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Chapter Text

Taehyung’s life has been… uneventful.

For all that people imagine when they hear “vampire”, (or half-vampire in his case), his existence is nothing like the dark academia fantasies of his classmates or the cheesy novels lining his city's bookstore shelves.

For one, Taehyung doesn’t have any of the powers other vampires do. He can’t run impossibly fast or lift cars with one hand. He can’t charm people, or seduce women with a glance just to taste their blood.

(Instead, he has to beg his mom to do his laundry most weeks. Sometimes on his knees just for her to agree to cook him dinner. Not because he can’t, but because her food tastes better, more flavorful and less burnt.)

Taehyung didn’t speak eloquently or get amazing grades. He aged like everyone else in the human cities.
Aged the same, spoke the same, acted the same, Taehyung was essentially the same. 

Just a human who needed blood the way others needed air.

݁ᛪ༙

The clink of a fork against ceramic broke the quiet hum of the kitchen.

Taehyung sat cross-legged in the dining chair, mindlessly pushing rice into a small hill while his mother stirred salt grains in her stew. Human food didn’t sustain him, but it grounded him, kept him tethered to something soft and familiar. 

Just beside the plate sat a foggy plastic cup, the contents inside a familiar thick maroon red. 

His mother wasn’t speaking.

Which was strange.

“Did someone die?” Taehyung asked, half-joking. (because his mother didn’t have any friends or people she knew, and neither did he.)

He glanced up from his carefully crafted hill of basmati rice, tilting his head to eye her over the rim of her bowl.

Her hand froze from around the spoon.

For a second, he thought she didn’t hear him. Then she turned, eyes lined with a weariness he hadn’t seen in years. Not since the fire. Not since they left the vampire territories behind like scorched earth.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Your uncle.”

The room went quiet again. Even quieter this time, and Taehyung could hear the stove’s gentle bubbling in the background.

“Which one?” Taehyung asked, his voice flat.
Not cold, just numb.

His mother didn’t have family. Or if she did, she never spoke of them. 

Her telling him this could only mean one thing.

“Minhyuk.”

He blinked, then reached for his water, throat suddenly dry. 

“Was it…?” Taehyung started, not sure how to finish the sentence. Poison? Magic? A political hit?

Or maybe something worse, something hotter.

His mother cut him off with a sharp breath. “Clean,” she interrupted. “A clean death. No witchcraft. No rebellion. Heart failure, they’re saying. Ancient as he was, I’m not surprised.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just stared into the steam rising off her stew like it might fog over the memory.

Taehyung let out a humorless laugh. “So Vampires do die, huh?”

The silence that followed made his joke taste like metal. His mother’s shoulders rose, then settled slowly. She sat across from him, folding her hands on the table with rigid precision. Her knuckles were pale, like she was holding something back.

Taehyung stared at her confused, offput, maybe semi-curious. He didn’t know why she was telling him this. They barely spoke of the supernatural. She talked about his father’s family even less.The only things Taehyung knew about vampiric culture were from his memories as a young boy, back when he still lived with his father; before being taken to the human territory by his mother.

“They’ve asked you to come,” she said after a long pause.

He blinked. “To the territory?”

She nodded, once. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Taehyung stared at her. “You said they’d never—”

“I know what I said.”

Her voice cracked like a cold surface under pressure. She didn’t raise it, but the edge was there. Not at him. At the situation. At the inevitability of it.

“They sent a courier,” she added, softer now. “Last night. A formal letter. Sealed.”

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, slow, like the weight of it was pressing into his chest. 
A sealed letter meant it was serious, and nonnegotiable.

He laughed again, bitter this time. “Why? So they can remind me I don’t belong while they burn the body and bless the dirt?”

But her silence wasn’t agreement.

It was worry.

“They’re not calling you as an outcast,” she said. “They’re calling you as family.”

Taehyung stilled. He stared at her, waiting for the punchline.

And when it didn’t come, something inside him twisted. He didn’t laugh this time. Just stared at the ceiling like maybe the answers would be carved up there in the wood.

“When is the funeral?” Taehyung muttered. Dropping his utensil in favor of picking up the cup and taking a flavorful red sip.

Her fingers traced the rim of the stew bowl once, then again, like she was searching for something to hold onto. 

“They’ve given a date,” she said finally. “Three days from now. The funeral rites begin at dusk.”

Taehyung’s brow twitched. “Three days from now? Isn’t that too short of notice? I thought vampires were big on etiquette and propriety.” Taehyung muttered. Taking another long sip of his food before setting it down. 

Of course it would be at dusk.

“And how long am I supposed to stay?”

“They didn’t say,” she murmured. “But you know how it is. Tradition first, politics second. If they’re calling you back… they’ll want you to stay. At least through the end of the mourning cycle.”

Taehyung leaned his elbows on the table, hands threaded through his hair. It was getting too long, falling in his eyes when he looked down. Maybe he should cut it before he leaves.

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Her voice was gentler this time, but it carried a strange weight. And Taehyung snapped his attention back to her. 

“They don’t get to summon you just because blood ties knot themselves again when it’s convenient.”

He glanced to the side at the red substance filling up half of his cup. His mother watching him closer now, with an unreadable expression; partially worried, part resignation. The steam from her bowl curled around her face like mist, softening the lines that grief had carved deep.

Taehyung sighed, slow and quiet. Then gave her a crooked, tired smile.

“It’s fine, Mom. I’ll go. Can’t not say goodbye to uncle Minhuk, right?” 

He tried to joke, hoping to lighten her mood, and it partially worked. Her eyes flickered, like she wanted to argue. But she didn’t. She just nodded once, a stiff, reluctant motion, then went back to stirring her stew long after it stopped needing to be stirred.

“It’s Minhyuk, Tae.” 

“Right.” 

“And you’ve probably never met him before from when you were last there. He’s not fond of our kind.” 

Our kind, she said. And Taehyung bit the inside of his cheek, staring down at his crumbling hill of white rice now soaking into the stew.

Vampires weren’t fond of humans. They saw them as a food source, mostly. The same way humans saw cows. Necessary, useful, maybe even sympathetic, but never equal.

Taehyung wasn’t human.

He was something worse. A half-breed. A disgrace. An aberration.

An open wound in the family bloodline.

Our kind meant two very different things to each of them.

And Taehyung knew it.

݁ᛪ༙

The train ride was quiet. Too quiet.

By the time they crossed into the northern woods, Taehyung was the only passenger left in his car. Just him, his suitcase, and the rhythmic hum of the rails. The sky outside had darkened to an early winter gray, and frost crept like veins along the windowpane.

Before the train arrived, he and his mother had stood side by side on the cold platform, the silence between them thicker than the fog curling at their feet. She adjusted the collar of his coat like she used to when he was little, her fingers lingering a second too long.

“You don’t have to do this,” she murmured, eyes scanning his face like she was memorizing it. 

Taehyung wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, with his single suitcase in hand. His black hair freshly cut and settled just above his eyebrows. 

He gave her a small smile, small and a little lopsided. “I know. But I am.”

She looked like she wanted to say more—maybe stop him, maybe pull him back—but the train’s whistle cut through the moment. 

Instead, she just nodded, and he stepped on board without looking back.

Now, hours later, the train hissed to a stop at a secluded, near-forgotten station nestled deep in the trees. A wrought-iron gate loomed just beyond the platform, elegant and ancient-looking, half-swallowed by creeping ivy. A single figure stood waiting at the threshold.

Taehyung blinked against the darkening light outside the window. For the last hour of the ride, he’d been the only passenger left. The conductor had barely glanced at him when announcing the final destination, eyes downcast like he knew better than to look too long at someone heading into vampire land.

A cool wind crept in first; crisp, damp, and tinged with pine and ash. Taehyung stood, stretching out the stiffness in his legs from the long journey, then stepped off with a single worn suitcase in hand. His boots hit the gravel with a muted crunch.

Beyond the platform, tall black trees lined the path like silent guards. And ahead, half-shrouded in a thin veil of fog, stood a massive wrought-iron gate carved with unfamiliar sigils and half-forgotten crests. It loomed like something out of an old storybook: overgrown stone pillars, tangled ivy, and two large lanterns flickering with a cold blue flame.

And waiting there was a man Taehyung didn’t recognize.

He was tall, broad-shouldered but elegant, dressed in a tailored coat the color of dried blood. His black hair was neatly swept back, and his face.
His face was unfair. Sculpted jaw, kind mouth, long lashes framing eyes that glinted silver in the dim light. The kind of face Taehyung tended to fancy in his lovers.

The man offered a gentle nod as Taehyung approached, a step hesitant. “Taehyung?”

Taehyung blinked, fingers tightening around his suitcase handle. Of course this impossibly handsome man was here for him. “Yeah?”

“I’m Seokjin. Your cousin.” His voice was smooth, deep, and oddly warm for a place like this. 

Taehyung had to stop his disappointment from showing on his face at the revelation they were related, as he took another step closer, searching the mans features for a trace of memory. 

Nothing. 

But Seokjin’s posture was open, careful; not too familiar, but not too cold either.

“You wouldn’t remember me,” Seokjin added, eyes scanning Taehyung’s face like he was trying to place his own memories. “You were just a tiny child when you left, barely tall enough to reach my hip. I used to sneak you sweets when no one was looking.”

Taehyung huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess that explains the cavities.”

Seokjin smiled at that, and something in Taehyung’s chest eased. A little. Just a crack.

“Here,” Seokjin said, reaching for the suitcase. “Let me—”

Their fingers brushed, just for a second, and Taehyung’s breath caught, embarrassingly fast. He dropped his hand like it burned, cheeks flaring with heat as he muttered, “Thanks,” a little too quickly.

Seokjin didn’t comment. If he noticed the growing blush on Taehyung’s face, he was kind enough not to say anything. He simply lifted the brown bag with effortless grace and turned toward the gate.

“This way,” he said. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

They passed through the iron gate as it creaked open with a sound like groaning bones, and suddenly, the trees parted to reveal the vampire territory in full.

Taehyung slowed as they walked. It was beautiful—hauntingly so. Gothic spires pierced the dusk sky, their windows aglow with amber light. Ivy curled up cathedral-like buildings. Lanterns hovered mid-air in places, swaying with no wind. The cobblestones beneath their feet shimmered faintly with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air smelled of woodsmoke, candle wax, and something faintly sweet; like old wine.

He didn’t remember this. Not the details. Not the awe.

“I forgot how…” Taehyung murmured, eyes tracing the towering silhouette of what looked like a chapel turned residence.

“Alive it is?” Seokjin finished for him, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Taehyung nodded, still looking up. “Yeah. That.”

Alive was an interesting description for the town of vampires. Ageless beings who had outlived centuries. But fitting, nonetheless.

“It’s beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself. His hands clenched around the tips of his sleeves as he walked a few steps behind Seokjin.

They walked in a rhythm, quiet, steady. The gravel path curved through what looked like a preserved forest, canopied in silver-barked trees that dripped with moss like lace. Lanterns hovered overhead, casting dappled light on Seokjin’s face, his features made sharper in the glow. He looked like a statue come to life.

“You grew up here?” Taehyung asked, trying to fill the silence with something light before innerly face palming. Of course he had, all vampires grow up here, and most never leave.

Seokjin nodded. “I did.”

“What’s it like?”

Seokjin pauses. Considering an answer. Then, “Quiet. Predictable. Beautiful, if you can stomach the stillness.”

Taehyung smiled softly. His fingers picking at the skin around his nails as they walked. The foggy morning air breaching the safety of his coat. “I think I’d like the stillness.”

That earned him a glance. Seokjin’s lips twitched in what might’ve been a smile, his eyes unreadable in the dark. “Most don’t. You’re not like most.”

Taehyung blinked at that, unsure how to respond. “Is that a good thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Taehyung laughed under his breath. “Well, I’ve been told I’m a slow burn.”

Another flicker of amusement crossed Seokjin’s face. “So I should be patient, then.”

Taehyung bit his lip, unsure exactly what Seokjin had meant before promptly stamping down the warmth rising in his chest.

He’s your cousin. For Christ’s sake, he scolded himself.

They walked in silence for a few more steps. Taehyung’s nerves buzzed, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was the feeling of being seen, but not judged. A foreign sort of warmth.

“Did you always know you’d come back?” Seokjin asked after a while, his voice quiet, unintrusive.

Taehyung took a moment to answer. “No. I thought… I thought I’d stay human forever. Or as human as I could be.”

Seokjin didn’t reply, but his silence felt thoughtful, not dismissive. Like he was listening.

As they rounded a final bend, the trees opened to reveal a house—no, a mansion—set just beyond the city’s edge. It rose from the earth like a dream from another century: tall and sprawling, with leaded glass windows and wrought iron balconies wrapped in blooming vines. Candlelight flickered from behind long velvet drapes. A fountain whispered in the front garden, its basin full of moonlight and lilies.

Taehyung stopped in his tracks.

“This is the residence?” he asked, awe softening his voice.

Seokjin nodded. “Your father’s home. Yours too, technically. If you choose to claim it.”

Something caught in Taehyung’s throat. He stared up at the mansion, feeling resigned at the sight. He had lived in a two bedroom apartment with his mother, sometimes just a single room. She struggled to pay rent and feed the two of them most of Taehyung’s childhood, but here? His father had a mansion. Money. Luxuries and wealth Taehyung had never imagined for himself. 

It felt unfair.

“It’s beautiful,” he said again. This time, it felt like mourning.

Seokjin looked at him, really looked. “It remembers you.”

Taehyung turned, startled. “What?”

“The house,” Seokjin said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “It remembers.” 

Seokjin walked ahead without saying anything more, and Taehyung trailed after him, a few steps behind. 

When they reached the grand oak doors of the mansion, Seokjin opened one with a single hand, Taehyung’s old brown suitcase still effortlessly balanced in the other.

The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a dimly lit foyer that smelled of aged wood and lavender. The flicker of candlelight glowed faintly along the edges of the hallway, though most of the interior was cloaked in quiet shadow. The air was warm, touched with incense and something older, something that smelled faintly like time itself. 

Taehyung took a deep breath in as he entered, the stress of the situation bleeding from his shoulders as the tension drains under the weight of lavender. Taehyung’s favorite.

There’s no voices echoed from deeper inside. No footsteps. Not even a squeak of a faucet or a shuffle of clothing.

Taehyung frowns softly. “It’s quiet…” he whispers.

Seokjin’s voice was low and smooth, right next to his ear. And the boy startles, whipping around to stare at the older. Seokjin cracks a faint smile. 

“Everyone else is preparing for the ritual.”

The word hung in the air like smoke, and Taehyung didn’t ask which ritual. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. 

He just nodded, following Seokjin’s lead up the curved staircase that wound past tall, stained-glass windows and carved stone railings.

As they climbed, something tugged at Taehyung’s memory. A particular step creaked. The scent of wax polish. A long-forgotten portrait blurred in his mind, faint images returning like ghosts in the hall.

He was breathing shallowly by the time they reached the second floor. The smell of lavender making him lightheaded.

They passed several grand rooms with tall doors and embroidered nameplates, each more ornate than the last. Velvet-lined, gold-hinged, dark wood polished to perfection. But Seokjin didn’t pause at any of them.

He stopped in front of a simpler door. Still tall, but quieter. Painted a deep blue-gray. The doorknob looked worn, as if it had been turned often.

“This is yours,” Seokjin said, setting the suitcase down carefully.

Taehyung blinked. “Mine?”

Seokjin opened the door with quiet grace. The room was dark, but not cold. Long drapes lined the window, drawn half-open to let moonlight spill across the wooden floor. There was a carved bed, simple but elegant, draped in linen the color of ash. A record player sat in the corner, dusty but intact. The whole room felt untouched, but lived in. Preserved, not abandoned.

“It gets cleaned every week,” Seokjin said softly. “Even when no one’s using it.”

Taehyung stepped inside, eyes scanning the familiar curve of the desk, the faint scuff marks in the floor he couldn’t remember making but somehow knew were his.

His chest tightened.

Seokjin’s voice followed him in, quiet and steady. “We’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

Taehyung turned to look at him, but Seokjin was already placing the suitcase by the wall, giving him space.

“I—” Taehyung started, but the words faltered. He thought he was hated here, nothing but a disgrace to the family name. 

But they cleaned his room, and left his things. Forgotten trinkets and drawings from years ago laid out along the tops of dark wood cabinets and desks.

Seokjin didn’t press. He simply offered a small, patient smile. “I’ll give you a moment to settle in. Dinner’s after sunset. I’ll come get you introduce you to the others.”

And with that, he stepped out, pulling the door gently shut behind him.

Taehyung stood in the stillness of the room for a long time. Listening to the sound of his own heartbeat. Wondering if the house could really remember him or if it was he who had never truly forgotten.

Taehyung opened the tall cabinet doors with a creak, surprised to find them not only dustless but stocked with a few neatly folded clothes. Traditional vampire attire in deep, elegant shades. He ran his fingers over the fabric absently, then turned back to his suitcase.

He unzipped it slowly, the old brass teeth dragging open to reveal the neatly packed contents: two plain t-shirts, a single pair of jeans, a threadbare sweater, and a collared black suit—the one he’d worn on the train. His mother had ironed it by hand the night before, the cuffs carefully pressed and the collar freshly starched. It was his father’s once, years ago. The last thing of his that still fit.

With a quiet sigh, Taehyung slipped the jacket off his shoulders and folded it gently before setting it inside a drawer. He changed into a dark linen tunic he found in the cabinet, too long in the sleeves but soft, and lined with stitching that looked hand-sewn.

He meant to sit for just a moment, to rest his eyes. But the moment his body touched the bed, his bones melted into the softness. It was absurdly comfortable, more comfortable than anything he’d laid on in years. The pillows were plump and cool, the blankets smooth against his bare arms.

The sheets smelled clean, but not sterile. Faint traces of something warm lingered in the fabric. Spiced soap, old cedar, a breath of dried flowers. And something else beneath it all… something tender, impossible to name.

Taehyung turned onto his side, face pressed into the nearest pillow, breathing deeply. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But the weight of the train ride, the nerves, the unfamiliar air, they pulled at him like gravity.

He didn’t dream.

When the knock came, it was soft. A gentle tap-tap, like fingertips brushing wood. Taehyung stirred, blinking against the dimming light outside his window. He pushed himself up slowly, body reluctant, hair messy and falling over one eye.

He rubbed at his face with a yawn, mumbling, “Coming…”

He expected Seokjin.

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Seokjin at all.

A boy stood there. No, a vampire, clearly. Pretty in a way that made Taehyung blink. He was shorter than Jin, but graceful in a way that felt deliberate, every movement like a whisper. His hair was short and soft-looking, dyed a purplish-gray that shimmered when he moved. His lips were full and red, not painted, just red—like he’d just fed. And his eyes, half-lidded and curious, flicked lazily over Taehyung’s face.

“You’re awake,” the stranger said, voice sweet and low.

“Um…” Taehyung cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just now.”

The vampire smiled. And without asking, he stepped forward, leaning in impossibly close, his gaze focused somewhere near Taehyung’s jaw.

“You smell interesting,” he murmured.

Taehyung stiffened, instinct pulling him back a half-step. But the boy followed easily, his nose brushing just beside Taehyung’s neck, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He inhaled slowly. Shameless.

“You’re the half-blood,” he said against Taehyung’s skin, lips curling. “The one they’ve all been whispering about.”

“Okay— personal space?” Taehyung muttered, gently putting a hand on the vampire’s chest to push him back, heart kicking once in his chest.

The boy didn’t resist, but he didn’t apologize either. He just tilted his head, amused. Unapologetic.

He held out a hand then, casually elegant. “I’m Jimin.”

Taehyung looked at him warily before slowly shaking his hand. “Taehyung.”

Jimin smiled again, this time softer. “I know.”

Taehyung stared at Jimin, unsure of what to say as the boy looks at him with unbridled curiosity and something more. His pale hand wrapping around Taehyung’s like a comforting blanket as he holds it for much longer than what’s deemed appropriate for strangers. Possibly still inappropriate if they were anything less than lovers.

Taehyung pulls his hand back when Jimin makes no move to let go first.

“Come on,” Jimin said lightly, already turning down the hall. “I’ll take you to dinner. What’s left of it, anyway.”

Taehyung followed without speaking, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The vampire moved like smoke, steps silent, motions fluid, like he belonged to the air. He didn’t walk so much as glide, bouncing just slightly on his toes with a childlike energy that clashed with the haunted stillness of the manor.

Jimin talked the whole time. Nothing too specific, just little observations about the architecture, stories about the house’s age, the way the tapestries on the walls used to be different when he was younger. Taehyung didn’t respond, not really. Just nodded now and then, trying to focus on the path they took: left at a stained-glass alcove, right past a moonlit corridor with no end, down a sloping hall with floorboards that creaked under neither of their feet.

He was almost certain he was going to get lost later.

As if reading his mind, Jimin glanced over his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. The house will guide you.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

“The house is old. It knows who belongs here.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed slightly, remembering that Jin had something vaguely similar earlier, and much like the other Jimin makes no effort to elaborate. He just hummed a little tune and skipped ahead.

Eventually, they reached a tall pair of ornate kitchen doors, carved with curling vines and family crests Taehyung didn’t recognize.

“Normally there are servants here,” Jimin said, hand resting on one door, “but during the mourning period, everyone is sent away.”

Taehyung paused at that.

Mourning. Neither Seokjin nor Jimin had seemed mournful. Polite, maybe. Careful. But not grieving.

He opened his mouth to ask something, anything, but Jimin was already pushing the door open with a dramatic flourish.

Warm light spilled out, and the smell of roasted herbs and something meaty filled the air.

“Let’s eat,” Jimin said with a wink, stepping aside so Taehyung could enter first.

The kitchen was already lit when they stepped inside, soft golden glow from hanging lamps above a long, dark wood table. The scent of blood-warmed wine, roasted meat, and something faintly spiced filled the air. It was cozy, strangely so, given the scale of the rest of the house.

Five heads turned as the doors creaked open. The room scarily quiet.

Jimin’s tone shifted immediately, lilting with playful delight. “Look who finally woke up.”

Seokjin stood by the window, dressed in slate gray, his features soft but unreadable. He offered a nod of greeting. “We kept a place for you.”

Taehyung froze at the entrance. Eyes locked on 6 different figures in the room, most of them strangers. All of them vampires.

One of them looked up from where he was slicing into a rare steak. His sleeves rolled to his forearms, posture perfect, eyes sharp. “You took your time,” he said, not unkindly. Just matter-of-fact.

 The one beside him didn’t say anything. He sat at the far end of the table with a glass in hand, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes flicked toward Taehyung with a quiet, piercing curiosity. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t move, just watched. 

“Huh,” he said finally after a long moment. “So it is you.”

On the opposite side, a vampire gave Taehyung a wide, warm smile when he caught the boys gaze. Gesturing toward the open chair near him. “Ignore them. We’ve all been dead a long time. Patience comes with the curse.” 

Taehyung smiles at that. A strained awkward smile. 

“Is that so?” He tries, conversationally as he steps forward slowly from the entrance of the room toward the dinning table. 

“We’ve all been dead for centuries, except for him.” The vampire jerked his chin toward the figure sitting toward the end of the table. “Jungkook’s still trying to grow into his teeth.”

Jungkook.

He was younger—noticeably so—and beautiful in a rough, untamed way. His eyes were a startling shade of red, still bright from his recent transition. He didn’t speak. He just stared.

And sniffed.

Literally.

Taehyung froze again at the edge of the table as Jungkook leaned in a little from where he sat, nostrils flaring slightly, pupils dilating. Jimin had done the same thing earlier, but this was different, more primal. His head tilted.

“You smell… strange,” Jungkook murmured, voice low and rough. “Familiar. But not.”

Taehyung’s spine stiffened. He instinctively took a half-step back, only for Jimin to appear behind him again with a hand at his lower back.

“Play nice, Jungkook,” he purred. “He just got here.”

Seokjin cleared his throat lightly. “Let him sit.”

Taehyung blinked and quickly moved to the empty chair between the stranger and Seokjin. His heart was beating too fast, and he tried to will it to slow. Painfully aware of just how loud it must sound in a room full of creatures built to hunt.

As he reached for the water glass at his place setting, he caught the quiet vampire's eyes again. They were still unreadable, but not unkind.

“Welcome back,” the eldest cousin said, so quietly Taehyung almost missed it.

And for the first time since he stepped off the train, Taehyung didn’t feel like a visitor.

He felt watched.

But not unwelcome.

“You smell… different,” Jungkook murmured. “Not like a human. Not like us either.”

“Don’t start,” Hoseok warned Jungkook playfully. “You’ll scare him off before we’ve even had dessert.”

“He’s not scared,” Yoongi said, still watching Taehyung carefully. “He’s just not sure where he fits yet.”

Taehyung took the offered seat, his heart drumming, hands tucked into the sleeves of his cardigan. His gaze flicked around the table. They were all looking at him with varying shades of curiosity.

“I’m Taehyung,” he said finally. His voice felt small in the warm space, but it didn’t falter. “Thank you for having me.”

Seokjin nodded, finally taking his own seat. “You know me already. Jin.”

“Hoseok,” the bright one said from beside him. “Technically your cousin, but I prefer ‘favorite.’”

“Namjoon,” the authoritative one offered, with a courteous incline of his head. Sliding a piece of freshly cut steak onto his plate. “I handle most of the family’s legal affairs.”

“Jimin,” said the one who was practically in his lap. “But you already knew that.”

“Yoongi,” murmured the one beside namjoon. His gaze quietly piercing and familiar.

“And I’m Jungkook,” the fledgling said last, still looking at him with a faint tilt to his head. “I’ve never met a halfblood before.”

Silence stretched just a second too long. A silent look passing between the vampires that Taehyung couldn’t understand.

“Then let’s be civil,” Seokjin said smoothly, breaking the pause. “We’re family. And family, whatever form it comes in, eats together.”

He raised his glass. One by one, the others followed.

Taehyung hesitated, then lifted his own.

“To family,” Jimin said with a wink.

Taehyung’s glass clinked quietly. For the first time since stepping through the iron gate, he didn’t feel like a stranger.

He felt like a question mark.

But they were all waiting to hear the answer.

The steak was tender, almost too tender, as if it had never seen a flame. Taehyung chewed slowly, trying not to wince at how raw it still was in the center. His body didn’t protest, oddly enough. Maybe the bloodline in him didn’t mind.

He swallowed, then asked carefully, “Where are the others?”

There was a pause as forks scraped gently against porcelain. Then Namjoon answered.

“They’ll arrive once the ritual commences.”

Taehyung blinked. “They’re not… here?”

“They aren’t allowed into the residence,” Seokjin clarified, folding his hands over his plate with a soft sigh. “Only blood family has access to the ancestral home before the rites. Outsiders wait in the lower quarters.”

“Even extended family?” Taehyung glanced around, confused. “There were so many names…”

“Names don’t mean much here,” Yoongi muttered, sipping from his wine. “Not unless you’ve bled for the gate.”

Taehyung hesitated, unsure if he heard that right. 

“Yoongi’s being dramatic,” Hoseok cut in, flashing a grin. “He means that only those bound by blood to the Kim name, by birth or by ritual, can enter the main house during mourning.”

“And you,” Jimin added, eyes glinting, “are very much blood.”

“Even if you’re… half?” Taehyung asked, the question bitter on his tongue before he could stop it.

“Especially if you’re half,” Namjoon said with an unexpected firmness. “You carry both burdens. That’s not lesser, it’s heavier.”

Taehyung looked down at his plate again. He had never…thought of it that way.

Across the table, Jungkook’s voice came quiet, low and young: “Have you ever seen a blood binding before?”

Taehyung shook his head. “Only read about it.” Very briefly at that. Fantasy novels had more details on blood binding than any piece of vampiric literature he had read as a child. 

“They hurt,” Jungkook finishes, a bit too eagerly.

“That’s not helpful,” Seokjin chided, but lightly.

Jimin nudged Taehyung’s elbow. “Don’t let them scare you. You’ll only have to watch this time. No one expects anything from you.”

“But they are watching,” Yoongi murmured, “every move you make.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.

Hoseok, perhaps sensing the tension, stood and grabbed a bottle of something from the sideboard. “More wine?”

“I’m okay,” Taehyung said quickly, cheeks still faintly pink. 

I think I might be drunk already. What the hell is happening?

“You’re doing fine,” Seokjin said, tone softer now. “First night’s always the hardest.”

Jungkook leaned in slightly, red eyes still curious. “Do you remember your father?”

The question landed with a thud in Taehyung’s chest. He gripped his fork tighter. “Not really.”

“No one here really did either,” Yoongi said, leaning back in his chair, voice a little unreadable. “He stayed away. Kept to his mother’s side of the family for a while before disappearing.”

Taehyung looked up. “He…disappeared?”

A few of them nodded their heads. Hoseok looked at Jimin, who shrugged. Namjoon said nothing.

Seokjin finally replied, “Yes. He stayed briefly but took off after the blood moon following your departure. He wasn’t interested in politics, or bloodlines.”

“That’s why we didn’t expect you to come,” Jimin added with a sly smile. “You surprised everyone.”

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. He simply pushed a bit of steak through the sauce on his plate. Still reeling from the revelation.

“I came for my mother,” he said finally. “She thought it was important.”

“She’s right,” Namjoon replied, gaze steady. “Uncle Minhyuk was our elder. Our father’s brother. And your father’s too. Like it or not… this is your blood.”

There was a quiet finality to that. Taehyung didn’t know how to respond.

But as he sat there, surrounded by cousins with glowing eyes and sharpened smiles, one thought kept echoing:

Then why does it still feel like I don’t belong?

Dinner passed in a blur.

Not because the conversation wasn’t lively, it was. They talked about things Taehyung didn’t understand: blood politics, patrols beyond the western ridge, the collapse of an old cathedral that no one had dared rebuild since the fire a century ago. They laughed and bickered like a real family. Yoongi muttered under his breath, Namjoon corrected Jimin’s wild claims, Seokjin drank quietly but always caught the smallest details. Jungkook barely spoke, but watched everyone like he was studying them for the first time. Hoseok laughed the loudest, his teeth always on show.

Taehyung heard none of it.

He sat, quiet and half-curled in his chair, poking the remnants of his food with his fork. His head was a little too heavy, his thoughts too loud. The wine he hadn’t touched swirled red in the crystal beside him, catching the candlelight. His body was tired from the train, but his mind had refused to settle ever since he stepped through the gate.

He didn’t even realize everyone had stopped eating.

Not until he felt it, that subtle shift in air pressure. Like a room holding its breath.

He blinked and looked up.

All five were watching him. Still, calm, curious.

Hoseok leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. Then bent in closer.

He sniffed him.

Actually sniffed him. The tip of his nose brushed Taehyung’s throat before he even knew what was happening.

“You do smell interesting,” Hoseok said, voice lilting and amused.

Taehyung flinched, leaning back in his chair with wide eyes.

“Is that a good thing?” he asked warily, tucking his collar higher.

“It’s a rare thing,” Yoongi said instead, gaze half-lidded and unreadable. “You smell like two truths fighting to be one.”

“That’s not exactly an assurance either,” Taehyung muttered.

“No,” Jimin smiled, licking his lower lip, “but it is a compliment.”

The tension broke with a soft laugh from Seokjin. “They’re just curious, don’t mind them.”

Taehyung looked around the table again, still cautious, still off-kilter. Then asked, “Are you all… cousins? Or related in some other way?”

There was a pause.

“We’re kin,” Namjoon said.

“Not all by blood,” added Seokjin gently. “Some by bond. Some by choice. But all under the Kim name.”

“We’re who’s left,” Jimin said with a shrug. “After the war, the fire, and the exile.”

“And the murders,” Yoongi murmured, mostly to himself.

Taehyung’s spine stiffened.

Seokjin set his wine glass down with quiet finality. “It’s late. He should rest.”

“You all act like he’s going to break,” Jungkook finally said, looking up from his glass of blood. Cutting into the conversation. “Maybe he will.”

His voice was calm, but his red eyes glittered with something sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

“Maybe he will.”

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

“But isn’t it our right to be the ones who break him?”

The silence that followed was heavy and immediate. Even Hoseok’s ever-present grin faltered. The candlelight seemed to flicker lower, casting deeper shadows over the room.

“Jungkook,” Seokjin said quietly, firmly. “That’s enough.”

He turned back to Taehyung, his expression unreadable.

“You aren’t required to come to the ritual tonight,” Seokjin added gently. “It’s for higher-ranking members only. They’ll be setting the new magical boundary before the ceremony begins.”

Taehyung didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His throat was dry.

He stood after a long moment, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the stone floor.

“Thank you. For dinner,” he said stiffly, and turned to leave.

Behind him, no one stopped him. But he could still feel their eyes like hands on his spine.

“Anytime, cousin,” Hoseok spoke, turning back to his wine.

As Taehyung stepped away from the table, he could feel them watching again. Not hostile. Just… watchful. Curious. Hungry in ways that had nothing to do with food.

And maybe that was worse.

݁ᛪ༙

Taehyung found his room with ease.

Just like Jimin had said, the house seemed to guide him. His feet carried him without hesitation through dim corridors lit by floating lanterns, past curtained windows and the haunting hum of wind that somehow echoed inside. He tried not to think too hard about it. About the way his hand had landed on the doorknob before he even realized where he was going.

The room was just as he’d left it hours ago, still, soft, and strangely welcoming. Moonlight slipped through the tall windows, casting silver onto the thick rug and the folded clothes he hadn’t unpacked yet. Taehyung stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a quiet click, resting his back against the wood as if it might steady him.

Everything here was different.

Not just the place. The feeling.

There was a strange thrum in the air. The faintest tension that pulled at him like a string knotted somewhere beneath his ribs. It made everything feel tight. And yet… alive.

His fingers brushed the old wooden wardrobe, the heavy velvet curtains, the wrought iron headboard. All of it beautiful, ornate, dark. Every corner seemed made of shadow and memory. And Taehyung couldn’t help but feel like a ghost in his own story. The half-blood heir returned to a house that remembered him better than he remembered himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flickering candlelight on the far wall.

Jungkook’s words echoed loudest of all.

“Isn’t it our right to be the ones who break him?”

Taehyung didn’t know what that meant. Not really. It wasn’t a threat, not directly. But it felt like one. Or worse. Like a promise.

They looked at him strangely. All of them. Not with hatred, at least not exactly. Not with kindness, either. He’d seen curiosity. Hunger. Amusement. Familiarity. Like he was something they had lost, finally brought back to the table. Something they were waiting to watch fall apart.

Taehyung closed his eyes for a moment.

He remembered nothing of his father’s side. Just fire. A silhouette. Then fleeing. His mother’s trembling hands.

And now this.

His father was gone.

Not dead, at least not as far as anyone knew. Just missing. Disappeared years ago from the vampire territories without a trace. And no one ever spoke his name anymore.

Maybe that was why they’d called him back.

The halfbreed son. A mistake, yet still a Kim.

Maybe they needed someone to blame.

He laid back, arms folded beneath his head, staring at the ceiling beams overhead.

The scent of the pillows lingered. Faint cedar. A touch of smoke. Something like sandalwood. And something else; familiar, cloying. Like a memory just beyond reach.

Taehyung shut his eyes.

And this time, he did dream.

݁ᛪ༙

Taehyung woke to darkness.

Not the soft, comforting kind, but a thick, velvet dark that pressed against his skin like water. It was the silence that roused him first. The kind that didn’t feel empty, but full. Brimming with something waiting.

He sat up slowly, breath catching. The room was colder than before. The candle he’d forgotten to blow out had guttered on its own, leaving only the faintest glow from the moon beyond the high glass window.

Then he saw it.

Light.

Flickering, alive. Fire.

His eyes locked on the window—tall and paned, trimmed in dark wood—and he rose from the bed like something pulled. Bare feet padding silently over the thick rug as he moved toward the glass.

Outside, the courtyard blazed.

Figures cloaked in black circled around carved symbols in the earth, each mark glowing faintly red, pulsing with a cadence that made Taehyung’s teeth hurt. They moved in a practiced rhythm, chanting low and guttural, in a language he couldn’t understand. Their hands were raised. Some held torches, others curved blades, tips glinting under the firelight. Smoke curled upward, thin and grey, like incense. Or bone dust.

The ritual.

Seokjin had said it was tonight. That it was only for higher ranks. That Taehyung wasn’t required.

But even from here, separated by layers of glass and stone, he could feel it. Whatever magic they were weaving, it wasn’t distant. It was pulling.

And then—

One of the cloaked figures stilled.

Slowly, like a wolf scenting the wind.

He turned toward the house, toward Taehyung, his movements unnervingly fluid. Not stiff like the others. Not bound by the rhythm of the ritual. There was something young in the way he stood, but not soft. Something untamed.

The hood of his cloak slipped back just enough to reveal the edge of his jaw. Sharp. Clean. And pale in the firelight. His mouth was calm, unreadable. But his eyes.

His eyes glowed red.

Not dull. Not faint. Blazing. Alive in a way the fire wasn’t. As if the ritual had come from him instead of the earth. He stared directly up at Taehyung’s window, gaze locking with his as though he’d felt it, Taehyung’s presence behind the glass. As though the boy’s heartbeat had reached him from stories above, like a summons.

Taehyung froze.

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t breathe. The air in his lungs sat still. Heavy. The figure didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He just stood there, holding Taehyung’s gaze with the unwavering intensity of a creature that could wait forever.

There was no malice in his stare.

But there was possession.

And a promise. One that made Taehyung’s skin prickle all over. That he wasn’t a stranger here. Not anymore.

The hooded man tilted his head just slightly, in that silent, slow way of someone studying something delicate.

And Taehyung stepped back from the glass without realizing it. His palm still pressed to the window. Chest rising too fast. His heart loud in the dark.

Taehyung stumbled back from the window, heart thudding too fast. The curtains swayed slightly behind him, catching the glow of the firelight outside, he didn’t look again. Couldn’t.

He turned away and climbed into the large, cold bed like it might shield him. The mattress dipped softly under his weight, the clean sheets brushing his skin like unfamiliar hands. He buried himself beneath the covers, pulling them up to his chin, muscles tense and coiled.

What the hell was that?

His fingers curled into the hem of his shirt. The image of red eyes lingered behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Calm. Watchful. Unmoving.

And he had seen him.

The silence in the room felt heavier now, thick like water. The walls seemed taller. The shadows longer. Every creak of the house sounded sharper. Taehyung tried to will his thoughts away, to close his eyes and drift, but he couldn’t.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Not when someone outside had looked at him like they already knew him.

And worse;

like Taehyung belonged to him.

Chapter Text

Taehyung didn’t sleep.

He lay in the silence of his room, eyes fixed on the dark wooden floor for hours; watching shadows shift, watching nothing move. 

Outside, the ritual fire eventually died. The chanting fell quiet. Only then did the night soften into the stillness of early morning.

Fog pressed against his window, breathing cold across the glass. The faintest rim of frost curled at the corners like fingers.

When he finally stood, his toes hit the floor and flinched, numb with cold after hours wrapped in the warmth of an expensive bed.

Purple shadows clung beneath his eyes, sagging low beneath his brown-wood gaze. He looked as tired as he felt. Hollowed out.

The halls were silent.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft creak of old wood and the hush of morning fog pressing against the windows like breath.

Taehyung stepped out of his room barefoot, the cold from the floor biting at his toes.

He didn’t know where he was going, he just walked. 

Past the carved banisters and tall windows, through corridors that twisted with no clear direction. And yet, like the night before, the house seemed to know.

Every turn felt deliberate. Every hallway offered just enough light. Doors closed softly behind him without a breeze. The air carried lavender and something sharper now. Rosewood, maybe. Or blood.

By the time he reached the kitchen, the house had gone from eerie to intimate again.

It was quiet but full, decorated with lived-in care. Shelves stacked with old books and hanging herbs. Windows half-cracked to let in the cold. The hearth glowed with a low, sleepy fire. And on the counter, near a polished marble island, sat a single glass of blood.

Still warm. No condensation on the glass. No note.

Taehyung hesitated in the doorway.

There was no one else there. No vampire lurking in the corners. No footsteps echoing down the hall.

Just the glass, waiting.

Like it knew he was coming.

He stepped closer, wrapping one cold hand around the stem of the glass, and stared down at the crimson liquid. It smelled faintly sweet, cleaner than he was used to. Not bottled. Not processed. Fresh.

He looked around the room again.

Still empty.

But the silence had a pulse now. Not threatening. Not friendly. Just… aware.

Taehyung raised the glass and took a cautious sip.

It was rich. Thick. Warmer than expected.

He swallowed slowly and let the taste settle in the back of his throat. A soft moan leaving his mouth as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, heating his bones.

Then whispered, to no one in particular, “Thank you.”

“You have good manners for a half-breed raised by humans.”

A voice rang from the doorway.

Taehyung stiffened, nearly dropping the glass. He turned slowly, shoulders tight, and there stood a man he hadn’t noticed when he entered. Leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Pale skin, dark hair. Hooded eyes that looked half-asleep but missed nothing.

Yoongi.

Taehyung blinked. “By one human,” he said before he could stop himself.

Yoongi’s brow lifted. “Excuse me?”

“I—I, um…” Taehyung faltered, flushing. “I was raised by one human. Not multiple. Just my mom.”

Yoongi said nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like he was deciding whether to respond at all, or maybe just deciding what kind of thing Taehyung was.

Taehyung swallowed hard, taking a thick gulp from the glass to fill the silence. The blood coated his throat, too warm now. Embarrassment prickled through his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms.

Still, Yoongi didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The weight of his presence was enough.

Taehyung set the glass down a little too carefully.

Yoongi pushed off the doorframe and walked over, slow and soundless. He didn’t circle Taehyung. Just moved to the other side of the kitchen island and stopped. Still a full arm’s length away, but close enough that Taehyung could see the faint shadow of a scar just beneath his collarbone.

“Did you sleep well?” Yoongi asked, voice low, as if they were the only two people awake in the entire world.

Taehyung blinked at him, startled by the question. “Did… you?”

“Vampires don’t sleep.”

Taehyung’s head tilted. “Wait— what? You don’t sleep?”

“No.” Yoongi reached across the counter, picked up a knife, and lazily began peeling a blood orange that had been resting in a nearby bowl. “We do something similar. But we’re conscious the whole time.”

Taehyung frowned. “That sounds… unpleasant.”

For the first time, Yoongi smiled.

It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t happy. But it was a smile; faint, dry, and just curved enough to make Taehyung’s chest stumble once behind his ribs.

“It is,” Yoongi said simply.

Taehyung looked away, suddenly self-conscious of his reaction. 

He took another sip of blood, letting it linger on his tongue. Then he swirled the glass absently in his hand, trying to feign elegance. He didn’t know why. Maybe to match the room. Or Yoongi.

Or to pretend he wasn’t trembling a little under the weight of being seen.

The kitchen stayed silent.

Taehyung realized, too late, that Yoongi was still waiting for him to answer the question.

“I, uh… I did sleep. Well. I mean…” He cleared his throat. “I slept well.”

Yoongi hummed.

It was noncommittal. Not rude, but not convinced either. His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if he could smell the lie in Taehyung’s blood. (He probably could, could hear Taehyung's pulse racing under his skin.)

Yoongi turned his attention back to the blood orange, finishing the peel in one clean spiral. But his voice, when it came again, was softer. Almost idle.

“That’s good,” Yoongi said. “Though I don’t imagine it’s easy to sleep with red eyes staring back at you through your window.”

Taehyung froze.

The words sank in like ice down his spine. The blood in his glass suddenly felt too warm in his hand.

Yoongi didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile this time, either.

He dropped the orange peel into the sink, the faintest splash echoing in the quiet.

“The ritual draws more than just fire,” he said, voice smooth, steady. “Next time… don’t stare back.”

And with that, he walked away. Footsteps soundless, presence lingering like smoke.

Taehyung stared after him, heart pounding.

Somehow, he hadn’t felt seen.

He’d felt watched.

And now, he knew by whom.

Taehyung stared at the space where Yoongi had been, the soft echo of his words still humming in the quiet. The blood in his glass sat thick and heavy now, but he lifted it anyway.

He swallowed the rest in two large gulps.

Not because he was hungry.

Not because he was thirsty.

But because it gave him something to do with his hands.

He set the empty glass down carefully, fingers cold against the counter, then turned and left the kitchen without a word. The hall outside greeted him with that same gentle, eerie hush; like the house was waiting.

Upstairs, his room felt both too familiar and too foreign. He stood in the center of it, unsure of what to do next. His body hummed with restless energy, but his thoughts refused to settle. He wasn’t tired. Not really. But he wasn’t awake in the way he wanted to be either. Not clear. Not sharp.

Sleep wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

With a sigh, he grabbed his coat—black wool, still faintly scented with lavender from the folds of the wardrobe—and slipped it on.

The hallway met him again in silence. The manor’s walls were tall and still. He padded down the staircase with quiet steps, letting his fingers trace the railing. No sound but the gentle creak of wood beneath his boots and the soft rustle of fabric with each movement.

He didn’t have a destination.

He just walked.

Anywhere.

Nowhere.

Letting the house guide him, like it always did.

He wandered through a dozen hallways, each more elaborate than the last. Lined with dark wood and high-arched doorframes, stained glass that filtered the pale morning light into crimson and gold. The house was still. Not silent like emptiness, but silent like breath being held.

The air smelled of wax, cedar, and old parchment. Magic lingered in the walls here, thick and warm, like fog that never burned off.

Taehyung turned another corner, steps slow, and stopped when his eyes caught on a large room at the end of the corridor. The door was wide open.

A study.

No—a library.

He stepped inside.

The air changed. Cooler. Denser. Dustless.

Thousands of books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, every shelf carved from dark oak and lit by sconces that burned low without flame. Some books were bound in leather. Others in fabrics he didn’t recognize. Some whispered when he walked past, faint as breath. All of them looked impossibly old. And yet not a single one showed signs of decay.

It wasn’t just a library.

It was a kept place.

A sacred one.

At the far end of the room, above the fireplace, hung a massive portrait. Oil-painted. Grand. The figures depicted wore long coats and layered collars, each face solemn, noble, and pale. His ancestors, no doubt. Generations of Kims who had ruled this land, each gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

But Taehyung’s eyes were drawn to the central figure.

A man with dark brown hair. Gentle eyes. A firm jaw softened by a quiet expression.

His father.

Taehyung hadn’t seen a picture of him in over a decade.

He stepped closer without meaning to. His chest felt tight, every breath shallow. The man in the portrait didn’t look cruel or cold. He looked… steady. Haunted, maybe. Familiar in the worst way.

And just beside him, tucked modestly on the same wall, was a smaller frame.

Taehyung froze.

It was a portrait of him.

He couldn’t have been older than one. Chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed, wrapped in a dark velvet blanket, fangs barely beginning to show. Someone had painted him delicately, almost lovingly. Like a secret only the house was allowed to keep.

His hand reached out before he could stop it, fingertips brushing the frame.

Thousands of books surrounded him.

But it was that one small painting that held him still.

The portrait of himself lingered behind him as he wandered deeper into the library. His footsteps were soft against the velvet runner stretching between rows of towering shelves, the air thick with ink and time.

He let his fingers drift across the spines of books older than most kingdoms, most humming with quiet, unreadable magic. Titles written in dead languages. Family ledgers sealed shut with wax. Histories of vampire law, warfare, blood rituals.

And then, something else.

Something tucked low on a side shelf, near a small reading nook shrouded in shadow.

It wasn’t a tome.

It wasn’t even properly shelved.

Just a slim black leather journal, nestled between thick volumes as if it had been forgotten, or hidden.

Taehyung pulled it free.

There was no title. No insignia. Just a soft leather cover, warm and worn in his hands. He cracked it open carefully, the pages old but intact, lined with faded writing in dark ink. Elegant. Familiar.

His breath caught.

It was his father’s handwriting.

The first page held only a date—written in elegant script—and one line beneath it:

“He has his mother’s eyes.”

Taehyung stood frozen, the breath punched from his chest.

He turned the page.

Notes. Fragments. Observations of places and people he didn’t recognize. Thoughts about family affairs. Strange, coded references to bloodlines and boundaries. But sprinkled between them were softer things. Sentences half-crossed out. Messy, uneven paragraphs that spoke not like a vampire noble, but like a man.

“He hums when he sleeps. It’s always the same three notes.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“He cried when the flowers wilted. I tried to lie and say they’d come back. I think he knew.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

This was real.

This was his.

And it had been sitting here, waiting for him.

Taehyung turned another page with trembling fingers.

There was a pressed flower tucked between two entries. Long since dried, its petals brittle but perfectly preserved. He didn’t recognize the bloom. Some old-world species, maybe. Or one grown only within these walls. He didn’t know why, but the sight of it nearly broke him.

He brushed the edge with his thumb, afraid it would turn to dust.

He was halfway through the next entry—something vague, almost cryptic, about the wards placed on the western ridge—when a voice cut through the stillness.

“Those aren’t meant to be read.”

Taehyung flinched.

He turned, the journal still open in his hands.

Namjoon stood in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of the hallway sconces. His posture was relaxed, but there was no warmth in his expression; only cool, quiet scrutiny.

Taehyung straightened instinctively, closing the journal halfway. “I didn’t mean—”

“You found it.” Namjoon walked in slowly, his steps measured against the creaking floorboards. “Or it found you. I’m not sure which would be worse.”

Taehyung’s brows pulled together. “It was just… sitting there.”

“It usually is.”

Namjoon stopped on the other side of the reading nook, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t look at the journal. He looked at Taehyung.

“He left it behind when he disappeared,” he said. “None of us have touched it since.”

“I didn’t know him,” Taehyung said, voice quieter than before. “Not really.”

“None of us did,” Namjoon replied. “He kept things from everyone. Including this.”

Taehyung stared down at the cover, fingers tracing the worn edge.

“I just wanted to know something,” he murmured. “Anything.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.

“That’s exactly why it’s dangerous.”

Taehyung didn’t move. The journal sat heavy in his hands, pages still warm from his grip.

Namjoon took a step closer.

The air shifted and stilled. Taehyung’s eyes flicked up, uncertain, and found Namjoon’s already on him. Sharp. Focused. His expression unreadable, but the weight of it sent something cold racing down Taehyung’s spine.

“I can see it in you,” Namjoon murmured. “His blood.”

Taehyung swallowed. “I didn’t mean to pry—”

“You did,” Namjoon said simply, stepping in until only the library table remained between them. “But maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s time you learn what he left behind.”

His voice was steady, but there was something more behind it now, something circling. Testing.

Taehyung’s fingers twitched on the journal.

Namjoon reached forward, slow and deliberate, and laid his hand over Taehyung’s. Not forceful, just present. Cold skin against warmer flesh.

And then he leaned in.

Breathed in.

Close enough for Taehyung to feel it against his skin.

“You smell like hesitation,” Namjoon whispered. “And blood that hasn’t decided which side it belongs to.”

Taehyung’s breath caught. He didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

Namjoon’s hand shifted slightly. His fingers slid down over Taehyung’s palm, tracing the lifeline etched in skin. And then—gently, curiously—he pressed his mouth to the base of Taehyung’s palm and nipped.

Not a bite.

Not deep.

Just teeth.

Barely grazing, yet enough to make Taehyung flinch.

He pulled his hand back quickly, cradling it to his chest.

Namjoon didn’t stop him.

He simply straightened, dark eyes unreadable again as he flattened his suit under his hands.

“You should return that,” he said, nodding toward the journal. “Before it remembers more than it should.”

Then he turned and left, leaving Taehyung in the middle of a thousand books, breath caught in his throat, pulse hammering where skin had met teeth.

Taehyung stood frozen for a moment after Namjoon left, his hand still warm where the man’s teeth had grazed his tender skin.

The journal remained on the table, half-open, as if waiting for him to make a choice.

His heart pounded.

He looked once toward the door—empty again—then snapped the journal shut, pressing the worn leather tight to his chest. Without thinking, he shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat. It barely fit, the weight uneven, awkward against his ribs.

But he couldn’t leave it behind.

He stepped out of the reading nook and back into the hallway, walking fast at first, then faster; until it became a near-run. The portraits blurred in his peripheral vision. The corners felt too sharp. The sconces flickered like eyes.

Don’t stare back, Yoongi had said.

His boots thudded up the stairs, too loud in the quiet house, echoing as if something followed.

By the time he reached his room, he slammed the door shut behind him with trembling fingers and locked it.

His breath came in short bursts. His pulse beat in his ears.

He dropped the coat over the back of the nearest chair but kept the journal tucked inside, hidden in its lining.

Then he crossed to the window, hands gripping the sill.

Outside, the fog was starting to lift, burned off slowly by the pale light of day. The grounds were quiet. No cloaks. No flames. No glowing red eyes watching from below.

But the memory of them lingered.

Taehyung rested his forehead against the cool glass and stared through it. He didn’t know what he was searching for.

Only that something inside him had shifted.

And there was no going back.

The afternoon passed in silence.

Taehyung didn’t leave his room. He sat by the window, knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his folded arms. The fog thinned. The light shifted. But he didn’t move.

His thoughts felt heavier than the journal hidden in his coat.

When the knock finally came, it was gentle; twice, soft and respectful.

He stood slowly and crossed the room, unlocking the door.

Seokjin stood there, dressed in deep ceremonial black. His coat was high-collared, embroidered with fine silver thread that caught the light like glimmering roots. He looked composed, as always. Elegant. But his eyes were more serious than before.

Without a word, he extended a folded cloak to Taehyung.

Dark. Heavy. Lined with soft velvet on the inside, and faintly warm from Seokjin’s hands.

“For the rite,” Seokjin said. “It’ll begin at sundown.”

Taehyung nodded, fingers brushing the edge of the fabric.

Seokjin reached into his coat next and held out a second item, a long, thin candle. Black wax. The wick charred from one prior use.

“You’ll carry this with you into the procession. Do not light it until you’re told. And only with the house flame.”

Taehyung took it carefully, noting the scent that clung to it, something like myrrh and ash.

“And… this is for Minhyuk?” he asked.

“Yes.” Seokjin’s voice softened. “But it’s also for the land. The blood. The name.”

Taehyung didn’t know what that meant. Not fully. But he nodded anyway.

Seokjin looked at him for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but didn’t. Instead, he offered a small, practiced smile.

“I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, footsteps fading into silence.

Taehyung stood there with the cloak draped over one arm, the candle in hand, the weight of the ceremony already beginning to press against his ribs.

Taehyung laid the cloak and candle gently on the edge of the bed.

The room was dim now, lit only by the fading light outside and a single oil lamp burning low in the corner. Shadows stretched long across the floor, curling at the corners like fingers. The window panes had fogged slightly with breath and time, and the lavender-scented sheets still held the warmth of his earlier rest.

He walked to the wardrobe in the corner and opened it, fingers brushing past hanging garments; robes he hadn’t worn, tunics lined in old silver stitching. Everything inside smelled faintly of cedar, dried herbs, and old perfume. Nothing of him. And yet, it was all his.

He chose the black undershirt with the softest lining, slipping it on over cold skin. Then came the ceremonial trousers, tailored tight at the waist and laced at the ankle. His body felt too human for these clothes. Too breakable. But he wore them anyway.

At last, he draped the heavy black cloak over his shoulders.

It pulled at him with quiet weight. Like it knew where it came from.

A tiny mirror hung on the wall beside the wardrobe, its frame worn and slightly warped, the glass no longer perfectly smooth. He stepped in front of it, breath shallow.

The boy looking back at him was unfamiliar.

The cloak pooled darkly around his shoulders, the silver embroidery catching the low light in long, thorned lines. His hair was tousled, brown eyes dull with exhaustion and framed by dark shadows. The candle rested in his hand like a weapon he didn’t know how to wield.

He reached up and smoothed his hair back. It didn’t help.

His reflection stared back, too still. Like something waiting to be claimed.

Taehyung pressed his palm to the edge of the mirror, fingertips smudging the glass.

“I don’t look like them,” he whispered.

The room said nothing.

Just held him there, in lavender and shadow and inherited silk.

The knock came just as the last sliver of sun slipped below the window frame.

Taehyung turned, half-expecting Seokjin.

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t him.

Jimin stood in the doorway, wrapped in a ceremonial cloak that shimmered like ink in candlelight, his eyes wide with delight, like he’d found something precious on accident. Beside him was Jungkook, cloaked the same, but taller, stiller. His red eyes caught Taehyung immediately and held.

Taehyung froze.

Jimin’s curiosity felt weightless, effervescent. But Jungkook’s was sharp, hungry. The kind that made your pulse react before your brain did.

Jimin’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Look at you.” He breathed out, something fond in his gaze as he assessed Taehyung.

Jungkook tilted his head, gaze dragging over the boy like he was something being measured.

Or devoured.

Taehyung tried to breathe, but the weight of Jungkook’s stare made his lungs stutter. His eyes dropped to the floor for a second, then flicked back, only to find Jungkook still watching him.

The younger vampire smirked, as if he knew.

Knew how Taehyung’s heart kicked.

Knew he was the one doing that to him.

Then, without warning, Jimin reached forward and took Taehyung’s hand.

Jungkook took the other.

Their palms were cool. Smooth. Firm.

Taehyung didn’t pull away.

“This way,” Jimin whispered, tugging him gently into the hallway. “We’ll take you down.”

As they walked side by side, cloaks brushing, candles in hand, the air grew warmer. The manor felt different now. Alive in a way that made the floor feel soft underfoot and the walls too near, like they were breathing with them.

Jimin leaned in close, voice honey-sweet against his ear.

“Are you hungry?”

Taehyung turned to look at him.

But it was Jungkook who answered with a low hum beside him.

And Taehyung wasn’t sure who they were asking. So he said nothing.

He didn’t trust his voice. Not with Jimin so close and Jungkook’s gaze still pricking at the side of his neck like static.

He stayed quiet.

Jimin didn’t seem to mind. He filled the silence easily, voice dancing with amusement, thoughts that flitted like moths. “Tonight’s important,” he said. “They’ve been preparing for days. You wouldn’t know it, though. Everyone acts like mourning is a private thing. But they watch. Always watching.”

Jungkook hummed in agreement. Not a word. Just sound. Deep in acknowledgement.

As they turned the corner of the second floor landing, Taehyung’s breath caught.

Figures moved in the distance.

Cloaked. Silent.

They slipped through the halls below like shadows in water, drifting toward the lower staircase that led to the ceremonial hall beneath the manor. Some moved in twos. Some alone. All of them with purpose.

And none of them looked up.

But Taehyung felt it anyway, that tightening under his skin, like he didn’t belong among them. Like he was being escorted to something holy… or to something that would swallow him whole.

Without a word, Jimin and Jungkook dropped his hands.

They moved in front of him in perfect unison, graceful and easy, pulling their cloaks over their shoulders. In the firelit dimness, they looked otherworldly. Shadows stitched from silk and decades of hunger.

Jungkook turned back once. His red eyes glinted.

Then, carefully, he reached for Taehyung’s hood and lifted it over his head.

The gesture was almost tender. But his fingers lingered too long at the edge of Taehyung’s jaw.

“You’ll want this up,” he murmured.

Then he turned, cloak sweeping behind him.

Jimin looked back over his shoulder with a wink.

And together, they led him down.

Down into the dark.

Down into the ritual.

The air shifting the deeper they descended.

The warmth of the house bled away, replaced by something older. Thicker. As if the stone itself remembered every step ever taken here, every vow, every death. The light grew dimmer, the walls narrowing, until the staircase opened into a wide subterranean hall carved entirely from stone and cobble.

Taehyung stepped onto the cold floor, candle clutched tight in one hand. His boots echoed faintly, and then didn’t, absorbed by the hush that fell over the room like weight.

He didn’t speak. No one did.

Dozens of cloaked figures filled the chamber, faces hidden beneath embroidered hoods. They stood in loose rows, murmuring prayers in languages Taehyung didn’t know. None looked directly at him, but he could feel their attention shifting all the same.

He wasn’t one of them. Not yet. (Maybe he never would be.)

His place was along the edge; near one of the arched stone pillars, partially veiled in shadow.

He stood there, quiet. Watching.

At the far end of the chamber, beneath a massive stained-glass window that pulsed faintly with color despite the lack of sun, stood six figures.

Them.

Jimin. Jungkook. Seokjin. Namjoon. Hoseok. Yoongi.

All dressed in ceremonial black. All cloaked in the same midnight fabric trimmed with blood-red thread. But where the others blended into the background, these six seemed to command it. They didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the room bent itself around them.

They were a line of statues, solemn and rooted in ritual.

Jimin’s smile was gone, replaced by something unreadable. Jungkook stood with his head slightly bowed, though his eyes gleamed behind his lashes, and they were still red. Yoongi looked untouched by the chill, hands hidden within his sleeves, his face carved in thought. Hoseok’s posture was unnaturally still, but his fingers twitched like they were keeping time. Namjoon’s candle was already lit, flickering with an unnatural blue flame. And Seokjin, Seokjin looked like something divine. The kind of stillness that came from generations of blood being carried in a single spine.

Taehyung had never seen them like this.

He hadn’t seen anyone like this.

He felt his stomach turn as the six began to chant.

Not loud nor fast. But a low harmony that crawled across the stone and made the hairs on Taehyung’s arms stand up. It wasn’t music. It was vibrations. And it moved through him.

The other vampires in the room joined in slowly, their voices rising like smoke.

Somewhere in the center of the hall, etched into the floor, glowed a symbol; interwoven circles and glyphs that pulsed with a rhythm Taehyung could feel in his chest.

He didn’t know what it meant. Only that it was old. And alive.

He clutched his candle tighter. It was still unlit.

And the chamber seemed to hold its breath.

The chanting rose and fell in slow waves. Deep, deliberate, like something being stirred beneath the floor. Magic. Memory. Mourning.

