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Chapter Text

The scent of ink, candle wax, and quiet tension hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Inside the royal court, Crown Prince Jeon Jungkook stood tall and still, a living sculpture of control. His broad shoulders bore the weight of the kingdom, his face cold and unreadable. At just twenty-seven, he was already feared by lords twice his age and respected by generals seasoned by war. His presence alone demanded silence, and when he spoke, even the most arrogant officials shut their mouths and listened.

He was an Alpha, not just any Alpha, but the most dominant the kingdom had seen in centuries. The kind of Alpha whose scent alone could make others step back, whose strength could break a man’s sword arm in one blow, and whose mind worked faster than any noble dared to guess.

But none of that seemed to matter in front of his father.

The King sat on the golden throne at the end of the hall, robed in red, his eyes as lifeless as stone. His voice was low, sharp, uncaring. He barely looked at Jungkook as he spoke of border politics, of taxes, of punishments for disobedient vassals. All the while, Jungkook listened in silence, lips pressed tight.

He hated this man.

The King was a cold and selfish ruler, more concerned with his image and pleasure than his people. He had countless concubines and a heart that belonged to none of them. Jungkook's mother, the late Queen, noble and kind, had been married to the King only for her royal blood. She died with heartbreak in her chest, waiting for love that never came.

Jungkook never forgave him.

He never would.

The Crown Prince did not bow in obedience because he loved his father. He bowed because he would one day take the throne and change everything.

He would end the corruption, stop the suffering, and return the crown to the people. He would not die like his mother. And he would never allow the snakes in the palace to hand the kingdom to one of the King's weaker sons from his concubines. Let them plot. Let them send assassins. He was not afraid.

Because he was not alone.

After court hours…

The palace’s eastern pavilion was silent but for the soft rustle of paper and the occasional sound of wood tapping against stone. Jungkook sat under a cherry tree in the private courtyard, ink brush in hand, letting himself breathe.

He wasn't alone.

“Your calligraphy is crooked,” said Kim Namjoon, seated beside him. The 30-year-old Alpha advisor was tall and thoughtful. A scroll sat on his lap, filled with diagrams and notes only he could understand. Namjoon was also the husband of Kim Seokjin, a pair known across the palace for their contrasting energies, one quiet and logical, the other loud and nurturing.

Jungkook smirked without looking up. “And you’re clumsy.”

A laugh came from across the courtyard. “He’s not wrong, though,” teased Kim Seokjin, the 32-year-old royal physician. The beautiful Omega carried a tray of steaming snacks and herbal tea. “Namjoon tripped on his own robes again this morning.”

“I did not trip. The floor moved,” Namjoon muttered.

Seokjin rolled his eyes and set the tray down. “Eat before you starve to death. And before I have to treat another fainting Alpha.”

Seokjin was both healer and cook, his hands skilled with herbs and blades alike. Since the day Jungkook was poisoned by a rival's dish, Seokjin had insisted on preparing his meals personally. He was also like a mother hen to the group, and fiercely protective of his loved ones, especially Jungkook.

“Are you overworking again?” asked Park Jimin, who appeared behind Seokjin like a whisper of spring. The 29-year-old Omega assistant wore soft blue robes, his cheeks slightly pink from the afternoon sun. Jimin smiled at Jungkook, then poked his arm. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

“I don’t frown,” Jungkook said, frowning.

Jimin laughed.

Jimin, for all his sweetness and playfulness, was also married to both Yoongi and Hoseok, the three of them forming a bond few in the kingdom could understand, but one that had stood the test of time and danger. Jimin’s presence always brought warmth wherever he went.

The sound of boots echoed as two more figures entered.

Min Yoongi, the 31-year-old Head of Royal Guards, stood with his arms crossed, his cold eyes scanning the area out of habit. A jagged scar ran down from his right brow to his cheek, but his gaze was still sharp, dangerous, even. Yoongi rarely smiled in public. But here, among his closest friends, he allowed his shoulders to ease. He was Jungkook’s most trusted blade and also Jimin and Hoseok’s husband.

Behind him came Jung Hoseok, 30-year-old, dominant Beta, second only to Yoongi in the royal guard. Hoseok was sunlight in motion, smiling, easygoing, loud. But everyone in the palace knew not to cross him. He was as deadly as he was cheerful. Like Yoongi, he was married to Jimin, and their bond was strong and unshakable.

“We checked the palace walls again,” Yoongi reported. “They’re clean. No suspicious activity…for now.”

Hoseok placed a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. No one gets past us.”

Jungkook finally relaxed, placing his brush down. Around these five, he didn’t need to pretend. Here, he could breathe.

They had grown up together, not just as friends, but as brothers forged in fire, loyalty, and countless shared battles of blood, mind, and heart.

Yoongi, silent as moonlight and deadly as the blade he wielded, was his shadow and his shield. With eyes that missed nothing and loyalty that burned beneath his icy exterior, he stood at Jungkook’s side like an immovable wall.

Hoseok, golden and warm like the morning sun, was the sword that danced through the wind. eneath his cheerful laughter was a fierce spirit, sharp reflexes, and unwavering strength. He could turn from a laughing Beta to a deadly fighter in the blink of an eye. His smile brought peace—but his rage could bring kingdoms down.

Namjoon, the mind behind the throne-to-be, was a strategist born of stars and scrolls. Thoughtful, wise beyond his years, and prone to muttering about philosophies none of them understood, he was the one who kept Jungkook grounded in reason.

Seokjin, both healer and homemaker, nagger and nurturer, was the warmth of a fire after a storm. His hands could stitch wounds and stir stews with equal care, and his scolding could be sharper than any sword. He was the one who patched them up when they bled, who fed them when they forgot to eat, who reminded them that even warriors needed rest.

Jimin, bright as spring and soft as silk, was the joy between them. A smile that softened even Yoongi's hardened eyes. A brat sometimes, yes but one whose laughter lit up their darkest days. Pretty and sharp, gentle yet unyielding, he was the youngest of the hyungs, but never the weakest.

These five, his hyungs—were not just comrades. They were his family. The only people he trusted. The only ones who saw him not as a Crown Prince, but as Jungkook.

“I’ll take the throne,” Jungkook had said before, voice low but burning with a fire that had lived in his chest for years. “And I’ll change this kingdom. For good.”

For a moment, silence settled over them like fresh snow, soft, solemn, reverent.

Then, one by one, they nodded.

“We know,” Yoongi said simply, as if it were already written in stone.

“We’re with you,” Hoseok added, his voice like sunlight on steel.

“Always,” Namjoon murmured, eyes steady, adjusting the scroll on his lap like it was a battle plan.

“You’d better not die before I see you become King,” Seokjin huffed, arms crossed, trying to hide the worry in his eyes.

“I want a fancy title,” Jimin grinned, leaning closer to Jungkook, teasing but sincere in his quiet support.

Jungkook smiled, a true smile, rare and unguarded, the kind that melted the ice around his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As the sun dipped below the palace walls, casting long golden beams across the courtyard, the six of them sat bathed in light and shadow. The world outside was uncertain, dangerous, and cruel.

But here, surrounded by those he trusted most, Jungkook felt unshakable.

The kingdom would change.

And it would start with them.

-

In the quiet outskirts of the capital, where stone roads gave way to dirt paths and royal guards were rarely seen, there stood a tiny, crooked house nestled between an old apothecary and a teahouse that never opened.

That was where Kim Taehyung lived.

His home was small, no bigger than a storage shed in the palace, with a roof that leaked when it rained and walls that creaked when the wind blew. The sliding door barely fit into its frame. But to Taehyung, it was home.

He had built it himself. With scraped-up coin, leftover wood from kind merchants, and the help of elderly neighbors who adored him like a son, he managed to patch together a space to sleep, eat, and most importantly, practice calligraphy.

Not that he could read or write.

But still… he tried.

Each morning, Taehyung would sweep the space around his home, smiling softly at the sun as it rose above the mountains. He’d hum as he collected laundry from a line tied between two tree stumps, always careful not to tug too hard in case the line snapped again.

He’d tie back his hair with a faded ribbon someone once gifted him, just enough to keep it from falling into his eyes. It wasn’t long like the flowing styles noble Omegas often wore, but it wasn’t short either, he ca’t afford to grow it longer and smooth. His dark locks were slightly layered, the ends feathering around his nape and brushing just past his shoulders, giving him a windswept, untamed look that contrasted his gentle face. The older women in the village often called it unruly, but to passing strangers, it gave him a wild sort of charm.

He’d dust off his plain hanbok, worn and frayed at the hems and fold the sleeves carefully, mimicking the graceful movements he’d seen elegant Omegas use in the market. His hanbok was simple and made for men, loose-fitting and unadorned, dyed in dull brown and pale cream, patched with mismatched cloth where it had torn. It lacked the soft colors and delicate silks that Omegas and noblewomen wore, clothes Taehyung secretly admired. He often imagined what it might feel like to wear something soft, something flowing and bright, something that made him feel more like the Omega he was. But even without it, he did his best. He straightened his garments with care, adjusted the ribbon in his hair, and held himself gently, hoping that, even in plain clothes, he might still appear presentable, Omega-like, beautiful in his own way.

That was Taehyung. Always trying. Always kind. Always soft.

He didn't know he was beautiful.

Not truly.

Not the way others saw it.

His features were delicate yet sharp, the kind of beauty that sculptors chased in porcelain and painters tried to capture with strokes of jade and ink. His lips were full, eyes round and framed by thick lashes, skin smooth and glowing even in the worst winters. When the wind moved through the village, it often carried his scent, warm honey and wildflowers, sweet and delicate, and those who passed him would turn, wondering where the fragrance came from.

But Taehyung never noticed.

He was too busy smiling at old grannies, offering to carry their baskets. Too focused on helping a crying child find her missing ribbon. Too distracted sweeping the alley in front of the teahouse, even though it wasn't his to clean.

And because he was so good and so lovely, the world had taken advantage.

The other Omegas in the village noticed his beauty long ago. Some were jealous. Some were cruel. They mocked his clothes, called him names, told lies about him. They whispered about how he didn’t even know how to read, how he was always scribbling nonsense and pretending to be a calligrapher. They’d laugh when he tried to sell pieces at the market, some stealing his works, others scamming him out of coins.

Still, Taehyung smiled.

He always did.

Even when it hurt.

He didn't hate them. He never spoke badly of them. When someone pushed him, he apologized. When someone lied to him, he nodded and thanked them anyway.

Because Taehyung believed kindness was better than anger. That if he just kept trying, if he just stayed good, something in life would get better.

He had no parents.

His Omega father had died the day Taehyung was born, bleeding out in the straw bed of a dirt-floor hut. His Beta father had raised him alone until, one day when Taehyung was twelve, he never came home. They told him he was caught stealing grain and was executed without trial. He was accused.

Taehyung never cried where anyone could see.

Instead, he got up the next day and started doing errands, sweeping, cleaning, running letters even though he couldn’t read them. He worked for kind old women who fed him warm rice and leftovers. He helped an aging Beta blacksmith sweep his forge in exchange for firewood.

Bit by bit, he survived.

And in the evenings, when the stars peeked through the clouds, he’d sit outside his home with a makeshift brush in hand, often a bundle of horsehair tied to a twig or even strands of his own hair fastened with thread. Ink was expensive, so he sometimes crushed berries or used watered-down charcoal, staining his fingers deep gray. The paper he used was scrap, wrinkled packaging, discarded scroll edges, anything he could find. Still, he’d draw letters alike, beautiful, flowing letters, not knowing what they meant, but loving them anyway. He mimicked the brushstrokes he’d seen scholars use, the way ink moved like water, like dancing shadows across a scroll. His hands stained black, his lips curved in quiet contentment, even if his stomach growled from hunger.

He dreamed of one day writing his own name.

Of one day understanding the words he loved so much.

But for now, he was content to admire their beauty. Like he admired the stars, far away, glowing, untouchable.

-

That day, like many others, Taehyung visited the market.

He carried a woven basket, half-empty, hoping to get discounts from the vendors who liked him. His scent floated gently through the crowd, unnoticed by some but impossible to forget by others. A group of merchants whispered as he passed. A noblewoman on a palanquin stared, unsure why the ragged boy made her heart pause.

Taehyung only waved at an old man selling rice cakes. “Good morning, grandfather!”

The man grinned. “Here, pup. Take one for free. You're too pretty to be starving.”

Taehyung flushed. “No, no, I can’t—”

“Just take it. You're too sweet for your own good.”

He did. He always did.

And as he turned down a narrow alley to deliver herbs to a healer's shop, basket swinging gently at his side, he didn’t notice the shadow moving behind him. The soft whisper of footsteps, silent and slow.

That night would change everything.

But for now, Taehyung only smiled.

Still unaware that he was the most beautiful Omega in the kingdom.

Still believing he was nothing special.

Still too kind for his own safety.

And still unaware that destiny was already watching him.

Chapter Text

The capital was a living thing.

Vendors called out their wares in loud voices, the scents of hot rice cakes and sweet soy lingered in the air, and bright bolts of silk fluttered in the wind like flags of every dream money could buy. Wooden wheels creaked, chickens darted between feet, and children ran barefoot through narrow alleys with laughter that echoed down the walls.

It was a place of noise, of color, of struggle and of stories quietly unfolding.

Among the crowd that day moved a young man in simple black robes, his head bowed slightly, a hood casting shadows over sharp eyes.

Jeon Jungkook, the Crown Prince, walked like a commoner.

With his robes plain and his face mostly hidden, none recognized him. His scent was tightly controlled with crushed pine and wild herbs, only those who knew him well could sense the power that simmered beneath the surface. At his side, dressed similarly, walked two silent shadows, Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok, the fiercest swords in the palace and the only men allowed to follow him without question.

Jungkook hated being watched. Hated the false smiles of the court. He only ever felt like himself beyond the palace walls, where he could see the kingdom not as numbers or reports but as lives.

Yet what he saw did little to bring peace.

“Is this how my father rules?” he muttered, barely loud enough for the wind to carry. “Filthy roads. Empty bowls. Children sleeping on stone.”

Yoongi walked beside him like a shadow, silent, observant, cold.

Hoseok, ever brighter, ever bolder, gave a quiet snort. “He would call this ‘order.’ I call it rot.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. His gaze had shifted.

Across the street, between a stall selling faded scrolls and a small rack of dried herbs, stood a figure who did not seem to belong to the dirt and dust of the market.

An Omega.

He wore a hanbok of modest cream and brown, the fabric thin and patched at the seams, clearly worn many times over. Yet he moved with care, folding his sleeves just so, adjusting his ribbon with soft fingers, as though trying to bring elegance to what little he had.

His hair was dark and slightly tousled, feathered around his nape in soft layers, longer than a soldier’s but far from a nobleman’s braid. It caught the wind gently, brushing across his neck as he tilted his head.

They could not see his face fully, not with the way he stood slightly turned, the folds of his sleeve raised as he cradled a parchment close. But his movements were delicate, almost reverent, as he examined a worn brush in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. His posture was humble but not small. Quiet, but not invisible.

He stood before a paper stall, holding a worn brush in one hand and a crumpled piece of old parchment in the other. His lips moved faintly, as though he were whispering to the letter but his eyes betrayed it.

He could not read them.

And yet, the way he looked at the characters, with awe, as if they were a prayer, spoke of a soul who adored beauty for its own sake.

Something stirred in Jungkook’s chest.

He didn't know why.

The Omega bowed to the vendor, tucking a small cloth pouch of coin into the elder’s palm with both hands, his basket swinging softly against his hip. Then he turned and walked away, vanishing down a narrow alley without ever lifting his gaze.

Jungkook realized he was staring.

Hoseok, always attuned, leaned close and murmured, “You’ve been looking at him for quite a while, Your Highness.”

“I was not,” Jungkook replied stiffly, eyes snapping away.

Yoongi didn’t speak, but Jungkook could feel the weight of his gaze.

“He’s... unusual,” Jungkook added after a pause. “For someone dressed in rags, he carries himself like he’s worth more than any of them.”

Hoseok gave a soft huff of amusement. “All that from a pair of sleeves?”

Jungkook said nothing.

The Omega had already begun to walk away, his basket swaying gently against his hip. As he disappeared down a side street, his scent, soft and faint, like wildflowers in spring rain, lingered in the air.

Jungkook stood still a moment longer, then turned without a word and continued down the road.

That evening, in the quiet warmth of his little home, Taehyung unwrapped his precious finds.

The brush was rough, its bristles uneven and stained with old ink, the handle splintered at the edge but it was his. The paper was creased and thin, most of it cut-off ends from better scrolls, but it would do.

He dipped the brush into a bowl of watered-down charcoal paste and knelt on the floor.

Carefully, with reverent fingers, he began to draw letters, not words, not ones he understood, but strokes he had memorized from watching others. He didn’t know what they said, only that they were beautiful. He moved slowly, tracing graceful lines across the scrap paper, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

Outside, the night deepened. The wind whispered through the roof tiles. Somewhere far away, the Crown Prince sat at his own desk, reviewing military reports but his mind wandered.

The gentle curl of a ribbon in the breeze.

The careful way the Omega bowed, even when no one looked.

They had crossed paths for only a moment.

Taehyung did not know that he had been seen.

And Jungkook did not know that he would never forget him.

Not now.

Not ever.

-

The sun had set behind the mountains, leaving the capital painted in the soft blue of dusk. Lanterns lit the winding streets with flickers of gold, but in the poorer districts, darkness settled early, lantern oil cost more than rice, and light was a luxury.

Crown Prince Jeon Jungkook walked through these shadows with a quiet rage simmering beneath his calm mask.

Dressed in plain robes once more, his hair loosely tied, he moved through back alleys and worn streets with Yoongi and Hoseok at his side, silent as ever. It was not his first time sneaking out of the palace but tonight felt different. Tonight, he wasn’t here to simply observe.

He had come to understand the weight of what he would soon inherit.

But instead, what he found was more than rot.

At a crooked corner of a narrow road, he saw it, a young woman clutching her child while two tax collectors, clad in the crest of the royal court, demanded coin she did not have. Her cries were muffled as they grabbed her shawl, pulling it roughly from her shoulders.

“She paid last week,” a man called out from a nearby stall, his voice trembling. “She—she gave what she could.”

One of the collectors turned and struck him across the face.

Jungkook’s hand was already on his blade.

“Your Highness,” Yoongi warned, stepping into his path.

“She’s a mother,” Jungkook growled, eyes gleaming beneath his hood. “They’re vultures.”

“And you are the Crown Prince,” Hoseok said softly. “One swing of your blade and this entire district will know.”

“I do not care.”

“You must.”

Yoongi’s hand settled gently on the hilt of Jungkook’s sword, halting him. “We do not protect you only with blades, Jungkook. Sometimes, we protect you by stopping you from drawing one.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He watched as the woman knelt, weeping, pressing the last of her silver into the taxman’s palm. He hated how powerless he felt, even with all the power in the world burning in his veins.

“I will not forget their faces,” he muttered, voice low and furious.

“You should not,” Hoseok said, voice grim. “But you must live long enough to do something about it.”

After a long silence, Yoongi asked, “Shall we return to the palace?”

Jungkook shook his head. “No. I want to see more. I want to know exactly what I must burn to the ground.”

So, they continued. Three shadows among the poor. No titles. No crowns. Just purpose.

That same day, Taehyung had risen before the sun.

He tied his layered, feathered hair into a loose tail and smoothed down the creases in his patched hanbok. A kind elder had lent him a flat rice cake, which he wrapped carefully in cloth, his only meal until nightfall.

He spent the morning sweeping the courtyard of the old healer’s shop. The old man gave him three copper coins and a boiled egg for his work. From there, he hurried to deliver baskets of herbs to a tea vendor, then fetched laundry for an elderly couple with aching knees.

By midday, his hands were raw from scrubbing, and sweat dampened the back of his collar. But he smiled, bowed, and thanked each of them as if he had been given gold.

Then came the less kind work.

A pair of dressed-up Omegas called him over, their perfume thick, their sneers barely hidden. They handed him a heavy crate of kimchi jars and told him to carry it across four alleys for just a single coin.

He bowed, accepted, and bit his tongue when they laughed about how “filthy but useful” he was.

He needed the coin.

He needed to pay the tax collectors before nightfall.

When he returned home, just a crooked doorway and one-room shelter, he found the collectors already waiting. They stood tall, flanked by two guards. One was checking a scroll.

“You owe for the last quarter,” the man said. “Late. Again.”

Taehyung bowed deeply and opened his pouch with trembling hands, laying out every coin he had earned that day. It wasn’t enough. He added the hidden coins he had saved for paper.

Every last bit.

The collector scoffed. “Barely enough. If you're short next time, filthy omega, we’ll not be so patient.”

Taehyung bowed again, silent.

When they left, his hands were shaking.

But he didn’t cry.

Instead, he stood, brushed off the dust from his sleeves, and went back out. He hadn’t eaten. He still needed to earn enough for tomorrow. Maybe if he helped the old woman down by the bridge, she’d give him a leftover bowl of soup.

And maybe, just maybe… a few discarded paper scraps.

The moon was high by the time Taehyung finished sweeping the steps of a closed shop. His basket was nearly empty. A single copper coin jingled at the bottom.

The streets were quieter now, only flickering lanterns and the occasional clatter of feet. He turned a corner, heading for home, when he heard it, a sharp gasp.

And then a flash of silver.

He froze.

In the next alley over, partially hidden in shadow, he saw a man, a hooded figure, pushed up against a wall, a glint of a dagger held to his throat.

Another man, the attacker, pressed close, whispering something Taehyung couldn’t hear.

But what he did hear, what made his blood chill, was the sound of a blade being drawn.

His feet moved before he could think.

He grabbed a wooden lid from a broken crate, rushed forward with a cry, and struck the assailant hard on the back of the head. The man stumbled, surprised, and Jungkook took the moment to elbow him hard in the ribs, knocking the dagger free.

The attacker turned on Taehyung, eyes blazing, blade raised.

Taehyung winced, bracing for the worst, when the assailant suddenly staggered, clutching his side.

An arrow.

Yoongi’s voice rang out from the rooftops. “Second one’s fleeing.”

“I’ll chase!” Hoseok’s voice echoed nearby.

The attacker fled into the dark, disappearing before another shot could land.

Jungkook stood still, breathing hard, blood trickling from a shallow cut at his throat. His hood had fallen in the scuffle, but the alley was dim.

Taehyung didn’t see his face clearly. Only his silhouette, tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. The kind of presence you didn’t forget.

“You…” Jungkook stepped forward, voice rough. “You saved me.”

Taehyung stepped back, panicked. “I—no, I only—I was just passing by!”

Crown Prince Jungkook had seen countless faces in his lifetime, royalty from distant lands, noble Omegas dressed in silks, courtesans trained to seduce but none of them had undone him the way that one boy did, beneath the flickering shadows of the alley.

He’s the same boy from the other day, now he seen the boy’s face fully for the first time.

It had only lasted a moment, barely a breath between danger and escape but in that moment, the moonlight had touched him, brushing across soft, trembling features like a blessing. His eyes were large, shaped like the petals of plum blossoms in early spring. His lips, parted in shock, were naturally pink. His skin glowed pale and smooth, even beneath the faint smudges of dust.

He looked like a painting brought to life.

No, he looked like something beyond even art. Something no brush or ink could ever truly capture.

But it was not only Taehyung’s beauty that struck Jungkook still.

It was his scent.

The moment it reached him, it hit like warm rain after drought, soft, clean, delicate. Wildflowers on mountain wind. Sweet rice water. The quiet peace of dusk. It was unmistakably Omega, but unlike any scent Jungkook had ever known.

His instincts had flared violently, red bleeding into his irises, pupils tightening with the sudden urge to move closer, to inhale deeper, to claim—

He had taken a step forward, dazed, almost reaching for him.

Then Yoongi landed beside them with barely a sound. Yoongi’s voice had cut through the air like a blade.

“Your Highness,” he said under his breath, inspecting the shallow wound. “We must go.”

Taehyung blinked. “Your what—?”

Before anything more could be said, Hoseok appeared. “No time. We need to move.”

Jungkook had tried to resist.

He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not before asking for his name again. Not before hearing his voice one more time. Not before memorizing the curve of his mouth.

But Yoongi’s grip was firm, and Hoseok had already cleared the path.

Taehyung had stepped back in confusion, still holding the broken lid he’d used to save Jungkook’s life.

“W-wait,” Jungkook had said, barely a whisper. “Your name...”

“T-Taehyung.” The boy had replied, eyes wide.

Then Yoongi tugged at his sleeve. “Now.”

Jungkook was gone before he could say another word.

Taehyung stood alone, heart pounding, fingers still trembling where they had touched the wooden lid. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew, he had just saved someone important.

But he had no idea he’d saved the future king.

And Jungkook, carried into the night by his guards, whispered that name to himself like a secret.

Taehyung.

-

The room was quiet.

Not the soft kind of quiet, the suffocating kind. The kind that settled over skin like wet cloth. A silence too full, too expectant. The kind that came before screaming.

It was the next day, the captive was bound to a wooden post, arms stretched above his head, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. He had been found bleeding in the hills just before dawn, an arrow in his leg, his blade still wet with the Crown Prince’s blood.

Now he hung limp, shirt torn, sweat streaking his face.

Across from him stood Min Yoongi, silent as death. The underground chamber beneath the royal barracks was cold. Not even torches warmed the stone.

Yoongi rolled up his sleeves.

“You tried to kill my prince,” he said, voice calm. Too calm.

The man lifted his head, blood running from his nose. “I missed.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, picked up the iron rod that had been warming by the coals, and drove it hard into the wooden beam beside the man's face. The hiss of heat against wood snapped the captive’s head to the side.

“But you meant to strike,” Yoongi murmured.

“You… all protect him like a rabid dog,” the man sneered. “What makes him worthy of that throne?”

Yoongi said nothing. He simply drew a short, thin blade from his belt.

“You know,” he said softly, crouching, “I once told myself I’d never use a blade like this again. Then someone tried to murder the only person I’ve sworn to die for.”

The blade kissed skin.

The man screamed.

Somewhere above, Hoseok stood outside the door, arms folded. His eyes were closed, jaw tight. He didn’t like this part of the job, but he would never stop Yoongi. Not when Jungkook’s life was at stake.

Down below, the screaming faded into ragged gasps.

Yoongi’s hands were stained red.

“Who sent you?” he asked again, voice low.

The man coughed. “You’ll kill me either way.”

“I might,” Yoongi said. “But there’s a difference between dying quick… and dying slow.”

The assassin’s eyes fluttered. He slumped.

Unconscious.

Yoongi stood slowly, chest rising and falling with restrained fury. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of how close they’d come to losing Jungkook again.

Hoseok opened the door as Yoongi emerged.

“Nothing?”

“Not yet,” Yoongi murmured, wiping his hands. “But I’ll break him. Next time.”

Hoseok gave a slow nod. “He’ll talk.”

Yoongi stared into the dim corridor. “He’d better. Because if one more blade gets near Jungkook’s throat...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Now, hours later, Jungkook sat in his study room, jaw tense, ink smeared across his fingers. Scrolls and royal records were pushed aside in disarray, untouched.

In front of him lay sheets of parchment filled with sketches.

He drew the curve of a cheekbone. The slope of a nose. The flutter of loose sleeves. The memory of a basket swinging from a delicate wrist. His hand moved restlessly, as if trying to recreate the exact moment that scent had bloomed in the air.

He would never forget that scent.

Not even if years passed. It had carved itself into his bones.

“Taehyung,” he murmured aloud, voice low and hungry. “Where are you?”

He wasn’t just curious now. He was restless. Pulled. Obsessive.

No other face mattered. No other name rang in his ears. He had seen beauty before, but never like this, not something that sank its claws into his ribs and refused to let go.

He wanted to see Taehyung again.

No—he needed to.

Not just to thank him. Not just to reward him. But to understand how a single Omega in patched robes could leave the Crown Prince of the realm haunted.

And maybe...

Maybe to feel that scent again, to taste, and see if it was just a trick of the wind or something fated.

He rose from his seat and called out, “Summon the local scribes. All of them.”

Namjoon, entering just then, blinked. “Scribes?”

“I want someone who knows calligraphy vendors, scrap paper traders, ink sellers—especially near the southern market.” Jungkook’s voice was sharp with focus. “I want every name of every boy or man who buys paper they cannot read.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “A boy who’s illiterate?”

“I saw how he held the scroll,” Jungkook murmured, eyes distant. “With awe. Not understanding it but he was admiring them.”

Namjoon’s expression softened. “Your Highness... Are you certain he isn’t just a dream?”

Jungkook didn’t smile. “Dreams do not throw themselves between me and a blade.”

Namjoon dipped his head. “I’ll begin the search.”

And so began Jungkook’s quiet hunt.

He asked questions in the shadows. He had sketches distributed in secret. He kept the boy’s name tucked behind his teeth like something sacred.

While the world thought he was investigating rebellion, he was looking for a single Omega with patchwork sleeves and soft brown hair.

Someone who shouldn’t have mattered.

But somehow… did.

Chapter Text

The palace walls were tall and gilded, but they felt suffocating now, like a cage wrapped in silk.

Crown Prince Jeon Jungkook had not slept properly since the night in the alley. He had not touched the records left on his desk, nor answered the officials waiting for his attention. The ministers whispered of his silence. The King, as usual, did not notice.

Instead, Jungkook prowled the quiet corners of the palace like a storm barely leashed.

“Still nothing?” he asked, eyes sharp, voice tight, as Yoongi entered with Hoseok.

The head guard shook his head once. “No one matching the boy’s description has been found. The name Taehyung is common among Omegas. Too many leads, not enough truth.”

“Then search again.” Jungkook rose from his seat. “Start at the southern market. The alleys. Anyone who buys ink and cannot read. Any boy with paper clutched in his hands like it’s gold.”

Yoongi studied his prince’s face. “You’re unraveling.”

“I am focused.”

“You are... obsessed.”

Jungkook did not deny it. He turned, staring out the window, eyes fixed on the rooftops beyond the walls.

“I saw his face,” he murmured. “He was... soft. Like sunlight hitting snow. And his scent—”

Hoseok coughed loudly to cut him off. “They’re coming,” he muttered under his breath.

Just then, the doors opened and Seokjin entered, followed by Jimin balancing a tray of tea and fresh herbs. The physician arched a brow.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You never are when you’re like this,” Jimin said gently, placing the tray down. “I remember when we lost the palace cat and you didn’t eat for two days.”

“That was different,” Jungkook grumbled.

“Was it?” Seokjin said, sitting beside him. “You attach fiercely. You always have.”

He poured the tea and slid a cup toward him.

“I am glad,” Seokjin said quietly, his gaze soft. “That at last, your eyes have turned to an Omega. A true one. Not one of those court-painted jackals circling the inner palace.”

“I despise them,” Jungkook muttered, the words clipped.

“As you should,” Jimin added with a disdainful sniff. “They would gut each other with a hairpin just for your passing glance. Or your name. Or your bed.”

Seokjin’s expression turned thoughtful. “But this one... this Omega had no reason to help you. No station. No motive. Nothing to gain. And yet, he chose to act.”

Jimin’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “I wish to meet him. To offer thanks. He saved our youngest.”

Jungkook’s fingers curled tightly around his tea cup, knuckles white.

“I shall find him,” he said, his tone low and resolute. “Even if I must tear this city apart, stone by stone.”

While the palace buzzed with quiet urgency, Taehyung had already risen with the sun.

He wrapped his hair, now slightly overgrown in soft, wolfish layers, with a piece of linen and tied it back with a faded ribbon. His hanbok was clean, though still patched in places. He had carefully embroidered one sleeve with a crooked pattern of plum blossoms, a poor imitation of court styles, but it made him feel lovely.

He stepped outside into the narrow path behind his home, basket in hand, list in mind.

The morning was kind.

First, he ran errands for the elderly widow two houses down, carrying a bucket of water from the well, mending the edge of her roof. She pressed three coins into his hand, her eyes filled with quiet affection.

Then, he visited the scribe’s son in the west alley, hoping the boy had tossed out any paper scraps.

“I only have these,” the boy said, handing over torn ends with smeared ink. “No one wants them.”

“I do,” Taehyung said softly, bowing with both hands.

He held the pieces like they were treasure, eyes shining as he tucked them into his basket.

“Going to trace the letters again?” the scribe’s son asked.

Taehyung nodded. “Someday I’ll know what they mean.”

Next came work for a Beta merchant with sharp eyes and sharper tongue.

“You again?” the woman sneered. “Didn’t I say I don’t want beggars loitering?”

“I came to sweep the stall,” Taehyung said gently, head bowed. “As you said.”

“Hmph. Sweep, then clean the pots. You get one coin. Maybe.”

He obeyed without complaint.

He always did.

As he scrubbed the steps, a group of well-dressed Omegas passed by. Their robes were embroidered in gold thread, their hair shining with fragrant oils.

“Still clinging to those ragged sleeves, huh?” one of them sneered.

Another leaned close, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than us because you’re pretty?”

“I don’t,” Taehyung said, blinking, confused. “I—I don’t think I am.”

“Then don’t look so smug.”

One tossed cold water from her bowl as she passed. It splashed against Taehyung’s sleeve.

He didn’t react.

Just bowed, again.

He didn’t notice the way others stared at him as he walked, how Betas paused to admire his lips, or how some Alphas glanced twice, noses flaring faintly. He was too kind, too soft, and far too unaware of the tension he left in his wake.

All he wanted was enough coins to buy one clean sheet of white paper from the calligrapher’s stall by the bridge. One with full, beautiful characters.

So he could take it home.

Place it beside his brush made of chicken feathers and bamboo.

And try to copy the shapes like art, even if he could never read them.

The sun sat high, washing the royal gardens in gold, but Jungkook barely noticed the warmth. He paced beneath the shade of a cherry tree, a rolled scroll clutched tightly in his hand. His jaw was clenched, brows knit in frustration.

The search had stretched on for days, and with each passing moment, his need grew more pointed, a thirst that only one Omega could quench.

He had sent sentries in plain robes, dispatched whispers into taverns and alleyways, and ordered inquiries to local markets, all in search of a boy with soft brown hair, patched sleeves, and eyes like dusk.

But nothing.

Until today.

Namjoon entered the garden with a scroll tucked into his belt and a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“My Prince,” he said, bowing with practiced ease. “A merchant near the south market—brush seller, elderly—claims to have seen an Omega matching your description.”

Jungkook’s heart kicked sharply against his ribs.

“He said the boy often lingers near his stall. He doesn’t buy, but stares at the brushes and calligraphy sheets with the eyes of a starving man at a feast. Sometimes he gathers thrown-away parchment. Always polite. Quiet. A gentle soul.”

Jungkook’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Does they know his name?”

The advisor shook his head. “None offered. The merchant only said he ties his hair with a faded ribbon and wears a hanbok patched at the elbows.”

‘That was him.’

Jungkook felt his pulse hammer beneath his skin.

“Did he see which direction the boy went?”

“To the river path,” Namjoon said. “Carrying what looked like used paper and old vegetables.”

Jungkook was already moving.

“I want eyes at the riverside by sundown,” he said. “Double the searchers. Quietly. I do not wish to scare him.”

“Shall I alert Yoongi-hyung?”

Jungkook paused. “Yes, tell him we are going out of the palace wall quietly.”

He turned away, hands clenched into fists behind his back.

He was close. He could feel it. Like the air itself remembered Taehyung’s scent.

-

By the time the sun had shifted westward, Taehyung had already finished two errands, washed his hands at the riverside, and tucked a small paper scrap into the folds of his sleeve.

It wasn’t much, just a discarded corner from the calligrapher’s stall but the stroke of ink had been elegant. Strong. The kind of character that made him ache to understand its meaning.

He smiled softly to himself, clutching it as if it were a pearl.

Around him, the market bustled with life. Vendors called out to passersby, children ran with rice cakes in hand, and dogs barked from under wagons. The wind smelled of grilled fish, wet stone, and ink.

It was here, as he stepped aside to let a cart roll past, that he nearly collided with a man in blue robes.

“Oh! Forgive me, sir—I wasn’t watching—!” Taehyung bowed quickly, stepping back.

“No harm done,” said a deep voice.

Taehyung looked up and blinked.

The man was striking. Older, with strong features and kind eyes, his dark hair brushed into neat form. He wore the robes of a royal retainer, but not as extravagantly as the noblemen he’d seen before.

He lowered his gaze quickly, bowing. “Forgive my carelessness, kind sir. I meant no offense.”

“Are you hurt?” Seokjin asked, scanning the boy’s face quickly.

Taehyung bowed again. “No, kind sir. Thank you.”

Something about him made Seokjin pause.

He studied the young Omega carefully, the flush in his cheeks, the softness in his gaze, the quiet way he held his frayed sleeve over his wrist, hiding what looked like a paper scrap.

This boy… there was something about him.

“You’ve the look of one who walks with purpose,” Seokjin remarked.

Taehyung smiled faintly. “Only to fetch some vegetables for a neighbor.”

“A humble errand.” Seokjin tilted his head. “And that?” he nodded at the edge of paper peeking from the Omega’s sleeve.

“Oh.” Taehyung flushed, quickly tucking it deeper. “Just something pretty to look at. I cannot read it.”

Seokjin’s eyes warmed. “A lover of calligraphy?”

“I try to copy the shapes,” Taehyung said softly. “Just the shapes.”

Seokjin was quiet for a beat. Then, “What is your name, little one?”

“Taehyung, sir.”

The name struck him. He had heard it from Jungkook’s lips only days ago, murmured like a prayer.

But this could not be the same one… Could it?

Before Seokjin could say more, a sharp whistle rang out in the distance, Jimin, waving urgently from across the lane.

Seokjin gave Taehyung a polite nod. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I pray your day ends kindly.”

“And yours, kind sir,” Taehyung bowed.

Then he was gone, weaving back into the crowd like silk in water.

Seokjin turned slowly, thoughtful. Jimin reached him.

“Hyung, what’s wrong?”

“That boy,” Seokjin said quietly. “That was him.”

“Who?”

“The Omega,” Seokjin said. “The one Jungkook is searching for.”

-

The early morning light filtered gently through the paper windows of the East Wing. Seokjin stood by the open sill, examining a small satchel of herbs, brow furrowed in thought.

“These still lack potency,” he muttered. “I must find the ginseng root myself. The wild kind. No merchant inside the palace walls carries it anymore.”

Across the room, Jimin fastened a modest sash around his waist, his usual court layers replaced by simple blue robes and a sunhat that half-shielded his fair face.

“You’re not going alone, hyung,” Jimin said, tugging the brim down. “You always get distracted when there’s herbs and sweet potato stands nearby.”

Seokjin smiled faintly. “Then I will dress quickly. We leave through the servants' path. Quietly.”

They left just after the rooster crowed, slipping into the winding streets of the southern market like any humble healer and his companion.

The market teemed with morning life, shouts of vendors hawking persimmons, the rattle of wooden carts on stone, steam curling up from food stalls like incense in a temple. Seokjin walked with a light foot, his physician’s eye scanning every herb stand they passed. Bundles of dried roots, odd leaves in cracked bowls, nothing rare, nothing useful.

Beside him, Jimin lingered with idle charm, pretending not to be bored.

Seokjin sighed and shifted the weight of the satchel on his shoulder. “If I do not find the wild ginseng before noon, I’ll have to resort to what we already have. And you know how Yoongi scoffs at anything dried.”

“I’ll just tell him you chose poorly on purpose,” Jimin said, tugging down the brim of his sunhat.

Seokjin rolled his eyes fondly. He was just about to cross to a vendor selling suspiciously shriveled mushrooms when—

A body collided into him.
The impact was soft but sudden, enough to startle him, make him take half a step back as an armful of green onions and roots wobbled dangerously between them.

“Oh! Forgive me, sir—I wasn’t watching—!”

Seokjin caught the boy by the shoulders instinctively, steadying him with firm hands. His voice came without thinking, calm and even: “No harm done.”

Their eyes met.

The boy who had stumbled into him was slight, not weak, but slender in a way that spoke of long hours spent working, not idling. His hanbok was modest, men’s style but patched in quiet places, and he wore it with care. A faded ribbon held back soft, unruly hair, brushed to just above his shoulders in a way that framed his jaw too beautifully for coincidence.

He lowered his gaze quickly, bowing. “Forgive my carelessness, kind sir. I meant no offense.”

Seokjin tilted his head, something fluttering in his chest like a bird startled from stillness.

“Are you hurt?” Seokjin asked, scanning the boy’s face quickly.

Taehyung bowed again. “No, kind sir. Thank you.”

Something about him made Seokjin pause.

He studied the young Omega carefully, the flush in his cheeks, the softness in his gaze, the quiet way he held his frayed sleeve over his wrist, hiding what looked like a paper scrap.

This boy… there was something about him.

“You’ve the look of one who walks with purpose,” Seokjin remarked.

Taehyung smiled faintly. “Only to fetch some vegetables for a neighbor.”

“A humble errand.” Seokjin tilted his head. “And that?” he nodded at the edge of paper peeking from the Omega’s sleeve.

“Oh.” Taehyung flushed, quickly tucking it deeper. “Just something pretty to look at. I cannot read it.”

Seokjin’s eyes warmed. “A lover of calligraphy?”

“I try to copy the shapes,” Taehyung said softly. “Just the shapes.”

Seokjin was quiet for a beat. Then, “What is your name, little one?”

“Taehyung, sir.”

The name struck him. He had heard it from Jungkook’s lips only days ago, murmured like a prayer.

But this could not be the same one… Could it?

Before Seokjin could say more, a sharp whistle rang out in the distance, Jimin, waving urgently from across the lane.

Seokjin gave Taehyung a polite nod. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I pray your day ends kindly.”

“And yours, kind sir,” Taehyung bowed.

Then he was gone, weaving back into the crowd like silk in water.

He turned and saw Jimin, standing at a distance, waving him over with urgency and impatience both.

“Hyung, what’s wrong?”

“That boy,” Seokjin said quietly. “That was him.”

“Who?”

“The Omega,” Seokjin said. “The one Jungkook is searching for.”

And then he was gone, moving with grace far too delicate for the patchwork clothes he wore, disappearing back into the tide of townsfolk with no idea of what he had stirred.

Seokjin stood still for a moment, the weight of the name, the scent, the face lingering like incense on a prayer robe.

The palace was still a fair walk ahead when the two turned the bend and nearly collided with three cloaked figures stepping from a shaded lane.

Jimin blinked. “Hyung?”

The tall one stepped forward. “Jin-hyung? Jimin-ah?”

It was Hoseok, disguised in a dusty green overcoat, a short sword hidden beneath. Beside him, Yoongi stood silent and stern, with his sword, arms folded. And behind them was Jungkook.

No royal garments. Just quiet desperation barely hidden behind the stillness of his face.

“Where in the gods’ name have you two been?” Yoongi’s voice was low, sharp with worry. “I had to find out from Namjoon that you’d left the palace alone.”

Seokjin opened his mouth, but Jimin jumped in first, grinning sheepishly.

“We were just looking for rare poison remedies! I swear!”

“Without a single escort?” Hoseok frowned. “You could’ve been recognized, or worse.”

“We wore hats,” Jimin offered weakly.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re both lucky I don’t have your legs bound.”

“Yoongi hyung,” Jungkook interrupted suddenly, his voice quiet.

The four turned.

He was staring at Seokjin. Not his face but the edge of his sleeve, where a faint trace of floral sweetness lingered.

His nostrils flared faintly. His eyes sharpened.

And then, slowly his irises darkened, a glint of crimson blooming like fire over snow.

“You saw him,” Jungkook whispered. “You saw Taehyung.”

Jimin blinked, then smiled. “We did. He’s real.”

“And beautiful,” Seokjin added, remembering the gentle eyes, the way Taehyung bowed with grace no noble could mimic.

Jungkook closed his eyes briefly, inhaling again. A faint trace of Taehyung’s scent clung to Seokjin’s robe. He drank it in like a man starved, until he could nearly feel the Omega’s warmth on his skin again.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

But before they could, Yoongi gripped Jimin’s wrist and pulled him aside. His face was tight with suppressed worry.

“You should’ve told me, you are going out, Jimin-ah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jimin winced, glancing down. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t ever go without telling me again.”

“I won’t,” Jimin whispered.

And then Yoongi leaned in and kissed his omega, slow and firm, one hand cupping the back of his head.

Beside them, Hoseok pulled Jimin into a quieter embrace, tucking a kiss to his temple with a quiet, “Don’t scare me like that, love.”

Jungkook watched them, his heart thudding hard not out of jealousy, but impatience.

He needed to see HIS Omega again.

“Lead me there,” he said. “Now.”

-
Even through the bustle of the southern market, Jungkook felt it the pull.

He was not dressed in royal colors. His dark robe was worn, his long hair tied back plainly. Beside him, Yoongi and Hoseok moved like shadows, silent, watchful, armed.

And yet, Jungkook might as well have been alone. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in memory and scent, in the shape of an Omega’s eyes that still haunted his mind every night since the alley.

Taehyung.

The name now lived on his tongue like a hunger. Ever since Seokjin and Jimin had described where the boy is, Jungkook had not known a moment’s rest. Not when Jimin said he bowed so sweetly. Not when Seokjin described his voice as temple bells in winter.

And not when, upon standing near Seokjin, Jungkook caught the faintest trace of Taehyung’s scent lingering on his hyung’s robe.

Sweet. Clean. Wild flowers. Warm like milk and ink and spring water.

That scent had burned itself into his senses the night they met. Now it stirred something in him, something feral.

His fingers twitched at his sides. “There,” he murmured to Yoongi.

Across the street, by a row of modest stalls selling second-hand brushes and pottery shards, a young Omega crouched by a table, sorting through old calligraphy scraps.

His posture was humble. His sleeves were patched. And yet, he moved with such reverence, fingertips gliding over each discarded page like he was touching silk.

Even from a distance, Jungkook knew.

‘Finally.’

He took a slow breath. The scent reached him on the wind, fainter now, but real.

His pupils dilated. A low hum settled in his chest, like lightning ready to leap.

