Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Minho, my heart, wake up.”
A hand moved through his hair in warm, gentle strokes. Then it brushed across his cheek.

Minho breathed in deeply before cracking his eyes open. It was dark in the room, dead-of-night dark and still. The Queen sat at the edge of his nest, blue velvet robes pooling at her feet. Her face was half hidden by her hair, cascading over her back and shoulders. There was wildness beneath her calm exterior; it showed in the way she looked at him.

“Wake, my son. We have little time.”

He rubbed at his eyes, confused and heavy with sleep. Then the sharp edge of her scent reached him, vanilla threaded with defiance, and his chest tightened. That made him sit up. “Mother?”

She was already folding one of the blankets from his elaborate nest into a pack with a finality that made his stomach turn.

“What’s happening?”

“Your father has moved the wedding. Prince Yeongjo will arrive at first light.”

The words hit like ice water. “I thought we had more time—”

“There is no more time,” she cut him off. Her voice was clipped and unyielding. She may have lost the battle, but she had no intention to lose the war over her only omega son.

The queen pressed a bundle into his hands, still warm from her grip. Coarse and crude fabric. It was nothing like the silks and crested uniforms he’d worn since childhood. No embroidery. No scent. Just cloth.

Her hands cupped his face, guiding his gaze back up to hers. Her thumbs brushed high across his cheekbones, as if to leave her mark there. For a heartbeat, the queen vanished and only his mother remained, eyes wet with tears.

“I cannot protect you from this, my heart,” she whispered, unsteady for once, “but I can give you a chance.”

She was moving too fast for him to keep up. Minho’s mind lagged behind even as his body obeyed, raising his arms, shifting his legs while she guided him into sleeves and trousers like a child. She was closing each button and clasp as if it was armor and she was preparing him for war. 

“They’ll help you pass among commoners,” she murmured, fastening the last buckle. “The stables hold everything else you need: water, food, coin, a map.”

She touched the silken scent suppressors at his neck. “Keep these on. No matter what. Your scent will give you away in seconds.”

Minho felt his heart pounding in his chest, fastening his boots on autopilot, fingers fumbling to match the frantic beat, while his mother moved around him like a silent, unstoppable whirlwind.

“Hoon waits at the servant’s entrance. He’ll take you to the forest. From there, go north until you see the white trees. You remember them, don’t you? Someone will be waiting.”

“Wait, Hoon? Mother, where is Seun—”

“No, don’t ask. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

Something small and cold was pressed into his palm. A silver pendant, etched with the Mother’s sigil—the deity who protected all and everything omega.

“Show them this. They’ll know who you are and take you somewhere safe.”

His thoughts caught up all at once, the shock sharp and suffocating. He tried to reach for her as she closed the pack. “I can’t leave you with them. What if I never see you again—”

She dropped the bag and pulled him into her arms, sudden and fierce. For the first time he could remember, she scented him, rubbing her cheek gently across his jaw, drowning him in vanilla.

“Then know,” she whispered, trembling, “that every day you live free is worth this sacrifice, my beautiful bo—”

He woke up with a gasp. The image and the scent faded quickly, like breath on glass.

The oak above him loomed black against the sky, its gnarled branches creaking in the wind. Snow drifted down, soft and soundless, melting as it landed against the fevered burn of his skin. The cold from the bark and the forest floor crawled its way deep into flesh and bone. His crude coat proved to be too thin for this weather, the icy wind blew right through it.  But his body had lost the strength to shiver some time ago, by now he could hardly feel it.

The makeshift bandage had soaked through. The fabric had gone stiff with blood and pus. The gash beneath it throbbed with every heartbeat, burning like flames that licked their way inside. It wasn’t as much pain anymore, more like a slow, seeping agony. 

His ankle was worse. The snare had coiled tight around the joint, a cruel twist of wire and rust that bit deeper with every twitch. He had tried to free himself, of course he had. But his fingers wouldn’t cooperate, too stiff, too clumsy. Every attempt to free himself had only mangled the wound further, nauseated him more. Eventually, he stopped trying.

His head pulsed with a slow, relentless throb. He was tired, so tired. Sick and wrong inside his own skin. Minho tried to lift his head but only managed to tilt it back against the bark. Everything hurt. Breath escaped him in a pale mist, uneven and shallow. The air tasted of frost and iron and rot.  

White trees. He was supposed to find white trees.

He searched for the memory like a drowning man reaching for the surface. All he could conjure were those same fragments, over and over again. He had barely been more than a pup. Sunlight flickering through silver bark, his small hands full of leaves, a red ball. A carriage swaying gently on the road home. 

North, north, he had to go north.

Has it been two days? Three maybe? He couldn’t recall. He’d lost track after falling from the ridge, hoping for a better view. That was when the rocks gave way, when sharp branches caught his side. Ripping clothes and flesh, mixing blood and tissue with dirt and thorns. He had used most of his water to clean the wound and tied his spare shirt as some kind of bandage. That was when the shaking had started. The fever had followed soon after. 

The whole journey felt like a fever dream now. Blurred, unreal. He would probably wake up soon, in his nest, on the morning of his wedding day. Seungmin patiently waiting for him at the door, as always. Watching him stumble and struggle through court life.

Minho’s hand scrambled weakly for the pendant at his throat, fingers fumbling for its edge beneath his shirt. It was still there. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one in particular. To his mother, who had poured all of her trust and longing for freedom into him, in the hope that he would make it. To the wolf who was waiting for him somewhere below trees, to no avail. To his people, who had called him Golden once. To the Mother, for another omega child lost.  

The forest pressed in around him, silent but watchful, making the world smaller and smaller. There was a voice in the distance. Thin and muffled. Then another. He held his breath, heart stuttering in his chest. Ghosts. They had to be and they were probably here to devour his soul.

The sounds grew clearer - low murmurs, the crunch of boots on frost-brittle leaves. They were approaching fast, but he could hardly register it.

"Over there!" A voice rang out, deep but melodic. "Changbin-hyung, there's someone caught in the snare!"

Footsteps quickened. Minho's vision swam as figures materialized through the falling snow. There were three of them and they moved with the efficiency of experienced hunters, approaching him cautiously like he was some wild animal. All but one. Someone crouched beside him, freckled face drawn in concern. He looked like an angel.

"Hey," he said gently, "can you hear me?"

Minho managed a nod. Maybe he had passed the threshold without even noticing. Maybe this was the angel to lead him to the afterlife, with his warm and comforting smell of baked bread and honey.

"Careful Lix, we don’t know him.” The warning came from behind, low and firm. The angel, Lix apparently– moved back instantly, not offended but surprised. As if the thought of danger hadn’t occurred to him. A broad-shouldered alpha knelt at Minho's other side, dark eyes scanning him with practiced calm. Now that he was up close he seemed to realise that there wasn’t any threat. Just a dying boy, about their age.

"He's burning up," Changbin murmured, pressing his hand to Minho's forehead. "And that wound..." He trailed off. The bandage was seeping again. The smell said more than his words could. 

“Jisung, can you get that snare off him?" A third figure, a beta with soft cheeks and quiet steadiness, was already carefully examining the wire around Minho's ankle. "It's bitten deep," he said, reaching into his satchel for a pair of pliers.

"Can you tell us your name?" 

Felix crept closer again and took Minho’s hand between his own as if they’d known each other for years. Minho turned toward him, moved his cracked lips, but no sound came. The fever was pulling him under again, consciousness slipping like water through his fingers.

"Got it," Jisung muttered, and the snare was finally released. Minho's foot dropped heavily on the icy ground.

"We need to get him to Jeongin," Changbin decided, already moving. "As fast as we can."

Strong arms scooped Minho from the ground, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. The alpha’s scent wrapped around him. He smelled of charcoal and pine. Solid and steady and safe. It made him want to curl up, crawl under the alpha’s skin to hide from the world and the pain. As if Changbin could feel it, he held him even closer. Through the haze of fever, Minho heard him speak to the others.

"Felix, grab his pack. Jisung, clear the path ahead." 

The world became a blur of movement and muted voices, the rhythm of footsteps through snow where Minho drifted in and out. 

“Almost there,” said Jisung—beta, he thought. Faint scent of green apples. Pragmatic. Sharp. Problem-solver.

“Jeongin’s going to have his hands full,” added Changbin—alpha, steady hands. Protective. Loyal. Strong sense of pack.

“By the Gods, his fingers are so cold.” His thumbs pressed warmth into Minho’s palms, as if he could coax the blood back into him. Felix—omega, warm and soft.

Even through the haze, Minho categorized them. Tracked them by scent. Filed them away. Whether he would live to remember them hardly mattered. For now, he was leaving the woods.

Chapter Text

"You will smile, Minho. You will be gracious. You will be everything an omega prince should be."

His father's voice echoed through the grand hallway as servants bustled around them, preparing for yet another state dinner. Minho was sixteen. His presentation still fresh, still raw. Every alpha dignitary they passed looked at him like a prize. Something to be claimed.

"Yes, Father."

"And if anyone asks about your future, you will tell them that you look forward to serving the kingdom through a strong marriage alliance."

Minho's stomach had churned, but then he nodded. He always nodded.

Cool. Something cool touched his forehead.

The sensation cut through the fog in his head. His skin felt like it was burning from the inside out, every nerve ending raw and screaming, but here was relief. Blessed, wonderful cold.

Gentle hands were moving over him. His fevered mind tried to catalog them - whose hands, what they wanted - but the thoughts slipped away too quickly.

Voices drifted around him, muffled and distant. He caught fragments, words that floated in and out of meaning:

"...infection's spread pretty far..."

