Chan and Jeongin-ah are waiting in the dining room for you have something before you leave. We prepared some of your favorites for you Jimin's orders, and Jisung, you are free to join Minho for food and you might take a few friends of yours with Minho. God knows you need some help here," Yoongi spoke out before any of them got a chance to refuse it another time.

Chapter Text

Minho and Jisung stood in the council office, both stubbornly silent, refusal still burning hot behind their eyes. Jisung's jaw was set, arms crossed in open defiance. Minho just raised an eyebrow at the President, as if this whole city was one big inconvenience he'd rather repack and store away. But he has to stay and fight. For his country.

For three seconds, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next explosion. But Yoongi gave neither of them the chance his voice cut like a knife, final and impatient. "All the best Minho, Chan and Jeongin-ah are waiting in the dining room for you. We prepared some of your favorites for you, and Jisung, you can join if you want or not. Take your friends if you need them; the market's not for the weak." They both turned and left heading towards the dining room, they definitely need some sustenance after the tiring day they had.

The door closed with a soft thud that somehow felt like a prison gate slamming shut. Jisung scoffed, shaking his head. "You know, a normal person would've left this city already."

Minho gave him a lazy smirk, refusing to match the energy. "Guess it's your lucky day, I'm not normal." He turned and started down the hall, ignoring the ache in his arm, the wound was completely healed but his muscles were paining after having the most tiring day in weeks. "Or do you want to stay here and debate with the wallpaper? I'd almost pay to see who wins."

Jisung snorted, following unwillingly. "The wallpaper! At least the wallpaper doesn't talk in some bullshit riddles." The palace dining hall was bright and sprawling a room designed for politics made soft with familiar laughter. Chan and Jeongin sat at the long table, waving when Minho walked in. There was a spread of food Grilled fish, Rice Cake Soup, Bibimbap, Kimchi jjigae . Jisung eyed the feast with suspicion, but his stomach grumbled in very real betrayal.

Chan grinned, pushing a bowl of soup toward Minho. "You look like you've seen ghosts. Or maybe just the bad side of Yoongi hyung." 

Jeongin elbowed Jisung. "Heard you're helping Minho. Please tell me you won't get arrested before lunch." He grinned with exactly zero innocence.

Jisung groaned but managed to slide into a chair, his annoyance softening just a little in the warmth of company. Just a little. "No promises. If reptile-boy here tries anything stupid, I'm leaving him for the magical ferrets."

Minho gave him a sidelong glare, but said nothing as he ate. There were rules to this city sometimes you survived by swallowing your pride before your meal. The food was comfort and anchor both, but the room still thrummed with tension.

"You both look like you've been through hell," Chan observed, adjusting his cuffs. "Now any idea where to start this investigation?"

Minho and Jisung hardly had time to scrape the last of the food from their plates before the urgency of 'blue steal' forced its way into the day. Jisung was no guest to information, Neopolis had been hit with rumors a new alloy, shimmering with an unnatural dark blue sheen, popping up in backroom exchanges and shady shipments. Blue steal made ordinary steel look dull, and almost anyone could sense the kind of magic bleeding off it. Whoever controlled that market would hold more than coin; they'd hold power.

Yoongi's words hung over them find the blue steal without causing major damage to the country if it can't be helped then do it before the council's patience snapped by our violence, make sure no infiltrators sold it beneath Neopolis's nose and try to harm the relations between the the most powerful nations- Dracoris and Neopolis.

Jisung was already grumbling under his breath. "Great. Magical metal. Nothing ever goes wrong with magical metals," he snarked, scanning the faces at the table. 

Chan had doodled out a map for them: red dots marked known blue steal sightings the north docks, a laundry behind the apothecary, even the old theater. Jeongin had slipped them encoded notes about a pair of traveling vendors, rumored infiltrators with more charm than loyalty. Apparently the market was crawling with stories, and all roads seemed to lead to blue steal.

"Wait I didn't bother asking your names, are you friends with this reptile or his underlings?", Jisung turns towards the other duo and asks them straight up.