Yoongi placed a hand on his arm. “Will you speak to him?”

Jungkook’s lips parted but no sound came.

For the first time in years, the Crown Prince hesitated.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Just... let me look.”

And so, he stood there, watching, as the most beautiful creature he had ever seen lifted a crumpled page to the light, his eyes full of longing for something he did not yet understand.

Taehyung crouched low near the vendor’s discarded basket of ruined scrolls, his sleeves pulled up past his elbows. The stall owner had already waved him off with a mutter about “useless scraps,” but Taehyung didn’t mind.

He sorted through the remnants slowly, brushing dust from each piece, tracing each stroke with a fingertip.

One particular character caught his eyes, bold, even in faded ink.

Beautiful, he thought, not knowing what it meant, only that it made his chest feel full.

He tucked it carefully into the folds of his hanbok, then reached for another—

And paused.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

He straightened slowly, eyes flicking around the square. The wind shifted. The market was still alive with voices, but something felt... different.

Someone was watching him.

His gaze moved from stall to stall and then across the way, he saw them.

Three men, cloaked in travel garments. Not merchants, not locals. There was a weight in the way they stood, like swords drawn but unseen.

The tallest of the three stood in the middle, posture straight and elegant. His eyes were fixed on Taehyung. Unmoving. Dark. Hungry.

And though Taehyung couldn’t explain it, his heart stuttered hard enough to ache.

He turned quickly, clutching his scrap of paper and slipping away, pretending not to notice.

But still, he felt it. That gaze. Heavy as silk. Warm as fire.

Chapter Text

Jungkook stood still. So still that even the gentle wind weaving through the alley couldn’t stir his focus.

There he was.

The same boy from that night, the delicate Omega who had saved his life, the one whose scent had burned itself into his blood, who now carried eggs and sweat and the weight of a world that should never have rested on such a gentle frame.

“By the gods,” Jungkook murmured, low enough that only Yoongi and Hoseok could hear. “It’s him.”

He hadn’t expected the sight to wound him. But it did.

Taehyung’s sleeves were patched. His sandals worn thin. The basket on his hip looked too heavy for someone with wrists that small. And yet, he smiled when he passed a stranger. He bowed to an elder. He wiped dust off a vendor’s stall without being asked.

Beautiful. Kind. Oblivious.

A perfect Omega.

And utterly unaware of the fire he had lit inside a prince.

Yoongi, standing beside him with arms crossed, leaned in. “Do you wish to approach him now?”

Jungkook said nothing at first. He watched Taehyung straighten his back, blink toward them, their eyes finally meeting.

And his heart slammed once.

Just one powerful beat as their eyes met, like the stillness before a storm.

Across the crowded street, under sunlight made gold by the dust in the air, Taehyung looked back at him. His eyes, wide, soft, uncertain, met Jungkook’s gaze for a brief heartbeat.

Then, as if startled by his own boldness, the Omega looked away.

He turned. The tattered hem of his robe swept the earth. And just like that, he was leaving again.

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

His hand, hidden beneath the folds of his cloak, twitched, curling into a fist as he gripped the edge of his mantle.

“I will not lose him again, I will follow him.” he whispered, voice low and urgent.

Hoseok turned to him sharply. “Alone?” he asked, brow raised.

“So, we won’t frighten him,” Jungkook muttered. His gaze stayed fixed on the back of the boy now weaving through the crowd. “He noticed us. He’s already afraid and it is not me he should fear.”

His tone was edged, almost bitter.

He took a step forward, his boot nearly silent on the packed dirt path. His cloak stirred in the wind.

But before he could take another.

“Wait.” Yoongi’s voice was low but firm as a drawn blade. He stepped in front of Jungkook, placing a hand against the prince’s chest. “You cannot go alone. You’re the Crown Prince. Even now, hidden under common cloth, you still carry a target on your back.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. His nostrils flared, but he nodded. He could feel his heartbeat quickening again, not out of fear, but anticipation.

This time, he would not vanish into the night. This time, he would not let that sweet scent becomes a memory. He would know the Omega’s name from the boy’s own lips. He would see him up close, not just in firelight and shadow.

So, they followed.

The Crown Prince and his guards moved through the market, weaving among vendors and passersby, the way only warriors trained in the art of stealth and poise could. Though cloaked in simple clothes, none of them moved like common men. They did not bumble, or hesitate. Their steps were measured, precis, like wolves stalking through a field of lambs.

Taehyung’s slight figure remained just ahead, swaying gently as he balanced a basket of eggs and greens. He passed through the crowd easily, greeted by nods and smiles from a few of the elder vendors.

Jungkook, his gaze fixed on the Omega’s back, felt something ache inside him.

He moves like he carries the world’s weight and still chooses kindness.

They paused by a stand selling dried herbs.

“Excuse me,” Jungkook said to the hunched merchant, voice smooth but respectful. “The boy who just passed, do you know him?”

The old man squinted in the direction Taehyung had gone. “Yes, young sir. That’s Taehyung, the sweet one. Comes by every few days, helps old Hye-ja with her buckets. Always smiling, that boy.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes slightly. “He lives nearby?”

“Just on the house nestled between an old apothecary and a teahouse that never opened,” the man said, then leaned forward with a knowing look. “A beauty, isn’t he? Even under dirt and poor cloth, I’ve not seen another Omega like him. Pure as moonlight.”

Before they could thank him, another voice joined from the side.

“Oh, that one?” sneered a sharper-tongued vendor arranging jars of honey. “He’s too soft. Lets anyone boss him around. Sells his labor for scraps. Pathetic.”

Jungkook turned to him, eyes darkening. “And yet he endures and better than you.”

The man blinked, startled.

“Best not speak of him with such contempt,” Hoseok said quietly, standing behind the prince, his smile pleasant but eyes dangerous.

They moved on.

Further down, a young Beta boy who had just bought rice cakes from the same stall Taehyung visited grinned as they passed.

“Ah, you ask about Tae-hyungie? He helps my mother when her back hurts. She says he’s an angel sent to clean our floorboards and lift our spirits.”

Jungkook smiled faintly at that. But it faded when the boy added, more shyly, “He’s so pretty... I want to claim him one day, when I grow stronger.”

The words made Jungkook’s spine stiffen.

Yoongi noticed it too.

The prince’s hands were behind his back now, fingers curled tightly.

They continued forward.

Soon, they passed another stall, where a few idle men sat drinking watered wine. One of them scoffed.

“That Omega? Waste of beauty. Should’ve been married off already. What’s he waiting for, some noble fool to pick him up?”

Jungkook halted. Hands now holding his sword.

Hoseok stepped forward instantly, voice calm but cold. “Speak with care, friend. Words spoken in shadow reach the ears of fire.”

The men quieted, looking down.

They followed Taehyung’s quiet footsteps to a narrow road leading behind the shrine. Jungkook saw the boy stop to hand a pouch to a blind elder near the path, bowing low with both hands.

“I must know more,” Jungkook whispered.

Yoongi kept his eyes ahead. “Then approach him soon, before your longing burns you from within.”

The prince nodded slowly.

“I will,” he said.

And this time, he meant it.

-

The sky was too bright.

The sunlight struck the dirt path in pale, golden beams, and Taehyung squinted as he stepped out from the shaded side alley. A bundle of fabric was tucked in his arms, linen cloth for the herbalist’s wife, while a small basket of pickled turnips dangled from his elbow, bound for the old man with the crooked back.

He moved gently, carefully, as always. Bowed when bowed to. Smiled when met with a smile.

Until a voice, sharp and honey-laced, broke the air behind him.

“Oh look. The disgusting rat’s out again.”

Taehyung stopped.

A beat. A breath.

He turned slowly, gaze soft despite the weight in his chest.

Three figures stood across the path, two Omegas in robes of peach silk and one Beta girl dressed in wine-red with golden embroidery. Their garments shimmered under the sun, faces powdered and lips stained with soft colors. Their posture was practiced, elegant but their eyes were cold.

One of the Omegas stepped forward, her chin tilted high. “You’ve grown bolder, haven’t you? Parading that face through the square like it means something.”

Taehyung bowed politely. “I beg your pardon, I—”

“Still acting polite.” The Beta laughed, sharp and bitter. “As if manner can make up for mud.”

The other Omega wrinkled her nose. “Why do you even bother with ribbons and patches? You dress like a beggar playing at being touched by grace.”

“I only meant to deliver this—”

“Spare us,” the peach-clad Omega snapped, her voice curling. “We know your kind. Pitiful little thing thinking kindness makes you worthy. You think because your face is soft, you're above us?”

“No, I—” Taehyung’s voice trembled.

“I said quiet!” she hissed, and without warning—

A sharp smack cracked against his cheek.

His head jerked to the side. The cloth bundle fell from his arms and landed in the dirt.

The Beta leaned forward mockingly. “Tch. Look at those tears. Making his eyes looks pretty to earn some pity. How disgusting.”

The second Omega giggled. “If I had that face, I’d have already seduced a noble by now. But of course, no one wants a broken stray with no family name.”

Taehyung stood frozen.

His cheek stung. The words dug deeper. But he didn’t fight back. He couldn’t. His fingers clenched the edge of his robe.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered.

“For what?” The first Omega leaned in. “For existing?”

She raised her hand again—

“Touch him again,” came a voice like steel wrapped in velvet, “and I will break every bone in your wrist.”

Silence fell.

The three tormentors turned sharply.

Jungkook stood only a few paces away.

He pulled back the hood of his plain robe just enough to reveal a glimpse of his face but even without a full view, the command in his voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t just confidence, it was power.

No one beyond the palace walls knew the Crown Prince’s face but he needed to be certain.

Dark eyes. Crimson-tinted irises. A jaw like carved stone. A presence that radiated dominance, even though his posture was relaxed.

Beside him, Yoongi and Hoseok were still and quiet, but their hands rested near their concealed weapons. Their eyes burned with silent threat.

“W-Who are you?” the Beta stammered.

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze never wavered from Taehyung, who kept his eyes lowered, unwilling to offend the noble Omegas and Beta any further, not even when the wind shifted or when the crowd began to quiet, sensing the rising tension.

Jungkook looked at the red mark blooming on Taehyung’s cheek. The dirt clinging to his fallen bundle. The quiet way he bowed his head, too used to shame that was never his to carry.

Then he turned his gaze, slowly, dangerously to the three bullies.

“I heard your voices before I saw your faces,” he said, voice calm but cutting. “One would expect beauty to soften the tongue. Clearly, that was too much to hope for.”

The Omega in peach stiffened. “We—we were only—”

“Mocking him. Striking him. Spitting on the poor while wearing silk you do not deserve.” Jungkook’s smile was sharp. “That is not ‘only.’ That is cruelty. And cowardice.”

The Beta stepped forward, posture arrogant. “We didn’t know he was yours, my lord.”

“He is no one’s,” Jungkook said coldly. “That you assumed his worth was measured by whose claim he bears is more telling of your shallowness than his.”

Their faces paled. Especially when Hoseok took a step forward, eyes narrowed.

“And do not lie,” Yoongi added, voice low. “We saw everything. Do you now pretend to be victims?”

The three bullies looked between the three men. They seemed to finally register that these weren’t just nobles.

They were dangerous men.

Still, one of the omegas gave a simpering smile, voice trembling. “Forgive us, my lords. We only acted in concern. That omega—he’s been rude before. Said terrible things.”

At that, Taehyung’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “I did no such thing!”

The Beta’s lip curled. She stepped forward again, hoping to reclaim control as he saw the omega beside him cower. His voice dropped into a cruel mockery of sweetness.

“You dare speak now, little Omega?” he hissed, letting his slightly dominant scent bleed into the air, sour, sharp, meant to unnerve.

Taehyung flinched.

His shoulders dipped ever so slightly in instinctive submission. His lashes fluttered as he lowered his gaze.

“I... I’m so—”

But before the apology could pass his lips—

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the tension like a whip of thunder.

Jungkook posture and though he did not shout, the authority in his voice silenced everything. Even the crowd nearby stilled, sensing power, sensing danger.

He stepped forward, slow and measured.

And then, he turned to Taehyung.

The transformation was subtle, but real, the hard line of his jaw softened, the steel in his eyes warmed, the edges of his expression gentled into something quieter. Kinder.

He spoke again, but this time, his voice was different. Not sharp or commanding. Reverent.

“You do not owe them silence,” Jungkook said, gently. “Nor apology. You did nothing wrong.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened as he now looking up completely at the stranger.

His lips parted slightly, his body going still, like a startled deer in the woods. The scent familiar, the gaze undeniable. The presence...

“You…” he whispered, voice almost lost to the breeze. “You’re the one from that night.”

Jungkook inclined his head, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Taehyung’s heart thudded in his chest, painfully hard. “You were… injured,” he murmured.

“You saved me,” Jungkook replied, and there was a flicker of something deep, something quiet and aching in his tone. “I owe you more than I can say.”

Taehyung’s brows drew together in confusion and awe. “But… I don’t even know your name…”

Jungkook hesitated, just for a breath.

Then he smiled faintly. “Jungkook.”

The name meant little to Taehyung. But the way he stood, the way he carried himself, the way even the air shifted around him, it screamed of status. Nobility. Authority.

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re… a noble?”

Before Jungkook could answer, the sharp-tongued Omega from earlier stepped forward, forcing a breathy, flustered laugh.

“Oh, my lord… this is all a dreadful misunderstanding, truly!” she cooed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, when she caught a glimpse of Jungkook’s face and realized just how striking he was, her tone shifted like silk. “We were merely teasing the little thing, a harmless jest among neighbors. Surely, a noble as handsome as yourself would understand.”

Her voice dropped slightly, sultry and syrupy.

“I must say… I’ve not seen a man like you in town before. You’re quite striking.”

Jungkook’s eyes did not even flick toward her.

But his aura grew colder.

Still, the other Omega stepped forward, lips pursed in a practiced pout. “We meant no harm, my lord. We were merely concerned. The boy has a… peculiar talent for stumbling into trouble. We only feared he might speak out of turn to someone of importance—flirting his way through misfortune, as he so often does.”

The Beta gave a low chuckle, trying to lean forward, angling himself as if to get closer to Jungkook. “Forgive their forwardness, my lord. These Omegas get carried away around handsome Alphas. As for me, I only meant to discipline what I thought was a mouthy stray. Surely you understand.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed.

Hoseok’s jaw locked as he stared at them with open disgust. “Shameless,” he muttered.

“They mock him, strike him, insult him,” Yoongi added coldly, “and now wish to offer sweet smiles like nothing happened? Vile.”

Still, the bullies didn’t stop. The first Omega fluttered her lashes.

“Perhaps… my lord would join us for tea? We’d be ever so grateful. You seem… powerful. And terribly lonely.”

Finally, Jungkook turned to them.

He was smiling.

But it was a dangerous smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Power,” he said softly, “should not be wasted on those who cannot wield grace.”

The Omegas blinked.

“You dress well. Speak sweetly. But inside? Rotten fruit beneath perfume. You take pride in cruelty and expect praise for civility.”

He took a step closer.

They shrank back.

“You insulted a soul far greater than yours. And you think your powdered faces will earn you favor?” he asked, his voice like a blade unsheathed. “You shamed yourselves today.”

Then, calmly, as if he were commenting on the weather, he said,

“If I were less patient, I’d have you all dragged through the square for what you did to him.”

The three of them froze.

A beat passed. Then another.

Jungkook looked away from them again, like they were no longer worth his attention and returned his gaze to Taehyung.

And again, Taehyung was watching him, eyes soft and round. There was a bruise beginning to blossom faintly at his cheekbone, his lips pressed together in quiet pain but he looked... awed.

He’d never been defended like this before. Never been spoken to with such care after such humiliation.

“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” he murmured, blinking fast. “Now they’ll talk about you too.”

Jungkook’s brow lifted.

“Let them talk,” he said. “Words cannot reach me.”

“But I…” Taehyung glanced away, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m just a commoner.”

“You are not just anything,” Jungkook said.

And though Taehyung didn’t understand why his throat tightened at those words… he felt them.

Felt them deeply.

Jungkook’s gaze swept back to the three trembling figures.

The crowd had all but scattered now, sensing the sharp air around the cloaked noble and his two silent shadows. Even without knowing who they truly were, power was a scent no commoner could ignore and it clung thickly to Jungkook’s skin like silk woven from command.

His tone, now unreadable, almost mild.

“Your names.”

The Omega in peach blinked. Then her lips curled into a coy smile. “Of course, my lord,” she said, soft and dripping with charm. “I am Seo Yerim, daughter of Minister Seo of the Bureau of Finance.”

The Beta added quickly, puffing his chest with pride, “Kang Hyeji, of the Kang family—military lineage. My uncle is the commander of the Southern Garrison.”

The second Omega bowed, just a touch too sweetly. “Joo Hana, daughter of Second Consul Joo. My family handles the ceremonial affairs for the First Consort’s court.”

Each name was delivered like a badge of honor. They thought it would impress him.

Jungkook nodded slowly. He even smiled, ever so faintly.

“Ah,” he said. “Names worth remembering.”

Their expressions brightened, foolishly.

“Indeed,” he added, with a sharp glint in his eyes. “I shall be sure to remember them. Well.”

And suddenly, the warmth was gone.

Replaced with a quiet, promised destruction that chilled the air around them.

They faltered. The realization crawled too late across their expressions.

“Go,” he said, voice steady but final. “And pray your names remain worth something by next moon.”

The three bullies bowed in a tangle of silks and excuses, stammering apologies and gratitude as they all but fled the scene.

Jungkook didn’t even watch them leave.

Instead, he turned again to Taehyung.

Still holding his little basket, its woven edge slightly bent, Taehyung looked at him like one looks at a painting they’re not meant to touch. With reverence. With awe. And confusion.

The fading red of the slap still stained his cheek. His lashes trembled slightly with every blink, and his ribbon had begun to loosen from the way he bowed earlier.

Jungkook’s eyes softened.

“Your hand,” he said gently, reaching out.

Taehyung hesitated. Then, quietly, he extended it.

Jungkook took the basket from him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Allow me.”

“You don’t have to,” Taehyung said shyly.

“I want to.”

He began walking then, falling into step beside the smaller Omega.

Taehyung’s lips parted, slightly stunned, but he didn’t argue again. It felt strange. No, not strange—safe. Being beside this man. The presence he carried was nothing like those Omegas who scolded him or betas and alphas alike who eyed him with hunger.

No, Jungkook walked like the world should part before him and yet he stepped carefully, as if not to disturb Taehyung’s pace.

“You’re not from here,” Taehyung said softly, glancing up at him.

“I visit,” Jungkook replied with a half-smile. “From time to time.”

Taehyung gave a little nod. “You speak like someone who reads poetry often.”

“I write it, sometimes.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened a fraction. “You must be clever.”

“I try,” Jungkook chuckled. “And you… are you always so kind to those who do not deserve it?”

Taehyung blinked. “Is that not what kindness is for?”

Jungkook inhaled slowly. That answer... it lingered in his chest.

Behind them, Yoongi and Hoseok watched in silence, walking several steps behind like shadows.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Hoseok murmured.

“That I’m going to dig into the background of three noble houses tonight and begin gathering evidence for their slow collapse?” Yoongi replied blandly.

Hoseok smirked. “Exactly.”

They exchanged a look, cold, dangerous, and entirely fond of their prince.

-

The late evening air had grown cooler, tugging gently at loose strands of hair and fraying sleeves. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their golden light dancing on the cobbled path like stars had fallen just low enough to follow them home.

Jungkook walked beside Taehyung in silence, not the strained kind, but something… peaceful. Like a quiet understanding had settled between them. The kind only shared by those who didn’t yet know each other’s stories, but could already feel the shape of them.

Taehyung, ever aware of how he must look in the company of such a graceful nobleman, kept his gaze lowered most of the time. He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve where a patch of green cloth had been stitched on, a gift from a kind old seamstress he’d once run errands for.

He glanced up only once to see Jungkook staring not at him, but at the path ahead, brows furrowed slightly, like he was deep in thought.

“You’re very quiet,” Taehyung said softly.

Jungkook glanced at him. “Am I?”

“You are,” Taehyung nodded, a tiny smile curling his lips. “But it’s a nice kind of quiet. Like trees in the wind.”

Jungkook’s heart gave a strange little lurch.

He looked away, masking it with a gentle hum. “You speak beautifully.”

Taehyung blinked, startled. “I—I don’t know how to speak like nobles do…”

“But you speak more beautifully than any of them,” Jungkook replied softly.

Taehyung flushed, ears turning pink. He didn’t know what to say after that.

A short distance behind them, Yoongi walked with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip, his sharp eyes sweeping the streets in constant motion. Even out of uniform, there was no mistaking him for anything but a guard.

Beside him, Hoseok sauntered like a man with nowhere to be, hands clasped behind his back, and the world’s most mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

He leaned toward his husband with the casual grace of someone delivering battlefield secrets.

“Yoongi-yah,” Hoseok whispered, “our beloved prince is falling like plum blossoms in spring.”

Yoongi’s brow twitched. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Hoseok grinned. “Focused on the way Jungkook has been walking on the outer edge of the road like he’s shielding the boy from carts that aren't even there.”

Yoongi didn’t reply.

“…Did you see the way he looked when Taehyung smiled up at him? Like a man who’s just seen the moon for the first time.”

Still no reply.

“And the basket,” Hoseok whispered gleefully. “He’s holding that little basket like it’s royal treasure. I bet if it had a crack, he’d commission a goldsmith to mend it.”

Yoongi snorted. Actually snorted. A subtle, barely audible sound but it escaped, traitorously.

Hoseok beamed like he’d just won a war.

“I knew it,” he muttered. “You’re just as whipped.”

Yoongi gave him a long side-eye but said nothing more, gaze returning ahead.

As they turned a quiet corner, the path began to slope slightly uphill.

The lights here were sparser. The houses thinner. Wooden fences lined the sides of old, lopsided homes, roofs patched with straw, walls that leaned with age.

Taehyung came to a slow stop beside a crooked gate.

“This is it,” he said, voice small.

Jungkook turned his eyes toward the house.

It was tiny. Barely a quarter of the size of a servant’s quarters in the palace. The fence had a broken slat. The lantern outside was crooked on its hook. A faded cloth hung like a curtain in the lone window, fluttering with the breeze.

But despite all that, it was clean.

The step had been swept. A little bowl sat near the door with a single flower stem resting in it, wilting, but still there.

Jungkook’s throat felt tight.

“You live here,” he said, more to himself than anything.

Taehyung gave a soft nod, brushing his fingers over the gate latch. “It’s small. But it’s mine.”

Jungkook looked at the worn hanbok, the basket he still held, the way the boy stood with such quiet dignity.

He wanted to burn the world.

He wanted to bring silk and stone, safety and scrolls, every book, every robe, every damn lantern in the palace and build a kingdom beneath this boy’s feet.

But all he said was,

“…May I carry the basket in?”

Taehyung blinked. “You already have.”

“I meant… to your door.”

Taehyung hesitated, then nodded, smiling shyly.

They walked the final few steps together.

At the threshold, Taehyung turned. “You may leave it there, kind sir. I can carry it now.”

But Jungkook lingered, just a moment longer.

Their eyes met.

And under the faint glow of the bent lantern, the threads of something strange and aching began to pull between them.

“Good night, Taehyung,” Jungkook said softly. “Sleep warm.”

Taehyung stared. “Good night… Jungkook-ssi.”

Jungkook stepped back.

He didn’t want to.

But he did.

And he watched as the small door closed gently behind the boy who had, somehow, already begun to change everything.

Behind him, Hoseok sighed, dreamily.

Yoongi muttered, “We’re doomed.”

“He’s doomed,” Hoseok grinned. “We’re just blessed witnesses.”

Chapter Text

Jungkook had not slept.

The candle beside his writing table had long since melted to a stump, its wax cooling in pale rivulets against the bronze holder. The breeze that wafted through the lattice windows carried the scent of the distant sea, but it did nothing to ease the burning restlessness coiled tight in the Crown Prince’s chest.

He sat still in his study, dressed not in his formal robes but in a simpler midnight-blue hanbok. His hair, still slightly damp from the cold wash, clung to the sides of his neck. His fingers drummed lightly against the lacquered arm of his chair, one beat for each thought that refused to leave him.

Taehyung.

He saw him even when he closed his eyes.

The way his soft lashes fluttered when he bowed. The way he looked up beneath the pale wash of moonlight, startled, kind, and heartbreakingly unaware of his own beauty. The way he had smiled when Jungkook offered to walk him home, as though no one had ever offered him such a simple gesture before.

And his voice…

‘It’s small. But it’s mine.’

Jungkook could still hear it. That quiet pride. That gentle gratitude.

He ran a hand down his face, jaw clenched.

“I want his name recorded,” he murmured aloud, though no one was there yet to hear him. “His life, his work. I want to know who taxes him, and how much. I want to know who lets him live in that broken house without aid.”

The doors creaked open softly.

Namjoon entered first, followed by Yoongi. They paused at the sight of Jungkook already awake, already dressed, seated like a man who had been waiting for war.

“My Prince,” Namjoon bowed deeply. “You called for us at dawn—”

“I want a list,” Jungkook interrupted. “Of every family who employs collectors in the lower west district. And the personal guards of the Seo, Kang, and Joo households. Cross-reference every known affiliation to corrupt tax men and palace concubines.”

Yoongi stepped closer, eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean to retaliate.”

“I mean to make them answer,” Jungkook said, voice sharp as a blade’s edge. “They laid a hand on an innocent Omega. A subject of this kingdom. My kingdom. That is treason enough.”

Yoongi nodded once, silently approving. Namjoon, ever the voice of caution, folded his hands with a quiet sigh.

“And… this Omega?” Namjoon asked carefully.

Jungkook’s gaze shifted. He looked toward the window, where pale light was just beginning to bleed over the horizon.

His voice, then, was softer. Measured. Dangerous in a different way.

“Find out if someone in the court knows. If they’ve noticed me and Taehyung. If they’ve dared whisper about him. And if they haven’t… I want it to stay that way.”

Namjoon gave a short bow. “As you command, Your Highness.”

Elsewhere, a quiet district near the hillside.

Taehyung woke to the sound of birdsong and the warmth of a sliver of sunlight slipping through the curtain.

He blinked slowly, the heaviness of sleep clinging to his lashes. His first breath carried the faintest trace of sweet pine and something else, something he couldn't place.

It smelled like safety.

The memory of the night before returned slowly. The confrontation. The stranger’s voice, deep and calm, telling him he had done nothing wrong. The way his hand had brushed against Taehyung’s when he carried the basket.

“Jungkook.”

Taehyung whispered the name to himself, as if it might vanish in the air if said too loudly.

He sat up, rubbing his hands together for warmth before pulling on his outer robe. After a quick wash at the basin, splashing cold water over his face and neck to chase off sleep, he dried his hands and dressed for the day.

As he stepped outside, he paused at his tiny gate. The road was quiet. No sign of guards. No one waiting to mock or scorn him.

Only the scent of morning dew and damp earth.

He carried the basket on his hip and walked down the lane. His first stop would be old Mistress Hae’s house to deliver rice, then perhaps over to the herbalist for a few coin errands. The usual path. The usual chores.

And yet… something about the world felt new.

He paused beside a tiny garden plot growing wild with spring onions. Kneeling, he plucked the weeds free with gentle fingers, humming softly.

A neighbor’s baby cooed in the distance. Someone called a rooster inside.

Taehyung smiled to himself.

Later, as he passed through the main market, he heard whispers.

“Did you hear? Three noble daughters punished for harming a lowlife Omega...”

“Someone saw a cloaked noble walking with him, escorting him like a consort.”

Taehyung flushed and hurried his steps. He didn’t know who they spoke of. He didn’t want to believe it could be… him.

He ducked his head, gripping the handle of his basket tighter.

‘No one like that would look at me that way.’ He whispered in silence.

Back in the palace, Jungkook stood at the highest terrace, looking out over the kingdom he would one day inherit.

But all he could think of was a boy in patched sleeves, who smiled as if the world had not broken him.

And how, if Jungkook had anything to do with it, it never would again.

-

The Hidden Chamber, Inside the Eastern Pavilion of the Palace

The heavy wooden doors shut with a low thud, echoing like a promise in the dimly lit chamber.

Only six people were permitted in this room and even then, only when summoned. The space was bare but fortified, designed for matters that couldn’t risk reaching courtiers’ ears. Candles flickered along the carved walls, casting soft shadows across the prince’s profile.

Jungkook stood at the head of the lacquered table, arms crossed behind him. His gaze was fixed on a map of the capital spread before him, notes scribbled in Namjoon’s hand, red ink dots marking regions, borders, household estates.

Yoongi leaned back against the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable. Hoseok sat on the edge of the table, legs crossed casually but eyes sharp. Jimin and Seokjin stood close to one another at Jungkook’s left, whispering quietly while Namjoon finished reading the report aloud.

“…and the Joo family’s guards are seen regularly along the South Hill market. The Seos own three textile workshops and half the grain stores. The Kangs—no surprise—control most of the trade permits west of the lotus district.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed.

“And these are the families who raised those brats,” he said, voice low, but laced with unmistakable contempt. “The ones who laid hands on Taehyung.”

“They are powerful,” Namjoon admitted, though not fearfully. “Their allies span generations. Acting too suddenly could rally opposition.”

“I care not for their power,” Jungkook snapped. “I am the Crown Prince.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, it was loyal. The kind of silence that meant every man in the room was behind him, completely.

Jimin stepped forward, folding his arms over his chest. “Is this… about that Omega? Or—”

“This is not about infatuation,” Jungkook cut him off, but his voice was calm now. Quieter. “This is about what this kingdom should be. And he… he is everything it isn’t.”

The room stilled.

Yoongi’s lips twitched faintly, a rare show of emotion. Hoseok let out a breath, almost a soft laugh.

“He’s smitten,” Seokjin murmured under his breath, lips curving. “And for once, it’s not about war or duty.”

Namjoon studied Jungkook. “What do you intend?”

“Ruin,” Jungkook said. “But slow. Precise. Legal, for now.”

Yoongi stepped closer to the map, tapping two of the red dots. “We’ll start with the Kang grain permits. Hoseok and I can have men investigate their routes. If they’ve evaded taxes or abused license law…”

“They have,” Namjoon said without missing a beat.

Jungkook’s gaze burned. “Then we begin. No one touches him again.”

A few days later, a quiet morning near the hillside district

Taehyung hummed softly to himself as he stepped over a puddle in the alley. His errands had finished early that day, a few vegetables for an elder, herbal tea for an ailing couple. The silver sun hadn’t yet reached its peak. His arms were empty. His hands were warm.

He turned the final corner near his tiny gate and paused.

Something sat at his doorstep.

He blinked, frowning slightly.

A parcel, neatly wrapped in pale cloth, tied with red thread. There was no note, no mark of sender. Just the stillness of the moment, and the faint lingering scent in the air: pine, ink, and something darker. Something that made his chest tighten.

Jungkook.

Taehyung knelt slowly, fingers trembling as he untied the knot. The cloth unfolded with soft whispers, revealing a stack of fine parchment, a small case of ink, sealed with wax. A brush. Real. Smooth-handled. Not carved from scrap.

And atop it all, a single sheet, rolled and tied with thread.

Taehyung opened it carefully.

Only one character was written there. Strong, graceful, bold strokes. Balanced.

Resilience. Written in hangul.

His throat tightened. He couldn’t read the meaning, not truly, but something in the way it was written, the care, the weight behind each stroke, told him this was from someone who saw him. Someone who understood.

He stared at it for what felt like forever. The letters he had once admired in a torn piece of scrap, here, now, written with reverence, and given to him like a secret.

Taehyung held the parchment against his chest.

“Why would someone like him… remember me?”

He looked up toward the trees. The sky was overcast, but light still filtered through.

A breeze passed, and in it, he swore he could still smell that quiet pine scent.

Meanwhile, in the palace, Jungkook stood before a fresh scroll. His brush poised, hovering above the paper but he did not yet write. He was thinking of him.

Of a boy with a voice soft as dusk. Of fragile sleeves, and eyes that saw beauty in things broken.

He would protect that boy with everything he had.

Because in a kingdom full of cruelty, Taehyung had reminded him of something he had almost forgotten.

What kindness felt like.

-

It began with a whisper.

In the grain markets, near the stalls lined with radish and rice cakes. A vendor leaned in to her neighbor, hand shielding her mouth.

“A noble Alpha defended a street Omega. Right in the middle of town.”

By noon, it had reached the cloth district. A young seamstress retold the story while pinning silks to a mannequin, lips curled in awe.
“Three noble-born brats were humiliated. Someone said the Alpha nearly growled at them. Said they’d be punished.”

By dusk, it had slipped into the palace.

And that was when it began to spread like fire on dry parchment.

“The Crown Prince?”

“No. It couldn’t be. They say he loathes Omegas, save for his late mother and his physician’s brat assistant.”

“Well, they said the man was cloaked. Tall. Powerful scent. No crest.”

“But three families are being investigated—quietly. The Kangs, the Seos, and the Joos.”

“Coincidence?”

“The Crown Prince would never dirty his hands with a street Omega,” one courtier scoffed, swirling his wine. “This is beneath him.”

But even he said it with uncertainty.

—

Somewhere deeper in the palace, in the chambers with locked scrolls and wax seals, nobles whispered behind folding fans.

“The Crown Prince has been quiet since the incident,” said Lord Bae, fingers twitching. “Too quiet.”

“Have you seen who he’s spending time with? Where he’s going? Who he’s protecting?”

“No. But someone was escorted home by three armed men that night. Someone poor. No name. Just... ‘pretty as a painting.’”

“That’s the most dangerous kind of Omega,” someone murmured. “The kind no one sees coming.”

—

Meanwhile… in a crooked alleyway in the lower district

Taehyung knelt beside an old woman’s water jar, scrubbing the clay with a cloth, unaware of the slow, careful way the world had started shifting around him.

He didn’t know someone had left parchment in his name at a merchant’s stall, a gift he would find later.

He didn’t know that across town, nobles were quietly scrambling to understand what had caused the Crown Prince to start signing edicts in bold, angry ink.

He only knew that he had chores to finish. A few coins to earn. And that ever since that strange, beautiful man had walked him home, he’d felt a strange ache beneath his ribs.

A flutter. A question.

He held the brush Jungkook had left him, carefully, reverently. Practicing strokes on scrap paper when no one was watching.

And far above the city, in the palace.

Jungkook stood in the shadow of the high courtyard wall, arms crossed, listening to Yoongi’s latest report.

“No one suspects,” Yoongi said. “Some say it was a young noble with too much wine and too much pride.”

“They may call me many things,” Jungkook murmured, “but not a fool drunk on pride.”

Yoongi looked over. “Still planning to stay quiet?”

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly, but there was steel behind his smile.

“The moment they learn his name, he becomes a target. Let them guess. Let them wonder.”

He looked out toward the city.

“I’ll protect him from the shadows until the day he knows everything. And when he does… I want him to choose me without fear.”

Yoongi said nothing, but in his gaze was something rare.

Respect.

And quiet approval.

Chapter Text

The scent of bitter tea clung to the air, sharp as the tension simmering beneath lacquered panels and embroidered silks.

Lord Kang sat rigid in his carved seat, crimson robes trailing in heavy pools at his feet. His eyes were sharp slits beneath finely drawn brows, jaw clenched as he glared at the document laid before him.

“The audacity,” he hissed. “Who dares touch our trade routes? Our titles?”

Across from him, Lord Seo slammed his fan against the table. “My silk caravans were seized before dawn. No explanation, only a cold-faced official citing ‘errors in tax ledgers.’”

“They shut down my grain storehouses!” Lord Joo barked. “Hundreds of sacks held for inspection. Do they mean to starve the south quarter?”

The lacquered table groaned beneath the weight of a single scroll, unassuming, but stamped in five different departments’ crimson wax. A death sentence written in the dull language of audits, permits, and confiscations.

All official. All legal.

All targeted.

“This is no accident,” Lord Seo growled. “We are being hunted. Someone—someone powerful—is cutting us down.”

“And all for what?” Lord Kang snapped, his gaze darting toward the cushioned divan near the door. “Because our children decided to humiliate some filthy errand-boy?”

Lord Joo’s daughter huffed loudly, her painted lips twisted in disdain. “He’s not just an errand-boy, Father. That little Omega humiliated us. He was—he was looking at us like we were nothing—”

“And now you are nothing!” Lord Joo snapped. “Do you think I spent two decades building alliances just for your mouth to destroy them in a single market day?”

Lord Seo’s daughter, red-faced and sweating, tried to defend herself. “We didn’t know he had connections! He looked poor—he’s a nobody!”

“And yet,” Lord Kang said coldly, “that ‘nobody’ now has someone gutting our influence from the inside out.”

His own son scoffed, arms folded. “How can anyone powerful care for someone like him? He’s illiterate, ragged—”

“You made him visible!” Lord Kang roared, slamming hid jade ring against the table. “If you’d kept your mouths shut, the boy would’ve stayed a shadow. Now—he is a symbol.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Then, a knock. A servant entered and bowed low, offering a folded parchment.

Lord Kang took it with shaking fingers. He read.

‘Brown hanbok. Shoulder-length hair. Seen near Lotus Crossing. Runs errands for elders. Visited by three cloaked men. Slight. Beautiful. No name.’

He exhaled slowly, hands curled around the page. “So it is true,” he said darkly. “It all began with him.”

Lord Seo stared at the floor, teeth clenched. “He’s being protected.”

Lord Joo whispered, “By someone in the court?”

“Do you believe the rumors?” Lord Kang asked, his voice low. “That it’s the Crown Prince himself?”

The air shifted. Tensed.

Even the three young bullies stilled, faces paling.

“That cannot be,” Lord Seo said, but there was no conviction in his voice. “Why would the prince—”

“Because he’s dominant,” Lord Kang spat. “And dominant Alphas are drawn to beauty. Especially beauty that dares to be soft without shame.”

“Then we must tread carefully,” Lord Joo murmured. “But we cannot let that Omega rise. If he has the Prince’s favor... he becomes dangerous.”

Lord Kang stood, robes rustling. “Find him. Learn his name. Quietly. And when you do…”

Her voice dropped like ice.

“Remind him—and everyone who watches—that no mongrel born in filth may ever walk beside a king.”

-

A quiet street, just outside Taehyung’s home, that same morning

The sun filtered gently through the gray morning clouds, casting a soft silver glow over the cobbled path.

Taehyung stepped out of his small gate, a woven basket looped over his wrist, humming faintly to himself. His body ached from carrying firewood the day before, but he didn’t mind. The old man he delivered it to had gifted him a boiled egg in thanks. It still sat in his pocket, warm in his handkerchief.

He was halfway through locking the door when he noticed it again.

A small bundle.

Wrapped in cream silk and tied with a single strand of red thread.

He froze. His heart skipped a beat.

No note. No markings.

Just like before.

He knelt, careful not to dirty his sleeves, and picked it up with reverent fingers.

He looked left, then right. The street was empty. The world felt strangely still, like the wind itself was holding its breath.

Unwrapping the bundle slowly, Taehyung found. A fresh rice bun, still soft with warmth, a small pouch of ink, sealed with care. A folded piece of parchment. High quality. Silken grain, smooth beneath his fingertips and inside it, written in the same bold, balanced strokes as before.

“Gentle things need not break to survive. Sometimes they bend, and bloom again.”

Taehyung stared at the writing for a long time.

He didn’t know what the words meant. He never had.

But something in the way they were written, the care in the brushwork, the softness of the curves, felt kind. Gentle. Like whoever wrote them wasn’t just sending a message, but a promise. Something unspoken, but understood.

He brushed his fingertips across the ink, not to smudge it, just to feel its weight. Then he pressed the folded parchment to his chest and smiled faintly.

"You're back," he whispered, though no one was there. "Thank you."

What he didn’t know that two alleys away, a shadow crouched on a rooftop, watching.

A Beta in plain robes narrowed his eyes, taking in every detail, the way Taehyung touched the paper, how his shoulders curled inward, how he looked toward the sky as if someone might answer.

The Beta turned and disappeared into the maze of rooftops, quiet as a breath.

He had seen enough.

The boy was still here. Still beloved by someone important.

And soon, they would learn his name.

When they did, the nobles would strike. Because in their world, no nameless, illiterate Omega should be allowed to matter this much.

Not to anyone.

-

The court hall, late morning. The scent of polished wood, ink, and incense lingered heavily in the throne room, but none of it masked the stench of greed.

Crown Prince Jeon Jungkook sat straight-backed upon the lower dais, clad in his dark blue robe stitched with silver cranes, the embroidered sash knotted tightly around his waist. Beside him stood his Royal Advisor Namjoon, calm as ever, his scroll open in one hand, his other fingers lightly tapping the page as he observed.

At the head of the chamber sat the King, his father, adorned in crimson robes far more ornate than necessary. His ring-laden fingers drummed the gilded dragon armrest, voice echoing over the floor where court officials knelt in tidy rows.

“Let the western traders protest if they must,” the King said with a cruel smile. “Our army is twice the size of theirs. If they interfere, we seize the border. It will teach the northern province a lesson too.”

“Your Majesty,” one noble added with a nod, “We can impose a heavier tax on any merchants from the east, just until they learn to behave. Our coffers will fill before winter.”

A chorus of murmurs followed, agreement. Laughter. Applause.

Jungkook’s jaw tensed. His fists, hidden beneath his long sleeves, clenched tightly in his lap.

“These are human lives,” he said, his voice calm but cold. “You speak of villages, of livelihoods—not pawns in a board game.”

The room fell briefly silent.

Then the King laughed.

“My son is too sentimental,” he said with mock affection. “This is how the strong rule, Prince Jungkook. With force. With profit. Not pity.”

Namjoon leaned closer and murmured, “Careful. They’ll turn your compassion into a weapon.”

Jungkook gave a subtle nod, eyes unreadable but inside, his fury boiled like oil over flame.

These men would burn the land for gold. They would let children starve if it meant keeping pride intact. The King would rather destroy trade than lose even a sliver of his control.

And Jungkook was forced to sit, bow his head, and listen.

At the crown prince’s study hall, one hour later. The moment the carved doors shut, Jungkook ripped the silk sash from his waist and threw it across the floor. His robe loosened slightly, revealing the gleam of his collarbone and the sharp rise of his chest as he breathed hard.

Namjoon stood by the table, setting down his scroll. Yoongi and Hoseok leaned near the windows, both tense.

“They are fools,” Jungkook snapped, pacing. “Blind, arrogant, greedy fools.”

“You held yourself well,” Namjoon said gently.

“I wanted to scream.” Jungkook turned, eyes flashing. “They treat war like a game. They speak of burning towns as though they’re merely replanting fields. Do they even remember who they rule?”

Yoongi’s arms were crossed. “They remember. They simply do not care.”

“And my father,” Jungkook continued bitterly. “He feeds them this poison. He would rather spill blood than lose gold. I cannot—” He stopped, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. “I cannot sit beside him and pretend his madness is wisdom.”

Hoseok exhaled, soft but weary. “What will you do?”

Jungkook looked at them, his most trusted hyungs, the only ones who had watched him grow, the only ones who had seen the cracks in his armor.

“I’ll prepare,” he said quietly. “If they force this kingdom into war, I’ll find a way to shield the innocent. Move the children south. Make the villages vanish on maps before the army even arrives.”

Namjoon’s eyes met his, solemn. “You are not king yet.”

“I will be, even I forced my way” Jungkook said, eyes burning. “And I will undo every cruelty he ever praised.”

The room fell silent.

Then Hoseok’s smile returned faintly. “You need to breathe, Jungkookie. You haven’t, since the throne room.”

Jungkook glanced toward the balcony. The sky was blue, clear, as though mocking the storm in his chest.

“I haven’t seen him in days,” he said suddenly.

Namjoon blinked. “Him?”

Yoongi straightened. “The Omega.”

Jungkook nodded, slowly.

“I’ve sent gifts… ink, food, parchment. But I haven’t seen him. I’ve been… busy. Courts. Reports. Strategy. But I—” he stopped, his voice lowering, “I need to see him.”

There was a long pause.

“You miss him,” Hoseok said softly, a teasing lilt beneath the warmth.

“I don’t even know him that much,” Jungkook admitted, laughing bitterly. “But I remember how he moved. The way his lashes caught light. The scent of him lingers in my lungs. He’s soft, but not fragile. And I…”

“You’re whipped,” Hoseok said.

“Headfirst,” Yoongi muttered.

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “So you wish to sneak out again.”

“I will sneak out,” Jungkook corrected. “Later.”

Yoongi sighed. “Then we’ll guard the shadows.”

Hoseok grinned. “I’ll bring the cloaks.”

Namjoon smiled gently. “Be careful, Jungkook. The heart is powerful—but dangerous.”

Jungkook turned toward the open doors leading to the evening breeze.

“I do not fear what the heart brings,” he said quietly. “Only what it might lose.”

The late afternoon sun stretched gold across the palace walls, casting long beams through the latticed windows of the Crown Prince’s private quarters. The light, gentle and warm, fell across Jeon Jungkook’s shoulders as he stood by the carved divider, dressed not as royalty but as a simple man.

A sand-colored robe, unadorned, belted casually at the waist. His long hair tucked under a wide traveling hat. No rings. No crest. No guards in official uniform.

He adjusted his sash once, twice, then glanced at the mirror, not to admire himself but to be sure no part of him hinted at royalty.

He wanted to be a man who simply missed someone.

A flutter in his chest struck him unexpectedly, familiar now, when thoughts of Taehyung stirred. It had been days since he last laid eyes on the beautiful omega, and though he’d sent gifts anonymously, he hadn’t caught even a passing glimpse. No news. No scent in the wind. Only longing.

Yoongi entered quietly from the balcony, followed by Hoseok, both similarly dressed in drab colors.

“The lower town’s less crowded this time of day,” Yoongi murmured. “You might get lucky.”

“I don’t rely on luck,” Jungkook said, though his voice was softer than usual.

“You rely on obsession,” Hoseok grinned.

Jungkook did not argue.