Taehyung pressed further into the pillar’s shadow, his fingers wrapped tightly around the cold wax of the unlit candle.

His heart beat too loudly. He was sure someone could hear it.

Then, movement at the back of the hall.

Two figures emerged from a separate corridor, neither cloaked like the others. They wore deep silver robes etched in gold, and their presence was like a sudden shift in gravity. Heads turned subtly as they passed, not in greeting, but in respect.

They didn’t walk like the others.

They glided.

Ancient. Pale. Eyes like smoke and stone.

Old vampires.

Taehyung had heard the phrase, but never understood it—never felt what it meant—until now. 

These weren’t just elders. They were survivors. Vampires from before recorded memory. The kind who no longer spoke often or without purpose, because when they did, the walls remembered.

They stepped into the circle carved into the floor. The pulsing glyphs flared brighter beneath their feet but did not burn them.

One of them spoke first, voice low and dry like wind through old paper.

“Let the rites be marked.”

The chanting stopped.

Taehyung swallowed hard.

Namjoon stepped forward first. “Minhyuk of the western line, third eldest of the blood-bond, has passed into ash.”

The words were formal. Measured. But something tightened in Namjoon’s jaw at the name.

“His blood has ended,” Yoongi added, voice a shade quieter, “but not his name.”

The ancient female—the shorter of the two old ones—lifted her chin slightly. Her eyes were white with age, but her voice held no weakness.

“Then the land shall recognize his passing.”

Another beat. Another silence.

Then Hoseok stepped forward, pulling something small from inside his cloak. A tooth.

Not a fang; a molar. Old. Browning. Laced with iron.

He placed it in the center of the glowing symbol, and the runes hissed faintly as it made contact.

Taehyung stared.

Jimin murmured next, almost affectionately. “One piece for the earth. One for the blood.”

And Seokjin stepped forward last, producing a small black box. Inside was a single crimson ribbon. He unwound it slowly, and when he whispered into it, it caught fire without smoke; burning from one end to the other until nothing remained.

The flames didn’t glow.

They bled light.

And Taehyung stood frozen in their brightness.

A hushed exchange, much too quiet for human ears. But Taehyung heard it. Felt it vibrate somewhere deep in his skull.

A low voice—Jungkook’s—barely above breath:

“He’s watching.”

Yoongi’s answer came like the edge of a knife:

“I know.”

Jimin turned his head just slightly toward the shadows.

Taehyung froze, heart stalling.

But no one called him forward.

No one said his name.

Instead, the old ones raised their hands, and the room began to breathe again. A new chant started, different this time. Lower. More raw.

And the floor beneath the glyph began to crack.

Just slightly.

Enough for blood to rise from it.

Not spill. Not pour.

Rise.

Taehyung stared in awe. 

And for the first time since arriving, he understood:

This was more than mourning.

This was inheritance.

And maybe, just maybe… a summoning.

The ritual ended with no fanfare.

The crack in the floor sealed itself in silence, the glowing glyphs dimming until only faint etchings remained. The chanting faded to breath, then to nothing. One by one, the cloaked vampires began to bow their heads, turning toward the exit in unspoken synchrony.

The old ones were gone first; vanishing into shadow, their presence lingering in the marrow of the room.

The six cousins stood still for a moment longer.

Then Seokjin turned, drawing his hood back.

His voice rang through the chamber, clear, composed, and resonant in a way Taehyung hadn’t heard before.

“The blood feast begins above.”

No one clapped. No one cheered. But the room moved.

Dozens of cloaked figures began to ascend the stone stairs, the whisper of their robes brushing the floor, candlelight dancing in their wake. A strange energy pulsed beneath every step, something restrained but ready.

Taehyung remained frozen at the edge, pressed near the stone pillar, his candle still unlit in his hand.

His heart was pounding. His hands shook.

He didn’t belong in this.

Not really.

And yet—

A presence appeared beside him, quiet and unthreatening.

Hoseok.

Cloaked like the others, but with a gentle brightness behind his eyes that softened the sharpness of the ceremony. He smiled at Taehyung; wide and genuine, almost like they’d just come from a garden party and not a death rite.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice pitched low and kind.

Taehyung blinked, fingers still trembling around the base of the candle.

“I— yeah,” he lied. His breath catching.

Hoseok tilted his head slightly, like he could hear the untruth in Taehyung’s blood. But he didn’t press. He just extended an arm toward the stairs, hand out in easy invitation.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re not gonna want to miss dinner.”

Taehyung hesitated, then nodded.

He let Hoseok guide him slowly, step by step up from the ritual hall. The candle still sat cold in his hand, unlit. But his chest was full of fire.

The manor’s upper halls were alive with low voices and drifting shadows.

Candles flickered in sconces that hadn’t been lit all day, casting the corridors in gold and blood-red light. Everything smelled richer now; clove, myrrh, iron. 

The walls seemed closer, pulsing faintly with the echo of the ritual still humming through the bones of the house.

Hoseok led Taehyung toward the dining hall without touching him, never far from his side.

When they reached the arched entrance, the doors were already open.

And inside, every head turned.

Dozens of vampires sat at the long obsidian table, their cloaks loosened now, ceremonial hoods drawn back. The space was lavish, hung with velvet and carved from dark, gleaming stone. But it was the attention, not the decor, that made Taehyung’s breath hitch.

They weren’t subtle.

They stared.

No hunger in their expressions, not openly. But curiosity. Assessment. Expectation. Some with interest. Some with wariness. Others… something colder.

Taehyung’s feet hesitated just past the threshold.

Then he saw Jimin.

At the farthest end of the table—sprawled across his chair like a prince in riches—Jimin grinned and patted the empty seat beside him with both hands.

“Come on, darling,” he called softly. “We saved you a spot.”

At his side sat Jungkook, posture relaxed but eyes sharp beneath his lashes. Next to him, Namjoon. Yoongi. Seokjin.

All five of them had left their seats empty until now, waiting.

Taehyung felt the blood rush in his ears.

Hoseok placed a hand lightly on his lower back. Not pushing, just a subtle reminder that he was there.

Taehyung moved with the encouragement.

He walked the long distance with all the grace he could summon, candle clutched tight, cloak trailing like ink behind him. The murmurs didn’t stop. Some vampires leaned in to whisper. Others didn’t bother to hide that they were watching.

By the time he sat beside Jimin, his hands were ice.

Jimin leaned in immediately, voice a purr. “You looked beautiful during the rite.”

Taehyung didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

Across the table, one of the elders lifted a hand and the room quieted.

A man with hair the color of snow, his face sunken but stern, turned toward Seokjin. His voice was low, deliberate, but carried easily through the space.

“When is the next blood ritual?”

Seokjin met the elder’s eyes calmly. “For who?”

The elder smiled.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

“For your half-bred bride.”

The air shifted.

Taehyung’s breath caught. All movement at the table seemed to freeze. Even the candles flickered like they were listening.

Seokjin’s reply came cool and measured.

“When he’s ready.”

Seokjin’s words hung in the air for a moment. And just like that, the table began to stir again.

Soft murmurs broke out across the long dining hall. Quiet, but not secret. Words passed between mouths still red from the ritual, some too fast for Taehyung to catch, others lingering just long enough to make him feel the edges of their meaning.

The elder leaned back, satisfied, as if something had been confirmed.

Taehyung sat frozen beside Jimin, eyes fixed ahead, lips slightly parted. His pulse throbbed in his throat.

“What does he mean?” he whispered, barely turning his head. “What ritual?”

Jimin looked at him with the lazy sort of amusement that didn’t quite match the weight of the moment. “The next one,” he said lightly, as if that answered anything.

“But I don’t—” Taehyung started, only to stop as the first platters arrived.

Servants—not vampires, but familiars with downcast eyes—stepped into the hall in silent procession. Silver dishes lined with coils of raw meat, drizzled in thick, glistening blood. Bone marrow glinted beneath carved veal. Tall crystal pitchers of dark wine and thicker things. No steam, no smoke. Everything cold, precise, and beautiful.

It looked like a feast carved from a fresco. Ancient and indulgent.

Jungkook reached out first, plucking a slice of raw venison and laying it across his plate without ceremony. Namjoon poured from a crystal decanter, the liquid a deep shade of garnet. Yoongi passed an ivory platter without speaking.

Jimin leaned closer, lips brushing Taehyung’s ear. “It’s a joining rite,” he said, voice soft but thrilling in its casualness. “You know, when a coven accepts someone. Body, blood, and will. They drink you down like wine.”

Taehyung stiffened.

Jimin just smiled and plucked a curl of cured meat from a silver plate. “It’s beautiful, really. Intimate. Devotional.”

Taehyung didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak.

He stared down at his plate; bare, cold, bone-white porcelain. A candle sat flickering at its edge, its flame just catching.

And all around him, the vampires began to eat.

The feast unfolded like a dance Taehyung didn’t know the steps to.

Meat was sliced in clean, perfect movements. Silverware gleamed like bone. Blood-stained wine kissed the edges of crystal glasses. No one raised their voices, but the room buzzed. Quiet words passed like secrets down a table lined with monsters pretending to be men.

Taehyung didn’t eat.

Didn’t drink.

But he watched.

Every gesture felt rehearsed. Every flick of a hand, every glance, every turn of phrase… intentional. Measured.

Across the table, Namjoon murmured something to Yoongi in a language Taehyung didn’t recognize. Yoongi didn’t reply with words, just a slow blink and a sip of blood-heavy wine, his eyes never leaving the flickering candlelight.

“Is it always like this?” Taehyung asked without meaning to, voice low, directed toward no one.

Jungkook answered anyway. “Like what?”

Taehyung hesitated. “So… quiet. But not.”

Jungkook’s lips curved slightly, sharp and knowing. “We say more with silence than humans do with noise.”

Jimin giggled softly beside him. “He’s not wrong. You should hear what they’re not saying.”

Taehyung turned his head slightly, gaze darting from face to face. No one looked directly at him now, but he could feel it; that awareness. That sense of circling.

“They talk like I’m not here,” he whispered.

“They talk like you’re not one of them yet,” Jimin corrected, lifting a wine glass to his lips. “There’s a difference.”

The words burned more than they should have.

Taehyung looked back down at his plate. It was still empty.

And then, glass tapped crystal.

Three delicate chimes echoed down the table.

Seokjin.

He stood, effortless in his composure, holding a tall silver goblet in one hand. His eyes scanned the room, warm and cool at once.

“To the blood we buried,” he said, voice smooth and resonant. “And to the blood we will raise.”

Some vampires murmured agreement. Others just lifted their glasses.

Taehyung stayed very, very still.

Seokjin’s gaze flicked to him once, so quick it could have been imagined.

But Taehyung saw it.

Felt it.

And when the table drank, the sound of crystal catching candlelight was the only sound in the room.

The goblets were raised. The toast was made.

But the air didn’t settle.

Not completely.

Conversations resumed in soft murmurs, silver clinking faintly against porcelain. The scent of blood and raw meat lingered heavy in the air, mixed now with the smoke of candles burned halfway down.

Taehyung sat still. Stiff. His hands remained folded in his lap.

He was trying to pretend his heartbeat wasn’t so loud.

Another figure down the table—one of the older vampires, a woman with silver-threaded braids and a face carved by centuries—leaned slightly toward Seokjin.

Her voice wasn’t raised, but it carried. The kind of voice that knew it didn’t have to try.

“And when will you complete the binding?” she asked.

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. “There is no binding.”

“But the rites have begun,” she said simply, tilting her head. “Minhyuk’s blood is gone. That throne needs a name. The boy carries his. He carries yours.”

Taehyung blinked. His throat went dry.

Throne? Binding?

Bride.

That word again.

He glanced at Seokjin, searching his expression.

Seokjin’s goblet clinked sharply against the table as he set it down.

His eyes flared red, bright and immediate, a flash of something that made every conversation near them falter. Some vampires looked up. Others froze entirely.

“There will be no talk of ritual bondings until I say so,” Seokjin said, voice clipped, teeth tight behind the words. “He is not ready.”

The woman across from him said nothing else.

No one did.

The silence that followed was complete.

Taehyung’s heart pounded behind his ribs like it wanted to break free.

He stared down at his plate, throat tightening. He didn’t understand. None of this made sense. He wasn’t a bride. He wasn’t anything.

So why did they all keep looking at him like he was?

He felt cold. Exposed. And underneath all of that—shamefully, inexplicably—

Curious.

What did ready mean?

And why did Seokjin sound like it mattered?

The feast didn’t end with a toast or a declaration. It simply dissolved; one by one, vampires rising and drifting away, conversations quieter than before. Dishes cleared. Candles snuffed out.

Jimin reached for Taehyung’s empty glass and refilled it with something darker than wine.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said gently. “Or you won’t.”

He smiled like it didn’t matter either way.

The dining hall emptied like a tide pulling back.

Cloaks were drawn, candles pinched out. Vampires offered murmured farewells to the six at the far end of the table; bows, nods, hands briefly touched to chests in respect. Some eyes flicked once more to Taehyung, unreadable in their intent, before vanishing down the candlelit halls.

Jimin waved playfully at one of the retreating figures. “So formal,” he sighed. “Always such drama when death’s involved.”

Namjoon stood without a word, adjusting the collar of his cloak. Jungkook’s glass was still half-full, but he left it behind.

Yoongi and Hoseok moved in quiet lockstep, as if pulled by some unseen rhythm, ritual maybe. Or instinct.

Taehyung got up and followed them.

He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe because his feet moved before he told them to. Maybe because no one told him to stop. Maybe because he wanted—needed—answers.

They moved together through the manor’s back halls, past stone arches and empty rooms where the candlelight still flickered, long after the guests had gone.

Low conversation drifted between them like fog.

“The mourning cycle isn’t complete,” Namjoon murmured. “The veil is still thin.”

“Daybreak will seal it,” Yoongi replied, gaze on the stained glass above the next landing. “Unless something goes wrong.”

“Let’s not speak that into the air,” Seokjin muttered.

Jungkook huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “It’s not the air that listens. It’s the stone.”

“Same thing, in this house,” Hoseok added.

They reached a landing that opened onto a long balcony overlooking the moonlit garden. The torches outside had burned low. Fog rolled like silk across the ground. The group paused there, briefly, the hush around them stretching wide.

Just the seven of them now.

Taehyung stood a few paces behind, hands tucked beneath his cloak, heart still uneven. The stone beneath his boots was cold.

He looked at them, each of them.

And then he turned to Seokjin.

His voice came quiet, but steady.

“What did she mean? At the table. The elder. About the blood ritual. About me.”

The others didn’t turn.

But they listened.

Seokjin didn’t answer right away.

He stared out into the fog. His profile cut clean against the cold moonlight, beautiful and hard.

Finally, he said:

“She meant exactly what she said.”

Taehyung’s voice cut through the stillness, sharper than he meant it to be.

“What does that mean?” he asked, stepping forward. “You all speak so cryptically, so many layers to everything you say, like every word has a double meaning I’m supposed to understand. I can’t keep up.”

His heart was racing now, breath slightly uneven beneath the heavy cloak.

Jimin glanced over, but said nothing.

Yoongi’s eyes shifted to him, slow and unblinking.

Namjoon looked away, like he’d heard it all before.

Only Seokjin responded.

He turned, slowly and fully, until he was facing Taehyung. His expression was calm and not distant. His eyes, still faintly red from earlier, softened as they found Taehyung’s.

“You weren’t raised for this,” he said, voice quieter now. “We know that.”

“Then explain it to me,” Taehyung snapped, surprising even himself with the edge in his tone. “Explain why they’re calling me a bride. Why they’re planning rituals around me. Why no one looks me in the eye unless it’s to read something in me I don’t understand.”

A long silence followed.

Seokjin’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“The mourning ritual wasn’t just for Minhyuk,” he said at last. “It was to reawaken the bond he protected. The line he belonged to.”

He took a step forward.

“And you are what’s left of that bond, Taehyung. Hyungshins blood. His heir. His unfinished promise.”

Taehyung stared, chest tight.

“But I didn’t promise anything,” he said.

“No,” Seokjin said, his voice gentling, “but we did.”

“So…” Taehyung said slowly, voice barely more than breath. “I’m the bride.”

The word hung there. Heavy. Sacred. Wrong.

But saying it aloud steadied something in him. Like naming the storm was the only way to survive it.

“For…” His voice faltered. “For who?”

A pause.

Then Yoongi spoke.

“For us.”

The answer cut through the air like a blade. His tone was quiet—almost gentle—but his eyes were cold. Unflinching.

Taehyung sucked in a sharp, trembling breath.

“No…” he said, shaking his head. “That’s—we’re cousins.”

Jimin snorted. Hoseok outright laughed, the sound rich and amused as he leaned back against the stone railing.

“So?” Jimin purred.

“So?” Taehyung echoed, voice cracking. “That’s… that’s illegal! That’s incest!”

Namjoon didn’t move. Jungkook’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable.

Seokjin looked away.

And Yoongi stepped forward just slightly, the fog curling at his feet like it belonged to him.

“Incest,” he said flatly, “is not a taboo among our kind, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s mouth parted, speechless.

Yoongi tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make the next words press deeper into the skin.

“You know this,” he said. “You knew this. Before that woman whisked you away to the human lands when your father receded his rights. Our rights.”

Taehyung’s stomach turned.

And still, no one corrected him.

No one denied it.

They just watched.

Like this was inevitable.

Like this was how it was always meant to be.

“You agreed to be ours years ago, Taehyung.”

The voice came from behind him; measured and calm.

Seokjin.

Taehyung turned, eyes wide, face pale in the moonlight.

”what? When?!”

”Before you left.” Yoongi spoke numbly. Almost bored.

“I- I was a child,” he said, almost pleading. “I dont remember that, and even if I did, I didn’t know what I was agreeing to!”

Seokjin stepped closer, not looming, not threatening, but present. Too present. His hand hovered near Taehyung’s shoulder, as if he might reach for him but thought better of it.

“Does that make your words any less of a promise now?”

Taehyung looked at him, stunned.

His mouth opened, closed. His breath shuddered through him.

“I…” He shook his head, voice cracking. “I don’t understand.”

Seokjin’s eyes softened; not in pity, but in something older. Something like familiarity. As if he’d known this moment would come. As if he’d mourned it already.

“That’s fine,” he said quietly. “One day, you will.”

The wind shifted on the balcony, carrying the scent of lavender and ash through the air.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

None of them said anything more.

They didn’t need to.

The silence that followed felt final.

Not like an ending.

But like a beginning.

The others didn’t speak again.

One by one, they turned and drifted back into the manor, dark silhouettes swallowed by long hallways and flickering sconces. Even Jimin, who lingered with a final, almost teasing glance, said nothing more.

Soon, Taehyung was alone on the balcony.

The cold seeped in slowly, like it had waited for the moment to touch him.

He stood there for a long time, staring out into the moonlit fog that curled around the edges of the garden, that same garden where firelight had once caught red eyes in the dark.

The word bride echoed through his skull.

Our rights.

Eventually, his legs moved.

He walked the familiar path back to his room. The hallway turned where it needed to. The house guided him without question.

The candle in his hand had long since gone. Left behind somewhere between the dining room and the different hallways he walked.

When he reached his door, he didn’t look back. He simply pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

Soft click of wood and lock.

The quiet swallowed him.

And in the lavender-dark stillness of the room that knew him better than he knew himself, Taehyung finally let himself exhale.

But sleep didn’t come.

Not yet. 

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Taehyung had locked himself away in his room for three days, he didn’t eat nor do anything other than attend the funeral rituals and sit like a doll during meal times.

Nobody had bothered him during that time. Leaving the boy to process his thoughts and emotions.

And many emotions he carried. Drifting between repulsion to vampiric land and their…practices of intimacy. To something more, deeper. 
Thoughts of Seokjins face, Hoseoks kindness, Jimins lithe flexible body. 

The knock came soft.

Three sharp taps, followed by silence.

Taehyung blinked awake in the dark, disoriented. The sheets were tangled around his legs, and the weight of sleep clung to his body heavy and uneven, like he hadn’t truly rested at all. 

And he hadn’t. 

Taehyung sat up slowly, rubbing at his face, then glanced toward the window.

Outside, the world was still black. No sun. No moonlight. Just fog pressing thick against the panes and shadows stretching long across the floor.

He checked the clock on the wall, the old one with the golden hands and slow-ticking face.

3:06 AM

The knock came again. Patient.

Taehyung shuffled to the door and cracked it open.

Hoseok stood there, smiling as if it were noon.

He wore a dark velvet coat embroidered with tiny silver thread—too elegant for this hour—and his hair was loosely swept back, an orange curl falling across his forehead. His hands were tucked into his pockets, and his expression was as pleasant as ever.

“Good morning,” Hoseok said.

Taehyung blinked at him. “Is it?”

“Well, that’s relative,” Hoseok replied with a grin. “Come eat with me.”

Taehyung rubbed at one eye, still half-asleep. “It’s… it’s three in the morning.”

“In human territory, yes.”

Taehyung squinted. “Isn’t there a set time for meals?”

“In human territory, yes,” Hoseok repeated, his smile widening just slightly. “But you’re not in human territory anymore, love.”

He tilted his head, voice warm and casual. And Taehyung felt his skin warm at the endearment.

“Let’s have breakfast.”

Taehyung stared at him through the crack in the door, unimpressed.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.

“You weren’t hungry last night,” Hoseok replied easily. “You didn't eat anything.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed. “You sound like Jimin.”

“I’m prettier in the morning,” Hoseok said with a wink.

Taehyung didn’t laugh. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, half-asleep, the velvet collar of his robe brushing his jaw. “I’m tired, Hoseok.”

“I know,” Hoseok said softly, like he really did. “But food might help. So will company.”

Taehyung wasn’t sure he believed that, and he stayed quiet for a beat.

Then, softer, “Why do you care?”

Hoseok’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened into something softer now. Something real.

“Because you’re mine,” he said gently.

Taehyung’s breath caught. His hand slipping a little from the cold doorknob.

“…I haven’t agreed to that,” he muttered, voice small.

“You did once,” Hoseok said. “You will again.”

Another pause. The weight of finality resting heavy on his shoulders.

Then Hoseok reached out, slowly, and brushed Taehyung’s hair out of his eyes with the back of his fingers. Gentle. Familiar. Warm.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Just breakfast.”

Taehyung sighed; long, reluctant, and already caving.

He stepped back from the door and opened it fully.

“I’m not putting shoes on,” he grumbled.

Hoseok beamed. “Perfect. I’ll walk slower.”

The halls were quiet as they walked, but not empty.

Candles flickered with unnatural steadiness in their sconces, casting smooth gold light across tapestries and stone archways. Taehyung padded beside Hoseok barefoot, his robe drawn tight, eyes still adjusting to the low glow of the house.

“Where are we going?” he asked softly.

“Somewhere comfortable,” Hoseok said.

They stopped in front of tall double doors. Dark wood, carved with familiar sigils Taehyung still didn’t understand.

When Hoseok opened them, warm light spilled out; soft and amber, glowing like dusk.

The room beyond was wide and sunken slightly into the floor, with heavy curtains drawn across tall windows and a massive fireplace glowing low at the far end. The flames crackled blue at the edges, casting flickers of light over polished floors and long velvet couches.

It smelled like spiced wine, sandalwood, and blood.

Inside, five of them already lounged in quiet comfort; Jungkook sprawled on the carpet near the fire, head resting on one arm, a half-finished glass of blood on the floor beside him. Seokjin sat upright on a chaise with a book in hand, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Jimin and Yoongi shared the longest couch, draped in opposing directions—Jimin with his head near the armrest, Yoongi with one foot on the floor and eyes half-lidded in thought. Namjoon on a padded reclining chair, wine glass in hand.

They all looked up when Taehyung entered.

Jimin smiled slowly, the curve of his lips almost lazy. “You came.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Taehyung muttered, glancing sideways at Hoseok.

Hoseok didn’t deny it. Easily guiding Taehyung down the slight step into the room, then toward the long velvet couch where Jimin and Yoongi were already sprawled.

Taehyung hesitated at the edge of the cushion.

Jimin shifted to make room, patting the space between them without sitting up. “You can lie here, sweet thing.”

“I don’t need to lie down,” Taehyung mumbled.

“Then sit,” Yoongi said, voice low and even. “You look like you haven’t rested in weeks.”

“I haven’t been here for weeks,” Taehyung shot back.

“Exactly,” Yoongi replied, not even opening his eyes.

Before Taehyung could argue, or try to understand the complexities of their vampiric riddles, Hoseok pressed two fingers to the middle of his back and gently nudged him forward. Playful yet insistent.

Taehyung stumbled a step and collapsed onto the cushion between them with a huff.

The velvet deep and warm under his butt from previous body heat. Jimin tucked his feet beneath himself, arm brushing Taehyung’s shoulder. Yoongi didn’t move at all, but the heat from his body pulsed close.

“Better?” Hoseok asked from above.

“No,” Taehyung lied. But he didn’t get up.

He didn’t speak either.

Not at first.

Just sat there between Jimin and Yoongi, wrapped in the best robe he had brought, feet curled beneath him on the velvet couch. The fire across the room crackled low, and the candlelight licked soft shadows along the tall walls.

None of the others paid him much direct attention after that.

They didn’t need to.

Jimin reached lazily for a half-full glass of blood and took a slow sip, then offered it in Taehyung’s direction without looking. Taehyung blinked, shook his head. Jimin just smiled to himself and drank the rest.

Yoongi didn’t move, eyes half-closed, face tipped toward the firelight. Occasionally his fingers would flex slightly, like he was playing piano keys only he could see.

Jungkook lay flat on the carpet, arms spread like a sun-warmed cat, his gaze fixed on the dancing fire. He looked too young to be that still. Too dangerous to look that peaceful.

Seokjin turned a page in his book with surgical precision, but he wasn’t reading.

Not really.

Taehyung could feel it, how they all were watching without watching. Listening without needing to move.

This was their version of rest.

No television. No music. No clinking forks or idle conversation.

Just warmth. Blood. Company.

It should have been unsettling.

But strangely, it wasn’t.

It was stillness Taehyung had never known before. Not human stillness, always filled with distraction; but something deeper. Older. Like their bodies weren’t resting so much as… waiting.

He glanced at Jimin, whose hand had now crept toward the hem of Taehyung’s robe; not pulling, just ghosting there, fingers playing with the fabric absently.

“You do this every night?” Taehyung asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi cracked one eye open. “When there’s nothing else.”

“It’s not about the what,” Hoseok chimed from an armchair nearby, a glass balanced between his knees. “It’s about the who.”

Taehyung blinked, unsure he understood.

But no one explained.

Jimin just kept tracing idle patterns into the hem of Taehyung’s robe. Yoongi closed his eyes again. Jungkook shifted by the fire, rolling onto his back with his arms folded behind his head.

Taehyung sank a little further into the velvet cushion, the warmth of the room settling into his bones.

And slowly, the words began to make sense.

It’s not about the what. It’s about the who.

They didn’t care about distractions. Or routine. Or the time of day.

They didn’t gather for something.

They gathered for each other.

And now, he was here.

Not doing.

Not understanding.

Just existing in their space.

It wasn’t an invitation. It wasn’t even a test.

It was a message.

You are already ours.

Taehyung didn’t reply.

But he didn’t leave either.

And the longer he stayed, the more he realized:

They weren’t trying to make him feel like one of them.

They just expected him to become it.

Time stretched in the way it always seemed to here; long and fluid, like the house breathed slower than the rest of the world.

Taehyung sank deeper into the cushions, warmth settling into his limbs despite the tension still coiled under his skin.

Then he noticed Namjoon moving.

Slow and deliberate, the vampire rose from a low-backed chair near the fireplace, a bottle in one hand. The blood inside it was dark and thick, clinging to the glass like syrup. Taehyung didn’t know where it had come from. It hadn’t been there before.

Namjoon crossed to the table beside Seokjin without saying a word. He reached out with one hand, fingers brushing the edge of Seokjin’s jaw—gentle, reverent—and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his mouth.

It wasn’t lustful.

It wasn’t performative.

It was ritualistic.

And Taehyung found himself staring.

When Namjoon finally turned, he poured a single measure of blood into a crystal glass and walked toward him, slow and certain. He didn’t offer it like a server. He didn’t kneel. He simply held it out.

“For you,” Namjoon said.

Taehyung stared at the glass. “Why?”

“You haven’t eaten.”

Taehyung hesitated, wondering just how much everyone payed attention to his eating habits, then reached for it. His fingers brushed Namjoon’s; cool, strong, steady.

He brought the glass to his lips and took a cautious sip.

It was thick. Heavy. Not fresh from a body, but something older. Preserved. Rich. He felt it settle into his chest like heat, his head growing lighter in a way he didn’t expect.

He licked his lips. “That’s… not like the stuff from the human cities.”

Namjoon smiled faintly, entertained. As if Taehyung stated the obvious. “Of course it’s not.”

Taehyung let his gaze linger on the fire for a moment, his fingers curling tighter around the glass.

Then he asked, voice softer now, “What exactly is the mourning period supposed to be? What do you guys… do?”

The question seemed to quiet the air again.

Jimin stopped swirling the blood in his glass. Yoongi opened his eyes. Seokjin looked toward the fire, unmoving.

Namjoon stepped away, but didn’t sit. He stood just in front of the firelight, casting a long shadow across the floor.

“We wait,” he said. “We retreat. We tend to our dead, and to each other. We don’t speak the name until the soil accepts it. We honor what was lost.”

“And after that?” Taehyung asked.

Namjoon met his eyes.

“After that, we rebuild what was broken.”

Taehyung’s pulse ticked faster in his throat.

He didn’t ask who or what was broken.

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Taehyung hadn’t realized how close Yoongi was until he moved.

Still reclined on the couch, Yoongi shifted just enough to slide his arm behind Taehyung, then around his waist; slow and quiet, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Taehyung tensed. Just slightly.

But Yoongi didn’t pull him in. Didn’t press. He just held him, palm resting lightly against Taehyung’s side, fingers curled into the folds of his robe.

His eyes stayed closed.

The gesture wasn’t about comforting Taehyung more than it was claiming him. Reassuring himself that Taehyung was there.

Taehyung’s body gradually sank into the warmth.

The blood helped.

It moved through him like silk, heavier and sweeter than anything he’d had in the human cities from the blood bank his mother worked at and stole from. It settled into the knots behind his ribs, made the world tilt just slightly softer at the edges. His limbs relaxed. His thoughts slowed.

And for the first time in hours, the dread stopped gnawing at his throat.

Namjoon’s voice broke the quiet again, even and low.

“Only the bloodline remains in the house during mourning,” he said. “It’s tradition. Everyone else has been sent away.”

Taehyung blinked slowly. “Everyone?”

Namjoon nodded. “No servants. No guards. No guests. Just us.”

He turned slightly, swirling the wine-dark liquid in his glass.

“Later, when the rites deepen, the rest will return. From other cities. Other families. Those who owe debt or loyalty to Minhyuk’s line.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed faintly. “To us.”

Namjoon glanced at him. “Yes.”

“To me?”

“Yes.”

The word shouldn’t have settled like that.

Shouldn’t have felt like a key slipping into a door Taehyung didn’t remember locking.

He leaned his head back slightly, Yoongi’s arm still warm and solid behind him, the firelight reflecting off crystal and bone.

Just us.

Just the six of them.

And him.

Taehyung’s eyes slipped half-closed.

The blood curled warm in his chest. Yoongi’s arm was steady against his back, fingers unmoving, breath slow and even.

For a moment, everything was quiet again.

Safe, almost.

But his mind wouldn’t let go of the word. The title. The bride.

A promise.

He didn’t remember promising anything, but something about the way they all spoke, the certainty behind it, left a splinter under his skin.

He blinked heavily and murmured, “Before… you said I made a promise.”

The words came slurred, touched by sleep. But they landed like a pebble dropped into still water.

The room shifted.

Jungkook stopped rolling the edge of his glass between his fingers. Jimin turned his head slightly, grey hair brushing his cheek. Namjoon stayed silent, gaze dropping to the fire again.

And Seokjin set his book down.

Taehyung felt Yoongi exhale slowly beside him.

He turned his head to look toward Seokjin, eyes half-lidded.

“What promise?” he asked. “I don’t remember.”

Seokjin didn’t speak at first.

His expression was unreadable, but not cold. Not harsh.

He looked like he was choosing the shape of his breath before the shape of his words.

“You were young,” he said finally. “Small. Curious. Back when Jungkook had just turned and you were still living here, just before your mother took you back to the human territories.”

Taehyung blinked slowly.

Seokjin’s voice was low. Measured. The kind of quiet that people use when they speak about ghosts.

“You followed us everywhere,” he continued. “You were always watching. Always mimicking. And one night, you asked what it meant to belong.”

Taehyung swallowed. The room felt too still.

“And?” he asked.

Seokjin’s gaze met his.

“And we told you. That in our family, to belong is to bind. Blood, body, name.”

Jimin’s voice slipped in like silk, low and dreamy.

“You asked how to bind yourself to us. So we showed you the vow.”

Taehyung’s mouth parted slightly.

Jungkook leaned back against the hearth, eyes unreadable.

“You said the words,” Namjoon added, voice quiet. “We didn’t make you.”

“You didn’t know what it meant,” Yoongi murmured.

“But we did,” Seokjin said.

Silence.

Only the fire cracked.

Taehyung stared at the ceiling, not fully awake, not fully dreaming. The weight of six vampires, six memories, six truths hung over him like smoke.

He didn’t remember it.

But he didn’t think they were lying.

Taehyung’s voice broke the silence again, quieter this time, barely above the crackle of firewood and the hum of breath in the room.

“Are all of you… bonded?”

His eyelids drooped as he spoke, lashes brushing his cheeks, but the question hung there; small, tired, and deeply human.

Yoongi stirred beside him, shifting just enough to slide his arm away and sit up. His movements were slow, unhurried. He reached for the glass on the low table and brought it to his lips, drinking without a word.

The silence stretched again.

Then Yoongi answered, voice steady, eyes still fixed on the fire:

“Yes.”

Taehyung blinked, sleep tugging hard now.

Jimin’s hand settled lightly against his calf, comforting and cold. Namjoon stood behind Seokjin again, one hand resting at the nape of the older vampire’s neck. Jungkook stretched silently, bones cracking softly.

Taehyung exhaled.

The room felt impossibly far away. The velvet beneath him softened into clouds. The flicker of firelight blinked like stars. He felt claimed, swallowed, watched.

But not alone.

Not anymore.

“Rest, little one. We’ll answer your questions tomorrow.”

And before he could ask anything else, sleep pulled him under; quiet, deep, and waiting.

Sleep came heavy.

But it wasn’t empty.

He was small again.

Tiny legs pattering softly across the long stone floor, arms out for balance, a laugh caught in his throat but never spilling. The mansion towered around him, endless and echoing. Shadows danced across the walls like playmates.

Five years old, barefoot, robe too long at the sleeves.

He was playing alone, weaving through the halls, fingers dragging along the dark wood paneling as he walked. Humming some nonsense tune he didn’t know the name of.

The house didn’t frighten him.

Not back then.

Not yet.

He stopped when he saw it.

A door, ajar. Just slightly. The faintest crack of warm light spilling through it like a secret.

Curious, quiet, Taehyung tiptoed closer.

He pressed a palm to the edge of the frame, leaned forward, and peered through.

Inside was a wide, low-lit room he didn’t remember entering before.

And they were there.

All of them.

Jimin curled across a long cushion, his laughter muffled as Jungkook poked at his cheek. Namjoon leaned against the far wall, reading aloud from a book in some slow, ancient language Taehyung couldn’t understand. Hoseok and Seokjin stood near the fire, whispering something to each other. Yoongi sat with one leg folded beneath him, eyes half-lidded and watching everything with the quiet of someone who missed nothing.

There was no fear.

Only stillness.

Only belonging.

Taehyung watched, wide-eyed, silent.

His small fingers curled tighter around the doorframe.

And then Seokjin turned.

As if he felt the gaze.

His eyes met Taehyung’s through the sliver of the doorway. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile.

But he beckoned.

Slowly, with two fingers. A motion too smooth to be anything but rehearsed.

He hesitated—

“Taehyung.” 

—then gasped awake.

His lungs dragged in air too fast, chest heaving, hands clutching at the blankets—

Blankets?

He wasn’t on the velvet couch.

He wasn’t in the living room.

He was in bed.

His bed.

Back in the quiet hush of his private quarters, surrounded by the familiar scent of lavender and old cedar, soft moonlight filtering through the tall curtains.

The candle at his bedside flickered like it had just been lit.

But he didn’t remember coming here.

Didn’t remember standing. Walking. Leaving the others. No footsteps, no words. No Yoongi’s arm pulling back. No Jimin’s warmth fading from beside him.

One moment, he was dreaming of being five years old; watching them from a cracked door. The next, he was alone again.

Taehyung sat up slowly, heart still rattling in his chest.

The dream clung to him.

The memory.

It felt real.

Had they moved him? Had the house?

Or had he simply forgotten, like the first time?

He looked around the room, half-expecting to find one of them there. Waiting. Watching.

But there was no one.

Just the silence. Just the soft press of his pulse in his ears. Just the knowledge that something he couldn’t name had shifted again.

And that it had been there with him the whole time.

He stayed like that for a while, sitting upright in bed, legs tangled in the sheets, breath slowing but never quite settling.

The dream had left a film over everything.

Not fear, exactly. Not confusion.

Just… weight.

He glanced toward the chair in the corner where his coat still hung from earlier. The pocket bulged slightly at the side, a small, familiar shape hidden in the folds.

The journal.

Taehyung slipped out of bed, the cold air biting at his ankles as he padded barefoot across the wood floor. He reached into the coat, fingers brushing leather, and pulled it free.

It was heavier now.

Or maybe he was.

He carried it back to the bed, settling into the pillows with the journal resting on his lap. His fingers hesitated at the edge before he opened it again.

The ink inside was clean. Precise. Elegant handwriting, but urgent in its spacing. Like someone had written with restraint.

He flipped to the first page with real writing; not names, not titles, but something deeper. The hand writing different than his fathers on the first few pages.

“The child cannot be bound until his second breath, but he recognizes us. Even now. Even young.”

Taehyung’s pulse skipped.

He turned the page.

“The blood in him is still quiet, but it stirs when he’s near. We test his reaction to ritual symbols. He doesn’t fear them. He touches them.”

Another page:

“He said it tonight. The promise. Softly, but with his eyes open. I don’t think he knew what it meant, but I also don’t think it mattered.”

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat.

The memory—his dream—flashed again.

The cracked door. Seokjin’s hand, beckoning him forward.

His small hand pressing against carved stone.

“I want to stay.”

That’s what he had said, hadn’t he?

The journal felt heavier in his lap.

He turned one more page.

“If he stays, he’s ours.”

Taehyung stared at the words.

Then slowly, very slowly, closed the book.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just sat there, the journal closed but still on his lap, his fingers resting lightly on its worn cover. The words echoed through him like blood through a cracked vein.

If he stays, he’s ours.

He hadn’t stayed.

But he was here now.

Something stirred outside.

It wasn’t loud—barely more than a ripple of sound—but it didn’t belong. Not here. Not now.

Laughter.

High-pitched. Light. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense.

Taehyung stood slowly, crossing the room to the window.

The fog outside had thinned, leaving behind a cool sheen of moonlight. The garden below was damp with dew, the hedges glistening like glass. And in the middle of the grass, near the edge of the courtyard—

Children.

Three of them. Young. Ranging from ages six or seven to nine and ten.

Running in soft circles, chasing each other barefoot across the stones. Their laughter floated up like music; untouched, unbothered, alive.

One little boy trailed behind the others, curly-haired and quick-footed. He glanced up at the manor once, directly toward Taehyung’s window.

And smiled.

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

He blinked—

And they were gone.

Just fog.

Just moonlight.

Just silence.

He stepped back from the window, pulse beating like thunder in the quiet of the room.

Taehyung stepped back from the window like it had burned him.

His breath came fast now, shallow, hands curling into fists before he even knew what he was doing. The laughter—those children—they weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

But he had seen them.

He turned from the window and went straight to the wardrobe, heart pounding. Yanked it open. Grabbed his coat. His bag from the corner. His sweater. The single pair of jeans he’d come in with. His toothbrush. The journal.

It all fit barely.

He didn’t even think about shoes.

The fog of memory and warmth had lifted. What was left behind was cold.

And clear.

He wasn’t safe here.

He wasn’t meant to be part of this.

He crossed the room in long, quiet strides, clutching the bag to his chest. His fingers shook as he reached for the doorknob.

He didn’t even get it turned.

Because it was already open.

Just a crack.

And Yoongi stood on the other side.

Still. Silent. Entirely unsurprised.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, voice soft enough to be mistaken for concern.

Taehyung froze.

His bag drooped slightly in his grip.

Yoongi didn’t move. Just stood there in his black sleep shirt and bare feet, like he’d been waiting in the hallway all night.

Watching. Listening.

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

“I saw something,” he whispered. “I—I remembered something.”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly. “That’s not unusual, you’ll remember more the longer you stay.”

“I can’t stay here,” Taehyung said. “This isn’t—this isn’t normal.”

“No,” Yoongi replied. “It isn’t.”

Another silence.

Then Yoongi’s voice dropped just a hair lower.

“But you didn’t come here for normal, Taehyung.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Taehyung said sharply, his voice cracking. “I didn’t choose any of this—this place, this house, your rules—your vows!”

Yoongi didn’t flinch.

“I don’t remember promising you anything,” Taehyung went on, chest rising fast. “I don’t remember blood rites or bonding or playing bride to six people I barely know.”

The last word came out raw. Ugly. His hands trembled.

“And now there are children outside in the dark? Things I’m seeing that aren’t real? Is that what being here does? Is that what you all do— make people lose track of what’s theirs?”

Yoongi stared at him quietly, letting the silence stretch just long enough that it almost felt cruel.

Then he stepped into the room, the door swinging closed with barely a whisper.

Taehyung didn’t move.

“You think this is something we did to you?” Yoongi said, voice level.

“You don’t remember because you were a child,” he continued. “But the promise, that wasn’t ours to force. You made it.”

“I didn’t know what it meant.”

“You did,” Yoongi said softly. “Your body knew. Your blood knew.”

Taehyung’s lip curled, uncertain whether to scream or cry. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Yoongi said. “But it’s true.”

Taehyung’s hand clenched tighter around the strap of his bag.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered.

“I know,” Yoongi said. And still, he didn’t move forward. Didn’t touch. “That’s why we haven’t taken anything from you.”

Taehyung looked away, jaw tight.

Yoongi stepped closer, now barely a pace between them. His voice dropped lower than a whisper. “You came back because something in you needed to.”

“I came because someone died.”

“No,” Yoongi said. “You came because something woke up.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

“You saw the children?” Yoongi asked.

Taehyung nodded once.

“They’re echoes. Memories caught in the stone. They appear when the bloodline stirs. When something buried tries to come forward.”

Taehyung swallowed.

“They’re you, Taehyung,” Yoongi said gently. “Or pieces of you. Still running through the halls. Still waiting for the door to open.”

Taehyung’s fingers loosened on the bag strap.

The leather slipped through his grip, landing soundlessly on the floor.

He looked up at Yoongi; furious, heartbroken, terrified.

And for the first time, he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say he was leaving.

Taehyung stood frozen.

His chest still rose and fell in sharp little bursts, but he didn’t move when Yoongi stepped forward. Didn’t flinch when those pale, elegant fingers slipped around the strap of his bag.

Yoongi didn’t yank.

He simply took it.

Lifted it slowly, firmly, from off the floor.

And Taehyung let him take it without force.

Like his body had forgotten how to fight. Like the strength had drained from his limbs the moment Yoongi brushed past him.

The vampire glanced at the bag once, then back at him.

“Not tonight,” Yoongi said quietly. “You don’t leave like this.”

Taehyung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His shoulders trembled, small, barely visible shudders under the thin robe.

Yoongi didn’t ask again.

“This place doesn’t ask you to belong right away. It reminds you that you always did.”

Taehyung didn’t reply.

“You’re not weak,” Yoongi said. “But you are unmoored. That’s what happens when blood remembers before the mind does.”

“You don’t have to understand tonight,” he said. “But you have to stay.”

Taehyung’s lips parted.

His throat felt too tight to argue.

Yoongi opened the closet door and dropped the suitcase inside, setting the bag down on trimmed wood. He didn’t linger. He didn’t hover.

Just walked back to the threshold and met Taehyung’s gaze one last time.

Then, quieter still:

“We’ve waited a long time for you. Don’t make us wait longer.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Taehyung stood alone in the quiet, the dream still clinging to his skin.

-

A week had passed.

And yet, it still felt like dusk.

Taehyung sat curled in the tall library window, legs pulled up beneath him, robe loose around his shoulders. The glass was cool against his temple, fogged faintly from his breath, and outside—just beyond the treeline—the fog clung low to the ground like it had never left.

The letter sat in his lap.

Folded once, half-written. A blotch of ink at the corner where his pen had paused too long. He’d written four versions already. None of them made it past the second paragraph.

He stared down at the latest attempt.

Mom,

I’m okay. It’s not what I expected. I’m not sure what it is. The house is alive, I think. The people—

He sighed, rubbing at his brow.

Everything felt too big or too small. Too revealing, or too strange. How was he supposed to tell her about blood feasts and velvet couches and firelight conversations about rites and bonds and brides without sounding like he was on drugs?

How do I explain that the air smells like cinnamon and ash? That people I don’t remember keep looking at me like I belong to them?

He had tried to sound human.

But the longer he stayed, the less that voice fit.

Outside, a raven flew past the window, its wings slow and quiet against the cold. The trees didn’t move. The mist didn’t part. It was as if time itself had stopped obeying.

Taehyung let the letter fall back into his lap.

He didn’t fold it. Didn’t rip it. Just let it sit there, unfinished, just like him.

He didn’t touch the contents of the letter again.

Instead, he picked up the pen, twirled it absently between his fingers, then bent forward and began sketching in the corner of the page.

Just lines at first. Curves. Cross-hatching. A hint of long hair, dark eyes, a shadow draped across sharp cheekbones. He didn’t think as he drew; his hand moved on instinct, like muscle memory that didn’t belong to the rest of him anymore.

The face came together too easily.

He realized, a little too late, that it looked like one of them.

Jungkook.

The angle of the jaw. The heavy-lidded eyes. The faint smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth.

Taehyung let the pen fall from his fingers.

“You’re better at that than you think.”

The voice came from behind him; low, soft, almost amused.

Taehyung jumped, twisting slightly to see Jungkook leaning against the far bookcase, arms crossed over his chest, red eyes flicking from the window to the sketch in his lap.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Taehyung muttered, instinctively pulling the paper a little closer to his chest.

Jungkook shrugged. “You wouldn’t. I’m quiet.”

“You mean unnaturally quiet.”

“I’m a vampire,” Jungkook said, lips curving faintly. “There’s nothing natural about me.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes and looked back out the window. “What do you want?”

“I came to tell you the meal is ready.”

“Do you always sneak up on people while they’re trying to figure out how to write home?”

“I didn’t sneak,” Jungkook said. “You were just distracted.”

He crossed the room, slow and unhurried, the way all of them seemed to move. Like there was no such thing as urgency.

“Are you going to send it?” he asked.

Taehyung shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

Jungkook tilted his head slightly. “Then don’t.”

Taehyung frowned. “She’s my mother. I have to say something.”

“Or,” Jungkook said, “you could wait until you mean it.”

Taehyung turned to look at him fully this time.

Jungkook didn’t explain.

He just reached down, gently pulled the letter from Taehyung’s lap, and studied the drawing.

“You gave me too much jawline,” he muttered.

Taehyung blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m prettier than that.”

He handed the letter back with a smirk.

And Taehyung didn’t know whether to laugh, or throw the pen at him.

Taehyung took the letter back, smoothing it out without looking at him.

“I don’t think ‘pretty’ is a word I could use to describe family.”

Jungkook didn’t blink.

“Why not?” he asked.

Taehyung’s jaw tightened. “Because—I—”

“Because you think it’s true,” Jungkook announced finally. “And it scares you?”

Taehyung froze.

The air between them shifted.

Less teasing now. Less distance. Jungkook’s voice wasn’t smug; it was certain. Like he wasn’t accusing Taehyung of anything. Just… stating a fact he’d already known.

Taehyung glanced down at the sketch again, the curve of the cheekbone, the shape of the mouth.

He didn’t reply.

Jungkook stepped closer, not close enough to touch, but near enough that Taehyung could feel the way the air cooled around him.

“You think if you admit it,” Jungkook said, softer now, “you won’t be able to undo it.”

Taehyung lifted his eyes slowly.

There was no judgment in Jungkook’s expression.

Only knowing.

“You’re not wrong,” Jungkook added. “We’re family.”

Then, quieter:

“But we’re not just that.”

“What do you mean?” Taehyung asked, his voice lower now. Less defensive, more… uncertain. Like he already knew the answer and was hoping Jungkook would say something else.

His eyes searched Jungkook’s, trying to read past the blood-colored irises to something steady underneath.

Jungkook didn’t look away.

“We were raised to see family as a bond,” he said quietly. “But blood doesn’t define the shape of that bond.”

Taehyung swallowed.

Jungkook’s gaze flicked down to the letter in Taehyung’s hands, then back up again.

“You think calling me pretty is the problem,” he said. “But that’s not it.”

“Then what is?”

Jungkook leaned in slightly—barely an inch closer, but enough that Taehyung felt it in his chest.

“You feel something,” he said. “And it doesn’t fit where you think it should. So you’re scared of where it might go instead.”

Taehyung stared at him, caught between wanting to deny it and not having the words.

The fog outside the window pressed quietly against the glass. A branch scraped softly against the frame.

Jungkook’s voice dropped lower.

“The others remember more than I do,” he said. “But we never stopped knowing you. Wanting you.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

He didn’t step back.

But he didn’t step forward either.

He just stood there, suspended between memory and possibility, between what was and what might become.

Something shifted.

Not in the room.

In him.

It came all at once; fast and full, like a curtain pulled back.

A memory.

Brief. Bright. Undeniable.

They were children.

Jungkook couldn’t have been older than ten, and he was taller than Taehyung. Sharper at the edges, his eyes already glowing faintly red in the dark.

Taehyung had been eight, still small, still soft, his hair falling into his eyes.

They were under the staircase.

Hidden.

The candles along the wall flickered behind carved iron sconces, and the air smelled of dust and cinnamon.

Jungkook had looked at him for a long moment, then leaned in.

A kiss.

Quick. Chaste. Clumsy.

But deliberate.

A brush of lips. Nothing more.

When he pulled back, Jungkook was grinning, his baby fangs just starting to grow in, barely visible, but real. His fingers had tugged gently at the collar of Taehyung’s little cloak.

“You’re gonna stay here forever,” he’d whispered. His voice still light, untouched by puberty. 

“With me.”

And Taehyung had nodded, breathless.

He remembered that now.

Not just the words.

The feeling.

Taehyung blinked, and the present snapped back into focus; Jungkook standing inches away, watching him like he knew exactly what had just resurfaced.

And maybe he did.

Taehyung’s heart thudded.

His voice came small.

“That… really happened, didn’t it?”

Jungkook didn’t smile this time. Didn’t ask him what he saw, what he remembered.

The vampire just nodded once.

“Yes.”

Taehyung’s breath shuddered out of him. Wetness pricking at his eyes.

His hands had gone still at his sides, the letter forgotten somewhere behind him on the window ledge.

Jungkook didn’t look away.

He took one step closer; closer than anyone should’ve been.

“You said you’d stay,” he murmured.

Taehyung’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You said you’d never leave,” Jungkook went on, voice steady. “Even when the others said you were too small to understand.”

Taehyung’s brows drew together, throat tightening. “I didn’t know what that meant—”

“You did.” Jungkook’s eyes searched his. “Not with your head. But with your blood.”

Taehyung shook his head weakly. “I was a child.”

“And now you’re not.”

The air thickened between them.

“You remember that promise,” Jungkook said quietly, “because it wasn’t nothing. You felt it. Even now, you still do.”

Taehyung’s lips parted, but the words died on his tongue.

Jungkook leaned in, barely a breath from touching, his voice almost a whisper. 

Taehyung remembers how soft Jungkooks lips had felt against his. Cool skin pressed against human warmth. It made his heart beat fast, and he was sure Jungkook could hear it.

“You think the bond only started when you came back. But it didn’t. It started there. Under that staircase. With me.”

His eyes glowed faintly, slow and smoldering, like fire coals that had never gone out.

“I’ve been waiting ever since.”

They stared at each other.

The air between them felt impossibly still.

Jungkook’s eyes—brighter now, soft red burning through the dark of his irises—searched Taehyung’s face without flinching. He didn’t move closer, didn’t press.

But he didn’t have to.

Because something passed between them in the silence.

Not a threat.

Not a plea.

Something deeper. More sensitive.

Knowing.

Taehyung’s breath caught at the weight of it.

Jungkook’s gaze flicked down to his mouth, just once, then returned to his eyes.

And then—

he stepped back.

The air loosened in Taehyung’s lungs like a string had been cut.

Jungkook straightened his shoulders, expression unreadable again, but his voice when it came was gentle. Steady. Final.

“Tell your mother you’re exactly where you need to be,” he said.

A pause.

“Home.”

Then he turned, steps soft across the carpeted floor.

And left Taehyung standing in the library window, heart racing, hands shaking, a half-written letter still laying on the padded wooden edge.

The door clicked shut behind Jungkook.

Taehyung stood frozen in place, chest rising and falling too quickly, fingers still curled faintly where they’d gripped the letter.

His whole body buzzed—hot, electric—like he’d been hit by a storm without thunder.

He sat back down on the window ledge, harder than he meant to, the robe rustling around his legs as he folded into himself.

The letter was still in his lap.

So was the sketch.

Jungkook’s face stared up at him from the bottom corner; unbothered, half-smirking, lines too sharp to be accidental.

Taehyung flushed, throat tight.

Without thinking, he grabbed the paper with both hands and ripped.

Once. Twice. Again.

Tearing through the drawing, the words, the promises he couldn’t keep. The pages crumpled in his fists, rough and torn, until they were nothing but ruined fragments.

He dropped the pieces on the window ledge like they’d burned him.

They fluttered slightly in the breeze seeping through the cracks in the old glass. Pale scraps of a truth he couldn’t explain.

He didn’t pick them back up.

He just sat there, staring at the fog beyond the trees, face warm and pulse loud in his ears.

And somewhere deep inside his chest, something pulsed in answer.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later

The manor was never loud.

Not in the way human homes could be, no stomping feet or clattering dishes or televisions humming in another room. His mother singing a butchered song in the shower or kids playing outside in the street.

Sound here was always intentional. Soft. Measured. Ancient.

So when Taehyung woke to the sharp rise of voices, something inside him jolted before he even opened his eyes. His mind reeling of home, before he settled and realized he was still in vampire territory.

He sat up too quickly, blanket slipping from his chest, hair tangled from sleep.

Laughter echoed down the hallway.

Not familiar.

Not theirs.

He heard the murmur of low, elegant conversation. The kind that carried weight without volume. Then; a child’s high giggle, shrill and bright, out of place in the stone-walled corridors of the ancestral home.

Taehyung didn’t bother with shoes.

He leapt from bed, robe swaying around his legs, and padded toward the door with soft, urgent steps. The house didn’t guide him this time. He didn’t need it to.

The sound alone pulled him forward.

He followed it down a long corridor, then another. His feet slowed as he approached a drawing room he barely remembered from his first week. The doors stood slightly ajar, just enough for him to slip into the shadow of the archway.

And there, inside—

Vampires.

Not just his six cousins.

But others.

A woman in an emerald-green coat sat gracefully on one of the long velvet settees, her black hair plaited down her back, sharp eyes laughing even when her mouth wasn’t. Beside her stood a man in slate gray, taller, broader, with silver at his temples and the posture of someone born to command.

And at their feet; a child. No more than five. Pale, elegant, otherworldly. Her eyes gleamed as they spun in a lazy circle, arms out, little slippers scuffing against the rug.

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat.

He watched them in silence.

Like a young child eavesdropping.

Like a ghost at his own door.

He stayed in the shadow of the doorway, fingers resting lightly on the carved wood frame, breath held like he might disturb something sacred just by exhaling.

The room felt different than the rest of the manor; warmer, brighter, but only on the surface. The kind of glow that came from power wrapped in thread.

The child twirled closer to the woman, arms out like wings. “Do you think he’s real?” they asked, not whispering.

The woman’s eyes didn’t move from her glass. “Everyone’s real when they’re prophesised, my sweet.”

The man let out a quiet chuckle, amused by something Taehyung didn’t understand. “You’ll meet him soon enough. Give it time.”

“Do you think he remembers?” the child asked.

This time, the woman smiled. “That’s not the right question.”

“What’s the right one?”

“Does he want to?”

The child’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, toward him. But she didn’t say anything. Just spun again, slower this time, arms curling in like drawing breath.

Taehyung pressed himself back, heart thudding, unsure whether he’d imagined her glance.

Then—

“It seems,” came Seokjin’s voice, smooth and unhurried, “we have a watcher at the door.”

Taehyung startled.

All eyes turned toward the entrance.

Jimin appeared from the far corner of the room, leaning lazily against a pillar with a soft smile. “You could have just come in, darling,” he said. “We don’t bite unless asked nicely.”

The child laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Taehyung hesitated.

Then took one small step inside.

“Hello,” Taehyung mumbled.

His voice didn’t echo like it normally did in the old atmosphere of the house. The word folded into the stillness like a dropped petal, delicate and unsure.

The child beamed.

The woman turned her gaze to him fully now; assessing, curious, but not unkind. “So this is the boy,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

The man beside her dipped his head in the faintest bow. “Taehyung,” he said. “I am Daerin. Your father’s cousin. This is my wife, Maji.”

The woman—Maji—lifted her chin slightly. Taehyung could tell there was something off about her, something different. She wasn’t a vampire, not really. A witch perhaps.

“And that,” she added, nodding toward the spinning child, “is Rae.”

Rae stopped twirling. She blinked up at Taehyung, then tilted their head. “You looked taller in my dream.”

Taehyung didn’t know what to say to that.

Before the silence could stretch, a warm hand slipped into his.

He glanced down.

Jimin.

Already standing, already close, like he’d drifted beside him without sound.

Taehyung didn’t pull away.

He let Jimin lace their fingers together, thumb brushing lightly across the back of his hand.

“Come here, love,” Jimin whispered, guiding him gently forward.

Taehyung let himself be led.

He stood now in front of the gathered vampires; extended family, strangers, visitors in luxury silk. Rae had returned to Maji’s side, still watching him with wide, curious eyes.

Jimin didn’t let go of his hand.

Taehyung didn’t ask him to.

“You said—your dream?” Taehyung mumbled, glancing back at Rae.

The child was perched now at the edge of Maji’s seat, her legs swinging slightly, chin tipped like a curious cat.

Back in the human cities, Taehyung had always loved children. Their innocence. Their playful minds. Their way of asking the hardest questions with the softest voices.

And Rae… Rae looked like an elegant dumpling wrapped in moonlight. Cheeks full and plush, skin as white as snow, straight black hair and a matching set of silver eyes.

Rae nodded solemnly. “You were wearing white. And your eyes glowed.”

Taehyung blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Maji said lightly, smoothing Rae’s hair with one hand. “Rae’s awakening lets her dream of the future, past, and present. Not always clearly, but often enough.”

“Oh. Wow.” Taehyung blinked again, his voice small with awe. “I see.”

He hesitated, then glanced between the three strangers—no, family—before asking, “Do you all have… awakening powers?”

Daerin chuckled low in his throat. “Not always so neatly. Sometimes it’s a slow process. Sometimes it strikes all at once.”

“Sometimes,” Maji added, “it passes over a generation entirely. Or skips ahead when it finds something waiting.”

Taehyung furrowed his brows. “Something waiting?”

The woman’s eyes glittered with something old. “A body. A bloodline. Or… a  promise.”

Jimin’s hand squeezed his gently.

Taehyung swallowed.

“Oh.”

Rae tilted their head again, looking thoughtful.

Then they said, as casually as if asking for juice, “What does your awakening feel like, cousin?”

Taehyung’s heart stuttered.

“I— I haven’t—” he started, but the words tangled.

Jimin leaned in, lips brushing against the curve of his ear, a smile in his voice.

“Not all awakenings start with fire, darling,” he whispered. “Some begin in silence.”

The question lingered.

What does your awakening feel like, cousin?

Taehyung didn’t know how to answer. But the more he sat with it, the more something prickled behind his ribs.

The dreams. The way the house responded to him. The memory of the kiss under the staircase. The blood that tasted different here. The way his fingers sometimes buzzed when he touched the carved wood railings too long.

Not all awakenings start with fire…

Some begin in silence.

Jimin’s words curled in his ear like incense smoke.

Taehyung lowered himself slowly onto the edge of a velvet armchair, Rae watching him with open curiosity, Maji and Daerin quiet but attentive.

He looked up at his cousins; Jimin still at his side, Jungkook now leaning in the doorway, Hoseok and Yoongi sprawled nearby, Namjoon unreadable by the fireplace, and Seokjin calmly seated with his fingers folded over one knee.

“…What about you?” Taehyung asked quietly. “What are your awakenings? What powers do you all have?”

It felt almost childish to ask.

But none of them laughed.

Instead, Jimin leaned into his side with a soft hum. “I can pull desire to the surface,” he said, smile slow and half-lidded. “Sometimes I don’t even have to touch. Just… speak.”

“That’s why he’s not allowed near diplomats unsupervised,” Seokjin added lightly.

“Guilty,” Jimin said, giggling.

Yoongi spoke next, his voice low and effortless. “I can hold memory,” he said. “Not just mine. If someone’s touched me, I can find their past. Keep it. Or hide it.”

Taehyung holds his breath. 

