Chapter Text
Before the Great Divide, there was neither night nor day. An endless twilight reigned over the world —a hush of muted hues painted across the boundless sky. In this realm without time, the Dynamics lived in tranquil stillness. Birth and death drifted like whispers on the wind —life simply was, timeless and unhurried.
Then came the change. None could say how —only that it happened, as all things must. Darkness fell for the first time, sudden and absolute. Some of the Dynamics, bewildered by the pitch that swallowed their sight, clawed their own eyes in despair, desperate to reclaim the dim light they once knew. The weakest withered in madness; the strongest staggered blind into the blaze that followed.
For after the dark came brilliance —raw, searing, unforgiving. Colors, once soft and neutral, now blazed vivid and harsh. Where shadows had choked out life, now relentless heat scorched the earth. Springs boiled dry in seconds, rivers turned to steam, forests crackled to ash. Flora and fauna perished in droves, leaving the Dynamics hungry, restless, driven to the brink of ruin.
Yet two survived. One was an Alpha —a hunter who craved the cloak of night to stalk prey unseen. The other, an Omega —a gatherer who longed for the glow of dawn to pick ripe fruit and tend the tender herbs. In time, the twilight returned, but the Dynamics had learned its secret —neither dark nor light alone could sustain them.
United by need and love, the Alpha and Omega lifted their prayers to the silent heavens:
Grant us darkness to shelter, light to nurture.
And so the heavens whispered back: One cannot be without the other.
For the Omega, the sky spilled gold: yellow deepened to orange and bled into crimson upon a canvas of endless blue, puffs of white drifting gentle as dreams. A great ball of fire rose to reign the sky —warmth spread through soil and seed, springs bubbled to life once more, fruit swelled fat and sweet on reborn branches. Thus, the day was born.
For the Alpha, the fire dipped beyond the rim of the world. Shadows crept forth to cradle the wild. A pale orb rose in its place —a circle of silver, birthing deep indigo skies dusted with countless cold sparks. Animals curled into dens, waters hushed their steam to mist, winds turned crisp and clean. Thus, the night was made.
One completed the other.
Under this new rhythm, the Dynamics flourished. Day shaped their waking hours —the foragers toiled among the forests, tending herbs and nurturing new life. Night belonged to the hunters, who prowled the dark for pelts and meat to keep the caves warm. By this balance, time itself took root in their bones.
Yet the heavens, jealous of what the Alpha and Omega had wrought, grew restless. They had created more than they were ever meant to —more life, more magic, more dreams. The hunters called it witchcraft. The foragers called it wisdom. The omegas called it kinship, the alphas called it strategy.
So the gods conspired. Moon Goddess, coveting the Alpha’s silent strength, and her brother, the Sun God, greedy for the Omega’s tender light —they cracked the ground beneath their children’s feet. Thunder rolled through root and stone. Chasms split the fertile plains and swallowed rivers whole. Whenever Alpha and Omega dared touch, the land itself trembled, tearing apart to drift into the endless deep.
Yet even punishment could not drown devotion. Separated by treacherous waters, they came together in secret, trading pelts for herbs, fruits for meat. And still they loved. On the seventh moon, sickness came —fever gnawed at the apex hunter’s bones, while across the waters, the Omega’s strength waned in equal measure. In delirium, they called for each other.
They ran —across land and tide, forsaking divine wrath for the warmth of each other’s arms. Days and nights melted into each other as they lay entwined, whispering dreams of a world unbroken. They vowed to protect what they had made —even if the heavens demanded distance.
When the Omega returned, robes strained with the swell of new life. In secret, they birthed twin pups beneath the hush of winter trees —one Alpha, one Omega, a living promise to both their peoples. When the gods learned of this final defiance, the Moon turned her face away in grief and rage. Her silver light vanished from the sky, leaving only slivers of sorrow until her brother coaxed her back. And always, he promised, they would tear the world apart again if the lovers dared unite once more.
But deep in hidden caves where no sky could spy, Alpha and Omega raised their children side by side.
Learning of their secret, the Moon and Sun united once more. They cast shadows over the earth, a black circle raging in the sky. The ground shook, trees tumbled into the abyss stretching between them, and the waters poured in to fill the void. The continent was cleft in two. Some hunters remained in forager land, and some foragers in hunter territory —yet none of it mattered, for Alpha and Omega were finally parted, though their hearts remained entangled.