At lower markets. The city buzzed with the quiet lull between peak hours. Market stalls were half-full. Children ran barefoot through alleyways, and old women swept their thresholds with frayed brooms. The scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with ink and dried herbs.

Jungkook walked between the stalls, Yoongi and Hoseok flanking him loosely, blending in as nothing more than friends or guards of a minor noble. No one stared. No one bowed. It was perfect.

They passed the parchment vendor, the stone steps where Taehyung had once crouched… and still no sign.

Jungkook’s eyes scanned every corner. Every movement tugged at him, was that soft figure him? That gentle scent? No. Not yet.

He exhaled. “He’s not here.”

“Patience, Your High—Jungkook,” Hoseok corrected himself, chuckling.

Yoongi, who had been watching the edges of the alleyways more than the stalls, suddenly frowned.

He tapped Hoseok on the elbow and jerked his chin toward a nearby rooftop, then again toward a man seated far too casually at a closed smithy’s bench.

“See him?” Yoongi said lowly. “The one with the green sash?”

“Not moving. Watching the parchment stall,” Hoseok noted.

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s the third man I’ve seen on this street alone—none of them buying, none of them leaving. All their eyes linger too long. They're not from this neighborhood.”

“Who would watch calligraphy stalls?” Hoseok asked.

Yoongi didn’t answer at first. Then he turned to Jungkook.

“They’re not watching the stalls. They’re watching for someone.”

Across the street, a familiar silhouette. And then, like a whisper answered from a prayer, he appeared.

Carrying a small parcel wrapped in rough cloth, sleeves carefully rolled to the elbow, hair tousled and kissed by gold, Taehyung emerged from a corner alley, lips curved in an absentminded smile as he greeted an old merchant with a polite bow.

Jungkook’s breath left him in a single stunned beat.

The sun caught the fine edge of Taehyung’s cheekbone, casting a delicate shadow beneath his lashes. His gait, though unhurried, was graceful, like a poem unfolding on paper.

And gods—how ‘was’ he real?

Taehyung was speaking with an old man who handed him a packet of herbs. The omega bowed deeply in thanks, accepted the packet with both hands, and turned, cradling it to his chest as though it were something precious.

“He smiles even when no one watches,” Jungkook murmured.

Yoongi and Hoseok didn’t respond. They knew better than to interrupt.

But even as Jungkook took a slow step forward, hoping to follow… Yoongi’s hand pressed lightly on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” Yoongi whispered. “One of the watchers just moved.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked sideways. Indeed, one of the suspicious men was adjusting his seat, subtly following Taehyung’s direction.

Jungkook’s expression hardened.

“Why him?” he asked.

“Maybe it’s because of the night he saved you, or you save him from those greedy nobles,” Yoongi said. “Maybe they know.”

“Or maybe,” Hoseok added, “they’re trying to find out that someone made move without a blade in hand.”

As the three trailed carefully behind Taehyung at a safe distance, Jungkook kept his gaze steady, watching not just the boy who unknowingly captivated him, but every corner, every face that dared look too long.

And he vowed, if even one soul dared lay a hand on him again, he would burn their titles and coin into ash.

Taehyung was folding kindness into the world where there was so little of it. His hands were calloused but still soft, his clothes still patched but he walked as though he were royalty in heart.

Jungkook clenched his jaw.

"I will not let them harm you again," he thought.

"Not while I breathe."

-

The candlelight in the study flickered against carved walls, shadows stretching like reaching hands across the lacquered floor.

The Crown Prince stood at the head of the table, hands clenched behind his back, eyes narrowed beneath furrowed brows. The fire in his chest had not dimmed since they returned from the lower markets. If anything, it burned brighter, wilder.

It wasn’t himself the enemy sought this time.

It was Taehyung.

And that alone was enough to send blood roaring through his ears.

“He was being watched,” Jungkook said, voice low but sharp. “By men we do not recognize. None of them followed me. They were never after me.”

The room was silent. Tense.

“Then it’s not your enemies directly,” Namjoon said from where he sat, elbow on the armrest, knuckles pressed to his lips in thought. “It’s either a warning... or worse.”

“A trap,” Yoongi muttered. “They know who he is. Or they suspect.”

“They could be aiming to draw you out through him,” Hoseok added from beside the window, arms crossed.

Across the room, Seokjin and Jimin sat side by side on a padded bench, Seokjin’s usually gentle face darkened in a rare, simmering worry.

“They dare follow that child?” Seokjin said, voice unusually clipped. “He has done nothing but survive. He’s barely scraping by.”

Jimin’s hands were folded tightly in his lap. “And yet they watch him like he’s a threat.”

Jungkook turned to face them all fully, eyes hard as steel.

“I will not allow it,” he said.

The others stilled.

“I cannot leave him in the open anymore,” Jungkook continued, his tone absolute. “He will be safer in the palace. Where no eyes can touch him. No blade can reach him.”

“Inside the palace?” Seokjin echoed, blinking. “You would bring him... here?”

“He’ll be eaten alive,” Jimin whispered. “The court vultures—every omega clawing for the Queen’s title—”

“They’ll tear him apart the moment they learn of it,” Seokjin added grimly. “Even if he sleeps in the kitchens.”

I know,” Jungkook said, voice calm but burning beneath the surface. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll protect him—where I can see him with my own eyes. I’m bringing him here, no matter what.”

A beat of silence.

“Have you considered what it would mean?” Namjoon asked softly. “The rumors. The whispers. They will not believe you brought him for safety.”

“I am aware.”

“They’ll say he’s your consort in secret,” Jimin said, biting his lip.

“They already say worse,” Jungkook answered. “About anyone I glance at for more than a moment.”

Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You are the Crown Prince. You do not owe them your silence.”

Jungkook’s expression shifted, softer now, just barely.

“I owe him my protection.”

The six sat around the long table, hushed now with strategy.

“He cannot enter through the main gates,” Namjoon said. “It will cause an uproar.”

“There’s a servant path behind the eastern shrine,” Hoseok offered. “We use it for rotating guards. Taehyung could enter through there at night.”

“Under what role?” Seokjin asked. “He cannot simply walk in and remain a guest. He’ll be questioned.”

Jimin’s eyes brightened slightly. “A court apprentice. Scribes sometimes take in assistants—he could be one.”

“But he can’t read,” Seokjin reminded him.

“He loves calligraphy,” Jungkook said quietly. “He doesn’t need to read yet. He can learn.”

“I will tutor him,” Namjoon offered at once. “Privately. Quietly. I’ll oversee his papers myself.”

“And I’ll watch over his health,” Seokjin added, “so no one dares meddle with his meals.”

Jimin nodded. “And I’ll stay close. I can make sure no one corners him.”

“I’ll tighten the guard,” Yoongi said. “No one steps near the eastern halls unless I know their name and scent.”

Jungkook finally exhaled, a breath held in restraint for far too long. He glanced at the empty teacup on the table, forgotten in all the tension and then to the faces of his dearest hyungs.

“You’ve always protected me,” he said, voice quieter now. “Let me protect someone this time.”

“You really like him,” Seokjin said softly.

“I don’t know what it is,” Jungkook admitted, “but when I see him, the ache in my chest stills. When I imagine him hurt, I can’t breathe.”

Yoongi’s voice was dry, but fond. “You’re doomed.”

“I’ve been doomed,” Jungkook murmured, finally allowing himself the barest smile.

Outside, the moon watched quietly.

The candles flickered lower, shadows bending along the curved wood. Plans were written. Schedules decided. Quiet movement through hidden halls would begin within two days.

But in the heart of the Crown Prince, there was no more waiting.

Let the rumors come. Let the greedy whimper and sneer.

Because soon… the boy with the soft voice and ink-stained fingers would sleep under his roof.

And no one—no one—would dare lay a hand on him.

Chapter Text

The moon hung pale and silent over the rooftops, veiled faintly behind drifting clouds. It cast the world in dull silver, washing out color, softening edges but it could not soften fear.

Taehyung clutched the bundle of fabric close to his chest, linen scraps he had fetched from an old tailor who’d promised to pay him a coin or two for errands. His legs ached from the long day, his soles raw from walking across stone and dirt. The streets were quiet now, hushed in the stillness that came after the shops shut their doors and lanterns burned low.

The lower edge of the town, the place he called home, was quiet even in the day. At night, it was nearly forgotten.

He turned onto the narrow path toward his shack. The road curved gently downward, lined with broken fences and worn stones, overgrown with creeping weeds. Only the distant chirp of crickets stirred the silence.

Until he felt it.

A wrongness.

The air shifted, sharp and cold.

Shuffle.

He froze. The sound was faint, but not natural. Not an animal. Too heavy.

He turned his head slightly, gaze flicking behind him. And there they were.

Three figures stood at the end of the alleyway he’d just passed. Cloaked. Half-masked. Swords gleamed dully at their sides. Their builds were tall, broad-shouldered.

And their scent, his knees nearly buckled.

‘Alphas.’

Not just any Alphas. Predatory.

Their eyes shone like polished steel under their hoods. One of them tilted his head slowly, observing him like prey.

“Evenin’,” one murmured. Low. Drawled. “Out late, little thing?”

Taehyung took a step back, chest tightening.

“I… I don’t have anything,” he said, voice trembling. “Please…”

“Oh, but you have something,” the second one said with a grin in his voice. “That face. That scent. Makes a man wonder who you belong to.”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Taehyung turned and ran.

His feet barely touched the earth as he darted down the narrow path, his limbs stiff with terror. His lungs burned. His mind screamed.

Run. Run. RUN.

Behind him, bootsteps pounded the dirt, fast, deliberate, hunting.

He turned a sharp corner and nearly tripped on a loose stone. He didn’t dare cry out.

There were no people here. No lanterns. No help.

The edge of town was no place to be caught alone at night, and tonight, it was a trap closing in.

His heart slammed against his ribs as he darted between broken crates and laundry lines, ducking under rotting wooden awnings. His breath hitched as the alley narrowed, he could almost feel their breath behind him.

“He’s quick, for an Omega.”

“Don’t let him get too far.”

Taehyung’s tears blurred his vision.

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to disappear like this. He didn’t even know why they were after him.

He reached the back of the small shrine wall and ducked behind a stack of firewood. He clasped a hand over his mouth, trembling violently, praying his scent wouldn't give him away.

A sword scraped stone nearby.

They were close. So close.

And Taehyung knew, he couldn’t run much farther.

Taehyung squeezed himself tighter behind the stack of firewood, his knees tucked to his chest, shoulders trembling violently. The air around him was thick with dust and the faint, acrid scent of rotting timber. But it was nothing compared to the sharp musk of Alphas that drifted closer with each breath.

Closer.

His fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeves as muffled footsteps stopped just on the other side of the pile.

“Where did the little rat go?” one Alpha growled.

“He was just here,” hissed another. “He’s not that fast.”

Taehyung dared not even breathe. His entire body ached from tension, a cold sweat sliding down the back of his neck.

‘Don’t find me. Please… don’t find me.’

A low chuckle sounded, too close. A foot slammed against the firewood, jostling it violently. A log rolled aside and light flooded in through the narrow gap between the slats.

One of them crouched.

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat. A gloved hand reached through the space, blindly groping toward him. Just inches from his knee. Taehyung couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped, a strangled whimper of fear.

“There you are,” the Alpha murmured with a grin.

The wood tumbled apart as the Alpha yanked the stack aside with one arm, sending debris and dust flying. Taehyung scrambled backward on instinct, legs kicking against the packed earth, heart thundering.

The Alpha raised his blade.

“No—!” Taehyung cried out, arms flying up to shield himself—

But the blow never landed.

CLANG.

Steel struck steel.

A blur of motion flashed in front of Taehyung’s vision, so fast he didn’t register it at first.

One of the masked Alphas was suddenly thrown backward across the alley with a sickening thud.

“What the hell—?!”

A second Alpha lunged—

But the figure that had appeared moved with the grace of wind and the speed of lightning. A curved blade caught the faint moonlight, slashing downward, forcing the attacker to fall back.

Taehyung stared, wide-eyed, from the dirt.

A man stood between him and the danger.

Cloaked. Broad-shouldered. Breathing steady.

His presence was overwhelming, quiet, but lethal.

The remaining two Alphas faltered. One took a step back. The stranger shifted, tilting his blade with a subtle flick of his wrist, and the tension in the alley shifted.

It was no longer the hunters who held the power.

“W-Who are you?” one of the masked men demanded.

The man did not speak.

Instead, he stepped forward once.

And that was enough.

The Alphas turned and fled.

Their boots thundered against the stone as they vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of their fear.

Taehyung remained frozen, eyes locked on the stranger’s back, limbs trembling.

The man did not turn immediately. He simply stood there, breathing in the night, as though waiting for something or someone, to give him permission to move.

Then, slowly, he turned to Taehyung.

His face, still shadowed. The glow of the moon caught the glint of a sharp jawline, the edge of dark brows. His voice was quiet. Measured.

“Are you hurt?”

-

The rooftops of the lower town breathed faint smoke and rot, the scent of wet wood clinging to the air like sweat on the skin. Min Yoongi crouched low on the ridge of a crumbling shed, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other holding a small black-bound notebook, its pages filled with names. Names of merchants. Courtiers. Greedy nobles and shadowed partners.

His eyes, sharp even beneath the veil of night, scanned the alley below. A cloaked man slipped coins into a scribe’s hand. Another exchanged a small lacquered box for a scroll. Yoongi narrowed his eyes behind the half-mask that hid the right side of his face, an angular slice of black lacquer carved smooth to cover his scar.

The scar that earned him too much attention in daylight.

Tonight, he was no one. Just another quiet face in a city of whispers. He had been assigned to observe. Quietly. Secretly.

Not to interfere.

But as he moved from one shadowed alley to the next, something shifted.

The stillness of the night, once calm and undisturbed, suddenly felt brittle, fragile. The faint whisper of wind through rooftops was broken by a sound that did not belong.

Boots. Heavy, fast, pounding against the dirt.

His eyes snapped up.

Three figures burst from the darkness, masked and swift, their movements sharp and silent like blades themselves. Moonlight flashed briefly on the swords at their hips. They weren’t patrolling. They were hunting.

Chasing.

He followed their movement with a practiced sweep of his gaze.

‘Another assassin’s scheme? Or—'

Then he saw him.

The fleeting flash of a worn cream sleeve. A messy head of soft brown hair tied loosely behind the ears. The narrow shoulders he’d seen once in the market, standing beside his prince.

Yoongi’s breath stopped in his throat.

‘That boy. The one Jungkook has not stopped thinking of.’

His muscles coiled instantly. And prepare to follow them.

He dropped to the ground in silence, the whisper of his boots barely kissing the stone, and reached up to tighten the tie of his half-mask. The right side of his face must remain hidden. No one could know the head of the Royal Guard prowled these streets.

The alley was too quiet.

Yoongi moved like a shadow, the soles of his boots silent against the stone. He’d heard the scuffle before he saw it, the telltale crash of wood, a startled cry, the heavy sound of fists and steel. By the time he rounded the corner, he didn’t hesitate.

The stack of crates collapsed under one Alpha’s brute strength, and Yoongi’s eyes immediately found the boy, small frame, wild hair, crawling back in panic. His heart was racing loud enough for Yoongi to hear it.

The alpha raised his blade.

Yoongi didn’t think. He moved.

CLANG.

Steel met steel, sparks flying. The force rattled up his arm, but he held firm, shifting his weight and slamming his blade back against the attacker’s, sending the masked man flying across the alley with a satisfying thud.

"What the hell—?!"

Another came at him, blade high.

Too slow.

Yoongi's feet barely touched the ground as he spun, curved sword slicing through the air. Moonlight caught on the edge of the blade just before it crashed down, stopping the second Alpha in his tracks.

His stance held. Calculated. Still.

He didn’t need to say a word. He never did.

The third Alpha hesitated, then faltered. Yoongi shifted his grip, tilting the blade slightly, just enough to make his point.

The power in the alley flipped.

He wasn’t prey. He was warning.

“W-Who are you?” one of them stammered.

Yoongi didn’t answer.

He stepped forward once.

That was all it took.

They ran.

Their boots slammed against the stone, fading into the night like rats fleeing a fire. Yoongi didn’t move. Not yet. He let the silence settle. Let the boy catch his breath. He could feel him, still on the ground, trembling, wide eyes pinned to his back.

Yoongi let himself breathe. And turned to Taehyung. The boy was even younger up close. Dirt on his cheeks, robes torn. But alive. Eyes like frightened glass, still braced for pain. Yoongi looked at him fully, letting the moonlight do the rest, just enough for the boy to see part of him, not too much. His voice, when he spoke, was steady.

“Are you hurt?”

Taehyung stood there, knees buckling under him, pale in the moonlight. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, lips quivering with words he couldn’t form. He stared at Yoongi, not in fear, but recognition.

“I... I remember you,” he whispered. “You’re the one… with him. The noble…J-Jungkook.”

And then he collapsed to his knees.

His small frame trembled from the weight of what had almost happened, eyes brimming with silent horror. Yoongi’s body moved without thought. He knelt instantly, one hand hovering as if unsure where to touch.

He hesitated. The rules are clear. Taehyung was the chosen of the Crowned Prince. He could not touch him unless it was in defense. Yet, the boy wept like something shattered.

Yoongi clenched his jaw, uncertain and unskilled in comfort. He was a sword, not a balm. Yet tonight, he remained. His hand moved just slightly, fingers brushing the boy’s sleeve, light as a breath.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly.

Taehyung’s tears spilled freely, soaking the dirt where he knelt.

“I—I didn’t know what to do. They— They just— They had swords—”

Yoongi watched him, a hollow ache blooming in his chest.

This was the one who made Jungkook restless at night. The one who held the prince’s gaze in silence. The one who had unknowingly bled into all of their lives like ink into parchment.

And now, that boy, alone, trembling in the dark had nearly been taken from this world.

Yoongi bowed his head slightly, watching over him. Guarding. Silent.

There would be blood for this. He would see to it.

But not now.

Not while the boy still wept.

The road back was hushed, blanketed in the stillness that came after fear.

The moon hung heavy above, pale and round like an old watcher in the sky, casting silver light over the alleyways and slanted rooftops of the town’s poorest edge. Footsteps echoed soft and slow, two pairs, uneven. One sure and soundless. The other trembling.

Yoongi walked a step behind Taehyung, his cloak stirring faintly with the wind. His eyes never rested, scanning every turn of the street, each darkened doorway, every shadow that moved too slow or not at all. His hand never left the hilt of his blade.

In front of him, Taehyung walked with his arms curled close to his chest, head bowed low. The frayed hem of his cream-toned sleeve fluttered at his wrist, catching against the breeze as he sniffled quietly, his breaths shallow and ragged. Every few steps, his foot faltered, and he would quickly steady himself, too proud or too frightened to stop.

He said nothing.

But Yoongi could feel it, the weight of fear, still clinging to the boy like cold rain.

They reached the far end of the narrow street, where homes turned more worn, more fragile. A crooked fence marked the border of Taehyung’s little home, a sagging gate and a slanted roof that looked as though it wept when it rained. No candle burned in the window.

The boy stopped.

Yoongi halted just behind him, hands at his sides.

Taehyung stopped, shoulders drawing in tighter. “I… thank you.” he said softly, voice thin like smoke.

He turned around, and under the moon, Yoongi saw it clearly now, the dried tear-tracks, the pink colored at the edge of his cheek where one of those cowards had struck him. His eyes, dark as ink and wide with lingering fear, looked fragile in the silver light. Still glistening. Still stunned.

“If you had not been there,” Taehyung murmured, bowing low, “I… I do not know what would have become of me.”

Yoongi’s throat tightened. “You don’t need to bow,” he said, tone flat but not unkind. “You did nothing wrong.”

Taehyung looked up again. His expression twitched, as if he wanted to offer a smile, to give something back but he could not find the strength. The corners of his lips curled slightly, only to fall. He turned toward the gate and stepped inside, pushing it open with a long groan of rusted wood.

Yoongi remained where he stood and went to hide.

He watched the boy disappear into the quiet dark of his little home. And he did not leave. He could not. Not while his prince’s beloved was still trembling.

Minutes passed. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the folds of his cloak. A cat mewed in the alley behind him. Somewhere, far off, a bell chimed the late hour.

Then, a small sound.

The front door creaked open again.

Yoongi glanced back.

Taehyung stood half-hidden in the doorway, peering out through the narrow crack. His eyes darted left, then right, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal searching for threat. He gripped the edge of the doorframe with white-knuckled fingers, breathing slow and uneasy.

And then their gazes met.

Yoongi took a step forward from the cover of the tree, just enough to catch the moonlight on the edge of his face. Not too close. Not too much. Just enough for Taehyung to know he was still there.

Still watching. Still guarding.

Taehyung blinked at him, and then softly, his shoulders lowered, his chest loosened with a shaky exhale. A sigh of relief.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He didn’t bow. He didn’t ask why. He just looked at him.

Then the door closed gently, with the faintest click. Yoongi remained rooted in place, pulling his hood back over his head, the shadow of the tree swallowing him whole once more.

He would not leave.

Not until the boy slept without fear.

Not while the stars still held the night above him.

Chapter Text

The golden edge of dawn had barely touched the tiled roofs of the royal palace, and yet the air within the Crown Prince’s study was heavy, like a storm held behind closed doors.

The low flick of candles barely broke the cold hush of the room. Scrolls lay open but untouched, ink left to dry on forgotten documents.

Hoseok paced quietly along the far window, boots soundless on polished stone. His eyes, usually warm with laughter, were taut with concern, flicking every so often toward the door.

Jimin sat at the edge of the low table, his hands twisting the hem of his sleeve. His usual soft pout was drawn tight with tension, his gaze locked on the entrance like he could will it to open.

Namjoon sat beside Seokjin near the head of the table, hands folded but restless, brow furrowed deeply in thought. Seokjin, meanwhile, sat unnaturally still, his jaw set, eyes unreadable.

The Crown Prince sat alone at the far end of the table, regal and silent. Cloaked in a deep garnet robe, Jeon Jungkook was a portrait of restrained fury.

Then, finally, the doors opened.

Yoongi stepped inside, his presence pulling every gaze like gravity. Cloak dusty from travel, boots scuffed, a cut along his brow from something or someone but his eyes were clear and sharp as ever.

Jimin surged to his feet. “Yoongi—”

“You’re late,” Hoseok said, though his voice cracked with relief.

“I had reason,” Yoongi replied simply, shutting the door behind him.

Without further word, he crossed the room and knelt briefly before Jungkook. “Forgive the delay, Your Highness.”

“Speak,” Jungkook said, his voice like tempered steel.

Yoongi stood, casting a subtle glance toward the others. Their eyes followed him, waiting.

“We had... visitors near the garden,” he began, tone carefully neutral. “Three black crows, moving toward the peach grove.”

Namjoon’s gaze sharpened immediately. “Crows in that area are uncommon.”

Yoongi nodded once. “One nearly picked the flower.”

Seokjin inhaled sharply. “Was the bloom harmed?”

“Chipped,” Yoongi said. “But not crushed. I stepped in.”

“And the crows?” asked Jungkook, tone low, dangerous.

“Scattered,” Yoongi replied. “Two fled. One fell and will not fly again.”

Jimin let out a soft breath, catching the edge of meaning.

“And the bloom?” Jungkook asked tightly.

Yoongi’s voice changed then, softening almost imperceptibly. “It returned to its pot. Shaken, but still rooted.”

There was silence.

Until the sound of fabric tightening against Jungkook’s fists broke it.

His knuckles had gone white where his hands gripped the edge of the armrest. His jaw ticked, and the air around him seemed to thicken with rising heat.

“They dared...” Jungkook whispered, his voice nearly trembling in its rage. “They dared pursue what is mine—”

“They did not know what they touched,” Yoongi said, stepping closer, his voice firm. “But I do not believe this was a message meant for us. Not yet.”

“They will know now,” Jungkook snapped.

He turned to Namjoon.

“Begin the petals' replanting,” he said. “Secure the documents. I want it here—where no crow can ever land again.”

Namjoon bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness. I will prepare the name-change, the chamber scrolls, and house registration under the southern annex.”

Seokjin finally spoke. “There will be rumors.”

“There are always rumors,” Jungkook replied coldly. “Let them whisper. Let them choke on the truth when it’s served.”

“But we must be careful,” Hoseok murmured. “This is too sudden, and the foxes will dig for the root.”

“They already do,” Jimin said bitterly. “They want the garden for themselves.”

Jungkook stood then, and even the candlelight seemed to sway in his presence.

“I will not let their claws near him again,” he said. “I have waited long enough.”

He turned his gaze to Yoongi. “Your blade saved him once. Let it remain close until he is safe within our walls.”

Yoongi gave a small nod. “Until it is done.”

The prince’s hand curled at his side once more, chest rising and falling with quiet fury.

“I do not want flowers,” Jungkook muttered. “I want the whole damn garden rebuilt around him.”

The room fell into silence again, unspoken understanding thick between them.

And then Jungkook looked to the doors.

“Go,” he said to Namjoon. “Begin the process.”

Namjoon rose with a bow. “As you command.”

Seokjin placed a soft hand on Jimin’s, calming the younger Omega’s anxious fidgeting. Hoseok let out a long breath beside them, pulling his cloak around his shoulders as he straightened.

And Yoongi... Yoongi looked back at his prince with the barest flicker of something soft in his eyes. Respect. Loyalty. Protection.

Outside, the sun broke over the horizon.

But inside the study hall, shadows still lingered, whispering of schemes, of secrets, and of a beautiful omega soon to walk beneath palace roofs.

-

It began with a whisper.

A pair of court maids, sweeping the outer corridor near the southern wing, paused when they saw the heavy-lidded wooden doors of the Queen’s Old Chamber unbolted for the first time in years. A column of guards stood silent outside, heads bowed respectfully.

The younger maid clutched the sleeve of her elder.

“Is that not…” she swallowed, voice barely above breath, “…Her late Majesty’s Hall?”

The elder nodded once, lips pursed. “No soul has stepped foot in there since her funeral rites.”

Inside, eunuchs moved with silent precision, dusting every crevice, airing silks, replacing linens with the softest imported weaves. Beneath their practiced hands, the chamber slowly returned to its former quiet dignity.

But it wasn’t the cleaning that stirred the palace.

It was the presence of secrecy. No name was given. No rank. No royal scroll. Only one chilling instruction passed from mouth to mouth, written by the Crown Prince’s own hand.

“Prepare the South Wing Hall. Leave no detail overlooked.”

That line alone was enough to set the halls ablaze.

“Did you hear?” whispered Lady Min, fanning herself with a crane-feather fan as she leaned toward another noblewoman in the royal tea hall. “They say someone will take residence in the Queen’s Chamber.”

“Impossible,” scoffed Lady Hwa, her omega scent bristling. “That room is for the future queen—when she is chosen, and not a breath sooner.”

“And yet the servants are in a frenzy,” murmured a passing Beta, pushing her tea away untouched. “Fresh flowers were sent from the royal greenhouse. And incense—custom blends reserved for—”

“For a high-ranking guest,” finished Lady Min gravely.

“Or a consort,” someone whispered.

That word.

Consort.

It rippled through the palace faster than sound itself.

-
In the courtyards where junior nobles trained in the sword, even the youngest princes of minor lines leaned in with hungry ears.

“They say it’s a foreign noble.”

“No, a prince’s bastard child returned from exile.”

“Or perhaps… an Omega royal from a hidden clan.”
-
Inside the court’s main hall, the ministers met for their midday session but half their attention drifted toward the unseen.

“The Crown Prince should not be playing favorites without consulting the council,” barked Lord Hwang, a round-faced noble with three omega daughters.

Lord Seo of the Western Court chuckled behind his fan. “You fear your daughter might not be chosen, then?”

“She SHOULD be chosen. She was born of noble blood. This… this rumor—this shadow—should not sully the royal wing.”

“The Crown Prince is not one to make light decisions,” spoke Minister Lee, elder and sharp-eyed. “If he places someone there… they are important.”

Too important for any of them to touch.

-
Even the royal omegas gathered in silk-laced parlors grew restless.

Park Hee-ra, daughter of a minister and one of the most aggressively groomed Omega candidates, slammed her brush into a pot of rouge.

“He must be toying with us,” she snapped. “It’s a test. He wants to see which of us will react poorly.”

Her companion, soft-spoken Yuna, glanced around nervously. “What if it’s not a test?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if it’s real? Someone else.”

Hee-ra’s eyes narrowed. “No. I will not lose my crown to a shadow.”

-

In the heart of the palace, far from the whispers, the King sat in his private chamber, a goblet of dark plum wine swirling in one ring-clad hand. He leaned back, robe heavy with gold threading, and smirked.

“So,” he said slowly, to no one in particular, “my son finally brings someone into her old hall.”

A eunuch stood quietly beside him, silent as always.

The King’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Let them gossip. Let them stew. If he’s bold enough to bring his beloved into the walls, I will have to meet this... precious soul myself.”

He sipped his wine slowly, licking a crimson drop from his lip.

“I’ll see whether this one is worthy... or merely another pretty fool.”

-

And all the while…

In the southern wing, the incense drifted upward in lazy spirals, sweet, floral, haunting. The windows had been opened to let the summer light in, and silk sheets danced faintly in the breeze.

The room was ready.

But the name of its future resident remained unspoken.

Only those closest to the Crown Prince knew. And they kept the secret like a sword at the throat.

-

The wooden doors creaked open with a groan that echoed softly down the polished corridor. The scent of fresh lacquer and lavender incense hung in the air like a lingering breath from another time.

Crown Prince Jungkook stepped into the chamber, the hem of his black robe brushing the threshold like a wave. Behind him, Yoongi and Hoseok followed in quiet formation, the royal crest stitched subtly into the folds of their sleeves. A small retinue of eunuchs and maids trailed at a respectful distance, silent, heads bowed, hands clasped.

The chamber had been restored with great care.

The latticework windows had been sanded and polished, lined with new silks of pale ivory and dusk-blue. The light filtered in gently, casting faint gold across the floor where the old queen’s favorite writing desk once sat.

Now, in its place, stood a modest low table crafted of white birch, Jungkook had personally chosen it. He didn’t want the room to be drowned in memories. No, it must belong to someone else now.

Yet…

He turned slowly, eyes sweeping the room. The walls still held whispers of his childhood. His mother’s soft laughter. The quiet way she’d comb his hair near the windowsill when the day ended. The scent of her hanbok always carried warm notes of persimmon and white tea.

She had never been allowed to reside in the official Queen’s Hall, even after her title was granted. This had always been her haven.

His jaw clenched faintly.

He had been young then but not so young that he didn’t notice her loneliness.

And yet now, as his eyes wandered to the new bedding, soft creams and embroidered cranes, his memories began to shift.

A different presence filled the space.

Taehyung.

The image crept in quietly.

He imagined the omega sitting by the open screen door, legs tucked beneath him, studying a calligraphy sheet with that same soft wonder he always wore. His hands delicate, fingertips likely stained with ink. Hair tousled in that awkwardly elegant way, a little curl resting near his cheek.

Jungkook smiled faintly, gaze distant.

“It suits him,” he murmured.

Yoongi, who stood a step behind him, tilted his head. “Your Highness?”

Jungkook didn’t look back. “This room. It suits him.”

Hoseok folded his arms, smirking. “More than the Queen’s Hall ever did for anyone.”

A pause stretched between them. The candlelight flickered gently.

Then Jungkook turned toward the exit, the fabric of his robe rustling softly. “Come. Let us return.”

But as they passed beneath the carved lintel of the chamber, they were met by a lone figure.

The King’s Head Eunuch, robes pristine and face unreadable, bowed low.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “His Majesty requests your presence at the Outer Pavilion by the lake.”

The air shifted.

That pavilion was no mere meeting ground, it was a place where the King entertained only his favored officials and most strategic guests. It was a battlefield veiled in quiet words and soft tea pours. Many lives had changed by that still water.

Jungkook offered no visible reaction. Only nodded once.

“Very well.”

And with that, he resumed walking, his steps steady but resolute. Yoongi and Hoseok flanked him, silent as shadows. Behind them, the eunuchs and maids resumed their trailing formation, feet whispering across the stone floor.

The Crown Prince’s eyes did not waver.

He was ready to face the man who called himself his father.

-

The light in Namjoon’s study filtered through pale rice paper windows, softened by the early haze of dawn. Scrolls lay unfurled across the dark lacquered table, weighed by inkstones and thin bronze blades. The scent of ink and beeswax hung in the air, grounding him.

Namjoon, dressed simply in his dark jade robe, dipped his brush again with steady precision. His movements were fluid, practiced, a scholar’s elegance. But the documents before him were not mere letters. They were legal transcriptions, sealed orders, and layers of clever wording that would weave one quiet truth beneath a web of palace eyes.

Taehyung’s name did not appear on any page.

Instead, titles such as "a favored guest under the Crown's protection" and "personal beneficiary of palace decree 89-1" were used, strategic phrasing meant to disarm nosy officials. It was buried deep under trade reports and charity accounts. The omega’s new residence was listed as “Chamber of the West Garden – Restoration Wing,” avoiding direct ties to the former Queen’s quarters.

Namjoon let the brush still, and exhaled.

“Done,” he murmured, setting it down.

A soft knock broke the silence.

The door slid open, and Seokjin stepped inside, hands tucked into his flowing sleeves, eyes already warm with affection.

“You haven’t rested,” Jin said, walking over.

Namjoon offered a tired but fond smile. “I needed to finish this before word spreads too far.”

Jin knelt beside him and gently poured warm tea into a small porcelain cup, the steam curling between them. “You're always looking ten steps ahead.”

“I must. For him. For them,” Namjoon replied, fingers brushing Jin’s as he accepted the cup.

Seokjin leaned closer, voice a hush, “You think there’ll be trouble when they learn who he is?”

“There’s always trouble, love,” Namjoon said quietly. “But I’ve covered the cracks. For now.”

Jin nodded. He reached out and touched Namjoon’s cheek, thumb brushing the side of his face. “Just promise me you’ll nap after this.”

Namjoon caught his hand and kissed his knuckles.

“I promise.”

At the outer pavilion by the lake. The wind carried the scent of lilies from the water. Soft ripples danced across the surface of the private lake nestled at the heart of the inner palace. White herons stood among the reeds, still as statues.

Jungkook ascended the curved stone bridge with quiet steps, his presence commanding even in stillness. His robe today was black with deep crimson trim, simple in design, yet every inch spelled power. On either side of him walked Yoongi and Hoseok, dressed as usual in dark, unobtrusive guard attire. Their eyes missed nothing.

Trailing behind them were three eunuchs and a pair of senior court maids and middle court maids, each carrying lacquered trays. One eunuch, his personal attendant, clutched a small scroll tucked under his sleeve, should the Crown Prince need to write a decree on the spot.

The pavilion sat over the water like a lotus on its stalk, carved from pale wood and ringed with silk curtains fluttering like ghosts.

At its center sat the King.

Clad in gold-hemmed robes, his face was unreadable. Behind him, standing at attention, was the Head Eunuch, ever silent.

“Your Majesty,” Jungkook greeted with a bow, deep, but cold.

“Come,” the King gestured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sit. We rarely meet like this.”

Jungkook did not smile. “There is reason for that.”

Yoongi and Hoseok stopped at the entrance, standing just far enough to appear respectful, yet close enough to hear everything.

Maids entered quietly to place tea and food on the table. One tested each item discreetly, tasting, smelling before stepping back with a bow.

“You seem tense, my son,” the King mused, lifting his tea. “Is it the court? The pestering officials?”

Jungkook’s tone was as cool as the lake breeze. “They speak more of self-interest than governance.”

“Ah,” the King chuckled. “As they always have.”

He sipped his tea, gaze flicking to Jungkook. “And you? Have you become like them?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Unlike them, I still care who bleeds in the streets.”

There was a pause. A shift in the air. The King hummed, nodding slowly.

“A dangerous sentiment for a ruler,” he said.

“Only for one who sees his people as tools,” Jungkook countered, smooth as silk.

The conversation drifted, for a moment, to trade routes near the border, the unrest from minor kingdoms to the west, and the failure of certain families to meet grain quotas. But beneath each topic was a tug-of-war. Every word was a test.

Then the King leaned back, feigning casual curiosity.

“I hear,” he began, swirling his tea, “that you’ve had the West Wing Hall restored. The one your mother once used.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked but his expression did not change. “I did.”

The King’s smile sharpened. “A special guest?”

“Indeed.”

“A consort, perhaps?” the King asked, voice honeyed with mock interest. “Have you finally chosen? I was able to choose consorts at your age, you know.”

“I am not you,” Jungkook said plainly. “And I see no reason to rush.”

“You’ve had a wealth of candidates offered—sons and daughters of noble lineage.”

Jungkook lifted his brow. “And yet none worth my time.”

The King chuckled. “So, you have brought someone in. And didn’t think it necessary to inform your king?”

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, lips curling in the faintest smile. “You taught me to act with authority, did you not?”

The King’s smile faltered for just a beat.

“I see,” he said, finishing his tea with a long, slow sip.

“And,” Jungkook continued coolly, standing, “you also taught me to know when to protect what is mine. I’ll take that lesson to heart.”

The King looked up, his eyes suddenly sharp beneath the curve of his brow. “Careful, boy.”

Jungkook bowed shallowly. “Always, Father.”

With a swirl of his dark robes, the Crown Prince turned. He did not touch the food. He did not touch the tea.

Yoongi and Hoseok fell in behind him instantly. The eunuchs and maids followed in practiced rhythm.

Behind them, the King sat in silence, his empty teacup resting between two fingers.

He smirked.

So did Jungkook, just faintly as he stepped down the bridge.

Two men. Two minds. And a war of patience.

One had played his hand.

The other had only begun.

Chapter Text

The sun slowly dipping low behind the hills, spilling molten gold across the ramshackle rooftops of the town’s poorest quarter. The crooked silhouettes of thatched huts leaned toward one another, casting long, tired shadows. The air smelled of wood smoke and worn earth.

In a modest home tucked near the edge of the forest, Taehyung sat cross-legged on the floor. The room was small, barely wide enough to stretch one’s arms but clean. A faded quilt was folded neatly at the foot of his sleeping mat, and a single oil lamp glowed faintly beside him, casting warm light across the parchment in his lap.

Today, his stomach was nearly empty. A coarse piece of flat bread, stale at the edges sat untouched on a wooden plate, the only meal he'd managed today. But Taehyung did not mind. Not when his calligraphy brush was in his hand.

It was the finest object he owned.

The brush, carved of dark wood and soft animal hair, had not splintered once despite many uses. The parchment too, smooth and thick, held ink like silk embraced dye. He touched both with reverence, handling them the way a temple acolyte would handle prayer scrolls. They were the gift from a someone... someone important. Taehyung's gratitude remained unwavering.

With delicate strokes, he copied the shapes printed on the page that came with the gift, unknown characters, elegant and sweeping. He could not read them, but the way they curled across the parchment comforted him. He mimicked them slowly, carefully, pausing to squint and adjust the flick of his wrist, tongue peeking slightly between his lips in concentration.

Outside, the wind whispered against the wooden walls, gently stirring the curtain that hung in the doorway. In the distance, faint voices carried through the late afternoon, townsfolk still working late, driven by the weight of taxes they could barely afford to pay.

His brows furrowed.

A memory stirred. The events of yesterday began to resurface, unspooling in his mind like threads he couldn’t quite untangle.

A crowd had gathered near the town's cracked bulletin board, old and splintered, but still used for royal announcements. The creaking of armored horses and the firm stomps of boots signaled the arrival of a royal guard patrol.

Taehyung had stopped mid-errand, clutching a bundle of laundry in his arms, eyes widening as a guard stepped forward and nailed a fresh scroll to the board.

Whispers spread like smoke.

"New tax rates... doubled... next moon cycle..."

"Trade alliance trouble with the Western Courts..."

"They’ll bleed us dry—again."

Taehyung stared at the scroll in silence, even though he could not read the words. The seal alone was enough to twist something in his gut.

An elder beside him leaned close and read aloud in a grim whisper, “Taxes doubled. Starting next collection.”

His knees nearly buckled beneath him. The few coins he saved were barely enough already. His home was no more than four thin walls and a roof that whined at the rain. How could they demand more?

He had bowed gratefully when a kind old man handed him a piece of steamed rice cake. “You’ll manage,” the elder had said gently. “You always do.”

But Taehyung only nodded, swallowing the ache in his chest.

Now, back in the dim glow of his home, he placed the parchment aside and folded it gently. He untied the string on a tiny brown sack, his savings and checked the coins within. He counted them again.

Not enough.

But still, he tucked it beneath the folded layers of his makeshift pillow, fingers trembling. That money was his lifeline.

He returned to his parchment, dipping the brush in ink once more when—

Clip-clop.

The muffled thud of hooves outside made his entire body freeze.

A faint murmur. Multiple voices. Footsteps on dirt.

Taehyung stiffened, his brush trembling in hand. He didn’t know why but fear prickled down his spine like icy needles.

Without hesitation, he snatched the inkstone, parchment, and brush and tucked them beneath a loose board in the floor. He covered them with a folded rag and pushed the wood back into place, hands shaking.

He crawled back slowly, breath held. He sat there on his knees, staring at the flickering shadows cast by the oil lamp.

They were right outside.

Another voice.

Another step.

“Is this the one?” a low voice murmured. Taehyung barely caught it.

His heart pounded against his ribs. His fingers gripped the edge of his thin mat.

Then he stood slowly, legs weak and tiptoed to the curtain covering the small window. A single breath, drawn shakily into his lungs, and he leaned just enough to peek outside.

The street was dimly lit, but figures stood beneath the moonlight.

Three riders. Their horses restless.

Eyes gleamed beneath travel-worn hoods. The smell of leather, steel, and lingering alpha scent hung heavy in the air.

And others were nearby, neighbors and passerby who had slowed to look not at the riders... and at him.

The moment he peeked out, some saw him.

A ripple spread through the crowd.

Gasps. Murmurs. Envy. Lust. Disdain.

Eyes lingered on him, not just from the alphas and betas... but even the omegas.

He was too beautiful. Unfairly so.

His skin glowed in the lamplight, smooth and pale. His hair fell in soft waves, shadowing long lashes and a mouth too full to be unnoticed. The loose tie of his simple robe dipped slightly at the collarbone, revealing the gentle slope of his neck.

A group of passing betas, young and painted in perfume, snickered, watching him.

“Look at him, pretending to be modest.”

“He doesn’t even try and he gets all the looks.”

“He’s poor—he should be grateful anyone wants him.”

From the shadows, an alpha clicked his tongue, whispering something filthier. Taehyung didn’t understand all the words but the tone made his stomach turn. Something about ‘claiming’ and ‘bending.’

Another voice barked a laugh, louder. “He doesn’t even know what that means. Stupid, pretty thing.”

Taehyung shrank back behind the curtain. His breath was shallow.

He didn’t know what he had done to deserve such attention. He never dressed boldly, never spoke more than needed, never responded to flirtations or cruel jabs. Still, wherever he went… eyes followed.

His fingers trembled at the curtain.

‘Why are they here?’

The footsteps grew closer.

A shadow shifted.

Taehyung’s pulse raced in his throat. He backed away from the window with quick, silent steps, gaze darting to the door.

The hush outside had changed.

And he was very, very afraid.

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat as a firm knock shook the wooden door of his tiny home.

He hesitated, then slowly pulled it open.

And there they stood.

Three Royal Guards in navy and silver, swords at their sides, helms beneath one arm, and posture unyielding. Behind them, a small crowd had gathered, neighbors and strangers alike, drawn to the sight of armored soldiers on their dirt paths.

The sunlight had begun to dim, gold softening into amber. Shadows of townspeople stretched across the road as the wind carried dust and dry leaves between wooden homes. Children were pulled behind skirts. Elders whispered to one another.

Taehyung stared, blinking fast, heart pounding. One of the guards stepped forward and bowed, brief, efficient.

“Kim Taehyung?”

He nodded instinctively, though his throat was dry. His hands trembled as he clutched the fraying fabric of his robe.

The guard reached into a leather satchel and retrieved a scroll bound in golden ribbon, the seal thick and pressed with royal ink.

“By order of the Inner Council,” the man announced, voice sharp and formal, “you are hereby summoned to the Royal Palace to take residence as a newly appointed Scholar of Language and Letters, under the Important Noble’s special favor.”

The words struck Taehyung like stones to the chest.

“Wh—what…?” His voice came out thin, nearly inaudible.

The other guard stepped closer, holding the scroll out toward him.

“You are expected to arrive within two days. You will be escorted with honor and protection. You are to comply.”

The scroll was pressed into his hands.

Taehyung stared at it, his fingers curling around the parchment as though it might vanish.

He couldn’t read it.

He couldn’t even form the words to ask what it said. All he could see was the royal seal, gleaming, weighty, and undeniably real.

Behind him, the oil lamp inside flickered. The soft light made his pale features glow, cheekbones dusted pink from sun and wind, lashes fluttering over wide, bewildered eyes. His lips parted, but no sound escaped.

The crowd behind the guards had swelled now, more than a dozen people loitered just beyond the circle, whispering harshly.

“He’s never even stepped foot in a real school.”

“Scholar? What scholar? The boy barely speaks half the time!”

“He’s poor. This is favoritism. Or filth.”

“I heard he was seen with a noble…”

“Maybe he’s someone’s… plaything.”

Envy coiled in the air like smoke. Some omegas clutched their chests, offended that one of their own, unkempt, unread, and unguarded, would be lifted so high. A few sneered. Some betas scoffed.

Others simply stared, uneasy. Curious. Frightened.

Taehyung could barely breathe.

He bowed his head quickly, muttered, “I… I understand,” though he wasn’t sure he did. At all.

The guards gave no reaction. Their duty done, they turned crisply on their heels and marched back to their waiting horses. A sharp whistle cut through the air as hooves met dirt, and within seconds, they vanished down the hill.

The scroll was still in his hand.

The silence was louder than any crowd’s roar.

“Why him?” someone muttered bitterly.

“I bet he can’t even open the scroll the right way.”