A voice he almost recognized. Clinical and worried.

"...need to clean the wound properly or..."

"Will he make it?"

That voice was different. Deeper. An alpha's voice, but not one that made his instincts recoil. There was genuine concern there. And deep beneath is —as always— hunger.

"I don't know, Chan. He's been out there too long..."

The cool cloth moved across his forehead again, and he tried to lean into it. But his body felt heavy, disconnected, like it belonged to someone else entirely. It would not obey. The dark pulled at him, making him fall deeper inside his body and his mind. Claiming him before he could see the faces that belonged to the voices.

The alchemist's quarters reeked of herbs and chemicals, a sharp medicinal stench that made Minho's eyes water. He was not yet seventeen, strapped into a chair with leather restraints while the court alchemist prepared his instruments. His mother stood behind him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

"This will hurt," she said quietly, not looking at the silver needles being heated over flame. "But it's necessary."

The first needle pierced the skin at the base of his neck. Minho bit down on the leather strip between his teeth, tears streaming down his face as the alchemist injected the synthetic compound directly into the gland.

"The goal," his mother continued, her voice steady despite the way his body jerked, "is to make your natural scent more... appealing." 

Another needle. Another injection. A second line of fire through his spine. 

"Others will smell you and think of softness, of yielding.” She watched the alchemists work. “They'll underestimate you."

The pain was blinding, white-hot fire burning through his veins. Minho tried to focus on her voice. He wished he could see her face. 

"Remember this lesson, Minho," his mother said, finally stepping into view. Her eyes locked onto his. Her stare was cold, but maybe that was a mask, maybe she was hiding that she cared for him. "You are omega. In their minds, that makes you weak. Inferior. Something to be claimed and controlled." 

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But that assumption is your greatest weapon. Control the room before they can control you," his mother said firmly. 

"Stay on top. Always. It's eat or be eaten, my son. And we don't get eaten."

When it was over, when the restraints were removed and he could finally sob openly, she held him. Even her comfort felt calculated. He was just a pawn, they all were. 

“We will repeat this procedure every month,” she whispered. “It will be our little secret.”

A kiss to his temple.

“We will rule the court. And then, rule the world.”

Warm liquid touched his lips - broth, maybe, or tea. Most of it dribbled down his chin, but some made it down his throat. The voices were clearer now, closer.

"How much blood has he lost?"

"Too much. I've done what I can. He's lucky they found him when they did." Jeongin’s voice sounded tired. "Another night in this weather..." He didn't finish that sentence.

Minho felt himself being turned gently, felt the pull of fresh bandages being wrapped around his torso. Everything hurt, but these hands were careful with him. Hands that were meant to heal, not to harm. Patient, steady hands, belonging to a beta named Jeongin, he remembered.  

“Is it safe to keep him in the den until he’s healed?”

"I'm not even sure he'll make it through the night, Chan. Ask me again in the morning."

The dining hall stretched endlessly before them, crystal chandeliers casting harsh light over the mahogany table. Minho was nineteen, seated in his designated spot - always to his father's right, always within reach. 

The family gathered for their weekly dinner, a performance of unity for the handful of trusted servants who witnessed it. The first one for Seungmin, freshly appointed personal guard of Minho. Uniform pristine in dark blue and family crest proud on his shoulder. He stood there, silent as a shadow by the great doors. Minho didn’t know what to think of him.

"The council grows impatient," his eldest brother Jaehyun was saying, cutting his meat with violent precision. "They expect an heir from my marriage. They're starting to whisper."

Their alpha sister, Nayeon, didn’t look up from her plate. She’d already done her duty. Her omega husband was pregnant, beautiful and silent. He sat beside her like a prized vase.

"Let them whisper," their father replied smoothly. "We'll simply redirect the narrative. You’ll be the devoted prince who chooses love for his tragic wife over duty."

Jaehyun's jaw clenched. "They'll think me impotent."

"No," the King corrected, gesturing with his wine glass. "They'll think you noble. And when the true heirs come, they'll praise your sacrifice." His gaze slid to Minho, who had stopped eating entirely. Hands folded in his lap. 

"A pure bloodline. No foreign contamination. Jaehyun will sire children with Minho. Our divine rule will remain unbroken. The land will prosper because of it."

A spoon slipped and clattered onto the plate. His mothers. Minho felt sick. This was not according to plan. There were older siblings, alpha siblings, close to the throne. He was supposed to stay unnoticed.

"The marriage contract is already being drawn," the King went on. "Some minor prince from the Eastern Territories. He'll get a title, a comfortable allowance, and he'll never touch what belongs to this family. A perfect arrangement."

"I won't do it," Minho whispered while looking at his hands.

"You will," his father said, rising. "Because you belong to this family. Your body, your womb, your children - all of it serves the crown. And if you fight us on this,” even though he was talking to Minho, his attention was on his wife. “...I'll make sure you understand exactly what defiance costs."

“Come on,” Jeongin’s voice drifted through the haze. “Drink a little more. Just a little."

His throat worked without conscious thought, muscles remembering what his mind had forgotten. Willows bark. The bitter liquid burned its way down, but it eased the throb in his side almost instantly.

His mind kept drifting between worlds, but Chan's presence was constant. Always there at the edges of his awareness. The soft pad of his bare feet on worn wooden floors, pacing endless circuits around the healer's alcove. His scent wrapped around the space like a blanket: cedar and smoke, worry and exhaustion. And underneath it all, something fierce and protective that made Minho's omega instincts settle.

"Any change?" Chan's voice, rough with sleeplessness.

"Fever's still high." Jeongin's reply carried the patience of someone who'd answered the same question a dozen times in the past days. "But he's fighting. I'll give him that."

New footsteps whispered across the floor. Light and determined, carrying a different energy entirely. The warmth in the room seemed to draw back, leaving coolness in its wake.

"How is he?"

The voice was like music and winter wind. Omega, unmistakably, but nothing like Felix's sunshine warmth. This was moonlight, beautiful and distant.

"Same as this morning." Jeongin didn't pause in his work, hands steady as he peeled away old bandages.

The silence stretched long enough that Minho felt exposed, vulnerable under whatever scrutiny was taking place above him. There was breath against his face. Someone had leaned close, close enough that he could feel the stirring of air as they inhaled his scent.

"...Something's off."

Jeongin's hands went still. "He's been half-dead in the woods, he has a hellish infection. Of course he smells off. It'll settle once he heals."

A beat, then cold and certain: “No. I don’t think it will.”

Chan’s alpha scent grew stronger, tinged with something close to frustration.

"Hyunjin, don't you think we should give him a chance to heal and share his story before we judge him?"

Hyunjin. The name lodged itself in Minho's fever-clouded mind like a thorn. First omega. Suspicious. Sees what others miss. Threat. 

There was a rustle of fabric, the whisper of someone turning away with elegant disdain.

"Fine. Just keep him away from the nest."

No one argued. Jeongin resumed, methodical. Even his touch felt a shade more careful. More distant. In the quiet, Minho's mind turned the name over and over: Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin. Remember that. Handle carefully.

Because even half-dead and delirious, he recognized the sound of someone who could destroy him with a word.

Golden afternoon light bathed the city in warmth. Minho stood flanked by his parents on the royal balcony, ceremonial crown glinting in the sun. Behind them his siblings. In front of them, the roaring crowd. He waved.

His modified scent was carried over the crowd on the warm breeze. Artificial perfection that made the people sigh with adoration.

"Look at how they love you, their Golden Sun," his mother murmured, eyes fixed forward, her smile never wavering as thousands of voices cheered their names.

Minho kept his expression serene, every inch the golden prince they wanted him to be. His silk ceremonial robes moved like liquid gold in the breeze, the high collar concealed the small scars at his throat where the needles had done their work. To the people below, he was divine. Young, beautiful, the omega prince who would secure their kingdom's future. Inside he was breaking apart.

The ceremony ended with thunderous applause. As they withdrew from the balcony, servants immediately began helping them out of their formal wear. Minho's fingers trembled at the golden cuffs of his uniform jacket, eager to be free of the suffocating formality.

His parents departed quickly. Jaehyun stayed.

"You were radiant up there," Jaehyun murmured, his voice thick with something that made Minho's skin crawl. He stepped closer, too close. "And your scent... I could barely keep my composure."

Minho swallowed hard: "How unfortunate for you." He slid the crown off his head. Unhooked the last clasp of his jacket.

"These days you always seem to carry that faint smell of bitch-in-heat, how exciting." Jaehyun continued, reaching out to touch Minho's bare shoulder as he shrugged out of his jacket. "Soon I won't have to hold back. I'll get to claim you properly."

From his position by the door, Seungmin's posture went rigid. His hand drifted toward his sword, then stopped. Royal family. Private chambers. Not his jurisdiction unless blood was spilled.

Minho's hands stilled. When he turned to face his brother, his smile was sharp.

"If you're so eager for pureblooded heirs," he said, sweet as honey, "perhaps I should petition Father instead. After all, he's the proven heirmaker. The purest blood of all."

Jaehyun's smile cracked.

"Why settle for the copy," Minho continued, "when I could have the original?"

The blow came without warning. Jaehyun's hand cracked across Minho's face with enough force to snap his head to the side. Before he could recover, strong hands seized his shoulders, spinning him around and slamming him face-first into the wall.

"My baby brother," Jaehyun growled, pressing his full weight against Minho's back. "Mother's favorite. Her little pawn. I see you. I see what the two of you are doing. Whispering in dark corners."