When he started remembering his past…had Yoongi touched him?

Hoseok grinned where he sat half-curled on the couch. Running his fingers through Yoongi's pitch black hair. “Emotion. Mine and others. I can… shift it. Amplify joy. Crush rage. Nudge things in the right direction.”

Namjoon’s voice was calm as ever. “I speak truths,” he said. “Even the ones people won’t admit. And sometimes… I can make them impossible to ignore.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened slightly. “Is that why I feel so uncomfortable when you look at me?”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “That’s just because you like me.”

Taehyung flushed.

Seokjin was last.

His gaze was soft, but his voice carried weight. “I bind,” he said simply. “Vows, protections, laws. Magic tied to blood and name. It runs through the house and through us.”

Taehyung looked down at his hands, turning one over slowly.

“So all of you… awakened young?”

“Most of us,” Seokjin said. “But not all.”

Jimin nudged him gently. “You’re not late, sweetheart. You’re just slow-burning. Like a candle waiting for the match.”

Taehyung’s fingers curled.

And somewhere deep in his chest, he felt something flicker.

Taehyung looked at each of them, trying to wrap his head around it all, the weight of their magic, the individuality in each gift, the terrifying grace of being born to this.

But one name hadn’t been spoken.

He glanced around the room, eyes scanning the space—

And landed on the doorway behind them.

Jungkook stood there.

Quiet. Watching.

He leaned one shoulder against the frame, his posture casual, but there was something too still in the way he held himself. As if he’d been listening the entire time. As if he’d known Taehyung would ask.

Taehyung turned toward him slowly, voice softer now.

“…What about you?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

Then he stepped forward, bootfalls barely whispering against the stone floor.

“I’m the youngest,” he said simply. “Awakenings hit us differently.”

“But you have one,” Taehyung pressed, almost without realizing.

Jungkook stopped a few feet away. The firelight from the hearth caught the edges of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

“I’m instinct,” he said. “Speed. Blood hunger. Protection.”

He stepped just close enough that Taehyung had to tilt his head to keep eye contact.

“I know where the threat is before anyone else does. I feel it. I feel when someone needs guarding. When someone belongs.”

Taehyung’s pulse quickened.

Jungkook’s voice dipped, low and sure.

“My power is knowing who’s mine, and protecting them.”

The room went quiet again.

Even Rae, seemingly filled with questions, didn’t speak.

Taehyung couldn’t look away.

Taehyung’s breath caught at Jungkook’s words.

Mine.

It was a fact.

Declared so simply, it unsettled something deep in his chest.

He held Jungkook’s gaze a second longer—just long enough for his stomach to twist—then tore his eyes away.

“I…” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

Jimin chuckled beside him. “You don’t have to, love. We’re patient.”

“Suspiciously patient,” Taehyung muttered under his breath.

A few of them smiled.

And for a moment, the weight in the room lightened, just enough for Taehyung to breathe again.

His mind flickered, unbidden, through the last two weeks.

-

Jimin, curled beside him on the library chaise, whispering poetry in French against his throat, lips never touching, breath always warm.

Yoongi sitting in his doorway late one evening, silent and close, the firelight flickering against his pale wrist as he handed Taehyung a glass of blood without a word.

Hoseok laughing in the garden, pinning Taehyung by the wrist after a playful chase through the hedges, his fingers tight, gaze playful—but too focused.

Namjoon pressing a book into his hand. “Read this one,” he’d said. “It’s about loyalty. It reminded me of you.”

Seokjin, brushing a strand of hair behind Taehyung’s ear in the kitchen. The touch had lingered a second too long.

Jungkook; not touching, not always speaking, but always watching.

-

They’d all done it.

Toed the line.

Pushed just far enough to rattle him.

To show him he could be taken.

But none of them had claimed him.

Not fully. (Not yet.)

Jimin shifted beside him, tracing idle circles on the back of Taehyung’s hand.

“It’s not about whether we want to,” he said. “It’s about whether you’ll ask us to.”

Taehyung blinked.

Rae, perched now in Maji’s lap, murmured softly, “You’re still waking up.”

Taehyung let their words sit with him, let the silence stretch again.

He watched Rae from the corner of his eye, the way she rested calmly in Maji’s lap, those strange silver-ringed eyes blinking up at him like they saw everything.

You’re still waking up.

He licked his lips, throat dry. Then asked it:

“What happens after someone awakens?”

The words came quietly, but they hit like stone on water.

Rae tilted their head.

Seokjin glanced away for the first time.

Yoongi’s fingers curled against the couch cushion.

Jimin stopped tracing circles.

No one answered immediately.

Finally, it was Namjoon who spoke, voice even and honest.

“You become who you were always meant to be,” he said. “Without filters. Without fear. Your senses sharpen. Your magic stabilizes.”

“Your memories return,” Yoongi added. “Not just yours. Your blood’s.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed. “Like… ancestors?”

Jungkook answered from behind him. “Like lineage. Everything the blood has carried forward; its pain, its power. Its promises.”

Taehyung’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t know what scared him more, remembering something he’d forgotten… or feeling like it was already alive inside him, just waiting for him to catch up.

“And after that?” he asked.

Seokjin met his gaze across the room.

“Then,” he said quietly, “the bond begins to form.”

“Bond?” Taehyung echoed, throat tight.

Jimin smiled softly beside him.

“Not to all of us, sweetheart.”

He squeezed Taehyung’s hand once.

“Just the ones you choose.”

Taehyung looked down at his hands, still held loosely in Jimin’s.

The warmth there didn’t make the fear go away.

“I’m a halfblood,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I… I doubt I’ll awaken. At least not in the way others normally do.”

The words tasted like failure. Like truth.

The kind of truth he’d lived with for years, tucked into the corners of human spaces that were never built for him either.

The room didn’t laugh.

No one scoffed.

Instead, Rae’s voice broke the silence; small, but certain:

“You bleed deeper than most full-bloods I know.”

Taehyung looked up, startled.

Rae was still watching him. Their legs were tucked neatly beneath them, small hands folded over Maji’s sleeve.

“You burn slow,” she said, “but not soft.”

Taehyung blinked.

Jimin’s thumb brushed gently over the back of his hand. “Awakening doesn’t care about fractions,” he murmured. “Blood knows itself. Even if it has to remind you a thousand times.”

Hoseok leaned forward slightly, grin soft but sincere. “Some of the strongest vampires in history were halfbloods.”

“Some of the most dangerous ones too,” Yoongi added, gaze unreadable. “Because they were underestimated.”

Taehyung’s heart thudded.

“I- I didn’t know that. I thought…” He took a moment to breathe. “I thought halfbloods were outcasts among the vampiric culture.”

Jungkook, behind him, didn’t speak, but Taehyung could feel his presence like gravity. Steady. Unmoving.

Seokjin tilted his head, voice calm as always.

“They were,” he said. “But their strength in our history does not change.”

Taehyung sat in silence, the comfort of their words settling over him like a blanket pulled up too late in the night. He didn’t believe it yet, but something in him wanted to.

Wanted to believe he was strong and powerful. And worthy.

It was a new feeling.

Then Daerin rose from his seat.

He moved slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his steps echoing faintly as he paced toward the center of the room. His presence had been still as stone until now, but when he spoke, it was with the kind of authority that made every word feel preordained.

“The mourning period is almost at its end,” he said, looking not just at Taehyung, but at the others as well.

Jimin’s grip on Taehyung’s hand tightened slightly.

“You’ll have many visitors coming,” Daerin continued, “from all territories. They’ll arrive to bless the passing and… to greet the new beginnings.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

“New beginnings?” he echoed.

Maji stood beside her husband now, voice smoother but no less final. “The sealing of legacy. The acknowledgment of the next bearer of the bloodline. Of who is being claimed.”

Taehyung blinked slowly. “Claimed…?”

Rae’s small voice slipped in, gentle but eerie. “They won’t just come to grieve, cousin. They’ll come to see you.”

The air had shifted again.

Not heavy. Not cold.

But charged.

The kind of stillness that came before decisions were made, behind closed doors.

Seokjin stood first, followed by Namjoon and Yoongi. No one needed to say it aloud—they were going with Daerin and Maji, deeper into the manor. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere political.

Maji gave Rae a final touch to the cheek, and the child didn’t blink as her mother kissed her temple.

“We won’t be long,” she murmured.

“I know,” Rae replied simply.

And then they were gone.

Leaving only four.

Taehyung sat still at first, unsure what to do with the lingering echo of legacy ringing in his ears. The pressure in his chest hadn’t faded—not completely—but when he looked at Rae again, it softened. She sat on the rug, small legs crossed, gently braiding the fringe of the velvet pillow beside her.

She was strange, yes.

But still a child.

Taehyung shifted from his seat and slowly lowered himself onto the floor beside her.

She looked up immediately. “You’re warmer than you were last week.”

Taehyung blinked. “I… am?”

Rae nodded, touching her fingertips together like she was testing a secret. “Your blood’s listening now.”

Jimin laughed quietly from the couch, watching them with fond amusement. Hoseok just stretched out further, arms crossed behind his head, golden eyes half-lidded.

Taehyung didn’t know what to say to Rae’s observation. So instead, he smiled.

“Do you want help with that?” he asked, nodding to the tangled pillow fringe.

Rae beamed. “Yes, please.”

They worked together in silence for a moment, tiny fingers brushing against his, unbothered by his hesitation. Rae hummed under her breath, some tune that wasn’t in any key Taehyung recognized, but still sounded beautiful.

“You’re good with kids,” Jimin said softly, propping his chin on his palm. Staring at the duo on the floor fondly.

Taehyung looked up, slightly embarrassed. “I always liked them. In the human cities, I used to babysit for neighbors sometimes. They… felt safe around me.”

Hoseok smiled lazily. “Of course they did. You’re the softest monster I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks?” Taehyung muttered.

Monster.

Weren’t they all?

Rae tugged at his sleeve. “Do you want to play something?”

Taehyung blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I have cards,” Rae said, already digging into a little satchel Maji had left beside her. “Not human cards. Ours.”

Jungkook’s voice came from behind him, finally: “Careful. She cheats.”

“I do not,” Rae huffed.

“You always win.”

“That’s not cheating. That’s prophecy.”

Taehyung laughed, genuine and startled.

And for the first time that day, he didn’t feel like a guest.

He just felt like a boy sitting on the floor, surrounded by fellow monsters who were, somehow, making space for him to belong.

Rae shuffled the deck with surprising ease for such small hands; fingers nimble, movements practiced. The cards were thick, edged in silver, and shimmered faintly under the candlelight like they remembered every person who had ever touched them.

“These are ancestral cards,” Rae explained. “They’re old. My family passed them down through the dream line.”

Taehyung blinked. “You mean like dream magic?”

“Sort of,” Rae said, pulling three cards and laying them out face-down on the rug. “They show what’s already moving. What hasn’t happened yet but wants to.”

Jimin leaned forward, resting his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder like a lazy cat. “Careful, love,” he whispered. “They’re usually right.”

Hoseok just grinned. “Last time I played, it said I’d fall in love with a ghost.”

“Did you?” Taehyung asked, half-laughing.

Hoseok’s eyes sparkled. “Not yet.”

Taehyung looked back to the cards. Rae slid them toward him slowly, reverently.

“Choose one,” she said. “Only one.”

Taehyung hesitated.

Then reached out and tapped the center card with two fingers.

Rae flipped it over.

The card shimmered, 

then darkened.

Ink swirled across the surface like mist trapped beneath glass, forming a vivid, painted image:

A hand extended toward a thorn-covered chalice, blood dripping from the wrist. Behind it: six wolves with glowing eyes. And above the hand, an eclipse. A perfect black circle. No light left.

The title beneath was written in silvered script.

THE OFFERING

The air went still.

Even the candle nearest them flickered low.

Rae blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, “Oh.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked slightly. “What does that mean?”

Rae didn’t answer right away.

But her fingers hovered gently over the image.

“It means you won’t stay untouched much longer,” she murmured. “And when you’re given the choice… you won’t say no.”

Taehyung’s breath stuttered.

The card glowed faintly in the candlelight—The Offering—as if it could hear him. As if it knew.

He pushed himself to his feet, robes tangling around his legs, hands clammy against the floor as he stood too fast.

“I—I need air,” he mumbled, already turning toward the door.

“Taehyung—” Jimin started.

But he was already gone.

His footsteps echoed down the hallway, fast and uneven. The pulse in his ears louder than any prophecy.

He didn’t stop running until he reached his room.

He shoved the door open, then slammed it shut behind him, his back pressed against the wood as he panted. His heart raced like it didn’t belong in his chest.

He didn’t hear Hoseok follow at first.

But then—softly, just after the click of the door closing again—his voice:

“Tae…”

“I am not a plaything,” Taehyung snapped, whirling around. His eyes were wide, red at the rims, hands clenched at his sides. “Why—why does everyone speak about my future like it’s already been written? Like they’ve seen the script and I’m just the last one to read it?”

Hoseok stayed quiet.

Taehyung stepped back, voice shaking. “What I choose—it’s mine. No one else’s. Yet every one of you looks at me like you already know what I’m going to say or do before I even do.”

His chest heaved.

“I can’t breathe when I’m treated like something inevitable.”

Hoseok took a single step closer.

He didn’t smile this time. He didn’t tease. His eyes were soft and sad.

“You are a choice, Taehyung,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”

Taehyung’s lips trembled. “Then why does it feel like I never had one?”

Hoseok reached out, carefully, not touching yet, just offering.

“Because,” he said gently, “when people love you long enough, they stop asking if you’ll come home. They just… wait. Because they believe you will.”

Taehyung didn’t respond right away.

He stood there, caught in the quiet that followed Hoseok’s words, his fists still clenched; but not as tight. His breath slowly evened, the sting behind his eyes pulling back just slightly.

When people love you long enough, they stop asking if you’ll come home. They just… wait.

The words settled in his chest like water over flame. Not dousing it, but cooling it enough that he could feel again.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know if he wanted to forgive it, or scream at it, or weep into someone’s shoulder until it made sense.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Barely there.

Hoseok looked to the door first. Then back to Taehyung.

The second knock was even gentler.

Taehyung moved before he thought about it.

He pulled open the door slowly, and there Rae stood.

Small. Barefoot. Her white robe tugged crooked at one shoulder, silver eyes shimmering under too-long lashes. She looked like she’d come down from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” Rae whispered, her voice tiny and unsure. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Taehyung stared at her.

All of his anger curled like smoke in his chest, burning itself out.

Because Rae was too small. Too sincere. Too sweet.

And no matter how strange or prophetic she might be, she was still a child.

Taehyung dropped to one knee in front of her, gently.

His voice cracked. “It’s okay.”

Rae’s lower lip trembled. “I didn’t mean to pull a bad card.”

“You didn’t,” Taehyung said softly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She nodded, and he could tell she was trying not to cry.

Taehyung opened his arms, quietly.

Rae stepped forward without hesitation and hugged him.

Down the eastern wing of the manor, beyond the velvet-curtained hallways and rose-lit sconces, a different kind of quiet had settled.

Not emotional.

Not peaceful.

Strategic.

The room was small, round, carved into the stone of the oldest part of the house; built long before even Seokjin had been born. A council chamber, though no one called it that anymore. Not out loud.

Seokjin sat with perfect posture in the high-backed chair closest to the hearth. The fire flickered low and blue.

Yoongi stood to his right, arms crossed. Namjoon leaned forward at the opposite end of the table, fingers pressed to a stack of weathered letters and sealed scrolls.

Daerin poured dark wine into three matching goblets, but only touched his own.

Maji, ever still, stood with her hands clasped at the window; watching the fog roll in.

“The visitors will arrive before the next full moon,” Namjoon said, scanning the newest message from the northern territories. “A full representation of the three houses. Each one expects a display.”

“Of what?” Yoongi asked without looking up. “Dominance?”

“No,” Maji replied, quiet and sharp. “Of unity.”

Seokjin finally moved, his gaze lifting from the fire to meet hers. “And Taehyung?”

“He’s already begun,” she said. “You know that.”

“He still doesn’t know it,” Yoongi murmured.

“He doesn’t have to,” Maji said. “Not yet.”

Daerin placed his cup down. “The Offering was drawn?” 
all of the vampires having heard and felt the shift in the house. The voices hushed whispers, the padding of hurried feet, Rae’s energy seeping through her parents.

Seokjin nodded once, joined at the hip by Jimin and Jungkook who had gone to relay the happenings after Taehyung had left. “Rae said it glowed.”

Namjoon leaned back in his chair. “Then the bloodline accepts him. The prophecy is in motion.”

There was a long pause.

Yoongi exhaled slowly. “You think the elders will try to interfere?”

“They’ll want to witness it,” Maji said. “But they won’t dare touch it.”

“And if they do?” Seokjin asked.

Daerin’s eyes flicked toward him.

“Then they’ll remember what happened the last time they underestimated a halfblood.”

Chapter Text

The visitors left before the moon reached its highest point.

No grand farewell. No formal sendoff.

Just the soft rustle of cloaks, quiet goodbyes whispered to Seokjin in the old tongue, and Rae’s tiny wave from the steps as Maji gently took her hand.

Taehyung watched them go from an upstairs window, forehead resting against the cold glass. His breath fogged the pane briefly singular proof of his lingering humanity.

But when he inhaled, it wasn’t just frost that filled his chest. It was the kind of silence that followed movement. The kind of quiet that asked a question.

He needed air.

And not the kind inside enchanted halls.

He found his boots, wrapped his long coat around his shoulders, and made his way down the main stairwell.

He didn’t need to say a word.

By the time he reached the back garden doors, they were already there.

Jungkook, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, red eyes dim but steady.

And Jimin, perched delicately beside the threshold, his cloak a wash of violet shadow, lips curled in a lazy smile.

“You walk like you’re escaping,” Jimin said.

Taehyung didn’t slow. “Maybe I am.”

Jungkook pushed off the wall. “We’ll go with you.”

It wasn’t a question.

The path outside the manor was slick with dew, moonlight pooling in the low hollows between mossy stones and gnarled roots. The forest breathed around them, quiet and silver-toned, not threatening, but watchful.

Taehyung’s boots sank softly into the soil as he stepped off the gravel trail, coat drawn tight against the faint wind.

“I don’t want cryptic conversations,” he said suddenly, voice steady but low.

Jimin glanced over at him. Jungkook didn’t.

“So if you’re here to utter words of offering or binding…” he continued, eyes fixed on the path ahead, “don’t speak.”

Silence followed.

Cool and immediate.

But neither of them left.

Neither protested.

They simply adjusted their steps, falling in beside him. Jimin to the right, Jungkook to the left. Flanking him without touch, like two shadows who’d walked that forest trail before he was old enough to remember it.

They moved as a trio through the trees, each breath drawing mist in the air. No sound but the gentle sway of their cloaks and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot.

They didn’t speak.

And in that silence, Taehyung found something unexpectedly grounding.

Not clarity.

Not peace.

But… space.

To think.

To breathe.

To be.

The forest deepened around them, shadows curling high through the skeletal trees. Pale bark gleamed like bone under the moonlight, and somewhere far off, a bird cried out long and low, then silent again.

They walked for a long while.

No one spoke.

And Taehyung was grateful for it.

For once, no riddles. No lingering stares wrapped in expectation. Just the soft rhythm of three sets of footsteps, and the cool night air weaving between them.

The silence wasn’t empty, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat under skin.

At one point, Taehyung’s shoulders tensed against a sudden gust of wind. His coat flared open slightly at the chest. He reached to tighten it but another hand was faster.

Jungkook, without speaking, reached over and pulled the lapels closed. His fingers brushed the knot at Taehyung’s throat. Precise. Gentle.

Then he let go.

Taehyung didn’t flinch. But his pulse skipped, loud in his ears.

Jimin’s voice was the only thing that touched the air for the next several minutes. Not a word, but a hum. Barely audible, some old melody with no beginning or end. A lullaby, maybe. Or a love song meant for no one.

Eventually, the trees opened slightly, just enough for the moon to spill fully across their path. The light clung to Taehyung’s hair, his cheeks, the curve of his throat.

He looked like something not yet claimed. Not fully awakened.

And yet, already beloved.

Without thinking, Jungkook extended his hand.

Palm open. No pressure.

Just an offering.

Not a ritual. Not a vow.

Just warmth.

And without knowing why exactly, Taehyung took it. Despite the pretenses being more affectionate than he may have previously thought appropriate.

Their hands stayed clasped.

Not tightly.

Just enough to feel each other’s pulse.

The forest was still. The moon swam across the clearing in slow silver strokes, lighting the ridge of Taehyung’s cheekbone, the curve of Jungkook’s mouth, the place where Jimin’s hair fluttered against his temple.

Taehyung stared down at their hands for a moment.

Then he whispered, 

“What was I to you? Before I left?”

Neither answered at first.

And he looked up.

His voice was quiet, but firm. “I know I was here. I know I mattered. You all speak like you’ve never stopped waiting for me, but I don’t remember any of it. I remember fire. I remember fear. But not… you. Not really.”

His throat tightened. “That feels cruel. I’m sorry.”

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t flinch.

But Jimin stepped closer, his voice a breath.

“You were joy,” he said softly. “Small and stubborn and beautiful. You’d hide under the long curtains in the east wing and demand someone find you like a treasure.”

Jungkook’s voice came next, low and certain. “You followed me everywhere. Even when the others told you not to.”

Taehyung blinked. “Why?”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. “Because you said I made the house feel safe.”

Jimin smiled gently. “You were the kind of soft no one wanted to ruin. Not even us.”

Taehyung’s lips parted.

He looked between them. “Then why did I leave?”

Neither answered.

But this time, it wasn’t silence that followed. It was weight. Shared. Heavy. And unsaid.

And it told him everything.

The silence pressed in around them like fog.

Taehyung waited.

He could feel it; coiled behind Jungkook’s stillness. Not hesitation. Not fear.

Just memory.

Then, finally, Jungkook spoke. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“There was a fire in the western wing,” he said. “Late. You were already asleep.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

“I remember the heat,” he whispered. “Screaming.”

Jungkook nodded once. “There were rebels; humans working with the blood cults. They set it, hoping to kill your father. Or you.”

Taehyung’s breath caught. “Me?”

“You were the heir,” Jungkook said simply. “Even then. Even if no one said it aloud.”

Taehyung looked down at their hands.

Jungkook’s grip hadn’t tightened, but it hadn’t loosened either.

“I found you before the flames did,” he continued. “You were hiding in the crawlspace beneath the stairwell. Clutching a broken charm and shaking so hard I thought you’d disappear.”

A beat.

“I pulled you out. Burned my hands on the wood. I remember that.”

Jimin’s expression had softened beside them, no trace of teasing now. Only the ghost of old grief in his eyes. And Jungkooks hand had clenched on the opposite side, like he was remembering the burning embers scorching his skin. The scars long faded with the powers of vampiric regeneration.

“I carried you to the edge of the ward,” Jungkook said. “Your mother was waiting.”

Taehyung’s heart pounded.

“She said she’d protect you. Said you wouldn’t be safe here. Not anymore.”

“And you let her take me?” Taehyung asked, voice cracking.

Jungkook didn’t look away. His eyes red and burning, like fire.

“I didn’t let anything,” he grinded out. “I fought. I screamed. I almost crossed the wardline to follow. Seokjin had to hold me back.”

Taehyung stared at him.

And in the moonlight, he could finally see it. The wound that had never really closed.

“I was thirteen,” Jungkook said. “But I knew what it meant to lose something. Everything.”

They walked for a while longer after that.

No one said another word.

The trees thinned slightly as they moved deeper into the forest, and the night opened up into something softer, less shadowed, more silver.

Eventually, the path curved and dipped gently toward a quiet stream. The water shimmered like strands of silk under the moon, flowing slow and unbothered beside a cobbled stone arch half-swallowed by moss. It looked ancient. Abandoned. Beautiful.

They stopped there.

Jungkook stood closest to the water, staring down at his reflection like it had something to say to him.

Jimin lingered nearby, silent and watching, his hand brushing Taehyung’s once… then again… before gently threading their fingers together.

Taehyung let him.

The warmth of it soothed some part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

He looked at Jungkook’s back; broad, tense, held too still.

Then took a step closer.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just reached out, quietly, and pressed his hand to the back of Jungkook’s shoulder. A touch light as breath. Meant to comfort, not pity.

Jungkook didn’t turn.

But he tilted his head slightly toward the contact.

And Taehyung could feel it, that small moment of relief. Of being seen.

Jimin’s hand squeezed his gently.

And for a while, the three of them just stood there. Cloaked in moonlight, river murmuring beside them, ghosts whispering somewhere in the trees.

No past.

No prophecy.

Just this.

It was Jimin who finally broke the quiet.

His voice was soft, but touched with a smile.

“This stream,” he said, tugging Taehyung gently down to sit beside him on a moss-covered stone. “Your father made it.”

Taehyung blinked. “He… made a stream?”

Jimin laughed, and Jungkook—still watching the water—smiled faintly, just barely.

“Well, carved it, really,” Jimin said. “There’s a spring beneath the hill. He redirected it with magic, years before you were born. Said it was the only place your mother felt calm. That she liked the sound of water more than silence.”

Taehyung glanced around, taking it in anew. He didn’t know that about his mother. But now, it made sense. She always seemed happier, calmer, when around water.

Staring at the blueish liquid with an expression Taehyung never understood. 

Maybe she was thinking of father.

The way the stones curved like gentle ribs around the streambed. The smooth arch overhead. The runes faintly etched into one of the larger boulders.

He reached out and ran his hand across the moss.

“She called it her sanctuary,” Jimin added. “Said it reminded her of a lullaby she used to hum when she was little. She gifted it to you the day you were born.”

“She brought you here once,” Jungkook murmured. “Before the fire.”

“I don’t remember,” Taehyung whispered.

“You fell asleep in her lap,” Jimin said. “Woke up with your face covered in moss. We all thought it was hilarious. You, did not.”

Jimin laughed, Jungkook smothering a snicker.

Taehyung blinked.

Then laughed, quiet and surprised. “That does sound like me.”

“You were such a serious baby,” Jimin said, nudging him. “Like you were already holding the weight of your name.”

Taehyung smiled, gaze drifting to the stream again.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “I didn’t know something like this was mine.”

“It’s still yours,” Jungkook said.

Taehyung didn’t reply.

But the way his shoulders softened said enough.

-

The kitchen had become his favorite place.

Not because of the food—not really—but because it was the one room in the house that felt alive in a simple way. Warm light, flickering candles, the low creak of old floorboards, and the faint smell of citrus and clove that clung to the air like a memory.

Taehyung sat at the long wooden table, one knee tucked under his leg, peeling a blood orange with slow, deliberate care. The juice stained his fingertips red. A shallow bowl beside him was already half-filled with curling orange rinds.

In front of him: a folded sheet of parchment. Half a letter. One that had already been started and abandoned more times than he could count.

Mother,

I don’t know how to tell you what this place is doing to me.

He frowned at the sentence. Crossed it out.

He took another bite of the orange instead, lips stained red like a quiet secret.

He didn’t notice Yoongi enter until the chair across from him scraped gently against the floor.

“You always eat those like you’re mad at them,” Yoongi murmured.

Taehyung startled slightly. Then huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I am.”

Yoongi sat down without asking. He rested one arm along the back of the chair, gaze flicking briefly to the parchment.

“Writing again?”

“Trying,” Taehyung muttered.

Yoongi tilted his head. “Do you want help?”

Taehyung looked at him.

Yoongi wasn’t leaning in. Wasn’t watching him too closely. He asked the question like he asked everything: quiet, direct, and without pressure.

“I don’t know what to say,” Taehyung admitted. “I want to tell her I’m safe. That I’m… okay. But I also want to tell her I’m different. That I’m not the same boy who left with one bag and a funeral notice.”

He peeled another strip of orange and added, more softly, “And I don’t think she’d recognize me now.”

Yoongi was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “Would you recognize yourself, if you met you?”

Taehyung paused.

Looked down at his hands.

Stained red.

Like blood.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

Yoongi didn’t rush to fill the silence. He rarely did. But his gaze lingered on Taehyung; soft, dark, quiet as dusk.

“When I awakened,” he said, voice low and even, “I didn’t recognize myself for nearly ten years.”

Taehyung looked up.

Yoongi was staring out the small window now, like he could see that version of himself in the night beyond the glass.

“I couldn’t tell where the magic ended and I began. The memories I held from others… they blurred into mine. I remembered things I’d never lived. I grieved losses that weren’t mine.”

His hand moved slowly across the wood grain of the table.

“My mother didn’t understand. She tried. But she looked at me like I was gone.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He hadn’t heard anything about his cousins parents. They kept it to themselves, the same way his mother had kept all things vampire to herself.

“Were you?” he asked softly.

Yoongi met his eyes again.

“No,” he said. “I was just becoming.”

They sat in silence for a beat. A comfortable one.

Then Yoongi nodded slightly toward the parchment. “Can I read it?”

Taehyung hesitated, fingers brushing over the ink.

“It’s… not finished.”

Yoongi gave a quiet shrug. “Neither are you.”

Taehyung huffed a soft breath, half in amusement, half ached. Then he slid the parchment across the table.

Yoongi didn’t read aloud. Just let his eyes skim the page with gentle precision, hands steady as always.

After a moment, he looked back up.

“You could tell her the truth,” he said.

Taehyung blinked. “What truth?”

“That you’re changing. And that you’re afraid. And that maybe, for once… that’s okay.”

Taehyung reached for the pen.

He didn’t fully know what he was going to write, but his hand did.

The ink flowed in slow, looping strokes. Line after line. Sentence after sentence. At first unsure, then faster, like water pouring from a cracked vessel.

His fingers barely paused.

Mother,

I’m not the same.

But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

There’s a house here that remembers me, even when I don’t. And six people who look at me like I’ve already chosen them, even though I haven’t figured out how to choose myself.

I don’t know what I am, not yet. But I know I’m not alone.

I think you’d like the kitchen. It smells like oranges and old bread and incense I can’t name. I think you’d like the quiet here. It doesn’t press; it just waits.Some mornings, I wake up and I forget I ever left.

Other mornings, I feel the whole weight of the blood in my body

and it makes me want to run.

But I stay.

There’s something here; some soft, buried part of me that doesn’t flinch anymore.

I know you tried to protect me.

I know it wasn’t easy to carry both of us out of that fire.

But I think you brought me home long before you realized you had.

This place is strange. And sacred.

And it’s mine, in a way I don’t fully understand yet.

But I’m trying.

I hope you’re well. I hope you’re resting.

I’ll write again soon.

—Taehyung

He blinked, not realizing he’d filled the entire page.

The pen hovered midair, his hand slightly trembling.

Then—

A breathless little aha pulsed in his chest.

He read over it once.

Didn’t cross out a single word.

For a moment, he just stared at it.

And then, like fog parting over a lake, he realized—

Yoongi was still there.

Sitting silently across the table, elbows resting on the wood, eyes half-lidded in quiet thought.

He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

But he’d stayed.

Taehyung folded the letter carefully, hands steady now.

He didn’t speak either.

But his shoulders eased, and a soft peace settled between them. The kind born of silence that’s earned, not forced.

Taehyung hesitated, fingers lingering on the folded letter.

Then, a little shyly, “Can you… uhm. Could you read this? And see if it sounds okay?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away.

But he reached out.

Not with urgency. Just a slow, steady hand across the table.

Taehyung passed him the parchment, cheeks faintly warm with nervousness.

Yoongi unfolded it carefully, his eyes tracking each line with the kind of attention that made Taehyung squirm a little in his seat.

But Yoongi didn’t comment. He didn’t pause or frown or tilt his head the way people did when they were trying to fix something.

He just read.

And when he finished, he folded it again—neatly, reverently—and set it gently in front of Taehyung like something sacred.

His voice was soft.

“It sounds like you,” he said.

Then, after a breath:

“And it sounds like she’ll believe you.”

Taehyung looked at him, surprised.

Yoongi met his gaze, calm and unflinching. “That’s the most important part.”

Taehyung swallowed. His chest ached in a way that felt almost like relief.

He nodded once.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Yoongi just leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes like that answer had been enough.

-

The manor was unusually still.

Most of the household had disappeared into their respective corners; resting, preparing, waiting. Even the halls, normally flickering with lanterns or passing laughter, were subdued. Tense.

Taehyung wandered without direction, letter to his mother safely tucked in a drawer upstairs. He hadn’t sent it yet. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he was afraid of what it would mean when he did.

His footsteps drew him down the eastern wing, past the portraits and tall, narrow windows. A thin thread of conversation reached his ears; low, focused voices behind a half-open door.

He paused.

It was Seokjin’s voice, smooth and clipped, sharp enough to cut glass.

“…They’ll push for diplomatic submission under the guise of blessing the ritual. Don’t let the language fool you. They want control, not unity.”

Namjoon’s deeper voice followed. Calm, but layered with weight.

“We can counter with precedent. Taehyung’s blood is firstborn lineage. Heir by birthright and by prophecy. If we cite ancestral law, the Elders will be forced to honor the role, even if they don’t respect it.”

Seokjin let out a soft, bitter laugh. “They’ll try to box him in with tradition and call it reverence.”

Taehyung shifted near the door, uncertain.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed it open.

The study was dim but warm, lamplight glowing against heavy bookshelves and a map spread across the long table. Ink bottles. Unrolled scrolls. A sealed crimson envelope sat at the edge.

Both men looked up.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Taehyung lifted his chin and said, “I… want to understand what you’re planning.”

Namjoon’s brow arched slightly. Seokjin studied him, unreadable.

“I can leave,” Taehyung added. 

“But I don’t want to.”

The silence held.

Then Seokjin gestured to an empty chair across from him.

“Then sit.”

Taehyung sat slowly, feeling the weight of the room settle on his shoulders the moment he crossed the threshold.

Namjoon leaned back in his seat again, arms folding casually, but his eyes didn’t leave Taehyung’s face. Seokjin, meanwhile, reached for a scroll and slid it toward him, fingers brushing the edge of the map.

“Tell us what you see,” Seokjin said.

Taehyung glanced down.

The parchment was old, inked with a delicate hand. It depicted the continent, lines etched in soft gold for the vampire provinces, black for the neutral territories, and a faint red outline around the outermost zone: human lands.

Taehyung blinked. “It’s… a map.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked. “That much we assumed.”

“What else?” Seokjin pressed, calm but expectant.

Taehyung took a breath and leaned forward, scanning the terrain more carefully.

“The borders here,” he said, pointing to the northwestern tip of the map. “They’re shifting.”

“They’ve been disputed for nearly a century,” Namjoon said. “And they’ll be used as leverage during the upcoming visit.”

Taehyung frowned. “Leverage against what?”

Seokjin nodded slowly, pleased. “Good question.”

Namjoon tilted his head. “Imagine you were an Elder arriving to a house about to crown a halfblood heir. An unbonded, unclaimed halfblood. What would you do?”

Taehyung looked between them. Trying to separate himself from the example given, despite it clearly lying within Taehyung’s current situation.

“Undermine the heir,” he said softly. “Find a reason to delay the ritual. Discredit the bloodline. Maybe offer… alternatives.”

Seokjin smiled.

Not kindly, but in an almost cruel way. Amused. 

Jin’s voice dropped slightly. “So. What would you do, if you were them?”

Taehyung straightened, heart thudding in his chest.

“I’d put the heir in the room,” he said. “Let them see me. Let them underestimate me. And I’d listen. Then I’d act.”

Namjoon’s smile widened. “You’re your father’s son.”

Taehyung glanced at him. “Is that a good thing?”

Seokjin folded his hands together. “We’ll let you decide.”

Seokjin leaned forward then, fingers threading together over the scrolls.

“You’re not just a name, Taehyung,” he said, voice lower now. “You’re a symbol. To the Elders, to the bloodlines, to everyone watching. They won’t attack you outright, at least not at first. They’ll test the walls around you.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed. “And you’re the walls?”

Namjoon’s eyes sparked. “We were. Until now.”

There was a silence that felt like an open door.

Taehyung took a breath.

“What are you expecting them to try?”

“Bond negotiations,” Seokjin answered immediately. His voice harsh, the words spit from his lips in thinly veiled anger. 

“They’ll suggest aligning you with a different coven. Outsiders. To ‘strengthen ties.’ It’s political posturing, not matchmaking.”

“They’ll want your blood,” Namjoon added. His eyes shining bright. “Not your affection. And once they have it, they can use you as leverage.”

Taehyung’s mouth went dry. “But I haven’t even—”

“You’ve already been chosen,” Seokjin said, cutting him off. “The prophecy makes that clear. The Offering. The wolves. The eclipse. The Elders won’t argue your power. They’ll just try to redirect it.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then they’ll question your ability to lead.”

Taehyung sat back in the chair, letting that settle.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Taehyung said quietly, “Then I suppose I need to prove I’m worth following.”

Namjoon and Seokjin exchanged a glance. Something spoken between the two of them, like they hadn’t expected Taehyung to say that, but they were highly pleased.

Seokjin’s voice was soft when he spoke.

“You already are.”

Namjoon reached for a sealed letter and slid it across the table. “Let’s begin.”

After an hour of listening, note-taking, and trying not to let his pulse drown out Seokjin’s strategy, Taehyung excused himself with a quiet nod and a grateful glance.

His mind buzzed as he stepped back into the main hall.

But it wasn’t the politics that pulled his focus next.

It was movement, just outside the tall window lining the west corridor.

He paused, drawn toward the pale sunlight filtering through the glass.

Outside, across the lawn and down the slope toward the wilder edge of the estate, a figure moved with calm purpose. Taehyung recognized the posture immediately: easy, languid, and lithe.

Hoseok.

He wasn’t dressed in the elegant darks and silks he usually wore. Instead, he was in simple trousers, boots dusted in earth, a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves and half-unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was tied back, loose tendrils falling into his face.

Taehyung’s brows rose in surprise.

Hoseok carried a pair of shears in one hand and a leather-bound satchel in the other. He moved like someone with intention, like he belonged to the landscape itself, not merely walking through it, but weaving into it.

Taehyung watched for another moment, then slipped outside.

The cold air bit at his skin. The breeze smelled of soil and lavender.

He followed the path Hoseok had taken, further and further toward the overgrown edge of the manor grounds, where the gardens stopped being ornamental and started becoming something else entirely.

Taehyung stepped down the stone path, boots crunching softly over the frosted grass. The manicured hedges gave way to wild vines, thorny bushes, and rows of raised earth beds. All humming with the quiet magic of cultivation.

And there, bent at the edge of a low fence, was Hoseok.

He crouched with one knee in the soil, carefully plucking dead leaves from a row of winter strawberries. His hands were dirt-smudged, gentle, methodical. His shirt clung to his spine, half damp with sweat despite the chill in the air.

Taehyung hesitated just at the edge of the garden, then called out—

“You always make this much effort for fruit?”

Hoseok looked up.

And when he saw Taehyung, he grinned.

The kind of grin that didn’t need magic to dazzle, it just was. Taehyung heard his heart pound. 

Hoseok looked…handsome.

“For strawberries?” Hoseok said. “Absolutely.”

Taehyung laughed under his breath and stepped closer, hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You garden.”

Hoseok raised a brow, gesturing to the flourishing rows beside him. “Clearly.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.”

“I’m many types,” Hoseok said easily. “But this one’s my favorite.”

He reached into a woven basket beside him, pulled free a handful of small, ripe strawberries—still warm from the sun—and held them out in both hands.

“Want one?”

Taehyung blinked. “You’re offering me food from a dirt-covered hand.”

“I’m offering you magic,” Hoseok corrected. “These were grown with runes, moonlight, and love. Eat one and you’ll dream sweet for a week.”

Taehyung stared at him.

Then, slowly, plucked a berry from his palm.

Their fingers brushed, faint and fleeting.

Hoseok’s smile lingered.

Taehyung took a bite. The juice burst across his tongue; sweet, sun-warmed, with a whisper of something like honey and summer rain.

He felt Hoseoks gaze, his lips red and glossed. The vampire didn’t try to hide his interest when Taehyung look up, instead, he licked his lips in turn. His fangs peeking through the plush of his lips.

Taehyung exhaled through his nose. Trying not to choke. 

“…Okay. That’s really good.”

“Told you.”

Hoseok crouched again, returning to the strawberries with a hum under his breath. Not a song Taehyung recognized but a tune, aimless and light.

Taehyung stayed nearby, now seated on the edge of a wooden planter box, legs swinging gently above the soil. He plucked another strawberry from the basket and popped it into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, chewing. “You could sell these.”

“I don’t grow them to sell,” Hoseok replied, voice muffled as he reached into the earth again. “I grow them because I like the way they ask for things.”

Taehyung blinked. “Strawberries ask for things?”

“Oh, they’re needy little things,” Hoseok grinned over his shoulder. “Not like tomatoes. Strawberries want gentle sun, soft soil, quiet hands. They like attention. But they don’t scream for it.”

“So… basically, the plant version of Jimin.”

Hoseok barked out a laugh and almost dropped his shears.

Taehyung smirked, wiping juice from the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Hoseok teased, still grinning.

“You will not.”

“I definitely will.”

Taehyung popped another berry in defiance, cheeks puffed like a squirrel.

They settled into the quiet again, the kind that doesn’t weigh or press. Hoseok worked with rhythmic ease, brushing dirt from his palms and murmuring soft incantations to encourage growth. Every now and then, a soft pulse of magic passed through the rows of greenery, subtle and pulsing like a heartbeat.

Taehyung tilted his head.

“Is that… healing magic?”

“Restorative,” Hoseok said, rising to stretch his back. “From my line. My mother was a soil-binder. Said the best thing about growing things was watching them choose to live.”

Taehyung blinked at him, caught off guard by the softness of it.

Hoseok dusted off his hands, walked over, and handed him another berry. “That one’s the ripest. Save it for last.”

Taehyung held it carefully between his fingers. “Do you treat all your plants like royalty?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “So dramatic.”

“You’re in a vampire’s garden,” Hoseok said with mock offense. “You should expect a little drama.”

Taehyung laughed, genuinely now, his fingers sticky with berry juice.

“I’m going to get spoiled here,” he muttered, licking the red stain off his thumb. “No one ever told me vampire life came with five-star gardening and catered blood feasts.”

Hoseok dusted dirt from his hands and gave him a satisfied look. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

Taehyung blinked, caught off guard again by the softness in his tone.

And maybe Hoseok noticed, because he didn’t let the silence linger long. He sat down on the planter edge beside him, stretching his legs out into the grass.

For a while, they just sat there.

Shoulder to shoulder.

The wind combed through the garden, carrying the scent of fresh soil and sun-warmed leaves. Bees moved lazily between the blossoms.

Then Hoseok spoke.

Still casual but something quieter beneath it.

“How are you doing?” he asked. “Really.”

Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. He watched a butterfly land on the fence post nearby, its wings trembling like it had overheard them.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Some days I feel like I’ve been here my whole life. Like I just forgot it until now. Other days, I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes.”

Hoseok nodded once, slow. “They’ll fit soon.”

Taehyung looked down at the final strawberry, the one Hoseok told him to save.

It glowed faintly red in his palm, warm from his touch.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “About the ritual. About what comes after.”

“You should be,” Hoseok said gently. “It means you’re still choosing. Not just obeying.”

Taehyung exhaled slowly. The fear didn’t vanish, but it settled. It was always easier to talk to Hoseok about these things, these…fears.

Taehyung took a bite of the last strawberry, let it melt across his tongue, and smiled faintly.

“Still sweet,” he said.

“Of course,” Hoseok murmured, watching him. “It’s all yours.”

-

Midnight

No one called for him.

No footsteps in the hallway. No knock on the door. No invitation laced in velvet words or Seokjin’s elegant handwriting.

Just… the walls.

Whispering.

Not loudly. Not urgently.

Just enough for him to feel it in his bones like a gentle pull behind his ribs, a thread tugging him forward, down the stairs and through the sleeping hush of the manor.

He moved without fear.

Barefoot, soft-clothed, wrapped in one of the long robes Jimin had left on the back of his door the day before, dark burgundy silk, trimmed in delicate embroidery that shimmered like dusk.

The house welcomed him. Every shadow opened. Every candle flickered alive in his path.

By the time he reached the ‘living room’, that strange, sprawling space filled with old couches, low tables, and too many books, it was like walking into a heartbeat.

They were already there.

All six.

Comfortable. Luxurious. Unapologetically at ease in one another’s orbit.

Jimin lay draped over a couch like a painting, all skin and silk and sleepy smirks. Yoongi was curled into one corner with a book open in his lap, though his eyes weren’t reading; just watching. Namjoon sat on the floor with his back against the fireplace, one knee pulled up, idly sipping from a crystal goblet.

Seokjin leaned into the arm of a chair, robes immaculate, one hand resting lazily in Jungkook’s hair; who was half-asleep on the rug below, head pillowed on someone’s coat, eyes flickering red in the firelight.

They looked up when Taehyung entered.

Not startled.

Not expectant.

Just… waiting.

Like they knew he’d come.

Like he belonged there.

And without a word, a place opened between them.

Taehyung didn’t speak.

The air in the room hummed low and gold around him, thick with incense, blood, and lavender. It felt like something holy and human all at once.

He crossed the room in bare feet, and not a single sound followed him. No creak, no breath, not even a crackle from the fire.

Yoongi shifted slightly.

Not enough to make space. Just enough to say I’m here. This is yours, too.

Taehyung lowered himself beside him.

Their thighs brushed. Their shoulders aligned.

Yoongi didn’t look at him, not at first. He just closed his book, laid it on the side table, and rested one arm along the back of the couch; casual, but not careless.

The moment settled like a sigh.

Jimin stretched on his cushion like a cat basking in sunlight.

Seokjin murmured something to Namjoon, who answered with a low chuckle.

Jungkook stirred and blinked up at Taehyung, eyes red but soft, then tucked himself deeper into the coat beneath his head.

And Taehyung…

…just breathed.

For the first time in days, he let himself exist without bracing.

The quiet didn’t last forever.

It unraveled gently, like threads of smoke curling from incense, twisting into voices and shared warmth.

“You look good in my clothes.” Jimin mumbled, eyes bright and staring at Taehyung fondly. A little hungry.

Taehyung flushed. Glancing down at the robe he had adorned before leaving his room, beautiful and elegant, just like Jimin. 

He was sure everyone could hear his heart race inside his chest.

“Do you remember when Hoseok tried to flirt with that siren prince from the Eastern Isles?” Jungkook drawled from his sprawl, one arm tossed dramatically over his forehead.

Hoseok, from somewhere on the floor near a half-empty bottle, scoffed. “Tried?”

“You nearly got cursed,” Namjoon said, raising an eyebrow over the rim of his glass.

“It was a language barrier,” Hoseok replied, indignant. “Apparently ‘eat me’ means something very different in siren dialect.”

Jungkook snorted into the fur-lined pillow he was half buried in. “You’re lucky Jin bribed the prince with enchanted sea pearls.”

“I didn’t bribe him,” Seokjin said, looking offended. “I offered a diplomatic gift.”

“Your gift had heat runes etched on it,” Yoongi murmured. “Subtle.”

Taehyung watched them—all of them—and something like a laugh caught in his throat. It was too real, too ridiculous, too normal for everything he’d been carrying.

He smiled before he meant to.

“Please tell me there’s more,” he said.

“Oh, love,” Jimin purred, shifting closer, “we’ve got centuries of blackmail material.”

“And none of it’s safe,” Yoongi added.

“Especially not after bloodwine,” Hoseok chimed in, lifting a goblet in salute.

Namjoon looked to Taehyung then, tone softer beneath the teasing. “You’re allowed to laugh, you know. Even now.”

Taehyung met his eyes and the look wasn’t pitying. It was inviting.

Like: You’re one of us now. Laugh if you want. Cry if you must.

And so he did.

A small, real laugh that curled out of his mouth like it had been trapped in his lungs too long.

And no one made a big deal of it.

They just smiled back.

Letting the moment wrap around them like a shared cloak.

The laughter faded slowly, like ripples smoothing over water.

The fire crackled softly. Shadows danced across the high ceiling.

Jungkook shifted first, easing up from his nest of pillows and coats. He moved fluidly, predator-smooth, but not with hunger. With intention.

He crossed the room and stopped at Seokjin’s side.

Didn’t say anything.

Just leaned in, and cupped Jin’s face with steady hands, thumb brushing along his jaw as if memorizing it.

Jin didn’t flinch.

He simply tilted his head, eyes falling half-lidded as Jungkook leaned up—

And kissed him.

Slow. Unrushed. Familiar.

Their mouths met like something practiced and beloved.

No tension. No bite.

Just reverence.

The room didn’t go quiet, it deepened.

Like everything had gone warmer around the edges.

Yoongi shifted beside Taehyung. Jimin pulled himself into Hoseok’s lap with a sigh, arms slinging around his shoulders.

Namjoon reached forward, catching Yoongi’s wrist with fingers that dragged slow down his forearm until their hands were laced, palm to palm.

It was never performative.

It was home.

Taehyung watched.

His mouth parted slightly. Breath catching.

He wasn’t embarrassed nor was he flustered like he might’ve been three weeks ago.

He just felt… caught.

Between wonder and gravity.

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t want to.

He watched the way Jin’s fingers slid into Jungkook’s hair. The way Jimin whispered something that made Hoseok smile and tilt his head to expose the soft skin of his neck.

He watched the way these creatures—powerful, ancient, dangerous—loved each other. Tenderly. Fearlessly. Without hesitation.

And something deep in his chest fluttered.

Not jealousy.

Not even yearning.

Just a pull.

Something ancient in him whispering:

Soon.

He must’ve been staring longer than he realized.

Because when he blinked, Seokjin’s gaze was already on him.

Not startled. Not smug.

Just… aware.

Their kiss had ended, but Jin still had one hand gently threaded through Jungkook’s hair. His other arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingertips brushing Yoongi’s shoulder as if out of habit.

“Do you like watching, little one?” Seokjin asked softly.

Taehyung startled, but not from shame. From the sudden, undeniable heat curling up his spine.

“I wasn’t—” he began, voice low.

Namjoon smiled. “You were.”

Taehyung flushed, throat tightening, but something in their tones kept it from burning. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking. It was… kind. Knowing.

Across the room, Jungkook’s eyes gleamed red again. Softer this time. His chin rested lightly on Seokjin’s thigh, gaze heavy-lidded and lazy, but fixed on him.

“You don’t have to speak yet,” Yoongi murmured beside him, voice quiet like the firelight. “But you can stay as long as you want.”

“Or longer,” Jimin added from across the room, fingers trailing lazily through Hoseok’s curls. “We never mind an audience when it’s someone we love.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away either.

And in a house full of ancient vampires and soft mouths and silken promises, that was enough.

For now.

When Taehyung woke, the room was still bathed in soft morning dark. The curtains had been drawn sometime during the night, the only light a pale thread sneaking beneath the hem, cool and gentle across the stone floor.

His body was slow to rise. Limbs warm. Muscles heavy in that pleasant, half-dreaming way.

But what caught his attention first wasn’t the light.

It was the space beside him.

The pillow.

There was an indent in it; subtle, but clear.

Not just rumpled fabric, but the shape of a head. The way the sheets were pulled slightly downward, the way the air still carried a trace of something… other.

Someone had lain beside him.

For hours, maybe. Long after he’d fallen asleep on the velvet couch in the living room, lulled by firelight and laughter.

They’d carried him here.

Stayed with him.

And now—

Now, there was something waiting.

On the nightstand.

A simple ring with a single crack down the middle.

And a note.

The paper was thick, torn from the manor’s stationery. The handwriting elegant but sharp-edged, familiar now in the same way a voice becomes recognizable in a dream.

Taehyung,

You don’t need to wear it yet.

But it’s always been yours.

We’ve never stopped waiting.

—J

Taehyung read the note twice.

Then once more, slower.

His fingers hovered above the paper for a long moment, not touching it, but instead feeling the weight of what was said.

He looked at the ring next.

It was nothing flashy. No gaudy gemstone, no sigils carved into its surface. Just smooth silver—slightly cool to the touch—and warm at the base, as if it had been held for a long time before being left there.

He turned it over once in his palm.

Then slowly, almost reverently, slipped it onto his finger.

It fit.

Like it had always been meant to.

He stared at it in the morning light, the silver band catching the soft gray glow.

And for the first time in a long while, Taehyung didn’t feel like he was running.

He felt still.

Not owned.

Not claimed.

But held.

Gently.

Like a promise whispered before waking.

Chapter Text

The raised voices reached him before he even touched the stairs.

At first, he thought it was something distant, servants, maybe. Or one of the older vampires rehearsing ritual lines in a forgotten wing. But as he stepped down the curved stone steps, the words sharpened. Fractured.

Angry.

Taehyung’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the banister. His feet moved quietly, instinctively silent. The closer he got, the clearer the voices became.

They were in the study.

The door was half-open.

He didn’t knock.

He paused just outside, heart fluttering.

Inside—

Seokjin stood stiffly at the head of the long table, hands clenched around the edge, his normally elegant face taut with restrained fury.

Across from him stood Jungkook; tension rolled through every line of his body, his jaw set, red eyes bright and unflinching.

“You had no right,” Seokjin hissed. “That was not yours to give, Jungkook.”

“Why not?!” Jungkook snapped. “It’s his.”

“Yes. But he has to ask for it.”

There was a long, strained silence. No one else moved.

“That is our bond claim,” Seokjin continued, voice low but sharp as a blade. “He won’t know its meaning when he puts it on.”

Taehyung’s stomach dropped.

He looked down at his own hand.

The silver band gleamed faintly, catching the morning light.

His fingers twitched.

Inside, Jungkook spoke again. Softer, but no less resolute.

“What was I supposed to do? I’m suffering, Jin. With him here…but not here. Not here with us.”

Taehyung stepped forward when he heard Jungkooks voice crack.

The floor creaked under his bare foot, the sound impossibly loud in the silence that followed.

The door, already half-ajar, opened fully beneath his touch.

Six eyes turned toward him.

Jungkook froze.

Seokjin’s jaw tensed.

Namjoon straightened slowly from where he leaned in the corner, expression unreadable.

Taehyung’s voice was quiet. Careful.

“…What is a bond claim?”

No one answered immediately.

The silence thickened, tight as thread pulled through the eye of a needle.

Taehyung stepped into the room fully now, his robe trailing softly behind him, the silver ring catching the light like an accusation.

“I heard you say it,” he added, looking first to Seokjin, then to Jungkook. “That the ring wasn’t his to give.”

Jungkook’s throat moved as he swallowed.

Seokjin was the one who finally spoke. His voice didn’t carry anger this time, just weight.

“A bond claim,” he said, carefully, “is the oldest vow among our kind. It’s how we ask someone to belong to us. To choose us. Not as property but as bonded. By blood. By body. By will.”

Taehyung’s breath caught. “So this…?”

He looked down at the ring again.

“It’s a symbol,” Seokjin continued. “An offer. But it must be accepted knowingly, willingly. Worn with intent. If it’s not—”

Jungkook cut in. “—then it’s just silver. A ring. That’s all.”

“No,” Seokjin said, more firmly now. “Not to him. Not to us.”

Taehyung looked between them.

Then back at the ring on his hand.

And whispered, “I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Seokjin said, softer now. “Not yet.”

Taehyung looked down at the ring again.

It caught the light like it had something to say.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he curled his fingers into a fist.

“I’ll wear it,” he said.

Seokjin’s eyes narrowed. “You do not know its meaning, Taehyung.”

“Then tell me,” Taehyung snapped with more force than he meant, but not regretful. “Explain it to me, please.”

He looked around the room, gaze sweeping across the others. Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, standing just behind the threshold, quiet but watching.

“I’m tired of being told I don’t understand,” Taehyung said, voice trembling now—not from fear, but from frustration. “If there are rules—secrets—or, fucking hell. Any rituals—I want to know them. Don’t keep me in the dark and then blame me for walking blindly.”

A breath.

“I wore the ring because it felt right. Because when I saw it, I knew. Maybe not what it meant to you, but what it meant to me.”

He met Seokjin’s eyes again.

“I don’t take that back.”

Jungkook, still near the window, closed his eyes like something in him had been set down.

Seokjin stepped away from the table slowly.

He studied Taehyung for a long moment. Then asked, voice low and precise:

“Are you ready to hear the truth? All of it?”

Taehyung didn’t flinch.

He straightened his shoulders and said:

“Yes.”

Seokjin’s gaze didn’t break from Taehyung’s, but something in him softened.

He nodded once.

Then turned slightly to the group standing by the door.

“Go on then,” he said quietly in ancient tongue.

Yoongi stepped forward from the far side of the room. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, like he was stepping into something sacred.

He stopped in front of Taehyung.

And held out his hand.

No command. No explanation. Just the offer.

Taehyung hesitated for only a second, then placed his hand in Yoongi’s palm.

Warm.

Cool.

Timeless.

Yoongi’s fingers curled around his gently.

“Breathe,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

And the moment Taehyung exhaled—

Everything changed.

-

Memory

The room disappeared.

The stone floor beneath his feet was replaced with forest.

Moonlight filtered through ancient trees. The air shimmered, not with magic, but with meaning.

In the clearing stood six figures, all younger, but unmistakably them.

Jimin’s hair glowed silver in the dark. Hoseok’s laughter rang like bells. Namjoon was kneeling beside a carved sigil in the dirt, and Seokjin stood at the center, dressed in ceremonial robes the color of ash.

And at the heart of it all: a small boy.

Barefoot. Wide-eyed. Dressed in black velvet and soft wool.

Him.

Taehyung—no older than ten—stood in the center of the circle. Jungkook, maybe twelve, stood beside him, clutching a ring in his small hand.

“Are you sure?” Seokjin asked the boy.

Young Taehyung nodded. “If I say yes, will I stay forever?”

“You’ll be bound,” Yoongi’s voice came from somewhere behind. “You’ll always return to us. Even if time forgets your name.”

The boy looked up at Jungkook.

“I want that,” he whispered.

Jungkook stepped forward and pressed the ring into his hand.

“Then you’re ours,” he said. “Forever.”

The forest breathed around them.

The six older vampires moved in quiet rhythm, surrounding the small version of Taehyung as if protecting something delicate. Not because he was fragile, but because what they were about to do was.

Namjoon finished the rune in the soil. A spiral laced with blood and ash. Yoongi placed a single black candle at each cardinal point. Hoseok lit them with a murmur and a flick of his fingers, fire springing to life like it had been waiting.

Jimin knelt before the younger Taehyung, smiling with a warmth only children deserve.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, tapping the silver ring.

Taehyung nodded solemnly. “A promise.”

“Not just any promise,” Seokjin corrected gently. “A claim.”

Yoongi’s voice was quiet, carrying across the ritual space like smoke. “A bond claim is the highest form of choosing in our kind. It’s not dominance. It’s not ownership. It’s recognition.”

“In our history,” Namjoon added, “there were no arranged bonds. No political mates. Only those whose blood called to each other in the dark.”

“Like a thread,” Hoseok said, brushing his thumb over Taehyung’s temple. “Invisible. Unbreakable. It ties you to those who are yours.”

“You gave that thread a name when you took the ring,” Seokjin said. “You bound yourself to us. And we bound ourselves to you.”

Jungkook, young and trembling with seriousness, held out the ring in both hands like it was a crown.

“If you wear this, you become ours,” he said. “You will be loved by us. Protected. Honored.”

“You will not be able to bond with another,” Namjoon added softly. “Not truly. Because this bond is eternal. It is old magic. Older than time.”

“And if I ever take it off?” Taehyung had asked, voice small.

The group hesitated.

Then Yoongi said, “Then you are still ours. Always. Even if you forget.”

Seokjin’s voice was the last.

“Because love is not a cage, Taehyung. It is a circle.”

And in that memory, the young boy stepped into the center of the rune.

Placed the ring on his finger.

And the entire forest glowed.

-

Taehyung gasped.

His knees hit the floor.

The study snapped back into focus. Bookshelves, dust motes, Seokjin’s sharp expression, Jungkook’s wide, trembling eyes.

Yoongi still held his hand.

Gently.

But Taehyung couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Because suddenly he knew.

Not just the meaning of the ring.

But the depth of what it cost them to wait.

Taehyung stayed on his knees, breathing shallowly.

His fingers still clutched around Yoongi’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.

He didn’t cry.

But his eyes burned.

Not from pain.

From knowing.

Yoongi knelt in front of him slowly, never letting go. His thumb brushed the inside of Taehyung’s wrist.

“You were ours before you knew what it meant,” Yoongi said softly. “And we chose you before we had the right.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked as he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t waver. “Because you needed to want us again. Without memory. Without pressure. Without magic to guide your hand.”

Taehyung stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. “And if I hadn’t put on the ring?”

“Then we would’ve waited another lifetime, if we had to.”

Yoongi’s voice didn’t shake.

It never shook.

But there was something in his eyes, an ache so old it had worn smooth.

Taehyung swallowed hard. “Why? Why bind yourselves to someone who might never come back?”

Jimin, from the doorway, murmured: “Because we never stopped loving you.”

Taehyung turned back to Yoongi, desperate now. “I need to know all of it. Not just the ritual. Not just the magic. Everything. What I promised. What you are to me.”

Yoongi leaned closer.

His forehead touched Taehyung’s just barely.

And he whispered:

“We are your bondmates. Your chosen. Not by fate. By will.”

“And you are the soul our magic waited for.”

Taehyung’s breath caught again.

But this time, he didn’t pull away.

Yoongi’s forehead lingered against his for just a moment longer, grounding him. Anchoring him.

Then Seokjin’s voice cut through the hush. Not unkind, but firm, as always.

“Taehyung.”

Taehyung looked up.

Seokjin stood tall again, arms folded across his chest, gaze clear and sharpened by centuries.

“If you want to know everything,” he said, “you need more than memory. You need history.”

Taehyung nodded, still on the floor.