"Reptile!, Minho you let him call you that?, Man you are hilarious, yeah we're his friends but I wanna be friends with you too after this. I love when Minho finds people like him. It only happened once when he was put on the same level as the opponent and I still don't forget to remind him that, By the way am Christopher, You can just call me Chan I prefer that anyways", Chan laughs offering his hand.

"I don't let him do anything, but it's way better to let him call me whatever than argue with the walls", Minho replies back.

"Am Jisung and man you gotta tell me about this other encounter, A match for this reptile must have been fun to watch," Jisung laughs while extending his hand to grip Chan's in a handshake.

"Am Jeongin I don't like interacting so don't force me to talk to you, If you do I might just punch you in your face I don't do charities with people I am not close to", Jeongin giving Jisung a curt reply and focusing back on the maps.

"Sure thing foxy", "Are you all Dragonborns like this reptile, or are you warlocks or simply humans?", Jisung turns towards Chan sitting comfortably on his chair.

"Yeah, we're all Dragonborns, we were sent on the kings orders to check out the markets" Chan leans back and looks at Minho signaling him not to mention his identity.

"Ah the fucking Lee's the ever brooding, egoistic bastard, don't take it personally I just have a very strong dislike for him" Jisung closes his eyes remembering his past.

"The entire Lee family or just the King?, Am just trying to see how deep your hatred runs, you might as well be a threat to us at this point", Minho buts in the conversation, he was now curious as to why a random human hates the king for no reason but has no problem with dragons in general.

"I couldn't care less about the prince but if he's the same as his father then the hatred is for the entire family, The king in particular is my issue, anyways are you guys on the council or private investigators?", Jisung replies back trying to change the topic.

Minho clearly notices the shift but he wanted to keep his name seperate from his father at all costs he just looks at Chan and he understands what Minho wants him to tell so he replies " The prince is not like the King, They have not had any public appearances together since he was 5, the prince and king has very clear differences and the entire kingdom knows about it, so we won't blame you for your hate, and we are private investigators but we all come from high posts hence the nicer treatment towards us here".

"I figured but I thought you must be from the council for Minho to be friends with the president", Jisung replies back.

"Let's get going, we need to start looking for clues now rather than later", Jeongin buts in wanting to stop triggering Minho talking about his father.  

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They left the palace and headed towards the markets.

Jisung rolled his eyes. "Council only cares when something runs out of their control... Like that time with the bread golem. Or that witch with the endless lottery tickets. Want to check the market first, or just skip to making bad decisions?"

Minho tried not to smile. "Bad decisions are your specialty. I'll follow your lead until you get us cursed. Again." Jeongin and Chan laughed, softening the mood as the foursome plotted routes and updates. The plan was rough, but it was something. Minho insisted on checking a shady apothecary on the edge of the city first rumors about shapeshifting thieves and new ores had started there, and Jisung had a contact who owed him more than an explanation, he didn't wanna waste the favor he owed on this nonsense he suggested that they check out the docks first but alas Minho wouldn't budge.

They entered the market with the energy of a pair being marched to doom by their own stubbornness. Jisung led, Minho just a half-step behind, every glance layered with new distrust. It didn't vanish, even once they were out on the street. They could feel the distrust and suspicion in the atmosphere. The energy was very palpable. It was visibly triggering Jisung he kept clenching and unclenching his fists. He finally cut the tension and broke out "You think you're always right because you came from power," Jisung grumbled, hands shoved in his pockets.

Minho barely turned his head. "No, I just know I'm not as wrong as you." 

Jisung pressed on, weaving through the crowds. "If a magical beast kills us, I'm blaming this entire disaster on your hair gel."

"Jealousy is a disease," Minho deadpanned. "You should get it treated at the apothecary, too." The apothecary was small, cramped, musty with herbs so old the labels had faded. 

Behind the counter, a sharp-eyed woman assessed both of them immediately, nostrils twitching. "If you two fight in here, I'll turn you both into frogs. And I don't mean the fancy kind." 