His grip tightened, fingers digging into Minho's shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"But once you're married," Jaehyun continued, "there'll be no more games. No more scheming with mama. There'll only be one place for you, and that's ass up and face down in my bed."

Minho could feel his brother's heated body against his back, his hard cock pressing against him. Of course he would get off on this, the fucking sadist. The breathing in his neck went over into panting. His hands were all over, roaming, groping, mapping him out. 

“I’ll have you cockhungry in no time, begging for it like a slut. Omegas are base creatures like that, my brother. But rest assured, I can keep you filled. You’ll be round with pups for the rest of your life.”

The pressure against the wall increased until Minho could barely breathe. He started to thrash, hands scrabbling for purchase against the cold stone, a crack in his carefully controlled mask.

"Such defiance," Jaehyun murmured against his ear, voice dripping with satisfaction. "I'll enjoy breaking that spirit of yours."

He shoved Minho harder against the stone one final time before releasing him abruptly. Minho's knees buckled, and he slid down the wall onto the polished marble floor. By the time he managed to catch his breath, his brother was gone.

Soft footsteps approached. Seungmin knelt beside him carefully, not touching, but close enough to be felt.

"Your Highness." His voice was gentle, professionally neutral. "Are you injured?"

Minho touched his cheek gingerly, feeling the heat blooming under his skin where Jaehyun's hand had struck. "Nothing that won't fade," he said quietly.

"May I?" Seungmin gestured toward Minho's face, and at the omega's nod, tilted his head to examine the damage. His fingers hovered just shy of touching, professional assessment mixed with some genuine concern.

"It will bruise," Seungmin observed quietly. "But it shouldn't be visible by tomorrow's council meeting."

"Good." Minho's voice was steady now, composed. "That's all that matters."

Seungmin helped him to his feet. "Perhaps you could rest in your chambers. You have no further obligations today."

"Seungmin," Minho replied, straightening his clothes and then his back. Mask firmly back in place.

"Your Highness?"

"Nothing happened." 

Seungmin's expression went carefully blank, understanding that he was being pushed away. He took a step back. "Of course."

There were voices nearby, low and tense, discussing his scent, his origin. The words drifted in and out of focus, but their edges were unmistakably sharp. Tension clung to his skin like cold waves.

“…could be dangerous for all of us,” someone said. Probably Hyunjin. “We can’t just throw him out,” Jisung protested. “No one’s suggesting that,” Chan soothed quickly. “How can he even be dangerous in this state?” Felix argued as he sat down at the foot of the nest, cupping Minho’s foot over the blanket.

Minho’s mind spiraled. It burned, it blinked, it struggled to work. They were all here, all six of them. Two alphas, two omegas, two betas. A perfect balance— how rare. Pack dynamics were clicking into place in his head even as his body lay helpless.

And now they were arguing, chaotic and loud. Flooding the space between them with their complex scents and emotions. All of it pressing against his fevered senses, pushing him deeper into the furs, making him want to disappear.

“His fever’s dropping slightly,” Jeongin murmured from close by. Closer than protocol should allow. Or maybe it was okay, because he was a physician. But then Felix was definitely too close. What were the rules now? Was he Prince Minho, who should never be touched without permission? Or was he just another wounded stray they'd pulled from the woods? 

Think. Focus. Which role serves you better right now?

"That's good, right?" Changbin.

That voice unexpectedly stilled Minho’s racing mind. It did things to him, unfamiliar things. It coiled in his chest, wrapping around his lungs and heart until it was hard to breathe. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the scent that came with it, Changbin’s scent. Still clinging faintly to his skin. His shirt. His palms— making his mouth water and his omega purr. Nothing he had ever experienced before. 

The keen built in his throat before he could stop it. Pure omega instinct, stripped of thought or control. His inner omega, taking advantage of his momentary weakness to cry out for the alpha who'd made him feel safe. The sound that escaped was small and fragile, a call in the darkness that he managed to choke off before it could become something truly humiliating. Pathetic.

Silence. 

Even Jeongin’s careful hands froze mid-motion. Minho kept still, convincing them he was still unconscious while quietly scolding his treacherous omega. 

There was a sharp intake of breath from across the room. Changbin. The alpha had felt it, recognized the call for what it was. Minho could smell his scent sweeten, just ever so slightly. He could imagine the way Changbin's instincts would be screaming at him to respond, to comfort, to protect.

A pause. 

Then heavy footsteps on the floor. Not retreating, but deliberately stepping back. Away from the nest. Away from the omega who'd just called to him with such naked need.

"...We should give him some space." Jeongin's voice cut through the tension after a cough. "His senses are flooded."

The pack retreated instantly. The overwhelming press of scents beginning to fade as bodies moved away, giving him room to breathe.

Minho didn't open his eyes, but he felt his chest loosen and his mind clear slightly. Control. He needed to wake up properly, take charge of his situation before they decided his fate for him.

Chapter Text

The throne room was colder than the winter wind outside, and Seungmin could feel it seeping through the soles of his boots, up through the polished marble that reflected the wavering torchlight like black water. His breath should have misted in air this cold, but years of palace training kept it shallow, controlled. Don't give them anything to read.

He stood in the center of the vast floor, back straight, hands steady at his sides. The vaulted ceiling and towering white stone were meant to make visitors feel small, insignificant. After three years shadowing the prince through these halls, Seungmin knew they served another purpose: perfect acoustics for the King's voice to reach every corner, every shadowed alcove where courtiers might lurk.

The King sat rigid on his throne, every inch the imposing ruler who had carved this kingdom from weaker neighbors through cunning and ruthless will. He was loved by the people for his prosperity, and so-called ‘fatherly warmth’. But that was just one of his faces, he was feared behind closed doors for good reason. His dark eyes held no warmth now, as they fixed on Seungmin. Only the cold calculation of a man appraising a tool that might have outlived its usefulness.

The metallic taste of anxiety crept up Seungmin's throat, but he swallowed it down.

The Queen sat to the King's side, her posture mirror-perfect, her eyes lowered to her folded hands. Even from this distance, Seungmin could see the faint tremor in her fingers. It was the only crack in her marble composure. The King's gaze cut to her first.

"My Queen," he said, and his tone carried just enough warmth to fool anyone who hadn't learned to parse the subtle gradations of his displeasure. "You appear unwell."

The Queen's hands tightened slightly. She inclined her head without lifting her eyes.

"Perhaps you should rest. The loss of our son has clearly taken a toll on your delicate constitution." The words rolled off his tongue like silk. Then, to his guards: "Escort Her Majesty to her quarters."

The shift in his voice was crystal clear, all pretense of concern stripped away, replaced with the absolute authority of a man accustomed to unquestioning obedience.

Two palace guards stepped forward, their armor chiming softly in the silence. The Queen rose with practiced grace, and as she passed near enough for Seungmin to smell her rose-oil perfume, he caught something else. The faint, satisfied curve of her lips, hidden from the King's view by the angle of her bowed head. There was pride in the set of her shoulders, even a hint of triumph.

The whisper of silk over stone seemed to last forever as she crossed the hall, her footsteps muffled, almost floating. "See that the Queen remains undisturbed in this difficult time," the King told the guards, and when the great doors boomed shut behind her, the sound echoed through Seungmin's bones.

The room felt different now. Emptier, but more dangerous. From the shadowed curve of a column, footsteps approached. Seungmin's jaw tightened involuntarily as Crown Prince Jaehyun stepped into the torchlight.

The family resemblance was there in the strong jawline and commanding presence, but where the King's cruelty was businesslike, Jaehyun's carried a sharper edge. The kind that enjoyed pulling wings off insects. His smile was thin as he moved to flank Seungmin's left side, close enough that the scent of his cologne mixed with something that made Seungmin's instincts scream danger. He was like a cat that had spotted a wounded mouse.

They're going to make me the scapegoat. The thought was swift and sure. The question is whether they'll kill me quickly or slowly.

"Step forward." The King's command cut through the silence like a lash.

Seungmin obeyed, his boots echoing sharp and lonely in the vastness.

"You were his guard for the last three years." The King's voice filled every inch of the space, seeming to come from the walls themselves. "You shadowed him through every hall, stood outside every door, heard every conversation. And now…"

The pause stretched until Seungmin could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

"…now he is gone."

"Yes, Your Majesty." His voice came out steady, professional. Years of training held.

The King rose from the throne, his footsteps heavy as he descended the steps. He began to circle, and Seungmin could feel the weight of that scrutiny like hands pressing against his throat.

The scent of the King's presence grew stronger as he passed behind Seungmin's back. Frankincense so thick that it nearly choked him. Every nerve in Seungmin's body screamed to turn, to keep the threat in view, but he held his position.

"How?" The single word cracked through the air like a whip.

"The Queen requested me to run errands," Seungmin said, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. "The prince had retired early to his chambers for the night."

The King's shadow fell over him as he continued his slow orbit, and Seungmin could feel body heat radiating from him. "And in that time, my son slipped past guards, past walls, past you. Tell me, Captain Kim," The use of his name was like a blade between the ribs. "did you help him?"

"No." The word came out sharp, immediate. Too sharp? Would hesitation have seemed more natural?

The King stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Seungmin could see the gleam in his crown, could smell the wine on his breath beneath the sharper scent of barely controlled rage. This close, the King's presence was overwhelming, not just physical size, but the weight of absolute power, the certainty that he could order Seungmin's death with a gesture and sleep soundly that night.

"You have served me faithfully for years," the King said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "But loyalty can... bend. Even the most faithful hound might choose its pack over its master."

Seungmin met his eyes which was maybe a dangerous thing to do, but backing down now would be as good as a confession. "My loyalty is to the crown and the realm, Your Majesty. Always."