Rage settled deep in the hunter’s bones, cracking them wide, stretching skin into something monstrous enough to claw the heavens themselves. The hunter crossed the skies and reached forager soil, only to find the Omega transformed into a beautiful beast, coiled tail cradling their newborns in a nest.
And when at last they shed their mortal skins, their children inherited their gift —feathers like wild birds, fur like mountain beasts, scales gleaming like river fish. A lineage born to bind what the heavens could never truly keep apart.
The Dynamics endured side by side —alphas and omegas of both fae and human blood weaving their lives together in quiet accord. For countless ages they flourished, bending to the wild trials of an untamed realm and the mysteries of creatures older than time. Yet not all that roamed could be tamed. Monsters stalked the hidden vales and black forests —creatures driven by purest instinct, deaf to reason, too ancient for pity, too stubborn for any steel or fae-forged silver to quell.
One realm, the Continent of the Sun, made peace with this truth. Beneath the hush of their groves, they found harmony between blooming and withering, between breath and decay. In time, their trials grew gentle —and from their toil rose an Empire radiant and whole. One realm, one sun —all living things enfolded in the same eternal wheel, where to live was to die and to die was to feed life again.
They understood the principle: To live, one must yield when the realm calls. The land demands tribute and the cycle never breaks its promise.
Yet across the deep waters, the Continent of the Moon fared otherwise. As the Moon Goddess once coveted the Alpha Hunter’s shadowed strength, so too did her hunger find a home in the hearts of lesser men.
Greed took root, curling around their souls like a strangling vine. They hoarded grain and fur, spun gold into coins, abandoned barter for wealth that could be weighed and buried. They turned their gaze on the fae not as kin but quarry —tearing down sacred groves, hunting fae for sport, bleeding their kin for delight. They coveted the beauty of fae omegas, binding them in chains as concubines and prizes, mocking the sacred vows of bond and matehood. Unwanted halflings, born of fae and human seed, were left to wither —unclaimed, uncherished, reminders of the purity they had defiled.
Yet the elves did not lift bow or sword in wrath. They sought not conquest but sanctuary —a wall between the old ways and the hunger of men. And so they turned to the dragons —eldest of the strong breeds, half human, half beast, whose veins held iron and fire alike. In return for their protection, the elves opened their hidden realms: the dragons would wear crowns of gold and iron, free to roam where wild magics tangled thickest, keepers of secret wisdom older than the first dawn.
So was forged a fellowship of claw and crown. The dragons cornered humankind, staking their dominion over the frozen ridges and deep caverns. The elves raised the Barrier —a living shield no mortal hand could breach, locking monsters and fae behind a veil of mist and rune, cleaving the Continent of the Moon into halves that would never truly mend.
Yet men did not yield quietly. Year by patient year they hunted the dragons, driving line after royal line to dust and bone. But the strongest endured —towering, relentless, scaled hide no mortal blade could break.
In the end, one line rose above all —the Dragon Line of House Min.
Tall as oaks, fierce as winter storms, they endured, generation after generation. Each Alpha-born heir rose as King —sworn Protector of the Sacred Realms, iron-crowned guardian between the mortal world and the wild beyond.
Weariness seeped deep into the bones of the men as they anchored their battered ship to the familiar creaking dock. Seasons had passed like a blur of storms and salt. Their skin sagged heavy on their muscles, raw with sleeplessness and the constant rasp of brine on their lips, in their clothes, clinging even to the breath in their lungs.
Winter lay thick and unforgiving over the continent now —the Empire of the Sun lay endless moons behind them, half a world away. To some, it seemed only yesterday that they had hunted jaguar-spotted prey with Ocelotl warriors under a canopy of singing birds, or drunk bitter xocolatl from a gilded Tlaxcaltecan skull, the taste dark and electric on their tongues.
Those days had hardened the crown prince’s resolve and tightened the threads between two ancient realms —the Sun’s children, keepers of flame and lore, and the Moon’s folk, guardians of shadows and iron-boned secrets. The bearer of the feathered serpent’s bloodline had welcomed Yoongi with open palms and measured words —soft wisdom balanced by steel. In return, Yoongi, the dragon-born heir, had offered the quiet ferocity of the Moon. Between them lay centuries of unbroken kinship —a rare thing in a world split by jealous gods.