Minho stepped forward, polite but purposeful. "We're looking for the new ores. Anything strange lately?"

She pursed her lips, glancing at Jisung. "You bring me another weird council friend and expect gossip for free?"

Jisung shrugged, flashing a smile as smooth as salted caramel. "Information, Miri. Not trouble. You know I'd owe you."

"The new ores have been flowing in and out at the docks, we also have sales there at night, I heard there is this new special metal that is enchanted with ruins, the person who was the first seller of that metal was murdered few weeks ago, people assumed she was selling her product away to the dragons in power, for the exchange of assurance for safety from the other dragons, now go away Ji, I can't tell you more", she turns away.

"We hit the docks first. Half of Neopolis trades the weird stuff at night, I told you we should check the docks first," Jisung announced and grumbled, squinting at Chan's chicken-scratch map.

Minho arched a brow. "Shut up Jisung, We wouldn't have gotten that information if we didn't come here." he turns away from Jisung and grumbles to himself "Night? Why do all magical deals in this city happen after sunset? What's wrong with a brunch auction?, or even an all day auction?" 

Jisung coughed. "Because people who sell forbidden alloys don't like sunlight. Or pastries, for that matter. Remind me to bring my backup the next time, before you get thrown in a slammer again ." 

"Where there is a will there is a way Rat, if people wanted they could deal even in broad daylight always be prepared let's check it now and also in the morning," Minho tells turning towards Jisung, who just rolls his eyes.

They made their way to the north docks after just getting information from other 2 docks and not any other solid leads other than 'exchange on northern docks', as they kept walking around the old banter flickered between them. Chan and Jeongin were definitely not bored this time.

Jisung eyed the boxes of a merchant's supply having blue tags with suspicion. "You see blue, you suspect blue steal. You see someone too happy, you suspect...? Minho, please don't say 'a decent lunch.'"

Minho smiled, refusing a retort. "Someone who's definitely hiding blue steal in their bread rolls. Just watch one day you'll raid a bakery and find cursed metal instead of cookies."

"Are you ever not hungry man? why the fuck everything revolves around food for you? and I know you for like 2 days", Jisung groans out clearly done with Minho's antics. Minho ignored the jab.

The docks lived up to their reputation: noisy, damp, and packed with suspicious faces. Vendors hawked ink, boots, and magic-shielded gloves. Three men stood by a stacked crate covered with a tarp a faint blue glow betraying their trade even before Jisung flicked his detection charm.

He leaned toward Minho, voice dropping low. "There. Third guy from the left. That's Kang, the most famous illegal contraband seller. Used to move weapons for the southern syndicate. If he's selling blue steal, he's doing it for someone big, he doesn't deal with the smaller fishes."

Minho nodded, hand drifting near his concealed blade. "Let's watch how he trades. We need proof, not just speculation." 

Jisung, unable to resist, grinned sideways. "If we get spotted, just pretend you're my moody sidekick. You mostly have the right face for it." Minho didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he slipped closer, both men lurking in the shadow of a cargo stack. Voices drifted, clipped and urgent. There was mention of blue steal, a rushed promise of double payment, and a warning about 'dragon-born eyes in the market.'

Jisung signaled for them to move. The blue steal was being offered in a bundle wrapped in gold cloth, the glow bright enough to draw the attention of two rival buyers one a woman in a hooded coat, the other a tall, broad-shouldered merchant who carried a staff topped with a blue gem.

As Kang counted coins, Minho whispered, "How do you want to play this? I need a batch to understand the metal being sold here, my informant told me every country has different types of ruins being used to put into the metal" 

Jisung's eyes narrowed. "Fine let's steal one batch, we distract. You slip the blue steal out of the bundle, and I'll charm the buyers into thinking it's a dud. Or we cause a scene and grab it when everyone's confused. I'm good at scenes."

Minho's lips twitched. "You're good at disaster. Let's try not to get the whole dock on our case." Moving fast, Jisung dropped a smoke charm beside Kang's crate thin mist wafted up, enough to shroud the blue glow. Minho edged forward, hands quick, swapping the real bundle for a decoy stuffed with ordinary steel they swiped from the random seller few feet away. Kang didn't notice; his focus was on the buyers, on the money changing hands.