From a shadowed alley across the square, Hoseok stood cloaked, watching from behind a stack of crates. His arms were folded, but his jaw was tense.

His eyes never left Taehyung.

When the scroll was handed over, Hoseok subtly tilted his head, making sure the exchange was clean, no one interfered, no threats lingered. He noted every hostile glance and sneer. He saw the way Taehyung’s fingers trembled as he held the parchment. The way his shoulders curled inward, as though shielding himself from a storm he didn’t summon.

‘It’s already begun,’ Hoseok thought grimly. “He’ll need more protecting.”

Taehyung backed slowly toward his door. He clutched the scroll like a lifeline, or a curse. He did not cry, but the corner of his eyes shimmered faintly with unshed confusion.

He turned, disappeared into the doorway, and quietly closed the door behind him.

The wood clicked shut.

And the whispers swelled.

He stood frozen, back pressed against the doorframe, the scroll still clutched in his trembling hands. His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes wide as if the walls around him had turned unfamiliar. The tiny home, so quiet, so familiar just minutes ago, now felt smaller. Pressing in around him like a secret.

The golden seal winked at him beneath the flickering light of the oil lamp.

A scroll.

From the palace.

He stepped forward slowly, knees weak, feet dragging slightly as if each step pulled him deeper into something vast and irreversible. At the low table where he kept his parchment scraps, he sat. His hands, still rough from daily labor, gently set the scroll down. His fingertips brushed the fine edge, hesitant, reverent.

He tried to untie the seal.

His fingers fumbled.

The knot was tight, ceremonial, not the kind of twine used to tie sacks of grain or fix hems on his hanbok. He didn’t want to tear it but the knot would not loosen, no matter how gently he tried.

With a soft gasp of frustration, Taehyung finally tugged it open.

The scroll unfurled.

Words, lines and lines of elegant, sharp ink strokes, spilled out before him.

And none of it made sense.

A soft breath escaped his lips. His eyes blurred. He blinked hard. He tried to find a shape he recognized, a character that felt familiar. But the brushwork was too refined, too foreign to his slow, stuttering knowledge. His own practice sheets lay curled in the corner, scratched and smudged with repetition. He was learning. He loved writing.

But this—this was a scholar’s letter. A royal summons.

And he could not read it.

His fingers hovered over the page.

“I don’t understand…” he whispered.

He felt so foolish.

He who longed for language. Who stole moments from hunger and labor to copy the strokes of other hands. Who bartered for scraps of ink and dulled brushes.

Tears welled slowly. He bit his lip and wiped them away before they could fall.

“Why me?” he whispered into the stillness.

-

Jungkook stood by the open windows of his private study, sunlight casting fractured patterns of light across the lacquered floor. A gentle breeze stirred the silken drapes, but it did nothing to calm the tight coil in his chest.

Then came a knock.

Yoongi entered first, silent and sharp-eyed. Hoseok followed, less severe but no less focused.

“Your Highness,” the Hoseok said. “The summons has been delivered. As you instructed, no detail was spared. The scroll was handed personally and witnessed by all.”

Jungkook’s gaze narrowed. “And his reaction?”

“He said nothing,” Hoseok answered, stepping forward. “He looked... stunned. Shaken. He couldn’t even speak, but he accepted it.”

Jungkook’s throat bobbed with a silent swallow.

“He looks scared,” Hoseok added gently, lowering his voice.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered toward Jungkook, watching him closely.

The prince exhaled quietly.

He turned from the window and walked toward the map of the city laid flat across his table. His hand curled into a loose fist.

“They will devour him,” he murmured, his voice low.

Jungkook closed his eyes for a breath. “The moment he sets foot in this palace, their eyes will swarm him. Greedy. Vicious. They will see only threat or temptation.”

Yoongi spoke next, arms crossed. “Then you must ensure they know his place—before they choose it for him.”

A long silence stretched.

Then Jungkook nodded. “I will.”

He looked at Namjoon seated nearby, calm as ever, already scribbling details across a scroll.

“Have the trusted staff attend him. None from the Inner Circle. None with ties to the courtier clans.” Jungkook said

Namjoon gave a firm nod. “I’ve begun already.”

Jungkook’s gaze darkened, though his voice remained composed.

“I want no rumors of this until he is beneath this roof.”

“You know that will be impossible,” Yoongi said, mouth twitching. “There are already whispers flying through the silk halls like bees in summer.”

“I don’t care what they whisper,” Jungkook said softly, “so long as none dare lay a hand on him.”

A quiet fell across the room.

Jungkook turned again toward the window. Somewhere out there, in a part of the capital no royal ever dared to tread, was a beautiful omega with ink-stained fingers, clutching a scroll he could not read.

But Jungkook remembered his eyes. The night he saved him. The tears that followed. The trembling, and the kindness in his voice.

And the way he had said Jungkook’s name like it meant something.

Soon… he would bring Taehyung into the lion’s den.

But not without armor.

-

The morning air in the west wing of the palace was thick with perfume, silk, and whispers.

Inside the Lady Hwa's estate hall, one of the wealthiest families aligned with the Queen’s lineage, two women sat reclined on crimson floor cushions as servants fanned them lazily, their sleeves heavy with embroidery and gossip.

“A new scholar?” one noblewoman asked, lifting her cup of floral tea to her lips. “In the Queen’s former quarters, no less?”

Lady Hwa scoffed. “Do not insult us. That is no common ‘scholar.’ He’s an omega—of that I’m sure. A beautiful one, they say. And not from any known family.” She set her teacup down with a sharp click. “A rat, plucked from the gutter, now sitting where the Queen once did.”

Her sister-in-law leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You think the Crown Prince—”

“I know it,” Lady Hwa snapped. “No other would dare move someone into that hall without the King’s blessing. And the King... has not blessed anything.”

In the garden court beyond the screen doors, two noble sons practiced swordplay, but one—Min Youngwoo, the Beta heir of the Min family, paused mid-thrust and turned toward the screen with a frown.

“Mother,” he called, “they say the Crown Prince himself ordered this.”

His cousin, the third-born son of House Yun, added, “They say the omega is a ghost. And still, they chose him.”

“They?” Lady Hwa hissed, lips curling. “No. He. The crowned prince did this. And mark my words—he will regret it.”

There was a long pause as the women exchanged silent looks.

“Gather the court ladies,” Lady Hwa said coldly. “It is time we remind His Highness of the kind of consort he should choose.”

-

The sun dipped low behind the rooftops of the poor quarter, casting golden ribbons through the cracked slats of Taehyung’s window.

Inside, Taehyung moved slowly, folding his spare robe, worn soft by countless washes and setting it carefully beside the small pouch of coins he’d earned that day. His hands trembled slightly.

The scroll lay on the low table, untouched since yesterday.

A formal summons.

An invitation, they called it.

To the palace.

He had turned the words over and over in his head, despite never reading them. Every breath since had been heavy with disbelief. With fear. With curiosity.

He pulled out the brush Jungkook, he still did not know it was him, had gifted him days ago. The bristles were still neat, the handle a smooth black lacquer that made him feel like someone important each time he held it.

He dipped it gently into his little pot of ink and pressed it to a torn scrap of parchment.

ㅇ… ㅏ…

The strokes were clumsy, but gentle. The letters for his name, written again and again.

It helped him breathe.

But only just.

Outside, there was noise.

“I heard he’s been chosen,” a loud voice sneered. “The beautiful little nobody. He must have a rich patron now.”

“Probably threw himself into a nobleman’s bed,” said another, harsher voice. “That’s how omegas like that get pulled into the palace. You think it’s for merit?”

“He doesn’t even read,” spat one.

Taehyung’s hand clenched around the brush.

He worked another errand that late afternoon, returning a basket of dried fish to a kind elder who gave him an extra piece of flatbread and murmured, “Eat, my child. You’ll need strength wherever the gods are taking you.”

It brought tears to his eyes, but he bowed deeply in thanks and hurried away.

By the time the moon rose, his bag was packed.

He only had 4 robes, the rest were worn too thin to carry. He had no books. No silks. No heirlooms. He wrapped the calligraphy brush in a cloth and slid it into his sash. The scroll, unread, he rolled carefully and tied it shut again.

As he stepped outside into the night air for a while, the cool wind brushed his cheeks.

He gazed at the crooked lines of the only home he’d ever known.

A broken roof.

A garden that never bloomed.

Walls thin enough to let in winter.

And yet, his chest ached at the thought of leaving it.

His steps faltered. His feet stopped.

Could he really go?

He could run, now. Disappear. Vanish into the mountains like the old folk tales. Change his name. Start over somewhere new.

But...

Where would he go?

Who would help him?

He inhaled slowly and turned back toward the door. His eyes lingered for a moment. Then he exhaled.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

The air inside Jungkook’s study was thick with quiet tension.

Morning sunlight filtered through the paper doors, casting long shadows over the lacquered floors and scrolls on his desk. A cup of untouched tea steamed gently beside his hand, the scent of dried plum fading into the silence.

He hadn’t touched it.

Across the room, Namjoon stood by the windows, flipping slowly through a report. Jimin and Seokjin sat nearby, whispering to one another about the last-minute changes to the late Queen’s former hall. Hoseok leaned on the far wall, arms crossed, lips twitching with suppressed amusement. And Yoongi said nothing. He simply watched the Crown Prince.

Jungkook’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his seat, each beat betraying the storm behind his composed face.

He was restless. Irritated.

Impatient.

“Has the escort left the gates?” he asked, voice sharp but low.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Namjoon replied without looking up. “As you commanded. They should arrive shortly.”

Jungkook nodded once but did not speak.

Jimin, sensing the brooding, rose and poured fresh tea for the Prince, placing it gently before him. “Breathe, Guk-ah,” he said gently, with that familial tone only he could use. “You’ve prepared everything. He will arrive safely.”

Jungkook glanced at him, gaze still simmering with tightly reined energy. “I should’ve gone myself.”

“And be seen?” Yoongi finally spoke, raising an eyebrow. “Let every vulture and official know who you brought into the palace? We’d have more blood than rumors.”

“Let them bleed,” Jungkook muttered “I want to see him.” He said almost pouting.

“Ah,” Hoseok laughed softly. “He’s smitten.”

Seokjin hummed. “He’s worse than smitten. He’s…” he searched for the word, then smirked, “…ruined.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, lips twitching ever so slightly.

But his mind, his thoughts, they were already far away, tracing the winding roads of the capital, following a small, cloaked figure being led by royal guards.

-

The sun had only just crested the rooftops, golden light slanting across the thatched village lanes, casting soft warmth over cracked clay walls and early cookfires. Birds rustled in the trees, and the air held the freshness of a morning not yet weighed down by heat.

But the peace was pierced by the sound of hooves.

Royal guards.

Their dark steeds moved with disciplined grace, and the villagers paused where they stood, water basins still in hand, brooms halted mid-sweep, words caught mid-sentence.

The sight of royal uniforms, crisp navy with silver trim, was not common in this place, and never without purpose.

Children scampered to the sides of the road. Elders shaded their eyes. The whispers began before the guards had even fully dismounted.

“They’re here for the boy.”

“The pretty one, what’s his name again?”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“He’s really going, then…”

The guards said nothing at first. They walked with quiet efficiency, their boots thudding against packed dirt as they approached the smallest home on the edge of the village.

That was where Taehyung lived.

The door creaked open before they could knock.

He had been waiting. Or rather, unable to sleep.

Taehyung stepped out slowly, dressed in his best, a soft, pale blue hanbok that had been stitched and restitched by hand, sleeves too long for his wrists, but freshly laundered and lovingly pressed. A cloth bundle was tied at his back with the few things he owned. His fingers trembled where they clutched it.

His eyes flickered to the guards, then past them to the growing crowd of villagers peeking from behind fences and corners.

Taehyung swallowed.

The lead guard stepped forward and bowed, not low, but respectful. From his sleeve, he withdrew a scroll bearing the crimson seal of the palace and held it out.

“Kim Taehyung,” he said clearly. “By decree of a high-ranking patron within the royal court, you are summoned to reside in the palace as a royal scholar. You are expected to report within the hour.”

The words echoed, bouncing through the alleyways like a sudden gust of wind.

Taehyung’s lips parted.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He had never once stepped beyond the town’s edge. Never once imagined his name would be spoken alongside the words “palace” or “summoned.” His legs felt unsteady beneath him, his throat tightening with something between awe and fear.

The guard pressed the scroll gently into his hands.

"You are to come with us now. Do you understand?"

Taehyung nodded shakily, though he couldn’t read the document. He clutched it tightly anyway.

Behind him, an elder woman from two houses down sniffed, wiping at her cheek. “Such a gentle child,” she murmured. “He deserves better than this dirt and dust.”

“He doesn’t even know what awaits him,” muttered another.

“Must be his face,” someone else said with a trace of bitterness. “They always want the pretty ones.”

A Beta man sneered. “Bet he’ll be someone's consort before long.”

“No,” a younger voice argued, “he’s going to be a scholar. It was announced.”

“Pfft. What would a pretty, poor omega like him do in a scholar's court?”

Taehyung heard it all, the admiration, the envy, the cruelty laced in low voices.

But he said nothing. He kept his head bowed. His fingers clung to the parchment.

From a hidden wall not far off, Hoseok watched with calm intensity, hand on the hilt of his blade beneath his robes. His eyes scanned the crowd, reading every twitch of envy, every whisper that twisted too close to malice. But none moved forward. None dared interrupt.

Not with those guards standing tall.

Not with Hoseok’s gaze fixed and ready.

The lead guard turned toward his prince’s new scholar.

“Are you prepared?”

Taehyung looked to the home he had just left, the door he had patched a dozen times, the pile of old parchments tucked under his bedding, the last loaf of bread sitting on the low table inside.

“I... I am,” he whispered.

And with that, the guards led him toward the horses. One offered a hand to help him mount. Taehyung hesitated, just a breath and then took it.

He did not look back.

But as the villagers murmured and stared, as hooves began to carry him away from everything he’d known, the morning light caught the side of his face.

So pale. So delicate. So heartbreakingly composed.

The crowd fell silent.

And Hoseok, from the shadows, exhaled quietly and follows.

‘The prince will be pleased.’

The gates of the palace loomed like a painting from the heavens, wide and tall, carved with dragons and phoenixes, their gold-dusted tips glinting under the soft light of the late afternoon. Guards stood at attention, unmoving, their eyes forward but always watching. The air here was different. It was cleaner. Thinner. Heavy with silence and power.

Taehyung sat stiffly on the horse, his hands white-knuckled where they held the reins, though the guard had offered to guide it for him. He had declined with a small shake of his head.

He did not want to look weak.

But inside him, a storm brewed, nerves, confusion, fear, and something else. The strange tug of fate.

He barely remembered the road that led them here. His thoughts were too loud, his senses too full. When they passed through the outer gates, he dared to look around, ivory walls stretched on and on, lined with blooming trees, trimmed grass, and delicate stone paths that shimmered faintly with dust. Eunuchs bowed as they passed. Maids paused to stare. Some of them whispered behind their sleeves.

“Is that the one?”

“He looks young.”

“Too pretty.”

“But a scholar? Truly?”

He heard them all.

His ears burned.

When they finally reached the quieter inner quarters, one of the guards dismounted and bowed to him.

“This is the side hall you shall stay in. It was once a royal chamber. Be at ease. You are safe here.”

Taehyung could not speak.

His gaze swept the pale wooden floors, the paper windows with their intricate designs, and the quiet courtyard beyond. Cherry trees swayed gently with the wind. It felt sacred. Far too grand for someone like him.

He stepped down with care, almost afraid to let his feet touch the polished stone.

“This way, scholar Kim,” one of the eunuchs said kindly. “We will show you to your room.”

Taehyung only nodded, clutching his small bundle tightly. His eyes lingered on everything, the lamps, the scrolls, the soft silk curtains, all things he had only seen from far away in the markets. Now he would live among them?

He swallowed hard.

His chest ached with something he couldn’t name.

Back in the heart of the palace, the late sun spilled through wide windows, casting long gold shadows on the polished floors. Jungkook stood near the open doors of his study, gazing outward with a thoughtful frown. Namjoon stood behind him, arms crossed. Yoongi leaned casually by the desk, sipping tea, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.

Hoseok entered with a small bow. “Your Highness,” he said quietly, “He has arrived.”

Jungkook turned, and his breath hitched, just a little.

“…Is he well?”

“As far as we know,” Hoseok said. “The guards delivered him safely to the late Queen’s former chambers. He was quiet. Shocked, perhaps. But unharmed.”

Hoseok smiled faintly. “I watched from the shadows. He did not cry. He stood tall.”

Yoongi nodded once. “He is brave. Even while trembling.”

Jungkook looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers before curling them slowly into a fist. His voice was low, burdened. “I do not know if I deserve to stand before him. Not yet.”

“You owe him that and more,” Namjoon said, ever calm. “It was your will that changed his fate. Should you not also be the one to ease it?”

The Crown Prince remained still for a breath.

Then he turned, eyes dark with resolve.

“Summon my attendants. I will not wear these,” he said, plucking at the silk sleeve of his royal robe. “Bring something simple. A noble’s hanbok—nothing more.”

Yoongi straightened. “You intend to meet him not as the Crown Prince?”

“I will not frighten him,” Jungkook murmured. “Let him see me first. Let him know me—not my title.”

Hoseok let out a quiet breath of amusement. “A noble heart hidden in common robes. How poetic.”

But Jungkook’s eyes burned with seriousness.

He turned to his chief eunuch, who had stepped forward silently.

“Listen well,” Jungkook said, his voice cutting clean as a blade. “None of you are to speak a word of who I am to Scholar Kim Taehyung. Not in passing. Not in jest. Not in dream. If even a whisper leaves your lips, you will be beaten. And worse—death.”

The eunuch dropped to his knees immediately. “Yes, Your Highness. Understood.”

The maids and younger eunuchs bowed low behind him, not daring to breathe.

Even Hoseok and Yoongi, used to Jungkook’s wrath, sobered.

“…You are quite terrifying when in love,” Yoongi muttered.

Hoseok gave a strangled laugh, quickly smothered with a hand.

Jungkook ignored them both.

He turned his gaze once more toward the distant building, his mother’s old chambers, now graced with the quiet presence of a trembling omega he longed to protect.

“I will not let him fear me,” Jungkook said softly. “He has known too much fear already.”

Namjoon nodded in approval. “Then go to him. But go with patience. He has not lived in a world that showed him kindness.”

The prince’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.

“I will show him,” he said. “Even if I must start as a stranger.”

The sun was warm upon the lacquered tiles, casting soft golden light over the outer courtyard of the late queen’s chamber, now polished anew for its newest occupant.

Jungkook stood at the edge of the walkway, eyes fixed ahead, heart beating with an absurd rhythm he would deny to his dying breath.

There, just a few steps away, was Kim Taehyung.

The omega stood near the pond, his hands folded behind his back, head tilted as he gazed up at the rooftop carvings with wide, awed eyes. The breeze caught the ends of his sleeve, fluttering them like petals. His soft hair shone beneath the sun, and his expression was one of innocent wonder.

Jungkook swallowed.

And took a step back.

Yoongi raised a brow. “What—?”

Jungkook cleared his throat and took a step forward.

Then stopped.

Then back again.

The royal entourage, eight eunuchs, ten maids, and his head attendant, had been waiting in perfect formation behind him. His sudden shuffle backward made them step in confusion and the poor head eunuch nearly collided into his back.

The man gasped in horror, his arms windmilling as he caught himself before his hands could so much as graze the royal’s robes. “Forgive me, Your Highness!” he cried, nearly going pale.

“I—!” Jungkook turned, composed as ever, though the tips of his ears were undeniably red. “You are not to speak that word!”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the eunuch bowed deeply, visibly trembling.

Hoseok had turned around and was now coughing loudly into his sleeve, shoulders shaking.

Yoongi’s lips twitched. “Should we summon a mirror, Your Highness?” he said with mock solemnity. “To fix your hair again for the fourth time? Or shall we fetch new shoes as well?”

Jungkook shot him a cold look. “I can still have you both reassigned to the barracks.”

“Only if you admit you're about to run like a maiden in spring,” Hoseok muttered silently with a grin.

“I am not running,” Jungkook snapped, though he took another cautious half-step behind the nearest pillar.

From across the courtyard, Taehyung shifted, the motion drawing Jungkook’s gaze like a tether. The omega leaned slightly forward to peer at a wind chime, his lips parting as he whispered something to himself, entirely unaware of the prince watching from mere meters away.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing stillness into his stance. “He is just… very bright.”

“Mm,” Yoongi said dryly. “Shining like the midday sun, blinding our noble prince.”

The maids giggled softly, then froze when Jungkook turned his head slightly. One of them audibly choked on her breath and stared at the ground.

Jungkook ignored them all and adjusted his sleeves for the fifth time.

Hoseok leaned toward Yoongi. “Should we push him?”

“Touch me and I’ll have your fingers broken,” Jungkook said, voice soft but full of promise.

Yoongi snorted.

Finally, after a breath, then another, Jungkook straightened his shoulders, tucked a stray strand behind his ear, and began to walk toward Taehyung, composed and cold once more. His simple robes whispered with grace, his posture perfect.

But from behind, the eunuchs and maids remained wide-eyed and stiff, silently praying the prince wouldn’t change his mind again and send them into another back-and-forth dance of near-fatal mistakes.

Yoongi just folded his arms with a knowing smirk. “Love makes even wolves hesitate.”

Jungkook halted mid-step, a realization striking him like a stone to the head, his entire royal entourage was trailing behind him like over-dressed ducklings. He didn't want to be seen. Not like this. Not with a parade of silk-draped maids, stiff-backed eunuchs, and nervous palace scribes trailing behind like anxious geese.

Jungkook inhaled sharply.

This would not do.

He turned abruptly, voice low and cold. “All of you. Leave.”

The head eunuch blinked. “P-pardon, Your Highness?”

“Go. Disperse. I don’t want you all here.”

“B-but Your Highness—” the poor man stammered, clearly panicking. “That is... we cannot… we must remain in...”

“I do not require your assistance right now,” Jungkook said, slower this time, like he was speaking to a particularly dense child. “I require your absence.”

“But Your Highness,” the head eunuch choked, now visibly sweating. “Protocol requires—your safety—what if you drop a handkerchief or—”

“Then I shall die handkerchief-less,” Jungkook said, tone glacial.

Yoongi turned away completely, biting the inside of his cheek.

Hoseok folded both arms across his chest and stared at the sky like it was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.

The head eunuch’s hands flailed in despair. “We… but the law, Your Highness—what if someone sees us abandoning you? The rumors! What will the King say—”

“Shall I have your tongue instead?” Jungkook said, tilting his head with just enough menace.

The head eunuch squeaked. Literal squeaked. Then immediately turned to the others. “GO! GO NOW—THE CROWNED PRINCE COMMANDS!”

“You little—! Don’t go shouting my title like that, you absolute imbecile!”

Like startled deer, the entourage scattered. One maid tripped over her skirt trying to curtsy mid-run. Another eunuch dropped his ink kit and scrambled to pick it up, hands trembling, before scampering after the others like a wind-blown leaf. A scribe attempted to bow, twirl, and walk backward all at once, he failed miserably.

Within seconds, the once-imposing royal escort vanished behind the outer corridor, breathless and disoriented, leaving behind a strange echo of clattering shoes and whispered prayers.

Yoongi, deadpan, “They looked ready to throw themselves in a moat.”

Hoseok nodded. “We should keep that threat in mind. Useful.”

Jungkook adjusted his collar, eyes forward. “Now I wanna hang them,” he muttered.

“Mm. Terrifying mist,” Yoongi added under his breath.

Across the sun-dappled courtyard, Taehyung now stood just beyond the threshold of the chamber, framed by the tall doors and soft golden light that spilled from within. He had turned slightly, drawn by some quiet instinct and his gaze found Jungkook.

Jungkook stilled, breath locking in his throat.

Their eyes met, for the first time in days.

And in that fragile silence, something shifted.

A flicker of recognition passed over Taehyung’s delicate features. His brows rose faintly, lips parting just so. He looked as though he were piecing together a dream, soft, half-remembered and realizing it stood before him in flesh and bone. The omega’s posture straightened, not stiffly, but like someone who wasn’t sure if they should bow or simply breathe.

‘He remembers me’, Jungkook thought, his chest tightening.

The Crown Prince swallowed, throat dry. This wasn’t how he meant to reveal himself, not lingering awkwardly just beyond the courtyard gates like some brooding character from a romance folktale.

He had hoped to slip in quietly. Speak first. Control the moment

But fate, it seemed, had different plans.

At least Taehyung hadn’t seen the absurd spectacle that was his royal entourage, cloaks fluttering, sandals slapping against stone as they’d hurried away moments ago like geese scattered by wind. Jungkook still remembered the startled squeak of the head eunuch narrowly avoiding a collision with his back.

He’d deal with that later.

For now… he straightened his spine, let his shoulders fall into a graceful line. The heavy air around him settled, and he pulled in a quiet breath through his nose, calming his racing heart.

Yoongi and Hoseok stood behind him still, silent shadows, though he could feel Hoseok’s amused grin without even looking.

This was it.

And so, with all the poise of a Crown Prince and all the nerves of a boy stealing his first glimpse of a crush, Jungkook stepped forward—finally.

It was time to meet him again.

Properly.

Even if his heart still pounded like war drums in his chest.

Chapter Text

The doors opened with a soft creak, and Taehyung stepped slowly inside.

The chamber was far too grand.

Sunlight filtered in through silk-draped windows, spilling across polished wood floors and painting everything in hues of gold and rose. The scent of fresh blossoms lingered in the corners, floral and light, mingling faintly with the distant hint of ink and cedar.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, hands clasped tightly in front of him, his heart thudding loud in his chest.

This… this place would be his now?

It felt like a mistake.

The ceilings were high, too high, and the walls too wide. His quiet breaths echoed faintly, swallowed up by all the empty space. A carved desk sat neatly against one side, with a brush stand already arranged. A small sleeping area partitioned by woven screens waited in the far corner, draped with pale silk and soft cushions.

Everything looked untouched. Sacred. Meant for someone else.

He walked forward, careful not to let his worn shoes scuff the floor, his fingers brushing the lacquered surface of the desk. Smooth. Cool. As if it had never been used.

A small table held parchment, real parchment and beside it, a ceramic inkstone and water jar shaped like a crane in flight. It must have cost more than his whole house. He stared at it, swallowing hard.

His home flashed in his mind. The patched roof. The faded walls. The cot with the uneven legs. The jar of wild berries he’d gathered last week to survive the rising tax.

He took a breath.

It felt wrong to be here. Unfair. Like he was trespassing in a dream he didn’t deserve.

But then again, he hadn’t chosen this.

He stepped quietly toward the open doors that led to the courtyard.

Outside, the palace garden breathed under the afternoon sun. A koi pond glittered off to one side, pale stones winding a path beneath cherry trees just beginning to bloom.

Taehyung stood there a long while, arms loosely crossed over his chest, head tilted toward the soft rustle of leaves.

No one was nearby. Just the hum of distant palace life, the faint clatter of dishes, the murmur of eunuchs, and birds chirping overhead like they hadn’t noticed the world had changed for him overnight.

He sat, slowly, at the edge of the low veranda. Folded his hands in his lap.

What life is this…? he wondered.

He should be grateful. He was grateful. But beneath that gratitude, there was a quiet coil of unease.

Why had they summoned him? Why call a poor, illiterate omega from the outskirts and place him in the hall that once housed royalty?

He closed his eyes.

He missed the sounds of the old street. The cranky old woman two doors down shouting at goats. The hum of the town bell. The scent of stone and dust. Of survival.

Now there were flowers.

Now there were koi.

Now there were whispers, he could feel them coming, the weight of them already pressing behind his back.

“I don’t belong here,” he whispered to himself.

But still, he stayed seated, and he lifted his chin. Because somehow, he knew, he had to endure this. Whether it was kindness or trap, fate or manipulation, it had brought him here.

And he would see it through.

He hadn't meant to look. Truly, he hadn’t. But something had tugged at his senses, a sudden stillness in the air, like the hush before rain. And when he turned. There he was.

The noble from before.

The one with eyes like midnight fire and a presence that had made his heart race in that shadowed alley, even when danger had wrapped around them both like fog.

Now, in the quiet golden light of the courtyard, Taehyung stood frozen as the man crossed the gate.

Gone was the blood and moonlight from that night. In its place, soft morning light traced over the sharp lines of the stranger’s face, catching at the strands of his dark hair, making him look almost too striking to be real.

His heart gave one startled thump, then another.

He was walking toward him.

No, he was walking straight to him.

Taehyung’s fingers curled at his sides, just slightly, trying to ground himself. Was this really happening? Why would someone so noble, so important-looking, seek out someone like him?

Is it because I saved him?

But that didn’t make sense. Nobles didn’t seek out debt. They paid it off and forgot you. They didn’t look at you like…

Like that.

The noble’s gaze was steady but not hard. Focused. It made Taehyung want to look away, but his feet wouldn’t move. His body didn’t quite obey him.

He felt too aware of everything, how worn his robes were, the frayed hem of his sleeves, the smudge of ink at the corner of his hand he hadn’t noticed earlier. His heart drummed in his chest like a war song, loud and frantic.

"He's... coming here," Taehyung whispered, barely audible.

Behind the man were only two others, he recognized them vaguely from that night as well. Warriors, perhaps? Their silence was loud. The whole courtyard felt like it held its breath.

Taehyung fought the urge to retreat, to hide back in the chamber, but something else rooted him in place. A strange sort of pull.

A need to know why.

He wet his lips, eyes fluttering briefly toward the tiled ground before lifting again as the man drew closer.

So beautiful, he thought. No, too dangerous a thought. Too bold.

Still, the noble’s presence struck something deep in his chest, a curious ache he didn’t understand. Taehyung barely registered that he had bowed to show respect. His voice, when it came, trembled just beneath the surface.

“We’ve met again, my lord.”

Jungkook stiffened, just slightly then cleared his throat. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, posture regal, expression composed… if one didn’t look too closely.

Because close up, his ears had turned pink.

He inclined his head, his voice lower than usual, more careful. “So, we have.”

Taehyung blinked up at him, wide eyes filled with curiosity. His hair caught the sunlight in soft waves, his cheeks still flushed from the walk, lips parted slightly as though tasting the air. And Jungkook, mighty Crown Prince of the realm found himself subtly stepping back… because if he leaned forward even an inch, he might drown in that face.

Behind him, Yoongi crossed his arms slowly.

Hoseok leaned toward him and whispered, “He’s gone. Look at him.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. His smirk was enough.

“I… I did not expect to see you again,” Taehyung said, bowing his head once more. “And here of all places. Are you the reason… I was brought here?” he asked softly, clutching the rolled parchment tied at his waist. “Forgive me if it is improper to ask.”

Jungkook hesitated. His first instinct was to lie, to pretend he knew nothing. But faced with the earnest tilt of Taehyung’s head, the soft sweep of his lashes, the delicate tremble in his voice… he found himself caught.

“I am,” he said at last, simply.

Taehyung’s eyes widened a little. “Ah… I see.” He bowed again, deeper this time. “Then… I thank you. I do not know what I’ve done to earn such a kindness, but I shall do my best.”

Silence lingered, soft and uncertain.

Jungkook exhaled quietly and added, “I learned… that you love calligraphy. That despite your circumstances, you found comfort in words you could not yet read. And still, you tried to understand them. You tried to create beauty.”

Taehyung blinked at him, lips parting in surprise.

“I thought…” Jungkook continued, eyes flickering to the scroll at Taehyung’s waist. “Perhaps you deserved a place where you could learn freely. Without fear of being mocked. Without scrambling for scraps.”

His voice lowered just slightly, with an edge of something deeper. “And… because you saved my life.”

Taehyung’s gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers tightening on the scroll. “I didn’t do much…”

“You did more than enough,” Jungkook said firmly. “You saw a stranger in danger, and you acted without hesitation. You shielded someone with nothing to gain. That is… not common in this world.”

Taehyung swallowed.

Jungkook looked away then, just briefly, the words pressing against his throat, unsaid. ‘Because I could not forget you. Because you lingered even in my sleep. Because something in you makes the world quieter.’

But he only said, “So I asked for you to be brought here.”

‘Not as a favor. Not as repayment. But because watching you from afar was not enough.’

‘Because I wanted to see you—here, where I could protect you.’

Taehyung stood still, stunned. He didn’t understand all of it, he didn’t know what it meant to have someone of such high standing say such things to someone like him but he heard the sincerity in Jungkook’s voice, and it trembled through his heart like a distant bell.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Jungkook opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

The omega’s scent was overwhelming, soft, warm, maddening. It clung to the air, curling around his senses, and he struggled to breathe past it, to think through the haze.

It was warm, fresh and soft, like morning rice cakes and honeysuckle, like parchment left under the sun. It wrapped around his senses and settled deep in his lungs, and he had to fight to keep his expression still.

“Your… your hall is to your liking?” he asked, and even Yoongi blinked at how uncertain Jungkook sounded.

“Yes!” Taehyung’s face lit up like a lantern, his eyes wide with awe. “It’s so—so grand. I thought I had gotten lost twice already just trying to find the front steps.”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood before Jungkook, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“But… if it pleases you, my lord, may I perhaps ask…” Taehyung trailed off, looking down at his hand as if it might shield him from embarrassment. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, truly I don’t—please don’t think that I am—but… this hall is far too big for someone like me.”

He peeked up with hesitant eyes before quickly glancing away again.

“I only thought… perhaps, if there is a more modest chamber elsewhere, one that doesn’t echo when I breathe or make my steps sound like thunder,” he said with a sheepish smile, “I might not feel so… undeserving.”

A pause.

“I… I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “That was bold of me. I shouldn’t be asking for more when I’ve been given so much. I know my place, and I—”

“You do not need to apologize,” Jungkook interrupted, his voice soft but firm.

Taehyung stopped rambling, startled, looking up.

There was a faint smile on Jungkook’s lips, small, but warm, like a rare bloom in early spring. His eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, now held something gentler as they rested on the flustered omega.

“You speak as though comfort is not something you deserve,” Jungkook said. “But I brought you here not to humble you, Taehyung. I brought you here because I believe you are worthy.”

Taehyung blinked, heart fluttering. The way Jungkook said his name, slow, careful, reverent made his knees nearly wobble.

“I wished for you to live here, in this hall,” Jungkook continued, stepping just a little closer, “because it is beautiful. Because you should not have to shrink yourself to fit into the world. Let the world adjust around you, not the other way around.”

Taehyung’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. His heart thudded in his chest.

“So no,” Jungkook added gently, eyes bright with amusement. “I will not grant that request.”

Taehyung gaped. “Oh.”

Jungkook’s smile deepened faintly, seeing how adorably stunned the omega looked, like a kitten caught mid-step.

“You will stay here,” he said. “And you will learn to walk these floors as though they were made for you.”

Taehyung stared at him for a long moment before his gaze dropped, cheeks blooming red. “…Yes, my lord.”

Yoongi snorted behind Jungkook. Hoseok muffled a laugh behind his sleeve.

Taehyung looked past Jungkook then, noticing the two alphas standing a few steps behind.

“Oh! I remember you,” he said with a small, shy smile, his eyes landing on Yoongi. “You… you helped me that night.” Then to Hoseok, “And I believe I saw you before as well, near the market?”

Hoseok gave a delighted bow, grinning wide. “It is an honor that you recall, lovely one.”

Yoongi inclined his head silently, though his gaze was soft. “I am glad to see you unharmed.”

Taehyung bowed to them politely before turning back to Jungkook. His hands fidgeted now, pulling slightly at the ribbon of his sleeves.

“Forgive me,” he said hesitantly. “I’m… still unsure of how to behave in a place like this.”

“You needn’t try so hard,” Jungkook replied, his voice unusually gentle. “Just be as you are.”

Taehyung blinked. “As I am?”

Jungkook’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. “Yes. You’re doing just fine.”

A pause. Then.

“Your Highness.”

The voice belonged to the head eunuch, who had discreetly returned and was now nervously peeking from behind the pillar.

“Shall we prepare the courtyard for refreshments?”

Jungkook turned his head slowly, like a predator who’d spotted prey.

The eunuch shrank behind the post.

Yoongi murmured, amused, “Did he forget the order to vanish?”

Hoseok whispered, “He’s braver than I thought.”

Taehyung tilted his head, confusion painting his expression. “Your Highness…?”

Jungkook froze.

Every muscle in his frame turned stiff as carved stone. Slowly, he turned his head, just enough to shoot a piercing, venom-laced glare toward his head eunuch, who visibly blanched.

The poor man went pale as rice paper.

Without missing a beat, Jungkook cleared his throat and turned back to Taehyung with a calm, practiced smile, one that was just a bit too tight around the edges.

“Ah, no. A jest,” he said smoothly. “A foolish habit among my staff. They like to tease me with grand titles for amusement.”

He sent another look at the eunuch over his shoulder, this one quieter and even more dangerous.

“I shall be hanging him later,” Jungkook added flatly.

The eunuch squeaked in horror and bowed so deeply it looked as if he were about to kiss the courtyard stones. “This lowly servant begs His—er—my lord’s mercy!”

Yoongi coughed to hide a snort. Hoseok turned to face the wall, shoulders shaking.

Taehyung blinked slowly, lips parted as if unsure whether he was supposed to laugh or be horrified.

“I—oh,” he said at last. “I see. That is… quite the jest.”

Jungkook nodded solemnly. “Indeed. The man is famed for his humor.”

Behind him, the eunuch looked like he might faint on the spot.

“It won’t happen again,” Jungkook muttered, mostly to himself, rubbing at his temple. “At least not if he wishes to keep his head.”

Taehyung tilted his head slightly again, watching the strange dynamic with wide eyes. “You’re… all very unusual, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Jungkook replied automatically, before realizing that might not have been a compliment.

Yoongi leaned toward Hoseok, lips twitching. “He’s unraveling.”

“He’s already unraveled,” Hoseok grinned. “That’s the problem.”

Jungkook inhaled deeply and then exhaled through his nose, eyes briefly closing as though calling on every god of patience in the heavens. When he opened them again, he found Taehyung still watching him, curious, innocent, impossibly lovely in the golden light.

His composure faltered for the briefest second before he straightened once more.

“Shall I show you the rest of your quarters?” he asked, voice gentler now. “There are gardens behind the hall. I thought you might like them.”

Taehyung’s face brightened at once, nerves temporarily forgotten. “I would love that, my lord. I’ve never see a big a garden before.”

Jungkook offered his arm.

Yoongi leaned to Hoseok again. “Shall we follow?”

Hoseok clasped his hands behind his back like a dutiful guard and whispered, “If we must. But I won’t help if he trips over his own feet trying to impress him.”

“Let him fall,” Yoongi said. “He’ll deserve it.”

They followed behind, grinning like devils as the future king walked beside a boy who had no idea he’d already turned the palace on its head.

-

A cool breeze drifted in from the tall windows of the inner palace, rustling the silk scrolls stacked beside the King’s table. Seated upon his elevated dais, King Hyeonjo stared down at a report from the Council, his sharp eyes scanning the issues that had begun to rot quietly beneath the court’s polished surface.

Trade disruptions. Rumors of corruption. Murmurs from commoners.

The ink pressed into the parchment irritated him almost as much as the words. He scoffed, tossed the scroll aside with a flick of his bejeweled fingers, and leaned back against the cushions.

A eunuch, cloaked in official silks and bearing the golden sash of the royal chamber, bowed low before him.

“Your Majesty,” the chief eunuch intoned carefully, “the guest brought forth under the Crown Prince’s name has arrived. The young one has been placed within the Queen’s former chamber, as instructed.”

The King’s lips curled in a knowing smirk.

“So. The boy finally makes his move,” he said, his voice a purr of amusement.

He reached lazily for a small cup of tea and sipped without care. “Let him have his plaything. I shall meet this guest myself... soon. But first, let my son think he holds the reins. The young must taste the illusion of power before they learn it cuts both ways.”

The eunuch bowed again.

“Oh—and remind the steward,” the King added smoothly, “that the banquet must exceed our last by double. The King of Ryun arrives on the next full moon. I want every jeweled goblet filled, the dancers dressed in peacock silk, and every tray piled high until the very tables creak beneath it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Tell the master of entertainment to summon the best courtesans from the Gisaeng House of Jade Garden. Even the dullest Ryunese noble must know our superiority by taste, sight, and scent.” He waved his hand with finality. “Go.”

The eunuch disappeared silently, while the King’s smirk deepened.

He would allow Jungkook his mysterious guest, for now.

-
Across the courtyard of the late queen’s chamber, two maids slipped from the shadows, their steps light and silent. They moved quickly, whispering in hushed tones. Their garments were plain, unassuming but tucked beneath their sashes were discreet pins, symbols of quiet allegiance to the noble houses still scheming for power through the hands of their ambitious daughters.

“Did you see him?” one maid whispered.

“I caught a glimpse,” said the other. “Young. Very pretty. Brown robes. He looked frightened.”

“Hah. So he isn’t even of noble blood,” the first scoffed. “This will be easy.” She turned with a smirk. “Come on—we should inform our masters. The guest has arrived.”

They vanished quickly, returning to their mistresses with tidings soaked in envy and scorn.

But none of them saw the Crown Prince arrive at the chamber.

Not one spy or servant remained by the time he stepped through the outer gates, leaving Taehyung and Jungkook’s moment untouched, for now.

The ripple of gossip flowed faster than any river inside the inner palace.

A guest, no, a rival, had entered the Queen’s old chambers.

Within the halls where aspiring consorts and noble-born omegas waited like decorative birds in gilded cages, whispers slithered from lip to lip. Many of these hopefuls had waited years for even a smile from the Crown Prince, and now, a nameless beauty had entered the very hall once sacred to royalty.

In one of the garden courtyards, under the flowering plum trees, a cluster of young omegas lounged in silk.

“Did you hear? The Crown Prince’s ‘guest’ has already arrived,” one whispered, her fan hiding the bitterness twisting her painted lips.

“And he was given that chamber?” another hissed. “The one with the blue tiles and the phoenix screens?”

“Audacious,” murmured a third, her eyes narrowed. “No one’s ever stayed there. Not since Her Late Majesty.”

A beta court lady, older and sly-eyed, leaned in with a chuckle. “It must mean the prince favors him. Why else give such a room?”

Jealousy rippled like heat between them.

-

The sun cast long golden streaks across the palace courtyard, tinting the blue-tiled roof of the Queen’s old chamber with warm, burnished light. Everything shimmered in quiet tranquility, until the kitchen corridor door creaked open and two figures slipped into the outer courtyard like shadows with purpose.

“Are you sure no one saw us?” Jimin whispered, peeking back once more.

Seokjin, balancing a delicately wrapped tray of glazed buns and fruit preserves, rolled his eyes. “Please. If I was any quieter, I’d be wind itself. Stop fidgeting or you’ll drop the teapot again.”

“I did that once!”

“Twice.”

“Once and a half,” Jimin corrected indignantly, clutching the covered bowl of herbal rice and sweet plum broth with both hands.

They turned a corner and came to an abrupt stop when the pale figure of Jungkook’s head eunuch all but ran past them, his face ashen, steps clumsy, as if fleeing death itself.

Seokjin snorted without remorse. “Did Jungkook threaten to flay him again?”

“By the look of that expression,” Jimin said, “I’d say he’s been threatened with three forms of punishment and one exile.”

The eunuch, despite his obvious panic, bowed deeply upon seeing them. “My Lords,” he wheezed out. “Forgive me—I—I was just on my way to… to remind the others…”

Seokjin lifted a brow. “That what occurred here today shall not reach another ear?”

The eunuch nodded quickly.

“Good,” Seokjin said mildly, though the edge in his tone sent the eunuch trembling again. “Spread word to the other eunuchs and maids that was here earlier. No whispers, no giggles, no loose lips, or I’ll personally see to their silence.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And drink water,” Jimin added cheerfully as the eunuch half-fled again down the corridor. “You’re pale as death!”

They continued forward until the garden opened before them.

The place had changed little since the Queen once sat here, and yet something new fluttered in the air. Life. Hope. The laughter of something fragile just learning how to bloom.

Under one of the cherry blossom trees, Yoongi lounged against the trunk, arms folded, eyes closed like a fox pretending to sleep. Nearby, Hoseok crouched over a patch of wildflowers, humming to himself as he braided a chain of soft petals and carefully, almost reverently, placed it upon Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi’s eye twitched. “If this is your idea of romance…”

“You look majestic,” Hoseok whispered.

“Like a cursed spring sprite.”

Jimin let out a giggle.

Yoongi’s eyes opened immediately, one brow raised as he spotted his beloved holding a tray of food. “Ah. I wondered when you’d sneak here.”

“Carried your favorite side dishes,” Jimin said, his grin full of sunshine.

Hoseok stood up, brushing pollen from his knees. “And Seokjin brought enough to feed a royal banquet.”

“I don’t trust Jungkook to eat anything if he’s too busy swooning,” Seokjin muttered, handing over the heavy tray to Hoseok. “Set it up at the veranda. There’s a shaded nook by the lattice screen, it faces the garden.”

Together, the four of them moved quietly, arranging the delicate dishes across the table at the edge of the garden where sheer silk curtains swayed gently in the breeze. Everything was placed with care, porcelain bowls, fresh tea, sweet rice, fruit pastries, and a steaming dish of ginger-marinated duck.

Then, Hoseok stilled. “There they are.”

Across the garden path, deeper among the blooming trees, Jungkook walked side-by-side with Taehyung. The prince's usually sharp jaw was softened with an unfamiliar smile, his arms casually folded behind his back, head tilted toward the omega as Taehyung gestured timidly, as if unsure whether to speak too much or too little.

They didn’t notice the four by the veranda.

“They look…” Jimin whispered, eyes wide. “Adorable.”

“Our Jungkook is whipped,” Hoseok corrected. “Completely, utterly whipped.”

Yoongi let out a snort that he didn’t bother to hide.

Seokjin just smiled, fond, wistful. “He’s at ease,” he murmured. “Like when he was a boy… back when his mother was still alive. It’s been too long since he looked so unburdened.”