Seokjin began.

“In our kind, bloodlines are not tangled by accident. They are preserved. Maintained.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed.

“You mean… like…”

“Yes,” Seokjin said evenly. “Incest, by human standards. But our kind does not pass on weakness through union. We pass on power. Strength. Blood that remembers itself.”

Taehyung’s mouth felt dry. “And me?”

“You are born of the eldest line. Direct, undiluted. But you were born half, and that makes you both a risk… and a miracle.”

Taehyung’s heart thudded.

Seokjin stepped closer, voice quiet now, almost reverent.

“Which is why bond claims are sacred. They are not taken lightly. They are older than marriage. Older than titles. They are a union of magic, mind, and memory.”

He looked down at Taehyung’s ring.

“Your acceptance of that ring, even without understanding, signaled your body’s memory. And your soul’s consent.”

Taehyung looked down at the ring, stomach turning and grounding all at once.

“But I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know what I was saying yes to.”

“No,” Seokjin said. “But some truths live in the blood before the mind can catch up.”

He paused. Let that settle.

Then:

“There is no turning back from a full bond claim. Not once it’s spoken aloud. When the ritual is complete, we will not be your cousins anymore. We will be your mates. Permanently. Eternally. And you will be ours.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

Everything in the room had grown still.

Jungkook hadn’t moved.

Yoongi’s hand remained wrapped around his.

And Seokjin’s voice didn’t waver when he said:

“You are not bound yet, Taehyung. Not fully. But the ring was your first step.”

Taehyung’s voice was almost a whisper.

“…How do you bond fully?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

No one rushed to answer.

Until Seokjin did.

Calm. Steady. Final.

“You drink our blood,” he said, “and we drink yours.”

Taehyung froze.

He blinked. “That’s it?”

Seokjin’s eyes met his. “No. That’s everything.”

Yoongi added quietly, “The bond is sealed through shared blood and shared intent. When the last drop passes between us, you’ll be ours in magic, memory, and body. Your life, tied to ours. Your soul, recognized as part of our circle.”

Taehyung swallowed hard, his pulse loud in his ears.

“And if I don’t…?”

“No one will force you,” Seokjin said. “But the bond will remain incomplete. And the house, the bloodline—we—will remain waiting.”

He knelt down then, finally. Coming eye-level with Taehyung, expression gentler now.

“Understand this, Taehyung. Bonding isn’t an act of claiming power over you. It’s offering power with you.”

He reached out, not to touch, just to be closer.

“You’re not a trophy. You’re not a pet. You’re a part of us that got lost.”

Hoseok’s voice echoed from the doorway, soft as silk: “And now you’re home.”

Taehyung’s gaze dropped to the floor again.

His voice came quieter, but firmer.

“…What if I don’t want to choose you?”

The question rang like a bell through the room.

No one moved.

Then Namjoon spoke, his voice even but rushed.

“Of course, you don’t have to choose us,” he said, carefully. “There are… other covens. Strong ones. Old ones. They would be more than blessed to have you.”

Blessed.

Like he was a gift passed between temples.

Taehyung looked up sharply.

And watched it unfold.

Namjoon’s hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Jungkook, still by the window, hissed. The sound animal, low and involuntary. His fangs bared. Shoulders tense. The ring on Taehyung’s hand caught his eye and seemed to burn.

“Don’t say that,” Jungkook growled, voice breaking at the edges.

“Kook—” Jimin said, trying to soothe, but Jungkook took a step forward.

“He’s not meant for them.” His voice was shaking. “He was never meant for them.”

Seokjin’s tone turned hard, warning. “Control yourself.”

“He’s wearing the ring,” Jungkook snapped, eyes burning. “Ours.”

“That you forced upon him, jungkook.”

Everything went hushed at that. The fire in a jungkooks eyes dying a little at the harshness in Seokjin words.

Taehyung didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink.

Instead, he asked, soft but relentless:

“So that’s it? I’m meant to be yours just because you were the first to ask?”

“No,” Yoongi said simply, still kneeling beside him. “You’re meant to be ours because you were. Because you chose us first, even if you didn’t know what choosing meant.”

He looked at Taehyung then, not with pleading. But with knowing.

“And because we’ve never stopped choosing you.”

Taehyung didn’t speak for a long time.

His fingers grazed the edge of the ring again, the weight of it different now, less romantic, more real.

His voice, when it came, was low. Uneven.

“When you say I chose you before I actually did…”

He looked at Yoongi.

“What does that mean? Did my parents… birth me just to bond?”

Something dark flickered across the faces in the room. The kind of stillness that comes with old pain.

Then Yoongi snorted—soft and rough all at once—shaking his head as if the question itself was ridiculous.

“No,” he said firmly. “Your mother birthed you out of love. Your father loved you enough to lose you.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened slightly.

Yoongi leaned forward just a little, his hand still loosely holding Taehyung’s.

“You were born into magic. But you weren’t made for anyone. Not as a pawn. Not as a legacy. And sure as hell not as a bride we could parade around and claim.”

Jimin stepped closer, voice gentle now. “The ritual wasn’t designed to bind you. It was designed to wait for you.”

Namjoon finally looked at him too, steadier now. “You didn’t choose us with your name or your mind. You chose us in your blood. The first time you stepped into that circle. When you let Jungkook give you that ring.”

“It was innocent,” Hoseok added, from behind. “And real. And powerful enough to echo through your whole life.”

Seokjin’s voice followed, softer than before. “This wasn’t about your parents. This was always about you.”

Taehyung’s throat felt tight again.

But it wasn’t panic this time.

It was understanding and the kind of ache that comes when someone finally tells you you weren’t born just to serve a purpose.

Taehyung’s voice was quieter now. Not afraid. Just… careful.

“What about my father?” he asked. “If bonding was so expected, so sacred, why didn’t he bond with your father? Or with someone from another coven?”

The room shifted.

Not uncomfortably, but with the weight of old memory surfacing.

It was Seokjin who answered first.

“Your father might have,” he said slowly, “but he always wanted more.”

Yoongi nodded, picking up the thread like it was familiar.

“Growing up, our uncle reached for things the supernatural couldn’t provide for him. He was curious. Restless.”

“He didn’t want to be told who to love,” Jimin added. “Or how to live. He used to say eternity only mattered if you spent it feeling.”

Taehyung’s heart gave a small, painful kick.

Seokjin continued, gaze distant. “So he left. He traveled to the human territories against our father’s advice. And when he came back, he brought a human.”

He looked directly at Taehyung now.

“A woman. Your mother.”

The silence that followed was tender.

Yoongi’s voice dropped. “He loved her dearly. Recklessly. Enough to break every bond promise he’d ever made before her.”

Namjoon spoke next, low and steady.

“And through her, we learned the love and fragility of humans. The choice of it. The bravery of it. And we accepted that your father had chosen a different kind of bond.”

Taehyung swallowed hard. “And my mother?”

“She was strong,” Seokjin said simply. “Not like us. But fierce in her own way. She fought for you in a world that didn’t want her. And when the Elders threatened to sever you from us… she ran.”

Taehyung felt the floor sway beneath him.

Not physically. Just emotionally.

“I always thought she left because of the fire?”

“She left because of you,” Yoongi corrected. “Because you were both vampire and human and the Council feared what you might become.”

“And what is that?” Taehyung asked softly.

No one answered.

Because none of them knew.

Jungkook hadn’t spoken the entire time.

Not really.

But now, from the far side of the room, his voice cut through. Low, quiet, and uneven.

“He didn’t leave you.”

Taehyung looked up sharply.

Jungkook was standing by the window, fingers clenched at his sides. His eyes weren’t glowing but the emotion in them was brighter than any fire.

“Your father didn’t abandon you. Neither did we.”

He stepped forward.

“You lived here. With us. You laughed in this house. You bled in the gardens. You slept between our rooms and climbed the stairs barefoot.”

Another step.

“You were happy, Taehyung. We were a family.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

“Then what happened?”

Jungkook’s voice dropped.

“The fire.”

Silence.

“The humans called it an accident. A riot. But it wasn’t. It was a message. Rebels wanted our bloodline broken. They wanted to kill you before you ever awakened.”

Taehyung’s stomach twisted. He remembered… flashes. Smoke. Screams. His mother’s grip on his wrist.

“She took you,” Jungkook said. “Your mother. The second the fire hit the east wing, she grabbed you and ran. She didn’t even wait to find your father.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

“She saved you,” Jungkook added, gentler now. “But it split everything. The house. The bond. Us.”

He looked directly into Taehyung’s eyes.

“And we’ve been waiting to bring you home ever since.”

Taehyung stood slowly.

He wasn’t sure when he’d let go of Yoongi’s hand but he did, rising like something heavy had been lifted from his chest and replaced with something heavier still.

He crossed the room without thinking.

Each step echoing.

And stopped in front of Jungkook.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse.

“You remember all that?”

Jungkook nodded.

His throat worked as he tried to speak. “Every second.”

Taehyung’s eyes flickered over the line of Jungkook’s jaw, the tense curve of his mouth, the barely concealed desperation in his stance.

He raised a hand slowly.

And pressed it to Jungkook’s chest.

Right over his heart.

“I don’t,” he said. “Not all of it. Just flashes. Shadows. But when I’m here, with you…” He swallowed. “It feels like breathing again.”

Jungkook didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

His hands hovered just above Taehyung’s sides, trembling like he was waiting for permission.

Taehyung didn’t step away.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” he whispered. “But I know I don’t want to run.”

Jungkook exhaled, ragged.

And finally, carefully, wrapped his arms around him.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It wasn’t a vow.

But it was the first thing that felt like home.

Later that night.

The house was quiet again, but not the kind of silence that weighed. It was the kind that invited.

And this time, Taehyung didn’t wait to be summoned.

He moved through the halls like he’d always belonged there. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Just ready.

The robe around his shoulders was soft, brushed velvet, cinched loose around his waist. The ring on his finger pulsed faintly with magic he could feel now, like it recognized what he was about to do.

He didn’t have a plan.

He just wanted to know them.

To understand them as people, not just symbols of power or memory.

To choose them—all of them—not just because of history.

But because he wanted to.

The study door was slightly ajar.

Light flickered beneath it. Not from candles, but from runes carved into the old desk. Their glow was faint and pulsing, like breath. Like thought.

Taehyung raised a hand.

Paused.

Then knocked gently, letting his knuckles brush the edge.

A rustle of paper. The creak of a chair.

“Come in,” Namjoon called, voice calm but low.

Taehyung pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air was warm, rich with the scent of ink, aged parchment, and something fainter, like bergamot and pine. Books were stacked in neat, heavy piles around the room. A map was unfurled across the table, arcane symbols shifting faintly along its borders.

Namjoon sat at the far end, sleeves rolled up, ink smudged along the side of his hand. He looked up, surprised.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

Taehyung shook his head. “Didn’t want to.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly. “So… what do you want?”

Taehyung stepped forward, closer to the desk. The firelight caught the curve of his jaw, the silver ring gleaming faintly against the velvet draped over his wrist.

“I want to know you,” he said simply. “Not through someone else’s story. Yours.”

Namjoon blinked.

And for a moment, he looked younger. Like someone who hadn’t expected to be chosen.

Namjoon didn’t answer right away.

He looked down at the parchment in front of him, like the lines of ink might offer clarity.

Then he smiled.

Not the charming, composed smile he gave during rituals or dinner.

But something real.

Small.

Fragile around the edges.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he said softly. “You were four. Still clumsy on your feet. You ran down that hallway in socks, screaming something about ghosts in the wallpaper.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

Namjoon laughed under his breath, eyes distant. “Your father had just returned from the human territories. It had been years since we saw him. We were sure he’d come back alone. Angry. But then he walked through the manor doors with a boy in his arms.”

His voice dropped.

“You.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms folding loosely across his chest.

“The manor changed that day. It used to be… dark. Beautiful, yes, but cold. Heavy. Like it had grown tired of itself.”

His eyes lifted, landing on Taehyung’s face.

“But when you came in, you lit it up. Not with magic. Not with power. Just with… life. You had a blanket wrapped around your head and one sock missing, and I swear the house breathed for the first time in a century.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He didn’t remember that day—not all of it—but he could feel it.

“Did I say anything?” he asked.

Namjoon’s smile turned wistful. “You pointed at me. And you said: ‘You look like the moon.’”

Taehyung blinked. “I—what?”

“You said I looked lonely. Like the moon. And then you walked over and handed me a toy rabbit. Said he was brave enough to sleep alone, so I’d be okay.”

Taehyung felt the breath leave his chest.

Namjoon’s gaze gentled.

“You had no idea who I was. What I’d done. You didn’t care. You just… saw me.”

He paused. Then added:

“I’ve never forgotten how that felt.”

Taehyung stepped closer.

One slow, careful step around the scattered books. Then another.

Until he was at Namjoon’s side close enough to see the faint ink stain on his knuckle, the slow lift of his chest with each breath.

He didn’t say anything.

He just… sat.

On the edge of the desk, beside the maps and notes. His knee brushed Namjoon’s shoulder. Not intentional.

But not accidental either.

Namjoon looked up at him.

And for the first time in that study, his posture softened. He didn’t sit like a leader. He sat like someone remembering how to feel.

“You were never afraid of me,” he said, voice low. “Not like the others. Not even when you got older. Not when you learned what I could do.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “What can you do?”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “Speak and be heard.”

He tapped the side of his throat gently.

“My voice carries magic. Old magic. When I command, most people listen, whether they want to or not. I can uncover theirs lies, and expose their secrets.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed. “You never used it on me.”

“I didn’t have to,” Namjoon said, simply. “You always listened with your heart first. Honest without fault.”

A pause.

Then:

“I used to wonder why you were the one who remembered me when the others ran from me. Why you insisted on sitting beside me during lessons, even when I said nothing. I think part of me believed you were too young to know better.”

His gaze flicked up to meet Taehyung’s again.

“But I was wrong. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were choosing me. Back then, when I didn’t know I needed to be chosen.”

Taehyung’s chest ached.

He reached forward, slow and uncertain, and placed a hand on Namjoon’s ink-stained one.

Their fingers didn’t tangle.

But they touched.

And Namjoon, for once, didn’t speak.

He just breathed.

The study door closed behind him with a soft click.

Taehyung moved through the hallway slowly, heart still thudding with the rhythm of remembered words. The house was quiet again, but not empty. It breathed. It watched.

And as he stepped past the central staircase, he heard it—

A melody.

Not a recorded one.

Sung.

Sweet. Lazy. Off-key in a way that felt intentional.

The foyer was open, tall ceilings stretching overhead like a cathedral. Moonlight spilled through the high glass dome above, bathing the black-and-white marble floor in silver.

And there, barefoot and alone, was Jimin.

Dancing.

Not rehearsed. Not choreographed. Just… moving.

His robe fluttered around his ankles like mist, and his hair—purple-gray and soft—shimmered under the moonlight. His eyes were closed. His steps were quiet, smooth across the floor. Every movement looked like something remembered by his bones.

Taehyung froze at the threshold.

And watched.

Jimin turned lightly, fingers trailing the air like silk ribbons.

He pivoted. Slid. Arched.

And then opened his eyes, right on Taehyung.

His smile was slow. Bright.

“You’re staring,” he sang, stepping toward him.

Taehyung blinked, startled. “You’re singing.”

“I do that when I don’t want to be alone,” Jimin said, voice breathy with warmth. “It calls the house to me.”

Taehyung stepped forward slowly.

“I don’t think the house is the one you were hoping to call.”

Jimin’s grin turned sharp. “And yet here you are.”

Taehyung stood just a few steps inside the foyer, the marble cold beneath his feet.

The music had stopped, but Jimin still swayed, like the melody hadn’t really left him.

Taehyung watched the way the moonlight played over his skin. The way his robe slipped off one shoulder. The way his fingers moved like water when he walked.

And then—

Quietly. Boldly.

“Will you dance with me?”

Jimin stilled.

His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. Not with suspicion, but with surprise. As if the question had caught him in a soft place he didn’t expect to have touched.

Taehyung’s heart raced.

“I mean—” he started, suddenly unsure, “only if—”

“Yes,” Jimin said, smile blooming slow and real.

He reached forward, taking Taehyung’s hand in both of his, cool fingers lacing easily with warm ones.

“You’ve never asked me for anything before,” he said, voice light as spun sugar. “Not like that.”

Taehyung’s smile was shy. “I didn’t know I could.”

Jimin pulled him gently toward the center of the marble floor.

“You always could,” he said. “I was just waiting for you to want to.”

And then they danced.

No music.

No steps to follow.

Just Jimin’s body guiding his, hands warm, breath soft against his cheek. Every spin was light, every movement graceful. Taehyung didn’t think. He just let go. He let Jimin lead, and he let himself feel the safety, the closeness, the quiet thrill of choosing.

And Jimin, Jimin smiled like he’d been chosen back.

The dance slowed.

Their hands lingered together, movement fading into stillness.

Taehyung’s chest rose and fell with quiet breath, his head tilted just slightly toward Jimin’s shoulder. He could feel the vampire’s pulse in his presence, like music held under the skin.

Jimin’s fingers tightened gently around his.

“You used to watch me,” he said, softly.

Taehyung blinked, pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

Jimin’s gaze was warm, steady. No teasing in it now. No performance.

“When you were young,” he continued. “Before you could really speak in full sentences. You’d sit on the edge of the staircase during rehearsals. Blankets wrapped around your shoulders like a little ghost.”

He smiled faintly.

“And you never said a word. Not once. Just sat there. Staring at me like I was made of light.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

“I didn’t think you remembered me,” he murmured.

“Oh, I always remembered you,” Jimin said. “You had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. But when you watched me dance… they stopped being sad.”

A pause.

“You used to copy me sometimes,” Jimin added, voice lower now, more fragile. “When you thought no one was looking. Spinning in the hall. Arms out, like wings.”

Taehyung swallowed hard. “I don’t remember that.”

Jimin’s smile was bittersweet.

“Well,” he whispered, brushing Taehyung’s hand with his thumb, “I do.”

Jimin kissed his hand before letting go.

Not romantically.

Not expectantly.

Just… tenderly.

“I’ll be in the conservatory,” he murmured, stepping back into the shadows of the foyer, “if you want to dance again.”

Taehyung lingered for a breath. Then nodded.

He moved through the quiet halls barefoot. The house whispered under his steps, guiding him like it always did.

Not toward light.

But toward warmth.

-

The soft echo of piano keys met him before the room appeared.

Not a melody.

Just chords. Slow, spaced out. Like someone thinking through sound.

The door to the music room was slightly ajar. Inside, candlelight pooled at the base of the walls. The air smelled like cedarwood and dust. And Yoongi sat at the piano half-shadowed, back hunched slightly, one hand resting on the keys, the other in his lap.

He didn’t look up when Taehyung stepped in.

He didn’t need to.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice quiet but sure.

Taehyung closed the door behind him, softer than he meant to. “So are you.”

Yoongi hummed. “I don’t sleep, remember?”

“I do.”

Silence again.

Then Yoongi scooted over on the bench just enough to make space.

He didn’t pat the seat. Didn’t gesture.

He just offered silently.

And Taehyung walked over, heartbeat strange and steady in his chest, and sat beside him.

Shoulder to shoulder.

The piano didn’t move beneath their hands.

Yoongi didn’t play.

He just sat.

Like the sound was already in the room and didn’t need to be touched.

Taehyung looked at him in the silence. Side profile soft in the flicker of candlelight. Pale skin. Slightly parted lips. Tired eyes that still watched everything, even when closed.

“Why me?” Taehyung asked suddenly.

Yoongi’s fingers twitched faintly against the keys.

Taehyung kept his voice soft. Honest. “You don’t say much. You don’t… push. But you watch me. You wait for me. And I don’t understand why.”

He paused.

“I don’t remember giving you anything.”

Yoongi’s eyes opened slowly.

He looked at Taehyung, really looked.

And after a long moment, he said,

“You didn’t give me anything.”

Taehyung’s heart sank.

But Yoongi continued, voice like a whisper in an empty room.

“You just were. You existed. And that was enough.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

Yoongi looked down at the piano.

“You were a quiet kind of magic,” he said. “You never begged for attention. You never demanded to be loved. But I couldn’t look away from you.”

A pause.

“You were the only thing that made the silence feel like it meant something.”

Taehyung’s chest ached.

He reached forward—hesitant, trembling—and gently pressed one of the piano keys.

The note rang out. Pure. Uncertain.

Yoongi turned toward him again.

“You were the only sound I ever wanted to hear twice.”

Yoongi’s eyes softened.

He didn’t reach for Taehyung, didn’t lean in but something in him opened, like a door that hadn’t been touched in years.

“You were small,” he said quietly. “Probably five. Maybe younger. It was storming outside, bad. Wind shaking the roof, windows shivering.”

He pressed one more key. A low, soft note that lingered between them.

“You’d wandered out of your room. Everyone else was asleep. And I was here, playing in the dark because it was the only thing that kept the house from feeling like it was caving in.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips.

“I didn’t hear you at first. But then I felt it. The room changed. Like something warm had entered.”

Taehyung was silent, breathing carefully, as if any sound might break the memory.

“You walked up to me,” Yoongi continued, “clutching that ridiculous stuffed fox. Half your hair was sticking up, and you looked like you were trying not to cry.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

“And you didn’t ask to sit,” Yoongi said. “You just climbed into my lap, pushed your little hands onto the piano, and said, ‘It’s too loud in my room. I want your music instead.’”

A quiet laugh. Shaky.

“So I played. And you fell asleep against me before the second song finished. Dead weight. Drooling.”

Taehyung huffed, blushing. “I did not—”

“You absolutely did.”

A beat.

“And I didn’t move,” Yoongi added. “Not for hours. Not even when my legs went numb.”

Taehyung turned toward him fully now, wide-eyed.

“Why?”

Yoongi’s gaze met his.

And in that still, candlelit room, with his voice barely louder than the whisper of the keys, he said:

“Because it was the first time someone asked for me just… as I was. Not for advice. Not for protection. Not for power. Just for me.”

Taehyung didn’t speak.

But he reached for Yoongi’s hand.

And this time, Yoongi took it.

Yoongi didn’t speak again.

He just turned back to the keys.

And played.

Not loudly. Not with drama. Just quiet notes. Gentle, deliberate, unfolding one after another like petals in the dark.

Taehyung sat beside him, eyes half-lidded, fingers still loosely tangled with Yoongi’s.

The music wasn’t a song exactly. There was no structure to it. Just feelings. Ghosts. Memories held in sound.

Taehyung didn’t realize when his body leaned sideways, resting lightly against Yoongi’s shoulder.

Didn’t notice when his hand slid off the edge of the piano and fell into his lap.

Didn’t hear the final key fade into stillness.

But Yoongi noticed.

And when Taehyung’s breathing evened out, soft and slow beside him, Yoongi simply shifted and wrapped one arm around him, careful not to wake him.

And sat.

In silence.

With the only sound left in the room being the steady, living breath of someone he never stopped playing for.

-

Outside, the garden was drenched in moonlight.

Rows of vines and blossoms stretched in silvery lines across the far grounds of the manor. In one tucked-away corner, beyond the fruit trees and climbing roses, knelt Hoseok.

Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair pinned back with two silver clips. His fingers were stained with soil and crushed green.

He was humming softly to himself. Off-key, bright, alive.

The strawberries were thriving under his hands.

And he hadn’t yet noticed Taehyung watching him.

Taehyung stepped off the cobbled path and into the garden, letting the moonlight guide him between rows of flowering vines and waist-high leaves.

He spotted Hoseok crouched in the furthest bed, sleeves pushed up, tending to a cluster of lush, red strawberries. His humming was cheerful, soft and half-mumbled. Completely unaware he had company.

Taehyung grinned.

“Are you serenading the fruit, or are they just lucky enough to hear you sing?”

Hoseok startled, actually jumped, fingers jerking back from the plant like it had bitten him.

He turned fast, eyes wide. “Taehyung!”

Taehyung laughed, stepping closer. “Sorry , should I have knocked on the dirt first?”

Hoseok huffed dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. You move like mist in this house.”

“You’re the one singing to strawberries at midnight.”

“They grow better when they’re loved,” Hoseok said defensively, then smirked. “Don’t judge what works.”

Taehyung crouched beside him now, peering at the little strawberries with curiosity.

“They smell incredible.”

“They are,” Hoseok said proudly, plucking one and offering it without hesitation.

Taehyung took it, brushing dirt from the skin before biting in. Sweet. Soft. Sun-warm even in the moonlight.

He chewed quietly, then glanced sideways at the vampire beside him.

“Is this what you do when the house sleeps?”

Hoseok nodded, gaze still on the soil. “It’s where I feel most human.”

Taehyung leaned back on his heels, the strawberry still soft on his tongue.

Beside him, Hoseok plucked a few weeds, his movements unhurried.

Then, without looking up, he said:

“This garden used to be your mother’s.”

Taehyung blinked, turning toward him. “What?”

Hoseok smiled, faint and distant. “She made it. Years ago. Before the fire. She started with just this patch right here. Strawberries, herbs, a few night-blooming vines she said reminded her of home.”

He brushed his hands clean on a cloth tucked into his belt.

“She taught me how to garden,” he said softly. “How to care for things that can’t speak. Not the vampiric way. Not with blood or magic. The human way.”

He reached for another ripe berry, turning it gently between his fingers.

“She used to say love doesn’t have to be loud to be real. That tending to something every day; watering it, waiting for it, never forcing it, that was a kind of love too.”

Taehyung stared down at the rows of strawberries, his throat tightening.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured.

Hoseok finally looked at him, eyes warm and steady.

“You were small. She’d keep you near in a little blanket nest at the edge of the garden. You used to fall asleep to her humming.”

Taehyung felt the air shift around them, like the wind had passed through a memory.

“She loved you so much,” Hoseok added. “More than the council could understand. And she never stopped being proud of who you were becoming.”

Taehyung’s voice was barely a whisper. “She was… brave.”

“The bravest,” Hoseok said.

He reached over, gently brushing a bit of dirt from Taehyung’s knee.

“And you carry that same softness. That same quiet strength. Every time you smile. Every time you ask instead of demand.”

A beat.

“Every time you come find me in the garden.”

Hoseok chuckled suddenly, the sound like sunlight through leaves.

“You know,” he said, brushing more dirt from his palms, “strawberries were your favorite.”

Taehyung blinked, surprised. “They were?”

“Mmh.” Hoseok nodded, smiling to himself. “Your mother used to send me to fetch you for lunch or lessons, and every time, every time, I’d find you in this garden with a red face and sticky hands, stuffed full of berries.”

Taehyung laughed quietly, almost disbelieving. “That sounds like me.”

“It was you,” Hoseok said warmly. “You had no shame. You used to hoard the biggest ones in your little coat pockets. Stained everything you wore. Drove your mother mad.”

Taehyung stared at the vines again. At the small red fruit glistening in the moonlight.

And for the first time in years, he remembered. Not a full picture, but a feeling.

Sun on his face.

Juice on his chin.

The sound of someone laughing behind him.

He swallowed hard. “Thank you for keeping this alive.”

Hoseok reached over, took his hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re part of this garden too, Taehyung. It never stopped waiting for you.”

“And neither did I.”

They sat for a while longer. Hands stained red, shoulders brushing. The garden swayed in the night breeze, content to be full of memory again.

Eventually, Hoseok kissed the back of Taehyung’s hand and stood, giving him space with a smile and no goodbye. Just a soft,

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

And Taehyung stood too, alone beneath the night sky, letting the silence settle.

But it didn’t last long.

Because he felt it again.

That pull.

Not the house.

Not the bloodline.

Just a presence. Familiar and aching.

He climbed the west stairs slowly, barefoot against cold stone.

The rooftop doors were already open at the end of the highest walkway. The house had led him here.

Beyond them: night air and wind and stars sharp as silver knives.

And Jungkook.

Standing at the edge of the roof, back turned to him. His coat loose around his shoulders, hair tousled by the wind. The moon caught against his dark profile like he was part of the sky.

Taehyung didn’t speak.

He just stepped forward, quiet, until the wind curled around both of them.

And Jungkook said, without turning:

“I hoped it’d be you.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything at first.

He just moved forward.

Stepped up beside Jungkook, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him in the cool air. The wind brushed against their shoulders like it was listening.

They stood in silence, side by side, beneath a sky heavy with stars.

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

But Taehyung felt him watching.

And after a long moment, he asked. Quiet, steady:

“Why’d you give me the ring?”

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

But something in his jaw tightened.

Taehyung turned to look at him fully now, voice softer:

“If you knew what it meant, if you knew I didn’t remember, why did you give it to me?”

The wind slipped between them.

Jungkook exhaled slowly.

Then turned his head. Eyes red but no longer glowing, just tired. Fierce. Full.

“Because I couldn’t wait any longer.”

His voice was rough with restraint.

“I tried. I did. I watched you wander this house like a stranger inside your own skin. I watched you speak gently to all of us, choose all of us, but never let yourself want anything back.”

His eyes burned into Taehyung’s.

“And I wanted you to remember. Not the rituals. Not the blood. Just me.”

A beat.

“So I gave you the ring. Because even if you didn’t know what it meant… your heart did.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again.

He just reached.

One hand at first—hesitant, trembling slightly—and then both, pulling Taehyung in like the motion had been buried in his body for years.

Taehyung didn’t resist.

He fell.

Chest to chest, arms folding instinctively around Jungkook’s waist, cheek pressed to the vampire’s collarbone like his body remembered what his mind still couldn’t fully hold.

And Jungkook held him.

Like gravity itself had been waiting for this.

Taehyung’s voice broke the silence. Muffled and small.

“We were close as children, right?”

Jungkook’s hand slid up to his hair, fingers threading through the strands.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You used to follow me everywhere.”

A shaky breath from Taehyung. “And you let me?”

Jungkook smiled against his temple. “I wanted you to.”

Taehyung pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him. “You aren’t like the others. You were… turned.”

“Yes.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed, eyes searching. “So you were human once.”

Jungkook nodded. “I still am. A little.”

“And when you turned… did it hurt?”

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately.

Then:

“Not as much as being without you.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

But he didn’t pull away.

And Jungkook didn’t let go.

Jungkook’s gaze drifted toward the stars, distant.

“I was ten when Seokjin found me,” he said softly. “Barefoot. Half-dead. I’d been attacked in the outer woods and left by the territory gates like garbage.”

Taehyung didn’t move.

“I don’t know why he stopped,” Jungkook continued. “Why he didn’t just leave me. But he didn’t. He carried me all the way back to the manor. I screamed the whole time. Tried to fight. Bit his arm so hard I broke the skin.”

Taehyung blinked. “You bit him?”

Jungkook huffed a laugh. “He turned me first. I figured it was only fair.”

Taehyung managed a quiet smile, but Jungkook’s voice dropped again, lower. Raw.

“But I was angry. I didn’t want to be this. I didn’t want to stay. So I climbed up to the roof and lived up here. Days at a time. Refused to come down. Refused to feed. I wanted the world to forget I existed.”

He looked at Taehyung again.

“But you didn’t.”

The wind softened.

“You were the only one who found me,” Jungkook said. “The only one who climbed. And you almost fell. You should’ve been terrified. But you weren’t. You looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘You don’t hate me, do you?’”

Taehyung swallowed, hard.

“And I didn’t,” Jungkook said, voice rough. “Even then. I couldn’t.”

Taehyung didn’t speak at first.

He just looked up at Jungkook, at the boy who had once lived on a rooftop because the world had left him to die. At the man he had become. At the ache still pressed into the corners of his mouth, and the years of waiting tucked behind those red-ringed eyes.

And then, softly—

“I don’t hate you either,” Taehyung mumbled.

His fingers traced the lines of Jungkook’s palm, gentle and curious.

Jungkook stilled.

But he didn’t speak.

So Taehyung continued, voice lower now, almost to himself.

“That’s not love.”

Jungkook huffed, a short, breathy laugh. Then grinned, small and real.

“No,” Taehyung said. “But it’s something.”

Taehyung leaned in closer, letting the wind tug at his hair.

“I’m… attracted to you,” he said quietly. “To all of you. And one day—”

A beat.

“It could be love.”

Jungkook didn’t move.

But something in him settled.

Not with triumph. Not with hunger.

But with hope.

He leaned down, pressed a slow, reverent kiss to Taehyung’s hair.

And whispered, “We’ll wait.”

They stood like that for a long time. Together, whole, and beginning again.

Later that night.

The manor was quiet.

Even the walls seemed to breathe slower.

But a soft glow still leaked from under the crack of a single door. The study tucked behind the west wing, where the air always smelled of parchment, pressed lavender, and sharp ink.

Taehyung knocked gently, then pushed the door open without waiting.

Inside, Seokjin sat behind a dark oak desk, half-buried in letters and scrolls, a half-drunk cup of something steaming beside him. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, hair pushed back, sleeves rolled up. He looked—

Exhausted.

Beautiful still. But tired in a way that seemed to reach into the bones.

He looked up when Taehyung stepped in. Blinked like he hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting in the same position.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked, voice a little hoarse.

Taehyung stepped inside, barefoot and soft-spoken. “Shouldn’t you?”

Seokjin gave a humorless smile. “Apparently not when half the clans are demanding bloodlines and boundaries and declarations before sunrise.”

He rubbed his temples, setting down the quill. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Taehyung said, hesitating before crossing the room. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Seokjin stilled.

He watched Taehyung approach with something unreadable in his gaze. Surprise, maybe. Relief. Something softer layered beneath all the sharp edges of leadership.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re here now.”

Taehyung stopped beside the desk, gaze flicking over the scattered parchment.

“Is this about the Council?” he asked softly.

Seokjin looked up, surprised by the accuracy.

“Yes,” he admitted. “They’ll be arriving within the next week. Maybe sooner, if word spreads fast enough.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the space between his brows.

“They want to see the mourning through to the end. Publicly. Politically. But more than that, they want to see you.”

Taehyung frowned. “Why?”

Seokjin met his eyes.

“Because you’re a question they don’t know how to answer.”

He gestured to the notes on the desk. Sealed letters, crumpled drafts, intricate sigils drawn out and crossed through.

“I’ve been writing countermeasures,” he explained. “Arguments. Requests. Legal stances backed by ancient law. Anything to slow them down long enough to keep you safe.”

Taehyung’s breath caught. “You think they’ll try to take me?”

“I think they’ll try to decide for you,” Seokjin said. “Whether you’re to be bonded. Whether you’re fit to inherit. Whether a halfblood belongs anywhere near the Covenant Seal.”

Taehyung stared down at the papers, quiet.

Then: “And what do you think?”

Seokjin studied him for a long moment.

Then he removed his glasses, setting them gently on the desk.

“I think you’re the most important thing this house has held in a hundred years,” he said. “And I will burn every law to the ground before I let them take you.”

Taehyung lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite the desk.

He folded his hands in his lap, quiet for a moment.

Then, eyes still on the parchment: “What have you had to give up… to protect me?”

Seokjin looked at him—really looked—and for a second, he almost didn’t answer.

But then he leaned back in his chair with a long, slow breath. The kind of breath you take when you’re about to speak a truth you’ve never said aloud.

“I’ve been the first son of this family since before you were born,” he said quietly. “I was raised to be the voice of the bloodline. The enforcer of tradition. I memorized the laws before I had my first transformation.”

He reached for one of the scrolls, then let his hand fall short of it.

“When your father brought your mother home,” he continued, “I was the only one who didn’t protest. Not because I understood, but because I could see it in his eyes. That it was already done. That it was real.”

Taehyung watched him silently, unmoving.

“And then you were born,” Seokjin said. “And the Council wanted to bury it. Disown your father. Strip his title. Quiet the bloodline.”

His eyes met Taehyung’s.

“I said no.”

A pause.

“And it cost me everything.”

Taehyung swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Seokjin’s voice was soft. Too soft.

“They revoked my seat for a decade. Took my blood title. Locked me out of the inheritance line unless I denounced your name. Which I never did.”

He smiled faintly but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve spent the last ten years clawing it back. One alliance at a time. One law at a time. And now that I finally have their attention again…” He exhaled. “Now they want to take you.”

Taehyung’s heart ached.

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

“I didn’t know I could,” Taehyung whispered.

Seokjin’s gaze warmed.

“You can. You always can.”

Taehyung stood.

Quietly. Deliberately.

And stepped around the desk.

Seokjin watched him, unmoving, until Taehyung placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“I won’t let them take me either,” he said.

His voice didn’t waver.

“They don’t get to decide. Not anymore.”

Seokjin looked up, startled by the steadiness in Taehyung’s voice.

But whatever argument had built in his throat disappeared.

Because Taehyung reached for his hand.

Not the way a child reaches for comfort.

But the way an equal does.

A partner.

“Thank you,” Taehyung murmured. “For fighting for me before I even knew how to fight for myself.”

Seokjin didn’t answer.

He just squeezed Taehyung’s hand once, firmly.

And the two of them stood in silence—between candlelight and ancient paper, between exhaustion and resolve—knowing they would face the elders together.

-

The dining hall was warm with candlelight and laughter.

Silver dishes gleamed along the length of the table. The air was rich with roasted meat, fresh blood, ripe fruit, and the scent of crushed herbs, lavender, rosemary, clove. Wine shimmered red in crystal glasses.

They were all there.

Seokjin at the head, regal but relaxed.

Namjoon seated beside him, one hand absently brushing Taehyung’s shoulder every now and then as they talked.

Jimin laughing too brightly as he fed Hoseok a piece of fruit; who, in turn, leaned comfortably against Yoongi’s side. Jungkook sat at the far end, eyes dark but soft, stealing glances toward Taehyung like he couldn’t help it.

It felt… warm.

Whole.

And Taehyung didn’t feel like a guest.

He felt like a part of something.

The food passed. The wine flowed. Someone told a joke that had Jimin half-choking on his drink, and even Yoongi cracked a smile.

Then—without warning—Taehyung set his glass down.

The sound was soft. Clean.

But something in it made the room still.

“I’d like to sleep together.”

The words landed in the center of the table like a dropped fork.

Silence.

Forks frozen. Cups paused mid-sip. Even the candle flames seemed to still.

Taehyung immediately flushed, but didn’t take it back.

Then—

Hoseok blinked, cocking his head with a smile that was way too innocent.

“You mean… sleep sleep?”

Taehyung’s face went crimson.

“What—no! I—” He fumbled, nearly knocking over his glass. “That’s not—I didn’t mean that. Not like—not like that!”

A beat of silence—

And then the table exploded with laughter.

Jimin covered his mouth, giggling.

Yoongi leaned back with a smirk, shaking his head.

Namjoon looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh and failing.

Even Seokjin allowed a rare, crooked smile to tug at his mouth.

“I meant,” Taehyung said, hiding his face behind his hands, “like actual sleeping. All of us. Together. In one room.”

“Like a den,” Jungkook offered, voice warm. “A pack.”

Taehyung peeked between his fingers, cheeks still pink. “Yeah. Like that.”

The laughter faded into something quieter. Fonder.

Then Hoseok leaned forward, his voice soft this time.

“I think that sounds perfect.”

Before Taehyung could bury himself any deeper in his embarrassment, a hand slipped into his.

Warm, soft fingers.

Jimin.

He grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “Come on, pretty boy.”

Taehyung barely had time to blink before Jimin tugged him out of his seat and out of the dining hall entirely.

Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, Jimin pulling him with a kind of delighted urgency.

“Where are we going?” Taehyung asked, trying not to trip over his own feet.

“Blankets,” Jimin said brightly. “Pillows. Whatever we can steal from the linen rooms. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

The linen room wasn’t far, just off the eastern hall. Inside, shelves stretched floor to ceiling, stacked with folded velvet, soft cotton, silks in deep gem tones and warmer earth hues.

Jimin immediately started plucking things from the stacks with no hesitation. “Okay, so Seokjin’s sheets are the softest, so we’re raiding his closet too. Yoongi’s pillows are firm, but he only has like, two. We’ll need at least ten. And Hoseok always sleeps under three blankets like a little burrito, so—”

“Wait, wait—” Taehyung laughed, breathless as he followed, arms already full. “Where are we even doing this?”

Jimin looked at him like the answer was obvious.

“Jin’s room.”

Taehyung blinked. “Why?”

Jimin grinned. “Because his bed’s basically a kingdom. Plus, he’ll complain the least if we destroy it.”

Taehyung laughed harder this time, biting his lip to keep quiet as he balanced an armful of embroidered throws.

“He’s going to be so irked about this.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jimin said, tossing him a silk pillow. “But we’ll deal with that later.”

By the time they returned to Seokjin’s room, their arms were overflowing with pillows and blankets in every possible fabric and shade. Taehyung’s cheeks ached from smiling; Jimin had a permanent grin plastered to his face.

Seokjin’s room was exactly as expected; vast and elegant, all arched ceilings, deep-toned paneling, and soft golden lighting from sconces flickering low. The bed sat like a throne against the far wall, piled high with heavy linens and velvet throws.

They started by tossing everything into the center of the bed.

“Absolutely not,” came Seokjin’s voice from the door.

Taehyung jumped.

The others had arrived. Namjoon and Yoongi stood behind Seokjin, with Jungkook peeking around the edge of the doorway and Hoseok already slipping inside, arms full of his own blankets.

Seokjin crossed his arms. “My sheets were perfectly arranged.”

“Your sheets were boring,” Jimin said sweetly. “This is communal nesting, Jinnie. Be grateful we trust your space.”

Yoongi dropped his two pillows onto the bed with a thump. “He’s just mad we didn’t vote.”

“I would have won,” Seokjin muttered.

“You’re already winning,” Hoseok chimed in, plopping his favorite blanket at the foot of the bed and smiling brightly. “It smells like you in here. It’s comforting.”

Seokjin blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened like he might argue again, but the words didn’t quite come.

Still, he looked ready to protest on principle alone.

Until Taehyung turned to him.

“Can we stay?” he asked, voice quiet but sure. “Please?”

The room paused.

Seokjin’s breath caught. And for just a second, he looked like someone who’d been stabbed in the dignity.

His ears turned pink.

Then red.

And he cleared his throat.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But fold the silk pillows. And nothing on the window seat.”

Instant chaos.

“Ohhhhhh my god—” Jimin cackled, falling backward into the mess of blankets.

“Seokjin’s blushing!” Jungkook pointed with the glee of a child who just caught the class president cheating on a quiz.

“I am not,” Seokjin snapped, ears now visibly glowing. “My body regulates temperature efficiently.”

“He’s flustered,” Yoongi muttered, smirking as he arranged a pillow fortress behind his back.

“By one word,” Namjoon added, grinning. “You’re going soft, hyung.”

“I have never been soft—”

“You’re a marshmallow with cheekbones,” Hoseok teased gently, already wrapping a blanket around himself like royalty.

Seokjin scowled at all of them.

But his eyes slid back to Taehyung, and softened.

He didn’t say anything.

He just let them stay.

Eventually, the noise died down.

Laughter softened into breathy chuckles. Pillows were stolen and returned. Blankets redistributed. Bodies rearranged until they naturally fit, like pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle.

Taehyung ended up between Jimin and Yoongi, legs tangled with Hoseok’s across the bed, while Namjoon reclined at the headboard reading one of Seokjin’s books upside down. Jungkook laid nearest the foot of the bed, propped up on one elbow, eyes never straying far.

Seokjin sat for a while at the edge, as if pretending he might still escape.

But then Taehyung reached for him.

Just his hand.

No words.

Seokjin looked down at their fingers, watched the way Taehyung’s thumb brushed his knuckle; gentle, like a question.

He answered by lying down beside him.

That was all.

No protest. No condition.

He just stayed.

And Taehyung’s chest settled.

The room was quiet for a moment. Not silent, just peaceful.

Then—

“You smell like strawberries,” Jimin murmured, nosing into the curve of Taehyung’s shoulder.

Taehyung snorted. “Blame Hoseok.”

“I always do,” came Yoongi’s sleepy hum, half-muffled by the blanket he’d wrapped around them both.

A moment later, Yoongi shifted slightly, his palm grazing the inside of Taehyung’s wrist.

“Your pulse is fast,” he murmured.

“I’m nervous,” Taehyung admitted.

“Don’t be.”

Taehyung turned his head.

Yoongi’s eyes were already closed, but his grip tightened gently, grounding.

“You’re safe,” he said. “You’ve always been safe with us.”

Jungkook let out a soft breath from where he lay watching them all, eyes glowing faintly in the low candlelight.

“You’re the only reason I came down from that roof,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

Taehyung blinked. “Tonight?”

Jungkook shook his head slowly.

“Ever.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was full.

And in it, Namjoon finally shut his book, setting it gently aside.

He looked down at the mess of bodies, of warmth and limbs and breath, and smiled.

“Goodnight, Tae,” he said.

One by one, the others echoed it.

“Goodnight, Tae.”

“Sleep well, love.”

“Don’t hog the blankets—”

“I’ll bite you if you snore.”

Taehyung smiled into the dark.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Not to any one of them in particular.

But to all of it.

The warmth.

The weight.

The quiet, complicated closeness he never thought he could have.

And in the stillness that followed, someone squeezed his hand.

No one said a word.

But Taehyung didn’t need them to.

He already knew.

The room had quieted. Breath by breath, the night settled around them like a second blanket.

But Taehyung was still awake.

Eyes open. Heart steady. Body warm between the others.

And in the stillness, he said softly:

“I remembered something.”

No one moved, but he felt it.

The air shifted.

“I was little,” he continued. “Maybe four or five. I don’t know. But I was walking barefoot down one of the halls. It was cold, and the stones were damp. I remember the feeling exactly.”

He hesitated, then added:

“I wasn’t scared.”

A few beats of silence passed.

Then Yoongi’s voice came quiet, slow.

“Were you alone?”

Taehyung shook his head, even if no one could see it.

“There was someone ahead of me. Walking just fast enough that I had to keep chasing them. But they kept glancing back to make sure I was still there.”

A breath.

“And every time they did… I felt safe. Like I belonged here.”

Jimin stirred beside him. “Do you know who it was?”

Taehyung hesitated.

“I don’t. I couldn’t see their face. Just a long coat. Bare feet. Silver candlelight on the floor.”

He paused, and then—

“But I remember the feeling. Of being wanted. Of being led somewhere I didn’t need to be afraid of.”

That was when Hoseok’s hand found his under the blanket.

“You were never alone here,” he said gently. “Even before you could speak.”

And from the foot of the bed, Jungkook’s voice came, low and steady.

“You always followed light.”

The quiet stretched.

Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.

Just… full.

Taehyung let his head fall back against the pillows. Hands warm in Hoseok’s. Jimin’s breath still soft at his shoulder. Yoongi’s fingers curled loosely around his wrist. The others so close he could hear every shift, every slow inhale.

And he said it.

So softly, it nearly didn’t carry.

“I… want to stay.”

The words floated into the dark.

No one moved.

Not even the house.

It felt like the entire room held its breath.

Like the walls had leaned in.

Like the stars outside the window paused.

And Taehyung didn’t take it back.

He just closed his eyes.

And let them all feel it.

Chapter Text

The little girl had returned with all the gravity of a royal envoy.

At least, that’s how she acted; chin tilted high, her small hands clasped behind her back, walking beside Hoseok like a seasoned diplomat instead of a six-year-old with ribbons in her hair.

“Taehyung needs real clothes,” Rae had declared earlier that morning, hands on her hips, voice matter-of-fact.

And to his surprise, Jimin and Hoseok had agreed.

Which was how he found himself standing outside for the first time weeks, the sun gentle through pale cloud covers, walking cobbled streets flanked by Jimin’s fashionable critique and Rae’s tiny but fierce opinions.

“You can’t keep stealing Yoongi’s cardigans,” Jimin said, flicking a stray piece of lint from Taehyung’s shoulder. “You’re shrinking them.”

“They’re comfortable,” Taehyung muttered.

“They smell like books and regret,” Hoseok added, holding open the door to the first boutique.

Rae slipped in first, skirts bouncing.

“I liked the one that made you look like a marshmallow,” she chirped. “The big brown one!”

“That was a blanket,” Taehyung said.

“It had buttons,” she argued. “Blankets don’t have buttons.”

Taehyung sighed and followed them inside.

The shop was warm, lined with rich fabrics and enchanted mirrors. A floating sign above the first rack read: “For the moody & mysterious”

“Perfect,” Jimin announced.

The first few minutes inside the boutique were a blur of texture, color, and Jimin’s increasingly dramatic gasps.

“No, no. Absolutely not,” he said, snatching a beige tunic from Taehyung’s hands like it personally offended him. “You are not blending in with the furniture.”

Taehyung raised a brow. “It’s linen.”

“It’s lifeless.”

Rae, meanwhile, had taken to hiding inside a rack of floor-length coats, her giggles muffled by velvet. “I found a portal!” she squeaked. “To the land of serious people!”

“Don’t let Seokjin hear you say that,” Hoseok murmured with a grin, nudging one of the coats aside to reveal her.

Eventually, after Jimin had armfuls of pieces he called “soul-fitted” and Hoseok had declared he was going to check on nearby vendors for soil enhancers and sun-shielding charms, they regrouped near the back of the shop.

“We’ll split up,” Hoseok said, brushing his hands free of glitter that had somehow appeared on his sleeves. “Jimin has ten outfits to bully Taehyung into trying, I have herb bundles to judge, and Rae…”

He paused, eyeing the child now attempting to balance three hats on her head.

“I want to show Tae the flower stairs!” Rae beamed, already grabbing Taehyung’s hand like she’d won a prize.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing at Jimin.

Jimin waved a hand, already halfway to the fitting room, followed closely by a staff member who had all but fainted at the sight of both Jimin and Hoseok. Referring to them as, ‘your highness’.
it was much more apparent to Taehyung in moments like these how much sway the Coven had in vampiric culture. Practically royalty.

 “Go. I’ll pull together options while you two tour Rae’s kingdom.”

“Text if he tries to escape,” Hoseok added with a wink, then turned and slipped out the front door, already humming to himself.

Taehyung had the tip of a question on his tongue before everyone dispersed, wondering why Hoseok referred to him as the one escaping and not the literal six year old, but Rae tugged Taehyung away too quick, toward the exit that led into a winding outdoor market square.

“There’s a bench with carvings that hum,” she said solemnly. “And if you touch the flowers, they purr.”

Taehyung blinked. Already used to her unique way of talking, “Okay. Lead the way, Your holiness.”

The flower stairs were exactly as strange and lovely as Rae had promised.

They weren’t really stairs, not in the traditional sense. More like a sloped stone path laced with vines and enchanted petals that bloomed underfoot. Each step exhaled a soft hum when touched, gentle chords in odd keys, like music played underwater.

Rae danced from bloom to bloom, twirling in her tiny shoes, arms raised as if conducting a silent orchestra.

Taehyung followed more slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of a black knit Jimin insisted was ‘mysterious but approachable’.

“You’re really not afraid of falling, huh?” he asked, watching her spin near the edge.

Rae shrugged. “The flowers catch me.”

Taehyung didn’t question it.

He was about to ask how the carvings on the bench worked—if they actually spoke, or just vibrated—when a soft voice drifted from behind him.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

Taehyung turned.

A tall figure stood at the base of the stairs; wrapped in a long, muted cloak, the color of dried bone. Their face was ageless in a way that made Taehyung’s stomach dip, like looking at a statue that might blink if you stared too long.

Something about them felt wrong. Not exactly malicious. Just… too still. Too silent.

“Uh,” Taehyung said carefully. “I’m visiting.”

The stranger’s eyes didn’t leave him.

They tilted their head. “You’re from the manor.”

Taehyung blinked. “Yes.”

“Of course.” Their mouth curved into something like a smile. “I thought I recognized the scent.”

Rae, who had been humming a tune just seconds ago, had gone very still beside him. Her hand found his, gripping tighter than before.

“I’ll take my departure,” the figure said, voice still smooth. “I see the young heir is busy.”

Young heir?

“We’ll meet again, very soon.” 

Taehyung opened his mouth to respond, but Rae was already pulling him gently backward, away from the stranger, and back toward the flowering path.

She didn’t speak until they were nearly halfway down the trail again, her voice small.

“That was one of the Council Elders.”

Taehyung’s fingers curled tighter around hers.

He didn’t ask how she knew.

He just followed her back the way they came.

By the time they returned to the boutique, Rae was quiet. Too quiet.

Her hand hadn’t let go of Taehyung’s once. She wasn’t humming anymore, or skipping, or stopping to admire the enchanted window displays that changed with passing moods.

Taehyung could still feel the chill of the Elder’s gaze on the back of his neck. He hadn’t said much to Rae—not wanting to scare her further—but he didn’t have to.

She was scared enough for both of them.

Inside, the boutique was bathed in soft candlelight and laughter.

Jimin stood in front of a tall mirror with a sheer lavender blouse held to his chest, posing dramatically. “Too much, or not enough?”

Hoseok, leaning against a plush display chaise, snorted. “You’re asking the wrong person. You could wear an open curtain and make it fashion.”

Then both of them looked up.

And froze.

Rae and Taehyung stepped into the shop, and whatever fun they’d been having drained like light through a crack in the floor.

Jimin dropped the blouse.

Hoseok straightened immediately, eyes scanning them both.

“Taehyung?” Jimin asked carefully.

“Everything okay?” Hoseok said, already moving forward.

Rae didn’t wait for explanation, she crossed the room in two quick steps and grabbed Hoseok’s coat.

He crouched low, cupping her face in his hands. “Sweetheart?”

She whispered something. Taehyung couldn’t hear it.

But Hoseok’s jaw clenched.

Jimin reached for Taehyung, voice quieter now. “What happened?”

“We were on the flower stairs,” Taehyung said. “A stranger came. Rae said he was apart of the council.”
That was all it took.

Jimin was already turning, snapping his fingers to dismiss the unpaid stacks of clothes. “We’re leaving.”

“No one followed us,” Taehyung said, trying to stay calm. “He didn’t do anything. Just… spoke.”

“That’s enough,” Hoseok said sharply. He stood, Rae scooped into his arms now, face buried in his shoulder.

They didn’t waste another word.

Coats were thrown over shoulders. A charm snapped into Jimin’s fingers. The air shimmered briefly, and then—

They stepped outside.

Headed straight for home.

And for the first time that day, Taehyung realized that no matter how calm the morning had started…

He was still being watched.

The manor was quiet when they returned.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that listened back.

Rae hadn’t spoken since they left the shop. She clung to Hoseok’s shoulder the entire ride home, her face pressed into his coat. Jimin held Taehyung’s hand like a thread, like if he let go, the world might fray at the edges.

When the doors opened, the others were already gathered.

Yoongi was seated in one of the high-backed chairs in the foyer, unreadable. Namjoon stood beside the stairs, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Seokjin was by the window, his posture loose but his eyes sharp.

Their expressions shifted the moment Rae was carried inside.

“She saw him,” Hoseok said softly.

Seokjin straightened. “Which?”

“The silver-tongued one,” Jimin muttered. “Dressed in bone.”

Yoongi’s eyes darkened.

Rae, now on her feet again, walked over to Taehyung without being prompted. Her little steps were silent. He crouched to meet her height, and before he could ask if she was alright, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his forehead. As light as snowfall.

“For protection,” she whispered.

Taehyung blinked. “Rae…”

But she was already turning to Hoseok, arms lifted.

“I want to go home now.”

He nodded. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

And just like that, she was gone again. Small and strange and solemn.

The silence that followed was different now.

Thicker.

Coated in meaning Taehyung didn’t understand.

He looked around at the drawn faces of the six he trusted most in this foreign territory, at the way they didn’t meet his eyes right away, and the way no one breathed like they used to.

And then finally, he asked.

“What’s wrong?”

No one answered him at first.

Not Jimin, who stood frozen with his coat still on.

Not Hoseok, who lingered near the door Rae had just passed through.

Not Seokjin, who turned his gaze back to the window like it would protect him from saying what he was thinking.

Not Yoongi.

Not Jungkook.

But Namjoon—

Namjoon, who had been silent this whole time, unfolded his arms and stepped forward. His voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t rise.

It just was.

“You were marked.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

“The Elder,” Namjoon said, expression unreadable. “He didn’t need to touch you. He saw you. Spoke to you. Smelled you. And now he knows.”

Taehyung’s mouth went dry. “Knows what?”

“That you’re in process of awakening,” Namjoon said. “That you’re powerful. Unclaimed. That you’re still vulnerable enough to be stolen.”

The word hit like ice water.

“Stolen?”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “It’s what some of them do. Not all. But enough.”

Taehyung stared at him, the thudding in his chest now louder than anyone’s silence.

“They think you’re undecided,” Namjoon added softly. “They think that means you’re available.”

“But I’m not,” Taehyung said quickly. “I—”

“You know that,” Namjoon interrupted gently. “We know that.”

His eyes flicked to the others one by one, tense, waiting, aching.

“But they don’t believe in affection. Or memory. Or the weight of ‘maybe.’ They only believe in blood. And law, and ritual.”

Taehyung swallowed, hard.

And suddenly, the warmth from Rae’s parting kiss still clung to his forehead like a shield he hadn’t known he needed.

Seokjin turned from the window.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t look composed.

He looked rushed. Tight in the jaw. Something frantic coiled just beneath his calm exterior.

“They’re not waiting,” he said. “Not for the mourning period to end. Not for politeness. Nor for your choice.”

Everyone looked up.

“They’ve already sent one. To see and assess. The next one may not ask for your name, they may try to take your blood. Or your memory. Or your title.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

Seokjin moved forward, speaking faster now, like holding the silence any longer would drown him.

“We should’ve started this sooner. But we didn’t want to push you. We wanted you to settle, to feel safe. And I won’t apologize for that.”

He stopped in front of Taehyung.

“But we have to start now.”

“Start what?” Taehyung asked, voice low.

“Your training. Your awakening. All of it.” His tone sharpened. “You need to learn to defend yourself. Not just through instinct, but with intent. You need to wake up fully, Taehyung.”

Jimin stepped closer beside him, voice softer. “You need to understand who you are.”

“And how to stay with us,” Hoseok added.

Seokjin’s gaze never left Taehyung’s.

“You are ours, and you are powerful. But right now, you’re vulnerable. And if we don’t act… they’ll act first.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly:

“You’re not a guest anymore, Taehyung. This is your home. And we will fight to keep you safe. But we need you to fight too.”

Taehyung stood frozen in the center of the foyer, the silence stretching around him like a spell.

Then Jimin stepped forward. Gentle but sure.

“I’ll teach you,” he said. “Magic. The rites. The way power moves through your fingers and listens when you ask nicely, and when you don’t.”

Hoseok nodded beside him. “And the grounding. The older ways. How to use the earth and stars like anchors instead of chains.”

Yoongi leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes steady. “I’ll walk you through the house. The past. The memories hiding, we’ll call back what was taken.”

Namjoon uncrossed his arms. “I’ll help you understand how this world works. How to speak the language of politics and bloodlines. And how to twist it, when needed.”

Taehyung looked to the last one.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

“Defense,” he said simply. “Reflex. Control. How to use your body like a weapon. So no one ever lays a hand on you again without your permission.”

The room felt different now.

Still heavy, but focused. Sharpened. 

Taehyung realized how serious this was to them, to him too. But they seemed ready to take it all on.

They were standing around him not as protectors, but as pillars.

Offering shelter and structure.

Seokjin’s voice came last.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” he said. “All of us. Together.”

His eyes met Taehyung’s one final time.

“And by the time they come back, you won’t just be awake. You’ll be ready.”

-

They started eating breakfast at normal hours now.

It wasn’t formalized, or even discussed out loud, but ever since Taehyung had begun waking early (by vampire standards), the coven had slowly adjusted to match him.

Gone were the days of sitting in silence until moonrise. Now there were full plates before noon. Candles still lit, yes; but also warm bread, sugared fruit, and glasses of blood left to stand at room temperature beside black coffee and stewed plums.

Taehyung sat at the end of the table, still a little sleepy, wrapped in a soft wool sweater Jimin had pressed into his hands earlier. The sleeves swallowed his fingers.

Around him, six vampires argued.

“I should go first,” Jungkook said, already leaning across the table like a hunting dog on a leash. “His reaction time is terrible. That needs fixing before someone throws a knife at him.”

“No one’s throwing knives,” Hoseok muttered into his cup.

“I might, if I have to keep hearing this,” Yoongi mumbled.

Namjoon ignored them all, sipping coffee,  clearly planning out a six-week strategy schedule in his head. “We should begin with diplomacy. His posture alone could offend three of the southern houses.”

Jimin waved his fork. “He can be elegant after he learns how to stop walking into cursed hallways.”

“I only did that once,” Taehyung muttered. Distracted. 

He hadn’t realized how…offensive his actions have been to vampiric culture. Seriously, his posture?

“Twice,” Hoseok corrected gently. “If you count the blood rot chamber.”

“The what chamber?” Taehyung asked, eyes wide.

“You lived,” Jimin said cheerfully. “So, training wins?”

“We’re wasting time,” Jungkook growled. “Let me take him outside. He needs to sweat before he learns to float candles.”

Taehyung glanced down at his…less than toned body, drowning in one of Namjoons shirts

“Let’s vote,” Hoseok said, ever the peacekeeper.

“I’m the head of house,” Seokjin finally sighed, setting down his cup. “I’ll assign him.”

Everyone went quiet.

Even Jungkook.

Seokjin turned toward Taehyung, who was now shrinking slightly behind a croissant.

“You’ll start with Jungkook,” Seokjin said.

Jungkook’s grin was instant and feral.

“He’s the least patient,” Seokjin added. “Best to let him wear you out early.”

Taehyung groaned softly and muttered into his sleeves, already dreading what was to come. 

“I regret everything.”

Jimin patted his hand like a proud parent.

“You’ll be magnificent.”

The breakfast conversation wound down, though the teasing didn’t.