But someone did notice a half burnt-faced bystander, too close and too clever, who yelled, "Thieves!" before Minho could slip away. Instantly, the docks erupted in chaos. Jisung cursed, grabbed Minho's sleeve, and together they dodged through crates and uprooted barrels, the real blue steal burning hot in Minho's pack. Minho secretly used his shadows to push the bystander away to disrupt his balance. He turns back to see it worked and people around him are not focusing on the apparent thieves but the man who fell down out of nowhere

They darted into the alley. Jisung grinned, "Nice moves, reptile. You almost got us turned into seafood."

Minho shot him a tired look. "And you nearly set the docks on fire. Maybe next time you signal with something less obvious than a smoke charm." 

Jisung just winked. "Obvious gets results. Not everyone's good at blending in, Minho. Or at getting away using powers. My deal is to hit hard and fast, saves time and effort in the long run." In the distance, angry merchants debated the missing alloy, blue light flickering as dusk swept over Neopolis.

The mission was far from over, they might have gotten away with the blue steel all thanks to Minho's ability to manipulate shadows, he doesn't use it much cause whenever he uses it he always have nightmares at night. Every great power will have a rebound that was the curse of having most powerful Draconic breaths and he was damn sure that today was gonna be a very long night. 

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They regrouped at an alley they found far away from the dock but still not that far from public.

The alley was empty except for the sound of damp boots scraping stone and the huff of four different brands of exhaustion. The city lights painted golden bars across jumbled crates, and Minho let his stride slow for the first time since the chase began. Jisung was right behind, tossing wild glances at the shadows as if expecting someone to leap from them a fair guess, in Neopolis.

"Finally," Chan grunted, already leaning against the wall, arms crossed in mock patience. Jeongin hung behind him, flicking a coin between his fingers. 

"Took you long enough," he said, but his eyes were scanning, always scanning.

Minho didn't bother replying. He just threw the blue steel package onto the uneven ground between them. The edges split, the rough cloth cover tumbling away in a single gesture of frustration. The contents gleamed wicked and cold in the moonlight: swords, three of them, each one perfectly balanced and humming with runes inlaid so cleanly they looked like frost on glass.

"I thought you went to get information not the steel itself!" Chan asked, voice tight.

"Does it matter?" Minho shot back. He crouched, fingers testing the blade's edge, but the hilt felt colder than anything he'd expected almost alive, almost pulsing. He pressed too hard and the razor drew a sharp, red line up his palm. Minho watched the blood well and tried to steady his breathing.

Jisung crouched beside him, eyebrow cocked. "You testing if it's sharp?, or just need to bleed for the drama?" Minho glared, but his focus was already slipping. He tried to draw in a breath, tried to summon that familiar spark the heat that would seal his wound, not just soothe burned pride. But it stuttered. Worse, it fizzled, and all that came was more pain. He squeezed his hand shut, willing it to heal by brute force of will. Instead it was hurting him more to even use his breaths to heal it.

"Minho?" Chan's voice was low, gentle, that tone he only used when he was worried. "What's wrong?"

"It's not working," Minho ground out, teeth bared in frustration. "My dragon breath. It's too slow. The blade...it's not just magic. It's sucking something out of me, it's hurting to even use the healing breath."

Jeongin's coin stilled mid toss. "Don't waste it. You can't..." Jeongin trailed off, trying to sound casual but not pulling it off. "Cutting yourself with something you don't understand dumb, even for you."

"Minho try using other breaths and see if those hurt to use too", Chan suggested trying to gauge the situation.

Minho immediately switched to using shadows to push Jisung off balance. He immediately grunted. "It fucking hurts to use any, it's not impossible to use them but it sure is energy consuming more than necessary", Minho grunts.

"I just felt something push me what the fuck!!!!!", Jisung yells out looking around him.