They all watched in silence for a beat longer.

In that moment, sunlight dappled across Taehyung’s face, catching on the curve of his lashes and the slight tilt of his lips. Jungkook, caught in the glow, didn’t look away even once.

Seokjin folded his arms gently, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let him have this peace,” he said quietly. “Let him hold it, even if just for a little while.”

Yoongi nodded. “We'll guard it.”

And from a short distance, just for now, they did.

Chapter Text

Next morning, a secret study begins, the sun had barely begun to climb past the eastern hills when a sharp, uneven knock rattled against the side panel of Taehyung’s chamber, followed by a muffled curse.

Inside, Taehyung stirred from where he’d dozed off at the low table, his calligraphy brush still tucked between his fingers and ink smudged faintly on his cheek. His eyes blinked open, groggy and confused.

The door creaked open, then promptly got stuck halfway, causing a quiet, frustrated grunt from the other side. After a bit of fumbling, the door finally slid wide enough to reveal the Crown Prince’s head eunuch.

He stumbled forward slightly, but caught himself with practiced dignity, straightening his spine so quickly it nearly cracked.

Dressed in muted colors and clinging to his air of formality, the eunuch gave a swift bow, though he nearly knocked his head against the door frame on the way up. He didn’t acknowledge it.

“Young Master Kim Taehyung,” he announced in a voice that tried and mostly succeeded to remain composed. “You are summoned. Please follow me.”

“Summoned…?” Taehyung sat upright, startled. “By whom?”

The eunuch’s eyes flickered, voice calm. “You will learn soon enough. Please bring only yourself.”

And with that oddly specific instruction, he spun on his heel, only to nearly trip on the edge of the doorway. He caught himself again, this time without a sound, and marched forward with renewed seriousness, chin held high.

Taehyung, utterly confused and now very much awake, scrambled to fixing his robe and his hair into something presentable. He wanted to ask more questions but thought better of it, this was the palace, after all, where too much curiosity often earned you trouble.

Outside, the morning air was crisp. They took a quiet, winding path behind the old queen’s chamber, an unused lane meant for shadows, not guests. The courtyard’s usual hum was distant now, replaced by the soft pat of their slippers against stone.

The eunuch didn’t speak again, save for the occasional sharp look over his shoulder, as if warding off invisible spies. His serious expression was only slightly undone by the way his hat kept slipping just a little too far over his eyes.

And still, he walked as if the safety of the realm depended on it.

After several minutes of walking in near-silence, they came to a stop before a pair of doors tucked discreetly inside one of the palace’s inner courtyards, an area Taehyung had not dared to explore.

The eunuch knocked twice, bowed once, and gestured him forward. “Please, enter.”

Taehyung swallowed, stepping past the wooden threshold.

And stopped.

The room was warm, elegant, lined with scrolls, maps, and rows of treasured books. Morning sunlight spilled through delicate paper windows, dust catching in its beams like soft motes of gold. It smelled of ink, ginseng, and something faintly citrus… perhaps sandalwood too.

But it was not the room that made his breath catch.

It was the figure seated behind the low desk near the center, sharp eyes, dark brows, long hair tied back in a neat high knot, dressed not in silks or gold but simple scholar’s robes.

Jungkook.

And beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with warm brown eyes, his gentle gaze already settled kindly on Taehyung. Something about him seemed calm and knowing, like he’d lived a thousand lives and still offered you tea.

Taehyung bowed hastily. “M-my Lord, you called for m-me—”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook cut in, voice low. “Good morning.”

Taehyung looked up slowly, cheeks already pink.

Jungkook gestured toward the tall man beside him. “This is Namjoon. He is a scholar and a friend. He will be your tutor from today.”

“Namjoon…” Taehyung repeated shyly. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

Namjoon gave a polite bow. “The honor is mine. I've heard of your determination.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to him, was that a faint hint of pride?

“Namjoon will guide you privately,” the prince continued. “These sessions will be known only to us. It’s safer that way.”

Taehyung hesitated. “Safer…?”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, but he smiled lightly, an effort. “There are many eyes in the palace. I’d rather your studies remain your own, for now.”

Taehyung nodded, though his fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeves.

A beat of silence passed, until Jungkook took a half-step closer, seemingly without realizing it.

Taehyung’s scent reached him again, soft, gentle, like fresh wildflowers in morning dew. Jungkook’s nose flared subtly. He stiffened, visibly trying to hold himself together.

Namjoon noticed. He looked amused.

But not nearly as amused as the head eunuch standing in the hallway, still frozen in place from fear of earlier threats. He peered inside the study like a ghost that didn’t dare breathe, ready to drop dead if Jungkook caught him lingering.

Jungkook glanced up at him and raised one eyebrow. “Still here?”

The eunuch stiffened like a tree caught in lightning. “P-pardon, Your High—”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. His tone was flat, ice-cold. “Remind me to have your tongue cut out later.”

The poor eunuch let out a faint squeak and vanished like a mist.

Taehyung blinked. “Was that… serious?”

Namjoon chuckled, stepping in to guide Taehyung to his seat. “Only half the time.”

Taehyung looked between them, baffled and flustered, and then laughed softly, the sound ringing like wind chimes.

And Jungkook? He watched the omega settle beside Namjoon and thought only one thing.

He’d kill a dozen eunuchs if it meant keeping that sound safe.

Poor eunuch.

Jungkook nodded once in satisfaction, then suddenly turned, face sharp.

“You,” he said, pointing at the head eunuch lingering far too close for his liking, “scram.”

The eunuch froze mid-step, face paling as if struck by thunder. “M-my lord?”

“Out,” Jungkook added with a sweeping motion toward the door. “I said I want no one lingering. Not a single breath near this room.”

The head eunuch hesitated, bowing so quickly he nearly toppled over. “A-as you command, Your- I mean, My lord! I shall vanish like the wind!” he squawked, and in the next heartbeat, the corridor echoed with a stampede of slippered feet and rustling silk. His last words trailed behind, “Please do not hang me—!”

Jungkook let out a long exhale and muttered, “So dramatic.”

Namjoon, seated already at the low writing table, chuckled behind a polite hand. “You might’ve frightened the soul from the man.”

“I needed quiet,” Jungkook said smoothly. “For Taehyung to focus.”

“Of course,” Namjoon replied, reaching for the inkbrush with a knowing smile. “Shall we begin?”

Taehyung, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide, blinking eyes, lowered himself carefully in front Namjoon.

Namjoon took his seat, beckoning Taehyung gently to sit beside him. “We shall start with basic letters,” he said, drawing one clean line of Hangul on the parchment. “These strokes… these sounds… we’ll build from here.”

Taehyung leaned forward in awe, his fingers trembling slightly as he mimicked the motion.

“His wrist’s too stiff,” Jungkook remarked from his seat across the table.

Namjoon’s smile flickered. “He just started.”

“He should relax. Loosen his grip a little—”

“Jungkook-ah,” Namjoon cut in, voice still pleasant, “Would you like to teach instead?”

“I am supervising.”

“You’re distracting.”

Taehyung giggled softly, just enough for Jungkook to hear. He turned his head, catching the way the omega quickly covered his mouth, eyes twinkling.

“You’re laughing at me,” Jungkook murmured.

Taehyung shook his head quickly. “No, my lord. I am simply… grateful. This is all very new to me.”

Jungkook blinked, the words slipping into his chest like warm tea.

Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly. “Then, dearest young lord, perhaps you could supervise from the hallway. Or better yet—come back when the sweet buns arrive. I heard Seokjin-hyung added chestnut cream today.”

Jungkook’s brow lifted. “Am I being bribed to leave?”

“No, no,” Namjoon said with a straight face. “We’re merely offering incentives.”

Taehyung let out another laugh, louder this time. Jungkook scowled at Namjoon, then softened instantly when Taehyung’s laughter echoed again.

“Fine, I will be quiet,” he muttered. “but I’m not leaving. I want to see him succeed.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Then please, stay quiet for the whole hour.”

“Impossible,” Jungkook mumbled, slumping back in his seat like a sulky pup. But he stayed.

And for a while, the study room filled only with the soft scratch of brush on parchment, the occasional scolding from Namjoon, and the silent, delighted smiles of a young omega who was finally learning.

The scent of roasted chestnuts and honey wafted into the study like a promise.

Jungkook sat straighter, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air, subtle but unmistakable. Across from him, Taehyung was bent carefully over a new character, tongue poking slightly out in concentration.

Namjoon lifted a brow. Noticing Jungkook's movement and also smelling his husband not far away from the study room, “Shall I go fetch the young lord his sweet reward?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked to the door just as it opened with a soft creak.

In came Seokjin, regal in his simple white and gold robe, carrying a lacquered tray balanced with exquisite ease. Behind him, Jimin followed, grinning, with a teapot and porcelain cups nestled in another tray.

“The scholars are hard at work, I see,” Seokjin announced, placing the tray down on the side table with care.

“Or hard at distracting,” Namjoon muttered.

Jimin let out a laugh, immediately gliding over to set the tea near Namjoon’s elbow. “We bring sustenance,” he said brightly. “Cream buns, chestnut tarts, and dried persimmons. And tea. Because I know Namjoon-hyung forgets water exists when he's teaching.”

Namjoon smiled without denying it.

Jungkook’s eyes were already locked on the delicate pastries. “Tell me Seokjin-hyung made these.”

“I woke before the birds,” Seokjin replied smoothly. “And if you ever threaten your eunuch again, I won’t make the next batch.”

Taehyung blinked, wide-eyed, watching this exchange unfold like a comedy he didn’t fully understand.

“Ah, you must be hungry,” Jimin said kindly, turning to him. “Please, help yourself. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you…” Taehyung’s voice was shy but grateful. “I—um… are all scholars treated this kindly?”

“No,” Seokjin and Namjoon said at the same time.

Jungkook coughed and looked away.

Just then, the outer doors creaked open once more, and the breeze carried in the scents of night-blossom and metal, Yoongi and Hoseok.

“Sorry for the delay,” Hoseok said, brushing invisible dust from his crimson robe. “A minor problem at the southern quarter of the inner wall.”

Yoongi, all shadows and sharp eyes, closed the doors behind them. “Handled. For now.”

They stepped fully into the study, taking in the sight of Taehyung smiling shyly over a plate of sweet buns while Namjoon pointed at a parchment with inky fingers, lecturing gently. Jimin had pulled a cushion beside Taehyung and was chatting casually with him, and Seokjin was pouring tea like a high noblewife holding court.

Yoongi smirked. “What did we miss?”

“Just Jungkook being scolded,” Namjoon said.

Taehyung laughed adorably. Jungkook froze.

Hoseok chuckled and leaned into Yoongi. “He really is whipped.”

“I know,” Yoongi murmured, hiding his amusement in a sip of tea.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes but didn’t protest. Not when Taehyung’s eyes lit up so brightly.

“I’m glad you came,” Taehyung said to the others, voice small but sincere. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve felt so warm around people.”

Seokjin reached to brush a stray ink mark off Taehyung’s cheek with a thumb. “You’re part of this circle now, little one. Whether you like it or not.”

Taehyung blinked up at him, cheeks pinkening.

Jungkook looked away and mumbled, “He's not little.”

Everyone pretended not to hear.

And for a while, they simply shared the warmth of late afternoon sun, the scent of ink and pastries, and the soft murmur of an omega learning to belong.

Namjoon had just poured another round of tea when Jungkook leaned forward, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Let me teach him the next letter,” the Crown Prince declared with far too much seriousness for someone reaching for the ink brush.

Namjoon arched a brow. “Really?”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “I’m not that detached from my own education, hyung. I’m smarter than you.”

Namjoon gave a light shrug and sat back, clearly amused. “By all means, young lord.”

Jungkook turned his sharp gaze onto the parchment before Taehyung. His posture stiffened, overly formal, like he was about to give a lecture in front of foreign dignitaries instead of a wide-eyed omega with ink smudges on his fingers.

Taehyung, who had gone still, glanced up with a shy sort of awe. “You want to teach me, my lord?”

Jungkook cleared his throat. “If you’ll allow it.”

Taehyung nodded, then hastily wiped his ink-stained hands on the cloth beside him. “I—I will do my best not to disappoint.”

“You won’t,” Jungkook said too quickly, then schooled his face back to a calm expression.

He knelt beside Taehyung, took the brush, dipped it slowly into the inkstone. His arm moved fluidly as he demonstrated the character on a fresh parchment, one of the simpler ones, for “moon.”

“Like this,” Jungkook murmured. “Steady here… then curve here… gentle flick at the end.”

Taehyung watched him with full attention, eyes enormous.

When Jungkook handed him the brush, their fingers brushed for the briefest second.

Taehyung flushed, but accepted it and tried to follow the strokes with trembling precision. His version was uneven, a little wobbly, but the effort was pure.

“I’m sorry, it looks like a squashed radish,” Taehyung mumbled.

Jungkook stared at it, then at him. “It looks like a moon.”

Taehyung beamed, ducking his head.

In the background, Seokjin made a dramatic gagging sound into his teacup. Hoseok elbowed him.

And then Taehyung, hesitating only a little, pulled something from a cloth pouch beside him.

“I—um—I’ve been practicing before I came here,” he said shyly. “Would you like to see?”

Jungkook blinked, then nodded, more than a little eager.

Taehyung unfolded the worn parchment, revealing delicate black ink lines forming letters, not perfect, but full of patient determination and soft grace. There was something in the strokes that made them feel almost alive.

“This one I tried to copy from the writing on the parchment gifted to me,” Taehyung whispered. “But I don’t know what it says yet…”

Jungkook gently took the page, holding it like a priceless artifact. His throat tightened. “It says ‘spring always returns.’”

Taehyung’s eyes glistened faintly. “Is that… what it means?”

Jungkook nodded. “And you wrote it beautifully.”

Behind them, Jimin leaned into Yoongi’s shoulder with a grin. “He’s done for.”

Yoongi hummed. “He’s doomed.”

Hoseok just smiled like he was watching flowers bloom for the first time.

Jungkook looked at Taehyung, whose gaze shone with gratitude and quiet pride. Something unspoken stirred between them, tender, unsure, but very real.

And when Taehyung bent back over the parchment, brushing his sleeve up slightly to begin again, Jungkook didn’t even try to look away.

He simply stayed, watching, listening to the scratch of ink and the soft breath of an omega he couldn’t help but draw near.

The sun was lowering in the sky, casting long amber streaks over the palace courtyards. Shadows danced on the stone tiles as Hoseok and Taehyung moved with quiet steps through the lesser-used path, just as they had taken that morning.

Taehyung clutched his calligraphy cloth to his chest, still slightly dazed from everything that had happened. The lesson, the letters, Jungkook.

Hoseok walked beside him like a shadow with a smile, his hands tucked into his sleeves as he kept pace.

“Did you enjoy today’s session?” Hoseok asked lightly, eyes flicking around the corridor as they passed silently behind a row of storage sheds.

Taehyung nodded slowly. “Yes… very much so. Namjoon-ssi—ah… the instructor was kind. Patient.”

He didn’t mention how his fingers still tingled from brushing Jungkook's own. Or how Jungkook had watched him like a man entranced.

“I’m glad,” Hoseok said gently, glancing at the omega’s quiet joy. “You did well. The pri— I mean, Jungkook and your instructor seemed pleased.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “Does they often teach other scholars?”

Hoseok smiled. “Not… exactly. You are something of a special case.”

Taehyung blinked at him, confused, but Hoseok just chuckled and added no more.

They reached the outer gate of Taehyung’s Hall. Hoseok gestured him forward. “Go rest. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

Taehyung bowed. “Thank you for walking with me.”

When he disappeared behind the gate, Hoseok lingered a moment longer, eyes narrowed at the shadows beyond the wall. Only when satisfied that no one had followed did he finally turn and walk away, returning to the prince’s court.

Back at the prince’s study hall, candles flickered against the carved walls of the Crown Prince’s personal study, casting warm light over the scrolls, documents, and maps strewn across the table.

Jungkook sat at the head, arms folded, his face unreadable. Beside him stood Namjoon, calm as always, and Yoongi had just entered, his robes dusted with travel and his eyes sharp as ever.
“They’ve begun to stir,” Yoongi said as he removed his outer cloak, folding it neatly before standing near the long table. “The royal omegas and their families. They’ve caught wind of a presence in the queen’s old hall.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened.

“The rumors that it is someone favored… by you” Yoongi added.

Namjoon let out a breath. “That is dangerous. Their parents will not let it pass. Taehyung has entered the palace like a mystery. It makes him a target by default.”

Jungkook stood abruptly, pacing once before gripping the edge of the table. “They plan to strike?”

“Not directly,” Yoongi said. “Not yet. But they’ve sent attendants to bribe staff, to question the guards. Some are already trying to track the eunuchs who serve that wing.”

Namjoon’s brow furrowed deeply. “We need to cut the trail. Tighten the ranks. No whispers must escape the walls of Taehyung’s court.”

“I’ve already issued warnings,” Yoongi said. “The maids and guards near his quarters have sworn silence. If they speak, they know what they risk.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly. “Let them scheme. I won’t have him harmed. I will burn every family to ash before I let them lay a finger on him.”

There was a heavy silence. Namjoon looked toward Yoongi, who merely gave a small nod.

“He is… delicate,” Namjoon murmured, choosing his words carefully. “And not yet aware of the court’s cruelty.”

“He shouldn’t have to be,” Jungkook said sharply, voice low. “Let me shield him a little longer. Let him stay innocent with all of this.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “But not blind.”

“I know.” Jungkook's gaze dropped briefly. “I’ll tell him… eventually. But not yet. Not until he feels safe.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “Then we must move quietly. Keep Taehyung close, but never too exposed. If they see him as just another lowborn scholar, they’ll underestimate him longer.”

“They already do,” Yoongi said with a dark smirk. “And it will be their mistake.”

Jungkook turned toward the window, where the last sliver of sun painted the stone floor in gold.

“He’s not like them,” he said softly. “And he never will be.”

The moon hung high, casting its silver light upon the polished stones of Taehyung’s courtyard. A quiet stillness blanketed the air, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves in the night breeze. Inside the chamber, all was warm and still.

Taehyung sat at the small writing table by the lattice window, his sleeves rolled neatly as he traced silent characters across a thin parchment, strokes smooth, though his thoughts had long wandered from their form.

His quill paused.

The memory of him again.

That noble with dark eyes like twilight, who had once been a stranger in the alleys of the capital… now sitting at his side as if fate had sewn a quiet thread between them.

Jungkook.

Taehyung’s lips curled faintly, soft and unsure. His chest fluttered at the thought of that low, firm voice speaking his name, not like others said it, but with a weight that made Taehyung feel… known.

He remembered how the Jungkook’s gaze lingered not with hunger, but something else, reverence, almost. He remembered the way Jungkook leaned in, correcting his brush grip during lessons, how close he’d been, his scent…

A deep, clean musk, touched faintly with cedar and something wild and wind-swept. It was comforting. Familiar, somehow. Like the forests beyond the town after rain.

“Kind,” Taehyung whispered to the quiet room, blinking as he lowered his brush.

For someone of such presence, commanding, quiet, untouchable, he had been so… gentle.

No mocking smile when Taehyung stumbled over syllables. No laughter when he admitted what he could not yet read.

Only patience.

Only warmth.

Taehyung pressed a hand to his chest, flustered by the warmth blooming there. Was this foolish? To think of a nobleman with such reverence? But he couldn't help it.

“I wonder…” he murmured, voice barely above the night wind, “what kind of man you truly are.”

He didn’t know if he should feel grateful, or frightened, perhaps both.

But deep in his soul, something whispered.

Safe.

-

A grand hall deep within the inner court of the Han estate glowed with golden lanternlight. The scent of expensive incense filled the air, curling in lazy spirals toward the painted ceiling.

Seated around the lacquered table were Lady Han, her husband Lord Han, both adorned in layered silk, and their daughter, Lady Hwa-jin, an omega known in the capital for both her beauty and ambition. Two servants stood discreetly behind, ears and eyes downcast.

“He’s brought someone in,” Lady Han said, her voice sharp with restrained irritation. “Into that hall, of all places. His mother’s old chamber. Do you think he doesn’t know what kind of message that sends?”

Lord Han grunted, tapping the rim of his cup. “It’s bold. Perhaps stupid.”

“I heard it was a commoner,” Hwa-jin murmured, fanning herself slowly. “A scholar, they say.”

Lady Han scoffed. “A scholar? Is that what they call it now?”

Hwa-jin tilted her head, lips twitching. “The maids whisper that he’s beautiful. That he came from the slums. Some even say he might be the reason the prince delayed choosing a consort.”

“Impossible,” her father muttered, though his brows furrowed.

“But not unbelievable,” Lady Han countered. “He always was too soft. Too much of that queen’s blood in him.”

“What do you suggest, Mother?” Hwa-jin asked lightly, though there was a dangerous gleam in her eye.

Lady Han leaned forward, voice low. “We find out what we can. Who he is. Where he’s from. Who favors him.”

“And then?”

“We show the court what sort of creature he truly is.”

Lord Han raised a brow. “And if he’s clean?”

Lady Han smiled thinly. “Then we dirty him.”

No one noticed the man’s frame, the smallest smirk he could utter, before he hided deeper into the shadows.

Chapter Text

It was the second day of the secret lesson, the golden light of mid-morning filtered through the lattice windows of the Crown Prince’s private study. The room smelled faintly of ink, aged paper, and something sweeter today, perhaps from the pear blossom tea steaming quietly near the inkstones.

Taehyung sat straight on his cushion, his hands folded neatly on his lap, trying not to fidget as Namjoon set parchment before him.

“This is a basic passage,” the scholar said, tapping it with the tip of his brush. “It’s written in simple form — repetition will help you recognize the shapes.”

Taehyung nodded, lowering his eyes to the parchment. But just as he was about to pick up the brush, a shadow fell over the table.

“Don’t press too hard,” Jungkook’s voice came, low and smooth, as he stepped in close behind Taehyung — so close Taehyung could feel the heat of him, the gentle scent of pine and wind curling through the air. “Let the bristles glide like a petal on still water.”

Taehyung’s hand faltered.

Namjoon gave Jungkook a withering look from across the table. “My lord, we have discussed this.”

Jungkook didn’t even glance at his hyung. Instead, he reached down, just enough to guide Taehyung’s hand with two fingers, hovering just above his wrist. “You’ll get ink everywhere if your grip is too stiff,” he said, voice gentle now, as if coaxing a flower to bloom.

Taehyung’s cheeks turned crimson, his breath caught in his throat. “O-oh. I—thank you… my lord.”

“You may call me something else, if you wish,” Jungkook murmured, leaning a little too close. “Though I quite like how my name sounds on your lips, too.”

Namjoon slammed his brush against the table with a sigh. “Young lord.”

“I’m merely offering assistance,” Jungkook replied innocently. He turned to Namjoon with a smirk, unfazed. “Is it not the duty of a patron to nurture his scholar?”

“You’re nurturing the parchment into a love letter,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing his temples.

Hoseok, standing quietly by the door with his arms crossed, tried and failed to suppress a laugh. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he whispered behind his hand, “I’ve never seen our young lord this invested in language before.”

Taehyung glanced up between the two alphas, clearly lost but adorably flustered, still clutching his brush. “Is… is this part of the lesson?” he asked, brows knit, genuinely unsure.

Jungkook gave a soft chuckle, the sound low, warm, and rare. “Of course. Every scholar must learn how to hold his brush, how to speak with grace… and how to blush so beautifully, like you do now.”

Taehyung turned redder, ducking his head and nearly knocking the ink bowl with his sleeve. “Ah—! I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean—!”

Jungkook reached out swiftly, steadying the bowl before it could spill. His fingers brushed Taehyung’s, just briefly but long enough for Taehyung’s breath to hitch and Jungkook’s lips to twitch in quiet delight.

“You’re doing well,” Jungkook said, this time softer, more sincere. “Truly.”

Namjoon, who had paused mid-sigh, glanced at the prince with a flicker of surprise at the shift in tone.

Taehyung nodded, looking down at the parchment again. “I… I will try harder,” he whispered, cheeks still tinged with pink.

“Good,” Namjoon said, finally seizing control of the lesson again. “Try copying this line. Slowly. Carefully. No more interruptions.”

Jungkook raised a hand in mock surrender. “I’ll supervise silently. Like a dignified statue.”

“Statues don’t lean in and whisper flirtations,” Namjoon said dryly.

Hoseok snorted this time, the sound cracking the tension. “Maybe this statue has petals falling off of it.”

Jungkook shot Hoseok a glare, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

And so, the lesson continued, filled with whispered strokes, quiet laughter, stolen glances, and a growing warmth that neither ink nor words could quite define.

Taehyung, for all his nervousness, smiled more freely by the end of the hour. His brushstrokes steadier. His heart less heavy.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But today…

He had never felt more seen.

Late morning sunlight spilled through the tall lattice windows of the private study, stretching gold across scrolls, inkstones, and the nervous hands of a certain young omega who sat upright, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to focus on the letters before him.

Taehyung’s brush hovered midair.

Namjoon’s voice, firm and patient, broke the silence. “Concentrate, Taehyung-ssi. Your hand is steady, but your thoughts are elsewhere.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Taehyung murmured, cheeks warm.

Jungkook, who had been lounging, no, supervising, across from him with arms crossed and a face carved from stone, cleared his throat.

“Do not apologize for wandering thoughts,” he said, eyes narrow. “Apologize only if you forget to return from them.”

Taehyung blinked at that, half moved, half confused while Namjoon shot Jungkook a flat look. “That made no sense.”

Before the prince could offer some cryptic retort, a knock came at the study doors.

“My lord,” called Seokjin from the other side, his voice far too sweet. “If you would allow your most beautiful hyung to enter, I come bearing sustenance. Unless, of course, you prefer to keep starving your scholar.”

Jungkook groaned softly. “Must he always announce himself like that?”

“Yes,” Hoseok’s voice floated in as he followed Seokjin in, “because it brings him joy.”

The doors slid open to reveal Seokjin in pale rose hanbok, sleeves tied neatly, carrying a lacquered tray stacked with sweets that could tempt even the most stoic monk.

Taehyung’s eyes widened at the sight, smiling shyly as he bowed his head. “Seokjin-hyung.”

“Taehyung-ah,” Seokjin beamed, already placing the tray down beside him. “Still as lovely as ever, I see. Studying well?”

“Y-Yes, I think so. Namjoon-ssi has been very kind.”

“Unlike someone,” Namjoon muttered under his breath.

Seokjin turned to Jungkook, eyebrows lifted in mock scolding. “Is glaring part of the lesson plan now?”

“I am supervising,” Jungkook said flatly.

“You look like you’re plotting to conquer a kingdom,” Hoseok said, laughing as he leaned against the doorway. “And that kingdom is Taehyung.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “You’re one word away from exile.”

Hoseok bowed dramatically. “Your cruelty knows no bounds, my lord.”

Taehyung let out a little laugh, then immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. “S-Sorry,” he said through his fingers.

Jungkook turned his eyes on him and whatever fury had been directed toward Hoseok softened like snow beneath sunlight. His voice, still low and cool, held a strange warmth now. “Do not apologize for laughing. It suits you.”

Taehyung’s cheeks turned the color of plum blossoms. “Oh…”

Namjoon, long-suffering and unimpressed, sighed loudly. “If I may resume the lesson? Or shall I begin reciting poetry while you two pine across the scrolls?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Jungkook said, sitting straighter. “I am simply ensuring our guest is properly educated.”

“By breathing down his neck?”

“Exactly.”

Seokjin passed a piece of honeyed rice cake to Taehyung with a knowing smile, then whispered, “You’ll get used to it. He’s terrifying to everyone else. To you? He’ll be soft and… odd.”

“I-I think he’s kind,” Taehyung whispered back, then glanced toward Jungkook nervously.

Jungkook didn’t hear it. But he must have felt the gaze, because he looked over and cleared his throat with a faint twitch at the corner of his lips almost a smile.

“Jungkook, please,” Namjoon groaned, already motioning toward the door and then jabbing a finger at the next character on the scroll. “Just go with Seokjin-hyung before this study session turns into a full-blown romance drama.”

Taehyung’s hand trembled slightly, but not from nerves this time. From something gentler.

Jungkook leaned forward, quietly watching as the omega’s brush returned to the parchment.

And somehow, the heavy stillness of the Crown Prince’s study became a little brighter.

-

The sun had dipped just below the tiled rooftops of the palace, painting the skies in a slow bleed of amber and mauve. The soft chirp of insects rose like a lullaby, and the stone pathways glowed faintly under the flickering flame of lanterns swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Taehyung sat quietly in the furthest corner of the royal garden, just past a hedge of white camellias, kneeling on the smooth stone. His fingers, stained faintly with ink from earlier lesson, traced the shapes of Hangul into the sand at his knees using a slender twig. His brows furrowed in concentration as he whispered under his breath, sounding out a syllable, then quietly correcting himself.

His pale robe was wrinkled from sitting too long, and a strand of chestnut-brown hair clung to his cheek. The lantern beside him painted his skin gold, casting gentle shadows beneath his lashes. He looked as though he had been drawn there by accident, like a wildflower blooming through a crack in the stone, delicate and out of place, yet undeniably right where he was meant to be.

Jungkook watched all of this from a distance.

He hadn’t meant to come here, well, that’s what he told himself.

It was merely coincidence, of course. A harmless stroll. He had just happened to hear from the eunuch that Taehyung often wandered to the garden after supper. Just happened to be passing by. And so he had sent away the entourage trailing behind him with a single look.

Now he stood behind a pillar, half-shrouded in the vines of the wisteria pergola, watching the omega sketch letters into the earth like they were the most sacred things in the world.

His scent was in the air, sweet and subtle, like wild honey mingled with rain. Jungkook’s chest tightened.

‘How is he real,’ he wondered.

Just as Jungkook took a careful step forward, the branch above him cracked.

SNAP.

It wasn’t him.

Both Jungkook and Taehyung froze. Taehyung’s hand paused mid-stroke in the sand, wide brown eyes darting toward the camellia hedge with startled innocence. Jungkook slowly tilted his chin up toward the tree behind him, eyes narrowing.

From the leafy shadows above, a figure dangled, clinging awkwardly to a branch.

“H-Hoseok,” Jungkook hissed under his breath.

The man in question gave a sheepish wave from his awkward perch. “Still alive,” he whispered hoarsely, trying not to rustle the leaves. “Just a branch issue.”

“Leave,” Jungkook mouthed with venom.

“I’m your guard,” Hoseok mouthed back, offended. “Your precious omega’s here.”

“My omega—” Jungkook hissed under his breath, but stopped mid-sentence when he turned and saw.

Taehyung.

Now standing. Looking right at him.

Big eyes wide with recognition.

“My lord…?”

Jungkook’s heart stopped, dropped, and then thudded right back into his chest like a war drum.

His expression, usually calm and unreadable, cracked. Just for a second.

Taehyung blinked at him, clearly startled but not afraid, more curious than anything, the twig still loosely gripped in his ink-stained fingers. A soft laugh escaped him, breathless and shy, eyes lighting with quiet recognition.

“My lord,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I didn’t think I’d see you here… not at this time of the night.” Taehyung said shyly, bowing his head.

Jungkook stepped from the shadows with the calm ease he always carried, though his hands betrayed him, clasped behind his back a little too tightly.

Behind him, Hoseok’s body thumped softly against the tree as he clumsily dropped to the ground and scuttled away behind the hedge like a mischievous shadow.

Jungkook’s voice lowered. “Nor did I expect to find you here… so devoted to your letters.”

Taehyung bit his lower lip, cheeks coloring. “I was… just practicing. I hope it’s not improper to write in the garden.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched with a hidden smile. “You honor the stones with your words.”

Taehyung blinked, clearly flustered. “Ah—th-that’s too much, my lord. I still… get many wrong.”

Jungkook crouched beside the sand sketchings, his eyes scanning the neat but hesitant Hangul. He gestured toward one. “This one,” he said, pointing to a slightly wobbly ‘봄’, spring, is the most beautiful one I’ve seen.”

Taehyung looked away, flustered to the tips of his ears. “That one’s uneven…”

“It has heart,” Jungkook said simply.

A beat of silence passed, thick with the fluttering tension of something delicate and new.

“I’m glad you came,” Taehyung said suddenly, his voice soft like falling petals. “The palace is very large. It… it is easy to feel small in it.”

Jungkook looked at him, eyes unreadable, before nodding once. “Then I shall make sure you do not feel small. Ever.”

Taehyung looked up, surprised by the intensity in his voice.

Jungkook held Taehyung’s gaze for a moment longer, before finally nodding his head toward the gravel path winding beneath the trees. “Shall we walk?”

Taehyung blinked again, still a little flustered, but nodded, falling into quiet step beside the alpha. Their pace was unhurried, the silence between them soft rather than strained. The garden’s early evening hush cradled them gently, crickets beginning their song, the wind rustling softly through the tall grasses.

Taehyung glanced sideways, fingers nervously brushing against the edge of his sleeve. “I didn’t think I’d get used to the palace so quickly,” he murmured. “But… it’s quieter than I imagined. Peaceful.”

Jungkook smiled faintly, watching the way Taehyung’s hair caught the last strands of sunlight. “You’ve always belonged in peace.”

The compliment landed gently between them, but it hit Taehyung like a ripple over still water. He looked down, bashful, the tips of his ears burning pink. “I—thank you… but I think I still look out of place. I must look silly wandering here.”

Jungkook stopped walking, turning to face him with unexpected seriousness.

“You don’t,” he said. “Not even for a moment.”

Taehyung’s eyes lifted to his, wide and uncertain. Jungkook held the stare for a beat too long, his jaw subtly tightening as if holding back more words.

And just beyond the stone arch, hidden in the slant of a flowering tree, Hoseok crouched with the grace of a born shadow. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he watched the scene unfold. He rested his cheek in one palm and sighed.

“Oh dear,” he whispered to himself, “His Highness is utterly ruined.”

A giggle bubbled in his throat, and he had to cover his mouth to keep from making a sound.

From beside him, a low voice murmured dryly, “Focus.”

Hoseok startled. “Yoongi! You scared me—what are you doing here?”

Yoongi, arms crossed and expression unreadable, shifted only slightly from the shadows. “Watching. You know—our actual job.”

Hoseok pouted, barely suppressing a grin. “Yes, yes, serious Head Royal Guard and all. But come on—look at them.” He pointed discreetly toward the pair below. “That’s a prince in love. You don’t get that kind of sweet awkwardness every century.”

Back in the garden, Jungkook had begun walking again, and Taehyung trotted a step behind before catching up. The omega tilted his head curiously.

“May I ask something, my lord?”

“You always may,” Jungkook replied without hesitation, trying to school his features into calmness though his pulse danced wildly.

Taehyung’s voice was soft. “Why are you always so kind to me?”

Jungkook paused, then smiled faintly.

“…Would it be too forward to say it’s because I like seeing you smile?”

Taehyung’s breath caught, lips parting in surprise, his scent blooming like a field in spring, sweet, earthy, and entirely innocent.

Behind the hedges, Hoseok let out a quiet, lovesick groan. “Oh, he’s so doomed.”

Yoongi sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Let them be.”

And in the golden hush of twilight, with petals fluttering overhead and the soft brush of their sleeves brushing once, twice as they walked, Taehyung laughed quietly.

“…Then I shall try to smile more.”

Jungkook’s answering smile was small, but it reached his eyes.

The sun had climbed high, casting warm light through the hanging branches of ginkgo trees. Shafts of gold filtered through like celestial threads, dancing on the worn stone path that Taehyung now tiptoed across, barefoot and holding a lantern he no longer needed.

Why was he still carrying it? He didn’t know. It felt like a tether to his earlier mission, fetching plain breads from the kitchens and now it swung in his grip like a glowing question mark.

He had meant to return directly to his courtyard. But somewhere between the stone bridge and the second pavilion, the halls had twisted like a riddle. One moment he’d passed the turtle-shaped fountain, the next, he was stepping into a part of the palace he’d never seen before, a tucked-away garden hidden behind a gate left slightly ajar.

“Where am I now…” Taehyung murmured, peering around.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

A tiny sound, meow.

He turned sharply. A small white cat, ears tipped in gray, stood in the middle of the mossy path, tail swishing.

“Oh, hello there,” he whispered, kneeling slowly. “Are you lost too?”

The cat blinked at him lazily, then turned and trotted deeper into the garden.

“Wait!” Taehyung followed without thinking, half-laughing. “You can’t just leave me!”

A few corridors away, Jungkook walked with purpose… then slowed. The air shifted. It was subtle, just a thread of scent but he knew it instantly.

Wildflowers. Ink. Something warm and clean and entirely Taehyung.

He changed direction without a word, turning from the library wing and descending the stairs toward the lower garden. He’d told himself to stay away today. ‘Give him space. Give yourself time to think.’ But his feet betrayed him, like always.

When he pushed open the gate, sunlight caught his eyes and there, in the middle of a chase, lantern still swinging, was Taehyung.

“Why are you running?” Jungkook called, voice laced with amusement.

Taehyung stumbled, caught mid-pursuit. “My lord?” he gasped, looking sheepish, hair windswept. “I was—there was a cat…”

As if on cue, the cat darted behind a bush.

“Clearly, you’ve made powerful allies,” Jungkook murmured as he stepped fully into the courtyard.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” Taehyung said, bowing quickly. “I got lost after visiting the kitchens, and this place was so quiet, I didn’t think anyone would—”

“You’re not trespassing,” Jungkook interrupted gently. “You're allowed here.”

Taehyung looked up, blinking.

“Why are you doing with my baby scholar?!”

Both of them turned sharply toward the sound of hurried footsteps. Seokjin, flushed and holding a wooden ladle like a sword, marched into the clearing with the righteous fury of a palace cook interrupted mid-boil.

Jungkook straightened. “He’s lost.”

Jin said dryly, not missing a beat. “Then, find him a map, my prince.”

Taehyung tilted his head, confused. “Prince? My lord, you’re—?”

Jungkook coughed quickly, shooting Jin a glare.

“I believe he meant I have princely manners,” he said smoothly. “Seokjin hyung, exaggerates.”

Jin squinted. “Do I?”

“Hyung,” Jungkook said through gritted teeth, still smiling, “go stir your soup.”

“Fine.” Jin tossed his ladle once and caught it. “But if I find one smudge on his robe or one tear in his pretty little face, I’m stuffing you both with rice cakes until you burst.”

Taehyung blinked, flustered. “I—I’m quite alright, really—”

But Jin was already marching off, muttering about how “baby scholars shouldn’t be treated like stray kittens.” The cat, as if in agreement, reappeared to weave around his legs.

Jungkook watched him go, then sighed.

“Well,” he said, turning to Taehyung, “now that you’ve nearly caused an incident… can I walk you towards your study room?”

The scent of fresh ink hung lightly in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of paper, sun-warmed wood, and something softer, like crushed violets and morning dew.

Taehyung sat quietly at the low table, his back straight despite the nerves knotting in his stomach. His fingers hovered uncertainly over the calligraphy brush, eyes focused but clearly struggling with the right angle of grip.

Namjoon, patient as ever, leaned forward from across the table. His sleeves were neatly rolled, exposing strong forearms that moved with practiced elegance.

“No, little one,” Namjoon said gently. “Remember? Your wrist must be loose but steady. Like this.”

He reached over and adjusted Taehyung’s elbow, his warm hand correcting the curve of the younger’s fingers around the brush.

Taehyung’s lashes fluttered as he tried to follow the motion. “Like that?”

“Yes, but more relaxed. You’re holding it like a dagger, not a pen,” Namjoon chuckled.

From the side, where he had been pretending to read a scroll, Jungkook exhaled quietly.

Taehyung’s posture was all wrong. The way his fingers trembled, the uncertain dip of his wrist, any fool could see he needed proper guidance. Closer guidance.

Jungkook stood slowly, his movements quiet but undeniably commanding. His long shadow stretched across the table as he stepped to Taehyung’s side.

“Hyung,” Jungkook said with clipped formality, eyes on Namjoon, “may I?”

Namjoon raised a brow, bemused. “By all means.”

Taehyung’s head turned just as Jungkook sank to a knee beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush.

“My l–” Taehyung stopped himself, flustered, then whispered, “My lord?”

“You’re too tense,” Jungkook said smoothly, already reaching out.

Without waiting for permission, he gently placed his hand over Taehyung’s. The touch was light, but the moment it happened, everything shifted. Taehyung’s breath caught, his entire body going very still.

Jungkook wasn’t faring much better. The warmth of Taehyung’s hand beneath his, the softness of his skin, the way the omega’s scent bloomed now, sweet and shy, laced with fresh parchment and honeyed nerves, it nearly made him dizzy.

He ignored it.

Mostly.

“Let your fingers glide with the brush,” Jungkook murmured low, their hands moving in sync. “Ink flows better when you stop fighting it.”

Taehyung tilted his head, his profile just inches from Jungkook’s. “It’s… easier now,” he said softly.

Jungkook dared a glance. The sunlight touched Taehyung’s cheekbones, made his lips look soft and flushed.

He quickly looked away.

Namjoon cleared his throat loudly.

“I see,” the older alpha said, rising to his feet with exaggerated calm. “Clearly, you two work better alone.”

Jungkook looked up, startled. “Hyung—”

Namjoon waved a hand, gathering his scrolls. “No, no. I insist. I’ll leave you to… practice.” He smirked on his way out. “Try not to spill ink on the poor boy.”

Taehyung blinked after him, confused. “Was I doing badly?”

“You were doing fine,” Jungkook said.

“Then why did he leave?”

Jungkook paused. “He probably had… political things to do.”

Later that afternoon…

Namjoon slumped onto the veranda beside Yoongi, who sipped tea like a man twice as tired.

“Well?” Yoongi asked without looking.

Namjoon groaned. “I taught calligraphy. He taught flirting.”

Yoongi hummed. “So, the usual.”

Namjoon nodded toward the window, where faint laughter drifted through the lattice.

“Should we stop them?”

Yoongi sipped again. “Too late. We're just here to make sure no one dies of longing.”

The sun hung low now in the sky, staining the palace eaves in molten gold and softening every shadow with a dreamy haze. Taehyung sat on a low bench beneath the wisteria pergola, a half-finished sketch of a bird resting in his lap. Beside him, Jimin giggled at something unspoken, plucking petals from a tray of flowers gifted earlier by a kind kitchen maid.

The courtyard was quiet save for the rustling of the breeze through the leaves and the distant laughter of eunuchs finishing their chores. It was peaceful, lighthearted, and warm, just like the bond blooming gently between the two omegas.

“I still can’t believe you live here now,” Jimin said, twirling a petal between his fingers. “Sometimes I come just to see if it’s true.”

Taehyung smiled, shy and still slightly unsure. “Sometimes… I do the same.”

He looked up, eyes briefly catching on the clouds glowing like peach-colored silk. “It feels like a dream. A very strange one.”

“And that ink on your cheek makes it even more unreal,” Jimin teased, leaning forward to swipe at it with his sleeve.

Taehyung laughed and turned away bashfully. “Ah—leave it, I’ll wash later.”

Neither of them noticed the faint stir beyond the outer courtyard walls.

Far from Taehyung’s secluded quarters, in a quiet, shaded part of the palace, the King stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at the koi pond beneath the blood-red sky.

His chief eunuch bowed behind him, holding a silk scroll tied with royal blue.

“Your Majesty,” the eunuch began. “Shall I announce your intentions to the Crown Prince?”

The King hummed. “And ruin the element of surprise? No.”

He turned slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into a small, satisfied smile. “Let the boy bask in his games for now. But I wish to meet this ‘guest’ my son is protecting like a hidden blossom.”

His voice dropped, velvety with amusement but sharp with control. “So quiet. So untouchable. And yet the court trembles with whispers.”

He turned, expression unreadable but cold and sharp as steel.

“Send guards. Make it formal,” he ordered. “I will visit the chamber myself before supper.”

The eunuch looked up nervously. “You wish… to cause a stir, Your Majesty?”

“I wish to cause clarity,” the King hissed, lips curling into a slow, menacing smile. “If this guest holds enough power to keep my son distracted, then I will see with my own eyes what enchantment he wields.”

He began walking, long strides echoing against the polished tiles. “And if he is unworthy… I’ll tear the roots before they take hold.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Have the old Queen’s courtyard opened and attended. Prepare sweet persimmon tea. The guest should feel the weight of my regard.”

“And if he is not there?”

The King smiled, slow and terrible. “Then drag him there.”

He turned again, stepping through the carved doors of the pavilion.

The King smirked. “I want him to see who truly holds power in this palace. I need no music for that.”

He paused at the threshold, glancing out at the sky that now burned like fire over the palace roofs.

And with that, the King swept from the hall, his robes billowing like smoke behind him, cruelty cloaked in royal finery, and a storm already gathering in his wake.

Chapter Text

The gentle afternoon sun filtered through the lattice screens of the inner chamber, casting delicate patterns over the polished floor. The scent of blooming peonies from the garden lingered in the air, mixed with something softer, lavender and chamomile tea, now growing cold beside the embroidery frame.

Taehyung sat cross-legged on a silk cushion, a piece of pale blue fabric stretched taut in his lap. He carefully threaded golden silk through the eye of a fine needle, his brows furrowed in gentle concentration.

“Just a little more to the left, little one,” Jimin said from beside him, his voice warm like honey. “Your ‘ㅇ’ is looking like a peach again.”

Taehyung giggled quietly, his cheeks coloring. “Peaches are pretty.”

“They are,” Jimin agreed, laughing with him. “But your name will look like Gim Taepeach instead of Kim Taehyung if you keep that up.”

The younger omega grinned sheepishly, leaning closer for guidance. His small fingers moved with care, though his posture was relaxed and content. Jimin, in contrast, radiated grace, his movements fluid as he embroidered a plum blossom into his own silk square.

“I’ve never done embroidery like this before,” Taehyung murmured. “The fabric is so soft, I feel like I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” Jimin assured, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from Taehyung’s forehead. “You’re already doing better than I did on my first day. Just be careful not to prick your fingers. You’re not allowed to bleed today, not on my watch.”