Something flickered in the King's gaze. Satisfaction perhaps, or reassurance. At least this piece of his carefully ordered world was still in its proper place. He stepped back, and Seungmin could breathe again.

"Jaehyun will search the castle and grounds," the King announced, never taking his eyes off Seungmin. "You will take to the roads. Question every traveler, every merchant, every farmer with mud on his boots. I want my son found."

Jaehyun's smile widened, sharp as a blade in the torchlight. He shifted closer to Seungmin, invading his space. "It will be my pleasure, Father."

This wasn't a search party. This was a competition, with the prince as the prize and Seungmin's life as the stakes.

"Alive," the King added, his voice suddenly sharp enough to cut glass. His gaze fixed on Jaehyun with unmistakable warning. "And unharmed. He is crown property, not your plaything. If you find him first, you will return him to me intact."

Jaehyun's head tilted in acknowledgment, but his smile never wavered. "As you command, Father."

The King's attention returned to Seungmin for one final, measuring look, committing them to memory for future reference.

"You leave within the hour. Both of you."

Seungmin bowed to the precise degree his rank required—no more, no less. Palace protocol beaten into his bones until it was as automatic as breathing. "Your Majesty."

As he straightened and turned toward the great doors, he could feel both sets of eyes on his back. His skin crawled with the certainty that he was walking into a trap, but the only way was forward. The game had begun, and Seungmin was already three moves behind.

An hour later Seungmin stood in his modest quarters, mechanically packing supplies into weathered saddlebags. Travel rations, spare clothes, maps of the surrounding territories. Everything he would need for what could be a very long search. 

His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his mind was elsewhere. Three years of guarding Minho. Three years of shadowing every step, shielding him from whispers and unwanted hands. Three years of learning the subtle signs: the flick of his gaze when he wanted rescue, the tilt of his voice when he was baiting a trap of his own.

Seungmin had thought he knew him. Believed himself trusted, perhaps even indispensable. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

He worked without sound, the motions steady and economical. The part of his mind that wasn’t counting supplies was already walking the paths in his head, tracing the spiderweb of roads and forest tracks that lay beyond the castle walls.

Minho’s habits ran through his thoughts in clipped flashes: the boy’s disdain for cold, his careful, soft hands. His reluctance to travel outside of palace walls. Minho had been court-bred and that was where he preferred to stay.

The Queen sent him…

He forced himself into her mind. Where would she hide him and who would she trust enough with her precious omega son? She would want him out of the capital quickly, but not too far to retrieve if the tides turned.

The map on the table was soon dotted with mental markers. Villages with sympathetic midwives, garrisons with captains who owed the Queen favors, old estates abandoned after the war.

Seungmin strapped on the short sword and felt the familiar weight settle at his hip. This wasn’t just a search, the King’s tone had made that clear. This was a test. A measure of loyalty.

And he would pass it, with flying colors.

By nightfall, he would be beyond the city gates. By the week’s end, Minho would be back within these walls. And he would be alive and intact, exactly as ordered.

Seungmin blew out the single candle burning on his desk and slung the satchel over his shoulder.

The hunt had begun.

Chapter Text

He had waited for the right moment to open his eyes and now his gaze moved slowly, carefully. The space around him was curtained off, a half-circle of fabric hung from low beams, not entirely reaching the floor. He lay on the floor in old quilts and soft furs where a few scent-worn pillows rested at the edges. A nest, cleansed of scent. Hauntingly neutral.

There was a cupboard nearby, rough wood lined with flasks and cork-stoppered vials. Pans and dried bundles hung from the beams, making the air smell off lavender and juniper and salts. It smelled of healing. It was practical, clean and efficient. No personal tokens. No softness beyond what the job required. A healer’s den, he concluded. Jeongin’s. 

Minho turned his head slowly. Pain flared in muted pulses, he clenched his jaw and breathed through it. Beyond the curtain, the rest of the cabin stretched out, spare and utilitarian. Mismatched, but cared for. And then he saw it, the nest.

It sprawled across the cabin’s heart, wide and uncontained. A sea of blankets and woven furs, low cushions and tattered quilts, clearly added to over time. The scent from it rolled across the room like warmth itself: grounded and safe. A perfect blend. Minho had never seen anything like it. Not in the palace, not anywhere. This wasn’t political, alliance or tradition. This was… instinct and choice. They were asleep there, all of them together in one single nest.

Chan lay on a slightly raised platform at the back, spine to the wall, one arm curled protectively over Hyunjin, who lay half-draped across his chest.

At the nest’s center, Felix slept on his back, one arm reaching outward, fingers loosely curled around Jeongin’s wrist. Jeongin was turned slightly toward him, back stiff even in sleep, but he hadn’t pulled away.

Jisung was tucked along Felix’s other side, pressed against him tightly, cheek to his shoulder, legs tangled. Snoring softly.

Changbin slept closest to the door, closest to where Minho rested. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other loose on Jeongins calf. He looked alert, even in sleep.

Minho inhaled slowly and parted his lips to taste them. Scent signatures layered and complex. Nothing was masked. No blockers. No enhancements. Just… them. 

He stared, and hated the way his throat tightened at the sight of them.  

Without looking away he shifted a hand, slow and deliberate. Testing. His fingers responded with dull ache but obeyed. Encouraged, he then bent one knee and immediately bit back a sharp inhale as pain flared up his thigh. The wound in his side protested violently, a hot pulse of fire beneath taut, tender skin. He stilled. Waited. Breathed deeply through the nausea while repressing the urge to whimper.

Too soon.

Minho lay perfectly still, staring at the low beams. No steward to dress him, no aide to script the next move, no mother’s hand smoothing the way. No Seungmin.

So now what?

Pressure crowded his chest. He needed a plan and an alias. A good one, because if they found out who he truly was…What if they would take him back? Return him to the arms of his so-called loving and caring family. The thought made him sick. 

He pressed his palms to his eyes. Control the room before the room controls you, it sounded so easy when his mother was by his side, watching his moves with hawk-like precision. Now he was wrecked, scraped bare, and all that surfaced were those damn white trees. He needed more time. To heal, to plan and for that, he needed to stay.

His mother’s fingers in his hair: Wake, my son.

He must have drifted. The cabin was stirring. Heat and breath hazing the air. Soft bootfalls by the hearth; Changbin’s low murmur to Chan. The door creaked, a knife of cold, then shut.

The inner door opened. Jeongin: a rustle of cloth, something heavy lifted. “I won’t be long, but I’m out of willow bark.

And then he too was gone, wind chimes rattling as the door snapped shut behind them. Silence returned. Softer now. The scent of pack, warm and relaxed, still hung around the big nest.  Minho stayed still behind the curtain, shielded from the rest. From his own little nest, he had the perfect view of the cabin, peeking from underneath the curtain’s hem. He could observe here, hidden and awake.

There was a soft laugh. Jisung's voice sounded low and drowsy. Until he was cut off by a kiss, slow and languid. As if there was no time in the world. Warm hands that wandered over fabric and skin.

"Let me," Felix whispered to Jisung’s lips. There was silk in his voice, honey-warm and certain.

Jisung's breath hitched. "You don't have to…"

"But I want to."

The rustle of fabric being pushed aside. The soft sound of Felix settling between Jisung's thighs. A quiet gasp, then silence that stretched and hung in anticipation.

Minho's breath caught in his throat. He pressed deeper into the furs, heart hammering in his chest.

"Oh," Jisung breathed, voice already husky. "Felix, that's—"

Wet heat. The sound of lips and tongue, deliberate and slow. Felix made a soft, satisfied hum that vibrated through the quiet cabin, and Jisung's answering moan sounded helpless.

Minho should've looked away, should've covered his ears. But he couldn't help himself. He gulped. 

"So good," Jisung whispered, fingers threading through Felix's hair, anchoring himself, spurring Felix on. "Always so good for me, Lixie."

Heat pooled low in Minho's belly. It was a strange feeling: foreign and unwelcome and whispering of desperate want. His breathing grew shallow, controlled, as he watched Felix worship Jisung with his mouth.

He'd never imagined it could be like this. So warm and sensual and…wanted.

"Close," Jisung gasped. Felix just hummed again, doubling his efforts until Jisung came with a broken sob, back arching off the nest.

Felix gentled him through it. And then he pressed soft kisses to trembling thighs before he crawled up to settle beside him, generously showering Jisung with even more kisses to his face and neck. Scenting him in honey.

The door opened quietly and Hyunjin stepped inside. Minho tensed, expecting him to scold them. But the first omega looked at the pair in the nest with fondness instead. He padded towards them, shedding his clothes along the way. Long, lithe limbs, moving with unearthly grace. Perfectly fine with showing himself to the pair in the nest. Hyunjin sank beside them as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Jisung curled into him instantly, pressing his face against Hyunjin's bare shoulder, mouthing at the skin there like a pup needing reassurance. And Hyunjin just let him. He even kissed him, deep and messy. 

Then Felix moved. He crawled up over Hyunjin's lap, all pale limbs and golden sleep-swept hair, curling around him like silk poured over stone.

"Don't come inside," Felix whispered, voice soft as a cloud. Not pleading, just...needing to be sure. A routine question, probably passed between them every time they met this way.

"Never, baby," Hyunjin confirmed, one hand guiding him steady by the hip, "You can let go."

Felix sank down with a soft sigh. And Hyunjin made room for him. Not like a conquering alpha. Not like a man proving a point. But like someone holding space. 

Minho kept himself frozen behind the curtain, watching it all unfold with wide eyes.