A pity he would not reign. Or so he believed.
Far behind him now lay the wildflower meadows and endless wheatfields where he’d once run as a tousle-haired cub, clinging to his omega father’s skirts when the storms of the northern coast howled at the door. All lay buried now beneath drifts of snow and black soil veined with frost.
His men needed warmth —real warmth, not the thin illusion of a campfire on salted decks. At the village inn, the keeper nearly wept at the sight of gold, falling over himself to stoke the hearth and heap venison and barley stew into earthen bowls. The warriors broke bread for the first time in moons that didn’t reek of sea mold. Bellies heavy, eyes half-lidded with the comfort of simple warmth, they murmured half-drunk prayers to the hearth gods before sleep claimed them.
The crown prince sat apart by the window, tracing frost with his thumb. He was no king. A prince, perhaps —but more a warrior than a ruler. His realm lay not in cold stone halls but in wild roads and untamed secrets, where he could roam until the hunger for knowing was sated —though it never truly was. Even so, tonight, for the first time in countless nights, he allowed himself to rest as a man, not a myth.
Tomorrow, they would turn east —toward the forests that still whispered of elves and the old magic no sun or moon could quite erase.
At dawn, the warriors roused themselves from dreams that clung to their eyelids like cobwebs. They spoke little, for the prince’s mood cast long shadows when disturbed too soon. He was already mounted when they stepped into the snow-crushed courtyard —tall in his saddle, furs draped over mail, eyes bright and unsparing as cold iron.
Shadow perched on his forearm —the raven sleek and greedy for the morsels the prince fed him. He was clingy and affectionate, unlike his sister Nightshade —all bone-black feathers and blade-sharp talons. If Nightshade were a woman, Yoongi sometimes thought, she would be a goddess of war —cunning, remorseless, crowned in stormlight.
He lifted his arm, and with a flick of wrist and forearm, Shadow rose into the frozen sky —a living compass cutting through dawn’s pale belly. The warriors knew better than to speak. A guide raven was sacred —no man dared profane its flight with idle chatter.
They rode in the hush of the waking woods. When Shadow rested, they turned. When he wheeled overhead, they circled back. The path was never straight —this was elven magic, older than the kingdoms and jealous of its secrets. It twisted time and distance into knots. To step wrong was to vanish into roots and moss forever.
When the last turn was made, the path opened —a breath of green beneath the snowdrifts, where moss glowed softly beneath frost-limned trees. Here, the ache in their bones loosened, their chests opened to easier air. The elven glade gave what it always had —small mercies in a hard world. Roots cradled sleeping men like a mother’s hand. Leaves fell soft as dreams over helmed brows. Even Yoongi found a hollow tree stump, half-throne, half-bed, and forced his restless mind to quiet.
Yet sleep did not come easy. Something tugged at him —a voice, a whisper beneath the hush of wind. Shadow’s feathers fluffed, wings half-open as if to shield him from what prowled unseen. Snow spiraled suddenly, tiny white ghosts kissing his skin before racing ahead, beckoning him from warmth and safety.
Against sense and caution, he rose. Shadow hopped to his shoulder, claws sinking into fur and leather. Ahead, the forest seemed to breathe —a clearing unraveling where none had been moments before. And from the hollow of an ancient birch, a shape emerged. Pale as frost, fluid as drifting fog —a snow nymph, wild beauty clinging to near-naked skin as if the cold adored her too much to bite her.
He almost turned back —a lifetime of lessons telling him what nymphs could do with an unguarded soul. But her voice curled through the clearing, gentle yet ancient as falling snow.
“You are in my grove, warrior.”
He did not flinch. “I mean you no harm. My men and I will be gone come dawn.”
She laughed —a sound like icicles shattering. “I do not fear you, princeling. We all know you. The Protector of the Realms —even the smallest fae must know his face, lest we kill him by mistake.”
She stepped closer. He could see her better now —skin like polished amethyst under a dusting of snow, eyes deep pools where winter storms brewed. Locks of white-blue hair drifted over her breasts, more veil than garment.