Jungkook was practically vibrating with anticipation as he stood, stretching his arms overhead with a low groan. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said over his shoulder to Taehyung. “Then I’m dragging you out by your collar.”

Taehyung gave Seokjin a betrayed look.

Seokjin only smiled. “Good luck.”

The morning was crisp outside. Early spring, with a mist still clinging to the garden edges.

They trained behind the manor, in a flat clearing ringed with old trees and pale cobblestones. The ground was soft but even, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, duels, and ritual practice. Taehyung recognized none of it.

But it felt familiar.

Jungkook rolled his shoulders once, then stepped into the space with ease. He looked looser here, more natural, like the tension that usually clung to him indoors had melted into the earth.

“You’re standing like you’ve never held a center of gravity before,” Jungkook called.

Taehyung blinked. “I— what?”

“Feet. Spread them. Broader base. You’ve got balance like a windblown leaf.”

“I was eating five minutes ago.”

“Eating had nothing to do with balance. It’s a core issue.”

Taehyung sighed and shuffled his stance, adjusting as best he could under Jungkook’s scrutinizing gaze.

Jungkook took a few steps closer, hands on his hips. “You need to know how to move, Tae. Not like a human avoiding a puddle, but like a predator watching a second heartbeat.”

Taehyung swallowed. “I don’t want to be a predator.”

Jungkook stopped.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why I’m teaching you how to defend yourself. So you don’t have to become one.”

Taehyung looked up, surprised by the honesty.

Jungkook shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “If someone tries to take you again—”

“No one’s taken me,” Taehyung interrupted. “Not really.”

“They tried. And next time, I want you to be able to stop them before I get there. The Council, the rebels, even your own kin if it comes to it.”

There was no drama in the statement.

Just promise.

“Okay,” Taehyung said quietly. “I’m ready.”

Jungkook’s smile returned, sharp and satisfied. “Good.”

And then he lunged.

Jungkook lunged.

Taehyung yelped, stumbling sideways in a half-panicked attempt to dodge.

“Better,” Jungkook called, turning on his heel and circling him again. “Still slow. You’re thinking too hard.”

“Sorry,” Taehyung heaved. “I’m trying not to die.”

“You’re not dying,” Jungkook said, amused. “You’re training. There’s a difference.”

They moved again.

Jungkook struck forward, not hard, just enough to test his reflexes. Taehyung twisted and caught the motion a second too late, shoulder brushing Jungkook’s arm before he stumbled backward.

“Stop focusing on me,” Jungkook said. “Focus on the movement. The wind. The instinct. The part of you that knows how to survive.”

“I don’t think I have that part.”

“You do,” Jungkook said, more serious now. “You’re just used to silencing it.”

He stepped forward again, quicker this time.

Taehyung turned too sharply to avoid him, his foot sliding against the mist-damp stone. He fell hard. A low grunt knocked from his chest as his elbow hit the ground, his body twisting into an awkward sprawl.

“Taehyung—!”

Jungkook was at his side in an instant, crouched and wide-eyed.

“I’m okay,” Taehyung started to say but stopped when he saw Jungkook’s expression.

Gone was the teasing bravado.

Jungkook’s hands were on his arms, not pulling but steadying. His touch gentle, almost nonexistent. His voice low, rough.

“You hit your head?”

Taehyung shook his head quickly. “No— just landed weird on my elbow. It’s not bad.”

Jungkook didn’t move.

He just looked at him.

And Taehyung saw it clearly then. Beneath the training, beneath the sharp eyes and faster fists. 

Fear. 

Not that Taehyung would fail.

But that’d he’d break before he got the chance.

“Sorry,” Taehyung muttered.

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

“For falling. For messing up.”

“You didn’t mess up,” Jungkook said immediately.

“But I—”

“You’re learning,” Jungkook cut in. “That’s not the same. I don’t care if you fall. I care if you get hurt.”

The words slipped out too fast, too honest.

And for a moment, they just looked at each other. Jungkook crouched low, Taehyung still on the ground, the air between them quiet and close.

Then quiet, almost too quiet:

“I just… I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

There was a long pause.

“You look at me like I’m strong,” Jungkook continued, voice rough. “Like I’ll always be the one catching you. And I want to be. But—”

He hesitated.

“I’ve lost people before, Tae.”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Taehyung swallowed.

The mist around them seemed heavier now, the clearing quieter.

And Jungkook finally met his eyes again, vulnerable and bare.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “You just have to stay.”

Taehyung stayed quiet for a breath.

Then another.

Jungkook’s words echoed in the stillness between them. Soft but heavy, like they’d been buried a long time.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Taehyung said finally.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered, something almost disbelieving in the way he looked at him. And Taehyung sat up slowly, brushing dirt from his sweater sleeves, wincing faintly at the soreness in his elbow.

“I didn’t think I’d want to stay here at all,” he admitted. “Not in this house. Not in this body. But… lately it feels like every time I try to run, someone’s already standing in front of me. Waiting.”

He glanced at Jungkook again, this time more deliberately.

“Sometimes it’s you.”

Jungkook’s throat bobbed.

“I’m still unsure,” Taehyung whispered. “But I’m not running.”

He reached out, lightly resting his hand over Jungkook’s where it hovered just beside his arm.

“I’ll stay.”

And this time, it was Jungkook who didn’t speak.

He just nodded once.

Then helped him back to his feet, quiet as the mist curling around them.

Jungkook’s hands were warm where they gripped his.

Not overpowering, just steady.

Taehyung’s knees ached faintly as he stood, but it wasn’t from the fall. It was from everything. The weight of truth still vibrating in his chest, the realization that even Jungkook, ever-brash and ever-bold, could carry scars deep as his own.

They stood there in silence for a few seconds longer.

Then Jungkook pulled a small cloth from his belt and pressed it into Taehyung’s hand.

“For your elbow,” he mumbled. “Wrap it, or Jimin will lecture me.”

Taehyung huffed a soft laugh. “Terrifying.”

“You don’t even know.”

He followed Jungkook off the training stone and back toward the manor steps, slower this time, the edges of the morning starting to blur into golden haze. A strange warmth settled behind his ribs, like the kind that follows a storm. Still charged, but softer now.

And just before they reached the threshold, Taehyung paused.

“Jungkook?”

The younger vampire turned.

“I meant it,” Taehyung said quietly. “I want to stay. And I want to learn.”

Jungkook didn’t smile.

But his gaze softened, the red burning low and steady in his eyes.

“I know.”

Jungkook led him back toward the side of the manor, where the training satchel lay against a bench. He knelt, tugging it open with the ease of routine.

“Sit,” he said simply.

Taehyung obeyed, sinking onto the stone step with a sigh. His elbow throbbed dully, but he didn’t complain.

Jungkook pulled a small roll of cloth and a salve jar from the bag. “You didn’t bruise the bone. Just scrapes. You’ll heal fast.”

“Thanks to all the vampire blood in me, right?”

“Don’t sound so bitter about it,” Jungkook muttered, unscrewing the jar. “You’re one of us.”

Taehyung blinked. Then looked away, the quiet of that statement blooming quietly in his chest.

The salve was cool. Jungkook’s fingers were careful, steady, almost too gentle for someone who’d just tried to knock him off his feet thirty minutes ago.

“You’re good at this,” Taehyung murmured.

Jungkook didn’t answer, just started wrapping the bandage.

And then—

“Taehyungie~!”

Jungkook winced as Jimin’s melodic voice rang out like a bell through the trees.

Taehyung turned just in time to see him skipping across the lawn, all billowing sleeves and dramatic timing.

“There you are,” Jimin huffed, halting like a dancer mid-pose. “I was told your lesson was done fifteen minutes ago. You were hogging him, Jungkookie.”

“I was tending his injury.”

“Oh please, he’s scraped worse on the  marble floors.”

“I still wrapped it,” Jungkook muttered, not looking up.

Taehyung smiled despite himself.

Jimin extended a hand like he was asking Taehyung to dance. “Come along, darling. Your magic won’t awaken itself.”

Taehyung took his hand.

Jungkook stood behind him with a grunt, gathering the salve and bandages.

“Try not to let him set himself on fire,” he muttered to Jimin.

“I make no promises.”

The walk to the garden was peaceful in a way that felt deliberate. Like the path itself had been enchanted to hush your thoughts the longer you followed it.

Jimin held Taehyung’s hand the whole way.

Not tight. Not possessive.

Just… grounding.

The manor’s eastern courtyard opened up in soft steps of green and stone, dappled sunlight slipping through gauzy clouds. Pale flowers bloomed around the carved fountain, and incense hung in the air like warmth made visible.

At the center of it all, Hoseok knelt barefoot in the grass, sleeves rolled, fingers pressed to the earth. Runes shimmered faintly around him in chalk-white loops and flower petals.

“Welcome to the quiet magic,” Jimin whispered, eyes twinkling.

Taehyung tilted his head. “Quiet?”

“Meaning it won’t scream when it snaps you in half,” Jimin said cheerfully. “But it will if you’re not respectful.”

Taehyung had no clue what that meant, but he was already stepping lighter on the ground. Afraid to step wrong and offend the plants.

Hoseok looked up then, his smile soft and steady. “He’s ready?”

“He is,” Jimin said proudly, giving Taehyung a nudge forward. “He made it through Jungkook. I think that earns him a bonus pastry.” 

The deciding incentive for Taehyung to (willingly) train with Jungkook and his full foot of height he had over Taehyung. Most times, Taehyung respected Jungkooks body and his buff of thick muscle, but appreciating and learning the vampires strength first hand was very different.

Taehyung cleared his throat. “Are we… doing spells now?”

“Not yet,” Hoseok said, brushing off his palms as he stood. “We start with breath. Then touch. Then intent.”

He gestured to the grass in front of him. “Come kneel.”

Taehyung obeyed, sitting opposite him as Jimin settled beside them both with the kind of elegance no one not born magical could ever fake.

“Close your eyes,” Hoseok said softly. “And listen.”

“To what?” Taehyung asked.

Jimin grinned. “Exactly.”

Taehyung closed his eyes with a huff.

At first, all he heard was his own breath. The faint wind brushing against the back of his neck. The distant lap of water from the fountain.

Then Hoseok’s voice, soft as silk.

“Place your hands on the ground.”

Taehyung did.

The earth was cool beneath his fingers. Damp with dew. The kind of quiet only nature knows how to keep.

“Breathe in,” Hoseok said. “Feel where you are. Let your pulse slow. Let the house know you’re listening.”

Taehyung inhaled deeply, and Jimin’s hand settled gently between his shoulder blades as a silent anchor. Not guiding, just present.

“Magic responds to honesty,” Hoseok murmured. “Not performance nor perfection. Let yourself be. That’s enough.”

Taehyung exhaled.

And somewhere beneath his palms, something shifted.

At first he thought it was his imagination. A faint warmth. A pulse that didn’t belong to him.

But it was real.

The grass under his fingers grew softer. The soil loosened like it breathed. One of the tiny pale flowers nearest his hand quivered, then turned—moved—to face him.

Taehyung’s eyes opened.

And the flower opened with them.

Its petals bloomed in slow, unhurried spirals, silver at the tips, and violet near the heart.

Taehyung gasped softly.

Jimin’s smile was radiant. “You’re a natural Tae!”

Hoseok reached out, gently brushing his fingers just beside Taehyung’s. “The house remembers you,” he said. “The land does, too.”

Taehyung stared at the flower, heart pounding.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispered.

“You did everything right,” Hoseok said.

Taehyung smiled, his hands gripping the dirt between his fingers. Feeling the lush ground and finding a new appreciation for its beauty. 

“I want to keep going.”

-

The scent of burning wood filled his lungs before he even opened his eyes.

Then came the screams.

They weren’t sharp, they were ragged. Like someone had already been screaming for hours. 

There was smoke in the air, red light behind his eyelids, and the crackling of splintered beams giving way overhead.

A child’s voice—his own—echoed faintly: “Jinnie?”

“Tae! Tae, stay where you are!”

Another voice.

Panicked. Wild.

Jungkook’s.

Taehyung turned in the dream, too slow, feet dragging through ash and soot and heat, the world tilting—

He saw the house collapse. Saw Jungkook’s hands reach into the fire—raw, blistered—scrabbling through fallen wood and molten glass to get to him. Saw the flames licking his sleeves. Heard his scream.

Then,

Nothing.

He woke up gasping.

His body shot upright, tangled in sheets, sweat-drenched and shaking. The room was dark, but not empty.

Yoongi was already there.

Sitting at the edge of the bed like he’d known. Like he’d been waiting.

His hand reached without asking, cupping the back of Taehyung’s neck. His hands were cold, long fingers laying comforting weight along Taehyung’s sweated skin.

“You’re safe,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Taehyung couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Yoongi adjusted his grip, guiding him forward. Taehyung leaned into him instinctively, forehead pressing into Yoongi’s shoulder as his hands clutched the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

“It’s the fire again,” Taehyung rasped, voice cracking. “I saw Jungkook— he- he burned his hands trying to reach me.”

Yoongi nodded once, quiet.

“It happened,” he murmured. “You were trapped. We almost lost you. He almost lost himself.”

Taehyung trembled harder, throat tight.

“I didn’t remember. I didn’t know—”

It was so bad. I didn’t know I forgot something so important.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Yoongi said, stroking his hair once. “You were so small. And we were supposed to protect you.”

A long pause.

“I think… I think the house and the training is helping me remember,” Taehyung whispered. “But it’s— it’s too much. It’s coming back too fast.”

Yoongi rested his chin lightly atop Taehyung’s head.

“We’ll slow it down,” he said. “We’ll go at your pace. I’ll help you find the pieces. One at a time.”

And in that quiet room, no longer burning, no longer falling—

Taehyung believed him.

The shaking had subsided, but the hollow ache in Taehyung’s chest hadn’t.

Yoongi hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken since.

Just… waited.

His presence was enough.

Still, Taehyung whispered, “Will you stay?”

Yoongi didn’t answer aloud. He just leaned back slightly, tugging the blanket over both of them with a single hand and shifting into the space Taehyung had made for him.

Taehyung didn’t hesitate.

He curled close, tucking himself beneath Yoongi’s arm and resting his cheek over his chest. The silence wrapped around them like fog, the weight of memory still clinging to Taehyung’s skin.

Then he noticed.

There was no heartbeat.

Yoongi’s chest didn’t rise or fall. There was no inhale, no soft exhale. No pulse.

Just stillness.

Taehyung blinked, startled by how intimate the absence felt.

No movement. No breath.

But warmth.

Yoongi’s skin wasn’t cold. His presence wasn’t distant. He held Taehyung like something precious; an anchor, not a ghost.

“You’re not breathing,” Taehyung murmured against his shirt.

“No need to,” Yoongi replied quietly.

Taehyung’s fingers curled into the fabric. “But you feel warm.”

“I’m full of blood,” Yoongi said with a hint of dry humor. “I was drinking when I felt you wake.”

Taehyung huffed a small, embarrassed laugh.

Then stilled.

And whispered, “Thank you.”

Yoongi’s hand ran once more through his hair, slow and grounding.

“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll keep the fire away.”

-

Taehyung found Namjoon in the solarium, sunlight filtered through antique glass and heavy books stacked like columns around the wide stone table.

He was already waiting with two steaming cups—one blood, one black tea—and a thick ledger open to the middle. The air smelled like old paper, bitter leaves, and dried lavender.

“You slept in,” Namjoon said, without looking up.

“I had a nightmare,” Taehyung muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Namjoon didn’t tease him. Just gestured to the seat across from him.

“Sit. We have a lot to cover.”

Taehyung dropped into the chair and took the tea gratefully, cradling it between his hands as Namjoon turned a page.

“You’re not just awakening into magic,” he said, “you’re awakening into status.”

Taehyung blinked. “Status?”

Namjoon looked at him, eyes calm but sharp. “You’re the son of Hyungshin. Firstborn of a fallen line, and the last blood heir with a living claim to the central coven. That means power. Territory. Rights the Elders want to reassign while you’re still unbonded.”

Taehyung’s throat went dry. “Reassign… to who?”

“Other covens,” Namjoon said. “There are a few interested parties. Especially now that they know you’re here.”

Taehyung frowned. “But they don’t even know me.”

“They don’t have to,” Namjoon said. “They know your name. Your blood. That’s enough.”

The words sank in like stone.

Namjoon’s tone didn’t waver. “You have a right to inheritance. They want to offer that to someone else through you. As a bride. As a political offering.”

Taehyung looked away. “And if I say no?”

Namjoon set his cup down. “Then they’ll try to make you say yes.”

There was a long pause.

Then Namjoon added, “They’ll come soon. Sooner than expected. The visit before? That wasn’t a greeting, it was a warning shot.”

Taehyung stared at the ledger. The ink shimmered faintly. Pages written in languages he didn’t understand.

“This is why I have to learn?” he asked softly.

Namjoon’s voice was quieter now.

“This is why you have to remember.”

Namjoon reached to the side and pulled a weathered scroll case from a drawer.

He set it down with care like it was alive.

“This,” he said, “is one of the last sealed letters from your grandfather’s rule. It hasn’t been opened since he passed. It was meant for the heir of the central line.”

Taehyung looked at the scroll.

The leather binding was cracked, bound in wax stamped with a sigil he didn’t recognize but felt, somewhere deep in his ribs. Like a forgotten lullaby with too many teeth.

“Can I…?” Taehyung whispered.

Namjoon nodded. “It’s yours.”

Taehyung broke the seal.

The parchment inside was brittle, but still intact. The script was elegant, ancient. The letters shimmered into something legible.

To the Bloodborn Heir,

By right of first son, sealed in ash and blood, the legacy of Hyungshin passes. His oath binds the soil beneath your feet and the house that breathes around you.

The walls remember what the world forgets. And when the veil between past and present thins—when starlight silences and the dead roots stir—you will rise. Not by favor, but by claim.

Know this:

The Elders do not come to witness.

They come to weigh. To divide. To take.

The garden will bloom with roses. But the roots will drink red.

Do not confuse kindness with clemency.

Do not confuse silence with peace.

Do not wait to be chosen.

Choose.

Or be unmade.

—The Crest of the Kim Bloodline

Sealed under moonlight, witnessed by fire.

Taehyung read the letter twice before setting it down with shaking fingers.

Namjoon didn’t speak.

Instead, he drew a heavy cloth aside to reveal a map of the vampire territories.

“The previous ruler was a different type of awakened.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was like Rae, prophetic.”

Ah

“There are nine covens,” he said. “Three have tried to claim neutrality. Two want you dead. Four want you married.”

“Married,” Taehyung repeated numbly.

“Bound,” Namjoon corrected. “Blood-linked. Not necessarily romantically. Just… owned.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

“And you all?” he asked.

Namjoon looked at him then. His gaze honest and liberating.

“We want you free.”

A beat.

“And we hope you’ll choose us anyway.”

The study session ended, but the weight of it lingered like a cloak soaked through.

Taehyung drifted to the library, his mind full of maps and sigils, names of covens he’d never heard until this week. 

The room was quiet, sunlight slanting in through tall arched windows, dust motes dancing over the spines of books that hadn’t been opened in decades.

He didn’t pick one up.

Instead, he climbed onto the wide window ledge, legs folded beneath him, and leaned against the cool stone of the frame.

Outside, the trees swayed in slow rhythm. Pale petals lifted on the wind like forgotten prayers.

His forehead rested against the glass.

He didn’t cry. But he felt like he could. He felt full with history, with fear, and with questions.

Back in the Human territories, Taehyung’s life had been simple. Almost mundane. 

He had wished for some sort of change, any really, to fill his cup of life that never seemed to get more than a quarter way full.

But now that he had it, he wondered how much he could take before his cup overfilled.

Taehyung heard the door open behind him.

Soft steps. Familiar.

“Studying hard?” Seokjin asked gently.

Taehyung didn’t move. “Too hard.”

A pause. Then the creak of old wood as Seokjin stepped closer and set something on the ledge beside him.

A sealed letter.

Taehyung turned his head slightly. His heart squeezed.

His mother’s handwriting.

“She sent this two nights ago,” Seokjin said. “Didn’t think it would reach us so soon. The messenger must’ve flown through stormlight.”

Taehyung reached for it with careful fingers.

He didn’t open it right away.

“She doesn’t know,” he said after a long moment. “About the elders. Or the bloodlines. Or that I’m remembering everything. I don’t even know how I’d explain it.”

“You don’t have to,” Seokjin said, sitting down on the ledge across from him. “Not yet. Sometimes letters are better for feeling than explaining.”

Taehyung looked down at the envelope.

“I don’t know who I am yet,” he admitted. “Not really.”

Seokjin was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “You’re someone we waited for.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

Seokjin continued, “You’re not a weapon. Or a pawn. You’re a choice. Yours. Ours. Your father tried to break the pattern when he chose your mother. He loved her fiercely. And you… are their consequence and their gift.”

Taehyung finally met his eyes.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“Of the elders?” Seokjin said, smiling faintly. “Of what they’ll do?”

“No,” Taehyung said quietly. “Of me.”

Seokjin’s smile faded.

Then he leaned forward and touched his forehead gently to Taehyung’s.

“No,” he whispered. “Never of you.”

Seokjin pulled back with a quiet breath, fingers smoothing the edge of Taehyung’s hair like he’d done when he was small before he stood. Almost burned by the contact.

“I’ll give you a moment,” he said. “We’ll be in the garden if you need us.”

Taehyung nodded silently, the letter still warm from Seokjin’s hand.

The door clicked softly behind him.

He stared at the envelope for a long moment before slipping his finger under the seal. It opened with a soft crack, the paper inside folded neatly, carefully. His mother’s handwriting swept across the page in ink that had bled slightly in the corners, like maybe she’d hesitated or maybe cried.

My Sweet Taehyung,

I don’t know what you’ve seen. I don’t know how you’re feeling. But I know you. I’ve always known you.

You were born into something heavy. You didn’t ask for it, but you carry it, like your father did.

Are they treating you well? Do you feel safe? I know what their world looks like, how cold it can be. I know the weight of legacy and blood and names. But I also know you. You are softness wrapped in iron. You are kindness followed by shining light, my sweet son.

If you’ve begun to remember things, don’t run from them. Let them return to you. They belong to you, even the painful ones.

And remember, that no matter what name you carry, no matter who claims you or calls you family—

You will always be mine first.

And I love you.

Always,

Mom.

Taehyung didn’t cry.

But he held the letter like it was a lifeline, folded it slowly, and pressed it to his chest as he stared out the window again.

The trees swayed.

And for the first time all morning, the world didn’t feel so heavy.

He didn’t move for a while.

The letter stayed folded in his lap, its edges curled slightly from how tightly he’d held it. His fingers still trembled faintly, but not from fear, and just the ache of recognition. Of being seen across a great distance by someone who still called him hers.

Taehyung pressed his forehead to the window again.

Outside, the day moved on.

He could see the garden below. Lush, green, touched with old enchantments that glimmered faintly between the petals. A low breeze stirred the air, lifting pale flower heads and brushing over silk canopies tied to the terrace.

Namjoon was there, sleeves rolled, speaking softly to Seokjin over a book balanced on the crook of his arm. They weren’t arguing, but their voices moved like a dance. An old rhythm, familiar, intimate.

Further in, Hoseok knelt barefoot near the fountain, guiding Namjoons clumsy hands as he patted soil into a silver planter. Jimin laughed—clear and light—and when Namjoon nearly tipped the whole pot over, Hoseok caught it without looking, steadying him with a hand to his back. Namjoon leaned into it easily.

Jimin passed by then, arms full of fabric. Shawls, perhaps, or something meant for draping ceremony altars. He tossed a length of blue silk over Namjoon’s head mid-conversation, and instead of snapping, Namjoon just sighed. Jimin kissed his cheek and kept walking.

And Jungkook—quiet, steady Jungkook—sat perched near the edge of the stone fence, sharpening a blade with a patient rhythm. Not for threat. Not for show. Just because. Every so often, he looked toward the house. Toward the window.

Taehyung didn’t duck.

He just watched them all, these six strange, ancient, beautiful people who moved like they belonged to each other.

Who made this place feel like something more than just safe.

Like home.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the glass again.

Letting it soak in. Letting it settle.

The music room was dim and quiet when Taehyung entered, the sun slanting through the stained glass in amber hues. Dust floated like silk in the still air. Yoongi sat at the grand piano again, fingers moving across the keys, not playing a song. Just thinking out loud through sound.

He looked up once Taehyung stepped in, and nodded gently toward the plush seat across from him.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

Taehyung nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

Yoongi reached out.

Taehyung took his hand without hesitation.

The moment their palms touched, the room shifted. It wasn’t sudden, it was more like exhaling into a dream. The light grew younger. Softer. Everything blurred and then sharpened again—

And suddenly, Taehyung was small.

Maybe five.

Maybe younger.

The manor was warmer, golden with afternoon light, and the grand sitting room had been transformed.

A pink blanket was stretched across three chairs to make a tent. On the floor were tiny teacups, an empty sugar bowl, and four seated vampires; all of them indulging the prince of the house in a proper tea party.

Seokjin had a lace handkerchief tucked around his collar like a dinner napkin. Hoseok had three plastic rings stacked on one finger. Namjoon sat stiffly, legs crossed and pinky raised, holding a chipped porcelain cup between two fingers that he had dropped only moments before. 

And in the middle, young Taehyung grinned proudly, setting a torn bunny plush beside a stuffed lion and pouring pretend tea into cups.

“You have to sip,” he instructed, very seriously. “But you have to say thank you first. The bunny is shy.”

“Yes, of course,” Namjoon said solemnly. “Thank you, bunny.” 

“Delightful tea,” Seokjin added with a regal nod.

“This one’s for you, Hobi-hyung,” Taehyung said, passing over an empty cup. “You get the lion because you’re brave.”

The memory shifted quietly.

One blink and the golden light of the tea party faded like breath on glass.

The room changed.

Gone was the manor. Gone was the lace tent and the laughter, the flower-dusted floor and the velvet cushions. The colors dulled into grayscale, the warmth stolen by something colder, sharper.

Now, Taehyung sat on a mattress pushed into the corner of a narrow bedroom.

The window rattled in its frame as rain slammed against the glass, thunder rumbling deep in the bones of the house. The wallpaper peeled at the corners. The bulb overhead flickered like it was deciding whether to stay.

Taehyung’s legs were drawn up to his chest, arms locked around a worn plush bunny; ears frayed, one eye missing, the stuffing spilling from its side.

Lightning cracked the sky.

He flinched.

The air was damp and still.

“Jin-hyung…?” he whispered.

The silence after was absolute.

A gust of wind slammed into the window, and he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Joon-hyung…?”

His voice was quieter this time. Or maybe just swallowed by the storm.

Still, no answer.

His grip on the bunny tightened.

“Hoseok-hyung…” he said, barely audible now. A breath. A prayer.

Nothing.

Rainwater leaked through the window frame, trailing down the sill. The bulb flickered again, then died.

Taehyung sat in darkness.

Alone.

Twelve years old. Holding onto the only piece of his old life he still had. A bunny, his favorite, still smelling of tea parties held in a lace tent with flower petals littered on the carpet.

He didn’t call any more names after that.

Just curled tighter around the plush and listened to the storm rage.

The rain faded first.

Then the creaking window. The flickering bulb. The silence that had filled the walls.

And finally, the cold.

Taehyung blinked, his eyes slow to adjust. The music room came back into view in soft, blurred edges. The scent of polished wood, candle wax, lavender still lingering faintly in the air.

But his chest was tight.

And his cheeks were wet.

He hadn’t realized.

He was crying; silently, uncontrollably. His face pressed against something warm.

Yoongi.

Arms around him, steady and quiet, holding him like something fragile. One hand smoothed over the back of his head, the other wrapped securely around his waist, rocking him with a rhythm older than memory.

Taehyung couldn’t speak for a long moment.

He just breathed, in hiccupping, shallow gasps.

“I…” he whispered hoarsely. “Why did I forget?”

Yoongi didn’t rush his answer. He never did.

When he finally spoke, it was low and even, the kind of voice that didn’t need to be loud to be heard.

“I assume your mother might have placed a masking rite on your memories,” he said gently. “Or the trauma… sealed them away. Your mind did what it had to do to survive. The weight of losing everything is too much for a child to hold onto alone.”

Taehyung shook his head against his chest, tears catching in his throat.

“I didn’t remember the manor. Or the fire. Or any of you.” His voice cracked. “It’s like I dreamed you all up, and then forgot I’d ever dreamed at all.”

Yoongi’s hand stilled in his hair.

“You didn’t forget,” he said softly. “You buried it. That’s not the same.”

Taehyung clung to him tighter.

And Yoongi let him. Rocked him gently, like he was still that little boy clutching a bunny in a storm.

“You found your way back to us,” Yoongi murmured. “That’s what matters now.”

Taehyung didn’t speak again.

He just stayed there; tucked against Yoongi’s chest, curled into the warmth of someone who didn’t ask him to be anything but held.

Yoongi didn’t offer more words. He didn’t need to.

The room around them was still, hushed in the way sacred places are. The piano sat untouched, the notes of earlier drifting into memory. Outside, the rain had slowed to a whisper, pattering gently against the windows like breath.

And for the first time in a very long time, Taehyung allowed himself to cry fully.

Not just from pain.

But from relief.

Because this time, when the storm came, he wasn’t alone.

He was held.

Rocked.

Remembered.

-

The courtyard was empty.

Taehyung had been waiting on the sparring mat for almost twenty minutes. His practice gear already slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with a ribbon Hoseok had previously gifted him when his bangs started to grow out again.

Jungkook was nowhere to be found.

Which was… unusual.

The others had filtered by earlier, giving soft encouragements, teasing Jungkook to go easy on their youngest. But now, the sun had climbed higher, and Taehyung sat cross-legged on the mat, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Then he stood.

“Fine,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’ll find him.”

It didn’t take long.

The training wing was quiet. Halls warm with filtered sunlight, shadows stretching beneath arched windows. Taehyung turned a corner, passed the weapons hall, and stopped when he heard the distinct clang of steel against wood.

The door to the inner armory stood slightly ajar.

He pushed it open carefully.

And froze.

Jungkook stood in the middle of the sparring floor, shirtless, back slicked with sweat and muscles taut as he swung a long blade overhead, then twisted into a fluid spin. His movements were sharp. Controlled. Beautiful.

He hadn’t heard Taehyung yet.

The room smelled of metal, resin, and warm skin. A low hum of effort clung to the air.

Taehyung’s breath caught quietly, almost embarrassingly.

When Jungkook finally turned and saw him, he stilled.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke at first.

“You’re late,” Taehyung said, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice was breathy.

Jungkook smirked, rolling his shoulders back as he let the blade fall against a stand.

“I lost track of time,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d come looking for me.”

Taehyung stepped inside. “What, and let you ditch training?”

“You could’ve waited.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow.

Taehyung took another step forward.

“I wanted to see you.”

That made Jungkook pause slightly.

And then his voice dropped, quieter now. Testing.  “You’re staring.”

“You’re shirtless.”

“You noticed.”

Taehyung huffed, trying not to look away. “How could I not. You’re built like a marble statue.”

Jungkook’s smirk returned, slow and dangerous. He stepped toward him, sweat still gleaming on his collarbones.

“I’m flattered,” he said, voice low. “You come here to spar… or to get distracted?”

Taehyung swallowed. “Can’t I do both?”

Jungkook didn’t reply immediately.

He just stepped back, rolled his neck with a faint pop, and motioned to the center of the room with a tilt of his chin.

“Then come here,” he said. “Let’s see if you remember what I taught you.”

Taehyung obeyed. Half out of instinct, half out of… something else.

They faced each other, barefoot on the smooth stone floor. Jungkook didn’t bother with weapons this time. Standing in position, muscles rippling under smooth skin.

“Hands up,” Jungkook instructed, voice lower now. “Weight on your back foot.”

Taehyung did as told, though his eyes kept dropping to Jungkook’s bare chest, the line of muscle down his stomach, the way his sweat had gathered in the hollow of his collarbone.

Jungkook noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he said nothing.

He just stepped forward and raised a hand—slow, open, not striking, but guiding—and pushed gently against Taehyung’s wrist. “Loosen here,” he murmured. “You’re stiff. Makes you predictable.”

“I’m not stiff,” Taehyung said quietly.

“Oh?” Jungkook smirked. “Prove it.”

He moved quickly then; hands grazing Taehyung’s waist, twisting him, guiding his weight to the opposite side. The adjustment pulled them close. Too close.

Taehyung felt the brush of Jungkook’s breath across his cheek.

The way their bodies nearly aligned.

“You’re distracted,” Jungkook murmured.

“No I’m not,” Taehyung whispered back, eyes flicking down, then up again, meeting Jungkook’s gaze.

It was a challenge.

And Jungkook accepted it.

He surged forward. Not in position to strike, but to press Taehyung back, their hands colliding in a messy block, feet shuffling over the mat until Jungkook had him pinned, one arm braced beside Taehyung’s head against the stone wall.

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

Jungkook leaned in.

Chest to chest. Forehead tilted just slightly. Not touching. Not quite.

“You fight better when you’re flustered,” Jungkook said, voice barely above a hum.

Taehyung licked his lips. “Maybe I like the motivation.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his mouth, just for a second.

Then — he pulled back.

“Take five,” he said roughly, voice suddenly more composed.

Taehyung was still breathless, heart hammering, lips parted in stunned silence.

Jungkook walked away, grabbing a towel from the bench.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he added, not looking at him. “Cool off.”

Taehyung stayed against the wall, fingers twitching where Jungkook had touched him. He wanted to say no, to continue whatever electric moment was occurring between them.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sure. Cooling off.”

But he didn’t move.

The sound of Jungkook’s retreating footsteps echoed once through the stone hall.

Then the door clicked shut.

And Taehyung was alone.

He stayed against the wall for a long time, heart still thudding like it hadn’t quite caught up. His palms were sweaty. His skin hot.

The room still smelled like Jungkook; salt and steel and something deeper, wilder. Like the earth just before it rains.

Taehyung ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots.

What just happened?

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined it. The nearness, the heat, the way Jungkook would look at him. 

That hadn’t been sparring. Not really. At least… not all of it.

And still, Jungkook pulled away.

Take five.

Taehyung exhaled hard and dropped onto the bench. Elbows on knees. Head in his hands.

He wanted it. That was the truth. He wanted Jungkook. The closeness. The tension. Even the teasing dominance of it.

But maybe Jungkook didn’t.

Or maybe he couldn’t.

Taehyung wasn’t sure what the rules were. Vampiric bonding seemed so layered. Intimate and sensual with all six of them, yet somehow… restrained. Like there were lines they knew not to cross.

Were those lines for his sake?

Or theirs?

Maybe they didn’t want him like that.

Maybe they couldn’t.

He’d seen them kiss. He’d seen Jimin cradle Seokjin’s face and whisper secrets in the dark. He’d seen Yoongi hold him like something sacred.

But what if they were being careful? What if they were treating him like something untouchable?

Like a future heir.

A symbol.

A promise.

Not a person.

Not theirs.

Taehyung bit his lip, eyes falling to the floor. One of the sparring mats had a dark spot from Jungkook’s sweat. His fingers itched to touch it.

What if this never becomes more?

The thought left a dull ache in his chest.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more—

That he might not be wanted the way he wanted them…

—or that he was, and he just didn’t understand the language yet.

The door creaked open again.

Taehyung straightened instinctively. His heart racing for reasons he wasn’t ready to name.

Jungkook stepped in, this time with his shirt on, his expression carefully blank.

He didn’t meet Taehyung’s eyes.

“We can pick up later,” he said simply, grabbing a small towel from the bench. “You look tired.”

Taehyung blinked. “I’m fine.”

Jungkook gave a tight nod. “Still. Rest.”

That was it.

No teasing.

No heat.

No mention of the near-body contact that had left Taehyung flushed and breathless minutes ago. No acknowledgement at all.

Just cool professionalism.

Distance.

Taehyung watched him move—so practiced, so composed—and felt something inside him crumple.

Days passed.

Training continued. Routines solidified. The house moved like it was exhaling around him. Less like a fortress now and more like a heartbeat.

But Jungkook?

Jungkook kept his distance.

And Taehyung noticed.

So he started… testing.

The next time he practiced magic with Hoseok and Jimin, he let his laughter linger longer than usual. He brushed his fingers a little slower against Jimin’s when handing him chalk. He leaned closer when Hoseok corrected his speech, eyes low, lips parted like he was waiting for something to be taken.

Jimin smirked knowingly.

Hoseok’s hand lingered on his hip.

But neither pushed further.

Not even when Taehyung asked, just a little too softly, “Do you always look at your students like that?”

Jimin had grinned. “Only the ones I’d kill for.”

And that should’ve made his heart race.

Instead, it made his chest feel hollow.

Because even with the looks, the touches, the soft teasing and whispered compliments… they never crossed the line.

No one kissed him.

No one reached for him the way he ached to be reached for.

Not like he remembered, not like they used to, in dreams, in whispers between memory and imaginative desire.

Not like Jungkook had, before pulling away.

He’d become the center of everything, and yet…

He’d never felt more untouchable.

unwanted.

The days blurred.

Taehyung still showed up to his lessons; he trained, studied, endured.

But something in him had dulled.

His steps grew quieter. His laughter faded. He no longer lingered in the garden after breakfast or wandered into the music room uninvited. The fire of wanting—the pull of flirtation, of closeness—had cooled into something wary and unsure.

He ate his meals, but never first. He answered when spoken to, but never with more than needed. And most days, he disappeared back to his room before the candles could burn halfway down.

They noticed.

But no one spoke on it. Not directly.

Until dinner.

It was quiet tonight. No mourning visitors, no games, no teasing banter between Hoseok and Jimin. Just the seven of them seated around the long carved table, surrounded by warm light and silence that stretched a little too long.

Taehyung picked at his food. Half a blood orange sat untouched at the edge of his plate.

He barely noticed the flicker in Seokjin’s tone when he cleared his throat.

“The Council have sent word,” Seokjin announced calmly. “They will come in two moons’ time.”

The words dropped like a stone into water.

Namjoon’s fork paused mid-air. Jimin’s lips parted as if to say something, but didn’t. Even Yoongi looked up from his glass.

But Taehyung didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat with his chin propped on his hand, eyes glazed as he stared through the flickering candlelight. His mind clearly somewhere far away.

“Taehyung,” Seokjin said more softly.

Still nothing.

Not until Jungkook, seated across from him, reached forward and laid a hand gently on the table, fingers brushing near Taehyung’s own.

That made him blink.

He looked up, startled, then quickly glanced away.

“I’m listening,” he said, even though he clearly hadn’t been.

Namjoon set his drink down with a quiet clink.

“You’re not,” he murmured.

The silence thickened.

And in the quiet, Taehyung felt something shift beneath his skin; a little like guilt, or shame, or something darker.

He hated being seen like this.

But he didn’t know how to be anything else.

Not when the warmth of their affection always stopped just short of what he truly craved.

And now the Elders were coming back.

Which meant choices.

Which meant consequences.

Which meant— 

he had no idea what they would ask of him, or what they’d try to take.

And he didn’t even know who he was supposed to be anymore.

The silence after Namjoon’s quiet “You’re not” stretched long and taut.

Taehyung’s throat worked.

He stared at the half-eaten blood orange on his plate. Its skin had split slightly, juice pooling at the base like a wound. He felt every pair of eyes on him. Watching. Waiting.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t retreat.

Instead, he whispered. Barely audible:

“Am I supposed to be alone in this?”

The clinking of cutlery stopped. Chairs shifted slightly, soft creaks in the tense quiet.

“What?”

“I mean…” Taehyung looked up, meeting no one’s eyes and all of them at once. “If my role in the coven is only symbolic, or ceremonial— or just about the bloodlines and the ritual… then I understand. I just…”

His voice cracked.

“I just wish someone had told me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold.

It was frozen.

Like the whole room had inhaled and forgotten how to let go.

Jimin sat back, his expression unreadable but eyes wide. Hoseok looked like he’d stopped breathing. Namjoon blinked once, stunned, and Yoongi’s knuckles were white where he gripped his glass.

But it was Jungkook who responded first.

His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood.

“No,” he snapped quiet but sharp. “That’s not true. That’s not- don’t ever say that.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed, startled. “Then why does it feel like I’m being protected but not… wanted?”

“Because we’re trying to respect you!” Jimin burst out, voice high with something like disbelief. “We’ve been waiting for you to be ready!”

“You’ve always been wanted,” Hoseok added. “Romantically. Intimately. Deeply. You were promised. And not by blood, Taehyung. By choice.”

Namjoon exhaled slowly, voice even but firm. “You’ve felt our restraint and thought it meant disinterest. But you don’t know what it’s taken, for each of us, to not cross that line.”

Yoongi spoke next, quiet and measured.

“We touch you like you’ll break,” he said. “Not because you’re fragile. But because you’re precious.”

Finally, Seokjin’s voice cut through it all. Calm. Searching.

“Taehyung,” he said, leaning forward slightly, hands folded before him. “Is that what you truly believed? That this bond… that we… wouldn’t want you?”

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

“I didn’t know what to believe,” he admitted. “You flirt. You hold me. You protect me. But when I… I wanted more, it was like everything stopped. Like I’d done something wrong.”

Seokjin’s eyes softened.

“Nothing about you could be wrong,” he said quietly. “But we didn’t want to pressure you. You’ve been pulled in every direction recently. With memory, magic, politics, legacy. We wanted to give you time.”

“To choose us,” Yoongi said.

“To fall in love,” Hoseok added, smiling, pained and tender.

“On your own terms,” Jungkook finished, voice rough.

Taehyung’s eyes burned.

No one moved.

Then—slowly—he nodded.

“I just… needed to hear it,” he whispered. “To be sure I guess.”

“You will,” Seokjin said, his voice sure and gentle. “As many times as it takes.”

The air still hadn’t settled.

Taehyung’s confession lingered like perfume. Sharp, intimate, and inescapable.

Then Jimin stood.

His movements were slow and fluid, like the scene needed him to move gently through it. He circled the table. The finest of silk trailing behind his loose shirt sleeves, mouth curved in something unreadable. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile.

Just hunger.

Controlled. Focused. Patient.

He stopped beside Taehyung’s chair, eyes never leaving his.

“Well,” Jimin purred. “I think dinner’s over.”

His fingers skimmed Taehyung’s jaw, light as a feather, but with purpose. Tilting his face up.

“I think it’s time,” he murmured, “we start teaching you something a little more…” His thumb brushed just under Taehyung’s bottom lip. “Direct.”

“Only if you want it of course.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

Jimin’s voice dropped to a whisper, dark velvet and heat.

“You’ve been wondering if you’re wanted, my love. So let me be the first to answer properly.”

He leaned in, mouth barely brushing Taehyung’s ear.

“We crave you.”

The words weren’t playful.

They were sacred.

Jimin straightened, extending a hand with something between grace and command.

Taehyung hesitated—only for a second—then took it.

The entire table watched in stillness. No teasing now. No interruptions. Just reverent silence.

Because the line had been crossed—

—and Taehyung had reached for it.

Jimin’s hand was warm in his, fingers laced tight with Taehyung’s. But Taehyung barely had time to take a full breath before—

“Jimin—!”

With no warning, the vampire swept him up.

Taehyung let out a startled yelp as his feet left the ground. Jimin carried him bridal-style, light as air, as if Taehyung weighed nothing.

“Jimin!” he hissed, clinging to the man’s shoulders, eyes wide. “What are you doing?!”

“You’ll see,” Jimin hummed, utterly unbothered. “You’re too slow when you walk.”

“I walk just fine—”

“But I like you like this.” Jimin grinned, leaning in so their noses nearly brushed. “Soft. Breathless. Right where I want you.”

Taehyung flushed.

Behind them, chairs scraped. The others stood.

They didn’t speak much, but the energy had shifted completely. The restraint was gone. The coven didn’t hover any longer, and they followed after the couple.

Hungry.

Steady.

All six of them moved together like a tide.

“Where are we even going?” Taehyung asked, trying not to sound like he was panting.

“We’re going to my room,” Jimin called back over his shoulder, still carrying him.

“Wait—” Taehyung protested, half-panicked, half-flushed. “Wait a second—!”

“Okay,” Jimin said cheerfully. “Yoongi-hyung, strip the blankets.”

“Already on it,” came Yoongi’s lazy voice, full of amusement.

“Strip the— what?”

Seokjin chuckled behind them. “It’s going to get messy.”

“What does that mean?!”

“Messy,” Namjoon echoed. “Loud. Deliriously unfair, probably.”

“I—!”

Jungkook was last to follow them up the stairs. His eyes glowed like embers in the candlelight. His voice was a quiet, dangerous promise.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured just behind Taehyung’s ear, “we’ll take good care of you.”

Taehyung shivered.

Still in Jimin’s arms.

Still not ready.

But still not telling them to stop.

The bedroom was already warm when they entered, lit with low candlelight and smelling faintly of lavender and old wood. Yoongi had stripped the bed down to its base linens, baring the soft ash-gray sheets, and a pile of pillows had been dragged from surrounding rooms. Everything was soft. Everything was waiting.

Jimin lowered Taehyung onto the bed like he was a blessing.

Not a possession. Not a prize.

A promise.

Taehyung sat there breathless, heart stammering in his throat, surrounded on all sides as the six of them slowly approached.

None of them rushed.

They moved like waves, deliberate and circling. Seokjin reached him first, kneeling beside the bed to brush his fingers along Taehyung’s cheek.

“You don’t know,” he murmured, “how long we’ve waited for this.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

“We won’t go all the way.”

Hoseok crawled behind him, hands curling gently around his waist, pulling him back into a warm, steady chest. “Let us touch you, darling,” he whispered, lips at Taehyung’s ear. “Let us show you how much we want you.”

Fingers were everywhere. Jimin’s tracing the curve of his collarbone. Namjoon’s tugging the tie from his robe. Yoongi’s hand resting lightly on his knee, thumb sweeping small, grounding circles. Jungkook stood closest to his feet, eyes already dark and heavy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jimin murmured, kissing just beneath Taehyung’s jaw. “So sensitive.”

“Every part of you,” Yoongi added, voice smooth and low, “belongs to us.”

They didn’t tear his clothes off, they peeled them, slow and reverent, revealing skin inch by inch like uncovering scripture. Each part of Taehyung was touched like a sacred artifact. Fingers over his chest, down his stomach, behind his knees. Mouths pressed to every freckle. His hips bucked helplessly under so much attention, but none of them let up.

“You’re shaking,” Namjoon observed gently, cupping his jaw and kissing the corner of his mouth. “Already?”

“I can’t—” Taehyung gasped, arching into a warm palm between his thighs. “It’s too much—”

“No,” Seokjin corrected softly, seated now at his side, stroking his hair back. “It’s not enough yet.”

“Kiss me, please.”

He kissed Taehyung’s lips, searing hot.

Then Jimin’s tongue flicked over a nipple, and Taehyung whimpered, arching back against Hoseok’s chest. Fingers gripped his thighs tighter. His knees were spread, his body on full display, glowing under candlelight and praise.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Hoseok whispered.

“So responsive,” Jimin purred.

“You were made for this,” Yoongi said.

Taehyung couldn’t speak anymore.

He could only feel.

And then Jungkook.

Jungkook, who had been the quietest, the hungriest.

He was kneeling between Taehyung’s legs now, palms splayed on the insides of his thighs, eyes burning crimson. His fangs had dropped. Not fully, but enough.

“My love,” he whispered, reverent and ragged. “You smell so sweet. So perfect. What I’d do to be able to claim you—”

“No,” Seokjin said sharply.

The room stilled.

“Not yet.”

Jungkook exhaled harshly, forcing his gaze away from the swell of Taehyung’s throat.

Taehyung, panting, writhing beneath so many hands and mouths, trembled.

“I want—” he gasped, eyes squeezed shut.

“I know,” Yoongi murmured, pressing kisses down his thigh. “We know. Just let go.”

“You’re ours,” Namjoon said, brushing his lips over the inside of Taehyung’s wrist. “You always have been.”

They brought him to the edge again.

And again.

And again.

Every time he started to fall, someone held him. Seokjin kissed his forehead. Hoseok whispered praise. Jungkook pressed his mouth to Taehyung’s knee like he was afraid to touch more, but still wanted to be close. Taehyung’s thighs trembled, body covered in sweat, breath coming in short, choked moans.

But no one pushed him over.

No one claimed him fully.

And when his orgasm finally took him—spurred on by a dozen hands and mouths and love—he sobbed against Seokjin’s chest, overwhelmed and limp, utterly undone.

The room was silent except for his breath.

And then a kiss was pressed to each of his cheeks. His temple. His sternum. His hips. His mouth.

“I—” Taehyung whispered, eyes fluttering.

“You were perfect,” Jungkook breathed.

“You are,” Seokjin corrected. “Ours.”

Taehyung didn’t remember when his body stopped trembling.

Only that at some point, someone lifted him gently—like he might break if they moved too fast—and laid him in the center of the bed.

He was bare. Warm. Wrecked.

And surrounded.

Yoongi had wrapped him in a soft sheet, careful not to disturb his sensitive skin. Namjoon laid at his side, one hand stroking through his sweat-damp hair with slow, grounding rhythm. Hoseok whispered sweet nonsense against his temple, lips brushing every inch of skin they could find.

Seokjin sat at the head of the bed, Taehyung’s head pillowed against his thigh as he traced gentle shapes across his collarbone.

“You did so well,” he murmured, deep voice dripping with truth.

“I couldn’t think,” Taehyung breathed, eyes fluttering open. “I couldn’t… be. Just felt. All of you. Everywhere.”

“You were made to feel,” Jimin whispered from beside him, fingers dancing over his stomach. “Made to be worshipped.”

Taehyung laughed a little broken, a little breathless.

“You’re all insane.”

“Undeniably,” Yoongi muttered.

“But you’re also mine,” Taehyung said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

The room stilled.

And then—

“Yes,” Namjoon said. “Always.”

Seokjin leaned down, brushing a kiss across his forehead. “You’re home now. There’s no going back.”

“Not that I’d want to,” Taehyung whispered, pressing closer.

Jungkook, quiet until now, leaned over and nuzzled his cheek against Taehyung’s knee, his voice quiet. “When the elders come… don’t let them see this.”

“This?” Taehyung asked, lifting a brow.

“This softness,” Jungkook said, kissing the curve of his thigh. “It’s just for us.”

Taehyung reached out and tangled his fingers in Jungkook’s hair.

“I’m not afraid of being soft,” he whispered. “Not with you.”

Jimin curled closer. Hoseok drew the blankets over them. Yoongi kissed the top of Taehyung’s head, and Seokjin continued to pet him like he was made of something finer than flesh and bone.

And in the hush that followed, as breath evened and candles flickered low, Taehyung exhaled one last thought:

“I’ve never felt more loved.”

“You are,” six voices answered.

As one.

Chapter Text

The letter sat on the desk, untouched since last night.

Its wax seal had long since cracked, the Kim crest still gleaming faintly beneath the candlelight. 

Taehyung hadn’t dared move it. Not even when the sun rose, not even when the house stirred around him like something was breathing beneath the walls.

He just sat there, cross-legged in his robe, hair falling in his eyes, watching the parchment like it might open its mouth and speak.

Something about the way it was worded, “bloodborn heir”, “claim or be unmade”, pressed against his ribs like a hidden blade.

They hadn’t told him there was a title.

They hadn’t told him he was meant to rise.

The floorboards creaked softly.

He didn’t turn.

Seokjin’s voice was low behind him. “You read it.”

Taehyung’s lips barely moved. “Did you know it would say that?”

There was a pause. Then:

“No.”

He turned.

Seokjin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes shadowed but steady. “We knew our grandfather had written something. A blood rite passed down. But none of us ever read it. It only reveals itself when the heir touches it.”

Taehyung blinked.

“The heir,” he repeated flatly.

Namjoon stepped into view behind Seokjin, hands folded. “You.”

Taehyung let out a soft, bitter sound. “I haven’t even awakened yet.”

“You were born from fire and blood,” Namjoon said. “You don’t need permission from magic to be who you are.”

Taehyung looked back to the letter. “And who is that, exactly?”

Seokjin pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in slow, careful steps. “The house is changing. The wards are stirring. The Elders don’t just want to assess your loyalty. They want to see if you’re ready to rule.”

Taehyung’s heart stuttered.

“They wouldn’t dare,” he whispered.

“They will,” Namjoon said. “If they sense you’re unprepared, or unsure, or vulnerable…”

“They’ll divide us,” Seokjin finished. “They’ll claim you in our place.”

Taehyung stood slowly.

The robe slipped slightly down one shoulder, exposing a bite-mark faded at his collarbone from Jungkook’s mouth last night. Unbroken skin, but memory-laced.

“I’m not unsure about you,” Taehyung said. “About this coven. I’m unsure about… me.”

There was silence.

Then Namjoon stepped forward and handed him a thin velvet-wrapped box.

Inside was a small silver medallion carved with runes and looped through a leather strap.

“What is it?” Taehyung asked.

Seokjin met his gaze.

“The beginning,” he said.

And they walked away, leaving Taehyung in a flurry of confusion. His hand still wrapped around the medallion like it was a life line in a new world he was only just starting to understand. 

The knock that echoed through the manor wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

The sound of it crawled through the wood, through the walls, and through every vein of the house like something old being summoned.

Taehyung stood at the foot of the stairs, flanked on all sides by his six. Seokjin at his right shoulder, Namjoon on his left. Jimin and Hoseok stood behind, a step closer than usual. Jimin’s fingers brushing the back of Taehyung’s robe. Jungkook and Yoongi were farther back, watching the door like it might open to fire.

It didn’t.

It opened to silence.

Five figures entered the manor.

Their presence was immediate.

They were dressed in shades of black and bone, robes etched in ancient thread, high collars casting shadows over regal, ageless faces. They did not bow. They did not smile. They did not remove their gloves.

They stepped forward in unison, as though summoned by gravity alone.

The first was a woman. Her eyes were white. Not clouded, but glowing. Her voice was soft when she spoke, yet it scraped like ice across marble.

“The house is awake.”

Taehyung didn’t move.

“He is awake,” said another. An older man with skin like carved onyx and a voice like thunder contained. “Hyungshin’s legacy stirs.”

“Then let us see it,” murmured the third. He was skeletal, cloaked in ash-gray velvet. His fingernails were long. His teeth, faintly stained with age.

The fourth and fifth didn’t speak at all.

Not yet.

Seokjin stepped forward calmly. “Council Elders. You honor us.”

“No need for pleasantries,” the first Elder said, eyes locked on Taehyung now. “We’ve come to see what the heirs future holds. And what the blood has awakened.”

Taehyung tried not to flinch.

Namjoon reached out, pressing a warm hand between his shoulder blades. Just once. Just enough.

And then Taehyung spoke, his voice steady.

“You’ll find I haven’t awoken yet,” he said quietly. “But I’m in the process of bonding rites.”

The room held its breath.

The fourth Elder finally stepped forward. A pale man, dressed in rust-colored robes stitched with gold.

He tilted his head, studying Taehyung with eyes too bright to be natural.

“Is that so?” he asked. “We’ve heard no word of a bonding ritual. No claiming. No awakening.”

“It’s begun,” Seokjin said coldly.

The fifth Elder stepped into view then; taller than the others, eyes veiled beneath a sheer cloth, as though sight was beneath him. His voice was the most ancient of all.

“Then we will stay. Until it is done.”

And just like that, the air shifted.

They were not guests.

They were judges.

The Elders began to move further into the manor, trailing cold air and ancient expectation.

Then the first Elder—the woman with the white-glow eyes—paused, her gaze flicking once more to Taehyung.

“We’d like to speak with the halfblood heir,” she said. “Alone.”

The air shifted. So did Jungkook.

Seokjin stepped forward, unhurried, hands calmly folded in front of him. But the sharpness behind his smile could have cut glass.

“I mean no disrespect,” he said smoothly, “but I’m quite sure you do not expect us to leave our newest bond-mate unaccompanied.”

There was no warmth in his voice now. Only icecold, aristocratic, practiced.

Seokjin turned slightly, gesturing with one hand toward the pair just behind Taehyung.

“Our youngest coven-mates are… particularly attached,” he added, almost offhand. “They like to have him in their sights at all times.”

Jungkook stood stiffer now, eyes glowing faintly red, jaw locked. He didn’t speak, but the message was written all over him: Try it.

Jimin smiled, sweet and pretty and utterly unblinking.

To their credit, the Elders paused.

The third, thin and gray-cloaked, let out a soft sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “So the instincts run strong.”

“They do,” Seokjin said.

“Very well,” the veiled Elder intoned. “The youngests may stay.”

Jungkook didn’t relax.

Neither did Jimin.

Taehyung, standing between them, exhaled slowly.

He wasn’t sure whether he felt safer, or on fire.

Seokjin’s jaw tightened.

The veiled Elder’s ruling still echoed in the air like a brand.

He looked ready to argue; to push, to cut through centuries of etiquette and make it very clear that Taehyung was not theirs to summon and sift through like some artifact.

But Yoongi stepped forward, one pale hand wrapping around Seokjin’s wrist.

A simple gesture.

Stilling. Grounding.

“Jin,” he said lowly, just loud enough for them to hear. “Let it go.”

Seokjin looked at him, eyes narrowed with quiet protest.

“They want obedience, not insight. This isn’t about Taehyung,” Yoongi murmured. “It’s about power. They won’t take him. Not today.”

The silence stretched between them.

Taehyung stood still, heart caught in his throat. Jungkook hadn’t moved an inch. Jimin was still and sweet like a dagger in velvet.

Then Seokjin sighed, soft and furious.

He stepped in close to Yoongi.

“I’m sure you’ll have no qualms with another bondmate staying in my place, the youngest can be a handful you see.” he said, voice quieter now, less sharp. His hand lifted, brushing Yoongi’s cheek.

”I leave it to you, my love.”

Then, in front of gods and monsters alike, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Yoongi’s temple.

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

There was so much behind that single kiss. A thousand years of trust. Of war and surrender and the kind of love that does not waver in the presence of older power.

Seokjin turned, spine regal, and swept out of the chamber with Namjoon beside him.

The doors closed behind them with a deep thrum.

Leaving Taehyung in the room with five Elders. And three vampires—Jimin, Jungkook, and Yoongi—who would burn the house to the ground if a single hand reached the wrong direction.

The silence that followed Seokjin’s exit was not heavy.

It was measured.

The five Elders did not sit, but they shifted slowly spreading through the chamber like ink in water. Each step deliberate. Each gaze unmoved. They did not speak immediately.

Jimin held Taehyung’s hand without needing to be asked.

Jungkook remained behind him, a living wall of tension.

Yoongi was still. Watching.

It was the woman who spoke first.

“You are… quieter than I imagined,” she murmured, her voice a breath of wind through bone. “Hyungshin’s blood was not known for its silence.”

Taehyung straightened, spine taut. “Maybe I’ve inherited other traits.”

“Perhaps,” said the third Elder, cloaked in gray that looked spun from ash. His voice rasped like dry paper. “Or perhaps you’ve yet to discover what stirs in you.”

The fourth Elder—one who had remained silent until now—tilted his head slowly. His skin was translucent as marble, eyes opalescent and inhuman, like staring into deep water at night.

“Do you remember the fire, young heir?”

Taehyung froze.

The room thinned. The air itself felt sharp.

His fingers clenched tighter in Jimin’s.

“…Yes,” he said carefully. “In pieces.”

Something cold licked up the walls. The hearth in the corner flickered low.

Then the veiled Elder moved.

He stepped forward with the weight of centuries, his hands folded like a priest, robes trailing behind him like smoke from an old pyre. His voice came like scripture spoken through grave dirt.

“The fire,” he intoned, “was surely a terrible accident.”

A beat of silence followed.

Jungkook’s hand twitched behind Taehyung. Then clenched, nails nearly biting into skin.

But he said nothing.

The Elder’s eyes glinted beneath the veil. “Tragedy,” he continued, “is often the root of awakening. Pain purifies. It prepares the vessel. One hopes nothing so… devastating will befall the House of Kim again.”

The warning slid like oil over the floor.

Jimin’s smile curved, but the sharpness in it could’ve slit throats. Beside him, Yoongi shifted imperceptibly. Just enough to remind them he was there.

But it was Taehyung who answered.

“Tragedy isn’t always the beginning,” he said, voice soft, steady. “Sometimes it’s what’s left behind that matters. Who remembers. Who survives.”

The veiled Elder tilted his head by a single fraction.

Behind him, the white-eyed woman’s mouth twitched. Something between amusement and disdain.

“A poetic answer,” she said. “Romantic. Naive.”

“Spoken like someone just beginning to understand what it means to carry blood not only in name,” the ashen Elder murmured.

The line had been drawn.

Then the skeletal one stepped forward, hands folded with eerie grace. His presence chilled the air like a crypt opening.

“It is… unusual,” he said, “for the bloodborn heir to rise from such fractured lineage.”

“Born to a human mother,” the white-eyed woman said again, this time more sharply. “Unblessed. Unbitten. Unclean.”

“She bore him in secrecy,” said the man in gray. “No rites. No offering. No name carved. A son hidden in shadow.”

Yet the veiled one only stepped closer, voice quieter now, intimate and unflinching.

“And still, here you stand. Claimed by the house. Favored by the soil. Whispered to by the walls.”

His shadow pooled at Taehyung’s feet.

“Tell us, halfblood,” he said, voice like the cracking of ancient stone, “do you believe your inheritance was earned… or merely given?”

Time froze.

Even the candles flickered lower.

Jungkook’s body coiled, barely restrained.

But Taehyung—shaking, but upright—met the Elder’s gaze.

“I believe I was born,” he said evenly. “And that should be enough.”

The veiled Elder’s mouth shifted beneath the cloth.

The white-eyed woman exhaled softly, and her smile was more teeth than kindness.