No jealousy. No possessiveness. Jisung didn’t glare or compete; he only smiled sleepily and tucked closer to Hyunjin, palm swiping damp hair from Felix’s brow. Felix didn’t claim territory or demand exclusivity. Hyunjin didn’t chase his own release. They simply… were. Together.

Minho’s pulse skittered; his skin ran hot and tight. Had he learned the wrong game entirely? His hand went to his throat, seeking the silk patches for comfort.

Nothing.

Bare skin. And then he smelled himself: blackcurrant and rose. Intrusive and unbound. He clamped his palms over his glands but it was useless. The scent slipped free, rich and complicated, threaded with arousal and by now cold panic.

In the nest, everything stopped.

Hyunjin’s head snapped toward the curtained alcove, nostrils flaring; his scent knifed sharp and protective. Felix and Jisung froze.

“Get dressed,” Hyunjin said, steady and urgent. “Quickly.”

No questions, just movement. Felix rolling over to grab discarded fabric, Jisung scrambling for his shirt. 

Minho stayed frozen behind the curtain, heart hammering. His scent did not belong in this cabin; it clashed with the nest’s warm blend, different and foreign.

The curtain stirred.

“Well,” Hyunjin said softly, deadly calm. “Good to see you awake. I think it’s time we had a proper conversation.” He stood there, fully dressed, arms crossed, eyes sweeping him with clinical precision. “That’s quite the scent for someone who’s been wandering the woods alone.”

Minho’s throat went dry. He tried to brace on his elbows; pain flared hot along his side. “I don’t know what you mean,” he managed, hoarse.

Felix’s head popped around the curtain, all sunshine and mushed hair. “Great, he’s awake! I’ll get Chan-hyung!” And he was gone.

Hyunjin’s gaze held, unreadable. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said at last. “When you’re stronger…and steadier.” He let the curtain fall and left.

It took seconds for Chan to arrive with Felix, and the house’s gravity shifted from the big nest to the small one in the healer’s corner.

Chan watched while Felix fussed the quilts into omega-perfect comfort, then nodded him through, pride tugging at his mouth. Infuriating and endearing at the same time.

As Felix brushed past the curtains, Chan didn’t touch him. There was no fond pass of fingers, no shoulder squeeze. Odd. Omegas usually bloom under skinship, especially from their main alpha. Minho filed that away for later; first, the packleader.

Chan settled at the nest’s edge with practiced ease, but alert. His gaze slid over Minho’s face with an intensity that quickened Minho’s pulse. He lowered his eyes.

“I’m Chan. Pack alpha.” As if Minho didn’t know. “What should we call you?”

“Minho,” he whispered. It was the safest truth. There were a thousand Minh­os.

“How are you feeling, Minho?” Chan asked, and it was clear he wasn’t just referring to physical pain.

“Better. Thank you for taking care of me.”

Chan nodded, then: “Your scent. It’s familiar.”

He knows. Minho fell still. “Familiar how?”

“I used to work in the palace. As a guard,” Chan said, eyes never leaving him. “That’s a court-bred blend. Made with oils and cultivation. You don’t get it by accident.”

Minho’s throat went dry. He still hadn't thought of a plausible story and Chan was closing in.

“You lived close to court?” Chan softened it. “Minor nobility perhaps?”

Relief. He was close, but not close enough. Minho nodded —he was good at that.

“And you ran.” Not a question so another nod.

Chan’s expression shifted from suspicion to something softer. “From an arranged marriage?”

“How did you—”

“Just a hunch, you fit the type. You were ill prepared for the weather and the wild, still wearing your court slippers, no cloak. Not fit for the outside world. You didn’t leave because you wanted to, but because you had to.”

Minho nodded again, dizzy at how much Chan had pulled from so little.

“You’re safe now. Whatever you were running from, it can't reach you here." Chan said. He sounded so convinced, typical alpha cockiness. Minho wasn’t so sure.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” The warm cedar scent deepened, a warm bedding for Minho’s lighter roses that steadily began to fill the space. Chan’s gaze softened: “You’re hurt. You’re alone. And you were found in our territory, in our snare. That makes you mine to mend.”

Minho let instinct guide him, fluttering his lashes to look down at his hands. A picture of soft, gentle omega. He was eager to guide Chan away from this made up backstory. Equally eager to get him on his side. And so he tilted his head and bared his throat deliberately.

“Thank you… alpha.”

The words landed. As expected, Chan’s pupils widened and his scent spiked. Proud, alpha protection with a hint of possessiveness. Good. But then —unexpectedly— he didn’t reach for him, he did something worse: he stood up.

“Sleep now, Minho.” 

It sounded so warm, so caring, that it exploded in Minho’s chest, throwing him off guard. And there was that maddening, fond curve to his mouth that he had used for Felix before. But now it was for him, just him. Minho felt his throat tighten. He wanted to punch that smug smile from his face—and at the same time, he wanted to press himself into Chan’s broad chest. He managed a sweet smile back.

“You need your strength.” Chan turned and left, and Minho was suddenly aware of his own breathing, fast and uneven, fingers curled tight in the furs. This was…odd. It shouldn’t affect him like that, he couldn’t let himself be thrown off that easily, as if it was his very first encounter. Stay on top. 

Chapter Text

The white trees stood like ghosts against the gray winter sky.

Seungmin had been riding for days, following trails that grew fainter with each passing hour. The Queen had been thorough in her planning, too thorough for someone working alone. This level of preparation spoke of contacts, resources, people who owed favors or shared her desperation to see Minho free.

The birch grove stretched before him, their pale bark gleaming like bone. Snow clung to their branches, and the silence was so complete it felt sacred. This was it. The place where Minho should have run to.

Should have.

Seungmin dismounted slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. His horse snorted softly, sensing his tension. Everything about this place felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty.

He'd spent hours in the palace archives before leaving, carefully researching under the guise of tracking smuggling routes. But what he'd really been looking for were connections. Threads that might lead him to the Queen's network. And he'd found them, eventually. References to a small temple of the Mother, hidden in the borderlands. A place where omegas sought sanctuary when the world became too cruel to bear.

The Queen had been subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Donations to "charitable causes" that couldn't quite be traced. Correspondence with "religious scholars" who happened to live near contested borders. A careful pattern of support for omega welfare organizations that led, inexorably, to one place.

She wasn't just planning to hide him, Seungmin realized as he moved through the silent grove. She was planning to smuggle him out of the kingdom entirely.

The thought should have filled him with urgency, with determination to complete his mission. Instead, it made something twist painfully in his chest. The Queen had been willing to give up her son forever to save him from what awaited at the palace. That level of sacrifice spoke of desperation that ran bone-deep.

A flash of color caught his eye. Fabric, half-hidden behind a massive birch trunk. Seungmin's hand went instinctively to his sword as he approached, but the shape didn't move. Didn't react to his presence at all.

The body was small, slight, dressed in the rough brown robes of a temple acolyte. Female, omega, maybe twenty years old. She'd been there for days, judging by the way the snow had drifted over her still form. Her face was peaceful, almost serene, lips blue with cold. There were no wounds, no signs of violence. She had simply frozen to death while waiting.

Seungmin knelt beside her, professional instincts taking over. Her position suggested she'd tried to shelter against the tree trunk and had wrapped her cloak tighter as the cold grew worse. She'd been prepared for a short wait, not days of exposure to winter weather.

She was waiting for someone who never came.

A search of her belongings revealed little. A small pouch of coins, some dried bread now frozen solid, a water skin turned to ice. And tucked into her robes, a piece of parchment with familiar handwriting.

Seungmin’s jaw set, but his hands were steady as he unfolded it. A soldier first, even when treason stained the page. The Queen's elegant script was unmistakable, even when written in haste:

Sister Meena,

The package will arrive as planned. Please ensure safe passage across the southern border. The usual arrangements will suffice. Payment as discussed.

May the Mother watch over you.

M.

If Minho hadn't reached the rendezvous point, it meant he was either still wandering lost in the wilderness somewhere, or already dead. Either way, the escape had failed. It made Seungmin's stomach clench with something that felt uncomfortably like panic.

Minho had never spent a day outside the palace walls. And he sure didn’t know how to survive in this cold. 

He began searching the area more systematically, looking for any sign that Minho might have been here. Broken branches, footprints, anything that might indicate which direction he'd gone when he realized his contact was dead.

But there was nothing. The grove was pristine, undisturbed except for Sister Meena's body. If Minho had been here, he'd left no trace.

Seungmin mounted his horse and urged it forward, following tracks between castle and white trees that might lead nowhere, chasing shadows through the winter forest. 

The cabin was quiet when Minho woke again. His side ached but it was manageable if he didn’t move too quickly. The fever had subsided somewhat, leaving only a dull throb behind his eyes.

Light and careful footsteps approached, trying not to disturb. A figure paused at the edge of his curtained alcove, carrying a wooden bowl that steamed in the cool air.

Jeongin.

He was young, but his scent was old. Not stale, just old. Like dried blood on linens, buried under layers of boiled willow bark, marigold poultices, smoked juniper. He smelled of battlefields. Scrubbed clean over and over, but never quite enough to hide the iron at its core.

“Hey,” Jeongin said softly. “Felix has made soup. Are you feeling well enough to eat?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped into the den and set the bowl down with both hands, spoon neatly across the rim. Then he settled beside the nest, cross-legged on the floor. Minho studied him in the dappled light, the lean build, the long fingers, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You’re watching me,” Jeongin said quietly, without accusation. “You’ve been doing that since I walked in.”

Minho blinked. “I’m observant.”