He dipped his head, the old ways heavy on his tongue. “Then forgive the trespass, my lady. We will not trouble your grove again.”
“I do not wish you gone.” Her voice curled sly around the cold. “I shall not trouble your men —for a price.” Her smile turned sin-wicked. “A rut under the moon’s gaze. A prince’s seed to warm the roots.”
“Your reputation is known between my sisters of the persimmons in the eastern woods. So tell me, are you afraid of the cold, dragon? —Or is it the eyes? I can look like your greatest desires.” Just then, the eyes turn human, still an ethereal blue, snow-white skin flushed at her knees, shoulders and cheeks, hair gold like rays of sun.
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. Once, perhaps, he’d have fallen for her —when rut had ruled him and any soft mouth would do. But he knew better now —nymphs never took without taking more.
“I am sorry, lady of frost. My heart is claimed. I will not dishonor it.” A lie, but one he wore well.
Her smile cracked, then widened with sharp delight. She liked the lie —liked him better for wearing it. “Then give me a scale instead, dragon prince. A token, that I may hold high should hunters come for my sisters and me.”
Understanding settled cold in his gut. She had not truly wanted his body —only the power that clung to him like a second skin. He shrugged off his glove, reached beneath fur and tunic until golden scales pushed through skin —cold, ancient, older than any crown. He chose one and twisted it free.
“If any threaten you, hold this high,” he told her, pressing the scale into her tiny, frostbitten hands. “My claw will find them.”
She accepted it with a reverence she had not shown before, bowing low until her hair brushed the snow. Then she vanished —folded back into bark and hollow and drifting snow, as if she had never been at all.
Yoongi returned to the clearing. The trees sealed behind him, as if guarding his secret in roots and frost. He settled once more on his stump —Shadow croaking softly, a watchman of black feathers and bone.
Dawn came in silence. The raven croaked from his perch, rousing the warriors like a priest’s bell. They broke their bread —coarse loaves torn between calloused hands, hard cheese and salted meat passed round in wordless thanks. They mounted, slipping back into the hush of the path’s final stretch.
At the edge of the woods, Shadow’s cry split the dawn —sharp, annoyed, unmistakable. Nightshade dropped from the sky like a falling blade —wings vast and sleek carrying the scent of daffodils, eyes bright with secrets. She landed on Yoongi’s arm with imperious grace, tearing at his hair until he plucked the scroll from her leg. The parchment was heavy, lined in gold —too fine for a casual message. He knew the seal before he cracked it open.
To His Royal Highness,
Min Yoongi Crown Prince of Frostpire Kingdom of the North and Protector of the Sacred Realms
May this letter find you in good health and sound spirit, wherever your path has taken you beyond the borders of the continent.
It is with both sorrow and urgency that I pen these words. Your uncle, His Majesty King Hanseo, who so dutifully held the throne in your stead, has breathed his last. He departed this life with honor, and his final thoughts were of you —the rightful heir to the Crown of the North and Protector of the Realms.
Our kingdom now stands at a precipice. The throne lies empty, the banners hang in solemn stillness, and the people look to the horizon, awaiting the return of their true sovereign. The time has come, Your Highness. The Moon calls for its king.
As your most loyal advisor, I beseech you: return at once to the kingdom. Ride with haste and with purpose. The Captain of the Royal Army, Sir Jung Hoseok, shall await you at the Eastern Borders with an escort befitting your station. He will ensure your safe and swift passage through the lands that are, by right and by blood, yours to rule.
All of the North and the Sacred Realms awaits your return —not merely with hope, but with need.
May the stars guide your journey home.
In loyal service and solemn duty,
Lord Seokjin of House Kim
High Advisor to the Crown
The words blurred. The seal —Seokjin’s mark, a red rose in wax. His uncle, the king, gone —the throne waiting, the realm calling him home whether he willed it or not. He could almost hear the cold, empty halls echoing his footsteps, the weight of the crown pressing against the beast that slept beneath his ribs.
A warrior pulled his steed alongside his own, the question hesitant:
“Is something amiss General?”
Yoongi folded the letter, tucked it into the warm hollow beneath his furs. He did not look at the man —only at the snowfields beyond, at the horizon that now chained him tighter than any crown.
“We ride for the North.” His voice was iron, final.
“Your Highness?”
“The King is dead.”