Taehyung pouted at that, earning another coo from Jimin, who couldn’t help but lean over and nuzzle his temple briefly. “Moon above, how are you so adorable?”

Laughter spilled softly between them, sweet and unguarded. Taehyung felt safe here, nestled inside a palace that still felt too grand for someone like him. But with Jimin’s warmth beside him, the carved gold walls felt a little less distant, a little more like a home.

They were still chuckling when the heavy rhythm of footsteps approached. The outer door creaked open, and a royal guard, face taut with urgency, entered with a bow.

“Apologies,” he said, voice low and urgent. “The King’s procession is headed to this court. The royal carriage has just crossed the Phoenix Bridge. His Majesty will be here within minutes.”

Time slowed.

Taehyung blinked, confused, while Jimin shot up like a struck bell. The embroidery dropped from his lap.

“What?” Jimin asked, eyes wide. “The King? Coming here?”

“Yes, Lord Jimin,” the guard said with a bow.

“Go at once—inform my husbands. They need to be here now,” Jimin ordered urgently, already turning toward the corridor.

The guard bowed again without hesitation. “At once, my lord.”

He took off down the hall, boots thundering against the stone floor as he disappeared around the corner.

A ringing silence followed.

Taehyung clutched the half-finished embroidery to his chest. He could feel it now, Jimin’s scent had shifted. Gone was the light sweetness of petals and tea. It now carried something darker, anxiety, dread. And beneath it, Taehyung’s own fear began to bloom.

Why would the King visit him? A no-name omega plucked from obscurity? The thought curled cold fingers around his spine.

“Jimin… why would the King come here?” he asked softly, his voice trembling.

Jimin didn’t answer right away. His hands fluttered at the air, smoothing his skirts, fixing his hair but they shook with every movement.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, then paused. “No. I do know. It won’t be good. It never is.”

The raw truth in his voice made Taehyung swallow hard. The rich scent of fear in the room was stifling. He didn’t want Jimin to carry it alone.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” Jimin said softly.

He set the embroidery aside and reached for Jimin’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said quietly when Jimin whispered an apology. “I’m scared too.”

Jimin looked at him then, eyes wide with a sheen of tears he quickly blinked away. “We must stay composed. Do not let him smell your fear. That’s what he thrives on.”

Taehyung nodded. “I’ll try...”

That made Jimin smile, a thin, trembling smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“You’re brave, little peach,” Jimin said gently, squeezing his hand.

Outside, the rumble of hooves and the grinding of gilded wheels on stone echoed down the court. The sound of armor. Footsteps. Voices announcing the arrival of His Majesty, the King.

The two omegas sat stiffly in the center of the chamber, hands still clasped tightly.

The King’s scent would soon reach them, powerful, choking, unrelenting. The scent of domination. Taehyung could already feel the oppressive weight of it sliding under the doors like smoke from a fire.

“Moon goddess,” Jimin whispered, eyes closed. “Let them arrive in time…”

And with hearts pounding like war drums, they waited.

-

The tall windows of Jungkook’s private meeting hall were thrown open, letting in the soft amber light of the descending sun. But the warmth in the air could not soothe the tension hanging heavy inside the chamber.

Jungkook sat at the head of the low table, a map unfurled before him, lines drawn in red ink across the western regions of the kingdom. The parchment crackled as Namjoon leaned forward, tracing one of the marked routes with a finger.

“The thievery’s becoming too organized to be dismissed as mere banditry,” Namjoon said calmly, though his voice was edged with concern. “And from the patterns, we suspect they’re desperate citizens. Not trained criminals. They strike quickly, steal only food, medicine, silver, nothing excessive. They’re not greedy. They’re just trying to survive.”

Yoongi nodded, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “We saw them. Ragged clothes, hollow eyes. But they moved like ghosts. Covered faces. They didn’t want to hurt anyone. Just… disappear.”

Hoseok, who had just returned from an inspection near the border, added, “Some of them were barely older than teens. Children, even. The same faces I’ve seen in the far villages during tax season. They used to bow when soldiers passed. Now they run.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “Because the palace has turned its back on them.”

The silence following his words was thick.

Namjoon finally asked, “What will you do, if we confirm these thieves are our own people?”

A slow, dangerous smile curled Jungkook’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. “Then we’ll start stealing, too.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “From whom?”

“From the real thieves,” Jungkook replied, his voice sharp and lethal. “The court officials. The nobles. My father. All of them have more gold than they can spend in ten lifetimes, while our people rot with nothing. Let’s see how generous they feel when their hoards start vanishing.”

Hoseok gave a low whistle. Yoongi, looked faintly amused. Namjoon just leaned back, arms folded, considering it.

Before anyone could speak again, the door burst open with a rush of wind and hurried footsteps.

A royal guard dropped to one knee, panting. “Your Highness. Lords. Forgive the interruption—”

Jungkook straightened. “Speak.”

“The King…” The guard swallowed, sweat trickling down his temple. “The King has entered the Omega Court. He’s in the residence of your guest.”

Time froze.

Jungkook’s blood ran cold, then it began to boil, rushing through him like wildfire. His hands clenched into fists, the veins in his arms straining.

“He what?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“He entered the gate moments ago, unannounced.”

The Crown Prince stood abruptly. The entire atmosphere shifted.

It began as a slow burn, but then his scent exploded into the room, dark and suffocating. A violent surge of dominant alpha pheromones blasted through the chamber like a wave of thunder.

The guard collapsed fully, pressing his forehead to the floor. Outside in the corridor, several nearby betas and omegas dropped to their knees, gasping, their eyes wide and glazed with primal submission. A maid choked on her breath and whimpered, curling into herself behind a pillar.

The palace seemed to tremble beneath Jungkook’s presence.

Even the strongest of his loyal guards, trained alphas, groaned low in their throats as they fell to one knee, trembling with the sheer pressure of his fury. Their heads bowed, necks bared, breathing ragged as they tried to resist the command in his pheromones.

But none could move.

Namjoon gritted his teeth, shoulders locked, but he remained standing, barely. Yoongi’s fists were tight at his sides, sweat glistening at his temples, while Hoseok stood beside him with narrowed eyes, holding to his husband, body tense from the battle against instinct.

They were used to Jungkook’s intensity but this was different.

This was rage unshackled. The fury of an alpha whose omega had been trespassed upon.

Jungkook’s eyes burned red at the edges. His jaw twitched.

“They dared to let him near,” he growled low, his voice curling through the room like smoke. “That snake went to ‘my’ court.”

The memory of Taehyung’s sweet scent flashed in his mind. His gentle eyes. His soft voice. His smile, being looked upon by that man.

His alpha screamed inside him.

Without another word, Jungkook turned and stormed out, each footstep cracking against the stone like war drums.

Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi immediately followed, swift and silent. They didn’t waste time trying to rouse the kneeling guards or coax the collapsed maids, none of them could stand anyway, not until Jungkook’s scent left the corridor.

As they moved, even servants in distant halls turned pale and collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by the lingering intensity of his fury.

Yoongi glanced over his shoulder at Namjoon, who wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “We better reach Taehyung before Jungkook reaches the King.”

Hoseok only said grimly, “Or before the King reaches Taehyung’s neck.”

Namjoon muttered under his breath, “The war just started.”

And together, they sprinted after their Crown Prince, toward the eye of the storm.

-

A hush fell over the courtyard like a dark veil. Outside the gate, the booming voice of the King's chief eunuch rang out, loud and sharp like a whip crack.

“Make way for His Majesty!”

Taehyung and Jimin froze where they sat on the veranda, delicate embroidery silks was left on the ground. His wide eyes turned toward Jimin, whose lips had already parted in disbelief. The tray of delicacies they had been waiting for from Seokjin hadn’t even arrived, yet the worst guest imaginable now stood just beyond the gates.

Jimin scrambled to his feet, panic clear in the way his breath caught. “He’s here.” And then lead Taehyung towards the gate to meet the king.

Taehyung’s body had gone stiff. His heart slammed against his ribs, his scent blooming with rising distress. “W-why would he come here?”

Before Jimin could answer, he could already feel the first oppressive wave of the King’s dominant alpha pheromones sliding over the courtyard like smoke. It seeped through the walls, crawling under their skin. Jimin gritted his teeth as his knees buckled slightly. Taehyung gasped beside him, already trembling, and Jimin reached out on instinct, pulling the younger omega close, steadying him.

"Stay with me, Tae. Don’t kneel. Don’t fall. Breathe through your mouth,” Jimin whispered, voice tense but firm, just like Yoongi had taught him.

Taehyung’s knees nearly gave out, but he held onto Jimin’s sleeve like a lifeline.

The gates opened with a slow groan.

The King stepped inside with the kind of presence that devoured space, cloaked in deep red and gold, his golden ornaments catching the afternoon light like bloodied sun. His eyes swept the courtyard slowly, soaking in the familiar yet long-forgotten surroundings. This was the court he once gifted to his queen. He had not stepped foot here since the night of her funeral.

And now, here it was again, revived. And occupied.

Jimin bowed first, deeper than his back could tolerate. “G-greetings, my King,” he said, voice shaking despite himself. He tugged gently on Taehyung’s sleeve, and the younger omega followed, lowering himself beside Jimin, bowing with more hesitation and softness, his head down, shoulders trembling.

The King’s eyes didn’t leave the younger omega.

His nostrils flared slightly, and a curious look crossed his face as he caught the scent beneath the distress, something sweet, delicate, and... dangerous. That was no ordinary scent. It laced the air like forbidden fruit, and he now understood more clearly why his son had taken such interest in this creature.

“Well,” the King purred, “so this is the guest everyone’s been whispering about.”

Taehyung remained bowed, spine straight but taut like a bowstring.

Jimin’s voice trembled as he stepped slightly forward. “Your Majesty… shall we prepare a place for you to sit? The veranda is more open, perhaps you would feel more at ease there.”

The King arched a brow at the trembling omega who dared to speak without direct order. But then he smiled. “How thoughtful. Lead the way.”

Jimin exhaled shakily, offering a slight nod. He turned, carefully guiding Taehyung to his feet, who clung to his sleeve like a lost child. Behind them, the King walked slowly, like a predator watching the delicate prey ahead of him.

Upon reaching the veranda, the King’s chief eunuch immediately gestured for the servants to lay down the finest silk cushion atop the elevated platform. The red and gold of the King’s attire glimmered violently against the muted tones of the court, like a stain in the otherwise gentle space.

Taehyung remained on the lower side, kneeling again, hands in his lap, head down. Jimin lingered beside him.

“Bring us refreshments,” the King said casually, but the weight in his voice left no room for refusal. “And allow the young one to stay. I’d like to speak with him.”

Jimin’s heart dropped. He didn’t want to leave Taehyung alone, not for a moment. But the King’s guards had already begun shifting, as if daring him to hesitate.

He turned to Taehyung, gently brushing his hair behind his ear and whispering, “I’ll be back, little one. Just a moment.”

Taehyung bit his lip and nodded, though his hands trembled where they sat on his thighs.

Once Jimin bowed and reluctantly walked away, the King leaned slightly forward on his cushion.

“You may lift your head now, little omega. I want to see the face that’s caused such a stir in my halls.”

Taehyung hesitated. His hands clenched into the fine fabric of his hanbok, but he did as he was told. Slowly, his chin lifted, eyes remaining respectfully lowered, but his face now revealed.

The King inhaled sharply.

It was rare that anything surprised him anymore. But this... This omega’s beauty was unreal. Ethereal. The kind of delicate perfection that poets died failing to describe.

“You are... exquisite,” the King said, voice dropping to something velvety but sickeningly sweet, like poisoned honey. “No wonder my son hides you away. I would have done the same. Or perhaps... not.”

Taehyung didn’t understand what he meant, but the unease in his stomach grew. The King’s eyes were too sharp. His smile too kind to be sincere.

He was still speaking, but all Taehyung could think of was how much he hated his scent. Bitter. Suffocating. Nothing like the warmth and calm he found in Jungkook’s presence. He swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking back tears.

‘Please, Jungkook… come quickly.’

-

Inside Taehyung’s quiet court, the warm golden light of late afternoon pooled gently across the polished wooden floors, but the air had turned heavy, suffocating. A scent lingered. Sharp. Pungent. Wrong. The scent of power misused, of something darker pressing its weight onto the shoulders of two trembling omegas.

Jimin moved frantically.

He scrambled along the shelves tucked within Taehyung’s room, opening jars, sliding drawers, pushing aside neat stacks of cloth in search of anything he could serve. His hands were shaking too much to think clearly. Cups clattered together, and his breath came in gasps. The King. The King was here. In Taehyung’s court. Alone with Taehyung.

“No, no, where—why is there nothing prepared—!” Jimin whispered to himself, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. His pulse thudded in his ears.

Just as he turned to bolt into the storage room, he collided hard into something or rather, someone.

Jimin yelped, stumbling back with a terrified gasp, but steady arms caught him before he hit the floor.

“Whoa there,” came a warm, familiar voice. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Seokjin-hyung…!”

The moment Jimin saw him, the last thread of composure snapped. His lip wobbled, his eyes flooded, and he let out a hiccupped sob, reaching out like a child. Seokjin set the tray of delicacies he was holding carefully onto the floor and gathered Jimin into his arms.

“I-It’s the King,” Jimin cried. “H-he’s with Taehyung—right now—he just came, and I—I couldn’t stay w-with him! I tried!”

Seokjin’s arms tightened protectively.

“He’s just a child, Jin-hyung,” Jimin sobbed. “Tae’s never faced anything like this! That scent—he was going to collapse and I—I held him up but I—!”

“Breathe, Jiminie. Breathe.”

Seokjin ran a soothing hand down his back, pressing his cheek briefly to the side of Jimin’s head. His own heart thundered with a cold fury. That man, that king, he dared enter this court, alone with Taehyung?

He pulled back and wiped the tears from Jimin’s cheeks with his sleeves, firm but gentle.

“You did well,” he said. “Now get up. We’re going back there now.”

Jimin blinked through his tears. “But the refreshments—the King said—”

Seokjin reached down, lifting the tray with one hand as if it weighed nothing. “And I just so happen to have brought the best snacks in the palace. You think I’d visit without sweetbread?”

Jimin sniffled. “Y-you brought sweetbread?”

“Of course,” Seokjin smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now come.”

But just as they turned to go, something shifted in the air.

The scent.

A crash of dominance swept over them like a tidal wave.

Both omegas froze mid-step, their legs giving way at once. Jimin gasped, falling to his knees, and Seokjin staggered beside him, the tray trembling in his grip.

The Crowned Prince had arrived.

His scent was thunder and fire, a storm crashing through the courtyard. It was too strong, too commanding, an alpha’s fury with no restraint. The entire hall trembled beneath the weight of it. Omegas and betas far down the corridor dropped instantly, pressed low to the floor in submission.

But before Jimin and Seokjin could collapse fully, arms reached them, familiar, steady.

Namjoon caught Seokjin from behind, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding his nose gently to his scent gland. Yoongi appeared beside Jimin in a blink, holding him close, letting his calming musk wrap around the younger omega like a protective blanket.

“J-Jungkook,” Seokjin gasped. “He’s—he’s this angry?”

Hoseok nodded grimly. “We came as soon as we heard it.”

Footsteps echoed.

The storm approached.

Jungkook emerged, his eyes dark red with fury, pupils slit, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. His hanbok shifted as he walked, shoulders squared, exuding command with every step.

“Where are they?” he growled.

The words were low, almost whispered, but they were deadly.

Jimin, trembling, pulled himself up with Yoongi’s help.

“A-at the veranda,” he whispered. “He is with Taehyung there.”

For a moment, Jungkook didn’t move. His breath hitched, and then his aura flared. The fury surged forward again like a wildfire, searing the air.

Not another word passed.

The Crowned Prince turned and marched.

Namjoon, Yoongi, and Hoseok exchanged looks, and followed swiftly behind him, guiding Jimin and Seokjin behind with heavy hearts and clenched fists.

Jimin whispered, still shaking, “He’s going to tear the whole palace down.”

“And if that monster so much as laid a hand on Taehyung,” Seokjin said coldly, “he’s going to deserve it.”

Chapter Text

The air around him had thickened, heavy like smoke, pressing down on his chest until he thought he might collapse right there on the polished wood of the veranda.

Taehyung sat kneeling, hands folded tightly in his lap, knuckles pale. His trembling fingers clutched a sliver of Jimin’s silk sleeve, now empty beside him. His throat felt dry. Too dry to swallow. Too tight to breathe.

‘Moon Goddess, please,’ he prayed silently, eyes still downcast, locked on the patterned mat beneath the king’s elevated seat. ‘Let this end quickly. Let me vanish.’

The King's presence was a weight behind his eyelids.

He didn’t need to look to know that the man’s eyes were on him, dragging, peeling, dissecting. He could feel it. The slow, coiling inspection. As though he were something fragile and breakable on display. No, not fragile, valuable. Like an object. Something to own.

His scent swirled around Taehyung like poisoned incense, smoky and bitter, full of power and malice. It clung to his skin, sank into his lungs. His eyes stung. His heart wouldn’t stop racing.

He tried to breathe shallowly, tried not to flinch when the king shifted or sipped from his golden cup. But every sound felt sharp. Every glance felt like it might slice him open.

“So,” the king’s voice drawled, sudden and low like a growl. “What is your name, little omega?”

Taehyung swallowed hard, lowering his head even more. “T-Taehyung, Your Majesty.”

“Taehyung…” the king echoed, tasting the name slowly like he was testing it for weight. “And where do you come from?”

“I… I am from the outer village, past the third eastern gate. Near the riverbank, my king.”

“Ah,” the king hummed. “One of the fishing villages. And your parents?”

Taehyung hesitated, the familiar pain tightening his throat.

“My parents are… no longer living,” he said softly, voice barely a whisper. “I live alone. I work when I can… and read, when allowed.”

“You read?” the king repeated, intrigued.

Taehyung bowed his head again. “Y-yes, Your Majesty.”

The king leaned slightly forward, his gaze growing sharper, more calculating.

“I heard,” he said, his tone too smooth now, “that you caught the attention of my son.”

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered wide, then quickly dropped again. His lips parted in silent confusion.

“Your… son?”

“Yes. The Crowned Prince,” the king said slowly, watching for the flinch, and it came. Taehyung’s breath hitched, his spine stiffened.

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known.

The man who shared his lessons. Who smiled gently beneath furrowed brows. Who helped him hold a brush with quiet, soft and calloused hands. Who followed him through gardens and made him laugh beneath moonlight.

‘Jungkook was the Crowned Prince.’

The realization struck him like lightning. He could barely keep upright.

His thoughts raced. His stomach churned.

The King chuckled, low and amused.

“You didn’t know?” he said, lips curling. “How delightful. My son has always been so secretive.”

Taehyung didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat had closed up entirely. His hands, folded so tightly in his lap, were shaking.

“Lift your head again.”

The command rang like a slap.

He didn’t want to. Every part of him screamed not to. But he obeyed.

Slowly, eyes wide and lashes fluttering, Taehyung looked up, not to meet the king’s eyes, no, he wouldn’t dare, but just enough to lift his face into view.

The King’s smirk deepened.

“Such beauty,” he murmured. “You truly are something rare.”

Taehyung felt his heart stop. He wished Jimin was beside him. He wished Jungkook was in the doorway. He wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

Instead, he remained kneeling. Small. Silent. Trembling like a candle before the wind.

Waiting.
The king’s words, ‘You truly are something rare’ still echoed in the heavy air when the wind changed.

It was subtle at first, just a flicker of something different. But Taehyung felt it before he heard it, that scent.

A deep, grounding fragrance that curled through the tainted air like spring rain through smoke. Rich like wild pine, warm like sunbaked amber. Dominant, yes but not forceful. A scent that beckoned, wrapped around his chest like a tether, like safety.

And then the tremble in the ground beneath them.

Boots.

Fast. Purposeful. Heavy with intent.

Jungkook’s name burst in Taehyung’s heart like a bell, ‘they’re here.’

The sharp clang of boots against polished stone echoed suddenly from the far side of the courtyard, the inner path leading from the Crown Prince’s court. Not the sound of ceremony, but of storm.

The King’s cup stilled mid-air. His eyes narrowed. His entourage shifted on instinct, stiffening like prey sensing a predator.

The scent hit first. Wild pine. Sunwarmed amber. Fire beneath ice. It flooded the courtyard like a tidal wave, crashing over the delicate scents of incense and fine wine.

A scent that made betas’ knees buckle and omegas whimper behind closed doors.

The King didn’t move, but his eyes cut toward the direction of the storm.

And then he appeared.

Jungkook strode into view like a thunderclap, black robes flaring behind him, every step a declaration. His eyes burned with something raw and lethal, no trace of princely pretense, only the fury of a dominant alpha whose mate had been cornered.

Yoongi, Hoseok, and Namjoon followed behind, their expressions carved in stone. Seokjin and Jimin was far behind but they are here.

Jungkook didn’t speak yet.

But he didn’t need to.

His presence alone sent a ripple through the entire courtyard.

Even the king’s eunuchs and guards stiffened beneath the sheer pressure of his scent.

And the King, quietly setting down his cup, watched his son approach, the smirk tugging faintly at his lips, amused… and waiting.

Taehyung lifted his head, drawn by instinct and froze.

Jungkook was standing there.

And he was not alone.

Yoongi and Hoseok flanked him, shadows cast like twin sentinels at his back. Namjoon just behind them, his scholarly robes swaying with each step. Seokjin and Jimin, breathless and pale, stood at far behind them, Jimin’s hand was still damp from tears.

But it was Jungkook who seized the world.

His black robes snapped in the wind, the golden trim catching sunlight like fire. His jaw was clenched, lips a hard line. Eyes, those sharp, coal-dark eyes, burned with fury.

And his scent, gods above, his scent was everywhere.

The alpha in him was no longer hidden. His pheromones crashed into the courtyard like a roaring tide, flooding over the king’s entourage with primal dominance.

Taehyung’s mouth parted in silent awe, breath caught in his lungs. He could barely feel the cold of the veranda floor beneath his knees anymore.

The King didn’t rise.

Instead, he smirked.

“Well,” the monarch drawled, swirling his cup, voice calm despite the oppressive pressure in the air, “I was wondering when you’d arrive, my son.”

Jungkook’s lip twitched. Not a smile. Something far colder.

Namjoon placed a gentle hand on Seokjin’s back, now beside him, steadying him, while Hoseok brushed his fingers against Jimin’s elbow to check him. Jimin’s eyes, still rimmed in red, never left Jungkook’s silhouette.

The Crowned Prince moved forward, one step, then two.

The wooden veranda creaked beneath his boots.

Yoongi and Hoseok matched his stride like shadows come to life.

“Father,” Jungkook greeted, voice velvet over steel. Controlled, but barely. “You’re far from your usual court.”

The King leaned back slightly. “And you’re far from subtle.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward Taehyung, still kneeling. Still trembling.

The sight seemed to fracture something in him.

He took another step. His gaze snapped back to the King.

“You should not be here.”

The royal guards behind the King bristled, but the monarch raised a hand to silence them.

“Should not?” the King echoed. “You forget your place.”

“I forget nothing,” Jungkook said darkly. “But I remember very well whose court this is.”

The statement landed heavy.

The King’s smirk twitched, but his eyes flicked down at Taehyung once more. He watched as the boy struggled to keep upright, scent now nearly drowned in fear. The king chuckled.

“I see,” he said slowly, setting his cup down with a sharp clink. “He truly does matter to you.”

That was when Jungkook moved.

He didn’t lunge, didn’t roar but the entire courtyard shook with the weight of his pheromones as he closed the space between them in a handful of silent, brutal steps.

Taehyung gasped as the scent enveloped him. The burn of the king’s smoke was chased away, swept clean by the soothing weight of Jungkook’s scent, thick and steady like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

The king did not move but his smile had vanished.

Jungkook didn’t look at him. Not anymore.

He dropped to one knee beside Taehyung, carefully, silently and without a word, he placed a warm hand on Taehyung’s trembling back. The omega jumped, but then slowly leaned into the touch, eyes wide with surprise.

He looked up at him, lips parted. “Y-Your—”

“Don’t,” Jungkook whispered.

His hand slid over Taehyung’s back, grounding him.

“You’re safe.”

Taehyung blinked rapidly, his lashes wet.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook murmured lower, his voice not meant for the others. “I should’ve come sooner.”

Behind them, the hyungs stood like a wall, Yoongi’s gaze locked on the king, Hoseok tense and ready, Namjoon’s eyes scanning every guard’s stance. Jimin and Seokjin now stepped forward, subtle but determined, standing on either side of Taehyung like protective wings.

The king watched this silent wall of defiance with something unreadable in his expression.

“Is this how you repay your king?” he asked at last, voice tinged with amusement and warning.

“No,” Jungkook said, rising slowly to his full height. “This is how I protect what is mine.”

He turned, gaze locked onto the King, dark eyes steady, unyielding.

“Leave.”

For a moment, the air held still. Just a breath. The King said nothing.

He wanted to argue, to remind Jungkook who wore the crown now but the weight of his son’s presence left no room for prideful words. Jungkook stood taller, spoke firmer, and held the room like it already belonged to him.

And the King saw it, everyone did.

He clenched his jaw, fury flickering behind his eyes, not because he was powerless... but because he wasn't the strongest Alpha in the room anymore.

Without a word, he rose. His entourage followed without delay, the silence stretching thick between them.

He said nothing as he passed, only cast a final glance at the boy kneeling behind the prince. The boy who no longer flinched, now that Jungkook stood between him and the world.

The King’s silence was not surrender.

It was a promise.

He would not forget this humiliation.

And he would not let it be the last.

The door shut behind them with a soft thud, sealing out the heavy air of the courtyard and the lingering scent of the King. Still, the fear clung to Taehyung’s skin like smoke.

He stood in the middle of the chamber, small and trembling, his fingers curled tightly into the front folds of Jungkook’s hanbok. His knuckles were white. His shoulders shook.

“Hey now…” Seokjin’s voice was gentle, like a lullaby drifting over frayed nerves. “Darling, it’s alright. You’re safe now.”

Jimin hovered just behind him, eyes wide with concern, cooing softly as he reached to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Taehyung’s ear. “Sweetheart, breathe… you did so well. So, so well.”

“I—” Taehyung’s lips quivered, eyes glassy. “I didn’t. I was just—” His words cracked as he choked back a sob. His eyes, round and glossy like a startled deer’s, flickered up to Jungkook.

And then the dam broke.

Taehyung hiccupped, a tiny sound, like a puppy mewling, and he buried his face in Jungkook’s chest. “He looked at me like I was a thing,” he cried quietly, barely above a whisper, fingers twisting tighter into the prince’s robe. “I was s-so scared…”

Jungkook didn’t speak. He simply pulled Taehyung closer, wrapping his arms protectively around the trembling omega and tucking his face under his chin. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to the top of Taehyung’s head.

His scent changed.

From fury to warmth.

From wildfire to candlelight.

A slow release of calm, sweet musk poured from Jungkook’s glands, soft, grounding, filled with comfort and possessiveness that was not overwhelming, but anchoring.

Taehyung’s body responded instantly. The trembling eased, just a little. His breath came slower.

Hoseok, ever the sunshine, crouched beside them with a hopeful grin. “Want me to juggle?” he teased lightly. “Or pretend to faint like the royal courtesans? That always makes people laugh.”

Taehyung gave the tiniest snort through his sniffles. “That… that would be funny,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes like a child waking from a nightmare.

“There’s our baby scholar,” Jimin whispered, kneeling beside him and stroking his back, a soft laugh caught in his throat.

Namjoon stood behind them, quiet but present, voice steady and calm like a priest. “You’re surrounded by people who would give their lives for you,” he said gently. “No one will harm you again. Not while we’re breathing.”

On the other side of the room, Yoongi had turned away, arms crossed as he stared at the doorway. His nose twitched subtly, he was scenting the air, checking for the lingering pheromones of the King’s guards. A low rumble of displeasure left him as he caught something faint, but he said nothing. Just stayed alert, a silent sentinel.

Taehyung lifted his gaze again, blinking slowly at Jungkook. And then, softly, like he was afraid of the answer, he asked, “Are you really… the Crowned Prince?”

Jungkook’s breath caught. His arms tightened slightly, as if by instinct.

He pulled back just enough to look Taehyung in the eyes. “I am,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Taehyung’s lip trembled again, but he didn’t cry this time. He only blinked up at Jungkook for a moment longer, “You’re really… the Crowned Prince?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Jungkook nodded once, the movement restrained and solemn.

A hush fell between them.

Taehyung’s lips parted, but no words came at first. He simply stared, as if seeing Jungkook for the first time, not as the quiet noble who helped him learn to hold a brush, not the one who smiled quietly while stealing looks at him, nor the man who chased him through the garden with laughter on his breath. But as the heir to the throne. The son of that king.

He slowly let go of Jungkook’s hanbok, his fingers reluctant as they curled back toward his lap.

“Why…?” Taehyung’s voice shook, though his tone remained soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, eyes lowering with a guilt he rarely showed.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid of me,” he said. “I wanted to be near you without you looking at me like everyone else does.”

Taehyung blinked at him, trying to take it in. Behind him, Seokjin and Jimin sat in silence, watching closely but giving them space. Hoseok’s joking had stilled, and even Namjoon’s usually calm face looked touched with quiet sympathy.

“But… I—” Taehyung's voice caught in his throat. “You… you are the most important person in the kingdom. And I am…” He gestured vaguely at himself, eyes suddenly glassy. “I am no one.”

“You’re not no one,” Jungkook said firmly, voice dipping low but gentle. “You’re the one who saved me.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched, but he shook his head, eyes darting down.

“That was just a moment,” he whispered. “I didn’t even know who you were. If I had—” His throat tightened. “If I had known… I might’ve run.”

Jungkook’s chest ached. He reached forward instinctively, his hand hovering before gently settling over Taehyung’s, careful not to startle him.

“I didn’t want you to run,” Jungkook admitted. “I didn’t want you to see the weight I carry and feel you had to bow. I just… wanted to know you.”

Taehyung bit his lip, his heart twisting painfully. “You could have told me eventually,” he whispered. “Or the hyungs. Jimin. Anyone.”

Seokjin looked away, guilt flickering across his face. Jimin rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“I told them not to,” Jungkook said quietly. “I asked them to let me show myself to you in my own time.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, though his lashes trembled with unspoken emotion. “I… I understand,” he said at last. “But it still… it still hurts a little. Like I’ve been foolish, or... kept out of something important.”

Jungkook opened his mouth, but Taehyung lifted a hand to stop him, eyes soft.

“I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t do it to be cruel.” He smiled faintly, lips trembling. “I’m just trying to catch up with the world around me. It feels like it's racing ahead while I’m still learning to walk.”

Jungkook leaned forward, closer now, lowering his voice until only Taehyung could hear it.

“I don’t want you to run to catch up,” he murmured. “I’ll walk beside you. As slow as you need.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened, startled. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Behind them, Jimin clutched Seokjin’s sleeve with misty eyes. “He said the thing,” he whispered.

Hoseok turned away dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart. “He’s so gone. That’s it. He’s in love.”

Yoongi let out a tired breath from near the door, where he stood guard. “Would you all shut up before the King sends spies through the walls?”

Namjoon just chuckled, his gaze softening on the pair.

But Taehyung didn’t hear the others. Not fully. He was still caught in the stillness of that moment, where Jungkook, the Crowned Prince, the terrifying alpha who faced down his own father, had looked at him like he was precious.

And it terrified him.

But somehow, it soothed him too.

He whispered, not even knowing why the words came out: “Then… please don’t leave me behind.”

Jungkook’s hand tightened over his, thumb brushing his knuckles. “I won’t.”

Taehyung had grown quiet.

The tension in his body slowly uncoiled, like a string finally loosened after being stretched too tightly. His head, once bowed in confusion and fear, now rested gently on Jungkook’s shoulder. His breaths came softer, shallower, his lashes fluttered shut.

Jungkook glanced down.

Taehyung had fallen asleep.

The faintest smile tugged at Jungkook’s lips. The omega’s features, usually so animated, either in wide-eyed curiosity or sheepish wonder, were peaceful now. Serene. Childlike. His soft lips parted with each exhale, and his small fingers curled lightly against Jungkook’s sleeve, refusing to let go even in slumber.

“Moon above,” Seokjin whispered behind him, pressing a hand to his chest. “He’s too precious. Wrap him in silk and guard him with a thousand spears.”

“Already doing that,” Jungkook murmured, barely loud enough for even Seokjin to hear.

With careful movements, Jungkook stood and adjusted Taehyung in his arms. The younger whimpered softly at the shift, brows twitching. Jungkook hushed him with the gentleness of a spring breeze.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re mine to protect now.”

He walked Taehyung inside and laid him down on the sleeping mat with painstaking care, arranging the embroidered silk blanket over his small frame. Taehyung instinctively turned to his side, curling into the warmth. His lips murmured something sleep-soft, incoherent.

Jungkook crouched beside him, brushing a few stray hairs from his brow.

“I’m sorry you had to meet him like that,” he whispered. “I should’ve been faster. I’ll never be that slow again.”

He lingered a moment longer, just to breathe in Taehyung’s scent, now faint with sleep and comfort. It calmed something primal in him.

Then he rose and stepped out onto the veranda where his hyungs waited.

The air outside was heavier now. Dusk crept in, casting a smoky lavender haze across the sky. The lanterns hadn’t yet been lit. Shadows stretched long on the tiles, and silence reigned except for the occasional rustle of silk or armor.

Seokjin stood at the corner of the veranda, arms crossed tightly.

Namjoon leaned against one of the thick wooden pillars, his expression hard.

Yoongi was by the outside of the veranda, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes, ever the sentinel.

And Hoseok wore a rare frown, his usual brightness dulled by the encounter with the king.

Jungkook joined them, his demeanor shifting. The soft expression he had worn for Taehyung melted into sharpness. His jaw was tight, gaze glinting cold.

“He’ll strike again,” Jungkook said simply.

Yoongi glanced back. “He was humiliated in front of his entourage, by his own son. He won’t forget it.”

“He won’t forgive it,” Namjoon added. “He’ll wait, bide his time. Then strike where it hurts the most.”

Jungkook’s hands clenched behind his back. “He already tried.”

“He’ll try harder,” Seokjin muttered, voice taut. “Especially now that he’s seen Taehyung.”

Silence settled between them.

“I won’t let him touch him,” Jungkook said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’d tear down the palace first.”

Yoongi nodded grimly. “So what’s the next move?”

Jungkook turned toward them, the twilight casting his silhouette like a shadowed wolf.

“We start now,” he said. “No more waiting for confirmation from the western provinces. The thieves there are being hunted as rebels and criminals but the real thieves sit in this palace.”

He looked to Namjoon. “The court officials. The treasury clerks. The king himself. They hoard silver, jade, grain, and medicine while the outer provinces bleed.”

“And what next?” Namjoon asked, already knowing.

Jungkook’s smile was razor-sharp. “We’ll rob them. Silently. Piece by piece. Even from my own chambers. Let it look like an inside job, random theft.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Even your own chambers?”

“I have to,” Jungkook said. “To throw suspicion away from Taehyung and his court. They’ll look everywhere else first.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenched. “And when they look here?”

“They won’t,” Hoseok said, eyes flashing. “Because we won’t leave a trace.”

Namjoon pushed off the pillar. “I’ll start the planning tonight. We’ll need layouts, patrol routes, rotating staff lists…”

“I’ll need your eyes,” Jungkook said to Yoongi. “Everywhere. Inside and out. Watch the court wives. The other omegas. Anyone that speaks to the king too sweetly.”

Yoongi nodded once and vanished into the growing shadows.

Seokjin looked toward the room Taehyung was sleeping in, worry creasing his brow. “And him?”

“I’ll protect him myself,” Jungkook said. “He sleeps under my name now.”

Jimin quietly stepped out from the doorway, finally composed again. He bowed to his prince and husbands.

“Then we stand with you,” Jimin said softly.

The courtyard quieted again as dusk deepened.

War was not yet upon them, but the fire had been lit.

And under a blanket of stars, one trembling omega slept soundly, unaware that the boy he had stitched his name beside… was now planning a rebellion for his sake.

Chapter Text

The heavy doors closed with a soft thud, shutting out the night air and any whisper of passing servants.

The room was dim, lit only by three lanterns casting a low golden glow across the lacquered floors and the tall shelves that lined the walls. Scrolls, maps, ledgers, and royal decrees surrounded them, but all of it felt irrelevant now.

Here, in the quiet heart of the Crown Prince’s personal study, four alphas stood around the wide central table, warriors cloaked not in armor, but in silence, fury, and resolve.

Jungkook’s scent still clung thick in the air, smoky sandalwood with a sharp citrus undertone, a mark of authority so heavy that even the flickering lantern flames seemed to still in respect.

Namjoon unfurled a long scroll across the table.

“Ten noble households are hoarding wealth. I’ve narrowed it to six that can be accessed without alerting the entire capital. Three are in the inner ring. One of them belongs to Minister Baek—the one who introduced that taxation reform.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “We’ll begin with him.”

“Each house,” Yoongi added, “has no less than twenty servants, rotating guards, and at least two personal protectors trained to use scent tracking. We’ll need to disrupt their rotation long enough to get in and out.”

Hoseok leaned in, pointing to the map. “Baek’s estate is near the southwest wall—less patrols, and two of the perimeter guards are bribed easily. I’ll arrange it.”

Namjoon nodded. “And I’ll fake a requisition for his grain stores tomorrow. Create noise around one of his granaries, draw attention away from the main house.”

“We don’t take everything,” Jungkook said. “Only what the people need. The rest, we leave untouched, for now.”

Yoongi folded his arms. “One house per night, that’s the limit. If we rush, we make mistakes.”

“We won’t,” Jungkook replied calmly. “We’ve waited long enough. Tomorrow night we begin.”

He turned to the small lockbox he’d carried in earlier, his personal reserve. Gold coins, precious trinkets, letters of trade, tokens from his own treasury. Without hesitation, he poured them into a cloth sack.

“I’ll lose mine too. They’ll think the thief doesn’t discriminate.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicked toward him. “Are you certain?”

“I want them confused. Panicked. A king who fears shadows is easier to beat than one who thinks he still holds the sun.”

A silence followed, thick and reverent.

No laughter now. No teasing. Just four alphas, each with power, each with something to lose, staring down the crown’s corruption with steel behind their eyes.

Yoongi finally spoke again. “What about the omegas?”

Jungkook shook his head. “They’re not to know. Not Jimin. Not Seokjin. Not Taehyung.”

Hoseok sighed. “They’ll know something’s happening.”

“Let them think we are busy. It’s safer if they don’t ask. We’ll lie if we must.” Jungkook said.

Namjoon didn’t miss the pained look behind the prince’s eyes. “That will be enough—for now.”

Outside the windows, the wind stirred the treetops beyond the wall. The capital slept, unaware that its princes were about to become its thieves.

Jungkook looked over the map one last time, then rolled it up.

“One house. Tomorrow night.”

Yoongi gave a slow nod.

Namjoon tightened the ribbon around the scroll.

Hoseok grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The kingdom had turned its back on its people.

Now, its wolves were ready to bite back.

-

The next morning, the sun filtered through the silk panels of Taehyung’s chamber, painting golden patches on the floor as if the sky itself wanted to write him a letter. He blinked sleepily, stretching under the soft covers had tucked around him the night before.

There was no scheduled lesson that morning again. Namjoon hadn’t sent word. And Jungkook…

Taehyung glanced at the door, half-expecting the prince to sweep in with his cool stare and quiet, unreadable smiles. But only silence greeted him, the still hush of a palace morning. A few birds chirped in the trees just beyond the courtyard wall. A warm breeze rustled the peony bushes outside.

He pouted softly, cheeks puffed as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Maybe Jungkook was… busy?

Taehyung dressed slowly with the help of the maid assigned to him, still not used to someone tying the sash for him or brushing his hair so gently. Once dressed in a soft lavender hanbok embroidered with light silver threads, he padded barefoot across the warm wood flooring and out into the garden courtyard.

No guards stood at the gate anymore, not after Jungkook’s terrifying display the day before but Taehyung still felt oddly protected. Still… he missed the prince. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he did.

Sitting cross-legged in the open veranda, Taehyung opened the scroll Namjoon had given him during yesterday’s lesson. The paper smelled faintly of juniper and old ink. His handwriting was still clumsy, his brush strokes too wide and sometimes crooked, but he practiced anyway. Tongue poked out in concentration, he whispered the syllables as he wrote them slowly.

He smudged one stroke and gave a small frustrated whimper.

“You’re going to poke a hole through the silk at this rate,” a familiar voice teased lightly.

Taehyung looked up, blinking.

Jimin stood at the edge of the veranda, arms full of neatly folded fabrics. Seokjin followed behind him, carrying a tray of snacks, sweet rice cakes, chestnut tea, and candied dates, clearly meant to lift someone's spirits.

Taehyung brightened immediately, his pout dissolving into a beaming smile. “Hyungs!”

“You look like a little hermit,” Jimin said, kneeling beside him and setting down the cloth bundles. “No sign of the prince yet?”

Taehyung shook his head. “Is he unwell…? Did I do something wrong…?”

Seokjin made a soft sound of sympathy and set the tray down beside the scroll. “No, sweetheart. Jungkook’s just busy this morning. Something about the court.”

“Honestly, he didn’t even have breakfast with us. Which is rare. He must really be in the thick of it.” Jimin added with a dramatic sigh, flopping beside him.

Taehyung nodded slowly, still unsure. He poked his brush gently against the scroll, voice barely above a whisper. “He didn’t even send a message…”

Both older omegas got curious too. They exchanged glances before Jimin leaned forward and gently poked the younger’s cheek.

“Don’t make that face,” he said with a soft coo. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“I-I’m not making a face…”

“You are,” Seokjin sighed, already breaking a rice cake in half. “And it’s the saddest one in the entire kingdom. Here. Eat. He’ll visit you soon.”

“But when?” Taehyung mumbled, eyes falling to the smudged ink. His lower lip jutted out in a small pout, fingers tightening on the edge of the scroll.

“Soon,” Jimin murmured, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Knowing him, he’s probably thinking about you right now while glaring at some poor minister’s head.”

Taehyung giggled quietly at the image, but his smile was fleeting. A crease formed between his brows as his gaze dropped once more to the parchment.

Even now, after everything, it was hard to believe. Jungkook, the one who helped him hold a brush, who looked at him like he was something fragile and precious, was the crowned prince.

The future King.

‘And I’m just… me.’

The thought sent a pang through his chest. His fingers brushed his own cheek absentmindedly as his mind wandered.

He liked Jungkook’s scent. He really did. It was warm, strong, something clean and grounding, like the wind right before a summer rain. It made his heartbeat quicken and his hands clumsy. Just thinking about it now made his cheeks flush, ears turning warm.

But he’s the prince, Taehyung reminded himself. The most important person in the kingdom. He has responsibilities. He has to marry someone powerful… someone worthy.

‘I’m not supposed to feel this way.’

His pout deepened, and Seokjin noticed instantly.

“Oh no, not the double pout,” he teased gently, nudging a small rice cake into Taehyung’s lap. “I’ll have to bribe you with sweets at this rate.”

Taehyung managed a tiny laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Still, he nibbled on the offered treat, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue.

He just wanted to see Jungkook again.

-

The palace court was already stifling with tension even before the Crown Prince took his seat.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall lattice windows, glinting off the polished gold trim of the officials’ robes, their backs straight as reeds, eyes flicking warily between the King seated at the raised dais and his son standing below it. A wave of deep bows rippled through the room as Jungkook entered, his presence crisp and commanding despite the sleepless night he’d spent pacing, planning, waiting.

Behind him, Yoongi stood like a silent blade, expression unreadable, hands folded neatly inside his sleeves. He didn’t speak, his presence alone was enough to remind everyone why he had earned the title of the Crown Prince’s shadow.

The king, adorned in a robe of white and red silk embroidered with golden phoenixes, lounged atop his elevated throne. His fingers drummed lazily against the carved dragon armrest, a smirk twitching at his lips when Jungkook offered his bow, low but perfectly measured.

“So,” the King began, voice thick with mirth and calculation, “have you prepared your court for the upcoming visit of the Eastern King? Or are you still... distracted by your guest?”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed, but he bowed again respectfully. “Preparations are underway, Your Majesty. I’ve already assigned the east wing to be refurbished.”

“Mm,” the King hummed, eyes gleaming. “Make certain the finest dancers are summoned. And the silk-clad courtesans from Silla, let us not look like beggars in front of a man who bathes in rosewater and wraps his fruit in gold leaf.”

The court chuckled on cue, though their laughter was dry and brittle.

Jungkook did not laugh. “It shall be done.”

“See that it is,” the King snapped. “The last thing I want is to appear weak. If he sees a crack in our walls, even a whimper from our court—he’ll dig in like a vulture.”

Jungkook’s hands remained steady, clasped in front of him. “The Crown will not disappoint.”

Yoongi’s gaze swept the room as murmurs began to rise among the officials. News of the thieves in the western province was brought forth again, unsettling whispers about organized attacks against small government storages and caravans. Namjoon and Hoseok were absent from the court that morning, their duties cited in the outer districts, nothing unusual for the two known to handle inspections and routine management of border affairs. No one questioned it, their absence was accepted with nods of understanding, as if it were part of the natural rhythm of court life.

The meeting continued without delay.

One aging minister cleared his throat and brought up recent unrest. “There have been murmurs, Your Majesty. A break-in near the western granaries. Supplies tampered with. Some silver unaccounted for. The guards insist it was too swift, well-organized, not mere beggars.”

The King leaned back on his throne, fingers idly caressing the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, eyes narrowing with casual menace. “Are you saying my coffers are being robbed?”

“N-no, Your Majesty,” the minister stammered, “merely... alerting the court that such things could grow worse. The people grow restless.”