“I’m used to it,” Jeongin murmured, almost too soft to catch. “People don’t know what to do with someone who smells like I do.”

Minho inhaled subtly. The scent was stronger this close. 

“I know what you mean. May I?” Minho gestured to the bowl.

Jeongin gave a small nod. “It’s cooled a bit. Sorry. I… stood outside too long.”

Minho picked up the spoon carefully. The broth was simple but well made of root vegetables, bone stock and healing herbs. After days of fever, it tasted like grace.

“This is good,” Minho said. “Truly. Did you help Felix prepare it?”

Jeongin shrugged. “I keep the herbs stocked. Sometimes I stir. Mostly I stay out of the way when he’s cooking.”

“Strange,” Minho said lightly, “for someone who’s clearly used to handling boiling pots.”

There was a short silence before Jeongin huffed, dry. “Good guess.”

Minho tilted his head. “Not a guess. Your hands.”

Jeongin looked down. The skin on his fingers was fine and scarred, small faded burns and nicks. Healer’s hands.

“I studied under a battlefield medic,” Jeongin murmured. “During the last southern campaign.”

Minho looked up. “You were… how old?”

“Fifteen when I was conscripted. Not old enough to fight.” His voice stayed even. “But I could carry and boil bandages. After a while I was also able to stitch people up.”

Minho set the spoon down slowly.

“I don’t talk about it much,” Jeongin said, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “They say the war is over now, long forgotten. But… not really.” He tapped his temple, then his chest.

“How come?” Minho asked, gently.

Jeongin hesitated. “Nightmares,” he said finally. “Mostly when I sleep too warm. If the cabin’s too quiet. If someone makes a sound that shouldn’t be there.” Jeongin went quiet, plucking at a string of his shoe.

“There was this accident,” he suddenly confessed. His voice was so soft Minho almost missed it.

Minho stilled.

“Last year,” Jeongin continued. “Felix had cut his hand. Just a clean slice, nothing serious. But the blood…”

He trailed off. Minho didn’t rush him.

“I was fine at first. Cleaned it, wrapped it. Routine. But then he touched my arm and I... I saw someone else. Someone from the field. A boy who bled out in my lap.” Jeongin’s fingers were tight in his lap now, knuckles gone pale. “It startled me, and for a moment, I wasn’t here anymore. I shoved Felix. Hard. He hit the cabinet.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed.

“He said it was okay. That it didn’t even bruise. But he looked at me like I wasn’t myself. And I realised...that I had stopped being scared of the dreams. But maybe I shouldn’t have.”

He paused.

“I haven’t told the others. Neither has Felix. They think I’m getting better. That I’m past it.” Jeongin gave a small, bitter laugh. “I’m a healer, after all. I should mend, not break.”

Minho stayed silent, filing each word away. Not just the event, but the shape of it. The shame. The buried fear of no longer being safe. Of being the threat, not only to the others but also to himself. The way Jeongin’s scent twisted with sour panic beneath the herbs.

Jeongin went quiet. Like he suddenly heard himself. His mouth snapped shut, cheeks flushing red. "I—why did I just tell you all that? I don't even know... we just met." 

Minho almost felt guilty. The boy had been so easy to read, so eager for understanding that he'd spilled his deepest fears to a complete stranger. Palace training had taught Minho exactly which questions to ask, exactly when to offer comfort, how to make people feel safe enough to reveal themselves. 

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who doesn't know you," Minho said softly, and that at least was true. "No judgment. No expectations." 

Jeongin stood up in a sudden rush, raking a hand through his hair: "I should go. I’ll come to check up on you before bed.” And then he was gone. 

Minho curled his fingers around the empty bowl, now gone cold. The scent of broth still lingered. Herbs and vegetables, but also Jeongin. Not his usual scent, but the one that surfaced beneath: fear, raw and almost innocent in how honestly it bloomed.  Minho stared at the curtain where Jeongin had slipped through, eyes unfocused. The vulnerability still clung to the air. Then the thought came, sharp and cold. 

What an idiot. 

You don’t tell a stranger that. You don’t hand someone that kind of blade and expect them not to use it. If this were court, Jeongin would already be ruined. “The trick,” the Queen had said once, fingers trailing the rim of a glass, “is not to win by force. It's to make them beg for your mercy after you've slit their throat.” 

Minho ran a finger around the rim of the wooden bowl. He could use the info. Easily. One well-placed remark, one moment of calculated concern whispered to Chan or Hyunjin: "He’s losing it. The raging war inside will eventually find a way out.” They’d watch him differently after that. A little longer. A little closer. Doubt would take root. More attention to Jeongin. Less to the prince in beggar’s clothes.

But Minho didn’t want to. And that was the part that made his skin itch. Because he didn’t want to crack Jeongin open just to watch the fallout. Didn’t want to twist the blade and step back as the pack turned on itself.

But why?

Minho leaned back against the pile of furs, head tilting toward the sound of soft footsteps somewhere in the next room. He inhaled deeply. Maybe it was the fever still working itself out of his bones. Or maybe it was the way Jeongin had said “the last southern campaign.”

Minho knew that campaign.

He’d heard Jaehyun debrief it during dinner, full of inflated victories and redacted casualty numbers. His brother’s first solo command. One long, bloody disaster dressed up in glory to impress the cold god they both called Father.

Minho inhaled again, deeper this time. If Jeongin outlasted that, if he could overcome the nightmares…it’s proof that Jaehyun is survivable. That thought was comforting, because it would mean he could overcome as well.

Chapter Text

The cabin had settled into uneasy quiet after the day's tensions. Chan lay on his back in their nest, acutely aware of Hyunjin beside him. The omega was curled on his side, back to Chan, but every line of his body spoke of tension held too tightly for too long.

Without a word, Chan shifted closer and gently pulled Hyunjin toward him. For a moment, he thought the omega might resist, but then Hyunjin's body went pliant, allowing himself to be arranged across Chan's chest where he belonged.

Chan's arms wrapped around him, one hand coming up to card slowly through Hyunjin's long hair.

"Can't sleep?" Chan murmured. Hyunjin made a noncommittal sound against his chest, but he didn't relax fully.

"Talk to me," Chan coaxed softly. "What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong," Hyunjin replied after a pause.

Chan sighed. "If this is about Minho again…"

"It is about Minho again. And it's about you, about us and the pack."

"You know my feelings for you haven't changed, right? One person needing help doesn't diminish what we have."

“This isn’t about your feelings for me,” Hyunjin replied quietly. “It’s about… something I can’t quite name.”

Chan tipped his chin down, trying to catch Hyunjin’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

Hyunjin hesitated, frustration flickering in his scent. “When I look at him, when I breathe him in… nothing feels solid. It’s like smoke. I can’t get a read on him.”

Chan’s brow furrowed. “You think he’s hiding something?”

“I don’t know,” Hyunjin admitted, his voice low. “Maybe it’s just me. But it doesn’t feel real. Not the way it did with Felix. Or Jeongin. With them, you could tell. You could see the hurt. But Minho…” He trailed off, searching for words. “The other day, he was just sitting there in his nest, observing us. Not just watching but really taking in —like, gathering information. And just yesterday, when I was bringing him food, I got the feeling he was trying something with his scent. As if he was testing what would get him the best response. ”

“Now… you’re sounding paranoid,” Chan said gently, though his tone carried a thread of warning.

Hyunjin pushed up enough to meet his eyes in the dark, gaze sharp. “Maybe. But paranoia is what’s kept us alive.”

Chan brushed his thumb along Hyunjin’s temple. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten what it looks like when someone just needs help and is trying hard to adjust.”

Hyunjin stilled at that. His expression closed off and brittle. “Right,” he said quietly. “I’m just imagining things.”

“Hyunjin—” He was met with a bonedeep sigh. “I’m tired, Chan. Can we sleep?”

Chan wanted to keep talking, to fix whatever he’d just cracked open, but something in Hyunjin’s tone stopped him. He tucked the omega back against his chest and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“We’ll figure this out, He’ll come around.” he whispered. But Hyunjin didn’t answer.

It was in the dead of night when Minho felt the nest dip behind him. A warm body settled against his back, careful not to jostle his healing wounds but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt. He could feel a soft purring, vibrating against him.

An arm slipped around his waist, gentle but sure, and Minho went rigid.

No one touched him like this. Ever. Not without permission, not without purpose. Even his mother's rare embraces had carried the weight of manipulation.

But this touch was... different. Soft. Undemanding. The omega's chin came to rest against Minho's shoulder blade, and he felt the whisper of breath against the nape of his neck as Felix settled more comfortably against him.

"Hi," Felix whispered, voice still thick with sleep and it made Minho shiver. "You looked cold. And you smell scared."

Scared. The word hit Minho unexpectedly. He hadn't realised it was showing.

Felix's arm tightened protectively around him. "I remember what it was like," he said quietly. "Being alone. Hurt and in an unfamiliar place. Not knowing if you're safe."

Minho's breath caught. Felix was scenting him. Not the aggressive claiming he'd witnessed between alphas and their conquered omegas. More like a cat marking something precious. Felix's scent, honey and warm bread, began to mingle with his own, creating something new and unfamiliar.

"I escaped. From a breeding facility. Chan-hyung and Jisung found me in a barn and took me in. When I first came here," Felix continued softly. His confession so soft that his voice was a mere whisper against Minho's neck, "I was so broken I couldn't let anyone near. I hid in the attic. But Hyunjin and Jisung... they just stayed close. Patient. Letting me know I wasn't alone and that I was safe."