“Not for long,” the veiled one said.

And then—like mist drawn back into shadow—the Elders turned.

Their robes did not brush the ground. They simply moved.

Through the room. Out the doors.

Like phantoms called home by dusk.

But just before the chamber closed, the veiled one glanced back once more.

“We’ll be watching, heir of Kim.”

And the door shut with a sound like the sealing of a tomb.

The doors had barely closed before Jungkook exhaled harshly, like he’d been holding in more than just breath.

Taehyung didn’t move.

He stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped loosely around himself, gaze distant, his heartbeat a soft, frantic thrum the others could hear even if he couldn’t feel it anymore.

Yoongi stepped in first, brushing one palm across the small of Taehyung’s back.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “That’s all you need to do right now.”

Taehyung’s chest hitched, then stilled beneath Yoongi’s hand.

Jimin touched his arm next, coaxing him gently toward one of the velvet-cushioned benches at the edge of the chamber. Jungkook followed like a shadow, silent, watchful, his crimson eyes still faintly glowing.

Taehyung didn’t protest.

He let them tuck him between them, let himself fold against Jungkook’s side, Yoongi’s hand in his hair, Jimin curling close enough to press his lips to the back of Taehyung’s hand. He didn’t cry. But he shook. Just enough for them to notice.

That’s how Seokjin found them.

The door opened with a quiet groan, and Seokjin entered, Namjoon a step behind him, both moving like wind forced into human shape.

Their eyes went first to Taehyung, held between three vampires like a delicate offering.

Seokjin’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. He turned to Yoongi instead.

“What did they say?” His voice was sharp silk.

Namjoon folded his arms. “And what didn’t they?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to Taehyung once—just once—and then met Seokjin’s gaze.

“They asked about the fire,” he said. “In passing. Like it was nothing.”

”perhaps to them, it is nothing. Just another fire they started to do their dirty work.” Jungkook spit.

Namjoon’s jaw flexed.

Seokjin said nothing.

Taehyung looked up, confused. “Wait, I- I thought you said the rebels started the fire?”

”They did.”

”What does that have to do with the council?” 

“who do you think encouraged them, Tae?” 

Silence. 

It landed like a stone in the center of the room. A truth that hadn’t been spoken—not fully—not until now.

Taehyung’s breath caught.

He looked at each of them, trying to piece it together. Jimin’s mouth had pressed into a thin, sharp line. Jungkook’s fists were clenched at his sides, still shaking with unshed rage. Yoongi’s hand stayed steady in his hair, grounding him, but his eyes were distant. Silver irises burning with memories he never voiced aloud.

“Wait,” Taehyung whispered. “You’re saying… the Elders—”

“Didn’t light the fire,” Namjoon said, voice like iron. “But they handed the torch.”

Seokjin’s gaze was a blade now. Cold and ancient. “They let it happen. Because Hyungshin refused to fall in line.”

Taehyung’s heart beat too fast.

“You mean my father.”

“Yes.” Seokjin’s jaw twitched. “He chose a human. He refused to offer you to the Elders when you were born. Refused to let them name you. Refused to give them anything.”

“Because I was his,” Taehyung said, barely above a whisper. “Not theirs.”

“Yes,” Yoongi confirmed. “And for that, they punished him.”

“But why would they…?” Taehyung stopped. The answer bloomed behind his eyes before he could finish the question.

Because power. Because defiance. Because a halfblood heir meant rewriting everything the Elders believed should remain pure.

“They wanted to erase me.” 

Seokjins lips pursed angrily. Hoseok gripped his fingers together tightly, his knuckles white.

“They still do,” Namjoon said, with something like apology in his tone. “Only now, it’s more complicated. You’re not a child anymore. You’re next in line according to heir legitimacy, and with Hyungshin gone they need someone new to fill his seat. Someone of Kim blood.”

”Why wouldn’t they choose Seokjin then? He’s full-blood and a Kim?”

A beat of silence.

Then Seokjin answered himself, voice smooth and too smooth.

“Because I’m already bonded,” he said simply. “My place is beside Yoongi, Namjoon, our coven. Not in a council chamber.”

He paused, then added, more coolly, “And I don’t… bend.”

“They tried to make him,” Yoongi said. “A long time ago.”

Taehyung remembered what Seokjin had said, about the council punishing Jin for not denouncing Taehyung all those years ago. Had something else happened?

Jimin’s fingers tightened around Taehyung’s wrist. “He refused them.”

“So they want someone younger. Malleable. Someone they think they can shape,” Namjoon added. “A symbol. A weapon. A crowned thing they can keep on a leash.”

“And since you’re half-human, they think you’ll crave acceptance badly enough to obey,” Yoongi finished.

Taehyung blinked.

His chest ached with something sharp and sour.

“But I won’t.”

“No,” Jungkook said, finally speaking from where he stood behind him, voice a low growl. “You won’t.”

Taehyung turned slightly, just enough to see all of them and how close they stood, how fierce their loyalty burned in silence.

He drew in a breath that felt too big for his lungs.

“So what happens now?”

Seokjin’s gaze met his. Gentle. Unyielding.

“Now?” he said. “Now we make damn sure they never get the chance.”

That implications made Taehyung flinch.

Not in pain but in pressure. He felt it, suddenly, like the weight of a hundred hands at his back. Holding him up. Holding him here.

His hands curled into the folds of his robe. His voice was small when he asked:

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was no anger. Just… sorrow. Raw and open.

How much have they been suffering here, oppressed, while I forgot all about them and lived freely amongst humans with my mom?

Seokjin stepped forward slowly. “Because we didn’t want your story to begin with vengeance. We wanted it to begin with you.”

Jimin leaned into him then, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You weren’t born to burn,” he said gently. “You were born to rise.”

And Taehyung—breath trembling, hands cold, heart roaring—closed his eyes.

Because somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

“They brought up his mother,” Jimin added quietly, voice like a thread. “His legitimacy.”

“They’re testing the line,” Yoongi said. “Pushing for cracks. They want him to fall before he’s even fully begun to stand.”

Seokjin ran a hand through his hair, more stressed than he let show. “They’ll come again. They’ve only just started.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed. “Then so do we.”

Later That Day

The training circle smelled of sage and burnt paper, magic thick in the air like mist. Runes had been carved into the floorboards with white chalk and salt, lines that shimmered faintly under candlelight. Hoseok stood just outside the ring, hands poised in steady grace, while Jimin leaned against the far wall, humming quietly as he watched.

Taehyung stood in the center, barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling in messy waves around his face. His hands were shaking.

Again.

The spell hadn’t held.

The air had rippled—almost. The invocation had started—nearly. But like sand slipping through his fingers, the power faltered the moment he reached for it.

“Try again, love,” Hoseok said gently. “This time, let it answer you. Don’t force it.”

Taehyung nodded, jaw tight.

He raised his hand. Whispered the words. Closed his eyes.

The rune beneath his feet flickered once.

Then went dark.

Silence.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing.

A hollow thud of failure hit his chest. He could feel Jimin watching, felt Hoseok’s energy like soft pressure around him but none of it settled the storm inside.

“Why isn’t it working?” Taehyung snapped suddenly. “I said it right. I did everything—”

“Taehyung—”

“I felt it.”

The words cracked like glass.

His hands were trembling again. His breath came shallow and sharp. The rune at his feet stayed dead.

“I can’t do this,” he said, voice quieter now. Frustrated. Fraying. “The Elders are coming back and I’m still— still fumbling with the first tier of the invocation rites! What if I’m not supposed to awaken at all? What if this is some huge mistake—”

“You’re not a mistake,” Jimin said instantly, stepping into the circle. Catching the undertones of Taehyung’s words.

Taehyung backed up a step.

“I’m not ready,” he whispered.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Hoseok corrected, crossing the circle calmly. “And you have every right to be. But Taehyung, look at me.”

He did.

“You’re not failing. You’re learning.”

Taehyung’s chest rose and fell with tight, uneven breath.

“But the council—”

“Doesn’t decide who you are,” Jimin said, firm now. “And if they try, they’ll find out very quickly that your name is not up for negotiation.”

Hoseok reached forward and took Taehyung’s hands, guiding them slowly back to center.

“You don’t need to awaken perfectly,” he said. “You just need to keep trying. Let it come when it’s ready.”

“But what if it never comes?” Taehyung asked softly.

Hoseok smiled, eyes warm.

“It will.”

The water in the marble sink ran cold, echoing in the chamber like rainfall.

Taehyung splashed his face once. Twice. Then leaned forward, palms braced on the edge of the basin, breathing through his nose as droplets slid down his cheeks and dripped into the porcelain.

He looked up slowly.

The mirror didn’t lie.

His eyes were tired. Pink ringed. His jaw tense.

Behind him, the reflection of the bond ring sat on the towel beside the sink, forgotten in his attempt to ground himself. It gleamed faintly in the warm light. His hand twitched toward it, but stopped.

He didn’t know why.

When he stepped out into the hall, Jungkook was already waiting. Leaning against the stone archway like he’d been there for a while, arms crossed, dark shirt clinging just enough to his chest to make Taehyung forget every invocation Hoseok had ever taught him.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked down immediately.

“You took the ring off.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

Jungkook pushed off the wall, taking a lazy step forward.

“The ring,” he repeated. “The one I gave you.”

Taehyung glanced at his hand, bare now, wet and pink from where he’d rubbed it with the towel.

“Oh— uhm…” he flushed. “I was washing my face. I must have left it in the bathroom on accident.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything right away.

Just looked at him.

Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… quiet. Searching.

Taehyung’s stomach curled.

Then Jungkook smiled. Crooked and stupid and golden in the way only he could be.

“How about we play hooky today?”

Taehyung blinked. “Do vampires even know what that means?”

Jungkook snorted. “Are you kidding me? We invented the word, sweetheart.”

Taehyung’s heart tripped. He went back into the bathroom and collected his ring, stuffing it into the pockets of his trousers before turning to face Jungkook again.

His voice was soft. “Okay.”

The woods behind the manor weren’t mapped.

Not really.

They stretched endlessly, old and knotted, with trees that looked like they’d been standing since the first vampires clawed their way from blood and bone. Moss clung to bark like velvet. Leaves whispered in a language older than air.

Jungkook led the way wordlessly, his boots crunching lightly on the damp earth. Taehyung trailed behind, the long sleeves of his loose shirt brushing his wrists as he tucked his hands into the folds like armor.

The farther they walked, the quieter it became.

No wind. No birds. Just the distant murmur of the manor fading behind them, and the sound of Jungkook’s breath. Steady, even, unbothered.

Taehyung’s steps faltered when they reached a tree line that broke into open space. A ring of silver-green ferns and ivy-choked roots, circled by shadows.

He hesitated.

Jungkook stopped immediately.

Taehyung swallowed. “This is very… open.”

“It is.”

“I don’t like it.”

Jungkook turned.

His face softened.

Then gently, like a promise kept in his palm, he reached out.

Taehyung stepped forward, and Jungkook took his hand, thumb brushing over the knuckles.

“Relax, darling,” Jungkook murmured. “I’ll protect you.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened.

“You promise?”

Jungkook’s smile was small. Certain.

“With my life.”

Jungkook kept hold of Taehyung’s hand as he led them forward, through the fern-wrapped clearing to a tall, ancient tree with a trunk wide enough to hide both of them from sight.

The roots curled outward like limbs, twisting in soft, moss-covered knots. Without speaking, Jungkook dropped down, pulling Taehyung gently with him.

They sat side by side, backs resting against the bark, shoulders close enough to share warmth. The forest stretched around them, breathing.

Really breathing.

Every leaf seemed to sigh. Every tree seemed to listen.

Taehyung tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. Let the silence soak into his skin like sunlight. For the first time in days, the weight on his chest eased slightly.

It was Jungkook who broke the quiet first.

He reached into his shirt vline, pulled out a tiny silver charm shaped like a crescent, and passed it to Taehyung without a word.

Taehyung turned it over in his hand. “What’s this?”

Jungkook shrugged one shoulder. “Just something I’ve had a long time. For luck.”

Taehyung glanced at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

Jungkook looked over, eyes unreadable but patient. “You can ask me anything.”

Taehyung hesitated.

“…Your life as a human. Before the coven. Before you were turned. What was it like?”

For a long moment, Jungkook said nothing.

Then softly, but with no trace of hesitation, he answered.

“Actually,” he said, “I wasn’t human. Not really.”

Taehyung’s brows lifted, stunned. “What?”

Jungkook looked out across the trees, voice low. “I came from the forest beyond the gates. Werewolf territory.”

Taehyung turned toward him, eyes wide.

“I wasn’t one of them,” Jungkook continued. “Not fully. But I was raised there. Lived with them. Learned their rules. Their silence. The way the woods move when they think you’re prey.”

His voice didn’t shake. But something in it flickered, like he was remembering hunger.

“I was wild,” he said, quieter now. “Half-starved. Half-something else. The wolves knew I wasn’t theirs. And so did I.”

Taehyung stared at him, chest rising slow.

“What happened?”

“I was left at the gates,” Jungkook said. “Half-dead. Covered in blood, some of it mine some of it not.”

Taehyung didn’t speak. He just reached for Jungkook’s hand again, threading their fingers slowly.

Jungkook let him.

“Seokjin found me,” he added after a beat. “Brought me here. Bit me. Saved me.”

Taehyung held his hand tighter.

“You’re not the only one born in the in-between,” Jungkook said. “You just wear it prettier.”

Taehyung laughed softly, almost shy.

And they sat there in silence again, watching the forest breathe. Two things once lost, no longer running.

The silence stretched, golden and thick, cradled by birdsong and the hush of moss-wrapped trees.

Jungkook had leaned his head back against the bark, eyes half-lidded and drowsy in the filtered light. Taehyung watched him in profile. Sharp jaw, strong throat, the kind of stillness that looked carved. Like marble built to guard something sacred.

But the weight in Taehyung’s chest had eased.

He felt clearer now. Not invincible, not unbreakable, just himself.

A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Hey, Jungkook.”

Jungkook blinked lazily. “Mm?”

Taehyung leaned in slightly, voice hushed like a secret. “Think you can chase me, doggy?”

There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then Jungkook’s head turned, slow and predatory.

“What’d you just say?”

Taehyung’s grin widened. “You heard me.”

Jungkook sat up straighter, a spark igniting in his eyes. “Say it again.”

“Chase me, Jungkook.”

And just like that, Taehyung was gone.

He launched up from the roots and took off into the clearing, barefoot and laughing, the sound like bells through the trees.

“Taehyung—!” Jungkook barked in disbelief, but he was already on his feet, tearing after him.

The forest blurred around them. Ivy and shadows, sun-dappled ground vanishing beneath fleet steps.

Taehyung darted through low branches, his heart pounding from joy, not fear. Jungkook’s footsteps thundered behind him, getting closer.

“You’re gonna regret calling me that,” Jungkook called.

“You’ll have to catch me first!”

Jungkook growled low in his chest.

And then, the hunt began.

Taehyung tore through the trees like the wind had kissed his heels.

His breath came fast but free, his limbs loose and light as he dodged between low-hanging branches and weaves of ivy. The forest opened ahead of him, lush and endless, sunlight slanting through the canopy in pale ribbons. Leaves crunched underfoot. His heart thundered, alive in a way it hadn’t been in weeks.

His chest burned.

But it wasn’t pain. Or fear.

It was joy.

He laughed, full-throated, wild. The sound echoed like music through the clearing.

Behind him, he could hear Jungkook closing in. Each footstep louder, faster, and more sure.

Taehyung didn’t look back.

He ran harder.

For a moment, it felt like he could outrun anything. The Council, his doubts, the weight of what he was becoming.

But then—

A blur. A sudden rush of wind.

Jungkook.

Taehyung barely gasped before strong arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him clean off the ground. The world tilted—sunlight streaking overhead—and then they were tumbling.

Soft earth cushioned the fall. Moss and fallen leaves broke beneath them in a hush.

And when they stilled, Taehyung was on his back.

Jungkook hovered over him, one hand pressed into the ground beside his head, the other curled gently around Taehyung’s wrist.

His chest heaved. His eyes glowed.

Taehyung couldn’t breathe, but not from fear.

From awe.

Jungkook’s face was close. Closer than Taehyung had expected. His hair was tousled, lips parted, fangs just barely showing with each heavy breath.

“Caught you,” Jungkook murmured, voice thick with something ancient and hungry.

Taehyung stared up at him, dazed. His cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat and forest dust.

“I let you win,” he breathed.

Jungkook grinned, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “Liar.”

Taehyung smiled back, helpless beneath him, a laugh caught in his throat.

He didn’t try to move. Didn’t want to.

And Jungkook didn’t let go.

Not yet.

They lay there in the quiet, heartbeat to stillness breath to breath, as the trees watched in silence, and the sky turned gold above them.

Taehyung’s chest rose and fell beneath Jungkook’s.

The forest was hushed now, like it had bent its ear to listen. A breeze stirred the trees above them, brushing leaves in lazy circles across the moss. The only warmth Taehyung could feel was Jungkook’s body pressed close. Solid, grounding, here.

Jungkook’s gaze had softened. The edge of the hunt had melted into something else entirely, something reverent. His thumb brushed lightly along the inside of Taehyung’s wrist, as if grounding himself too, and not just the boy beneath him.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung whispered.

That single word made Jungkook blink, his eyes lowering again to meet Taehyung’s.

“Hmm?”

Taehyung’s lips parted, breath shallow with nerves. His voice cracked, but he didn’t hide from it.

“Please… kiss me.”

The forest stilled.

Jungkook’s expression faltered. Just for a heartbeat. The ever-smirking, ever-teasing mask slipped away. What remained was quiet devotion. Raw and unguarded.

His hand rose, brushing back the hair stuck to Taehyung’s forehead, his fingers threading gently through the soft strands.

And then—

“Anything for you, Tae.”

Jungkook leaned down.

And kissed him.

Not rushed. Not burning.

It was slow. Careful. Like Jungkook didn’t want to take, only give.

Their lips met like a promise finally spoken. Taehyung’s hand curled into Jungkook’s shirt, breath catching at the softness of it, the gentleness behind the strength. His whole body stilled beneath the weight of it, of him, of this moment folding inward like an unopened flower.

When they finally parted, Jungkook rested his forehead against Taehyung’s, their noses brushing.

“You’re mine,” Jungkook whispered.

And Taehyung, barely breathing, whispered back—

“I know.”

They hadn’t moved.

Taehyung still lay beneath him, lips tingling from the kiss, heart pounding against the stillness of Jungkook’s chest. The forest felt hushed now, reverent, like it too was waiting to see what would come next.

Jungkook stroked a thumb gently across Taehyung’s cheekbone, his gaze half-shadowed and utterly serious.

“I can’t wait to claim you one day, Tae,” he murmured. “Full body. Heart. And soul.”

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat.

He reached up, fingers curling into Jungkook’s shirt, pulling him just a little closer.

“Claim me now,” he whispered. “I want to be yours.”

Jungkook froze.

His eyes widened, not with fear, but something deeper. Something ancient. His whole body tensed, like every part of him was trying not to shake apart.

“Don’t,” he said, voice hoarse. “Don’t say things like that lightly.”

“I—” Taehyung blinked, heart in his throat. “I mean it, Jungkook.”

Silence.

And in that silence, Taehyung felt the weight of rejection start to press against his ribs. The beginnings of a crack in his chest. His hands dropped. His eyes flicked away.

Jungkook pulled back.

“Let’s go home,” he said, voice quiet.

And Taehyung felt it. The breath leaving his lungs. The sting.

“We’ll gather everyone,” Jungkook added, softer now. “And discuss it together.”

Taehyung looked up, startled.

Jungkook’s gaze was warm now. Full.

“This isn’t something done alone,” he said. “You don’t belong to just me, Tae. You belong to us. We make the bond together.”

Love—thick and overwhelming—filled Taehyung’s lungs like air returning after a long time underwater.

And for the first time in weeks, he smiled without hesitation.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

They walked back in silence, hand in hand.

The forest opened slowly behind them, the tall trees bowing gently in the breeze. Every step felt softer now, every breath lighter. Taehyung’s fingers stayed laced with Jungkook’s, their palms warm between them.

The manor came into view, glowing in the early evening like a lantern in the dusk. The door creaked open before they reached it like the house already knew.

Inside, the others were already gathered.

Not in ceremony. Not in expectation.

Just there. Resting. Loving one another.

Yoongi lounged on the velvet couch, one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. Hoseok had half-curled into him, barefoot and laughing at something Jimin had whispered. Namjoon stood near the fireplace with a glass of wine in hand, murmuring something to Seokjin, who was seated with his sleeves rolled and a book open on his lap.

It was warm. Soft. Familiar.

It was home.

And then, all at once, they turned to look.

At Taehyung.

At Jungkook.

Taehyung’s breath hitched. He glanced at Jungkook, who nodded once steady and proud.

Taehyung stepped forward. Just a little.

His voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it cut through the quiet like a drop in still water.

“I— I made the decision.”

Every gaze sharpened.

Taehyung swallowed, eyes flitting from face to face.

“I’m ready.”

Silence. Not tension. Not fear.

Just a beat of stunned stillness.

Then: Seokjin closed the book. Namjoon’s glass lowered. Jimin’s hand found Hoseok’s, and Yoongi slowly sat upright.

Jungkook didn’t move.

Because this moment was Taehyung’s.

The moment stretched taut and humming.

Taehyung stood in the center of the room, six pairs of eyes trained on him, holding their breath even though most of them didn’t need to.

Then, softly, from behind him:

“When you say… ready?” Yoongi asked.

Taehyung turned slightly, glancing down once at Jungkook’s hand still holding his, before lifting his chin and steadying his voice.

“I want to bond with you all,” he said. “I want to be part of the coven. Not just for show, or halfheartedly. I want to stay.”

A beat of silence.

Then Seokjin stood.

Slowly. Carefully. Like the weight of what was just said required every bone in his body to align before he responded.

His tone was even. Measured.

But his eyes, they blazed. With joy. With disbelief. With something longing and yearning.

“Do you know what this means, Taehyung?” Seokjin asked. “To choose this, to choose us?”

Taehyung’s throat felt tight. But he nodded.

“Yes.”

Seokjin stepped closer. Just a pace. Not enough to crowd him. Enough to offer.

“It is more than affection. More than desire. Bonding is eternal, Taehyung. It is blood and breath and soul. It is waking and sleeping and never choosing anyone else.”

His voice gentled. “It is being seen forever. And never being let go.”

Taehyung’s eyes prickled. He looked at each of them—Yoongi, Namjoon, Jimin, Hoseok, Jungkook—before meeting Seokjin’s gaze again.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I want that. I want you.”

A breath—

Then the room moved.

Not in chaos.

But in relief.

Jimin clapped a hand over his mouth and laughed, eyes shining. Hoseok made a sound between a laugh and a sob, pulling Namjoon close. Yoongi let his head fall back against the couch, exhaling something quiet and full of meaning.

And Jungkook. Jungkook still hadn’t let go of his hand. Holding it impossibly tighter. 

“Thank you, Tae. For choosing us.”

-

Despite Taehyung saying he was ready, not much changed.

At least not outwardly.

They still trained together. Ate meals side by side. And every night, they still curled into one another like wolves around a fire, tangled in Seokjin’s enormous bed where velvet sheets and cool limbs made it easy to forget that the world outside still waited with knives.

But Taehyung noticed… the shifts.

Small things. Quiet things.

Kisses pressed to his temple after a successful spell. A warm mouth lingering at the edge of his jaw when he woke, only to vanish before he opened his eyes. Encouragement whispered between training strikes

you’re perfect, you’re strong, you’re ours.

Strawberries. Always strawberries.

Left in tiny woven baskets outside his bedroom door. Sometimes still warm from the garden, sometimes chilled like they’d been kissed by dawn frost. A folded napkin. A little silver spoon. No note.

But Taehyung always knew who had left them.

Red roses began to appear, too. Tucked into his reading nook in the library. Left on the kitchen counter beside a mug of warmed blood. One had been set on the windowsill of the study, where he often sat to write, its petals barely open, a promise curled inward.

He didn’t say anything at first.

It felt too intimate to question.

Too sacred to name.

But something in him knew. Felt the shift. Like the air around them had deepened. Sweetened.

They touched him more now. Casually, reverently. Yoongi’s hand would rest against his lower back as he passed. Hoseok would guide him by the elbow as they walked through the manor. Jimin tucked flowers behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world, then kissed the crown of his head like blessing.

Even Jungkook—who rarely lingered—now brushed their fingers together when passing him a weapon during defense drills, or helped fix the tie of Taehyung’s tunic with uncharacteristic patience, his eyes lowered.

Still, no one said the word.

Not “claiming.” Not “bond.”

But the house knew.

And Taehyung?

Taehyung felt it in his bones.

He just didn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s called courting,” Rae had announced one evening, mouth full of strawberry and confidence.

She sat cross-legged on the rug beside Taehyung, who was perched delicately on a velvet ottoman, nibbling at a honey-soaked tart. A single rose had been tucked behind his ear earlier that morning (Jimins doing, no doubt), and a fresh basket of strawberries, still dewy, rested in his lap.

Taehyung blinked.

“What?”

“Courting,” she said matter-of-factly, like explaining something simple. “It’s when vampires like someone and want to keep them. So they do nice things, like give gifts or flowers, to show they care. It’s like… vampire flirting, but fancier.”

He stared at her.

The rose petal tickled the side of his cheek, and suddenly every gift—every fruit basket, every tucked-in note, every soft kiss to his hair—clicked.

Oh.

“Oh,” he said aloud, slightly dazed.

Rae popped another strawberry into her mouth, entirely unbothered. “They’re doing a good job, too. I visioned Namjoon place that book for you in the study last night, he had the look of a man offering a marriage proposal.”

Taehyung flushed to the tips of his ears, his hands gripping the little basket a bit tighter.

“Wait, wait,” he muttered, voice climbing. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You were supposed to feel it,” Rae said matter-of-factly. “If they had to tell you, it’d be desperate. This way is more romantic.”

“You’re six,” he hissed.

“Six and a half,” she corrected. “Almost seven!”

Taehyung stared at her, utterly betrayed.

“Are you sure? You speak like you’re eighty.”

She gave him a toothy smile. “That’s because I dream of futures. All of them. Even the kissing ones.”

“Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “You asked.”

After Rae skipped off—sticky-fingered and strawberry-satisfied—Taehyung sat in stunned silence, the basket still on his lap, the rose behind his ear suddenly very heavy.

Courting.

They were courting him.

He’d known something had shifted. Felt the gravity in each glance. The weight behind Yoongi’s lingering hand at his back, the tension in Jungkook’s jaw when someone else touched him first. But this, this gave it shape. A name. An ancient ritual dressed in fruit and affection.

And now, he couldn’t unsee it.

That evening, they gathered like always. Cozy, beautiful, a little too perfect.

Seokjin was at the hearth, already waiting with a blanket folded neatly beside the space Taehyung always sat. Hoseok had brought in a tray of citrus-drenched blood tea, which he poured without asking, placing Taehyung’s cup down with a smile soft as velvet.

Yoongi handed him a book he’d marked at his favorite passage. Namjoon casually offered him a rolled scroll of vampiric history, muttering something about “starting where your bloodline left off.” And Jungkook—

Jungkook had the audacity to already be in his spot, legs spread comfortably across the couch, only to open his arms and gesture Taehyung into them like he was something earned.

Taehyung blinked.

Then stared.

And then blinked again.

“Everything okay, darling?” Jimin asked sweetly from where he perched beside a bowl of sugared fruit, lips stained berry red.

Taehyung sat down stiffly between Jungkooks spread legs. The vampire pouting at him like Taehyung was supposed to lay ontop of him, not sit.

“Yes,” he said, smiling too tightly. “Great. Amazing. Lovely.”

He took a sip of the blood tea. It was flavored with lavender.

His favorite.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Yoongi leaned over and adjusted the rose behind his ear, his touch ghosting across Taehyung’s cheek with something dangerously close to reverence.

“You’re flushed,” he murmured.

“I wonder why,” Taehyung muttered, half into his cup.

And around him—six vampires, ancient and elegant, draped in silks and secrets—settled around him like a throne of thorns.

They were so obvious now.

And Taehyung?

Taehyung was starting to enjoy it more than ever now.

After that night, Taehyung couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Courting.

He kept the rose behind his ear long after it wilted, pressing it into the pages of his journal like something sacred. And the next morning, when he wandered into the library under the guise of researching his lineage, he slipped into the less-touched upper alcove and quietly pulled out a worn, leather-bound tome:

On Ritual Affections & Vampiric Claiming.

The script was old, the ink smudged, but the meaning was clear: courting was a form of devotion. A practice of symbolic offering. Every gift, every touch, every moment of thoughtfulness all a prayer in disguise.

So… Taehyung decided to return the favor.

He didn’t tell them. Of course not. That would ruin it.

Instead, he began small.

He brewed blood tea for Seokjin one morning, the way he remembered seeing him do it. Infused with cinnamon bark and a hint of clove, left in Seokjin’s study with a folded napkin and a tiny sprig of rosemary.

For Yoongi, he found a lullaby written in old vampiric tongue tucked in the back of a music folio, something he remembered Yoongi playing for him in an memory, and placed it on the piano stand. He didn’t say a word and just sat nearby, reading quietly, pretending not to watch Yoongi pause mid-play and stare at the parchment like he’d been handed something holy.

Hoseok returned from the garden one evening to find new tools, carefully selected from the town market, polished and arranged in a neat line beside a handwritten note: “Thank you for every harvest. Especially the strawberries.”

Namjoon’s copy of Ancient Bloodlines and Their Failures had a pressed lily tucked inside now. The note attached to the petal read simply, “But we’re different.”

Jimin’s favorite lounging spot had a new cushion, soft and plush, embroidered in gold thread with one of the many nicknames he’d tried teasing Taehyung with over the past few weeks. Jimin found it mid-twirl, paused, blinked, then clutched it to his chest like it was a love letter.

And Jungkook—

Well, for Jungkook, Taehyung left his bond ring. Not forever. Just for a night.

He set it gently beside Jungkook’s pillow, resting in the center of a black velvet handkerchief. Next to it, a small note written in imperfect, slanted script.

“If it ever feels too heavy, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

That night, no one said anything.

But the atmosphere had changed.

More than ever before, Taehyung could feel it, their love was not just surrounding him.

It was being mirrored back.

And the house, quiet and old, seemed to exhale.

The Elders returned like a shadow crawling back into the house.

They arrived unannounced but of course, the manor had felt them coming.

The very air shifted as they stepped through the iron gate: colder, heavier, thinner. Like something ancient had peeled open the sky and walked in wearing skin made of old laws.

This time, they were not greeted with ceremony.

Because this time, they had come to see.

They were ushered wordlessly into the long viewing room, where dusk gathered in high windows and the smell of candle wax bled into stone. Seokjin and Namjoon met them first. Cloaked in elegance, polished to the bone. But the Elders’ eyes moved past them.

Drawn like moths to the bond already blooming in plain sight.

Taehyung was seated on a wide velvet chaise by the fire. Jimin lay draped along the edge beside him, braid half-unraveled. Hoseok had one arm resting along the top of the couch, fingers brushing idly against the back of Taehyung’s neck. Yoongi sat on the rug below, a book in his lap and Taehyung’s foot nestled beneath his thigh. Namjoon lingered close, offering a cup of warmed tea—Taehyung’s favorite blend. And Jungkook stood behind him like a sentinel, close enough to touch, eyes red and watching.

They didn’t flinch when the Elders entered.

Not even when the white-eyed woman narrowed her gaze.

“Still gathered like wolves,” she murmured. “If not… closer than before.”

The veiled one’s voice followed like rot creeping through silk. “So it’s true, then. You’ve begun the bond.”

No one denied it.

No one needed to.

It was in the roses on the windowsill. The pressed lilies between pages. The ring still glinting faintly on Taehyung’s finger, warmed by his blood.

Yoongi finally rose from the floor. Calm. Cold. “He’s ours.”

“And we are his,” Namjoon added evenly, standing tall.

A long silence passed.

The Elders stared.

Not with fear. But calculation.

Disdain.

Curiosity.

One of them—skeletal and slow—folded his hands. “And yet… not claimed. Not yet complete.”

Hoseok met his gaze, unflinching. “We’re not rushing what deserves patience.”

The veiled one’s mouth curved just slightly. Whether it was amusement or warning, no one could say.

“Then let us see,” he said, voice like glass. “Whether patience bears fruit… or ruin.”

The veiled Elder’s words drifted into the hush like frost across a mirror.

“Let us see,” he repeated, “how far your covenant has progressed.”

Taehyung’s fingers curled in his lap.

Jimin sat up beside him, lips parting, but it was Namjoon who stepped forward.

“With all respect,” he said coolly, “bonding is not a showpiece to parade.”

“Yet it is a rite,” murmured the skeletal Elder, gaze flickering to Taehyung. “And rites demand observation.”

“You’ve already confirmed what you came to see,” Yoongi said darkly. “He is bonded to us by choice. That is enough.”

“For you, perhaps,” the white-eyed woman said. “But not for the Houses. Not for the people. Rumors spread like fire through dead wood. You would have us return to court with whispers?”

She turned her head slowly toward Taehyung. “You are the last heir. The only surviving blood of Hyungshin. A halfblood, unbitten, born of broken lineage. And now you say you are to be claimed by the Kim coven.”

She smiled faintly.

“Give the people something to believe.”

“Or something to fear,” said the gray-robed Elder, his voice a dry cough of silk.

The veiled one lifted a hand, as if to soothe. “A single demonstration,” he said softly. “A shared mark. A declaration of your house’s intent. A bond begun. That is all.”

Taehyung’s heart thudded loud in his ears.

“Public,” he echoed. “You want it public.”

“A blessing,” the veiled one murmured. “Before the court. Before the bloodlines. A gesture of legitimacy.” His voice sharpened slightly beneath the veil. “Or else the whispers will grow teeth.”

For a moment, no one answered.

Then Seokjin, stepping forward with his head held high, spoke in a tone that made the candles flicker.

“We are not ashamed of him.”

“Then prove it,” said the white-eyed woman. “Let the people see the House of Kim does not tremble beneath its own walls.”

The Elders turned to leave, their robes trailing ash and threat behind them.

But before the last one crossed the threshold, he paused.

“A blood offering will suffice,” he said without turning. “Something visible. Something final. By the next full moon.”

The door closed behind them like a seal pressed to parchment.

And Taehyung—heart roaring—realized the whole house had gone silent.

The door hadn’t been shut for more than a few seconds before the tension in the room snapped.

Jimin let out a sharp breath, his smile vanishing like candlelight in wind. Hoseok cursed under his breath, something foul and old in vampiric tongue. Namjoon’s jaw ticked as he paced once toward the hearth and then back, arms folded tight.

Yoongi didn’t speak. He just stood there, frozen, as if the words blood offering were still echoing behind his teeth.

Taehyung was the first to speak.

“So… when’s the next full moon?”

Six heads turned to look at him.

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s in half a month,” Seokjin said stiffly. “Just enough time to prepare something, and not enough time to do it well.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “It’s not… that bad. Is it?”

“You sweet, innocent thing,” Jimin whispered, placing a hand dramatically on Taehyung’s shoulder like he was already in mourning.

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “What kind of sacrifice are they looking for exactly?”

Namjoon let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Old archaic bastards.”

Yoongi finally looked at him. His gaze was unreadable. Cold. Protective.

“You, Taehyung,” he said flatly.

Taehyung blinked. “Me?”

“They want you,” Seokjin confirmed, voice tight. “They want you dressed in gaudy, ceremonial clothing; silks, pearls, bare feet, marks carved into your skin. Viewed by everyone in the territory.”

“They want us to claim you in front of a crowd,” Namjoon added, eyes burning. “Like a display. Like an offering.”

Taehyung felt his stomach twist, but not with fear. Not exactly.

“For what reason?” he asked quietly.

Yoongi snorted. A sharp, humorless sound.

“For power,” he spat. “Because they can. Because it’s entertainment to them. Something interesting in centuries of mundane tasks and dusty rituals. You’re not a person to them, you’re a myth in motion. A halfblood heir. A new name to carve into the stone of history.”

“They want to own the story,” Namjoon muttered, “even if they can’t own you.”

Silence settled again.

Taehyung stood still in the center of it all, his breath slow, measured.

He wasn’t afraid, not yet.

But something cold curled in his chest like frost beginning to form.

Not because they’d have to show the bond.

But because he realized, finally, how many eyes were waiting for him to stumble.

“You deduced that?” Taehyung asked slowly, blinking between them. “The Elders… they don’t exactly speak outright. Half of what they say sounds like riddles wrapped in threats.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, low and knowing.

Everyone exchanged glances.

Jimin snorted into his sleeve. Hoseok covered a smile. Even Namjoon’s eyes glinted.

“What?” Taehyung asked, frowning. “What’s so funny?”

Seokjin, ever the picture of elegance, just raised one perfectly shaped brow.

“What?” Taehyung repeated.

“You’re adorable,” Jimin said with a sigh, slinking closer to flick a stray petal from Taehyung’s shoulder. “He’s kept it from you this whole time.”

“What has he kept from me?” Taehyung turned toward Seokjin now, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

Namjoon leaned against the mantle with a chuckle. “He can read minds.”

”Technically, we all can. But Jinnies the most advanced!” Jimin supplied. Absolutely joyous.

Taehyung stared.

“What?!”

“Not fully,” Seokjin said quickly, holding up a hand, though there was a smug glint in his eyes. “I can’t just… pluck thoughts out like ripe fruit. It doesn’t work like that.”

Taehyung’s mouth parted. “You can see my thoughts?!”

“Only pieces,” Seokjin assured, now stepping forward to smooth his hands down his sleeves like it was all very civilized. “Fleeting images. Strong emotions. Echoes of intent. You’d be surprised how loud a thought can be when it wants to be heard.”

“That’s horrifying. I’m an overthinker.” 

Jungkook grinned from the shadows, finally chiming in. “He’s the reason we always knew when to bring you your tea.”

“And why I never told you who was leaving the strawberries,” Hoseok added cheerfully.

“I hate all of you,” Taehyung muttered, crossing his arms, but his cheeks were pink, and the corner of his mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

“You don’t,” Seokjin said softly.

Taehyung looked up, and for just a second, something deeper passed between them.

”I don’t.” Taehyung agreed.

Not teasing.

Not even power.

But quiet, ancient understanding.

“I just wanted to protect your headspace until you were ready,” Seokjin said gently. “That’s all.”

Taehyung stared a moment longer… then sighed.

“Well now you definitely can’t come near me while you’re changing. My thoughts are less than innocent to say the least.” Taehyung puffed his cheeks out in a tiny pout.

Another round of laughter broke the tension.

And for a moment, even with the Elders’ shadow hanging overhead, it felt safe again.

The light in the library had dimmed to a soft amber hush.

Evening seeped through the tall windows, pooling gold along the velvet cushions and dusted shelves. Taehyung sat curled in one of the window alcoves, a thick, aged book balanced across his knees. The spine cracked softly every time he turned a page, delicate ink unraveling before his eyes.

He wasn’t reading quickly, just slowly enough to absorb each word.

Blood rites. Offering ceremonies. Public claimings.

The illustrations showed ceremonial robes, circles of carved salt and char, names branded onto skin with ash and blood. It was all… surreal. Heavy. Like watching someone else’s story unfold from the outside.

But it was his story now.

His fingers hovered over a passage about the bond being “witnessed by court and kin,” when he heard the soft creak of the library door behind him.

He didn’t have to look up.

“Did you read my mind to know where I was?” he asked quietly.

A soft chuckle.

“Of course not, sweetheart,” came Seokjin’s voice, smooth as dusk. “The house told me.”

“Oh,” Taehyung murmured, flipping another page. “Of course it did.”

He heard the gentle footsteps draw closer, the brush of robes against the rug. Then Seokjin appeared beside him, standing just close enough to catch the titles of the books Taehyung had pulled.

“Mind reading is very intimate,” Seokjin said after a pause, “almost like pushing boundaries. I don’t actively try to do it. At least… not usually.”

Taehyung looked up at him. Seokjin wasn’t smiling.

“But sometimes,” he continued softly, “the thoughts are louder than I can ignore.”

Taehyung’s gaze dropped.

“…Was I loud?”

Seokjin exhaled slowly, sitting on the edge of the window bench beside him.

“You were thinking about being seen,” he said. “Not just by us. But by them. Everyone. The whole territory.”

Taehyung nodded, his eyes fixed on a diagram of ceremonial markings.

“I just…” He paused. “I want to belong. I do. But it feels like I’m walking into a story that started before I was born, and I don’t know what role I’m supposed to play.”

Seokjin reached over gently, brushing his fingers through Taehyung’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear.

“Then write it your way,” he said simply. “Start from where you are. And we’ll follow.”

Taehyung blinked, chest tightening.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It won’t be,” Seokjin said, voice soft but steady. “But we’ll be with you. Always.”

And something about the way he said we made Taehyung believe it.

The silence after Seokjin’s words wasn’t empty.

It was full. Thick with the weight of things unspoken, the soft shuffling of candlelight on the floor, the faint flutter of Taehyung’s breath against the page. The book was forgotten now, its edges slipping beneath his fingers as Seokjin’s hand rested lightly at the nape of his neck.

Taehyung swallowed.

The words pressed at the back of his throat like wings trying to unfold.

“I was scared, you know,” he whispered. “At first.”

Seokjin didn’t move.

“I thought maybe you all just wanted me because of what I am. A piece of history. A bloodline that’s convenient. Something… useful.”

“And now?” Seokjin asked gently.

Taehyung finally turned his head to look at him.

Their eyes met; Seokjin’s were unreadable as always, still and deep and ancient. But there was something soft there too. Something achingly human beneath the immortal shine.

Taehyung blinked, then exhaled.

“I think you see me,” he said quietly. “Not just the heir. Or the halfblood. Or the prophecy. Just… me.”

Seokjin didn’t speak.

Instead, he reached forward—slow, careful—and cupped Taehyung’s cheek in one elegant hand. His thumb brushed just beneath Taehyung’s eye, a barely-there touch.

“We always saw you,” Seokjin murmured. “Even when you forgot yourself. Even when the world tried to forget you.”

Taehyung’s lips parted, his chest tight.

And then—soft, like a vow whispered in candlelight—he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Seokjin’s.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

Seokjin closed his eyes.

They stayed like that for a long moment.

No kiss.

No further touch.

Just two souls, pressed together in quiet promise, while the house around them hummed in approval. Its old bones cradling something new, something fragile, something real.

They sat together a little longer.

Taehyung curled against the windowsill, book open in his lap, his shoulder resting gently against Seokjin’s arm. The elder vampire didn’t move, just read along in silence as Taehyung traced diagrams with his fingertip and whispered ceremonial phrases aloud.

“Blood drawn is blood given. Shared among the chosen. Claimed beneath sky and soil.”

His voice was soft, sleepy around the edges.

Seokjin watched him quietly, noting the way Taehyung’s lashes fluttered between blinks, how his lips parted with each yawn he tried, and failed, to hide.

It came again, moments later.

A long, drawn-out yawn. His hand rose to half-cover his mouth, and the book slipped from his lap, catching at Seokjin’s side.

“Mmm. Sorry,” Taehyung mumbled, voice fuzzy.

Seokjin smiled faintly, then gently closed the book for him.

“I think that’s enough reading for tonight.”

Taehyung blinked up at him, bleary but content.

Before he could move, Seokjin leaned forward and swept him into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Taehyung made a surprised sound, arms instinctively wrapping around Seokjin’s shoulders. “I could’ve walked.”

Seokjin hummed, already carrying him toward the hallway. “I know. But I didn’t want you to.”

Taehyung rested his cheek against Seokjin’s collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of lavender, ink, and blood.

“…Jinnie?” he murmured.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I want to sleep with everyone,” he whispered. “All of you. Again.”

Seokjin’s smile turned tender as he leaned to press a kiss to Taehyung’s hairline.

“Of course, my love,” he said gently. “We’re heading to my room.”

Taehyung didn’t reply, but his arms tightened slightly, like he was already asleep.

The halls were quiet as Seokjin carried him toward the familiar door. He could feel the house watching, approving, the shadows parting for their steps. And inside, waiting like always, were the others. Curled in warmth, half-awake, half-asleep, their presence steady and grounding.

Jimin sat up immediately when they entered, eyes softening.

Yoongi reached out without a word to pull the blanket back.

Jungkook moved to make room, arms already outstretched.

Namjoon shifted, one hand extended to gently help Seokjin lower Taehyung into the circle of their warmth.

He didn’t stir.

Not really.

Just curled instinctively toward the middle, into them, and let himself breathe.

Let himself belong.

Chapter Text

The chair was too big.

Or maybe Taehyung was too small.

Either way, he sat in silence. Cloaked in velvet, hair brushed and perfumed, rings on each of his fingers, looking like a prince carved from porcelain and nervous breath.

The room was grand, but cold.

High ceilings. Heavy curtains. Too many chairs for one person.

Taehyung sat at the edge of one, fingers tracing the carved wood of the armrest. He could hear the distant murmur of voices through the door across from him. Seokjin and Namjoon were speaking with the Elders.

The ones who had come back too soon.

His pulse tapped softly beneath his skin.

He hadn’t been told what this meeting was. Not exactly. Only that they wanted to see him. Again. That they were “curious.” That they had questions.

That always meant something else.

Taehyung adjusted the gold chain around his neck. His robes were deep burgundy, trimmed in silver thread, the fabric layered like ceremonial armor. He looked… official. Claimed. Adorned.

But he didn’t feel like any of those things.

He felt like bait.

And the longer he waited, the more he wondered if that was what he truly was.

The silence made space for memory.

At first, it was only a flicker. Light slipping across his vision like the glint of firelight on glass. Then a sound: small feet slapping against marble. Laughter. Distant.

Taehyung blinked.

He was younger. Maybe six. Running barefoot through the same halls. Velvet curtains too tall. Eyes watching from every corner. And a voice—deep, amused, and familiar—calling his name behind him.

“You’ll trip if you keep running, little lord.”

He turned, and—

The door slammed open.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Taehyung flinched, half-rising from the chair.

Seokjin entered first, his robe flaring behind him like the lash of a blade. His expression was uncharacteristically cold. Tight around the mouth, fury vibrating beneath every graceful movement.

Namjoon was behind him, less theatrical but no less furious. His jaw was clenched. Hands balled into tight fists at his sides.

“They brought another coven leader with them,” Seokjin said, voice like polished glass ready to shatter.

Taehyung stared, heart still catching up to the present.

“What?”

“Unannounced,” Namjoon added. “Old blood. From the Rhan household.”

Taehyung’s brows drew together. The name meant little to him. But it clearly meant something to Seokjin, whose nostrils flared.

“They’re making a show of it,” Seokjin spat. “Trying to imply other options. Other offers. As if your blood is theirs to distribute.”

A pause.

As if your future is.

Namjoon moved forward, crouching slightly in front of Taehyung’s chair. His voice gentled. “They want to parade you like a prize. Introduce ‘possibilities’ under the guise of mourning diplomacy.”

“But we didn’t let them,” Seokjin snapped. “They wanted you to meet him alone.”

Taehyung blinked, blood cooling in his veins. “And?”

“And we told them to rot.”

“No,” Taehyung said quietly. “I’ll meet them.”

Seokjin’s head snapped up. “Taehyung—”

“Jinnie.” Taehyung stood slowly, the velvet of his robe settling like liquid around his frame. “This isn’t worth souring an already molded relationship. Let me handle it.”

Seokjin’s lips parted in protest. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach out, pull him back.

“Trust me,” Taehyung added, softer now. “Please.”

“I do trust you, Taehyung,” Seokjin said, and for a moment his voice cracked under the weight of something older, deeper. “It’s them I don’t trust.”

Taehyung stepped closer, his expression unreadable.

“I… I know, Jin,” he said. “I don’t trust them either.”

“But i’ll take care of it.”

Namjoon, who had been quiet until now, exhaled through his nose—just once—and smiled like it hurt.

“Spoken like a true heir,” he said.

And Seokjin, after a beat, stepped aside.

Just enough for Taehyung to walk past.

The doors groaned open.

Five Elders stood at the threshold, arranged like a wall of statues dressed in shadows. And beside them—slightly behind, yet very much placed—stood a man Taehyung did not know.

The sixth.

The coven leader.

He was tall, sharp-jawed, and impossibly still. His eyes were a shade of gold that didn’t seem natural. His robes bore no crest, but their black was deeper than pitch, trimmed in bone-thread. Old. Old as the territory itself.

And the Elders were smiling.

Not kindly. Not warmly.

But with the quiet, patient curve of people who believed they had won something before it began.

Taehyung stopped a few feet away, spine straight, jaw set.

He knew without needing to turn that behind the sealed door behind him, his coven stood like sentinels. He could feel them, every one. Listening. Watching. Ready.

It steadied him.

The veiled Elder spoke first. “We were told you might decline.”

“And yet here I am,” Taehyung said coolly.

The gold-eyed man’s gaze raked over him. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You’re older than I care to notice,” Taehyung replied, sweetly, without smiling.

There was a pause.

The white-eyed woman let out a breath that might have been a laugh, or a scoff. “He has his father’s tongue.”

“No,” the gray-cloaked Elder said. “His mother’s steel.”

“We’re pleased you agreed to meet,” the skeletal one said, taking a half-step forward. “It speaks well of your… adaptability.”

“It speaks,” Taehyung replied, “of mine and my Covens patience.”

Behind him, the door didn’t creak. No one moved. But Taehyung could feel their weight. His vampires, his people. The heat of their silence. The promise that if anyone so much as reached for him, they would not walk away unburned.

“The territory is watching,” said the white-eyed woman, tone light as falling snow. “They wonder what direction the House of Kim will take.”

“They wonder,” said the one in gray, “if your legacy can bear the weight of leadership. Or if a more… seasoned house might offer better footing for one so young.”

“You mean a leash,” Taehyung said quietly.

The skeletal Elder’s smile showed no teeth. “A guide.”

“A cage,” he murmured, his voice still low. “Dressed up in luxury.”

The veiled one stepped forward, hands folded, voice oil-slick and calm. “Coven partnerships are an ancient practice. They create balance. You need not shoulder the future alone.”

Taehyung didn’t answer.

Because the sixth figure had moved.

The Rhan leader stepped forward—smoothly, deliberately—and for the first time, addressed Taehyung directly.

“Walk with me,” he said, voice deeper than expected. Steady. “No guards. No Elders. Just a conversation.”

The Elders turned, ever so slightly. Interested.

Testing.

Taehyung’s heart beat once, hard.

He knew behind him, the coven had heard every word.

And he also knew what this was: a gamble.

“I’ll go,” Taehyung said softly.

The smile that ghosted across the Elders’ faces was triumph dressed in civility. They bowed in acceptance and poorly hidden conquest.

But Taehyung didn’t flinch. He stepped forward. Chin high.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

Because if this Rhan leader tried anything, said anything wrong, there’d be six very old, very dangerous vampires behind that door who would burn the entire forest down to find him.

They walked in silence.

The forest trail behind the manor curved gently into thickets of moonlit green, dew glistening on each blade of grass. The wind was cool and calm. Almost… peaceful.

Taehyung kept half a step back from the Rhan coven leader, his fingers curled into the folds of his sleeve, ready to bolt if needed.

But the older vampire didn’t speak. He didn’t prod, or lead, or question.

He simply walked.

Taehyung lasted longer than he expected before the words came spilling out.

“I won’t join your coven,” he said, tone sharper than the hush around them. “No matter what you offer me.”

The man beside him only smiled.

“Yes,” he said mildly. “I know.”

Taehyung blinked, startled. “I’m in love with my mates and—wait. What?”

The older vampire chuckled then, a warm sound that curled in Taehyung’s stomach and confused him even more.

“I didn’t come here with plots to take you into my coven, young Kim,” the man said gently, his hands clasped behind his back. “That was the Elders’ ambition. Not mine.”

“You didn’t?” Taehyung breathed, something uncoiling inside him.

“No,” the man replied. “In fact, I came to see if you were everything they feared.”

Taehyung blinked again. “Feared?”

The vampire turned to him, golden eyes kind. Old. Knowing.

“You love fiercely. You are loved fiercely. That kind of loyalty terrifies them.”

And Taehyung grew suddenly quiet. He didnt know what to say to that.

They walked farther, the trees bowing gently overhead, light pooling between their feet like silver paint. The older vampire didn’t rush. He moved like time didn’t touch him.

“I’m not here to harm you,” the man said softly. “I came to help. Whatever is needed. Bonding rites, ancestral preparation, final approval for the heir’s seat, my coven will offer support.”

Taehyung turned to him, brows drawn. “Why?”

The older vampire stopped.

Taehyung did too, blinking at the sincerity lining the man’s expression.

“I knew your father,” the man said simply.

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

“We were close, once. He was young, brilliant, rebellious. Powerful, but stubborn. He was going to join my coven, perhaps. It had been a choice extended to him.”

“My father…” Taehyung repeated, stunned. “Was going to join your coven?”

“Possibly,” the vampire said with a small nod. “Maybe he would have, if he hadn’t met your mother.”

His voice didn’t carry judgment. There was no bitterness in the way he said it. Just a quiet reflection of what could’ve been.

“You remind me of him,” the man said. His golden gaze flicked to Taehyung again, softening with something unnameable. “You look exactly as he did at this age.”

Taehyung didn’t know what to say. The wind stirred, and he swallowed against the lump rising in his throat.

For so long, his father had been a myth. A shadow. A name whispered in stories and tragedy. But here was someone who had known him, truly known him, and was looking at Taehyung not like a threat or a prize, but like something remembered.

They walked in silence.

Just walked, side by side, through shadow and moonlight, their footsteps muffled by the moss-lined path. There was no need to fill the silence. Not after what had been said. Not after what had settled between them.

When the manor came back into view, aglow with warm candlelight and cold starlight, the Elders were already waiting at the entrance.

Their eyes flicked over the two figures returning, impassive and unreadable, like gargoyles carved into the stone of dusk.

Taehyung and the coven leader stopped just a few paces from them.

“Thank you,” Taehyung said politely.

The man inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”

He turned to go, but paused mid-step.

“If you find yourself needing assistance,” he said without looking back, “reach out to me.”

Taehyung blinked. “What’s your name—?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, something like a smile tugging faintly at the edge of his lips.

“Junyoung,” he said. “Junyoung Rhan.”

And then he disappeared into the waiting fog with robes like trailing ink, leaving only the night behind him.

Taehyung stood there a moment longer, the door to the manor behind him, the weight of something ancient and personal curling under his skin.

Then, quietly, he stepped inside.

Where his coven was waiting.

As soon as Taehyung stepped through the door, he was caught.

Jungkook was there first. He had clearly been pacing, waiting, burning.
And he pulled Taehyung into his arms with a force that made the air catch in Taehyung’s lungs. The vampire’s muscles were like stone under silk, his face buried in the crook of Taehyung’s neck. His eyes glowed crimson-hot, a feral edge of panic and relief twisting through the hold.

“You shouldn’t have gone alone,” Jungkook murmured, low and rough, almost scolding, but his lips were pressed to Taehyung’s throat like a promise, not a reprimand. “You shouldn’t have gone without me.”

“I’m okay,” Taehyung whispered, dazed. “I’m here.”

The others were already closing in.

Jimin, fingers fluttering over Taehyung’s chest like he had to confirm he was whole. Hoseok behind him, breath warm against Taehyung’s ear as he scent-marked the air. Yoongi’s hand slid along the nape of his neck, grounding and searing. Namjoon’s palm pressed flat to his lower back, anchoring him. And Seokjin, ever silent and elegant, leaned in just enough to breathe in the boy’s scent before brushing his lips across Taehyung’s temple.

“You smell like him,” someone muttered.

It was true.

The Rhan coven’s scent had clung faintly to Taehyung’s robes—forest smoke, ancient myrrh—and it set the six of them ablaze.

They were calm. Until they weren’t.

And then everything unraveled.

Hands everywhere. Touches that weren’t quite gentle. Mouths pressed to skin, not to soothe but to stake claim. Seokjin unfastened the robe at Taehyung’s throat with slow, punishing precision. Jimin’s tongue traced the curve of his collarbone. Jungkook’s fingers gripped Taehyung’s waist like he might vanish again if they weren’t careful. Hoseok tilted Taehyung’s jaw up with two fingers and kissed him. Open and hot, the kind of kiss that made Taehyung’s knees tremble.

“This is what you belong to,” Namjoon said lowly, voice rumbling from behind him. “Not to strangers. Not to ghosts.”

“Mine,” Jungkook growled, not to be outdone.

“Ours,” Seokjin corrected, soft but deadly.

Taehyung barely registered being lifted—Yoongi, maybe Namjoon—someone carrying him away from the door, the entrance fading behind them. His head lolled back as they moved, body arching into greedy hands, his mouth parting with a soft sound he couldn’t stop.

The manor swallowed the sound whole.

Taehyung didn’t remember how they got to the grand sitting room, only that the floor beneath him shifted from marble to velvet rugs, and that fingers never left his skin. Not once.

 Every step taken was through breathless touches, worshipful hands, heat pressed into him from every side.

He was laid out gently atop a long chaise, but there was nothing gentle about the way they looked at him. Like a feast. Like they’d been starving since the day he walked through their door.

“Please—” Taehyung whispered, breathless, his thighs shifting open instinctively. “Please, touch me. I—I want—”

“You want what, sweetheart?” Hoseok murmured, crouched by his side, brushing the backs of his knuckles down Taehyung’s trembling stomach. “You want us to take you?”

“Yes,” Taehyung gasped. “Please— take me— make me yours.”

“You already are,” Yoongi said roughly, behind him. His hand wrapped around the back of Taehyung’s neck, tilting his head back with gentle command. “But we’ll remind you.”

Taehyung moaned when Jungkook crawled up beside him, eyes red and lips parted, hunger etched in every motion. “You smell like fear and want,” Jungkook breathed, dragging his nose along Taehyung’s throat. “You want us to devour you, don’t you?”

Taehyung whimpered. “Yes.”

Clothes were peeled away. Fingers slow but firm, tongues trailing after exposed skin like it was sacred. Seokjin’s mouth pressed open kisses along his collarbones, teeth grazing but never biting. Namjoon’s hands caressed his thighs, pushing them farther apart, growling low in his throat when Taehyung bucked forward.

“Look at you,” Namjoon rumbled. “Begging without words already.”

“He always was such a good boy,” Jimin purred. He climbed over Taehyung, straddling his hips while pressing a reverent kiss to his lips. “So soft. So ready. Let’s see how long he lasts.”

“Worship him first,” Seokjin said darkly. “He deserves that.”

Six mouths, six sets of hands. Every inch of Taehyung kissed, licked, nipped. Tongues dragging up his chest, fingers brushing the insides of his thighs, his wrists, his waist. Jungkook grinded against the curve of his hip, possessive and unrestrained. Yoongi kissed behind his ear and whispered praises in a low growl. Jimin suckled gently on Taehyung’s nipple until the boy gasped and arched off the chaise. Hoseok’s mouth pressed to his stomach, laughing low when Taehyung cried out again.

“Such a perfect body,” Seokjin murmured, his hand between Taehyung’s legs, cupping his heat with deliberate slowness. “It was made for us.”

“Please—” Taehyung moaned, rolling his hips up. “Please, please— more.”

“Greedy little thing,” Namjoon chuckled. “You want to be undone by six? All at once?”

Taehyung nodded desperately, panting, fingers curling in the velvet beneath him. “I want you— need you— all of you—”

“Then take us,” Yoongi said.

They took turns kissing him, bringing him to the edge again and again without relief. Hands slick and stroking, mouths claiming and marking. Taehyung sobbed for them—beautiful, trembling, flushed—and they praised every noise he gave them. Called him theirs. Called him sacred. Their prince, their mate, their perfect bloodborn heir.

Jungkook buried his face between Taehyung’s thighs, lapping at the slick skin, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure until Taehyung came with a broken cry. Shuddering, writhing, held down by too many hands to escape.

He sagged against the chaise, breathless, mind blank.

But the six were far from done.

“Let’s take our time,” Seokjin whispered, smoothing Taehyung’s hair back as he pulled him upright. “The night’s just beginning.”

They had taken him apart.

Bit by bit, breath by breath, Taehyung had been undone in their hands. Unraveled by teeth and lips, by murmured praise and the hot scrape of desire. He’d been guided through waves of pleasure until his body was nothing but nerve endings and sobbed-out need, claimed in every way but one.

And then, as if he were something precious — something holy — they put him back together.

Only to unwind him again.

It wasn’t brutal. It wasn’t cruel. It was devotion in motion, adoration sharpened into something unbearable. Six centuries of longing made flesh. They worshiped him as if his body had been carved from stars. He had never felt so desired. So owned. So safe.

And now…

Now he lay in the center of them, swaddled in warmth, a cocoon of bare skin and breathless stillness.

Someone had brought blankets. Another had wiped him down, gentle and slow. Their hands never left him. A thumb brushing the dip of his hip, a nose nuzzled into his hair, a palm pressed between his shoulder blades. They murmured to one another — low, content, in that old dialect Taehyung didn’t quite understand — and when he blinked, he found himself pinned under the weight of their love.

Namjoon lay stretched behind him, an arm curved around his waist.

Seokjin rested above his head, fingers threaded through his hair.

Yoongi’s hand curled around his ankle lazily, thumb rubbing in soft strokes.

Jimin and Hoseok had nestled near his chest, wrapped up in each other, but never far from him.

And Jungkook was nearest. Still warm from where he’d kissed Taehyung through one of the boy’s last orgasms, his mouth now pressed to Taehyung’s collarbone like a vow.

No one spoke.

Not until Taehyung did.

“I met the Rhan coven leader,” he said quietly, the words catching at first.