The King scoffed. “Restless people are like dogs—they bark, bite, then die out in the mud. They do not concern me.”

Jungkook’s gaze remained impassive, but Yoongi, who stood behind him, could sense the fury beneath the Crown Prince’s stillness.

Another official chimed in. “Perhaps we should send out stricter tax inspectors again, just to reinforce the rule of law—”

“No,” Jungkook said coldly, cutting across the minister with a voice that dropped like a blade. “We will not provoke more unrest. The people need to eat, not bleed.”

The chamber quieted.

The King raised a brow, curious but not alarmed. “You speak as though you carry the burden of their bellies yourself, my son.”

Jungkook met his gaze steadily. “Perhaps someone should.”

That drew no protest, just an amused laugh from the king, sharp and short. “Then do what you must, within reason. We shall impress our visiting guests next moon, and I will not have some peasant skirmishes spoil the throne’s shine.”

The courtiers murmured their agreements, the conversation drifting toward the upcoming royal visit from the Eastern Kingdom.

Meanwhile, Jungkook merely inclined his head, lips pressed thin. Beneath the table, his fingers curled tightly, as he already imagined the map he and his hyungs had drawn last night. He could see the golden chambers of greedy officials in his mind, see them opened.

‘Tonight’ he thought.

-

The moon hung low and swollen in the ink-dark sky, casting pale silver over the palace roofs and the labyrinth of noble estates nestled behind high, gilded walls. While the capital slumbered under the illusion of order, shadows moved with purpose, silent, swift, and unseen.

Inside a dimly lit chamber tucked within a nondescript corner of Jungkook’s private court, maps, scrolls, and a hand-drawn ledger of the nobles’ personal hoards were sprawled over a low table. Namjoon had compiled it all, of careful tracking, whispered names, and gold-counting rumors gathered from both palace servants and the streets beyond the walls.

Jungkook stood tall at the head of the table, dressed in sleek black hanbok stripped of all royal embroidery. Even without gold or crimson, he looked like a general poised for war, quiet, dangerous, and utterly focused.

“House Yi is first,” he said, eyes gleaming beneath the faint light. “The lord is known to hoard silver meant for the common granaries. We'll take it back tonight.”

Yoongi adjusted the twin blades at his hip, sharp eyes narrowed. “The patrol routes haven't changed. We have a window of exactly eleven minutes. No more.”

“I’ve oiled the hinges on the servant gates,” Hoseok added with a faint smirk. “They won’t even creak.”

Namjoon, as always, had the last word. “Once we’re in, go quiet. Touch only what we listed. Gold, silver, ledgers, and those bribe notes he thinks are hidden under the shrine.”

Jungkook nodded, slipping on his black gloves. “Let’s take back what was stolen.”

Hours later, the heist begins.

The four of them moved like smoke, Jungkook, Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi, blending into the night as if they had been born from its shadows. They wore no royal insignia, no family crests, no colors to mark their status. Only matching black hanboks, simple, unadorned, made for movement, not display.

Half-masks covered the lower halves of their faces, hiding their noses and mouths, leaving only their eyes exposed, sharp, alert, and unreadable.

The outer gates of House Yi's estate loomed tall, carved with false virtues and covered in imported lacquer, an opulence stolen from starving citizens.

Yoongi led the way, fingers ghosting over the wall before he scaled it with the ease of water slipping over stone. Once atop, he tied a silent rope ladder. The others followed quickly.

No guards noticed.

Inside, the garden was still, heavy with the scent of camellias and old power. Hoseok crouched beside the back veranda and pulled out a small pouch of powdered root. He blew it gently toward the sleeping guards posted nearby, watchmen who slumped deeper into slumber seconds later.

Namjoon picked the lock on the side entrance with ease. Within moments, they were inside.

Jungkook's heart beat like war drums, excited even, beneath his calm expression, but he moved with practiced restraint. His footsteps made no sound as he entered the main chamber, where heavy scrolls and a safe disguised as a prayer altar stood.

He pulled the altar open. It didn’t even squeak.

Gold coins glittered within, alongside tax ledgers and bribe logs. He filled a silk pouch with the valuables, fingers steady.

Yoongi slipped upstairs to retrieve a small lacquered box he knew contained foreign jewels. Namjoon tucked scrolls into a carrier strapped beneath his robe. Hoseok scoured a drawer for ledgers, found them and set a false copy in its place to stall suspicion.

In less than ten minutes, they were out.

They didn’t speak until they were three rooftops away, standing in the dark above a silent district, the city below unaware of what had been reclaimed.

Jungkook turned, wind tousling his hair, eyes still burning with purpose.

“One down,” he whispered. “Another for tomorrow night.”

Namjoon grunted softly. “At this rate, we’ll have enough to build a new granary. Feed four villages, maybe more.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “And piss off every noble in the court. Worth it.”

Hoseok laughed. “They won't even know what hit them.”

Jungkook glanced down at the pouch of silver now resting at his hip, heavier with righteousness than any royal title could bear.

No, it wasn’t enough, not yet. But it was a beginning.

A rebellion not with swords… but with silence, with shadows, with justice.

And it had only just begun.

The night deepened into its softest silence, no breeze stirred the palace lanterns, and the watchmen had already made their final rounds. The courtyard of the old queen’s wing was hushed, save for the rustling of leaves that fell like whispered secrets.

Jungkook slipped into the shadows, the black of his hanbok folding into the darkness like a second skin. He moved with purpose, carrying no torch, no sound, and no hesitation.

Behind him, cloaked in the same dark garb, Yoongi stood just beyond the outermost wall of the court, blending into the night. His arms were crossed, eyes tilted toward the moonlight and then toward the distant guards whose awareness had long since dulled in the safety of the inner palace.

Jungkook pressed open the side door, the one only his personal eunuch and guards used. He had long since learned the creaking pattern of its hinge and moved so carefully it gave no protest.

Inside, the air was warmer, softly perfumed with a faint trace of lotus blossom and ink. His eyes immediately found the sleeping form nestled under embroidered silk, breath slow, lips gently parted in slumber.

Taehyung.

Jungkook’s heart tugged in his chest like a bowstring being drawn tight. The stress and weight of the night fell from his shoulders in a quiet rush, and for a long moment, he simply stood there, watching.

The moonlight filtered through the lattice window and painted Taehyung in delicate blue hues, highlighting the soft curve of his cheek, the long sweep of his lashes, the way one hand clutched the edge of his blanket like a child.

The omega had no idea how dangerous this night had been.

No idea that Jungkook had just stolen silver from one of the king’s favorite nobles and hidden it beneath the foundations of the unused prayer hall in his court.

No idea that the Crown Prince of the realm had bloodied his gloves in quiet retribution.

But here he was, asleep and unburdened, untouched by the world’s cruelty for just a little longer.

Jungkook stepped closer, slow and quiet. He knelt beside the bedding, folding his legs under him with a reverence no one would ever expect from a war-born alpha.

His fingers twitched, aching to brush the locks of hair away from Taehyung’s forehead.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, letting his scent bloom gently into the air, warm, steady, and tinged with something fond. Calming. Loving.

Taehyung stirred slightly, his nose twitching at the familiar scent. He didn’t wake.

Jungkook smiled. ‘He smells me in his dreams’, he thought absurdly.

He stayed like that for a few moments longer, watching his omega sleep, letting the quiet soothe the raw edges of his night.

Then he stood and retreated the way he came, silent, unseen, satisfied.

Yoongi nodded once as Jungkook emerged, stepping from the shadows like a phantom. They exchanged no words.

There was no need.

The next morning bloomed softly, with sunbeams filtering through the paper screens and the faint chirping of birds outside the court. A palace maid crept through the courtyard with a light touch, preparing water for the day’s wash.

Taehyung stretched beneath his covers, rubbing his eyes with balled fists and letting out a tiny yawn. His heart felt oddly warm, like he had dreamed something kind.

His fingers brushed over the fabric of his blanket and paused.

He blinked, the memory of a scent lingering faintly in the room. He sat up slowly, frowning to himself.

Jungkook’s scent.

His cheeks turned pink. ‘Am I dreaming about him now? That can’t be right…’

He rose, face still drowsy, shuffling toward the low table where his inkstone and brushes sat, arranged neatly as he left them. With no schedule that morning and no instructor present, he decided to practice on his own again.

It had become a little ritual now, scratching letters onto clean parchment, the steady rhythm of brush and ink filling the quiet like a lullaby.

Sometime later, the screen door slid open with a soft shhhk, and in stepped two familiar figures, Jimin and Seokjin, each carrying a tray laden with warm dishes and covered bowls, the scent of breakfast curling into the room.

“Sweetheart, why haven’t you bathed yet?” Seokjin asked as he set his tray down, raising a brow.

“He’s been practicing,” Jimin added with a knowing smile. “Apparently, even soap has to wait.”

Taehyung pouted, glancing up shyly. “I… I just wanted to get better. So, my instructor might be proud of me.”

“Oh?” Seokjin teased, one hand on his hip. “Your instructor… or perhaps a certain Crowned Prince?”

Jimin snorted, catching the way Taehyung’s ears turned red as he quickly ducked his head.

They sat down around him, unpacking the morning meal with practiced ease. Taehyung focused on the steam rising from the rice, on the clink of porcelain bowls.

He tried not to think too hard about Jungkook.

Tried.

Chapter Text

The nights had grown restless within the capital.

Each morning now brought new whispers, louder and more frantic than the last. Golden coins and ornaments. Jeweled rings. Stacks of silver coins meant for bribes and indulgences. All vanishing without a trace.

A nobleman howled one sunrise that his entire underground storage had been emptied, locks unbroken, no footprints in the garden above. Another arrived in the court pale as snow, claiming that even the gold-threaded shoes meant for his concubine had been taken straight off her shelves. One by one, the court officials clamored in outrage, voices rising like birds startled from their roosts.

The throne room was in a state of growing frenzy.

“Who dares touch the treasures of this court?” one demanded, red in the face.

“Perhaps foreign spies!” another hissed, clutching his ledger to his chest.

“We must increase patrols! Double the guards near the treasury!” barked a third, who barely paid his servants but had four private chambers filled with jade ornaments and gold silk.

Jungkook sat on the elevated dais in his princely seat, half-shadowed by the drapery above. His expression was unreadable, composed with the elegance expected of the Crown Prince. But beneath the surface, he was smirking.

He tilted his head slightly, listening with exaggerated patience as the court spun in panicked circles, none of them caring for the starving families beyond the gates, only for the loss of their overflowing storages.

‘Fools,’ he thought as he let his gaze drift lazily over the gathered ministers. ‘How fragile your sleep must be now that you’ve started to feel the weight of your greed slip from under you.’

They babbled about fortifying storage rooms, about punishing their servants should they catch even a whisper of thievery. The King himself, stiff in his pride and scowling like a beast disturbed mid-feast, ordered more royal guards to his own treasury, growling threats beneath his breath.

Jungkook suppressed a yawn.

Yoongi glanced sideways at him from the shadowed edge of the court, his arms folded as usual. Hoseok stood not far from him, half-hidden in the pillar’s long shadow, arms behind his back, gaze unreadable.

They had barely slept these past nights.

But it had been worth it.

Each coin now gathered and sorted. Every gem counted. And soon, the plans to send it out across the capital would begin, the rice merchants bribed into lowering prices, the orphanage and temples quietly gifted linen and grain, the debt-ridden workers finding their loans suddenly paid in full, by anonymous "goodwill patrons."

But not tonight. Jungkook had decided they would rest for now.

Once the court was finally dismissed, the prince rose from his seat with regal precision, bowing to his father with the same cold respect he always wore like armor. He walked out, his dark robes trailing behind him like spilled ink.

Behind him, Yoongi and Hoseok followed silently, their footsteps falling into easy rhythm with his. His royal entourage flanked behind them.

They were halfway through the outer corridor when Jungkook paused.

Through the soft hum of summer air, he heard it, light footsteps, the wind-like flutter of garments in motion, and a clear, childlike giggle that made his chest tighten unexpectedly.

They had reached the edge of the west courtyard. And there, basking in the afternoon sun, was Taehyung.

The omega’s sleeves were pulled up carelessly to his elbows, hair tousled from the wind, cheeks flushed a rosy pink as he darted across the grass. A ring of young maids circled him, laughing as they played a messy version of tag, shrieking and dodging around low lantern posts and the fluttering banners set out to dry.

Jimin stood under the shade, watching with both fondness and deep concern, as if he were a mother hen watching her precious chick tumble through the air.

“Oh, he’s going to—” Jimin said aloud, just as Taehyung’s shoes caught on a root.

With a squeal and a startled cry, Taehyung tripped, falling onto the soft grass with a dramatic puff, his arms sprawled above his head.

Gasps exploded from the courtyard like startled doves.

“Young Master Taehyung!”

“Taehyung-ah! Are you alright?!”

Jimin surged forward, panic lighting his eyes, but before he or any of the maids could reach him, Jungkook had already sprinted down the steps of the corridor like an arrow loosed from a bow.

His royal hanbok billowed behind him, his guards startled by the sudden movement.

“Taehyung—!”

Taehyung blinked up from the grass, blinking as a shadow fell over him and there he was.

Jungkook, kneeling beside him, eyes wild with worry, hands already moving to check him for scrapes.

Taehyung gawked.

He sat up quickly, hands gripping the grass. “Wha—Your High—!”

He stopped mid-sentence as his senses caught up to him. The scent. That addictive, deep-sweet woodsmoke and spice. His omega instincts bloomed unbidden at the closeness. His heart stammered against his ribs like a drum.

Behind Jungkook, Yoongi and Hoseok had come to a full stop, brows lifted, eyes twitching slightly at the sheer dramatics of the moment.

“Oh, heavens,” Hoseok murmured under his breath, biting back a grin.

Taehyung, meanwhile, was pink in the face, his lips forming an “o” as he stared up at the Crown Prince.

“I-I’m fine,” he stammered at last, laughing in that high, breathless way, brushing grass off his sleeves. “I didn’t even cry, look!”

Jungkook didn’t look amused. “You could have hit your head.”

“I didn’t.”

“You could have.”

Taehyung blinked again. “I… missed you,” he admitted softly, then gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I mean—!”

The courtyard erupted in choked squeals from the maids, Jimin flapping a hand over his mouth as though watching a forbidden romance scene unfold in real life.

Jungkook’s lips twitched.

“You missed me?” he said, voice low and teasing.

Taehyung’s face turned a deeper shade of pink. He looked down. “...N-no?”

Behind them, Yoongi turned on his heel abruptly, facing the garden wall.

“I cannot be here for this,” he muttered.

Hoseok was squealing. “They’re adorable. This is disgusting.”

Jimin sniffled. “They’re in love and I’m emotional.”

And all Jungkook could see, could hear, could breathe was the flushed little omega in front of him, grass in his hair, clutching the sleeve of his robe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Later that afternoon, the sky shifted into a warm honey hue, and the quiet hum of cicadas filled the corners of the palace. The playtime in the courtyard had ended with laughter, light teasing from Hoseok, and an awkwardly shy Taehyung being escorted away by Jimin to freshen up and rest. But the image lingered in Jungkook’s mind, Taehyung’s flushed cheeks, the sound of his laughter, the way he smelled after running, sunshine and something sweet. Something entirely his.

The prince couldn’t shake it.

So, when the sun dipped just a little lower, casting long amber shadows across the grounds, Jungkook sent word through one of the servants. A soft knock came to Taehyung’s chamber door not long after.

“The Crown Prince requests your company, Young master Taehyung,” the eunuch said with a polite bow. “At the southern training courtyard of the prince.”

Taehyung blinked up from the scroll he had been holding upside down for ten minutes now. “Training… courtyard?”

By the time he arrived, hesitantly stepping into the wide, open practice grounds framed by stone lanterns and cherrywood beams, Jungkook was already there, waiting in dark training robes, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled away from his face in a half-knot, exposing his sharp jaw and glinting collarbone. A wooden practice sword rested loosely against his shoulder.

Taehyung stopped in his tracks.

‘Oh no. He looks like one of those tragic warriors from the story books Jimin told him about.’

“M-my prince?” Taehyung called out softly.

Jungkook turned, his eyes immediately softening at the sight of him. “You came.”

“You asked.” Taehyung looked around. “I… I don’t think I belong here.”

Jungkook walked toward him, extending the shorter practice sword with a lopsided grin. “You are with me.”

Taehyung flushed down to his toes. He took the wooden sword with both hands like it might bite him.

“But why?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously. “I don’t even know how to hold it. Won’t I embarrass myself?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Then you’ll embarrass yourself. But you’ll also learn. You’re staying in the palace now. I want you to know how to protect yourself, even a little.” His gaze softened. “Besides, I wanted to spend time with you.”

Taehyung blinked.

“I mean—spend time training you,” Jungkook added quickly, ears pink.

From the roofline of a nearby watchtower, Yoongi watched them with narrowed eyes.

“If he teaches him how to swing a blade like that again,” he muttered, biting off a piece of dried pear, “I’ll use mine on him.”

Hoseok leaned against the rail beside him, handing over another snack. “Let the boy flirt. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him in days.”

Back on the courtyard floor, Taehyung was now awkwardly holding the wooden sword like it was a ladle.

Jungkook bit back a laugh. “Here—like this.”

He stepped behind Taehyung, reaching around him, his arms brushing over Taehyung’s as he adjusted his grip. His chest pressed lightly to the omega’s back, breath warm at his ear.

Taehyung froze.

He could barely hear over the pounding in his chest. “O-oh. Like this?”

Jungkook gently adjusted the angle of his wrists. “Good. Now stance. A little wider.”

Taehyung tried, but wobbled. “My legs don’t listen!”

Jungkook chuckled, stepping back. “They will. Let’s practice the basic swing. Just one.”

Taehyung raised the sword and whoosh.
It slipped straight from his hands, clattered against the post, and bounced into the grass with a sad little plop.

There was silence.

Jungkook blinked, then laughed, a full, warm laugh that made Taehyung’s stomach flip.

“You said basic!” Taehyung cried, eyes wide with scandal. “That wasn’t basic!”

“It was!” Jungkook grinned. “You just… swing like a sleepy cat.”

“You’re a sleepy cat,” Taehyung pouted, crossing his arms.

“Try again.”

They went through the same motion several more times, Jungkook correcting, Taehyung groaning and fumbling. But on the seventh or eighth attempt, Taehyung took too big of a step, overcorrected, and tumbled forward with a little yelp.

“Ah—!”

But he didn’t hit the ground.

Strong arms caught him. Jungkook’s arms.

Their eyes met, breath tangled in the space between them.

Jungkook’s face was inches from his, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly in surprise but then slowly, the look melted into something soft, something fond. The curve of his lips tilted, the gaze on Taehyung impossibly tender.

Taehyung’s heart stuttered. He could smell Jungkook again, closer now, stronger, the prince’s alpha scent curling around him like warm silk, like fire and sandalwood and something sacred.

Jungkook swallowed. “You okay?”

Taehyung nodded dumbly, still in his arms.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them wanted to.

Yoongi, from above, sighed and covered his eyes. “They’re not going to spar at this rate. They’re going to kiss and faint.”

Hoseok grinned. “I’ve seen worse court scandals.”

“They’re not even in a scandal yet.”

“They will be if he keeps holding him like that.”

On the training ground, Jungkook finally helped Taehyung stand properly, letting his hands linger just a bit too long. Taehyung blushed furiously, hiding his face with both hands.

“I’m never picking up a sword again,” he mumbled.

Jungkook chuckled. “You’re doing better than I did my first time.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

Taehyung peeked between his fingers.

Jungkook smiled.

And Taehyung couldn’t help but smile back.

The sun had begun to set, casting a peach glow over the palace rooftops. After their playful, chaotic session in the training yard, Jungkook insisted they walk together, just the two of them, no guards, no court ladies, no one but them and the faint humming of cicadas in the hedges.

Taehyung’s cheeks were still pink from laughter and exertion. His hair clung to his temple, and he looked up at Jungkook shyly, heart fluttering in his chest like a moth caught in silk. Every time their hands brushed, it sent sparks through his fingertips.

“You didn’t really think I looked that clumsy, did you?” Taehyung asked, pretending to pout.

Jungkook gave him a side glance, eyes twinkling. “You did, but you were cute.”

Taehyung stopped walking, wide-eyed. “I wasn’t trying to be cute.”

“You weren’t trying,” Jungkook murmured, voice low as he leaned slightly closer, “but you were.”

Taehyung bit his lip, suddenly unable to breathe properly. He looked down, trying to hide his flushed face.

They walked in comfortable silence for a few more paces, their shoulders almost brushing. The stone path beneath their feet was framed by blossoming white lilies, petals fluttering down in the breeze like tiny blessings from the sky.

Taehyung inhaled the fresh scent of evening jasmine and Jungkook’s warm alpha musk. ‘He’s the Crowned Prince’, Taehyung thought with sudden heaviness. ‘He’s supposed to belong to someone important.’

His heart wavered.

He glanced up at Jungkook, who was walking just a step ahead, his profile caught in the soft amber light of the setting sun. The alpha’s features were relaxed, lips curled into an easy smile as he spoke, voice rich with fondness and amusement.

“…and then Hoseok swung so hard he lost his grip entirely. The blade flew—nearly took out one of the training dummies. I swear, the dummy looked offended.”

Jungkook let out a low chuckle at his own story, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Taehyung blinked at him slowly, his own lips twitching into a smile. It was such a simple, ordinary moment. The way Jungkook’s hair fluttered slightly in the breeze, the way he laughed like he didn’t carry the weight of the entire kingdom on his shoulders, it felt disarming. Almost boyish.

And yet…

A gentle ache bloomed in Taehyung’s chest.

‘How can someone like him feel so close, yet so far away?’

He swallowed, gaze falling to the path beneath his feet for a moment. The Crowned Prince of Joseon, the most powerful alpha in the land, was walking beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they were just two boys sharing an evening walk, not two souls divided by lineage and duty.

Taehyung smiled faintly again, but this time there was a shadow behind it.

He liked the sound of Jungkook’s laughter. He liked how warm his scent was, rich with cedar and the faintest trace of something sweet, like roasted barley. He liked the way Jungkook talked to him, not with command or condescension, but with gentle teasing and sincerity. He liked…

He like him.

And that frightened him.

Because Jungkook wasn’t just a kind alpha. He was the Crowned Prince. He belonged to the palace, to history, to the expectations of a nation. He would be King. He would take a Queen. He would never, could never truly belong to someone like Taehyung.

The thought made his heart dip.

‘Who am I’, he wondered bitterly, ‘to even think I could walk beside someone like him and pretend I belong there?’

He didn’t know whether to scold himself or to keep smiling just a little longer, to stretch this moment before reality came crashing back.

So instead, he looked up at Jungkook again, taking in the curve of his smile, the soft flutter of his sleeve in the wind, and let himself imagine just for a little while that this was enough.

That walking beside him like this, even if it ended tomorrow, was a memory he would hold close forever.

Unbeknownst to them, in the shade beneath the outer corridor, hidden behind a cluster of ornamental cherry shrubs, a pair of sharp eyes observed them.

A young court maid, cloaked in pale blue robes, her hair pinned modestly, watched the two figures stroll in the distance. Her eyes narrowed as Jungkook reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Taehyung’s ear, the intimacy obvious, the moment tender.

With practiced discretion, she turned on her heel and disappeared down a narrow servant path that led into the eastern wing of the palace, toward the lavish residence of Lady Yoon Soyeon, the daughter of a high-ranking Minister, an omega of noble birth, renowned beauty… and ruthless ambition.

Moments later, the maid knelt quietly inside the scented chamber of her mistress, who sat beside a lacquered screen, having her nails painted with crushed pearl powder.

“Well?” Soyeon asked lazily, barely looking up.

The maid hesitated, then lowered her gaze. “The Crown Prince was seen walking alone with the commoner omega. The one who resides in the late queen’s chamber.”

The fan in Soyeon’s hand stopped mid-wave.

“What?”

“They were alone,” the maid repeated. “The crowned prince was training him earlier too, and now they were… laughing. Smiling.”

Soyeon slowly stood.

The silence that followed was sharp as a blade’s edge.

Her perfectly shaped lips curled into a venomous sneer. “That stray. That filthy-faced peasant omega. He dares walk beside MY prince like they are equals?”

The maid bowed her head lower, trembling slightly.

Soyeon turned toward the mirror, staring at her reflection, flawless, groomed, adorned with gold. “I have spent years perfecting myself to be worthy of his side. I was born to be Queen. I am the daughter of the Minister of Personnel. And he—he has the audacity to favor a stuttering street omega who probably smells like rice husks and laundry water?”

She snatched the fan and flung it across the room, the sound echoing like a slap.

Her voice, when it came again, was dangerously calm.

“I will not allow this.”

The maid dared a glance. “My lady?”

“I will visit him,” Soyeon said, her tone syrupy and poisonous. “This peasant. I will look him in the eye and remind him where he stands. I will show him the difference between someone who belongs in this palace… and someone who does not.”

She stepped to her wardrobe and selected a rich crimson hanbok embroidered with black peonies, the flower of grief.

“I will not allow anyone to steal what I’ve waited for my entire life.”

Her fingers tightened around the golden sash.

“If I must eliminate every omega that dares breathe near the Crowned Prince, so be it.”

Outside, the wind shifted. Distant thunder growled behind the mountains.

Inside the palace, a storm had already begun.

Chapter Text

The soft scratching of brush against paper echoed quietly through the open veranda, accompanied by the gentle rustling of summer leaves stirred by the wind. The pale afternoon sun filtered through the latticework above, casting a warm golden pattern over the wooden floor where Taehyung sat cross-legged. His brows were slightly furrowed, pink lips pursed in concentration as he carefully drew the final stroke of the character.

He leaned back and examined his work with a quiet breath, tilting his head, ink-stained fingers hovering delicately over the parchment. Still crooked. Still too heavy on the bottom. He sighed softly.

“Again,” he whispered to himself with gentle resolve, dipping the brush back into the black ink stone, wrists steadying.

From the edge of the veranda, a few of the maids and eunuchs assigned to his care watched quietly, barely containing their fond smiles. One covered her mouth with her sleeve, giggling behind it.

“He pouts every time,” one eunuch whispered with a grin.

“So serious, yet so precious,” another maid cooed softly.

“He’s going to wrinkle that pretty forehead at this rate,” a third added with a gentle chuckle.

They didn’t dare interrupt him, but they adored moments like this, when the delicate Omega, so focused and determined, let slip his little expressions of frustration and resolve. The way his lips jutted out in a pout, or how his nose crinkled when he didn’t get a stroke quite right, it was all too endearing.

The silence of his courtyard remained his own small world, a peaceful corner of the palace where birds chirped lazily in the trees and the faint scent of pine and ink hung in the air. Jimin had promised to visit later, along with Seokjin-hyung, bringing sweet rice cakes from the kitchens, and Namjoon was set to tutor him again before sundown. The thought of seeing the alpha instructor made Taehyung’s lips curve slightly.

Namjoon felt like an older brother, a quiet comfort in this confusing palace life. He was warm in his teachings, never impatient, always steady. Taehyung wanted to show him he was improving. Wanted to be worthy of the time these kind people gave him.

He was just about to practice another character when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness.

The padded rush of soft shoes on stone.

Then came the voice of one of the palace eunuchs, high and formal, slightly breathless.

“Announcing the arrival of Lady Soyeon of the Northern Courtyard.”

Taehyung blinked.

The brush in his hand halted mid-air, ink threatening to drip.

‘Lady… Soyeon?’

The name meant nothing to him.

He glanced up in confusion, heart skipping in that sudden way it did whenever something unfamiliar entered his space. His first instinct was to stand and bow, manners came naturally to him, even when nerves fluttered inside his chest like frightened birds.

He quickly placed the brush down, wiping his ink-stained hands on a soft cloth before rising from his cushion. His hanbok was simple, pale green with ivory trim, sleeves just a touch too long and he smoothed them hastily as he stepped to the veranda’s edge.

Beyond the courtyard gates, half-concealed by the trimmed hedges and morning glories, he could make out the approaching silhouette of a noblewoman flanked by two maids in soft silks. Her hair was high and pinned, her movements graceful, practiced. He didn’t recognize her.

Still, he bowed low as she entered the courtyard, his voice soft and polite.

“Welcome, my lady. I am honored by your visit…”

‘But why is she here?’

Even as he spoke, one of the nearby royal guards, tasked discreetly with watching over him, slipped silently away from the courtyard entrance, like a shadow parting from stone. His departure was swift and unseen by most.

But it was not for nothing.

His mission was clear, tell the Crowned Prince. Immediately.

Taehyung hesitated for a breath, his fingers curling gently at the hem of his sleeves before he turned to the cluster of maids who had gathered at the veranda’s edge. He offered them a small, polite smile, his voice barely above the breeze.

“Could we—” he glanced toward the elegant lady now stepping into his courtyard, “—perhaps prepare some tea and sweets for the lady and her attendants?”

His request came soft and careful, like a boy unsure of his place, still unused to giving commands. Though he had been living in the palace for weeks now, the idea of ordering those who cared for him still felt foreign, like slipping into shoes far too large.

The attending maids immediately bowed in silent understanding, a few peeling off to fetch the refreshments without needing more direction. But several remained, casting protective glances between the young omega and their unexpected guest. They’d grown fond of Taehyung, he was sweet, courteous, and never raised his voice. Some of them still whispered among themselves, wondering how a soul like his had found his way into this coiled nest of courtly politics.

Lady Soyeon took her time stepping into the shaded veranda. Her every move was measured, like she was born into this palace stone, trained from the cradle to move through gilded halls and whisper power behind her fans. She let her eyes wander without shame, examining every detail of Taehyung’s courtyard. The creeping ivy near the columns, the modest ink scrolls laid out in the corner, the half-dried calligraphy strokes on parchment, the lingering scent of sweetgrass and ink in the air.

She did not sit.

Not yet.

Instead, her eyes, cold and keen, landed at last on the figure before her, the delicate form of the young omega who stood with his hands politely folded, gaze respectfully lowered, lips parted as though to speak, then stopped by uncertainty.

‘So this was the one.’

The lady thought. The soft-spoken, beautiful commoner who lived now under royal protection. The reason the prince had grown increasingly elusive, the reason the other omegas in court now murmured with sharpened tongues and narrowed eyes.

Lady Soyeon’s gaze flicked to the faint ink stains on Taehyung’s fingers, the fine embroidery of his hanbok’s sleeves, modest but expertly stitched. Everything about him was humble, careful, and somehow disarmingly radiant.

She offered a smile, thin and composed. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You live in such a quaint little courtyard,” she said at last, her voice light with the kind of practiced politeness that only noble-borns could wield like a blade. “It suits you.”

Taehyung bowed again, unsure how to respond. He didn’t hear the insult beneath the words. Or perhaps he did, but chose instead to meet them with grace.

“Thank you, my lady. The palace has been… very generous.”

Lady Soyeon hummed, finally lowering herself onto the mat prepared for her by one of the remaining maids. Her pink hanbok flowed around her like water, pristine silk embroidered with cranes and clouds. She folded her hands delicately on her lap and tilted her head as she regarded him.

“And you’ve been here… how long now?”

“A few weeks, my lady,” he replied, his voice soft. “I… am still learning how to move here.”

Lady Soyeon’s lips curved again, though there was no warmth in it.

“Yes,” she said, her tone just shy of patronizing. “I imagine you have much to learn.”

She turned her head briefly as the sound of porcelain echoed from within the halls, the servants returning with steaming tea and pale, sugared confections. But her attention soon returned to Taehyung, lingering, assessing. Measuring.

And Taehyung, ever polite, ever uncertain, bowed once more and quietly moved to pour the tea himself.

The sun filtered softly through the gauze-covered windows of the eastern corridor, casting warm light across the polished stone floor. Crown Prince Jungkook stood at the edge of a discussion with two lesser ministers, his expression unreadable as he listened to their dull grievances regarding land border disputes and irrigation schedules. Yoongi stood nearby, arms folded, his eyes flicking between the two officials and Jungkook, assessing how quickly this audience could end.

Jungkook was about to dismiss them when the soft rustle of hurried footsteps approached from behind him. A palace guard bowed low, just behind Yoongi’s shoulder, and murmured with just enough urgency to command attention.

“Your Highness. The Lady Soyeon has entered the inner court... uninvited. She is currently in the courtyard of Young master Taehyung.”

Jungkook’s head turned sharply.

The ministers paused mid-sentence, visibly startled by the sudden chill in the prince’s gaze. It was subtle, too subtle for most but Yoongi felt the shift like a sudden drop in temperature. Jungkook’s jaw tightened, nostrils flaring faintly. He didn’t say anything for a moment, weighing the meaning behind the message. Soyeon. ‘Of course she would make her move now.’

“And what is she doing there?” he asked, voice calm but low, like the calm before a wave breaks.

“She brought no formal letter of audience,” the guard replied, keeping his eyes down. “She claimed it was a social courtesy call, my prince.”

Yoongi’s lip curled. “No noble makes ‘courtesy calls’ to a scholar’s courtyard unless they intend to sink their claws in.”

Jungkook’s fists were already curling inside his sleeves. He had half a mind to storm there this instant. But storming in would be exactly what she wanted, proof of favoritism, of his attachment. He had to be measured. Sharp, but quiet.

“Send for Head Maid Shin and have her report everything from the courtyard the moment Lady Soyeon leaves,” Jungkook commanded. “Yoongi, watch—”

“I’m already going,” Yoongi said, pushing off from the wall. “I'll stay close, keep her from digging in too deep.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked toward the direction of Taehyung’s court, his chest tight.

‘She dares to set her eyes on what’s mine.’

-

Taehyung carefully placed a teacup before Lady Soyeon, the delicate clink of porcelain on lacquered wood sounding much louder than it ought to in the tense air. The maid beside him shifted slightly, a subtle move closer, almost protective.

Taehyung poured his own cup last, setting the kettle aside before folding his hands into his lap. He didn’t know what he had done to summon such a guest, but the gaze she leveled at him was not the kind he could mistake, it was not kind, not curious.

It was calculating.

Lady Soyeon sipped her tea slowly, as if savoring the power of silence.

“I heard you were… studying,” she said after a long pause, her voice laced with amusement. “Under Royal Advisor Kim, no less. That is quite the privilege.”

“I am grateful for his time,” Taehyung said softly, smiling politely. “He is very kind to teach me.”

“Kind?” she repeated, as though the word were foreign. “That is certainly… one way to describe him.”

Taehyung blinked, unsure how to respond. He sensed the tension tightening like a thread between them, yet still he offered nothing but gentleness.

Lady Soyeon set down her cup with a delicate click, her posture straightening with practiced elegance.

“I do hope you understand,” she said, voice dipped in honeyed poison, “that while the palace has room for many, not everyone fits.”

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, but she was already turning her face away, feigning interest in a nearby scroll of his calligraphy.

“You’re a lovely thing,” she continued, the words almost cooed, though there was a sharpness to them, “but loveliness alone does not hold weight in court. The Crown Prince is… a great man. And great men require… great partners.”

Taehyung's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of his sleeve, the words like little blades pricking into his skin. Still, he kept his face composed, though his chest squeezed with the sting of shame. He knew he didn’t belong here, at least, that was what every corner of the palace had whispered behind his back. But hearing it spoken aloud like this… so plainly, so cruelly.

“You must know,” Soyeon added, lifting her cup again with a cold smile, “that many of us have been raised for this life. Trained for it. Our families serve the throne. Our blood is woven into the silk of the palace itself. What you bring, charming as it is, may not be enough to, how do I say this politely—keep his attention.”

A pause. Her eyes glittered.

Taehyung bowed his head again, still silent, and the maids behind him bristled subtly.

But the omega said nothing.

Not because he believed her… but because the ache in his chest made it hard to breathe.

-

The room smelled of incense and old velvet. Two high-ranking officials from the Ministry of Taxation sat across from the Crown Prince, unfurling scrolls and muttering about crop yields and border tithes. Jungkook looked composed, head high, arms resting lazily on the throne’s gilded arms but his gaze had started to drift moments ago.

Then the side door slid open, silent but swift.

Yoongi stepped in without preamble, his sharp eyes flicking briefly to the seated men. His presence alone drew a pause in the conversation, but Jungkook didn’t immediately look at him. Instead, he let the officials finish a few more sentences, nodding absently.

Only when one of them bowed his head and began to organize his parchment did Jungkook raise a hand.

“That will be all for now,” he said smoothly, his voice level but final. “We’ll resume this matter after the sun’s decline. You are dismissed.”

The officials blinked in surprise, rare was the prince to end an audience early. But they bowed low with murmured assent, clutching their scrolls as they departed through the main door. One looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed, sensing a tension he couldn’t name.

As soon as the doors shut and their footsteps faded into silence, Jungkook stood.

“Speak,” he ordered, his voice lower now, quieter, but thunderous in command.

“She insulted him,” Yoongi said. No preamble.

Everything in Jungkook stilled.

His body had not yet moved, but the air around him thickened, storm-damp and electric. He turned to the window, his fingers twitching at his side, jaw tight.

“She came with her two maids,” Yoongi continued, tone deceptively calm. “Spoke like a queen addressing a handmaiden. And she made him feel unworthy of the very floor she stood on.”

Jungkook didn’t reply. He inhaled slowly, but his scent had already turned, dangerous and territorial, a barely restrained wildfire. The marble floor beneath his boots might as well have cracked.

Yoongi stepped closer, lowering his voice further. “Taehyung didn’t even understand why she came. He just knew he had to be polite. He didn’t show it, but he was shaken.”

Something snapped. Jungkook’s hand slammed against the dark wood of the windowsill, hard enough to echo like a strike in the court’s sparring yard.

“She had no right to walk into his court,” Jungkook hissed, eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a tight line. “I did not give her permission. That courtyard is his. That courtyard is mine.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “What would you have me do?”

The alpha prince’s pulse thundered in his ears. Possessiveness clawed up his spine. She had dared. She had walked into Taehyung’s sanctuary and cast shadows on his softness.

And Taehyung, sweet and unguarded, had still offered her tea.

Jungkook turned to Yoongi, voice low but lethal.

“Quietly send for Seokjin and Jimin,” he said. “Now. Do not alarm anyone. Say it’s a palace matter of the southern wing. I want them in his courtyard immediately.”

Yoongi’s brow lifted in surprise but there was the faintest curl of a smirk.

“You want her alive when you get there?” he asked.

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. His eyes burned with something ancient and instinctive. He wasn’t just a prince anymore, he was an alpha with fire running in his blood.

“She may still breathe,” he said slowly, “but she will never forget who she tried to humiliate.”

He turned back to the window, dismissing Yoongi with a nod.

“And Yoongi—send Hoseok as well. Have him begin the quiet removal of any court maids or servants who attended her today. I want no scent, no scrap of her presence, left near Taehyung.”

Yoongi bowed, his grin gone now, this was war, and they were always ready.

As the commander exited, Jungkook let his eyes drift down to the golden courtyard beyond the window.

‘Taehyung is mine.’

That thought rang louder than all the others.

-

Lady Soyeon reclined back, fingers lightly resting on the rim of her teacup, expression deceptively pleasant.

But Taehyung, ever observant despite his bashfulness, felt the sharpness hidden beneath her words. She was not here to chat. She was here to remind him, without needing to say it, that he did not belong. That however lovely his smile, however delicate his posture, he would always be beneath them.

And yet...

Taehyung sat a little straighter.

He bowed his head, not out of submission, but as if centering himself. When he lifted his gaze again, it wasn’t timid. It was quiet, steady. The kind of gaze that held oceans without raising its voice.

“I am not unaware of my place, Lady Soyeon,” he said softly. “I did not ask to be in this palace. I do not claim the right to stand beside the prince. I only wish to learn. And to be of use.”

Lady Soyeon blinked, a bit thrown.

Taehyung reached for the teapot, refilling her cup with gentle grace, though his voice never wavered.

“I know that others in court were raised to sit on golden chairs and command the attention of kings,” he continued. “I was raised to lower my gaze, to listen, and to speak only when spoken to. But I have come to understand that kindness and dignity are not less valuable than bloodline. Even if some in this palace have forgotten that.”

The maids behind him were visibly shaken, not out of fear, but pride.

Lady Soyeon’s lips twitched, caught between offense and disbelief. She hadn’t expected this little flower to have thorns.

He bowed his head again, graceful and warm. “You are always welcome in my courtyard, my lady,” he said. “But I will not allow myself to feel shame for being here.”

The wind stirred the paper scrolls on the table.

Soyeon stood slowly, her silence colder than snow. “What an interesting little scholar you are.”

But her eyes were hard, unrelenting, flicking over Taehyung as if measuring something and finding it lacking. Her fine silk sleeves rustled as she moved closer, her shadow creeping along the polished veranda.

“You wear royal silks and pour tea like a concubine,” she said softly, each word sharp as a blade. “But a rose in a porcelain vase is still a weed when it grows where it does not belong.”

Taehyung stilled, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the scroll before him. The tea steamed gently at his side, untouched. His lips parted, then closed again.

His heart pounded, a quiet thunder behind his ribs.

“Like I said, I did not choose this place,” he said quietly. “But I am doing my best to honor it.”

“Honor?” she scoffed, her laughter low and scornful. “You think this palace is honored by a dirt-born, illiterate nobody who can barely wield a brush? You think kindness will make you a consort?”

Her words were venomous, her voice rising. “You are nothing but a passing indulgence for a prince too softhearted to see your place. It will not last. And I—I—will make sure of that.”

Taehyung’s gaze lifted at that. His eyes, though wide and fearful, held a faint shimmer of defiance. He straightened his back.

“I know what I am,” he said softly. “But I also know what I am not.”

Soyeon narrowed her eyes.

“I am not cruel,” Taehyung continued. “And I will not lower myself just to mirror you.”

For a heartbeat, the air was silent, stifled and tight.

Then—

“Lady Soyeon.”

The voice was crisp, bright, and not at all polite.

The rustling of footsteps echoed as two figures emerged past the open gate of the courtyard. Jimin walked first, eyes glittering like polished obsidian, his jaw tense with fury and his hands folded too neatly at his front. Behind him, Seokjin followed, every inch of his tall frame wrapped in dignified threat.

They walked in tandem, two omegas who carried themselves with the authority of a general and the poise of a queen.

“Forgive our delay,” Seokjin said smoothly, eyes locked onto Lady Soyeon’s like a hawk descending on prey. “We were under the impression this was a formal visit. But clearly, the rules of civility have been left behind.”

Soyeon blinked, just once, as if seeing them for the first time. She straightened slightly, adjusting the drape of her outer robe.

“I was merely exchanging words with the young man,” she said coldly.

“And we’re here to exchange a few of our own,” Jimin snapped, stepping forward, every inch of his small frame brimming with fury. “Starting with, you will not raise your voice in this courtyard again.”

“Or insult his station,” Seokjin added smoothly. “You seem to have forgotten this omega is under the Crown Prince’s protection. That makes your presence here… delicate.”

Soyeon’s mouth twisted. “I have every right to walk the palace grounds—”

“And no right to speak poison under your breath,” Jimin cut in. “You don’t belong here, Lady Soyeon. And not because of your status. Because of your rot.”

Taehyung blinked, eyes wide, breath caught. His body remained still, but his heart… it swelled. The sight of his friends, his protectors, standing there like shields made of beauty and rage, it sent a warmth down to his fingertips.

“You will leave,” Seokjin finished, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Now.”

Soyeon stared at them, caught between pride and calculation. But something in their presence, something older, deeper, unsettled her. She turned her eyes back to Taehyung, lingering longer than necessary.

Then she curtsied, mocking.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to linger where I’m not welcome.”

With a swish of silk and a final, disdainful glance, she swept down the veranda steps and disappeared through the garden gate.

The moment she was gone, Jimin turned immediately to Taehyung.

“Did she touch you?” he demanded, kneeling beside him.

“No,” Taehyung whispered, blinking fast.

“Did she frighten you?”

Taehyung looked at him, then at Seokjin, whose face had gone from calm to openly worried.

“A little,” he admitted.

Jimin pulled him into a soft, crushing hug without a word. Seokjin moved behind him, one hand stroking gently through Taehyung’s hair.

“It’s alright,” Seokjin murmured. “You’re alright now.”

Taehyung closed his eyes, just for a moment and let himself lean into the warmth.

The silence left behind by Lady Soyeon still clung to the veranda, heavy as the fading scent of her bitter perfume. But only for a moment.

“That witch had the audacity to curtsy,” Jimin hissed, still crouched beside Taehyung, arms locked around him as if shielding him from lingering shadows. “Did you see her eyes? Like a snake that learned to blink.”

“She walked into this courtyard like she was auditioning for the role of ghost bride,” Seokjin muttered as he adjusted the sleeves of his robe, standing tall and indignant. “The nerve. Wearing six layers of brocade in summer, strutting like a peacock in mourning. My gods, who is she trying to impress? The furniture?”

Taehyung couldn’t help it. A giggle escaped him, soft and quick.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” Jimin said, grinning now, turning to pinch his cheek gently. “She tried to make you cry.”

“But she failed,” Seokjin declared grandly, sweeping to sit on the other side of Taehyung, looking positively offended. “Because our precious scholar is braver than all the officials combined. And twice as polite.”

“I didn’t really know what to say,” Taehyung admitted shyly. “But… I didn’t want her to think she could just come here and… and—”

“Trample over you?” Jimin finished, brushing a lock of hair from Taehyung’s temple. “She can’t. She won’t.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Seokjin added with a huff. “Not with us here.”

Another fit of quiet laughter bubbled out of Taehyung, warming the air like sunlight through silk. His eyes crinkled at the corners, soft and grateful.

Then Seokjin suddenly gasped, dramatically, hand flying to his mouth.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Jimin blinked.

“We forgot the sweet rice cakes,” Seokjin groaned in horror. “The ones from the kitchen in the west wing! I told the cook this morning! I said, ‘Make it fluffy, make it soft, or I will weep in the courtyard.’ And she said, ‘Yes, master Seokjin!’—and now look at us!”