"I..." Minho started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? That commoners weren't allowed to touch royalty? That this level of intimacy was reserved for bonded mates and political alliances? That he'd never experienced casual affection and didn't know how to process the warmth spreading through his chest?

Felix hummed softly, the sound vibrating against Minho's back. His thumb traced idle patterns on Minho's hip through the blanket. It wasn’t sexual, just... present. He breathed in deeply, taking Minho in.

"I know your scent is different," Felix said matter-of-factly but with a slight slur, like he was scent drunk already. "Complex. But that's just how you smell. People can't help how they're born, or where they are born. I like it, it makes me want to keep you close." His fingers found Minho's hand beneath the blankets, lacing them together with easy familiarity. "The others, they're just... protective. Of what we have here. But I just want you to heal without fear."

Minho was holding his breath by now, afraid to break the spell. Because Felix was simply holding him because he was cold, because some deep well of empathy told him Minho needed the same gentle care he'd once received. And because Minho’s scent did exactly what it was designed to do: luring people in.

"Better?" Felix asked softly.

Minho's throat felt tight. "Yes," he whispered, and meant it more than he was willing to admit to himself. This felt good. Safe and fuzzy, so unfamiliar but very wanted at the same time. He was just beginning to relax into the warmth when sharp footsteps approached the curtained alcove.

"Felix." Changbin’s voice cut through the peaceful atmosphere like a blade. "What are you doing here?" Felix lifted his head from Minho's shoulder, blinking in confusion. "Keeping him warm? He was shivering." His voice carried a note of innocent determination.

"Get out of the nest. Now."

The command was so sharp, so unexpected, that Felix immediately began to disentangle himself. "Hyung, what…"

"I said now." Changbin’s scent was spiking with something Minho couldn't identify. Anger, yes, but underneath it was something that smelled like fear. 

Felix scrambled away, hurt and confusion written across his features. "I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just—"

"You were scenting a stranger," Changbin said, his voice deadly calm. "Someone we know nothing about. Someone whose scent is already causing problems in this pack."

Felix's face crumpled slightly, and Minho felt something crack in his chest watching the omega's innocent care being twisted into something shameful.

"I was just being kind," Felix said, voice small.

"Kindness has boundaries," Changbin replied, but his tone had gentled slightly. "And right now, those boundaries need to be very clear. Now, get back to the nest, I’ll join you shortly."

Felix looked between Changbin and Minho, understanding dawning in his eyes. He started to fidget, suddenly nervous. Because Felix never let himself get close to strangers, certainly not when none of his mates were around. Yet there he was, sharing a blanket, putting himself in a vulnerable position he hardly ever allowed himself. Anything could have happened. His breathing picked up.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. A tremble slipping into his voice. "I didn't mean to... I should have asked."

And then he was gone, leaving Minho alone with the lingering scent of honey and bread. Changbin stayed. 

The alpha crouched beside the nest. The fire popped softly in the hearth. Their scents mingled. Minho could almost feel his silence. And underneath it, he could feel his presence. Tugging at him. Pine and charcoal curling beneath Minho’s skin. Changbin’s inner alpha brushing up against his omega. Not claiming but just meeting, curious and almost playful. Sniffing him out and circling around with a wagging tail. As if happy to meet someone new and exciting. Minho’s omega followed every move, tilting his head, showing his throat, almost purring at the sight. Ready to bare his stomach, willing and instinctual.

Minho froze, every muscle drawn taut as if a single movement might spark violence or something worse: submission. Changbin caught himself too. His fangs flashed for an instant before he shook his head, reigning his alpha back in.

“He’s always been like that,” Changbin said, ignoring the complicated dance they had just performed. “Felix. He gives. Doesn’t know how to hold anything back. Doesn’t wait to be asked. Doesn’t expect anything in return.” Changbin’s gaze slid toward him, sharp in the dim light.

“And that’s why people like you are dangerous.”

Minho’s breath caught. 

“You’re good at looking like you need. At making people lean in. Even now, I can smell it on you: fear and fragility, fertility. So very omega, too omega.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Minho felt how his scent pulled at Changbin like an invisible thread. The alpha hated it. Hated how it was affecting him.

He leaned in closer, unwilling to be the one to back off. He had a pack to protect. And so he let his scent press against Minho’s edges. Sharp and dominant, pushing the omega deeper into the nest. Minho blinked slowly, letting the charcoal swirl around him. It clouded his mind, making the world hazy around the edges and it soothed something deep within. He craved it, even with that hostile, protective tinge. He was about to offer his throat, to nip at that strong jawline, to just let go and submit…

But then came the words, a harsh warning, almost like a threat. 

“We don’t know you. You don’t belong here. Not yet. And until that changes, you don’t get to carry our scent like it’s yours.”

A pause. They had both heard it fall from Changbin’s lips, a slip up: not yet. The alpha pressed his lips together to a thin line, jaw clenching. He had nothing more to add. He couldn’t stay much longer either, in the presence of this, this enigma with his dreamy big eyes, high cheekbones and slightly parted, perfect lips. And so he quickly rose, as if having to tear himself away from the sight. Then he turned on his heels and walked away, parting the curtains with slightly too much force.

Minho just watched him go, breath uneven, color high on his cheeks. Shocked by the threat, but even more by the effect Changbin had on him.

Chapter Text

That morning, Minho was still in his nest. No one had come for him. He sat still, tucked back in the healer’s alcove, shrouded in blankets that held not much comfort. The scent of breakfast drifted through the cabin but his stomach was twisted too tight to care.

Jisung was the first to speak beyond the curtain, just out of sight. His voice was low, it sounded earnest.

“I just think… he should eat with us. We’ve kept him separate for more than a week now. He’s healing, not contagious.”

Hyunjin’s sharp reply was immediate: “He’s not one of us.”

Silence followed. Not shocked but expectant. Like the others had been waiting for him to say it. Minho didn’t need to see him to picture the way he’d be curled against Chan, legs draped across his lap. “He doesn’t feel safe. Nothing about him feels safe. And we’ve already let him get too close.”

“He’s still hurt,” Felix said quietly. “I can’t believe he is a real threat, he can barely sit up straight.”

“Are you sure about that? What do you say, Jeongin? Is he truly injured, or is he just buying time here?”

Jisung smacked one of his hands flat to the table, too loud: “Gods, Hyunjin. He’s not a feral wolf. He’s a boy who fell in our woods and nearly died there.”

Changbin grunted. “- And yet his scent set half the pack on edge.”

Minho swallowed. His fingers clenching tightly in the blankets.

“It’s something he does, but I can’t figure out what it is or what he wants from us,” Changbin added. “Maybe he doesn’t do it on purpose, but it sure gives me the chills.”

A pause. Jeongin spoke next, his voice even as he replied to Hyunjin.

“He is still wounded, the fever barely at bay. He needs more time. But that doesn’t mean he has to be in the big nest. Or at our table.”

There was no malice in it. But the words still landed like a verdict. Felix’s voice rose. “He’s not our prisoner.”

“But he’s not family either,” Hyunjin said, quieter now. “And we don’t offer the nest to outsiders. Not until we’re sure.”

“I am sure,” Jisung said unexpectedly. “He’s just scared. But he listens, he observes and he is polite and gentle.” 

Minho’s heart clenched.

“That doesn’t make him safe,” Changbin replied.

Felix again, soft and stubborn. “He smells lonely.”

A long pause. Next to speak was Chan. Low and careful.

“Felix, sit down.”

“But—”

“Sit.” A sigh. “They’re right. It’s too soon.”

Minho stopped breathing.

Chan. Even Chan.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything said. Then the scrape of bowls, the sound of spoons clinking. Breakfast resumed. The conversation moved on, and on the other side of the curtain, he stayed behind.

Minho sat frozen, spine locked, mouth dry. He needed to fix this, quickly. He needed to become something they’d want to keep. But he didn’t know why. He shouldn’t care about these common rogues in their primitive hut. Though the idea of being sent away left something cold and primal clawing in his gut and made his omega cry. 

He lay still for a long time after the voices faded. The ache behind his ribs wasn’t from the wound anymore. It was something deeper. Something colder. He’d heard Chan’s voice. The silence that followed after. He wasn’t welcome and he wasn’t trusted.

And worst of all, they were starting to forget to be kind about it.

For a moment, he imagined doing it properly. Waking early. Helping with chores. Offering small courtesies and being good. The way Felix was. The way Hyunjin had earned his place here. He pictured it: rising before the others. Gathering firewood. Washing blankets. Offering to help Jeongin sort herbs. Stir the stew. Clean the furs. Do anything.

And then the fantasy crumbled, fast and ugly. Because he didn’t know how or even where to start.

In the palace, he had been told that omega princes didn’t soil their hands. That practical knowledge dulled the mind and distracted from refinement. His value had never been in what he could do, only in what he was: a symbol, comfort to the people, property of the crown.

And now that he was outside the palace, what remained? Nothing but skin and perfume and fear. He was beautiful and fragile and utterly useless. That was the truth of it.

A raw sound caught in his throat, but he swallowed it down. No one could hear him now. No one could see him spiral. So he did what he’d been trained to do. He stopped unraveling. There was not a chance in hell that they would fall for him the hard way, so he needed to secure his place his way.

And so he waited. He was well accustomed to waiting. Waiting and watching his life pass by from a sideline bench. On pause until someone else would decide for him that he could play along. The pack cared for him like every other day. Food, bandages, Jisung slipped in a book for him to read, something about snares and hunting and the moon. He accepted it all with grace and gentle smiles. He was polite and courteous. Waiting for the hours to pass until nightfall. Until the world was quiet and still. 