Minho smirks to himself and says "My breaths definitely work but it hurts that's not normal and this is just a small cut Chan, imagine a bigger injury, this would even kill the strongest of dragons without much effort, the blue steel we found in Dracoris is just half of what this is here, the products we found were not this strong it just hindered our breaths for a while the new blades have something else on them, I feel like its eating up whatever power I am trying to use".

Chan and Jeongin take in the insane information absolutely stunned into silence.

Jisung senses the tension and tells "Before someone else kills the strongest dragon you are more likely to kill yourself if you keep testing the swords like this".

Despite everything, Minho tried to snort. The wound kept bleeding. The swords on the ground seemed to hum louder, like they were laughing at him, daring him to try again. Jisung bent closer, gaze fixed on the patterns etched into the blade. "That's not local work, I know every working warlock in Neopolis and no one uses ruins like this, it's something ancient. Who the hell put these together?" He glanced at Chan, whose face had gone a touch paler in the blue light. "You ever seen ruins like this?"

Chan just shook his head, watching Minho's clenched fist and saying nothing. The tension was a live wire frustration, wariness, a touch of fear strung between them all.

"Maybe you should let someone else do the damage control for once," Jisung said, teasing for cover, but not unkind. He was already rifling through his coat for something a cloth, a charm, any distraction. Minho didn't answer, jaw set, eyes darting to Chan and then to the swords glittering on the alley floor. He'd never liked feeling vulnerable, and right now, with that magic crawling up his veins and his breath stalling in his chest, he hated it more than ever.

A silence settled, the kind that meant everyone was thinking the same thing but nobody wanted to be the first to say it. These swords weren't just a problem they were a threat to the entire race.

Jisung was the first to move. "Alright, tough guy," he said, voice low and even. "Let's see what we're dealing with. You keep bleeding, and you might end up dead making this entire alley start smelling like death." His words split the tension, for a moment making it seem like just any other night. But they all knew, in the chill that followed, that nothing about this job was ordinary anymore.

Jisung got down on his knees to tie the cloth on Minho's wound. He pulled Minho's hand towards himself and said "Am not being nice cause I want to but if you die your friend Yoongi will blame me for sure and I don't want to rot in Neopolis jail, It's nasty".

He holds Minho's hand and starts wrapping up the cloth around, careful to not tie it up too tight. All the while Minho was just staring at Jisung. The wound wasn't even that deep but still drops of blood kept dripping on the ground when he took his hand, it might leave a scar since Minho said he's not able to heal it by magic.

Minho looked lost, was he too deep in his thoughts or was he lost staring at Jisung no one other than him can answer that. Right as he was done Jisung looked up to notice the gaze on him.

Minho and Jisung just looked at each other. Jisung returning the stare at Minho.

Jisung's  gaze was unwavering, sharp yet quietly vulnerable as he stares into Minho's eyes. His pupils reflect a hint of stormy emotion, deep and contemplative, flickering with hidden thoughts. It's as if his eyes were searching for something unspoken a connection, an answer, or even forgiveness all while holding a certain seriousness in their depths. The way he looks, lips parted slightly and lashes low, conjures an air of intensity that feels almost magnetic, drawing Minho in with each silent question his stare seems to ask.

Minho's eyes were dark with an emotion Jisung didn't know what to name or perhaps he simply didn't understand what to name the emotions he saw. His eyes speak a thousands words even when Minho doesn't open his mouth to say a single word. His eyes are so expressive.

Minho breaks out of the spell and clears his throat and moves his hand away from Jisung's grip, "Thanks, even thou I didn't need it", He clips.

"It's not hard to say 'Thank you for your assistance Sir Jisung' and then shut up asshole", Jisung replies and moves to stand far away from Minho due to sheer embarrassment.

"So you can heal yourself?, What else can you do?", Jisung asks he was curious cause Minho said he tried using other breaths and it hurt.

Minho zaps a small shock at Jisung's forehead "Thunder, can also decrease or increase it's potency ", he tells .

"You could just use your mouth to talk, you didn't have to shock me as an example", Jisung huffs and folds his hands on his chest now leaning on a nearby wall silently sulking.