Taehyung burst into giggles again, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“I can’t believe we rushed here to defend your honor, but left your desserts behind,” Seokjin went on, looking truly devastated. “How will you focus on your brushwork? How will your beautiful brain retain knowledge without something sweet to nibble on?”

“You can have my peach,” Jimin offered.

“Keep your peach,” Seokjin sniffed. “I’ll go storm the kitchen myself. No one denies my baby scholar his rice cakes.”

At that moment, a soft voice floated through the air from beyond the gate.

“Should I come back later?”

They turned, just in time to see Namjoon approaching with his usual warm, gentle smile, scrolls in one hand, a basket dangling from the other.

“Hyung!” Taehyung beamed.

“I brought the practice sheets you asked for,” Namjoon said with a wink, lifting the basket. “And… a few sweets. I heard you like honey-filled rice cakes.”

Seokjin blinked. “You may stay, my alpha.”

“Very generous of you,” Namjoon chuckled as he stepped into the courtyard.

Taehyung’s heart felt light now, swaddled by affection and safety. For a while, Lady Soyeon’s cruel words melted away, nothing more than a forgotten shadow behind the sunlit laughter that now filled his little courtyard.

Just as Namjoon laid down the scrolls and sat beside Taehyung with the ease of an older brother ready to tutor a child he clearly favored, the courtyard doors slid open again with the faintest creak of polished wood.

And there he was.

Crown Prince Jeong Jeongguk, the war hero, the steel-hearted commander of the capital guard, shadowed by his royal entourage. His dark robes caught the early afternoon light, his hair slightly tousled from the breeze. But despite his regal bearing, the moment his eyes found Taehyung sitting on the veranda, he… softened.

Utterly.

His shoulders, once squared like marble, dipped ever so slightly. His jaw, often tight with courtly strain, loosened. A small breath passed his lips like a prayer answered. He smiled softly at the image of Taehyung smiling.

Jimin noticed it first.

“Oh gods,” he muttered, eyes narrowing with impish delight.

“What?” Taehyung asked innocently, trying to stand up but being gently pushed back down by Namjoon with a smile. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” Seokjin said, watching the Crown Prince’s approach with his arms crossed and an expression of exaggerated drama, “our dear Prince Jungkook is smitten beyond saving.”

“He’s about to melt,” Jimin added, stage-whispering behind a palm. “Watch. Five, four, three—”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook greeted, voice low and warm like a hearthfire. “How are you? I heard what happened.”

“Caught,” Seokjin mouthed at Jimin.

“I—I’m okay,” Taehyung replied, eyes wide as his prince came closer. “We were just—just talking and…”

“Studying,” Namjoon supplied.

“Giggling,” Jimin said under his breath.

Jungkook’s gaze never left Taehyung’s face, not even for a second. “You weren’t upset by earlier? Lady Soyeon didn’t say anything that—”

“She tried,” Seokjin interrupted smoothly, “but he turned her to ash with sheer righteousness.”

“I nearly strangled her with my hair ribbon,” Jimin added cheerfully.

“Hyung!” Taehyung gasped, giggling again.

“It was worth it,” Jimin sniffed.

“Someone’s protective,” Namjoon said dryly, sipping tea with a raised brow.

Jungkook finally looked up at them, all three older staring at him like mothers who’d caught their son sneaking sweets before dinner.

“What,” he asked, deadpan.

“Oh, nothing,” Seokjin said, flicking imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Just watching our mighty Crown Prince get weak in the knees over one sweet baby omega.”

“I am not weak in the—”

“You absolutely are,” Jimin cut in, grinning. “I saw your face the moment you stepped in.”

“You were smiling like he was made of honey and the heavens,” Seokjin added.

Namjoon chuckled, setting down his tea. “To be fair, Taehyung is very sweet.”

Taehyung blinked at all of them, cheeks heating to the tips of his ears. “Wha—! I—no—I mean—!”

Jungkook cleared his throat, ears-tinged pink now too. “Enough.”

“Oh no,” Seokjin said, dramatically fanning himself. “He’s using the ‘royal voice.’ We’ve embarrassed His Highness.”

“You should be embarrassed,” Jimin teased. “For being so whipped.”

“S-stop—” Jungkook started, then paused, caught between denial and the truth.

Because the truth was…

He was.

And when Taehyung looked up at him through his lashes, smile small and sweet, Jungkook could only exhale softly and move to sit beside him, ignoring the snickering hyungs behind him.

Jimin grinned. “You’re lucky he finds you cute.”

Seokjin nodded solemnly. “Very lucky.”

Taehyung ducked his head, shy but warm, and whispered just loud enough for Jungkook to hear.

“Hyungs are right… you really do look at me like that.”

Jungkook smiled.

“I’ll always look at you like that.”

Chapter Text

The entire palace hummed with a tension dressed in silk.

Preparations had begun in earnest for the upcoming visit of the King of the neighboring kingdom, and every corner of the royal grounds bore witness to the urgency. Courtiers rushed in well-pressed robes, servants scrubbed polished tiles until they gleamed like mirrors, and fragrant herbs were burned at the entrances to purify the air.

Crimson banners and embroidered tapestries were unfurled to catch the summer breeze. Courtyards were swept, lanterns oiled, and flowerbeds carefully pruned to ensure a dazzling display of prosperity and perfection. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

Even Jungkook, the Crown Prince, who usually maintained a calm detachment from superficial court decorum, had been drawn into the whirlwind. Meetings with his ministers, endless etiquette briefings, consultations with Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok regarding security protocols, banquets to plan, seating arrangements to review.

And yet, despite the frantic demands of royalty, Jungkook still found himself glancing toward the direction of the inner court where Taehyung resided.

He could never stray too far. Not for long.

Meanwhile, in the sun-drenched courtyard of Taehyung’s chamber, the omega knelt on a soft silk cushion, ink-stained fingers hovering over his practice scroll. The calligraphy brush was poised mid-air, forgotten for the moment as he turned his attention to the garden.

The blooms were in their fullest, peonies heavy with fragrance, wild carnations dotting the edges in delicate clusters, and a single white magnolia tree swaying gently above it all.

And darting through the grass between them was a little white rabbit.

Taehyung’s eyes lit up.

He had noticed it for days now, a soft bundle of fur that seemed to make its rounds through the garden whenever the weather was kind. Today, he was determined to befriend it.

Carefully setting his brush aside, he crept forward on quiet feet. “Come here, little one,” he whispered, voice soft and coaxing. “I won’t hurt you…”

The rabbit froze, ears twitching.

Taehyung reached out slowly, only for the creature to bolt several feet forward.

“Aish!” he pouted, small brows drawing together in disappointment. “Why are you so difficult…”

Unbeknownst to him, Jungkook had just arrived at the outer corridor, flanked by Yoongi and Hoseok. The guards knew better than to announce him when he waved a hand to stop them. The Crown Prince stood quietly in the shadows beneath the archway, eyes softening at the sight before him.

Taehyung, barefoot on the grass, hanbok robes tucked carelessly around his legs, crawling after a smug-looking rabbit with all the determination of a child chasing a star. His pout deepened when the rabbit stopped just out of reach again, turning its little head as if to mock him.

“You’re teasing me,” Taehyung accused the rabbit with a whine, bottom lip trembling with playful frustration. “You little rascal. Just one touch, please? You’re so round…”

Jungkook almost laughed aloud but bit it back, heart swelling at the sheer domesticity of the scene.

Behind him, Yoongi sighed under his breath. “He’s already gone.”

“Hmm?” Hoseok murmured, sipping a pear-scented tea from a small clay cup he’d brought from the kitchens.

“The prince,” Yoongi muttered. “He looks like he’s watching a dream.”

“Not just any dream,” Hoseok grinned. “His dream.”

Jungkook stepped forward finally, making his way across the flagstones and into the garden. His boots crunched softly against the gravel. Taehyung, too engrossed in coaxing the rabbit closer, didn’t hear until the shadow fell across him.

The bunny twitched its nose once… and darted away.

“Oh—!” Taehyung gasped, then turned, startled. “Ah… M-my prince!”

The prince smiled, crouching down beside him. “Were you trying to charm the rabbit again?”

“I almost had him today!” Taehyung whispered excitedly. “But he’s so fast. And clever. I think he likes watching me struggle.”

“He has good taste then,” Jungkook murmured, tucking a wind-swept strand behind Taehyung’s ear. “You’re very charming when you pout.”

Taehyung blushed. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I am,” Jungkook said, leaning in. “But I can’t concentrate when I haven’t seen you. Not even the scent of a thousand lotus blooms could clear my thoughts when you're not nearby.”

From the hallway, Yoongi groaned audibly. “By the gods, he’s waxing poetic again.”

Hoseok chuckled. “I give it five more seconds before he kisses him in the grass.”

Taehyung giggled, hiding his smile against Jungkook’s shoulder. “S-stop. Some people are listening.”

“They always are,” Jungkook replied, unfazed, arms wrapping gently around his omega. “Let them.”

Elsewhere in the palace… In a private tearoom hidden behind the eastern assembly hall, a far different conversation was unfolding.

Lady Soyeon sat with her back straight, elegance poured into every gesture, every tilt of her chin. She wore dark plum silk today, embroidered with gold threads, a statement of wealth, ambition, and power.

Across from her sat her mother and father, esteemed nobles of the western province. Three lesser court officials sat nearby, shadows flickering behind paper screens.

“—a banquet will be held in His Majesty’s honor,” one official was whispering, “and the Crown Prince is expected to be at the king’s side. If we are to act, it must be then.”

Lady Soyeon’s lips curled. “We will not act in any manner that leaves us bloodied. No, this will be clean. Polished.”

Her mother nodded. “You plan to humiliate him, then?”

“Exactly,” Soyeon said. “That little creature in the prince’s courtyard… that street rat—he does not belong within palace walls. Certainly not beside our nation’s heir.”

The father, quiet until now, exhaled. “You must be certain this will not backfire.”

“We will remind the court of lineage,” Soyeon said coolly. “Of propriety. Of the difference between a common beggar and a future queen.”

“And if the prince does not react as you expect?” another official asked.

Soyeon’s gaze turned ice-cold. “Then he will have no choice. Once the shame is public, once the eyes of two kingdoms are upon him, even he cannot defend a nobody. Not when his title and reputation are at risk.”

There was a long pause.

Then her mother leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And the plan?”

Lady Soyeon smiled, slow and sharp, like a silk fan hiding a dagger.

“There will be a gift. A gesture of goodwill to honor the foreign king,” she said, voice sweet with poisoned honey. “Something that requires the participation of our palace’s most precious… and peculiar guest.”

Her father raised a brow. “The omega?”

“Yes,” Soyeon said smoothly. “He will be asked to present a calligraphy piece—on the spot. Before the court, before the foreign delegation. A tribute in writing to symbolize harmony between the kingdoms.”

Her mother smirked. “And since he cannot read or write…”

“—he will stumble. Humiliate himself,” Soyeon finished, her smile widening. “No one will dare defend him. Not when tradition demands perfection. Not even the Crown Prince can shield him in that moment—not without exposing favoritism toward an unworthy consort.”

“But are you certain he still cannot write?” asked one of the officials warily. “It’s been weeks since he entered the palace. What if—?”

“Even if he’s learned a few brush strokes, a formal calligraphy presentation requires more than simple practice,” Soyeon replied coolly. “He was a street-born omega with dirt under his nails. You cannot erase that overnight.”

The others murmured in agreement.

Soyeon’s eyes gleamed. “Let the little rabbit scurry in front of wolves. Let him disgrace himself. And when he does… I will be the one standing beside the Crown Prince. Poised. Literate. Noble-born. The rightful choice for a queen.”

A shadow passed over her smile.

“And once the whispers start, they will not stop. The nobles will demand better. The foreign court will take note. The Prince may desire him—but desire has no place in diplomacy.”

Her mother touched her hand approvingly. “Clever girl.”

Soyeon’s voice dipped into a whisper.

“Let him bring forth the ink. I’ll make sure it stains everything.”

-

The morning sun spilled golden light across the sprawling roofs of the palace, where ministers and maids still moved like ants in a hive preparing for the arrival of the foreign delegation. Silk banners were being inspected for wrinkles, arrangements rehearsed, golden tableware polished until the reflections nearly blinded those who passed by. Servants whispered anxiously about schedules, and court officials barked orders like generals preparing for war.

But inside a shaded war room tucked behind the east wing, the Crown Prince and his most trusted men sat in utter silence.

A thin scroll lay unfurled on the lacquered table, marked with coded notes, names, and symbols, information gathered from Jungkook’s most discreet spy network.

Namjoon’s jaw was tense, fingers tapping once against the inkstone before him. “Movement from High Minister Yoon’s household has doubled in the last two days,” he said. “Three of the banquet organizers were seen entering the back courtyard after moonrise. No official records of those visits.”

Jungkook leaned back slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. “They’re planning something.”

“Lady Soyeon was among them,” added Yoongi, arms crossed. “She brought a sealed scroll with her. Our contact couldn’t get close enough to read it, but the exchange was... smug.”

Hoseok clicked his tongue. “Let me guess. It’s not the menu she was editing.”

Jungkook’s expression darkened.

“She intends to humiliate Taehyung during the banquet,” Namjoon said. “Force him to perform calligraphy before the court and the foreign king. She thinks he’s still illiterate.”

The room went still.

Yoongi muttered, “She doesn’t know Taehyung's been training every day like he’s preparing for the civil exams.”

Jungkook’s hand clenched around his cup, knuckles pale. “They want to shame him publicly. Break his spirit. Question his place beside me.”

“They forget,” Seokjin added lightly, though his voice held an edge, “that shame is a double-edged sword. If we time this right… it’ll be them who choke on it.”

Namjoon nodded. “We’ll prepare him. A poem—classic and short enough to memorize but elegant. He’ll write and recite it. I’ll oversee his final lessons.”

“And I’ll guide his brushstroke personally,” Jungkook said softly. “He’s ready. They don’t know how hard he’s worked.”

“They will,” Yoongi said grimly. “And they’ll wish they never tried.”

-

The chaos of the palace preparations felt far away here.

The tea pavilion nestled in a quiet bend of the garden, framed by gently swaying plum blossoms, their petals floating down like soft pink snow. The koi pond reflected the blue sky, and the stone path leading there was deliberately obscured by willows, almost as though this corner of the palace belonged to a different world.

Taehyung sat opposite the Crown Prince, kneeling properly on a silk cushion. His pale hands rested on his lap, though one thumb worried the edge of his sleeve in shyness.

Between them, a lacquered tray held a teapot and two delicate porcelain cups, steam curling upwards and mingling with the scent of the plum trees. And beneath it all, Jungkook could smell the subtle but intoxicating mix of vanilla and warm honey—Taehyung.

“You’ve improved,” Jungkook said softly, voice barely louder than the birdsong around them. “The brush control today... steady. I could hardly tell it was the hand of a novice.”

Taehyung looked up, eyes wide with delight. A soft flush crept up his cheeks, and he ducked his head quickly, trying to hide it behind a sip of tea.

“I’ve been practicing,” he murmured, almost bashfully. “Even when Namjoon-hyung isn’t around... or you.”

That made Jungkook smile. He watched the way the sunlight touched Taehyung’s hair, how the silk of his robes shimmered like still water. The omega was blooming like a spring flower in this place and he was the one falling helplessly into its warmth.

A breeze stirred the petals above, scattering them gently onto the pavilion floor. A single blossom landed on Taehyung’s shoulder. Jungkook reached out, slowly, brushing it away.

The touch lingered longer than it needed to. Their eyes met.

Taehyung’s breath hitched just a little and Jungkook felt himself leaning closer.

Closer still. Until—

CRASH!

A teapot went flying outside the pavilion, clattering against the stone.

“YOU IDIOT, THAT WAS MY FAVORITE SERVING SET!” Seokjin's voice erupted in the distance.

“Hyung—I slipped! The handle was sweaty—!” Jimin wailed.

“THEN DON’T TOUCH THINGS YOU SWEATY HANDFUL OF REGRET!” Seokjin bellowed, dragging Jimin away by the ear.

Inside the pavilion, Jungkook blinked at the sudden crash.

Taehyung burst into quiet giggles, cupping his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle them, his shoulders trembling with laughter. Outside, Seokjin’s voice roared in dramatic fury while Jimin yelped like a scolded child, their antics echoing through the garden like thunderclouds of chaos.

Jungkook couldn’t help the soft huff of amusement that slipped past his lips. But even as he smiled, his eyes never left the omega in front of him, the way the sunlight lit up his face, the sweet, unguarded sound of his laughter, the way his giggles made the world feel softer.

He poured Taehyung more tea with a steady hand, his voice dropping into something quieter, warmer. “Ignore them,” he said, watching how Taehyung leaned forward with eager eyes. “And focus on your poem. You’ll have the last laugh soon enough.”

Taehyung tilted his head, curious at the phrasing. But Jungkook just gave him a faint, mysterious smile, sipping from his own cup like there was nothing more to say.

Because he wouldn’t tell him.

Not yet.

Taehyung knew nothing of the court’s cruel whisperings, nothing of Lady Soyeon’s schemes or the ministers’ secret gatherings. And Jungkook intended to keep it that way.

The omega had been working so hard, day and night, to learn how to read and write. He stayed up practicing brushstrokes with fingers stained in ink, eyes wide with quiet determination and wonder. His joy in learning was pure, untouched by the weight of political games.

Jungkook would not let that be tainted.

He would shield Taehyung from the shadows of the court just as he always had, from behind, from beside, and when necessary, from the front with blade drawn and fire in his breath.

So he sat there, across the tea tray, watching his beloved omega grin and take another sip of warm tea. Jungkook’s expression softened.

He would carry the storm alone if it meant preserving that light in Taehyung’s eyes.

For now, Taehyung only needed to focus on ink and verse, on the whisper of a brush over parchment, on the way poetry made his heart flutter.

The rest could wait.

Chapter Text

The meeting had not been called with loud fanfare, but with quiet summons and sealed letters, slipped only to those deemed “relevant.” The Crown Prince had not been among them.

The Inner Audience Hall was heavy with incense and hushed calculation. High Minister Yoon stood with his hands folded, robes crisp, his expression an artful blend of subservience and silent authority. On his left, his daughter, Lady Soyeon, was the picture of noble elegance, standing behind the carved screens, eyes downcast, lips pursed in contained satisfaction.

The King sat slouched on his lacquered throne, half-shadowed in golden light that filtered from high windows. Though age had worn lines into his brow, his eyes gleamed like sharpened steel. He didn’t speak at first, only sipped from his jade cup as if bored of the political theater unraveling before him.

It was Minister Yoon who stepped forward and bowed low.

“Your Majesty, tomorrow’s banquet nears, and we have finalized the order of presentations, performances, and offerings,” he began with the polished ease of a man long used to his tongue earning him favor. “Your invited guests from the northern kingdom arrive at sunrise, and the Crown Prince will be there to formally greet them, as planned.”

The King hummed mildly, swirling the wine in his cup.

“And the entertainment?”

“Carefully curated. Court dancers, the finest musicians, and delicacies from all regions of Joseon. But there is one performance, one offering that we believe will leave a lasting impression upon Your Majesty’s guests.”

The King lifted his gaze now, one brow rising. “Go on.”

Minister Yoon smiled faintly. “An omega, said to reside within the late Queen’s quarters. A creature of exceptional beauty and grace, whose presence has not gone unnoticed among the servants. It is whispered that he is under the Crown Prince’s protection.”

At this, the King’s lips curled, not in disapproval, but interest. He remembered the boy. Remembered the flutter of a pale sleeve and a downturned gaze that still lingered in his memory like a ghost of a dream. That innocent beauty, cloaked in soft-spoken silence, had unsettled him.

“I remember him, and what about the omega?” the King muttered.

“We dare not question His Highness, of course,” Minister Yoon said with a bow, “but it is precisely because of the boy’s... attachment to the Crown Prince, that we thought it fitting to include him. A show of grace, refinement, let him present a calligraphy offering to our honored guests. A personal performance from one touched by royal favor.”

The King didn’t answer right away. He turned the cup slowly in his hands, then let out a small laugh, deep and deliberate. “Make sure he is dressed well. The world should see what the Prince keeps in the shadows.”

From behind the screen, Lady Soyeon’s lashes lifted.

-

The afternoon sun was gentle that day, spilling golden light across the veranda where Taehyung sat cross-legged, brush in hand, quietly practicing his calligraphy. The strokes were still imperfect, his wrists sore from repetition but Namjoon’s guidance had instilled in him a sense of flow, of rhythm. His characters no longer stumbled across the page like strangers, but began to take form, graceful and purposeful.

He didn’t hear the footsteps right away, but the sudden clearing of a throat had his brush twitching and a small blot of ink marring the paper.

A palace maid hurried ahead, bowing low as she reached the edge of the veranda. “Messenger approaching with official word, Young Master Taehyung.” she announced, her voice respectful but urgent.

Taehyung blinked, quickly setting down his brush as the hush of the courtyard deepened.

Moments later, a palace eunuch stepped forward, expression composed and voice flat with formality. He was flanked by two guards in dark robes, their presence stiff and solemn. One of them carried a scroll tied with a crimson ribbon, sealed with the royal crest.

“Official decree,” the eunuch intoned, lifting the scroll.

Taehyung scrambled up, hands smudged with ink, bowing low without knowing what for.

“A gift of calligraphy,” the eunuch recited as he handed him the scroll. “His Majesty has requested a performance of scholarly beauty to honor the visiting monarch. The Crown Prince’s favored companion is to offer this gift, a written verse—presented before all.”

Taehyung blinked, heart dropping into the pit of his stomach.

“A... p-performance?” he whispered, staring at the scroll as if it might explode. “I—I’m only learning. I don’t—”

“The King’s will is absolute,” the eunuch interrupted, unmoved. “Refusal would bring dishonor. Preparations begin tomorrow. The banquet follows. You will be escorted.”

Then, just like that, they turned and left, robes whispering like ghostly threats across the polished floor.

Taehyung stood frozen on the veranda, scroll trembling in his fingers. He had not known. No one had told him. Not Namjoon. Not Jungkook. And surely, surely not the King. Why would someone like him, unworthy, unrefined, a mere commoner, be summoned to present something so... delicate, so visible?

His chest squeezed tight. A wave of nausea curled up his spine. His eyes burned.

He didn’t see the guards standing silently under the shade of the courtyard wall, the ones assigned by Jungkook. One of them slipped away, disappearing soundlessly through the corridor to report to his true master: the Crown Prince of Joseon.

Taehyung sank slowly to his knees on the wooden floor, scroll held limply in both hands. The ink on his fingertips smudged the red silk.

He didn’t know he was being watched.

He didn’t know this was a trap.

And he didn’t know that the Crown Prince, who had not been invited to the meeting, was already racing to prepare for him.

It didn’t take long for the message to reach Jungkook.

He had been in the middle of overseeing security arrangements for the northern delegation’s arrival, shoulder-deep in military protocol and diplomatic logistics when one of his personal guards slipped a small token into his palm. One glance at the stamped wax seal was enough to make him understand what happened.

Taehyung knew.

He was told.

The performance had been announced. The trap had been sprung.

And Jungkook had not been there.

The world around him blurred, courtiers muttering, attendants bowing, soldiers awaiting orders but none of them mattered now. With one curt nod to Hoseok to finish the inspection and a brief, sharp glance toward Yoongi, who read the situation immediately, Jungkook turned on his heel and disappeared into the palace corridors with purposeful strides.

His scent changed as he walked, spiced cedar deepening, alpha pheromones sharpened not in dominance but in urgency, trailing behind him like smoke from a fast-moving fire.

When he arrived at Taehyung’s quarters, he didn’t wait to be announced. The guards stepped aside before he could even speak.

Taehyung was seated on the floor of his chamber, scroll clutched tightly in his lap, eyes wide and glassy. He looked so small there, so painfully composed despite the storm trembling beneath his skin. He didn’t even notice Jungkook had entered until the Crown Prince was kneeling beside him, one hand gently brushing over his trembling fingers.

“Taehyung-ah.”

The sound of his name, spoken with such care, shattered the fragile stillness between them.

The omega looked up slowly, lashes damp, lips parted. “You knew?” His voice was barely above a whisper, colored by disbelief, hurt, and fear.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not like this. Not from them. I was going to tell you later—I was going to tell you, after our afternoon tea. You weren’t meant to find out from them.”

Jungkook’s hand closed tenderly over Taehyung’s, his voice barely a breath. “I’m sorry… my love. I’m so sorry.” The endearment slipped from his lips before he could stop it, raw, unguarded, and utterly true.

Taehyung’s throat bobbed as he struggled to steady his breath, emotions trembling just beneath the surface of his skin. He didn’t even register what the prince had just called him. “I don’t understand... I thought it was only for practice. Why would the King—?”

“Because they want to humiliate you,” Jungkook said quietly, voice low and edged with fury. “Because they think you’re just some sweet-faced commoner omega who stumbled into royal grace. They think they can break you in front of the court.” He paused, thumb stroking over Taehyung’s knuckles. “But they don’t know you like I do.”

The silence between them swelled, not cold or distant, but brimming.

Jungkook leaned in slowly, his scent saturating the space between them. That warm, heady cedar filled Taehyung’s lungs and worked to soothe the taut lines of his shoulders. It was grounding. Fierce. Safe.

“You are the most intelligent omega I’ve ever met,” Jungkook murmured, brushing a thumb beneath his eye. “And your calligraphy is unlike any I’ve seen. It’s yours. Delicate and powerful all at once. They want to shame you, but instead, we’ll make them bow their heads.”

Taehyung bit his lower lip, voice trembling. “But what if I—”

“You won’t fail,” Jungkook interrupted, but his tone was tender, not scolding. “Because I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. Even when Namjoon-hyung wasn’t there to guide you, you practiced. Even when you were tired. You memorized the poems I gave you. You wrote verses by moonlight, and you read them aloud in your sleep.”

That made Taehyung’s brows lift slightly, eyes rounding.

Jungkook smirked gently. “Yes. I’ve heard. Every word. You murmured them when you thought no one was listening.”

Before Taehyung could respond, a polite knock sounded outside.

“Enter,” Jungkook said, not looking away.

Namjoon stepped into the chamber, scrolls in one hand, the other tucked behind his back. He bowed slightly, then offered the faintest smile at Taehyung.

“You ready for your final test, little scholar?” Namjoon asked, tone warm but firm.

Taehyung looked between the two alphas, one whose eyes burned with protective fire, the other who carried his trust like an anchor and he swallowed down the remnants of fear still clinging to his chest.

He straightened his back. “Yes. I want to try.”

Jungkook’s smile was full of pride. “That’s all I ask.”

Then, softly, almost reverently, he added, “And no matter what happens tomorrow, I will be beside you. You are not alone, love. You never have been.”

-

The day of the grand banquet arrived with an anxious hush and gilded excitement.

In the capital, the air was charged. Noble households scrambled with silken robes and lacquered shoes, scented oils and wax-sealed invitations passed from hand to hand like the currency of ambition. The carriages began rolling at dawn, wheels grinding over cobbled streets polished clean for the occasion. Lanterns were hung, bright as suns in their crimson and gold silk skins. Gossip was louder than the temple bells.

“He is to appear,” whispered one merchant’s wife, eyes wide behind her fan. “The omega from the late Queen’s chamber.”

“The Crown Prince’s secret,” another confirmed, lips curling. “Tonight, we shall see what sort of beauty could turn our crowned prince into a lovesick boy.”

But beyond the inner walls, far from the banquet halls, the excitement did not taste as sweet. In the poorer districts, cloaked in soot and silence, the whispers were bitter. To them, this feast meant only one thing, another night without rice, without firewood, without rest.

A boy stared at a palace banner flapping in the wind, his stomach hollow.

“They light candles of gold while we boil stones for soup,” muttered an elder woman beside him.

But deep in the mountains of the southern provinces, unseen wagons rolled under watchful eyes. Guarded by men who wore no crest, carrying bags heavy with silver, grain, and healing herbs, Jungkook’s stolen treasure was already enroute to the hungry. And though the royals bathed in peony water and licked the fat from duck bones, the prince’s true banquet would be fed to those who had been forgotten.

Back in the palace, the sun climbed higher, and the real performance began.

The courtiers shimmered like coins scattered across a merchant’s table. Minister Yoon stood tall in front of the king in the inner council chamber, surrounded by loyal officials, all dressed in their finest robes, navy, bronze, emerald and each smiling with the calm assurance of men who believed they were winning.

The king, draped in muted reds, sipped from a small cup of ginseng wine, his gaze far away until Yoon spoke the words he had been waiting to hear.

“The omega, residing in Her Late Majesty’s chambers, will perform calligraphy tonight before Your Majesty and your honored guests,” Yoon announced smoothly. “It is said he bears a natural grace... and a curious charm.”

The king’s lips curled faintly. He remembered. That face. That scent.

“So, the Crown Prince’s little secret is finally showing his face,” the king mused, eyes sharp with calculation.

Yoon bowed slightly. “The boy will be the highlight of the evening. After the scholars, after the dancers—when all eyes are ready to feast on beauty, he will walk forward.”

The king gave no response, but his expression pleased Yoon well enough.

Outside the council chambers, the palace swelled with motion.

Royal concubines preened beneath shaded balconies, each one dressed like living portraits. Their hair swept high with ornate pins, their hands soft and perfumed, voices coy behind silk fans. Even the visiting noble omegas, daughters of high ministers and distant dukes, fluttered through the gardens like brightly-feathered birds. They laughed too loudly, eyed each other too sharply, and walked with too much grace. They weren’t here to admire the palace. They were here to be seen—chosen.

Lady Soyeon stood at the heart of them all, poised like a queen in waiting. Her hanbok was a soft violet, embroidered with plum blossoms that shimmered when she moved. Her expression was delicate, her smile demure but behind her eyes, calculation brewed.

These girls, these polished little puppets, none of them mattered.

“They can wear their jewels,” she murmured to herself as she looked at her reflection. “They can bat their lashes at him. But none of them hold his gaze the way I will.”

Her so-called friends laughed beside her, false sweetness dripping from every word. They played their roles perfectly, compliments, gentle touches, shared secrets. But Soyeon didn’t need their approval. She didn’t even believe in their friendships. They were all spies in pearls, each one waiting to slit the other's throat with a jeweled hairpin.

Tonight, Soyeon would shine.

Elsewhere in the palace

“Hold still, Jimin.”

“I am still—ow! That’s my hair, Seokjin-hyung!”

“You call this hair? This is chaos. No mate of the royal commanders should have bird’s nest hair.”

Jimin scowled as Seokjin tugged again, carefully tying a dark ribbon around the half-up portion of his friend’s hair. Both omegas were seated in a private chamber of the East Pavilion, surrounded by cosmetics, mirrors, brushes, and enough flower petals to bury a horse.

But their focus wasn’t themselves. Not truly.

They were preparing for someone else.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Jimin asked softly, glancing at the door.

“He’s nervous,” Seokjin replied. “Anyone would be. But we’re going to make sure he walks in there like the moon fell into the palace itself.”

And they did.

The hanbok chosen for Taehyung was simple but impossibly beautiful. Soft shades of cream and muted rose, delicate embroidery only visible up close, flowing like clouds over his slim frame. No heavy jewelry, no glimmering gold. Only blossoms, tiny white flowers threaded carefully into his hair-like stars caught in silk.

“He doesn’t need ornaments,” Jimin whispered, smoothing the final fold of fabric. “He IS the ornament.”

Seokjin nodded. “Tonight, they’ll see. All of them.”

Meanwhile, in the Crown Prince’s quarters. Jungkook stood before the mirror, his ceremonial robes half-buttoned. Yoongi was at the window, quietly inspecting the view of the courtyard. Namjoon adjusted the scroll cases on the table, and Hoseok was fastening a dagger to his waist beneath his silk.

“Extra guards will shadow the guest wings,” Hoseok said. “And the wine being served to Taehyung is from our own stock. Checked. Twice.”

Namjoon nodded. “The writing stand is set. If anything is tampered with, our replacement tools will be switched without notice.”

Yoongi turned, voice flat. “No one gets within ten paces of him without our eyes on them.”

Jungkook’s eyes met his hyungs’, grateful but still burning.

“He will not be touched,” Jungkook said, voice low, steady. “Not by slander. Not by sabotage. Not even by a gaze unworthy of him.”

He slipped the last golden button into place.

“Tonight, they’ll all learn what I’ve known since the first moment I saw him.”

Back in the Eastern Courtyard. Taehyung sat on the edge of the raised wooden platform, fingers trembling as he repeated the poem beneath his breath for the third time. His heart beat too fast, his hands too tight. What if he tripped? What if he forgot?

What if they all stared and saw nothing but a commoner boy trying to act royal?

Just as panic began to rise in his throat—

A soft knock.

A royal guard stepped into the room, bowing low.

“This is from His Highness.”

He set down a wooden cage, draped with white cloth.

Taehyung blinked, puzzled. “From... the crowned prince?”

The guard nodded once. “He said it was for courage.”

Taehyung reached forward, lifted the cloth.

A white rabbit.

The very same rabbit from the palace gardens, the one he’d chased beneath the willow tree, days ago. Its pink nose twitched as it looked up at him with soft, wide eyes. A small dark spot marked its nose—unmistakable.

Taehyung gasped, heart stuttering.

Inside the box, tucked in the corner, was a folded parchment.

He opened it.

“For my little moon:

When the world stares, let them see the heavens in your hand.

You are not here to please them—you were born to outshine them.”

— JJK

The tears came quickly. But not from fear this time.

He smiled.

For the first time that day, Taehyung smiled.

Chapter Text

Taehyung sat perfectly still, surrounded by a flurry of attendants, though his heart felt anything but calm. Soft fingers worked through his hair in silence, weaving delicate strands into braids that glinted like onyx under the candlelight. His robe, chosen by Seokjin and Jimin themselves was already draped around his slender frame, dyed in muted ivory and white with the touch of white gold beads, like little stars under the moonlight, colors that whispered elegance rather than shouted royalty.

“You look like moonlight incarnate,” Seokjin murmured, crouching before him to adjust the hem.

“He looks like a dream,” Jimin added, beaming with pride as he inspected the soft fabric. “A dream that’ll make half the court gasp and the other half faint.”

“I can’t breathe,” Taehyung whispered, voice barely audible. “What if I trip? What if I forget the characters? What if I—”

Seokjin gently grasped his chin, tilting his face upward. “Then you stand back up. Or you breathe, and continue. And if all else fails,” he said, his lips curling with mischief, “smile, and let your face do the work. Trust me, it’s weapon enough.”

Jimin laughed. “It’s overkill, really. They’re preparing roasted peacock for the banquet, but they’ll never notice it once you enter.”

“But this is no joke,” Taehyung murmured, voice trembling. “I never asked to be seen like this. I was just supposed to study quietly. Learn slowly. I didn’t know... they would make me perform in front of the entire palace. I don’t even know if I’m worthy.”

“Worthy?” Jimin echoed, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Darling, the Crown Prince handpicked you for a reason. If anyone in this palace is worthy, it’s you. Do you think Jungkook would risk his entire plan, his entire court, over someone who didn’t have greatness in him?”

“He sees it,” Seokjin added softly. “Even if you don’t yet.”

A hush fell over the room for a breath.

Taehyung reached up to touch the small, white flowers that now adorned his hair, nestled like moonlit blossoms in the raven waves. No heavy jewels. No garish gold. Just simple, pale blooms, his only adornment.

“They’re more fitting than any crown,” Jimin said with pride. “Only something living and beautiful can match your spirit.”

“But it’s all so loud,” Taehyung whispered. “I can hear the music already. I can feel them watching—waiting.”

“Yes,” Seokjin said with a knowing smile. “And they’re waiting to see the Crown Prince’s chosen one. Let them wait. Let them witness.”

Outside the room, the palace was blooming with energy. The air smelled of incense and warm oil, of honeyed rice cakes and grilled meats, of wine just uncorked and anticipation thick enough to taste. Lanterns glowed like stars strung from every eave, and silk banners danced in the wind. Horses stamped against the stone courtyard, courtiers laughed with too-sharp teeth, and noble omegas powdered their wrists with sweet musk, praying for a moment of the Crown Prince’s gaze.

Lady Soyeon stood with her circle of royal-borns, her laughter delicate but pointed. She looked to the east wing, toward the garden chamber where Taehyung was probably being dressed, and smiled coldly. She already envisioned the omega faltering onstage, blushing in humiliation. It was a performance no one would forget and one that would secure her place at the prince’s side.

Elsewhere in the palace, Jungkook tightened the golden belt around his ceremonial robe, his mind not on the banquet, nor the nobles, nor the performances... but on the boy he had not yet seen tonight.

He refused to ask Jimin or Seokjin for a glimpse beforehand. He wanted to see Taehyung’s entrance the same as everyone else, because that moment, when the hall would fall into silence, when even music would fade to the sound of his heartbeat, that moment belonged to them.

He paced the length of his chamber only once before Yoongi entered, followed by Namjoon and Hoseok. All were armed, with blades and with preparations. Silent guards were already stationed in the banquet hall, eyes sharp and hands trained.

Tonight wasn’t just about beauty. It was war dressed in silk.

And yet, somewhere between strategy and planning, Jungkook allowed himself to imagine it, Taehyung, standing beneath lantern light, hair crowned in flowers, fingers curled around a brush he’d once trembled to hold.

He imagined the moment their eyes would meet.

And it was enough to keep him steady.

Back in the garden chamber, Taehyung sat beside the small white rabbit, already settled in its lacquered pen near the window, gently running a fingertip along the soft fur between its ears. The animal’s dark spotted nose twitched, as if offering silent encouragement. Beside the cage, Jungkook’s earlier note lay open on a folded silk mat, Taehyung had read the words so many times the parchment almost curled at the edges.

He traced the flowing strokes once more, inhaling the faint cedar and clove scent that lingered in the ink. Each line steadied his heartbeat, each brush curve reminding him of the prince’s hand guiding his weeks of practice.

The rabbit shifted, pressing its nose to the bars. Taehyung smiled, leaning closer so their foreheads almost touched. “Stay with me, little one,” he whispered. “We’ll both be brave tonight.”

He tucked the note safely inside his sleeve, rose, and smoothed the pale folds of his hanbok. His fingers no longer trembled, the poem on his lips felt light as breath. Beyond the chamber doors, the distant chime of bronze bells rolled through the palace corridors, calling guests to assemble and announcing that his moment was drawing near.

-
The palace banquet hall, though called such, sprawled wide and open to the evening sky, its pillared sides flanked with delicate sheer curtains that swayed like whispered secrets in the breeze. Braziers lined the stone path, casting flickering gold light across polished marble. Low tables arranged in crescents overflowed with rare delicacies and ornate offerings from every corner of the kingdom. Lanterns hung high, dancing gently with every gust of wind, painting the space in warm hues of plum, jade, and royal red.

Nobles, officials, emissaries, and royals gathered in glittering clusters, dressed in layers of silk and adorned with gemstones meant to dazzle. The air buzzed with the hum of subtle conversation, laughter too sharp, flattery too sweet. Eyes flitted, calculating and hungry, as the powerful watched the powerful and those who wished to be powerful leaned forward with sharp smiles and sharp ambitions.

Every inch of the palace gleamed with anticipation. Tonight was not merely a feast, it was a performance of power, elegance, and silent war.

At the northern gate, the court musicians struck a rising note, and the hush that followed was immediate.

The first of the honored guests had arrived.

King Hae Myeon from the West Kingdom stepped into the courtyard with the serene confidence of one used to reverence. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore layered robes of storm-gray silk edged with sapphire and silver, embroidered with his kingdom’s sigil, a soaring hawk amid waves. His long black hair was bound with a gold pin, his face unreadable beneath the polished veneer of diplomacy.

He was followed closely by his ministers and generals, all dressed for spectacle. Every motion, from the swish of their sleeves to the arch of their brows, was deliberate. The kind of poise honed by courts that fed on subtlety and bloodless conquest.

They moved like they belonged there.

And for a moment, they did.

The crowd turned to admire them, to measure them, some in respect, others in envy. Foreign power always carried an intoxicating weight.

But what turned more heads was not the foreign monarch, but the woman standing further ahead among Joseon’s own court, the ever-smiling, ever-scheming Royal Concubine of the King, Royal Concubine Ae Sook, from the family of Yoon Household.

Clad in layered silk of moon-white and rose-gold, with a phoenix pin glittering in her hair, Ae Sook stood near the King of Joseon’s seat with her usual grace. Her every glance was measured, every tilt of her chin calculated. She stood just close enough to the throne to assert her importance, yet far enough not to overstep.

Her lips curled when her gaze swept the crowd.

She knew the eyes of the court were on her. She thrived on it.

And trailing behind her like an ambitious echo was Lady Soyeon.

She wore a pale blue hanbok tonight, lined with fine silver thread, her hair piled in a modest but artful knot, adorned with a single jade ornament. Her smile was soft. Sweet. Innocent. But her eyes sparkled with something far less tender, calculation, pride, quiet triumph.

She bowed to a few nobles as she passed, lips murmuring pleasantries, but her gaze kept flicking toward the grand seat prepared for the Crown Prince.

She knew the performance had already begun.

Just as smug as Ae Sook, just as poisonous, and just as convinced that she deserved the throne beside the Prince.

A deep horn sounded, silencing the courtyard.

All rose to their feet as the King of Joseon entered, slow, measured, and utterly self-assured. He wore his crown like a brand of divine right, crimson and black robes embroidered with golden dragons trailing behind him like flames.

His gaze swept over the bowed heads with cold satisfaction, lips curled in a faint, smug smile. In his mind, this kingdom bent to him still, its people, its power, even the fate of the Crown Prince.

Every step he took echoed one truth. He was the true ruler of Joseon and he wanted them to remember it.

King Hae Myeon, already seated as a guest of honor, observed with veiled amusement. But even he didn’t rise when the King of Joseon entered, he had stood only for the announcement of the banquet’s host earlier.

Still, the Joseon King didn’t seem to care.

He moved forward slowly, drinking in the awe and submission. And just behind him, his favorite concubine, Royal Consort Ae Sook, waiting for him at the stand and walked with perfectly timed steps, her beauty displayed like a precious blade. She smiled sweetly as she passed familiar nobles, but her eyes held a flash of cruelty barely hidden.

She walked with her hands folded, but her posture said, ‘I am already more powerful than the Queen ever was.’

Lady Soyeon trailed like a favored pet. She kept stealing glances toward the noble families, chin high, as if her place among the royal family was already assured.

It was a performance and one they believed they were winning.

But the prince hasn’t arrived yet.

Because just as the King settled into his throne of carved blackwood and gold, flanked by his ministers and servants, another silence swept the courtyard.

Heavier this time.

And then—

A low, slow chime resounded across the courtyard, silencing whispers.

The main eastern gate opened.

No fanfare greeted the crowned prince of the kingdom. He needed none.

Jungkook stepped into the hall like thunder wrapped in silk. His hanbok was a deep, midnight black with streaks of silver embroidery that caught the light like the stars themselves had been sewn into the folds. His hair was styled into a traditional crown braid, adorned with a dragon hairpin gifted only to the future king. Every movement was precise, his stride, the roll of his shoulders, the deliberate pause at the threshold.

Pheromones burst around him like a command, raw, dominant, overwhelming. The kind of scent that bent spines and stole breath. The scent of sandalwood and rain-drenched pine, dark and impossibly compelling. Some omegas gasped, a few betas instinctively bowed. Alphas stiffened, unsure whether to kneel or flee.

But Jungkook did not walk alone.

Behind him, unshaken and proud, came his three closest men.

Yoongi, robed in snow-white with obsidian edges, expression unreadable, the air around him vibrating with barely restrained judgment. His scarred and dark eyes scanned the crowd like knives. The Commander of the Royal Guards.

Hoseok, blazing in warm crimson and golden filigree, his posture sharp, eyes bright with the fire of a soldier who has seen war and won.

And Namjoon, the Royal Advisor, a tower of poise and intellect in robes of deep sage and copper. His calm, sure gaze met that of the officials with quiet authority. The Scholar Who Sees All.

The crowd shifted uneasily as Jungkook passed, he was expected to walk alone, to elevate himself above all, to bask in the spotlight of his birthright. But the prince defied them. His loyal inner court flanked him, each one more than a servant, more than a friend.

They were his sword, his shield, his mind. And he wanted all the palace to see.

Let them whisper. Let them wonder. Let them know, if they touched even a strand of hair on one of their heads, the Crowned Prince would burn the court to the ground.

Jungkook didn’t spare a glance at the visiting king, nor at the bejeweled courtesans fluttering their fans behind veils. Not even when Lady Soyeon tilted her head just so, her painted lips twitching into what she thought was an inviting smile.

He walked straight ahead, toward the throne-like dais where he would sit as host, jaw set, spine unyielding, scent flooding the air like a claim.

He did not speak.

He didn’t have to.

Every head in the banquet turned toward him, and for the first time that night, even the boldest fell silent.

Together, the four of them were not just a symbol. They were a statement. That the future ruler of Joseon would not stand alone.

That the next king had already chosen his own court. And it would not be bent by flattery or bribery.

Every noble present bowed. Even some of the foreign dignitaries hesitated before lowering their heads, not from obligation, but from instinct.

Even King Hae Myeon, sitting across from the Joseon King, inclined his head slightly, his lips twitching, perhaps in recognition of the cold, unmistakable power Jungkook exuded.

But Jungkook?

He did not bow to anyone.

Not to the court officials. Not to the concubine. Not to the nobles.

Not even to the King.

His gaze did not drift to his father, not to Lady Ae Sook, nor did it spare even a second for the wide-eyed Lady Soyeon, who froze mid-preen like a silk bird with clipped wings.

He looked ahead.

Only ahead.

Toward the stage where his beloved would soon stand.

Where his omega, his chosen mate, would reveal to the world a talent only he and his trusted circle had seen flourish.

And he let his dominant alpha pheromones slowly unfurl around him, controlled yet potent, like smoke from a volcano waiting to awaken.

Some nobles trembled. Some flushed. Some dared not breathe.

Because the Crown Prince had arrived.