No one moved. But they all listened.

Jungkook’s jaw tensed against his skin.

“They… they weren’t what I expected.” He swallowed. “He didn’t try to lure me away. Didn’t manipulate. He just… walked with me.”

“And?” Seokjin asked, voice unreadable.

Taehyung stared at the ceiling. “He said he once offered a place to my father. That they might’ve bonded.”

A long pause.

“He said I reminded him of my father. That I looked like him.”

Stillness. Then, the lightest touch, Seokjin’s hand drifting down to Taehyung’s temple.

“He offered help,” Taehyung added. “For whatever comes next. For the bonding. For the heirship.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, quiet. Measured.

“They’ll want something for it,” Namjoon said. Not a warning but a truth.

“I know,” Taehyung murmured. “But for the first time… I felt like someone saw me for who I am. Not just the heir. Not the halfblood. Just… me.”

He didn’t see the way they looked at him then.

Didn’t see the way Jungkook’s mouth trembled, or the sudden tightness in Seokjin’s grip.

But he felt the weight of them curl closer.

As if to say: We see you, too.

And we’re not letting you go.

The Kim residence had not known stillness in days.

Designers came first; sharp-eyed, quick-fingered artisans cloaked in silk and authority. They brought reams of rare fabric and dozens of enchanted measuring tools. The front hall turned into a revolving gallery of pattern books, stitch samples, and endless murmurs about symmetry, drape, and tradition.

Then came the jewelers.

They whispered in languages older than empires, their hands gloved as they held heirloom stones to the light. One asked to examine Taehyung’s fingers. Another wanted to see the shape of his throat.

“Moon-cut diamonds suit you,” one murmured. “Bloodstone would be more proper, of course, but…”

Of course.

Taehyung sat through it all, quiet and politely overwhelmed. Fittings blurred into fabric tests, and no one seemed to question the unspoken truth: that he was being prepared for something sacred. Something permanent.

He felt like a bride.

Or worse, like a lamb dressed in velvet.

Later that night, he sat alone in the library, shoulders tense beneath a robe Seokjin had chosen for him. Deep garnet and edged in silver thread. A soft candle burned beside him. The weight of the mansion’s silence pressed in, broken only by the scratch of pen on paper.

Mother, he wrote.

I think I’m getting married behind your back.

He paused. The ink bled in the corner of the page.

He exhaled and tried again.

It’s not a wedding, not exactly. But it feels like one. There are suits, and rings. And the way they look at me…

I think it’s love. 

I hope it is.

His hand shook. He looked down at what he had written and frowned. Then he flipped the page and started again.

The soft creak of the library door was the only warning.

Taehyung didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

He felt Jimin’s presence before he saw it. The hush of his steps, the shift in the air, the subtle way the candlelight bent toward him.

Jimin didn’t speak at first. He approached silently, barefoot, dressed in a midnight-blue robe that shimmered faintly with warding charms and crescent-shaped embroidery. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just come from bed or from someone else’s arms. But his gaze was soft. Soft in the way dusk is soft, just before the stars reveal themselves.

“You’re writing to your mother.” he said, voice low and knowing.

Taehyung blinked down at the parchment. “Trying to.”

Jimin slid into the seat beside him without asking, his thigh brushing Taehyung’s as he peered at the letter half-written.

There was a blot of ink where Taehyung had hesitated.

Jimin smiled faintly. “You’re overthinking.”

“I know,” Taehyung murmured.

A pause.

Then: “It feels like I’m doing something huge and irreversible, and she doesn’t even know.” His throat felt tight as he added, “It’s not just a ceremony. It’s not just the politics or the rituals. It’s… choosing you. All of you. Letting myself be chosen.”

“And that feels like betrayal?” Jimin asked gently.

“No,” Taehyung whispered. “But it feels like goodbye.”

Jimin was quiet for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached over and took the pen from Taehyung’s fingers. He dipped it in ink, turned the page, and wrote with slow, careful strokes:

He is safe.

Then another line, just beneath it.

And he is loved.

Taehyung stared at the words. His hands had gone still in his lap.

“She’ll understand, you know,” Jimin said, still not looking at him. “Mothers always do, eventually. Even when they’re scared.”

“I don’t want her to think I forgot her,” Taehyung said. “Or that I left her behind.”

“You didn’t,” Jimin replied, turning to look at him at last. “You carried her with you into every hallway. Every training. Every letter you did and didn’t send.”

Taehyung blinked hard.

“You don’t belong to just one world anymore,” Jimin added. “And maybe… maybe you never did.”

Then, in a softer tone, teasing just at the edges: “But I’m selfish. I’m glad you’re here.”

Taehyung looked at him, really looked.

At the beauty. The sorrow. The kindness Jimin never withheld, not even when Taehyung was a mess of questions and contradictions.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” he whispered.

Jimin leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to his temple.

“Then finish your letter, my darling,” he murmured. “And come to bed.”

Taehyung waited until Jimin had disappeared down the corridor, the scent of him still clinging faintly to the candlelight, warm and comforting. Before turning back to the letter.

The parchment was heavier now. Not with ink, but with meaning.

He dipped the pen once more and began to write.

Mother,

I know it’s been some time since my last letter. I wanted to wait until the right moment, but it never came. So now I’m writing during the in-between; between fittings and rituals and whispers about what it means to belong to more than one world.

I think I’m starting to understand. It’s not about choosing one life over another. It’s about building something new from all the pieces. And somehow, I’ve found people who want to build it with me.

They’re strange, and fierce, and loyal in ways that sometimes scare me. But they hold me like I’m precious. They look at me like I’m not broken.

And I think I’m beginning to believe them.

I miss you. I love you.

I hope, when this is all over, you’ll meet them. I think you’d be proud.

—Tae

He signed it with the gentle flourish she once taught him, then folded the parchment carefully and tied it with a thin red ribbon. One from a box she’d sent him during his first week in the manor. Red for strength, she’d written.

He left the library and crossed the hall to the open terrace. The sky was soft with stars, a hush blanketing the courtyard below.

Taehyung raised two fingers to his lips, then to the carved wooden perch just outside the archway.

The bird appeared moments later; sleek, ash-feathered, with eyes like obsidian. A messenger from his fathers old flock. It bowed its head once, waiting.

“Take it to her,” he whispered, tucking the letter gently into the clasp.

The bird chirped once, low and serious, and took off into the night with wings like silk tearing.

Taehyung watched it until it vanished into the dark, the ribbon glinting faintly in the moonlight.

He stayed there for a moment longer, quiet in the stillness, letting the weight of goodbye settle somewhere soft inside him.

Then he turned and made his way back inside.

Back toward warmth. Toward the bond that was waiting.

The manor was different now.

Not in its walls or weight — those still pulsed with old magic and whispered secrets — but in its rhythm. Its noise.

Gone were the slow mornings spent tangled on couches in the sun-dappled parlor. Gone were the late-night meals eaten barefoot at the kitchen counter, laughter echoing off the stone like a lullaby.

The mourning period was over.

And the staff had returned.

They moved through the halls with graceful precision: housekeepers in pressed uniforms, cooks in pale aprons, gardeners whispering to vines along the courtyard railings. Even the chandeliers had been dusted, their crystals catching the light again like they hadn’t in years.

Taehyung stood just beside the entrance to the lower east wing, hands folded in front of him as Seokjin introduced him by title.

“The heir of Hyungshin Kim,” he said clearly. “Recognized by the House, under coven seal.”

There were no bows, only nods. Practiced, respectful. Not unkind.

But not warm either.

The air felt… tight.

And Taehyung, dressed in robes Jimin had tailored specifically for “public coven presentation,” suddenly missed the lazy softness of linen shirts and warm arms tangled around his waist. Missed Jungkook’s teasing bites while walking past him in the hallway. Missed the quiet hum of Hoseok’s music in the living room. Missed Yoongi reading out loud just to hear Taehyung breathe deeper beside him.

They still touched him. Still held him. But it happened behind closed doors now.

Behind velvet curtains, in private corners, in the still hush of rooms not meant for anyone else.

It wasn’t that they were hiding.

It was that the manor wasn’t theirs anymore.

Not entirely.

Not with eyes in every room. Not with whispers that stopped just as he entered. Not with Seokjin speaking to visiting nobles until midnight and Namjoon locked in the study with scrolls that carried sigils older than grief.

“Are you alright?” someone asked beside him — Jimin, always Jimin — his voice so soft Taehyung could barely hear it over the clatter of returning routine.

Taehyung didn’t answer at first.

He watched a young steward refill a crystal decanter at the end of the corridor. Watched another woman light a floating lantern with a flick of her fingers. Even the portraits on the walls had been polished.

It was beautiful.

It was suffocating.

“…I’m okay,” Taehyung said finally. “I just… miss the quiet.”

Jimin slipped his fingers into Taehyung’s and gave them a small squeeze. No words, just presence. That was enough.

For now.

They met in one of the inner chambers. The red one, with velvet-lined walls and gilded mirrors that caught reflections too quickly.

The staff didn’t come here. Not yet. Not unless summoned.

Which meant for now, it was still theirs.

Taehyung sat between Jungkook and Yoongi, his back straight, hands clasped in his lap. The others were seated around the low circle table, scattered in familiar proximity. It should’ve felt like before. Like comfort. Like safety.

But the silence was heavier now. Filled with expectation.

“It’s time,” Namjoon said finally, breaking it. “The full moon is in ten days. We’ll need to choose how we begin the next phase of the ritual.”

“You mean the public phase,” Yoongi muttered.

Seokjin nodded, lips pressed in a tight line. “There will be a ceremonial gathering. Witnesses. Some rites will need to be performed in view of the court. Blood-binding. Symbolic consumption.”

Taehyung blinked. “Consumption…?”

“Not that kind,” Jimin teased, eyes gleaming. “Well. Not yet.”

Hoseok threw a velvet cushion at him.

But no one really laughed.

Not fully.

Namjoon leaned forward. “We’ll have to fast before the rite. Refrain from certain kinds of intimacy; physical bonding, blood sharing. Just until it’s complete. The council wants purity in appearance.”

“Of course they do,” Yoongi said under his breath.

Taehyung swallowed. The words were floating around him — fasting, ceremony, witnesses, consumption — like the echo of a wedding he hadn’t quite agreed to yet.

He wasn’t afraid. Not of them. But of what came after. Of how little space there was left for privacy now.

Of how little time.

The others were still talking. Seokjin reading from an old ceremonial book. Jungkook asking sharp questions about security. Jimin asking if they could please make the ceremonial garments less hideous than last time.

But Taehyung was drifting.

Drifting fast.

He stood up slowly, not quite abrupt but clearly enough to draw attention.

Yoongi looked up first. “Tae?”

“I just… need a minute,” Taehyung said quietly. “I’ll be close.”

He didn’t wait for protest. Just turned and slipped through the side corridor.

The manor swallowed him gently. No one stopped him. The guards bowed. The portraits blinked once and looked away.

He walked until the voices thinned. Until the mirrors faded. Until he reached a far, unused hallway in the southern wing, where dust still clung to the corners and the lanterns glowed dimmer.

He pushed open a door.

A study. Or something like it. Half-forgotten.

The air was cool, untouched. And Taehyung closed the door behind him with a soft click, sinking to the floor with his back against it.

For a moment, there was only quiet.

And in that quiet, his breath finally came again.

He tilted his head up to the ceiling. Closed his eyes. Let his hands relax in his lap.

He didn’t want to run.

He just needed to breathe.

At first, there was nothing.

Just the stillness of a sealed room, the occasional creak of old wood stretching against time. The air smelled faintly of parchment and dried herbs, like this part of the house hadn’t been opened in years.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

Click. Scratch. Click.

Taehyung opened his eyes.

Something moved along the far wall, small and careful. A shadow against the bookshelves.

It was a lizard.

Tiny. No bigger than the length of his palm, with shimmering green-black scales and eyes like polished copper. It moved in stuttering little steps, climbing delicately over the cracked wallpaper and pausing, its head tilted as if considering him.

Taehyung stared.

And then, slowly—instinctively—he reached out his hand, palm up.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

The lizard crept closer.

When it reached him, it didn’t hesitate. It crawled right onto his fingers, curling its delicate claws against his skin. It was light as breath. Taehyung cradled it gently, bringing it closer to his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re not afraid, huh?”

The lizard didn’t blink. It just sat, almost regal in its stillness.

Then Taehyung saw it, just along the edge of its tail. A break. A wound that hadn’t fully healed. The tip was bent, raw where the scales hadn’t regrown.

“Oh…”

He held the little creature closer, biting his lip. The magic he’d been learning from Hoseok and Jimin wasn’t strong yet, wasn’t stable, but he could feel it sometimes. When he was calm. When he was focused. When it was needed.

Taehyung let his hand hover over the wound. He whispered under his breath, not a spell, not exactly, just intention.

Warmth sparked in his fingertips.

Soft. Gentle. Golden.

The kind of magic that felt like sunlight pressed against skin. It trickled into the tiny lizard, not intrusive but welcoming, coaxing the wound closed.

The tail shimmered.

And then miraculously, it mended.

Taehyung let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The magic faded, slipping back into silence, and the lizard blinked slowly up at him.

A silent aha! Escaping his lips.

“Better?” Taehyung asked softly.

The lizard curled its tail around his pinky finger.

And stayed.

The lizard didn’t move from his hand.

Even as Taehyung sat there, cross-legged on the old wooden floor, fingers curled carefully around the creature’s tiny weight, it simply blinked up at him, tail coiled like a question mark.

“You’re very brave,” Taehyung murmured. “Most creatures wouldn’t come this close. Not to me.”

The lizard tilted its head.

Taehyung smiled faintly. He leaned back against the door again, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess I needed someone to listen. Even if you’re not… well. Human.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Not of the ritual. Not really. But of what comes after. What if I change too much? What if I become something I don’t recognize?”

The lizard didn’t answer.

But it didn’t leave either.

Taehyung kept talking, voice low and meandering. About the council. About his mothers letter. About the way the manor felt different now, how it was harder to find silence, how he missed the way things were in the quiet weeks before everything became so loud.

He even told the lizard about the strawberry baskets.

And the way Jungkook had looked at him in the woods.

When he finally stopped, the room had gone warmer with late afternoon sun. He looked down at the little thing still curled in his hand.

“Sorry, little one,” he said, a soft laugh bubbling from his throat. “I have a knack for speaking longer than I should.”

The lizard didn’t seem to mind.

Taehyung stood slowly, careful not to jostle it, and moved to the old window at the end of the study. With a quiet creak, he unlatched it and pushed it open.

Cool wind kissed his face.

The garden below swayed with light and shadows.

“If you want to go,” he whispered, holding his hand toward the open air, “you can. I won’t stop you.”

For a moment, the lizard looked out at the world.

Then, gently, it climbed higher.

Up his wrist, along his arm, and settled on his shoulder instead. Nestled against his neck. Warm. Steady. Unmoving.

Taehyung blinked. “You’re staying?”

A slow exhale.

He smiled again. Quieter this time. Real.

“…Okay.”

He didn’t close the window.

Just turned back toward the hall, and walked with a lizard on his shoulder, and a little more certainty in his chest than when he’d come.

Back in his room, the lizard still hadn’t moved.

It sat perched on his shoulder like it belonged there, like it always had. 

When Taehyung changed out of his formal clothes into something soft and loose, it crawled to his other shoulder to give him space. When he sat on the rug in the center of the room, it crawled down his sleeve and settled in his lap, tail curled around itself like a sleepy cat.

Taehyung watched it fondly. “You need a bed,” he said softly, almost to himself. “A proper one.”

He glanced around his room at the little things he’d collected. Scraps of fabric from Jimin’s sewing projects. A bit of soft foam used to pad a jewelry box. A clean handkerchief folded in his drawer. Nothing fancy. But enough.

He worked quietly.

No magic, just his hands. And he cut the foam into a little circle and wrapped it with a scrap of deep burgundy cloth. Stitched the edges with mismatched thread. Lined it with a cotton square that smelled faintly like lavender from the sachets Hoseok had left in his drawers.

He found a box lid, shallow and just wide enough, and tucked everything into it neatly.

The lizard climbed in without needing to be told.

It nestled in the little bed, turning in a slow, deliberate spiral, before curling up with its chin on the edge like it was perfectly satisfied.

Taehyung stared at it, heart aching a little at how right it felt.

“Guess we’re both just looking for places that feel like home,” he murmured.

The lizard flicked its tail once.

Taehyung smiled and leaned back on his hands, exhaling slowly. The candlelight in his room flickered low, casting soft shadows across the floor. The window was still open just a crack, the breeze gentle.

For once, he didn’t feel like he needed to be anywhere else.

He was exactly where he needed to be.

No one came looking for him.

And for once, Taehyung was grateful.

The manor was a living thing. He’d always known that, even before his lessons with Jimin had taught him how magic clung to stone and breathed through walls. But today, it gave him peace. The others didn’t intrude. They didn’t peek their heads in or press him for presence. They knew. Somehow, they always knew when to hold close and when to let go.

So no one barged in.

But eventually, there was a knock.

Two light raps. Then a pause.

“Taehyungie,” came Hoseok’s voice, muffled and sweet. “It’s time.”

From the other side, Jimin’s familiar lilt chimed in, feather-light and teasing. “Don’t make me charm the door open.”

Taehyung let out a slow sigh through his nose, head resting against the side of the bed where he’d curled up on the floor next to the lizard’s box. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon in soft silence, half-dreaming and half-awake. The lizard—who still didn’t have a name, but Taehyung referred too as ‘pickle’ for his green scales—was asleep again, tiny belly rising and falling against the cotton square.

Taehyung whispered, “I’ll be back,” and gave its little head a gentle tap before standing and stretching the kinks from his spine.

His body was stiff from being still too long, but something inside him had eased. Just a little. Like a knot loosening under warm water.

He padded toward the door and opened it slowly.

Jimin blinked at him, then lit up like sunshine caught in glass. “There’s my favorite spell-slinger.”

Hoseok grinned too, reaching forward to brush Taehyung’s bangs from his face. “You okay?”

Taehyung nodded. He wasn’t sure if it was a yes or just a I will be. But either way, he meant it.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m ready.”

And with that, he stepped out into the hallway, the weight in his chest lighter than it had been in days. Knowing that when he returned, someone would be waiting in a little bed tucked beside his own.

The training room had been set up in one of the older wings of the manor. A long, open space where the windows were tall and fogged with charmglass, letting in only filtered moonlight. The floor was tiled with old runes that shimmered faintly when walked upon, and the air always carried a hush, like the room itself was waiting for something to begin.

Taehyung stood at the center, palms open and breath held.

Jimin and Hoseok had spread a low ring of salt around him, scattered with dried rose petals and charmed quartz. The ritual was simple, basic magic channeling. Just to test his energy flow. Nothing was meant to happen yet. They weren’t pushing. Just easing him in.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Hoseok said softly, smiling as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Taehyung’s ear. “Just feel.”

“Let your body tell you what it wants,” Jimin added, circling slowly behind him. “Magic is instinct. Don’t force it. Just… listen.”

Taehyung nodded once.

He closed his eyes.

He breathed in.

And something answered.

Pulse.

It wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t a rite.

It was him.

The air shifted, like the world had exhaled all at once. A warm gust brushed the back of Jimin’s neck, and Hoseok flinched instinctively as sparks flickered around Taehyung’s bare hands; soft and golden at first, like dust motes caught in sunlight.

Then, light.

It shone from him.

Not blinding. Not dangerous.

But brilliant.

It poured from his skin in waves, crackling at the edges like stardust being born. His veins glowed faintly, magic thrumming through his body like it had always lived there, simply waiting for permission. It caught on his eyelashes. It kissed the air above his palms. The salt ring began to swirl, lifted into the air by unseen force, petals turning like tiny galaxies around him.

Jimin stopped breathing.

Hoseok took a step back, stunned. “Tae?”

Taehyung’s eyes snapped open.

They were glowing.

“What— what’s happening?” he gasped, heart hammering. He looked down at his hands, glowing like they were carved from moonlight, and his chest began to rise and fall faster. “I can’t stop it—!”

“You’re awakening,” Jimin whispered.

He looked awed. His lips parted in wonder, his voice full of reverence.

“You’re awakening, Tae!”

And Hoseok—always soft, always grounded—stepped forward, glowing gently himself now as he reached out and wrapped Taehyung in a steadying hug. Not to stop the magic. Just to keep him from falling.

Taehyung trembled in his arms, the light flaring brighter once, twice, before it began to soften. Settle. Curl back into his skin like a promise.

He wasn’t broken.

He wasn’t empty.

He was becoming.

And he wasn’t alone.

The door burst open.

Jungkook was the first to move, eyes glowing red and chest rising like he’d just sprinted across the entire manor. Seokjin and Yoongi followed fast behind, both looking ready to dismantle the walls brick by brick if needed. Namjoon came last, half-dressed and breathless, shirt clinging to his chest like he hadn’t even stopped to button it fully.

“What happened?!” Jungkook demanded, scanning the room for danger before his eyes landed on the center—on Taehyung—his hands still glowing softly, still slightly floating above the floor, cocooned in Hoseok’s arms.

The entire room held its breath.

Then, slowly, the magic began to settle. The gold light dimmed into a shimmer. The petals fell like snow. The quiet thrum beneath the tiles faded into stillness once more.

It was Seokjin who broke the silence first.

“…It’s him,” he said softly. “It’s all him.”

Yoongi stared, wide-eyed and speechless for once.

“What could have caused this?” Namjoon asked, breath finally slowing.

“I—” Taehyung blinked, trembling with leftover energy, looking up at them helplessly. “I don’t know. One moment I’m talking to a lizard like a lunatic and the next I’m literally glowing!”

“…Lizard?” Hoseok repeated, brows lifting. “What are you talking about, Tae?”

“There was a lizard,” Taehyung said, face flushed and a little dazed, “in the study. I don’t know how it got in. It was limping and missing the tip of its tail, so I… I used that tiny spell Jimin taught me. The one for blisters and scrapes.”

Jimin’s mouth parted. “That spell?”

“Namjoon uses that spell,” Yoongi muttered with a smirk from where he now stood beside Seokjin. “He’s clumsy.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes. “You try managing five staircases while reading a political treatise.”

“So let me get this straight,” Seokjin said, exasperated but visibly trying not to laugh, “you healed a lizard’s tail with a spell for paper cuts and your awakening triggered?”

“Yeah?” Taehyung answered, unsure. “Is that… not normal?”

Yoongi shook his head, still stunned. “Do you still have the lizard with you?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, flustered. “I made him a little bed. In my room.”

“Show me,” Seokjin said immediately, already turning.

Taehyung looked at Jimin and Hoseok, who just grinned and nodded like this was the most them thing that could’ve happened. Jungkook was already on his feet, reaching for Taehyung’s wrist like he might start floating again if someone didn’t hold on.

“I guess we’re visiting a lizard,” Namjoon murmured dryly.

“I hope he’s cute,” Hoseok added, wiping petals off Taehyung’s shoulder like the boy had sprouted from a garden.

And together—all seven of them, buzzing with disbelief and newfound awe—they left the training room, heading upstairs in pursuit of the tiny creature that had, somehow, helped wake a miracle.

Taehyung’s room was quiet, warm with late afternoon light spilling across the floor in soft gold. The air still held traces of lavender from the incense Yoongi liked to light, and the curtains swayed faintly as if the manor itself had taken a breath.

They all gathered around the edge of Taehyung’s bed—seven vampires and one halfblood—eyes fixed on a tiny lump nestled in a hand-sized bundle of fabric.

The lizard was still asleep.

Curled on its back with its round belly turned to the ceiling, one tiny claw twitching now and then in its sleep. But what drew their eyes, what stunned the room into a quiet kind of awe, was the shimmer of its skin.

Its scales were glowing.

Pale hues of rose-gold, blue-lilac, mossy green and opal shimmered beneath the light like oil on water. Iridescent. Ethereal. And impossibly… familiar.

Jungkook crouched beside the bed first, blinking hard. “It’s glowing.”

“Just like Taehyung was,” Hoseok murmured.

“Just as I thought,” Seokjin said from behind them, his voice quiet but filled with something close to reverence.

Taehyung looked up sharply. “What do you mean, Jin?”

Seokjin stepped forward, crouching gracefully beside Jungkook. He reached out with one gloved finger—not to touch, just to hover—and nodded once.

“You made the lizard your familiar.”

Taehyung reeled back. “I did what?!”

Yoongi snorted softly from across the room. “Congratulations.”

“I didn’t—! I mean, I was just talking to it!”

Seokjin looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised in amusement. “And it listened.”

“I didn’t even do a spell—”

“You gave it shelter. Healed it. Named it, I assume?”

“I—” Taehyung paused. “I might have called him Pickle. But it wasn’t official.”

Jimin burst into laughter, folding into Hoseok’s side. “Pickle.”

Namjoon smiled, shaking his head fondly. “Well, Pickle is glowing. That’s pretty official.”

“I didn’t mean to make a familiar,” Taehyung groaned, covering his face. “I just felt bad for the little guy!”

“That’s usually how it happens,” Seokjin said. “Familiar bonds are rare, but when they’re genuine, they don’t require ritual. Just… intention. And magic. Which, evidently, you have plenty of.”

Taehyung peeked through his fingers. “So what now?”

“Now?” Seokjin stood slowly, a smile ghosting at the corner of his lips. “Now we help you keep him alive. And teach you how to care for him. Because if your bond awakened this way, you’ve just added an entirely new layer to your training.”

Pickle snored softly from his cloth nest.

Jungkook leaned in, staring at the glowing scales like they held all the answers in the world. “Pickle’s kind of cute,” he mumbled. Then added, quieter, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

Too late.

Everyone had already heard.

“But he’s not a lizard, Jinnie.”

Jimin’s voice piped up from the other side of the bed, wide-eyed and glowing. Before anyone could stop him, he carefully scooped the tiny creature into his hands, cradling it like a teacup full of starlight. His smile was impossibly bright, eyes shimmering with awe as he turned the glowing bundle toward the others.

“It’s a dragon!” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered a lost relic from the heart of the earth.

The room froze.

Taehyung blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

Jimin beamed at him, completely unbothered by the implications. “A dragon, Tae! Look at the scales. The tail. The ridge down its back. See how the glow curls at the edges? That’s arcane energy. It’s not just magic, it’s ancient.”

Taehyung opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at Pickle, who was now yawning. The tiniest flick of fireless breath escaping his mouth.

To Taehyung, it looked like a normal lizard. 

Namjoon stepped closer, peering with sudden interest. “He’s right. That shimmer, it’s not normal magic. It’s pre-bloodline magic. Raw. Elemental.”

“That’s not a lizard,” Hoseok agreed, blinking slowly. “That’s something older.”

Yoongi muttered something under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Of course Taehyung would bond with a dragon. Why not.”

Jungkook just stared, mouth parted slightly like he couldn’t decide if he was amazed or terrified. “We’re going to need… a bigger bed.”

Taehyung didn’t hear any of it.

He was too busy swaying on his feet.

“Dragon,” he repeated faintly. “I bonded with a dragon. I bonded with a dragon. I—”

Then he promptly dropped back onto the bed, lying flat and wide-eyed.

“I think I might pass out.”

Pickle curled on Jimin’s palm, now purring like a tiny furnace.

They named him Pickle.

Well, Taehyung named him Pickle. The others protested, naturally.

Jimin suggested Emberflame, Hoseok preferred Myungji, and Namjoon, ever the historian, offered Daeryun, meaning “great scale.” Even Seokjin had murmured something lofty and poetic in Old Vampiric that translated to ‘Child of the Forgotten Flame.’

But Taehyung stood firm.

“His name is Pickle,” he said solemnly, as the dragon curled around his wrist like a glowing charm.

Pickle it was.

With the discovery of his familiar came a change in Taehyung’s training schedule. Magical disciplines were now split into two categories: personal magic, and familiar magic.

Personal magic included the lessons Jimin and Hoseok were already giving; runes, rites, grounding spells, light warding. But familiar magic involved learning how to link his energy with Pickle’s. How to cast through him. How to protect him. And most exciting of all, how to let Pickle shift between his passive and active states. Glowing lizard during rest, baby dragon during training.

Jungkook was less than thrilled.

“What do you mean my sessions are being cut short?” he asked, arms crossed, fangs subtly bared.

“Just twenty minutes shorter,” Seokjin said calmly. “He has two new magical studies and no time to nap anymore.”

“I’ll train him at night,” Jungkook growled. “He doesn’t need sleep, he needs strength.”

But Taehyung had slinked over, pecked his cheek, then kissed his jaw, whispering, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

When that hadn’t entirely worked, he added brightly: “And when Pickle gets big enough, you can be the first one to ride him.”

Jungkook blinked. “…Seriously?”

Taehyung nodded, eyes wide and sincere.

Jungkook glanced at the tiny glowing creature sunbathing on a windowsill, tail flicking smugly.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I get to name our next pet.”

Familiar training was a different kind of magic.

Where most spells pulled from the body and mind, familiar magic came from trust. From a tether of loyalty and affection that had to be nurtured like a garden. Jimin explained it best:

“Familiars are a part of you, but not bound by you,” he said one afternoon, as Pickle floated midair in a swirl of runes. “He’ll borrow your strength, your focus, your will, but if you doubt him, if you pull away. He’ll vanish.”

“I don’t want him to vanish,” Taehyung said quietly, hand outstretched.

“Then trust him. Even when you’re afraid.”

So Taehyung trained.

Every day, he whispered to Pickle. Fed him slices of blood-orange. Practiced casting small illusions through their bond; glowing lights, little shields, music that swirled in the air like petals.

Pickle listened. Learned.

And every time they succeeded, Pickle’s glow brightened. His wings grew stronger. His scales shimmered like they’d been dipped in molten stars.

Taehyung had never felt more proud.

And when he looked up—sweaty, flushed, eyes shining—the six vampires who loved him most were always watching.

Watching, and falling even more in love.

Pickle had settled into the manor as if he’d always lived there.

In the past few days, Taehyung had watched the tiny dragon make himself very much at home. Coiled inside Taehyung’s sock drawer, napping for hours on end, belly up and legs twitching in miniature dreams. He’d woken Taehyung every morning with warm licks to the cheek, snuggling into the curve of his throat like a heated stone.

Everyone had adjusted, more or less.

Jungkook, for instance, had adjusted less.

“Pickle,” the youngest vampire growled one afternoon, staring into his open jewelry box. “Give it back.”

From atop the vanity, Pickle blinked slowly, a silver hoop earring clasped delicately between his tiny teeth. When Jungkook lunged, the dragon zipped off like a bolt of moonlight, tail flicking smugly behind him as he disappeared under the bed.

“I’m going to train him,” Jungkook muttered.

“You can’t train a dragon,” Jimin said serenely, from the doorway.

“You train me.” Taehyung piped up. Laughing as Jungkook began chasing after the dragon.

“That’s different. You’re much cuter when you pout.”

Pickle poked his head out from under the bed and sneezed a puff of glittery smoke.

Jungkook was not amused.

Now, days later, Taehyung stood in the practice room, one hand hovering over a rune carved delicately into the floor. A flicker of golden light swirled between his fingertips, the spell half-formed, half-fed by the pulsing warmth in his chest.

Pickle was curled beside him, small and alert, his iridescent body pulsing faintly with the same light Taehyung was channeling.

“Alright,” Taehyung murmured, mostly to himself. “Focus. Just a little more.”

The rune beneath his palm began to glow.

Not harshly, but steadily. Like a heartbeat.

He inhaled through his nose, exhaled slowly, pouring his will into the design. The air around him shimmered faintly. Energy surged from the tips of his fingers, humming through the circle.

But then—

Crack.

The rune pulsed too hard. A jagged line split across the etched sigil, magic snapping backward like a rubber band.

Taehyung flinched, stumbling back as the spell misfired and the heat flared—

Only for it to vanish, intercepted in a flash of golden wings.

Pickle stood in front of him, fully expanded now. Twice his usual size, glowing fiercely. His mouth opened in a quiet, rumbling hiss, eyes slit and wild with magic. A protective barrier radiated from his scaled chest like a warded shield.

Taehyung blinked.

“…Pickle?”

The little dragon looked back at him, expression unreadable.

Then he slumped slightly. Still upright, but tired. He’d absorbed the spell backlash. Protected Taehyung without hesitation.

Taehyung sank to his knees, scooping the creature into his arms.

“You saved me,” he whispered.

Pickle squeaked once and headbutted his chest. Then promptly passed out, snoring gently against Taehyung’s robe.

The door opened a second later, Jungkook appearing first, eyes wide and glowing.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, already moving toward him.

“I’m fine. I just—” Taehyung looked down. “He protected me. He shielded me.”

Jimin and Yoongi appeared next, flanking Jungkook with immediate concern. Seokjin and Namjoon weren’t far behind.

Jimin stepped forward, brushing magic residue from Taehyung’s shoulder.

“You channeled too much, didn’t you?”

Taehyung nodded sheepishly. “I was trying to amplify the rune slowly, but I got…excited.”

“Your bond with Pickle is growing stronger,” Seokjin said softly, kneeling beside him. “It’s beginning to move both ways now. Not just magic through him but protection from him. That’s advanced magic, Taehyung.”

“I didn’t mean for him to get hurt—”

“He’s not hurt,” Namjoon assured. “Just tired. He did exactly what a familiar is meant to do.”

Taehyung looked down at the tiny dragon curled in his lap, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Pickle didn’t wake. But his tail gave one lazy flick. As if to say: Of course, dummy. I’m here for you.

The sun had set hours ago, but the manor’s halls glowed gently with floating candles and low amber sconces. In Taehyung’s room, the atmosphere was quieter. Soft and full of something unspoken.

Pickle was tucked in a folded linen towel near the window, belly rising and falling with tiny, exhausted puffs of breath. His scales shimmered faintly under the moonlight, casting faint sparkles onto the wooden floor.

Taehyung was curled on the bed, still dressed in practice robes, a pillow hugged loosely to his chest. He wasn’t asleep, just… full. Of gratitude, of magic, of everything that had happened in the last few days.

The door creaked open.

One by one, they filtered in. Jimin first, barefoot and humming softly, then Yoongi, hands in his pockets, moving like shadow. Hoseok leaned against the doorframe until Jungkook nudged him to enter. Namjoon and Seokjin came last, arms full of blankets and warm tea.

“Are we having another sleepover?” Taehyung asked softly, smile peeking out.

“You sound surprised,” Jimin teased, flopping next to him and immediately tangling their legs. “You’re stuck with us, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Jungkook made a sound and padded over to Pickle’s makeshift nest, crouching beside it. He didn’t try to touch the dragon, just looked at him for a long moment. Then, gently, he reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the silver chains Pickle had stolen days ago.

He laid it beside the towel.

“There. He can keep it,” Jungkook muttered. “It matches him anyway.”

Taehyung blinked. “You’re giving him jewelry now?”

Yoongi smirked. “That’s vampire approval, Tae. Take the win.”

Jungkook only shrugged and moved back toward the bed, slipping beside Taehyung like it was instinct.

Then Hoseok spoke, voice light. “You should give him a ritual charm.”

“A what?” Taehyung asked.

Hoseok sat down at the foot of the bed, crossing his legs and picking at the loose thread on one of the throw blankets. “A familiar bond exists through spiritual energy. Connection, intent, magic. But a charm is a physical tether. It captures unused energy. Think of it like a reservoir. If Pickle ever grows tired in battle or you need extra magic, this charm can release stored energy to help.”

“Mostly witches use them,” Seokjin added, taking a sip of tea as he perched in the corner chair, glasses perched low on his nose. “But considering Pickle is a dragon and you’re a halfblood awakening inside a vampire’s ancestral house… it might be wise to take every bit of help we can get.”

Namjoon nodded. “It’ll give you both something grounding to return to when your magic flares again.”

Taehyung looked at them all—these six eternal creatures gathered around him in warmth and velvet shadows—and then down at Pickle.

The tiny dragon hiccupped in his sleep, curled around the silver chain like it was a talisman.

“Okay,” Taehyung whispered, voice steadier than it had been all day. “Then let’s make him one.”

Jimin had left quickly, fluttering like a fairy in the moonlight. Leaving for half and hour before he returned like a storm dressed in silk, his arms full of bundled cloth and clinking metal.

He threw them down onto Taehyung’s bed with little ceremony, grinning like he was bestowing a treasure hoard. “Okay, okay, okay,” he sang, dropping onto the mattress beside him. “I raided the reliquary and the west wing workshop, don’t ask how I got in. Look!”

Laid out before Taehyung was a scattered mess of materials: slivers of raw obsidian, hammered copper, glowing threads of silver, iron rings, star-carved bone, smooth polished stones that shimmered faintly under the candlelight.

“You have to choose one,” Jimin said, eyes sparkling.

Taehyung blinked at the pile, overwhelmed. “How do I know which one to choose?”

Jimin rolled onto his stomach, propped up by his elbows. “Whichever one catches your eye,” he murmured. “Or… whichever one your magic is drawn to. Don’t overthink it. It’s not about logic. It’s about pull.”

Taehyung hesitated, then reached out, his hand hovering over the pile.

Everything sparkled. Everything called to something. But it wasn’t until his fingers passed over a small piece of stone—round, dark blue, and veined with a faint violet shimmer—that he felt a twinge. A tug.

It was small. Humble. But his magic… hummed.

“That one,” he whispered.

Jimin pushed himself up, peeking at it. “Labradorite,” he said approvingly. “Protective. Enhancing. Rare, too. Good choice.”

Taehyung looked at him. “Did I choose it? Or did it choose me?”

Jimin’s smile turned soft. “Both.”

They spent the next hour threading the charm. Jimin guided him gently, showing him how to weave his intent into the threading. Binding the stone to Pickle with whispered magic and focus. Yoongi stopped by once, offering Taehyung a tiny needle tipped with his own blood, “for strength,” he said, “and old magic.”

Hoseok added a sprig of dried lavender for comfort.

Jungkook sat beside the bed and sharpened a bone carving tool without speaking, watching the whole process with quiet eyes. But he didn’t protest when Taehyung asked if he wanted to etch the charm himself.

Jungkook carved one word into the back of the stone.

Home

By the time they were done, the charm glowed faintly, warm to the touch.

Taehyung held it gently in his palm, eyes wide, lips parted like he was holding a piece of something ancient.

“What now?” he asked softly.

Seokjin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his smile just faint enough to be proud. “Now,” he said, “you give it to him.”

Taehyung stepped carefully down from his bed, the charm cupped delicately in his hands. Pickle lay curled near the hearth on a folded blanket that once belonged to Seokjin. (Taehyung had claimed it two nights ago, convinced Pickle liked the scent.)

The little dragon was half-asleep, tiny chest rising and falling slowly, a faint glimmer still pulsing beneath his iridescent scales.

“Hey,” Taehyung whispered, kneeling beside him. “Look what I made for you.”

Pickle blinked open one eye, then the other, peering blearily at the glowing charm now resting in Taehyung’s palm.

It shimmered in soft hues of violet and blue, the runes etched into its back catching the firelight. Taehyung felt a hum start in his fingers again, curling down into his wrist and wrapping around his ribcage like a warm ribbon.

“I don’t know if this is right,” he admitted quietly. “But it feels right. So… here.”

He gently laid the charm in front of Pickle.

The dragon didn’t hesitate. He nudged the stone with his nose, and the moment it touched his forehead—

Warmth.

Magic bloomed in Taehyung’s chest like a sunrise. Not the sharp, demanding kind he sometimes felt when practicing. This was soft. Steady. Bright like laughter and early mornings and something deeply, deeply safe.

Pickle chirped once, tail curling around the charm as if to claim it as his own.

Taehyung laughed—really laughed, head tipping back slightly—and for a second, the room felt like it exhaled with him.

From across the room, Jimin leaned into the bedframe, watching with a hand over his heart.

Behind him, Yoongi murmured, “He’s glowing again.”

“I know,” Jimin whispered. “It suits him.”

Taehyung didn’t notice. He was too busy letting the magic curl through his fingers, too caught up in how light he felt, how whole.

For once, the future didn’t scare him.

He was beginning to believe he might really belong here.

And maybe, just maybe, he had never stopped.

-

Taehyung stood still in front of the mirror, half-laced into ceremonial robes. The fabric shimmered silver and bone-white, soft as air and lined with symbols he didn’t recognize but felt watched by. Layers of embroidery wrapped around his shoulders, a sash tied at the waist, and his hair—freshly brushed by Seokjin’s persistent hands—framed his face too delicately for someone supposed to embody a ritual heir.

Behind him, reflected clearly in the tall mirror, Rae sat cross-legged on the floor beside Pickle, feeding the tiny dragon tiny crumbs of a biscuit she definitely wasn’t supposed to be eating in a ceremonial room.

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “How do you keep getting here?”

Rae didn’t even look up. “I walk.”

“That’s it?”

“Mhm.”

“Isn’t that like… really dangerous?”

“Nope!” she said cheerfully, popping the last bit of the biscuit in her mouth. Pickle’s tail thumped once against the floor in protest.

Taehyung blinked at them. “You’re a menace.”

She grinned proudly.

Just then, the dressing room door creaked open and Hoseok strolled in like a breeze, tray in hand, whistling low when he caught sight of Taehyung. “Now that is an heir.”

Taehyung flushed, ears pink. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” Hoseok said, placing the tray; stacked high with strawberries and sugar biscuits, on a table. “You look like something pulled from a sacred painting. A little cursed, maybe. But beautiful.”

“Do you want some strawberries, Rae?” he added, already offering her the tray.

“Yes please!” Rae chirped, leaping to her feet.

“Sounds good,” Hoseok said, winking before he turned back to Taehyung.

Taehyung pouted, crossing his arms loosely. “Are you here for the strawberries or me?”

“Neither,” Rae said through a mouthful of fruit, hugging Pickle to her chest. “I’m here for Pickle!”

The dragon chirped in smug agreement.

Hoseok laughed. “Guess you’re not the only pretty one in the room, Tae.”

Taehyung groaned, half-burying his face in his sleeve. “You’re all the worst.”

But he was smiling when he said it.

The door shut with a soft click behind Rae, her chatter fading down the hallway as she trailed after the promise of more strawberries. Pickle followed close behind, wings fluttering uselessly with every excited hop.

And then it was just them.

Taehyung stood still in front of the mirror, wrapped in ceremony and silk, breath barely held in his chest. The room was too quiet. Too wide. And he could see the way his hands trembled at his sides. Barely, but enough.

Hoseok came up behind him in the reflection.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped close and wrapped his arms around Taehyung’s waist. Not to press or pull, just to hold. His chin rested on Taehyung’s shoulder, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

“You’re nervous,” Hoseok murmured. Not a question. Not even a judgment. Just a truth, spoken gently.

Taehyung nodded once, still watching himself in the mirror. “A little.”

He looked like someone else. Regal. Otherworldly. The silver folds of his robes shimmered with every breath. The embroidery kissed his collarbones. His hair was too soft, his lips too flushed.

He didn’t feel like an heir. He felt like a boy pretending to be something he didn’t understand yet.

Hoseok didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he leaned forward—warm and patient—and pressed a slow kiss to Taehyung’s bare shoulder. His lips lingered against skin, then moved upward, another kiss brushing the curve of his neck.

“You look beautiful,” Hoseok said, his voice quieter now. “Like moonlight given form. Like something meant to be worshipped, not questioned.”

Taehyung closed his eyes.

And let himself lean back.

Hoseok held him, steady and sure, like the ground underfoot. Like there was nothing they couldn’t carry together.

“Whatever happens tonight,” Hoseok whispered, “we’re with you. Always.”

Taehyung’s breath left him slow and full.

“…Thank you,” he murmured.

“Don’t thank me,” Hoseok said, smiling now. “Just promise me one thing.”

Taehyung turned his head slightly. “What?”

Hoseok’s voice dropped into something secret. “When this is over… come with me to the garden. The strawberries are nearly ripe again.”

Taehyung huffed a laugh, eyes wet. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant,” Hoseok grinned. “Now let’s go remind the world who you belong to.”

The soft clink of metal echoed through the room.

Rings were slid onto each of Taehyung’s fingers. Some carved with symbols he couldn’t yet read, others smooth and heavy with age. Chains were draped across his collarbone, fine silver threading down over his chest like webbed moonlight. A veil was fastened into his hair last, sheer and pale and pinned with a crest that glittered like blood under candlelight.

None of it felt like costume.

Each piece clicked into place like memory.

Taehyung stood in front of the mirror again, Hoseok’s hands now absent, the room quiet and stilled. He stared at his reflection—not as a boy wearing borrowed ceremony—but as something older. Something forming.

There were still shadows under his eyes. Still tremble in his pulse. But he looked taller now. Still.

Crowned.

Behind him, the door creaked open softly. One of the staff peeked in, offering a respectful nod.

“It’s time, heir.”

Taehyung didn’t answer at first.

He stared at his reflection, at the veils and the silk and the red mark still faint on his throat from the last time Jimin kissed him there. The rings on his hands. The dragon charm tucked inside his sleeve.

He breathed in.

Slow.

Then spoke. Not to the staff member. Not even to the mirror.

But to himself.

“I am the next heir,” he whispered.

And for the first time, he didn’t doubt it.

Chapter Text

The manor doors opened.

And Taehyung walked out into firelight.

The stone path ahead of him was lit with rows of candles, hundreds of them, burning low in glass lanterns and iron sconces. Torches lined the arching walkway, flickering gold against the early night. Their flames cast long shadows that swayed with each breath of wind.

His robe was white, layered in gauze and pearl-threaded silk. Veils trailed from his shoulders like smoke, and blood-red jewels glimmered at his throat and wrists. Moon-stone and ruby accents catching the firelight like wine.

Every step felt too loud.

The dirt beneath his feet was too soft.

And too many eyes were watching him.

Vampires stood along the edges of the courtyard, lining the path in silence, their heads turning as he passed. Elders, nobles, and Rae and her family in the back, the young prophet holding onto pickle tightly, they all watching. 

He could feel it: the weight of centuries pressing down as they looked at him not like a boy, but like an heir.

He kept walking.

He didn’t falter.

Even when his breath hitched.

Even when his hands trembled beneath the silk.

And then, he saw them.

At the end of the walkway, standing at the arched doors of the old chapel on their territory, stood his six.

His coven.

They were dressed in black and silver, like the sky before a storm. But their expressions softened when they saw him. 

Jimin beaming, Hoseok practically vibrating with pride. Yoongi’s eyes dark and unreadable, Namjoon standing tall, protective. Jungkook looked like he could barely stay in place. 

Seokjin stepped forward first, the stained-glass glow from the church painting him in color.

Taehyung’s breath left him.

He lifted his chin, trying to steady himself.

“A church,” he muttered, as he climbed the last few stairs toward them, “really?”

Seokjin smiled faintly, reaching to touch his arm.

“It’s tradition, love.”

Jungkook reached out next, brushing a piece of veil from Taehyung’s cheek. His hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Taehyung flushed. But he didn’t look away.

The church doors creaked open behind them; its high arched ceiling glowing with enchanted lanterns, and an altar carved from onyx stone. An eerie quiet settled.

The bonding ceremony was about to begin.

The chapel doors groaned shut behind him.

The sound echoed like a final heartbeat.

Inside, the air was thick with old magic. Not heavy, but reverent. The kind that clung to the ribs and hummed under the skin, quiet and ancient, like a cathedral made from candlelight and breath.

Dozens of faces watched from the pews; old bloodlines, visiting covens, dignitaries cloaked in silk and bone. The Elders were seated closest to the altar, still and statuesque. They said nothing, their eyes like mirrors. Waiting.

Taehyung saw Junyoung and his coven sitting a little further down from the Council.

The aisle was covered in red velvet, and each footstep echoed like a vow.

Taehyung walked with his chin high, his veil fluttering behind him like smoke in the dark.

His six followed behind; silent, regal, in matching black robes lined in thread-of-silver. 

The moment they passed through the chapel arch, the candles flared brighter, responding not to wind, but to their presence. To him.

The altar was carved from obsidian stone, its surface inlaid with etched runes pulsing faintly now in red and white.

Taehyung swallowed.

Despite the hours he’d spent reading, studying the rituals and rites, the language the high priest began to speak in was older than ink and harder than bone. A dialect used only in ancestral rite; sibilant and sweeping, thick with blood-oaths and memory.

Taehyung didn’t understand it.

Not at all.

Not until a warm hand reached for his.

He turned, just slightly, and saw Yoongi’s fingers grazing his palm, soft and grounding. On his other side, Jimin reached up, brushing a kiss to the inside of Taehyung’s wrist, his lips chilled and affectionate. Hoseok leaned in from behind, murmuring something so gentle it melted through the nerves in Taehyung’s spine.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

Namjoon’s thumb rubbed a slow circle over the curve of Taehyung’s shoulder, bare beneath the folds of cloth and jewelry. “Just breathe. We’re with you.”

Jungkook didn’t speak.

But his fingers brushed the side of Taehyung’s ribs, slow and sure, like an assurance.

And suddenly, the room didn’t feel so big. The silence wasn’t a threat. The ancient script wasn’t a noose.

It was memory.

It was history.

And Taehyung was a part of it.

The high priest turned toward him now, lowering the ceremonial blade onto a bed of salt and flower ash.

The runes flared.

A hush fell.

“Taehyung of Kim,” the priest said at last, in a dialect even the living could understand. “Do you come of your own will?”

Taehyung nodded. His voice—steady, soft—followed after.

“I do.”

“And do you offer blood not in sacrifice, but in bond?”

“I do.”

“And do you claim, and allow yourself to be claimed, by the six who stand with you now?”

Taehyung turned, taking in each of them; his six. His heart. His soul.

“I do.”

A pause.

Then the priest lifted both hands.

“So let it be marked. So let it be bound.”

The light from the altar flared red.

“So let it be marked.

So let it be bound.”

The runes on the altar pulsed brighter. White-hot at first, then ruby red.

Taehyung stepped forward. His bare feet met the salt-and-ash circle, warmth radiating from the stone beneath him. The priest placed a carved bowl in his hands, carved of black stone and etched with the sigils of his house.

One by one, his mates approached.

Namjoon first, regal and unshaken. He pressed his fingers into the cut of his palm, letting his blood bead and fall into the bowl. “With honesty and wisdom, I bind myself to you.”

Then Hoseok, eyes gleaming with devotion. “With joy and heart, I bind myself to you.”

Jimin was softer. His hand trembled slightly, though his lips smiled. “With beauty and grace, I bind myself to you.”

Yoongi’s blood fell slow, deliberate. “With memory and silence, I bind myself to you.”

Seokjin kissed Taehyung’s hand before letting the blood fall. “With thought and legacy, I bind myself to you.”

And Jungkook—burning, silent, his red eyes never leaving Taehyung’s—stepped forward last. “With body, with fire… I bind myself to you.”

Taehyung’s hands shook now as the priest turned to him. “And you, Taehyung of Kim, will you accept the blood of your coven, and offer your own in return?”

Taehyung nodded, breath catching.

He raised the ceremonial blade to his palm and—

The moment the steel touched skin, the world cracked open.

A memory poured in.

He was small again—seven, maybe eight. Running through a corridor lit by lanterns. His tiny feet padded against the marble, laughter echoing as he turned corner after corner. Someone was chasing him. He knew that. And he wanted them to. He wanted to be caught.

He skidded to a stop in front of a pair of double doors, cracked open just enough to let warm light spill out.

 Inside; six vampires in black and silver, laughing, pouring wine, speaking low. Seokjin’s head was tilted back mid-laugh. Namjoon was rolling his eyes. Hoseok was dancing with Jimin near the hearth. Yoongi played piano. Jungkook—just a boy—sat curled on the floor with a candle in his lap, eyes wide as he looked toward the door.

“Tae,” he whispered.

And little Taehyung, breathless, beamed.

He staggered forward in the present, the bowl still in his grip. His hand still bleeding.

Yoongi’s arms were there to catch him, to steady him again.

“I remembered something,” Taehyung whispered.

Jimin’s hand closed over his heart. “We know.”

The priest stepped forward once more, lifting the bowl high. The blood shimmered like wine in moonlight, already beginning to glow.

“Then let the offering be sealed.

Let the rite be sanctified.”

The six knelt around Taehyung now, and he joined them at the center of their circle.

The runes flared once more.

From behind, Yoongi reached to press a mark onto the nape of Taehyung’s neck. A sigil drawn from ash and blood.

Jimin pressed another over his heart.

Hoseok, his wrist. Namjoon, his brow. Seokjin, his back. Jungkook, the small of his spine.

The sigils didn’t burn. They pulsed—warm, deep, resonating with the core of him.

Then the priest gave one final command:

“Rise, Taehyung of Kim.

Bloodbound.

Coven-chosen.

Heir.”

And Taehyung did.

The moment the final words were spoken, the magic surged.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t pain.

It was hunger.

Taehyung gasped as heat poured through his limbs, liquid and living. 

His breath caught in his throat as the blood in his veins pulsed like a second heartbeat. His knees nearly buckled under the pressure, and his vision blurred. Flashing black, then red.

His pupils dilated. His irises burned.

The priest stepped back.

And Taehyung looked up with eyes that were no longer brown.

They glowed; deep ruby, seething with unspoken need, wildness, and the aching need to claim. To be claimed.

A murmur moved through the watching vampires, quiet as it was terrified.

One of the council Elders stood, face unreadable, but eyes narrowing.

Taehyung’s coven moved instantly.

Jungkook was already by his side, a growl buried in his chest as his own eyes lit crimson to match. Yoongi’s shadows curled tighter behind them, protective, restless. Namjoon’s hand was already curled at Taehyung’s waist, grounding him. Hoseok and Jimin stepped closer, brushing against his arms, his throat. Seokjin placed a hand on his shoulder with something close to reverence.

And when they looked at him—when each of them met his gaze—their eyes burned red too.

The bond had taken.

The connection threaded through them now, thick as blood, alive as flame.

Taehyung felt his fangs ache to break through.

He licked his lips. His breath was shaky. His body trembled with want.

And Seokjin, ever the elegant voice among chaos, spoke before any Elder could open their mouth.

“The ritual is complete,” he said, cool and commanding.

He didn’t bow.

He didn’t thank them.

He simply turned, curling one arm around Taehyung’s shoulders as if he had always been meant to do so.

“We shall finish the blood rites in the comfort of our home.”

Taehyung didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

His whole body thrummed with a different kind of hunger now, raw and sacred.

And as the seven of them exited through the candlelit aisle, the vampires parted in silence.

Some in awe.

Some in fear.

But none dared stop them.

The doors shut behind them with a thunderous finality.

Silk curtains drawn. Candles flickering low. The seven of them stood in the manor’s inner sanctum, a private ceremonial chamber meant only for bondmates and blood.

Taehyung didn’t wait.

The moment the lock clicked, he surged forward. Hands clawing at Seokjin’s lapels, dragging him back until his spine hit the wall with a dull thud. 

Seokjin’s breath caught, but he didn’t resist. His hands only rose slowly, palms open, surrendering to the moment, to him.

“Taehyung,” he murmured. Not warning. Just wonder.

But Taehyung wasn’t listening.

His fingers fumbled with the pearl buttons of Seokjin’s ceremonial suit, too wild for precision. He growled—actually growled—when one refused to come undone, and he simply ripped it, baring the pale column of Seokjin’s neck.

His fangs ached.

His pupils were blown wide, lips parted and trembling, breath hot with the weight of need he barely understood.

“I need—” he whispered, voice shaking. “Please.”

Seokjin tilted his chin. Offered.

“Then take.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate.

His hands gripped Seokjin’s hips, holding him in place, and he leaned in. Newly grown fangs grazing porcelain skin, breath feathering over the pulse point. And then he bit.

The taste was immediate.

Silk and silver. Moonlight and devotion. Seokjin’s blood was old; centuries deep, velvet-smooth, layered in every soft promise he’d ever spoken to Taehyung. It poured into his mouth like warmth, 

like comfort,

 like home.

Seokjin gasped, soft and stunned, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers threaded through Taehyung’s hair.

The others hadn’t moved.

Not yet.

But something shifted the moment blood touched Taehyung’s tongue.

The room growled.

Jungkook was the first to break.

He was at Taehyung’s back in seconds, hands on his waist, lips pressed to the side of his neck. Not biting, just there, murmuring softly in a low, trembling voice.

“Mine. Ours. He’s ours.”

Yoongi moved next. Silent, gliding. 

He pressed close to Seokjin’s side, his lips brushing his ear as he kissed over his temple, his collarbone, grounding him, wrapping his arms around them both.

Namjoon’s eyes burned. But his steps were slow, controlled, as he approached Taehyung from the side, his hand finding Taehyung’s chest, splayed over his heart. Feeling it race. Feeling it change.

And then Jimin and Hoseok came together.

Jimin’s hand traced the lines of Taehyung’s waist, slipping under the edges of his ceremonial robes. Hoseok pressed a kiss to the small of his back. They flanked him like the light and the flame.

It was happening.

The bond deepened with every heartbeat.

With every touch.

With every scent and sound and claim.

Taehyung moaned into Seokjin’s skin, the taste of his blood still hot on his tongue. His hands trembled as they slipped around to his back. His thighs ached from how tightly Jungkook was pressed behind him.

He felt alive.

Overwhelmed.

Devoted.

“More,” Jimin whispered against his skin. “Let us have more of you.”

“Don’t stop,” Jungkook breathed, his hand on Taehyung’s throat. Gentle, possessive.

“Let it happen,” Yoongi murmured. “Let it take you.”

Taehyung didn’t know where one hand ended and another began. Didn’t know who kissed his shoulder and who licked the blood from the edge of his lip.

He only knew warmth. Safety. Desire.

The rites would be completed not in one kiss or one drop, but in surrender.

He was theirs.

And he wanted to be.

Craved it like he’d never craved anything so badly before.

The air was thick with scent; blood, incense, primal desire. A velvet-draped hush fell over the chamber as Taehyung turned from Seokjin, his mouth slick with crimson and devotion.

He was panting now, eyes glowing a deep, molten red.

Jungkook held him from behind, chest pressed to Taehyung’s spine, grounding him with both arms locked around his middle. But it wasn’t enough. 

Taehyung could feel them, all of them, pressing in through the bond that tugged now like a living thing beneath his skin.

“It’s time,” Namjoon said softly. His voice was reverent. “You have to drink from each of us.”

Taehyung swallowed hard. His throat felt scorched and full of lightning.

Jimin stepped forward first, his ceremonial robes slipping from one shoulder, exposing the pale curve of his neck. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, lips parted like a prayer offered willingly.

“Take me, my love,” he whispered. “I’ve waited so long to give this to you.”

Taehyung’s hands trembled as he stepped forward, cupping Jimin’s jaw with a gentleness that belied the pulse of power in his chest. He bit carefully. So soft, so perfect.

Jimin gasped, his knees buckling slightly as the bond flared.

It burned.

Bright and unbearable.

One by one, they came to him.

Yoongi, who didn’t speak at all, just met Taehyung’s gaze and tilted his head like he was offering his final breath. His blood was smoky, heady, ancient like iron and autumn.

Hoseok, who let Taehyung drink from the soft skin just above his heart, his arms locked tightly around Taehyung as he whispered praise against his ear.

“You’re doing so well. So beautiful. So brave.”

Namjoon, who kissed the crown of Taehyung’s head first. Whose blood tasted like clarity, like stars falling into oceans, and a deep, thunderous affection.

And then—

Jungkook.

Taehyung was already shaking.

His robes had slipped down his shoulders, mouth red, cheeks flushed. His magic was flaring, pulsing, under his skin. Leaking through the seals Jimin and Hoseok had placed on him weeks ago.

Jungkook didn’t speak. He dropped to his knees.

And with fingers soft on Taehyung’s thigh, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inner crease of his leg.

Taehyung gasped, eyes fluttering.

Jungkook opened his mouth—fangs flashing—and bit.

The pain was brief.

The pleasure was endless.

Taehyung’s back arched, a cry breaking from his throat as magic rushed up his spine. His magic surged through the room like lightning off a struck bell.

Jungkook purred into the bite, his tongue smoothing the blood as it rose.

“You taste divine,” he whispered. Voice wrecked.

Taehyung couldn’t think.

He could only feel.

His body glowed faintly now. Gold and silver light rippling under his skin.

And when he finally stood—bare, shaking, alight with bond energy—he looked at them, all six, and his eyes brimmed red.

“It’s your turn,” he whispered.

Jimin stepped forward first.

With reverence, he lifted Taehyung’s hand to his mouth, kissed his fingers, and then bit gently into the pad of his palm. Just deep enough to draw blood.

And he drank.

The magic snapped, a golden thread locking into place.

One by one, they followed.

Yoongi from the curve of Taehyung’s shoulder. Hoseok from the softest skin behind his knee. Namjoon from just above his pulse.

Seokjin took his from the center of Taehyung’s neck, kissing it like a vow.

And Jungkook… Jungkook bit just below the first mark he’d left, lower on Taehyung’s thigh, licking the wound closed as bond-light exploded from every point of contact.

Taehyung collapsed with them.

Magic pouring through him.

The bond sealed.

He was theirs.

They were his.

And in the hush that followed, the room stilled with awe.

“Complete,” Seokjin breathed.

“Claimed,” Yoongi echoed.

And Taehyung, eyes fluttering closed, whispered,

“Bonded.”

-

The station was mostly empty.

Night had just begun to settle, casting blue shadows across the damp tile floor. Overhead, the flickering lights buzzed like lazy insects. A light drizzle freckled the glass roof above.

A man approached the ticket window.

He moved like smoke. Silent and composed, the hem of his coat brushing the ground like it had forgotten how to stir the dust. 

He was tall. Slender. Dressed in black from collar to bootlace, the only color on him the faint gleam of gold buttons catching the moonlight.

The ticket seller didn’t meet his eyes. Just cleared his throat.