"Let's head back to the palace we need to give this to Yoongs we can't keep carrying this with us it's gonna hurt us more, not others", Chan suggests and starts packing up the swords. Minho went to hold them behind him but Chan pushed his hand away and and glanced at him as if to say you have done enough with the blades today. 

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They made it back to the palace just as the city's old bells rang 9 times sounded the hour, dust and city heat clinging to their skin. Inside, the halls gleamed gold but felt warm and lived-in, spiced with laughter and echoes of half-concealed mischief. 

Chan led the way, the blue steel swords bundled and cradled with a tension that made even Jeongin pause at the threshold. The council chamber's door was open. Not for formality, but because, as Minho suspected, Yoongi and Jimin had long since abandoned protocol in their own home. 

Tonight, the sight was comfort, Yoongi in his favorite armchair, somber and sharp-eyed as ever except his lap was fully occupied. Jimin, in a cascade of tousled hair and silk loungewear, was curled sideways across Yoongi's legs, one hand idly tracing patterns onto Yoongi's distracted frown.

Chan's entrance was dramatic on purpose. With a small, satisfied flourish, he let the sword bundle crash onto the center of the table. The clang echoed in the marble and made Jeongin's eyes narrow in delight. Jisung, meanwhile, hovered by the side, as if considering the safest path to escape should things go sideways.

Yoongi surveyed the swords, not moving Jimin so much as accommodating his weight barely restrained affection written all over his face despite the stern councilman act. "You brought me presents? How thoughtful, but these look a little sharp for my taste."

Jimin beamed. "They'd be perfect for slicing those ministers you hate, babe." Minho stifled a laugh, pressing a hand to the cut hidden under his sleeve. No one else in the palace could get away with trolling Yoongi like this, and Jimin seemed to delight in pushing every boundary.

Jisung cleared his throat, still wary. "They're not just display pieces. That blue-"

"Blue steel. New and updated mind you, probably imported cause Jisung here said it's not local work, maybe even forged with ancient magic we don't yet know about or... well, with something meant to be a problem," Chan finished for him. He unwrapped a blade and pushed it closer to Yoongi, careful not to let it face Jimin.

Yoongi's eyes darkened as he took in the runes. "You're right to be worried. As we know blue steel weakens dragons drains energy, slows healing. For humans, it's like a sword that's sharper than a regular sword and not much difference, but for you it can turn even a paper cut lethal by the amount of runes used on it. Where is it coming from?" Minho shook his head, grim. 

"That's not even the worst part, I tested it on myself. My wound just started healing like 20 minutes ago and it's been 5 hours minimum since I nicked myself. When I tried to use my powers when I nicked myself, it was too painful and whenever I tried using my healing breath I felt like it was eating the power I was putting to heal myself, I could use the other breath but it was painful, the one's we found in Dracoris were not this powerful Hyung, it was just a small wound this time. What if its a deeper wound the next time? How will we save ourselves from that?", Minho spoke with a shaky voice, the emotion so heavy that it left silence in it's path.

Minho broke the silence by informing Yoongi about what else they found out from where "We tracked it from the illegal docks to three different markets. All the sellers used different names. Someone wants to flood Neopolis with these before anyone traces the root." He winced as the wound on his hand tingled when he moved it by mistake while talking. The wound was taking a hell lot of time to heal and the process itself was painful this time adding in to the pain of the wound. 

Jimin immediately made a small fuss, reaching over and holding Minho's wrist against the table. "You are fucking stupid to test unknown shit on yourself look at your hand you're bleeding again," he scolded, pulling a silk scarf from his own neck and wrapping it around Minho's palm replacing Jisung's cloth which was filled with blood.

"It's nothing," Minho tried protesting in habit, not sincerity. 

"It's not 'nothing' if you're at my table bleeding down your makeshift gauze," Yoongi snapped, but his glare was more for show. Minho met his gaze across Jimin's twinkle-eyed smile, and something unspoken passed trust, maybe, or stubbornness cloaked as care.

Jimin patted Minho's shoulder. "You look thinner than last time. When's the last time you got a full night's sleep? And had a good meal other than the food I made the cooks prepare for you?" His tone gentled, full of the familiar teasing warmth Minho hadn't known he missed until he heard it.

"Not since the city decided new enchanted swords were a fun new fashion statement, and you know food back home is tasteless like dirt" Minho deadpanned, eyes crinkling. 

Jimin squeezed his arm. "You want me to make Yoongi brew you one of his health tonics? I'm convinced he sneaks ground up Burdock root in there." Yoongi just sighed, letting Jimin shift and giggle in his lap. Even Jeongin, usually immune to sentiment, let himself grin.

Jisung, having watched this exchange with a combination of envy and alarm, finally found his footing. "This network is too big to uproot in one swoop," he offered, voice steadier now that Yoongi had seen the gravity of the haul. "If these are regular market goods, someone's built a syndicate with too many layers and too many runners. We'll get farther if we split the work tomorrow. I can bring in a couple of trusted hands, my friends the locals who know how to listen for trouble instead of just talking."

Chan nodded, looking at Yoongi for a verdict. "He's right. The more we try to pull the whole thing up at once, the more likely we scare the big fish off. We need to pick at the web's edges get evidence, trick a few sellers into turning on their bosses. It'll take longer, but... it's safer for all of us." There was an unspoken "and for the city" in his words, and Yoongi heard it. 

He nodded, serious again. "Tomorrow, then. Start at dawn. Minho and Jisung, you'll both check in with me before you go anywhere near the markets, this is way too dangerous now" His voice softened at the end, slipping from ruler to friend.

Jisung looked at Minho, gauging for any sign of dissent, but found only a tight, determined nod. This room, for all its laughter and flirtation, seemed to have settled on a single heartbeat: protect each other first, the city second, and justice last not because it was least important, but because it was the only thing holding the rest together.

Yoongi pulled Jimin closer, and when Jimin leaned in to steal a kiss on his cheek, Minho covered his smirk with the back of his still-bandaged wrist. Jeongin rolled his eyes, but for once, didn't verbally weigh in.

Jisung just shrugged, resigned. There were worse ways to spend a night than in a palace, surrounded by people who bickered like family but worked like soldiers. Jisung felt out of place in a room full of people who felt so close to each other, he felt like an intruder, he felt like he didn't belong there. And somewhere in the lull, Minho caught Jimin's eye again. They shared a smile a brief homecoming in a world on fire.

Minho and Jimin were friends before even he met Yoongi. Jimin's parents and Minho's were colleagues, which led them to bring their kids out with them for socializing. Minho and Jimin hit it off right from the start. They bonded over their mutual love for sculptures. 

Minho was in love with the concept of sculptures and Jimin with the concept of being the muse of a sculpture. Minho was the first to know that Jimin liked men and when Jimin told Minho he was gay, Minho had just smiled to him and said 'Jimin-ah you will be the muse of an artist, you are the beauty they write hymns of love on, don't give your heart to someone who doesn't appreciate it, wait for it'. 

And wait is what he did, until he met Yoongi just few years later. Yoongi was immediately drawn to Jimin. Yoongi painted Jimin the week he met him. The love Minho described to him was right in front of him waiting, how could he not take his hand?. He will always be thankful to Minho for this. Even thou he was a year younger they never felt the age gap between them, Jimin was the brother Minho never had.

Jimin knew what used to happen in the Lee household, but even he, just knows the gist of it. No one knows the depth of the issues running in the palace. He planned to keep it that way too, He wasn't looking for any kind of sympathy or pity. 

Minho wished for a love that is devoted like Yoongi's and Jimin's. But he knows somethings are unachievable to people, this being one of them. He had come to terms with it long ago that he would be forced into marriage for political reasons and not for love. None of his future plans had the existence of love in them and he planned to keep it that way.

Some people never experience a love meant to be touched or held, only the kind that teaches them it exists, just not for them. And he isn't even the kind to crave it for himself. Or is he?.