“Where to?”

The man smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

His teeth, when he opened his mouth, were perfect. And sharp.

“Vampiric territories,” he said softly.

The ticket seller hesitated. Fingers hovering.

The man’s smile curled wider.

“I’m going home,” he added, quieter now.

And his fangs flashed into a smirk, full of intent.

Chapter Text

The world was quieter now.

Not still, never still, but softened. Like the manor had taken a breath the moment the ritual ended and hadn’t quite let it out yet.

Taehyung lay in the center of Seokjin’s bed, the same place they’d all returned to the night before. The sheets smelled like blood and roses and moonlight, like him and them and something new entirely. 

His limbs were bare and languid, splayed over warm skin and the weight of silk blankets kicked down to the floor.

His senses hadn’t stopped ringing.

Every heartbeat in the room was distinguishable. Every shift of weight, every rustle of linen, every sigh was clearer now. Like the world had been blurred before, muffled behind glass. And now it rang sharp and shimmering.

Bonding had changed everything.

The taste of blood still lingered on his tongue. Not just one taste, but many. A tapestry of them: Seokjin’s steady warmth, Namjoon’s quiet burn, Yoongi’s dusk-heavy tang, Hoseok’s sweet spice, Jimin’s starlit sugar, and Jungkook — gods, Jungkook — thunderous, rich, and heavy like smoke-soaked velvet.

Taehyung turned his head.

Jimin was curled at his side, hair a halo across the pillow. Jungkook’s hand rested against his hipbone, not possessive, just… there. As if he didn’t need to hold on anymore because Taehyung wasn’t going anywhere. Yoongi was sprawled like a ghost at the foot of the bed, watching through half-lidded eyes, and Seokjin breathed softly from the chaise. Hoseok lay closest to the window, bathed in pale morning light, a hand draped over his chest, steady.

He’d never felt so claimed. Never so known.

And it didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt right.

Something shimmered under his skin like magic, maybe. Or something older. The room felt alive with it. Like the walls were listening

Taehyung blinked slowly, lashes brushing against the plush pillowcase. His eyes were still red. Not from fatigue, but from something deeper. Something awake.

The bond hummed under his skin.

He didn’t need to move to know they were there.

Yoongi lay at his back, arm loose across his ankles. Jimin’s leg draped over his thigh. Hoseok curled against the crook of his knee like a sunbeam personified. Namjoon had claimed the head of the bed, one arm folded beneath him, breathing faintly but not asleep.

But it was Jungkook he felt most.

The younger vampire stirred the second Taehyung’s breathing changed, like the shift had struck a string between them. Jungkook moved slowly, rising onto his elbows, the shadows cast across his bare chest highlighting the ripple of lean muscle beneath skin.

“Morning,” Jungkook murmured, voice low and graveled from disuse. His eyes glowed faintly crimson, hungry. But not with blood.

With want.

Taehyung swallowed.

It was impossible not to notice the way Jungkook’s hand trailed over his side, fingers brushing the space beneath his ribs like he was learning him all over again. His body was warm, solid. The way his knee slotted between Taehyung’s thighs made everything feel too loud.

Jungkook leaned down.

Their noses nearly touched. Taehyung’s breath caught.

“I can feel you,” he whispered. “Every part of you. Even your soul.”

“Good,” Jungkook said. “You should.”

Then he kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It was painf, deliberate, like a claim. Like Jungkook was trying to etch his name across the inside of Taehyung’s mouth. 

Their bond flared, pulling like thread between ribs, and Taehyung gasped into it, arching just enough to bring them chest-to-chest.

He could feel everything.

The ripple of muscle beneath skin. The heat of Jungkook’s palm sliding under his shirt. The exact weight of their want, the way the air grew thick around them.

“Jungkook—”

“Say it,” Jungkook whispered, lips brushing his jaw.

“Please,” Taehyung breathed.

But just before Jungkook could slip lower, a voice — warm, amused — cut through the haze.

“He hasn’t eaten yet.”

Jimin.

Lazily awake, voice thick with sleep, but his head tilted toward them from where he sprawled at Taehyung’s hip like a smug cat.

Jungkook groaned against Taehyung’s collarbone. “You’ve got the worst timing.”

“I have impeccable timing,” Jimin corrected, stretching with a yawn. “You’re not doing anything to our coven mate on an empty stomach.”

Coven mate

Taehyung blinked up at the ceiling, flushed and breathless. His lips were swollen. His magic was humming. His stomach gave an embarrassed growl.

Jungkook sighed and pressed one last kiss to his neck.

“Saved by breakfast,” he muttered.

Taehyung let out a breathless laugh, still dizzy. “Is it always going to be like this?”

“Yes,” Jimin said, grinning. “And no.”

Yoongi grunted into the pillow. “Depends how long we let you stay hungry.”

From somewhere near the foot of the bed, Seokjin’s voice called, melodic and unhurried, “Breakfast in twenty, darlings.”

“See?” Jimin beamed. “Impeccable timing.”

And Taehyung — red-eyed, love-drunk, and still vibrating from magic and desire — couldn’t help but smile.

Because this was home. 

And he was starving.

Taehyung had barely sat up before strong arms wrapped around his waist.

“Wait—!” he gasped, laughter already threatening.

Hoseok grinned down at him, mischief sparking like gold in his eyes. “No more waiting.”

And just like that, Taehyung was lifted clean off the bed, limbs dangling, his robe flaring around his thighs as Hoseok slung him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“Hoseok—!”

“You can kiss Jungkook later,” Hoseok called over his shoulder. “Right now, we feed you.”

Taehyung yelped, fists curling in the fabric at Hoseok’s back as the vampire sprinted down the hallway like a man on a mission. Laughter echoed behind them, the sounds of the others groaning and stretching out of bed in their own sweet time.

The manor was warmer than usual.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, spilling across the marble floors like honey. The scent of roasted spices and fresh bloodbread filled the halls. Somewhere nearby, Pickle chirped in the distance, fluttering down the main stairwell like he was just as excited for breakfast.

By the time they reached the dining room, the long table was already half-set.

Servants moved in synchronized silence. Black-clad and graceful, each one placing down silver trays and glass pitchers without a sound. 

Steam curled from freshly steeped tea. Tall ceramic vessels pulsed gently with enchanted blood, charmed to stay at the perfect temperature. Fruit glistened in bowls of carved stone, and the hearth burned low at the far end of the room.

It smelled like belonging.

Hoseok spun Taehyung once, making him squeal, before setting him down carefully into the wide-cushioned seat nearest the head of the table.

“There,” Hoseok said, ruffling his hair with a wide grin. “Safe and fed soon.”

Taehyung smoothed out his robe with pink cheeks, the seat still warm from yesterday’s lingering magic. “You could’ve just let me walk.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Hoseok teased, slipping into the seat beside him, close enough for their arms to touch.

Seokjin entered next, regal as ever despite the hour, fixing a napkin to Taehyung’s lap like he hadn’t just watched Hoseok carry him like a stolen bride. Namjoon followed, sleeves rolled and hair still damp, already reaching for a carafe of blood to pour with quiet elegance.

“Hungry?” he asked softly, setting the glass beside Taehyung’s plate.

Taehyung nodded, dazed. “Starving.”

“We’ll fix that,” Seokjin said. “It’s your first full morning as a bonded heir. You deserve everything.”

One by one, the rest of the coven filled in. Jimin glowing and tousled, Yoongi still sleep-rumpled but watchful, and Jungkook last, sliding into the seat across from Taehyung with eyes that promised everything unfinished would be finished soon.

Taehyung’s skin buzzed. His heart swelled.

He looked around the table, at all of them.

His coven.

His home.

And as the first bite passed his lips. Warm, rich, seasoned with honey and salt; he realized something simple and undeniable:

He had never tasted anything so good.

The morning meal was just beginning to wind down when the front doors slammed open with a dramatic crack that echoed down the corridor like a thunderclap.

Everyone at the table froze.

Then; 

“A festival!”

The voice was unmistakable. High-pitched. Excited. Adorable.

Moments later, Rae burst into the dining room like a snowflake caught in a whirlwind. Cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her winter dress spinning with every step, a soft brown fur coat clinging to her shoulders like a royal cape. Her boots thumped against the polished floor as she skidded to a halt beside Taehyung’s chair, hair braided down her back in two careful ropes, ribbons tied through each one like she was gift-wrapped.

“A what?” Taehyung blinked, still mid-chew.

“A festival!” Rae repeated, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “A real one! In the central square. With banners and offerings and bloodberry wine and those tiny sweet rolls Seokjin likes—”

“I like a lot of sweet rolls,” Seokjin said dryly.

“—and all of it is for you!” she finished, beaming up at Taehyung like he’d just been elected king.

Jungkook immediately sat straighter. “For Taehyung?”

Rae nodded, braids swinging.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, Jimin gasped. “They’re still doing rites of presentation? That’s so— old-fashioned.”

“Ancient,” Seokjin muttered.

“Public,” Yoongi sighed.

“Required,” Namjoon added, grimly.

Jimin, now half in Taehyung’s lap and halfway into his second cup of blood-tea, tilted his head. “I don’t remember us ever approving a festival.”

Rae huffed, hands on her hips. “It wasn’t you who approved it. The court announced it this morning.”

“The court?” Yoongi’s voice sharpened slightly, though his face remained unreadable.

“The friendly side of the court,” Rae assured, waving her hand. “The ones who didn’t want Taehyung to be sacrificed in a public display.” She glanced toward Seokjin, who looked half a breath from combusting. “Not those ones.”

“Fantastic,” Yoongi murmured. “More politics disguised as celebration.”

“It’s not just politics,” Rae said, moving to Taehyung’s side and grabbing his arm like she might never let go. “It’s a rite of presentation! They’re announcing the binding to the entire territory. The new heir. You!”

Taehyung blinked.

Rae’s voice softened. “It’s a tradition. A really old one. And it means they’re acknowledging you. The people are.”

Taehyung’s lips parted, unsure whether to feel honored or horrified. “What… exactly does a festival entail?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Rae said cheerfully. Her eyes full of glee and imagination. “Everyone will see. It’s going to be beautiful.”

Taehyung cast a slow glance at the rest of the table.

Everyone else looked… less thrilled.

But Hoseok leaned in, bumping his shoulder against Taehyung’s.

“It won’t be so bad,” he whispered with a grin. “As long as they let me decorate.”

The manor moved with quiet intention.

After breakfast, the coven slowly dispersed. Each pair peeling off like dancers in a well-rehearsed waltz.

Seokjin pressed a kiss to Taehyung’s temple before wrapping himself in a crisp coat and vanishing through the east wing doors with Namjoon, voices low and already speaking in clipped political tones. They were off to meet with the council, to discuss the formalities of the upcoming festival. It’s timing, its rules, its risks. There’d been tension in Namjoon’s brow as he’d left, but he’d squeezed Taehyung’s shoulder reassuringly on his way out.

Jimin and Hoseok had departed next, arms linked and voices bright, heading to the market with vague promises of ribbons and something shiny. Hoseok had shouted something about proper presentation while Jimin murmured about red tulle and scandal. Taehyung had laughed, the sound sticking sweet to his ribs like syrup.

Yoongi and Jungkook had retreated to the library. Not together, but close enough. Yoongi with a book already open, his hands ink-stained from annotations. Jungkook trailing behind like a shadow, eyes glowing faintly, already asking if they had any history texts on coven politics before the Great War.

Training had been called off. Just for the day. Seokjin’s orders.

Taehyung’s body was still wrung out from the bonding, the ritual’s magic still clinging to his skin like fine dust. But it wasn’t pain that sat in his chest.

It was fire.

A warm, steady ember just under the ribs. Magic, still pulsing. Still waking.

He felt it.

Coiling beneath his skin.

And yet the morning was too beautiful to waste inside.

So he went outside.

The garden was quiet but not empty. The winter sun pressed soft light across the old cobbled paths. And near the corner where the earth turned to moss and gravel, Rae crouched beneath one of the larger trees, poking at something with a stick.

“Don’t kill it,” Taehyung called softly as he approached.

Rae jumped, then turned to grin at him, stick in hand. “It’s a beetle! A big one. He’s got armor like a knight.”

Taehyung chuckled and dropped to sit cross-legged in the grass beside her, his ceremonial robe exchanged for loose cotton and old boots. Pickle padded silently behind him and flopped down like a cat curled around a sunbeam.

“Wanna help me build him a house?” Rae asked brightly.

Taehyung glanced at the tiny beetle, now climbing over a twig like it was a mountain.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. “Let’s build him a castle.”

They gathered pebbles and moss, twigs and bits of bark. Rae narrated the beetle’s entire fictional backstory, claiming he was a war hero who’d returned from the north, only to discover his kingdom was under siege from the Great Worms of the Garden.

Taehyung just laughed and nodded along, fingers glowing faintly every time his magic nudged the stone walls into place. He wasn’t sure if Rae noticed the shimmer of it. Or if she did, and just didn’t care.

The wind was soft against his cheek. The sun kind. For once, his bones didn’t ache.

Only hummed.

Rae laughed so hard she nearly fell into the castle moat (a crooked ring of overturned pebbles).

“No, no! The knight beetle has to retreat, not drown!” she shouted, scooping up the tiny bug and setting it safely atop his bark throne.

Taehyung grinned, his knees muddy, fingers glowing faintly as he gently coaxed a few stones into balance with the flick of his wrist. “You’re a cruel general.”

“I’m not cruel, I’m dramatic.” Rae stuck out her tongue. “Big difference.”

Pickle squeaked in agreement, though it might’ve just been a yawn, and rolled onto his back, limbs splayed toward the sky like a content starfish. His scales shimmered faintly, reflecting bits of winter light in glimmering streaks across the garden path.

Taehyung looked at them both—the growing dragon, the tiny child—and for a moment, everything felt still. Not the heavy stillness of fear, but the kind you bottle. The kind you keep in your chest when the world is right.

And then, caw.

They both froze.

Crawwwk!

It came again. Sharp, deliberate. High above them.

Rae gasped. “A crow!”

Taehyung’s gaze snapped upward.

And there it was.

Circling once before it descended. Black wings slicing across the pale sky, sharp eyes glinting like ink. It landed with a delicate click of claws on the wrought-iron railing, feathers ruffling. Something white was tied to its leg. Sealed in red wax.

It cocked its head.

Then gave one final caw and stared directly at Taehyung.

Rae whispered, “It’s a witch’s crow. From the eastern coven. They always use crows.”

Taehyung didn’t speak.

He stood slowly, brushing dirt from his knees, heart tapping gently behind his ribs. His magic flared once at his fingertips before settling. He approached the crow with reverence, not fear. And the bird didn’t flinch. Just lifted its foot, like it had been waiting for him.

Taehyung untied the letter carefully.

The wax seal was unfamiliar. Old. Swirled with symbols he’d only seen in the margins of Seokjin’s books. 

He didn’t break it.

Just held it in his hands.

Cool. Heavy. Like it carried something more than just words.

“I’ll give it to Seokjin,” he murmured.

Pickle pressed against his calf, warm.

“Should we be scared?” Rae asked, quieter now.

Taehyung looked toward the house, to the warm windows and the halls beyond.

“No,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

And with the letter pressed to his chest, he turned and led them all inside.

The letter sat unopened on Seokjin’s desk, guarded by the thick velvet curtains of his study and a ward no one dared test.

Taehyung didn’t look at it again.

Instead, he spent the day surrounded by color and softness and things that weren’t witchcraft or politics or looming festivals. Just cloth. Laughter. Familiar voices.

The bedroom floor had disappeared entirely under silk and embroidery.

“I think you have a shopping problem,” Rae announced, perched atop a mountain of folded trousers.

Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she tried to sort the hangers by hue. “What kind of black is this? It looks like old grapes.”

“That’s aubergine,” Jimin corrected, lifting the garment like it was sacred. “And it’s a very dramatic black.”

“That’s not a thing,” Taehyung laughed from the bed, where Pickle was burrowed beneath a mess of cashmere scarves.

“I agree,” Hoseok said from the wardrobe, shoving a heap of glittering cloaks onto a shelf. “I think we lost the floor about twelve gowns ago.”

“Blasphemy,” Jimin muttered. “You’ll all thank me when the festival comes and you’re dressed like royalty.”

“I am royalty,” Taehyung said automatically. A little teasing.

The room went still for a beat.

Then Hoseok laughed. Jimin threw a sock at him. Rae cheered.

Pickle chirped under the scarves.

And for a moment, everything was exactly how it should be.

It was just beginning to snow outside when Namjoon appeared in the loft doorway.

Rae was braiding one of Taehyung’s sleeves into Pickle’s tail. Jimin was arguing with Hoseok about whether or not a waistcoat made of fox fur was too much, and Taehyung—half-buried in velvets—looked up the moment he felt the air shift.

Namjoon didn’t need to say anything. The strain in his shoulders said enough.

Still, he tried to keep his voice easy. “Seokjin will be back soon.”

Taehyung nodded, heartbeat skipping once. The letter he hadn’t read stirred quietly in his mind.

Rae didn’t seem to notice. “Did you bring me anything?” she asked.

Namjoon blinked. “No?”

“Then you’re useless,” she declared, and returned to braiding Taehyung’s sleeve.

That’s when the living room doors creaked open again, this time to reveal Jungkook and Yoongi.

Yoongi’s shirt was halfway unbuttoned, his hair mussed from more than just reading. Jungkook’s collar bore distinct, deep red crescent marks that hadn’t been there this morning, and his smirk was utterly unapologetic.

Jimin’s eyes sparkled with wicked delight.

“Did you two read the books,” he drawled, lips curling, “or just each other?”

Yoongi snorted and made a show of adjusting his cuffs. Jungkook shrugged, then winked at Jimin like they’d shared a secret.

“I like it when they’re quiet,” Rae commented, not looking up. “They’re more useful that way.”

Hoseok barked a laugh. Namjoon covered his mouth to hide a smile.

And just like that, the manor felt like home again.

But the letter still waited.

And Seokjin’s absence still lingered in the air like an unwritten sentence.

Taehyung shifted where he sat, fingers drumming absently against the couch. The glow from the hearth caught on the edges of the wax-sealed letter still clutched in his hand.

“We received a letter earlier, from the Witch cult in the east.” Taehyung started softly. Petting over Pickles shiny scales, the little dragon purring underneath his hand. 

The rest of the room silenced.

“I didn’t open it,” he said softly. “I left it on Seokjin’s desk.”

That earned him a few glances, Namjoon’s most of all.

“Ah. I see,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His brows furrowed, and something taut settled in the space between his words.

Taehyung tilted his head. “What?”

Namjoon hesitated. Just a second.

“We received a letter at the council too,” he said finally. “From the werewolves.”

The room stilled.

Jungkook, lounging half-propped on the arm of the couch, went rigid. His body locked down like instinct had sunk its claws into the base of his spine. His eyes, which were always redder when agitated, burned brighter now, twin coals of something wild and protective.

Taehyung blinked, heart ticking faster as he glanced to the vampire at his side.

“Wait— what?” he mumbled, throat dry. “For what?”

Yoongi moved wordlessly. A hand glided across Jungkook’s shoulder, smoothing down muscle and tension, fingers curling just beneath his collar like a grounding tether. He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Jungkook inhaled slow. Didn’t speak. But his jaw remained clenched.

Namjoon exhaled. “For the festival,” he said, tone heavy. “They’ll be in attendance.”

“I assume the witches will be as well,” came a new voice, low and regal and all too familiar.

The room turned.

Seokjin entered with the quiet weight of authority, the curve of his shoulders elegant despite exhaustion. His hair was pinned loosely back, a few strands falling into his eyes, and his ceremonial robes were traded now for black silks and wine-colored thread. He looked like someone who had stood in front of the Elders again.

And argued.

He moved toward the fire, the letter from the crow earlier held in his hand.

“I was wondering if they’d sent it here,” he murmured. “Thank you for not opening it.”

Taehyung nodded, unsure if it was the right thing or just the easiest.

“What does it say?” Jimin asked lightly. But his fingers had curled just a bit tighter into the hem of a folded shirts sleeve.

Seokjin didn’t answer yet.

He turned the letter over in his hand. Once. Twice.

And then broke the seal.

Seokjin’s fingers slipped beneath the wax, cracking the seal with practiced ease. The parchment inside was thick, aged, the ink dark and slightly slanted. Elegant and old-fashioned. Clearly hand-written. Clearly deliberate.

He read in silence.

His gaze flicked left, then right, tracking the length of the letter as the firelight danced along the gold trim of his collar. As his eyes reached the bottom, a long exhale escaped him. Controlled, but audible.

Without a word, he folded the letter again and sat heavily in the chair beside Hoseok.

That alone was enough to make the room still.

Seokjin never moved heavily.

Hoseok reached over without hesitation, wrapping an arm around Seokjin’s shoulders and guiding the older vampire closer until he rested fully against his side. A silent gesture. Intimate. Anchoring.

Seokjin let himself lean, just a little.

Then, Hoseok plucked the letter from his fingers.

He unfolded it carefully, gaze scanning with quiet concentration.

Jimin leaned in, eyes curious.

Namjoon stepped closer too, arms crossed but attentive, as if ready to intercept whatever storm might follow.

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change, but his thumb was still tracing slow circles against Jungkook’s wrist. And Jungkook—he hadn’t taken his eyes off Taehyung.

Not once.

Finally, Hoseok read aloud.

“To the House of Kim,

We extend formal recognition of the upcoming festival rites for the bloodborn heir. The Council has confirmed our attendance, and we write to inform you of the same.

The Witches of the Fourth Moon will arrive with our delegation two nights before the ceremony.

We expect neutrality.

We expect peace.

We also expect strength.

The young heir will be tested, as is customary for all newly bound bloodlines. Let it not be said the House of Kim stood unchallenged.

Respectfully,

The Order of Twelve Flames,

Witch Regent Ahrina Vess.”

The silence that followed was thicker than before.

Seokjin’s hand was curled into a fist now, resting in his lap.

“They’re testing me?” Taehyung asked, quietly. His voice didn’t shake. But it was tight around the edges. “Why?”

“They always test bloodlines,” Namjoon said softly. “Especially since you’re halfblood. I doubt they’ve ever met a halfblood heir in this millennia.”

“And newly bonded,” Yoongi added. “And young. And powerful.”

Jimin scoffed, leaning harder against Taehyung. “They can’t handle that you’re all of it. A trifecta.”

Hoseok looked over the parchment again, lips pursed. “It won’t be physical. Not like the defense training. It’ll be magic. Or memory. Or something worse.”

Taehyung’s gaze flickered toward the fire.

He didn’t say anything.

But his fingers brushed over Pickle’s small head—his dragon familiar curled at his side—and the warmth that pulsed beneath his skin didn’t feel like fear.

It felt like flame. Simmering, waiting to be released.

Seokjin folded the witch’s letter again, slipping it neatly into the inside pocket of his robes. But his gaze didn’t lift.

Not right away.

When it did, it found Jungkook.

Still seated. Still silent.

“They will be in attendance,” Seokjin said, voice even but sharpened like silver under moonlight. “The wolves. Their letter mirrored the witches’. They want to see Taehyung. To test him. To decide if he’s… worthy.”

The word hung heavy in the air. Ugly.

Every set of eyes in the room shifted to Jungkook.

He didn’t flinch.

But he did tense, ever so slightly. His jaw locked. His gaze dropped.

The silence stretched.

“I’m fine,” Jungkook muttered. His voice was low, hollow at the edges. “I’ve left behind my past with their kind a long time ago.”

Yoongi watched him, careful and still.

Namjoon didn’t speak. But something in his posture curved slightly, like bracing for a storm that hadn’t yet arrived.

Taehyung leaned forward from his place on the couch, one hand drifting out before he could even think better of it. He placed his fingers gently over Jungkook’s, lacing them together. Their bond pulsed soft between them, slow and steady, like a heartbeat made of light.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Taehyung asked.

His voice was quiet. But his eyes weren’t.

They burned into Jungkook’s like something eternal. Crimson and gold, threaded with trust.

Jungkook looked up, then.

And his smile, when it came, was raw. A little broken at the edges. Like something that had been shattered and glued back together with trembling hands.

“Yes,” he said. And it was both a lie and the deepest truth.

Taehyung didn’t press.

He only nodded once, gently. But his thumb kept moving. Back and forth across the top of Jungkook’s hand.

An anchor.

Jimin cleared his throat eventually, voice light but careful. “Well. If they’re coming to watch, they better bring sunglasses.”

“Why?” Hoseok smirked.

“Because Tae is going to blind them with how worthy he is.”

The room laughed softly. Some in amusement, some in relief.

But Jungkook never stopped holding Taehyung’s hand.

Not even for a moment.

The manor was asleep.

Or close enough.

Five bodies tangled in silk sheets, their magic still humming low and warm in the dark. Taehyung had curled between them at first—wrapped in the safety of their limbs, their breath, their love—but something in him wouldn’t settle.

His eyes blinked open. Red in the darkness.

He lay still for a moment, listening.

Namjoon’s deep, even breathing. Jimin’s hand curled under his chin like a cat in dream. Yoongi’s arm draped over Taehyung’s waist, fingers twitching once. Hoseok and Seokjin both against his back, radiating calm.

But there were only five.

Taehyung shifted slowly, carefully, slipping free from the cocoon of limbs.

The floor was cold under his feet. But he didn’t bother with shoes.

He moved on instinct. Quiet through the halls, past the sleeping portraits and the hushed hush of the house. Past the cracked library door and the long, velvet-draped corridor.

Up the stairwell.

To the roof.

The wind bit a little. But he didn’t mind.

Because he wasn’t alone.

Jungkook sat on the edge of the roofline, his knees bent, one arm slung across them as he stared up at the stars. His hair was tousled by the wind. He was wearing only a loose shirt and trousers, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His back was tense. His breath silent.

Taehyung stepped closer.

The night opened around him.

“You always come here,” he said softly, voice just above a whisper.

Jungkook didn’t turn. But Taehyung saw the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his shoulders shifted.

“You always find me,” Jungkook murmured, just as soft.

Taehyung padded forward and sat beside him, not touching at first. Just existing next to him, watching the night sprawl out like spilled ink.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“I know.”

They were quiet together for a long while. Long enough for a breeze to tug through Taehyung’s hair. Long enough for him to lean in, shoulder brushing Jungkook’s.

“You’re thinking about them,” Taehyung said at last. “The wolves.”

Jungkook’s jaw worked. “Not just them.”

“Then what?”

“Myself.” His voice cracked like frost. “What I used to be. Who I still am.”

Taehyung reached over slowly and took his hand. Held it, like he had earlier. Firmer this time.

“You’re mine,” he said. “That’s who you are.”

Jungkook looked at him then.

And the red in his eyes was soft now. Glowing. Like embers instead of fire.

“I’m yours,” Jungkook said. “Always.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

There was something in the way Jungkook said it. Something raw. Something reverent. Like a prayer he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

But it was the silence after that made it heavier.

Jungkook didn’t pull away. He didn’t blink. Just stared into Taehyung’s eyes like he was trying to memorize this version of him. Red-eyed and moonlit, no longer aching to be human, no longer uncertain.

“I thought,” Jungkook said suddenly, voice rough, “that if I waited long enough… you’d grow out of me.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

“I kept thinking,” he whispered, “that maybe you’d fall for Hoseok, or Jimin, or all of them first. Maybe you’d forget the stupid boy who used to sit on rooftops and push everyone away.”

Taehyung’s throat closed up. “I could never forget you.”

Jungkook laughed. Bitter at first, then softer. Almost disbelieving. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now,” Taehyung said, firm. “I think… maybe I always have.”

And then he leaned forward.

Pressed his lips gently to Jungkook’s.

It wasn’t their first kiss. Not truly. But this one felt like a beginning.

Not desperate. Not wild.

Just true.

Jungkook kissed him back slowly, like he was afraid Taehyung might vanish. 

His hands cupped Taehyung’s face. Thumbs brushing beneath his eyes, anchoring him. Worshipful.

By the time they pulled apart, their foreheads were pressed together, breath shared in the open cold.

“You’re everything to me,” Jungkook murmured.

“I know,” Taehyung whispered. “I feel it.”

And the stars above them kept watch.

Silent. Bright.

Bound.

“I’m yours,” he echoed once again. Almost reaffirming it to himself. “Always.”

“Always.” Taehyung mumbled back. 

And the night exhaled with them.

-

The market town in vampire territory was nothing like what Taehyung remembered from human lands.

There were no sticky sweets or cheap paper lanterns, no shrieking children running through puddles, no vendors shouting over each other for attention.

Here, everything was regal. Quietly opulent. The cobbled streets were polished to mirror-glass, lined with obsidian and moonstone. Stalls were built from dark mahogany, draped in velvet banners embroidered with ancient script. Even the laughter was subdued, controlled. Vampiric.

And above it all, the town was dressing itself in red and white. Crimson sashes were tied around silver lampposts. Ivory roses climbed every rail. Crates of black fruit were stacked high beside silken offerings.

For him.

“I mean,” Taehyung muttered, flattening himself behind Seokjin’s broad back as yet another passing noble bowed low, “this is basically a festival celebrating the fact that we fucked.”

Seokjin didn’t flinch.

Jimin choked on air.

Jungkook outright laughed, sharp and delighted, the sound like silver on glass.

“Tae!” Jimin hissed. “You can’t just say that in public—”

“Why not?” Taehyung argued, peeking around Seokjin’s shoulder with a pout. “I’m right. They’re literally hanging chandeliers from the trees to celebrate the fact that I drank your blood and nearly passed out from euphoria.”

“That is a vast oversimplification of a sacred rite,” Seokjin said coolly, but his ears had gone pink.

“It’s not inaccurate, though,” Jungkook added, his hand brushing Taehyung’s as they walked. “The rite is older than any of us, but yes. It is… highly intimate.”

Jimin was still giggling, failing to hide it behind his scarf. “This is going to be the most scandalous bonding festival since 1126.”

“Wait, what happened in 1126?” Taehyung asked.

“Oh, I’ll tell you later,” Jimin winked. The other two coven mates groaned. And Taehyung blinked, amused.

They turned down another winding path, one lined with stone statues and glowing runes etched into the bricks beneath their feet. There were more people here. More nobles. Vampires Taehyung had never seen, all of them pausing to bow, to whisper, to look.

At him.

At them.

He swallowed hard, fingers twitching against his side.

Seokjin noticed first. His hand slipped into Taehyung’s without a word.

Jungkook slowed his pace slightly, a silent buffer.

And Jimin looped his arm casually through Taehyung’s other one, warm and familiar.

“You’re doing amazing,” Jimin murmured. “Seriously. Most heirs would’ve already fainted by now.”

Taehyung huffed a laugh, shaky but real. “If one more person bows at me like I’m royalty, I might start crying.”

“They’re not bowing because you’re royalty,” Jungkook said softly. “They’re bowing because they recognize you.”

“Recognize me?”

Seokjin glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with something proud. “As one of us.”

And Taehyung didn’t know what to say to that.

So he just kept walking, hand in theirs, as the town spun itself into a celebration for his bond.

For him.

The shop was tucked away at the far end of the street, nestled between two old stone archways laced with silverleaf ivy. Its sign swung gently in the breeze. 

Aegir’s Nook

carved into dark cedar and dusted with age.

Taehyung hadn’t even noticed it until Seokjin turned without a word and stepped through the heavy door like he’d done it a hundred times.

A bell chimed as they entered. Low, soft. Magical.

Inside, it smelled like parchment and dried flowers. Bookshelves curved like spines around the room, stacked impossibly high with ancient tomes and glossy-bound volumes. Ribbons marked half-read passages. Stacks leaned like towers. The walls hummed gently with enchantments. Spells for preservation, privacy, silence.

Taehyung blinked, enchanted.

Seokjin exhaled like he’d entered a safe haven.

“Ah,” came a voice from behind the counter. “You’re early, my lord.”

The shopkeeper was tall and lithe, with silver-streaked hair tied loosely at his nape. His eyes were warm but unreadable, and he bowed low. But it didn’t seem to be out of obligation, but with genuine grace instead. “Seokjin. Always a pleasure.”

“Eland,” Seokjin greeted, a rare smile curving the edge of his mouth. “You haven’t changed.”

“I should hope not. This is my third body and my last. No more molting.”

Taehyung blinked.

“Don’t ask,” Jimin whispered. “Eland’s a shapeshifter. Long story.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Taehyung whispered back.

Seokjin moved deeper into the shop, already scanning titles on a tall shelf. His fingers trailed reverently along the spines like he was touching old friends.

Eland turned his gaze to Taehyung and smiled softly, almost knowing. “You must be the new heir. You smell like roses and old magic.”

Taehyung blushed. “Um. Thank you?”

“I meant it as a compliment.” Eland’s eyes twinkled. “I have something for you. But I’ll wait until you’ve found your footing. No need to rush power.”

Jungkook stepped a little closer at that, possessive but not hostile. Eland raised his hands in peace.

“Just a gift. Nothing more.”

Jimin, ever the peacekeeper, looped his arm through Taehyung’s. “Come on, love. Let’s let Seokjin and the mysterious molting man have their reunion. We’re going to go break something in aisle four.”

“Please don’t,” Eland sighed. “That’s where the fire tomes are.”

They wandered down a far aisle, where the shelves curved inward and the books seemed to lean conspiratorially close.

Taehyung ran his fingers over a title embossed in blood-gold script. “I feel like I shouldn’t touch anything.”

“You’re already bonded and glowing like a divine relic,” Jimin teased. “You’re basically authorized now.”

“You are,” Jungkook added, nudging him gently. “And it suits you.”

They settled in the corner near a spellbook that tried to wriggle away whenever Jimin got too close.

For a moment, they were just three boys in a bookstore.

Jungkook leaning against the wall with one leg crossed, arms folded, watching the other two with amusement. Jimin flipping open a book of erotic poetry and laughing so hard he almost cried. Taehyung caught between them, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

Outside, the town prepared for a festival.

Inside, Taehyung let himself be seventeen again. Let himself be held in light and warmth and mischief. Let himself breathe.

Seokjin eventually emerged from the shelves, his arms full of thick-bound volumes and a slim, midnight-blue box tucked under one elbow.

“A new pen?” Jimin asked, raising a brow.

“It’s rude to write history with a broken nib,” Seokjin replied smoothly.

Eland rang them up without ceremony, eyes warm as they passed small conversation; something about ink types and paper wards and how rare it was these days to find good vellum.

Taehyung lingered a step behind, brushing his hand once more against a stray stack of books before meeting the shopkeeper’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he said. Simply. Kindly.

Eland dipped his head, solemn and old as the stories folded into his shelves. “Come back anytime, heir of Kim. You’re always welcome here.”

The bell chimed again as they stepped outside, the breeze catching Taehyung’s hair and brushing warm sunlight across Seokjin’s collar.

They didn’t walk far before Jungkook broke off slightly, stepping ahead, his stride purposeful.

“Here,” he murmured.

The next shop looked older, less elegant than Eland’s, more lived-in. A worn wooden sign hung above the door, carved with gentle precision: TALON & BLADE

Inside, it smelled like cedar shavings and oil. The air felt warmer. Fuller. Tools lined the walls like artwork, blades dulled to practice edges, carving knives of varying width and curve, even a small collection of hand-etched metalwork designed for spellcasting. On the far counter, a half-finished figurine sat cradled in a velvet tray. It looked like a fox. Or maybe a wolf.

The man behind the counter looked up with a wide grin that split his weathered face.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the terror of the North Gate.”

“Old man,” Jungkook greeted, voice lighter than usual. His smile bloomed, deep and real.

They clasped arms, then shoulders. An old mercenary greeting between comrades.

Taehyung blinked. He’d never seen Jungkook smile like that before.

“He trained with Jungkook when he was young,” Jimin murmured beside him, leaning close. “Kept him from getting himself killed. Mostly.”

“I could still wipe the floor with you,” the shopkeeper snorted, ruffling Jungkook’s hair with surprising tenderness. “Though you’re taller now. Broader.”

“Better looking, too,” Jimin offered.

“No argument there,” the man laughed. Then he turned his sharp, storm-colored eyes to Taehyung. “So you’re the one they’ve all been whispering about.”

Taehyung stood a little straighter. “That depends. Good whispers or bad?”

The old mercenary chuckled. “Good ones. Real good ones. They say you’ve got the heart of a human and the spine of a pureblood. Makes you dangerous.”

Taehyung flushed, not knowing what to say to that.

But the man just nodded once, approving. “Good. Stay that way.”

Jungkook was already browsing the blades, running his fingers reverently along the polished handles.

And for a moment, the world felt slowed again. Warmed by memory. Weighted with quiet history.

The inside of Talon & Blade was carved from old wood and older secrets. It smelled like iron, cedar, and soot. Like a forge that never quite cooled. Sunlight filtered through a high arched window, gilding the display racks in gold and shadow.

Seokjin and Jimin meandered behind Jungkook at a respectful distance, the kind of noble aloofness that said we’re here for moral support, not because we care about blades. 

Seokjin squinted once at a set of hand-axes, then promptly turned away with a quiet, unimpressed hum. Jimin tapped one of the carved hilts and wrinkled his nose. “Sharp things are too dramatic,” he whispered, elbowing Taehyung. “Lets leave the bloodletting to Jungkook.”

“He’d be offended if you took that from him anyway,” Taehyung muttered back.

Jimin grinned. “He would.”

Jungkook was completely absorbed, fingers skimming across rows of glinting steel and carved bone. Every now and then, he’d lift a tool—some obscure carving chisel or spine-handled dagger—and tilt it toward the light, eyes narrowed in assessment.

Taehyung hovered near one of the workbenches, where half-sanded runic etchings lay like half-spoken spells. He brushed a thumb across one carefully carved handle. The wood was warm. Familiar.

“He made that one,” the shopkeeper said, appearing beside him like a ghost. “Back when he was still smaller than his knives.”

“He still uses these?” Taehyung asked.

“Sometimes,” the man said. “Sometimes, he doesn’t need to. But he always knows where they are.”

There was something heavy in that. Something intimate.

“You care for him,” Taehyung said softly.

The man smiled, eyes distant. “More than most. But he’s not mine. Not anymore.”

Ah. Taehyung nodded.

Growing up, Taehyung thought a lot about the man that was his ‘father’. 

What the man looked like, what he sounded like, if he was the ‘let’s go throw a baseball together, son’ kind of father or the ‘I’ll send you a birthday card a month late’ kind. He watched his classmates, strangers, and their relationship with their dads. 

The shopkeeper and Jungkook seemed to have something similar. No blood ties, just genuine care. 

Maybe not a baseball dad, but a throwing knives dad instead. 

Taehyung smiled at the thought.

Behind them, Jungkook called, “Tae, can you hold these?” and pressed a wrapped bundle into his arms without waiting for a reply.

Taehyung staggered slightly under the weight. Metal wrapped in thick cloth, still humming with energy.

“These are heavy,” he said.

Jungkook turned and smiled at him, eyes red where the sunlight hit. “Only if you’re weak.”

“Rude,” Taehyung muttered, but his cheeks were pink.

Seokjin sighed from where he leaned against the doorway, watching the interaction with mild disapproval and faint amusement. “Are we done collecting dangerous toys?”

“Almost,” Jungkook said, handing over one last blade to be wrapped. “Just need to get oil.”

“Of course you do,” Jimin sighed dramatically. “You’re worse than I am in a boutique.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Says the man who bought twelve pairs of shoes last week.”

“Those were essentials.”

“They were all the same color.”

“Exactly. Essential.”

The shopkeeper chuckled as he rang them up, sliding the final bundle across the counter.

“Take care of each other,” he said, voice kind. “The world watches you now.”

Jungkook nodded solemnly, grip tightening around the parcel.

And as they stepped outside once more, arms full of blades and bickering, the late morning light met them like an omen of both peace and promise.

“They sell pipe daggers in the front,” Jimin muttered. “I was this close to accidentally impaling myself just trying to grab a candy off the counter.”

Taehyung laughed, trailing after them.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“Yoongi’s nearby,” Seokjin replied. “He and Hoseok stopped by the music shop across the square.”

The group nodded and began following behind Seokjin. 

The walk wasn’t far. The town was bustling now with vendors stringing enchanted lanterns between rooftops, children ducking between flower carts, the scent of roasted chestnuts curling through the air. 

But the moment they stepped into the music shop, the world softened.

The shop was dim, cluttered, and humming with the low murmur of enchanted strings. The wood-paneled walls were lined with instruments; some familiar, others older than history. A soft glamour filled the space, the kind that quieted footsteps and let sound carry like incense.

Yoongi was already seated at the grand piano near the back, half-shadowed beneath a low lantern. His hands ghosted the keys, the beginnings of a melody blooming like slow flame. Hoseok stood nearby, arms crossed, a fond look etched onto his face.

Taehyung paused at the threshold.

Yoongi didn’t look up as he played. His fingers moved with something effortless and aching, each note threaded with memory. It wasn’t a song Taehyung knew, but it felt like one he’d always remember.

The music filled the shop, warm and haunting. It wrapped around the instruments hanging from the walls, settled into the wooden beams overhead, brushed against Taehyung’s collar like satin.

“You’re so talented,” he whispered.

Yoongi smiled without opening his eyes.

Behind him, Hoseok murmured, “He used to play every evening, back when the manor still echoed with old sounds. The house used to quiet just to listen.”

“It’s quiet now?” Taehyung said.

Yoongi let the last note linger.

Then he looked up. “You’re the first person I’ve played that for in a long time.”

Taehyung blinked, heart caught in his throat. “Why?”

Yoongi’s gaze held steady. “Because you listen.”

A moment passed. The shopkeeper, an old man with green spectacles and a soft presence, stepped forward from behind the counter.

“I’ll have it delivered,” he said quietly. “The piano. On the house.”

Yoongi inclined his head, and Taehyung couldn’t stop the warmth blooming in his chest.

As they left the shop—Seokjin with a new pen in hand, Hoseok spinning a tiny flute between his fingers—Taehyung lingered just behind them.

The town was beginning to glow with the first light of evening.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like an heir on display.

He just felt loved. And in love.

They spent the afternoon weaving through the town’s heart, dipping in and out of shops with no real urgency.

Jimin tugged them into a tailor’s boutique first. Elegant but chaotic, with measuring tape fluttering like wings and mannequins enchanted to dance around the room. He disappeared into the back with an armful of fabric, only to reemerge twenty minutes later with two jackets draped over his shoulders and a satisfied glint in his eye.

“These are for Taehyung,” he announced. His voice dipping into a tone of deep sultry. “One for day, one for sin.”

Taehyung blinked, incredulous. “What?”

“You’ll see,” Hoseok laughed, swiping a silver-threaded ribbon from the nearest display and looping it around Jimin’s wrist. “The man has taste. Let him work.”

Their next stop was a perfumery, one Hoseok had insisted on, all low golden lights and tiny bottles labeled in cursive too ornate to read. 

The scents were overwhelming at first. Clove and blood-orange, cedar and midnight rose, earth soaked in first rain.

Hoseok wandered the space like a priest through a temple, occasionally holding out scents for Taehyung to try. “This one,” he said, uncorking a vial and waving it gently beneath Taehyung’s nose. “For nights when you want to be remembered.”

The scent was thick and spiced. Like firewood and dreams.

Taehyung flushed, pocketing it quietly while Hoseok just smiled.

By the time they stepped back outside, the sun had begun to set.

And the town had transformed.

Lanterns that had floated quietly in the daylight now burned brighter, casting flickering trails of magic through the twilight. Ribbons of light hung from windows and lampposts, charmed to dance in the wind. The cobbled streets sparkled, cleaned by glamour spells, and every shop had thrown open its doors.

Music came from somewhere down the street; something stringed and fast, with stomping feet and a tambourine. 

Somewhere else, a burst of laughter echoed high. Children ran between legs and lantern poles, waving streamer wands that left glowing trails behind them.

Jimin grabbed Taehyung’s hand without warning, tugging him into the current of it all.

“Come on,” he said, eyes bright with mischief. “The night’s starting.”

Taehyung stumbled forward, laughing breathlessly as they moved through the crowds, Hoseok trailing just behind them. He could feel magic in the air. Soft and strange and buzzing under his skin. He could smell cinnamon and sweet breads, fire-roasted nuts and warm spiced blood.

A festival.

Not quite like the ones in the human world. Louder in magic, softer in time. Regal, yes, but vibrant. Lush. Alive.

He turned, just for a second, to look back.

Jungkook and Yoongi were walking toward them from across the street, silhouettes framed in lantern light. Jungkook winked. Yoongi’s eyes glinted with quiet amusement.

Up ahead, someone threw a spark of magic into the sky.

It burst in red and gold and violet, curling into the shape of a blooming flower before vanishing into mist.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Taehyung smiled.

The music grew louder as they moved closer to the center of the square.

A raised wooden platform had been transformed into a dancefloor, charmed so that it glowed faintly beneath the dancers’ feet. Vampires twirled beneath golden lights. Graceful and ancient, their movements elegant like wind through silk. 

Couples spun in time with the enchanted rhythm, the music swelling and falling like a heartbeat.

Taehyung turned slowly, eyes wide, taking it all in. And when he glanced beside him, Jimin was already watching.

The glow from the lanterns caught in Jimin’s lashes. His smile was soft and earnest. Nothing teasing, nothing flirtatious. Just full.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, voice quiet despite the music, hand half-outstretched.

Taehyung blinked, startled for a beat.

Then—smiling, flushed and warm under the candlelight—he took Jimin’s hand.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Jimin laughed, full of joy, and led him into the glowing center.

The moment their feet touched the floor, the magic shifted around them. The music seemed to swirl closer. Bright violins and steady drums, and the space cleared, just slightly. As if the dancers had made room for them.

Jimin moved with ease, one hand resting lightly on Taehyung’s waist, the other threading their fingers together. Taehyung followed without needing to be told how. His body, despite everything, knew the rhythm. The motion.

“See?” Jimin whispered, their hands spinning through a turn. “You’re already perfect.”

“Hardly,” Taehyung said, laughing breathlessly.

“You are,” Jimin insisted, twirling him back again, their eyes locked. “You’re light on your feet and heavier in my heart.”

Taehyung flushed, nearly stumbling, but Jimin caught him easily. With steady hands, and a steady smile. 

The music carried them forward. 

Around them, the square glittered with magic, and the smell of sweet wine lingered in the air.

Taehyung looked up at Jimin, heart thudding in his chest.

For once, he didn’t feel like the center of attention.

He felt like a part of something older. Something beautiful.

He felt…chosen.

Cherished.

And Jimin?

Jimin danced like he meant every step.

The music dipped into a slower rhythm as the night carried on, and Taehyung leaned into Jimin’s arms, breathless and smiling. Around them, the square buzzed with celebration. Lanterns floating above the crowd, perfume-laced laughter weaving between bodies. It felt like a dream painted in candlelight.

“A week-long festival,” Jimin murmured into his hair, voice amused. “How will we survive?”

“Barely,” Taehyung grinned. “I’ll need at least three naps and five more dances to get me through the festivities.”

Jimin opened his mouth to respond, no doubt cheeky and seductive, when something loud cracked through the air.

A snarl. Then a voice.

“I said back off!”

Taehyung turned sharply, gaze darting through the crowd.

Not far from the edge of the dance floor, two figures stood squared off. Their energy thick and tense.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, hair dark and curled at the nape, eyes gold-bright and narrowed in fury. A werewolf. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

The other stood statuesque, too beautiful to look at directly. Pale green hair slicked back, skin luminescent under the torchlight. A siren. Smiling too smoothly, arms folded like this was all beneath him.

“I was merely complimenting your companion,” the siren drawled. “No need to bare your teeth, mutt.”

“Say that again—”

A hand appeared between them. Steady. Familiar.

Jungkook.

He’d moved fast. Almost out of nowhere, slipping from the shadows with his crimson eyes calm but alert.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s the first night. Don’t embarrass yourselves.”

The siren lifted a brow, unimpressed. “And who are you to—?”

But the werewolf cut him off, eyes now fixed on Jungkook with simmering recognition.

“Don’t bother,” he spat, eyes flicking over the vampire’s broad shoulders. “Their kind always sides with temptation.”

He gestured to the siren but kept his eyes on Jungkook.

“You should know better. Their kind is despicable. Leads men like you right to your death.”

The insult hung in the air like rot.

Taehyung felt the shift before Jungkook even twitched. The way the ground itself seemed to still. The way the moonlight hit just right and made Jungkook glow from the inside out. His teeth glinting slightly where his lip curled.

He didn’t move. He didn’t lash out.

He just stared.

And for the first time, the werewolf’s voice faltered.

Jimin stepped in a moment later, hand resting at Taehyung’s lower back protectively, though his gaze was locked on Jungkook.

“I think you’ve had enough wine,” Jimin said to the werewolf, saccharine. “Maybe sit this dance out.”

Behind them, others were watching. Not stepping forward. Just waiting.

Assessing.

The siren huffed a breath and turned without another word, disappearing into the crowd with effortless grace. The werewolf hesitated a moment longer, then followed.

Only when they were gone did Jungkook exhale slowly, blinking once.

Taehyung reached him first.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Jungkook looked at him, gaze a little too soft for someone who’d just been insulted.

“I’m fine,” he said.

But his hand still trembled slightly as it curled around Taehyung’s wrist.

Jimin’s breath left in a soft pulse, magic sinking through the group like mist. The residual tension that clung to Jungkook’s shoulders unraveled beneath his touch, melting quietly into the air. Around them, chatter resumed in the crowd, but it was thinner now. Watched. 

The supernatural had arrived, and from the looks of it, they hadn’t come to play nice.

Jungkook didn’t speak again. Just moved wordlessly from Taehyung to Seokjin’s side, curling there against the man like a wounded animal seeking shade. The eldest didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head slightly, allowing Jungkook to lean into his shoulder, one arm folding across his back with unspoken understanding.

“It’ll be like this for the rest of the time they’re here,” Hoseok said, exhaling through his nose. His arms were full of shopping bags; garments wrapped in gossamer, bottles of ink and perfume, and a small enchanted herb box from the apothecary.

“Let’s hope not,” Yoongi muttered. His hands were stuffed deep in his coat pockets, his mouth a thin line. “I’d rather bite my own arm off than have to mediate between a siren and a werewolf. Or anybody for that matter.”

They stepped into the manor’s foyer a little while later. The cold stone swallowing the festival noise behind them. The chandelier above them flickered faintly with golden magic, sensing the change in mood.

Taehyung paused in the entryway, slipping out of his coat and watching the tension ripple still beneath the surface of his coven.

“I didn’t realize the other races didn’t get along this badly,” he murmured.

Namjoon had been waiting just past the archway. He turned, eyes tired but not surprised.

“They never have,” he said. “There are centuries of politics layered beneath the civility. Feuds that never cooled. Lines that were drawn in blood before your mother was even born.”

“It’s the first time in decades we’ve invited every race back into this territory,” Seokjin added. “Most festivals are coven-only. Council monitored. Controlled.”

“But this one’s different,” Hoseok said, nudging a door open with his foot as they filtered into the receiving hall. “Because of you.”

Taehyung blinked. “Because of me?”

Namjoon nodded. “You’re the heir to the strongest Vampiric bloodline. The binding changes things. The rest of the world wants to see what kind of future we’ve secured.”

“What kind of future you are,” Jimin added gently, brushing his hand against Taehyung’s as they walked.

Yoongi’s voice followed, dry as ever. “They’re not here to celebrate you, sweetheart. They’re here to weigh you. Measure you. Decide whether or not to fear you.”

The silence that followed that lingered, thick and metallic like the taste of blood at the back of the tongue.

Taehyung glanced at the windows. The moon had risen high, casting pale light through the fog-slicked panes. The night still hummed with music beyond the manor walls. But here, within the home that held his blood and magic, it was quieter.

“I don’t want to fight,” he admitted.

“You might not have to,” Namjoon said. “But you should be ready to.”

And for the first time that evening, Taehyung didn’t flinch at the idea.

He simply nodded.

“I will be.”

-

The day of the festival dawned cold and silver.

Snow had not yet fallen, but the skies above the vampiric territories swirled with the kind of still gray that suggested it might.

Inside the manor, the warmth told a different story.

Heat from the hearths. Velvet robes draped over chairs. Perfumed oils steeping in crystal bowls. Servants floated through the halls with quiet urgency, pressing garments and lacing boots and adjusting gilded clasps with practiced hands. The whole house buzzed with reverence, each moment folding into the next like a ceremonial breath.

It was their day.

Not just Taehyung’s, but the day of the three eldest covens: Kim, Rhan, and Jung.

Taehyung stood at the center of his room, arms out, already robed in silks of blood and gold. The collar of his tunic had been pressed and enchanted, the cloth soft as a whisper against his skin. His jewelry, courtesy of Jimin, had been carefully chosen for impact: understated, but unmistakably heirloom.

And still, his eyes drifted elsewhere.

To the mirror. To the reflection behind him.

To Hoseok.

The vampire stood stiffly, dressed in black. Not the soft, loose black of Yoongi’s gowns or the flowing, sensual drapes Jimin preferred. This was structured. Regal. Severe. There was a sash across his chest and tiny platinum insignias sewn into the seams of his cuffs. His shoulders were squared. His jaw was tight.

But his smile,

his smile was nowhere to be found.

Taehyung turned slowly.

“You okay?”

Hoseok didn’t answer immediately. He glanced down at his boots, fingers curling around the edge of the mantle.

“My family’s going to be there,” he finally said.

Taehyung blinked. “The Jungs?”

Hoseok nodded, shoulders tight. “Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Your Jung family?” Taehyung asked, gently. “As in… your origin house?”

Another nod.

The silence stretched. Taehyung crossed the room without thinking, bare feet whispering across warm stone.

“You’re nervous,” he said quietly. “Why?”

Hoseok let out a soft breath, eyes still lowered. “They’re not like this. Not like us.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Hoseok’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“They’re… proper. Cold, maybe. Not cruel, just… old. Dignity and tradition. That’s what they value. Stoicism. Power. Reputation. I was always—” He hesitated. “I was always too much. Too expressive. Too bright.”

Taehyung’s heart tugged. He stepped closer until their reflections nearly blurred together in the mirror.

“But you’re not too much,” he whispered.

Hoseok looked at him then, something naked and raw in his gaze.

“You say that now. But when they look at me, Tae… they see a disappointment.”

Taehyung reached up, adjusting the chain around Hoseok’s neck with trembling hands. Not because it needed fixing. But because he wanted to touch him.

“You’re the sun in this house,” he murmured. “You laugh like you’ve never been told not to. You dance with your whole body. You grow things. You heal things. If they can’t see that, they’re the ones unworthy of you.”

Hoseok’s throat bobbed.

He dropped his head, just slightly, so their foreheads could brush.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

Taehyung’s hands slid gently down his arms. “You don’t need to be anything other than who you are. Not today. Not for them.”

“I’ll try.”

Taehyung smiled softly.

“No,” he said. “We’ll try. Together.”

And in the mirror behind them, two figures stood: blood-dressed and radiant. A prince and a sunbeam. And somewhere far away, bells began to ring.

The festival was calling.

The ancestral plaza opened wide before them; an expanse of obsidian stone etched with old magic and surrounded by high balconies carved into the cliffside. Candles floated overhead in slow-moving clusters, illuminating the space with golden glow, while red petals fluttered from unseen hands above.

There were seats arranged in a crescent.

The Kim coven took their place near the center, Taehyung flanked by his mates; Seokjin to his right, Jungkook to his left. The chairs were carved bonewood, their sigils branded into the backrests.

No one else sat as close together. No other coven touched, leaned, whispered between breaths. But the seven of them were a constellation, drawn tight through fate and destiny.

Across the plaza, the great families of the supernatural world had gathered.

The Siren royal line shimmered like sea-glass, skin opalescent under sheer silk, eyes unnervingly still. Their Matron Queen sat unmoving, expression unreadable.

The Witches arrived in whispers of incense and crow-feathers, robed in midnight-blue, carrying staffs that pulsed faintly with rune-light.
Their Grand Magus, (a tall, sharp-eyed figure with a serpent tattoo winding around his wrist), watched everything with the casual boredom of someone who’d lived too many centuries to care.

And then,

Junyoung.

The Rhan coven leader moved like wind through silk. Dressed in dusky red robes with gold threading, he cut a figure of timeless grace. His silver hair was gathered into a knot at his nape, and his gaze when it found Taehyung softened immediately.

“Ah,” Junyoung murmured, striding closer through the ceremonial arch. “The Heir lives.”

Taehyung stood politely, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes shone.

“Junyoung.”

The elder vampire smiled. “You remember.”

“You brought me peace the last time we met,” Taehyung said, lips twitching.

Junyoung chuckled and bowed, elegant as ever. “And I see you wear your role well. Regal. Luminous. Overdressed, perhaps. But that’s tradition.”

Seokjin huffed softly. “He’s perfect.”

Before Junyoung could answer, a howl broke through the stillness.

Not threatening.

Just… excited.

Heads turned.

And then the werewolves arrived.

The Alpha male came first; tall and broad, dark curls tousled, dressed in fur-trimmed ceremonial armor.
Behind him, a line of snarling, smirking companions. Warriors. Some shirtless. Some with braids. Some in armor that looked freshly bloodstained for flair alone.

The Alpha grinned wide, eyes gleaming amber.

“Kim heir!” he boomed. “You are smaller than I imagined!”

Jungkook’s hand twitched where it lay on Taehyung’s thigh.

Taehyung smiled politely. “And you are louder.”

The wolf roared a laugh, clapping his shoulder. Hard. Jimin’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah, but you’re pretty, too. Like a carved thing.” His gaze swept over the coven, pausing on Jungkook with something faintly predatory. “And surrounded by killers. Fitting.”

Before anyone could answer, a new voice sliced through the air; low and syrupy.

“I see the wolf kind still don’t know how to hide their excitement between their legs.”

The Witch leader had arrived.

She was tall, regal, and wrapped in layered silk the color of raven’s wings. Her hair was braided with bells, her eyes sharp with amusement.

The Alpha’s tail which had been flicking lazily behind him froze mid-wag.

“Lady Mave,” he drawled. “Always a pleasure.”

“Is it?” she smiled. “Perhaps your definition of ‘pleasure’ is as clumsy as your diplomacy.”

A ripple of restrained laughter moved through the plaza.

Jungkook didn’t laugh. But his eyes were glowing again.
Yoongi leaned back in his chair like he was enjoying the show.

Taehyung turned slightly, eyes wide. “That’s the Alpha?”

“Yes,” Jungkook muttered. “That’s the Alpha.”

“And she’s the Witch Queen?”

“Grand Magus’ niece.”

Taehyung blinked. “Gods.”

Jimin giggled behind his hand. “Welcome to politics, young heir.”

The formal introductions blurred together in a haze of polished smiles and perfumed robes.

Taehyung bowed before the Matron Queen of the Sirens. Her skin iridescent, voice rippling like water in a glass. She regarded him with cold grace, lips never quite moving when she spoke.

“The sea remembers you, child of Kim.”

Whatever that meant, Taehyung didn’t ask.

He shook hands with the Shapeshifter Prince next; purple-eyed, quiet, cloaked in fur and feathers. His pupils narrowed when they met Taehyung’s, but his words were kind enough.

The other covens greeted him with deference, if not enthusiasm. There was no mistaking who he was now. Not just heir, but bound. Magic still clung to his skin like dust.

And then there were the Jungs.

Hoseok’s original coven.

They bowed deeply to Taehyung and his mates. Offered nothing more than a passing hello. Didn’t even glance Hoseok’s way.

Taehyung didn’t say anything. But he caught Hoseok’s stillness, the way his smile faltered. Just for a moment.

It was enough.

Taehyung stepped away.

He cut the introductions short, turned from the gathering masses and sought out his seat again. Nestled between Jimin and Yoongi on the broad obsidian bench, where the Kim crest was etched into the stone.

The others followed without question.

It wasn’t defiance.

Just… preference.

Comfort.

They sat close, the seven of them a single shape, shadows brushing, silks overlapping. Jungkook’s fingers brushed against Taehyung’s thigh and didn’t move away. Seokjin was smoothing the edge of his sleeve. Namjoon muttered something about strategy. Hoseok said nothing, eyes distant, shoulders squared.

And Taehyung, in all his finery—his bare shoulders cloaked in beaded white, his hair pinned back with bone and ruby—sighed and leaned into Yoongi’s side.

“What exactly is the purpose of this?” he mumbled, voice low, threading between their bodies like smoke.

Yoongi tugged at his collar in irritation. His usual sharp tailoring had been swapped out for something regal and ceremonial. Itched. “Humiliation, probably.”

Taehyung smiled faintly.

Then turned to Jimin, voice quiet but curious. “It’s not just for show, is it?”

Jimin perked up, eyes glinting. “Nope. It’s a competition!”

Taehyung stared. “A what?”

“Well… not all of it,” Jimin allowed, nudging him with his shoulder. “The festival is basically a contest between the races. Dueling, spellwork, speed trials, beast taming… you know. Friendly competition.”

Taehyung blinked. “Friendly?”

“Yeah. Meaning no fatalities this year.”

Yoongi groaned under his breath.

“Wonderful,” Taehyung muttered, sinking further into the stone bench. “Absolutely wonderful.”

He looked down at his outfit, tugged the beaded drape higher over one shoulder, and sighed again. “I’m wearing a cape. A see-through cape. Why do I have to wear this?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Hoseok said flatly.

“Because it’s tradition,” Namjoon added.

“Because Seokjin dressed you,” Jimin chimed.

Taehyung glanced toward his eldest mate.

Seokjin smiled serenely. “Because I wanted to.”

“Right.” Taehyung muttered, rolling his eyes fondly. “Guess I’m doomed.”

The sun was long gone by the time the opening rites began.

In its place, the moon rose full and silver above the plaza. Cutting sharply against the velvet sky, heavy with promise.