He had bundled himself up in his nest, closed eyes and even breath, waiting patiently for Jeongin to finish his nightly routine. Checking up on him, feeling his forehead for lingering fever, making sure he was tucked in warmly. It wasn’t Jeongin he needed though. As soon as the beta left, Minho kicked the blankets away.

Not long after, there they were, familiar bare footstaps on their way to the kitchen. He knew those. Minho stirred, sighing deeply. The footsteps were still too far from the alcove. And so he let out a distressed whimper, louder now. He started to thrash, pushing away invisible hands. “No….no please, I’ll be good…” A desperate sob, a keen for help. “Please,…don’t—” 

There he was. A gentle brush on his shoulder. A reassuring whisper: “Minho, wake up. It’s just a dream.” Minho opened his eyes with a gasp, and made sure the first thing his tear filled eyes locked in on were Chan’s. He let out a deep sigh of relief, and then folded himself into the alpha’s chest. 

It caught Chan off guard, arms freezing in the air for just a moment, before they naturally closed around the shivering omega. Minho felt cold as ice, trembling and sobbing quietly in his arms. He was clinging to him like he was a lifeline. Chan cradled him on instinct, murmuring sweet reassurances into his hair just to calm him down. The crying went over to sniffling and then, Minho froze. He suddenly pulled himself back from Chan’s arms, putting distance between them as he reached for a quilt while wiping at his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —-your omega’s probably need you in the nest. It’s so cold tonight.” He sounded small, still a tremble in his voice. The sharp distress bled from his scent, giving way to roses that smelled of loneliness and fragility. Of something unclaimed and very fertile. So alluring. There was a rumble in Chan’s chest and a flicker of red gleamed in his eyes as his alpha rose to the surface. Mine. 

He reached out, cupping Minho’s cheek carefully to guide the downcast eyes up to his face. The thoughts came suddenly and unbidden: would he cry this prettily on his knot as well? Would he even be able to take it? Such a delicate, pure thing. Maybe if he was wet enough, squelching with slick that tasted like summer. He bared his fangs at the thought of sinking deep into this omega, claiming him with his bite, his seed, breeding him full until he was dripping. 

He thumbed a tear away, then dragged the pad of his finger across Minho’s pink bottom lip. So soft, so welcoming. Minho held his breath —almost there. And then he let out the softest whimper. 

The mood shifted. Chan clenched his jaw and blinked hard, willing his alpha back into the cage. He sighed deeply, shaking his head as if there was only him to blame. Minho could see the deprecating thoughts there, scolding at his weakness, at his predatory behaviour –all at the expense of this innocent omega in need. When he looked up at Minho again the red was gone, and the hunger was replaced by that familiar tenderness. 

“Come with me,” he whispered. And Minho didn’t know what he meant by that, but the next moment he was lifted from his bed, quilt and all. Chan carried him out as if he weighed nothing, careful of his injuries as he padded across the floor.

He lowered him into the big nest, placing him on the farthest side of the dais, pressed between wall and alpha. Chan buried him under blankets and quilts. Then he lay down next to him, back towards the rest of the pack to shield him out of sight, like a dragon hoarding treasure. “You’re safe here, nothing can hurt you, I promise,” he murmured while pressing close, bringing an arm around Minho to caress his arm, his ribs, his lower back. 

Minho purred in triumph: he had won! Seduction perfectly executed, his mother would be proud. Much to his annoyance though, his omega purred because of the way this alpha made him feel. Cherished and loved and taken care of. It wasn’t real, he had to remind himself. None of it was. It was just to secure a spot until he was healed. 

“Sleep now, I’ve got you,” the alpha interrupted Minho’s train of thoughts. Much to his shock, his omega instantly obeyed, he felt his consciousness slipping, eyes fluttering shut to surrender to this safe cradle of dreams and soothing scents.

Chapter Text

Three months before the escape.

The palace chapel was empty at this hour, candlelight flickering across stone walls that had heard a thousand prayers and kept a thousand secrets. Minho was kneeling on the cold marble floor, hands folded in perfect supplication. His spine was straight but there was a tremor that ran through his frame.

“Mother of Warmth, who cradles all omegas,” Minho whispered. “Grant me strength to bear what I must. Guide me toward acceptance.”

The words rang hollow.

“Mother of Light, who sees all suffering, help me find grace in submission. Let my purpose serve the greater good.”

Lies, a voice said. Pretty gilding for a cage.

Minho's composure cracked slightly, a soft sound escaping his throat. Something between a sob and an amen. The trembling worsened, spreading from his hands to his shoulders, making the formal kneeling position harder to maintain.

Footsteps echoed in the chapel's silence. Seungmin's boots on marble, approaching with care.

"Your Highness," his voice was quiet and formal. "It's well past midnight. Perhaps you should rest."

Minho didn't look up, didn't break his prayer position. "I can’t sleep. The chapel seemed... quieter."

Seungmin moved closer, close enough that Minho could sense his warmth, his steady presence. The beta settled on a nearby pew, not kneeling, because he wasn't particularly religious, but respectful nonetheless.

"The same nightmare?" Seungmin asked gently.

Minho's hands tightened in their folded position. They'd never spoken directly about the dreams that had been plaguing him for weeks. Dreams of hands that took without asking, of a future mapped out in bruises and heat cycles and desperate, silent submission.

"Prayer usually helps," Minho said instead. "The familiar words, the ritual. It centers the mind."

"Usually?"

"Tonight it feels..." Minho finally lifted his head, meeting Seungmin's eyes in the candlelight. "Empty. Like speaking into the darkness and pretending something speaks back."

The admission hung between them, dangerous in its honesty. Doubt was not becoming in a prince, especially not doubt about the divine order that placed him exactly where he was.

Seungmin was quiet for a moment, studying Minho's face. The omega looked exhausted, hollow-eyed, younger than his twenty-two years. The tremor in his hands had worsened during the prayer rather than improving.

"Your Highness," Seungmin said carefully. "Rest assured, the Mother is always watching over you. But perhaps what you need isn't prayer."

"Then what?"

"Distraction. Something to quiet your mind in a different way. Conversation perhaps. About anything other than duty and wedding preparations and..." Seungmin gestured vaguely at the chapel around them. "Divine purpose."

A small smile ghosted across Minho's lips, the first genuine expression Seungmin had seen from him in weeks. "That sounds dangerously close to leisure, Captain Kim. Encouraging the Prince to be frivolous?"

"I'm encouraging the Prince to be human," Seungmin replied simply.

The words settled something in Minho's chest. He rose from his kneeling position, joints protesting after hours on the cold marble, and moved to sit on the pew beside Seungmin.

"Conversation," Minho mused. "About what?"

"Anything you'd like."

Minho was quiet for a moment, pressing his hands between his knees. He glanced to the side and it was like observing Seungmin for the very first time. He was young, younger than he’d thought a Captain would be. He looked tired as well, face drawn while he was adjusting the sword at his hip..Seungmin hardly ever sat down during his shift, maybe it was bothering him. Or maybe not, he didn’t actually know what would bother his guard.

"I realize I know almost nothing about you."

Seungmin's posture straightened immediately, professional walls rising. "Your Highness, my personal life isn't particularly interesting—"

Minho turned to study his profile in the candlelight. "I mean that for three years, you've been at my side almost constantly. You've seen me at my worst, held my hair when I was sick from the alchemist's treatments, helped me practice walking in ridiculous court shoes. You know everything about me."

"It's my duty to know—"

"And still I know nothing about you," Minho continued, cutting through Seungmin's deflection. "Nothing real. I don't know if you have family, friends or interests beyond your work. I don't know what makes you laugh or what keeps you awake at night."

Seungmin was quiet, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"I don't even know if you're mated," Minho said softly. "If there's someone waiting for you when your shifts end."

"Your Highness—"

"Are you?" Minho's voice was gentle but persistent. "Mated?"

The question hit something vulnerable in Seungmin's chest. His careful composure flickered, just for a moment, before sliding back into place.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not."

"But there was someone?" Minho's insight was sharp, reading the pain that had flashed across Seungmin's features. "Once?"

Seungmin was silent for so long that Minho thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant.

"Yes. Once upon a time."

"What happened?"

"It wasn't... practical. Our lives were moving in different directions. He wanted things I couldn't give him." Minho caught the slight hesitation, the way Seungmin's scent shifted with old pain.

"What kind of things?" Minho asked gently.

Seungmin's hands clenched in his lap. "Freedom. Choice. A life outside these walls." His voice grew quieter. "Things that people like us don't get to have."

"People like us?"

"People bound by duty. By loyalty to the crown. By oaths that mean more than personal happiness." Seungmin's smile was bitter, self-deprecating. "He used to say that love should be enough. That if we cared about each other, the rest would work itself out."

"What was he like?" Minho asked, settling more comfortably on the pew. There was something hungry in his expression, the Mother temporarily forgotten. Replaced by a desperate need for stories of real love, even secondhand. Seungmin looked at him, clearly debating whether to indulge the question.

"Strong," he said with a deep sigh, giving into his Prince. "Not just physically, though he was that too. Strong in his convictions. He had this way of seeing the world that was... uncomplicated. Right and wrong were clear to him in ways they never were to me."

"He sounds noble."

"He was. I suppose." Seungmin's voice grew softer. "He had these eyes that would light up when he laughed. Really laughed, not the polite court version. And he'd notice the smallest things, he had a keen eye."

Minho leaned forward slightly, drawn into the story despite himself. "What did you do together? In your spare time?"

"We didn't have much of that. Stolen moments, mostly." Seungmin's expression grew wistful. "Sometimes we'd find an excuse to patrol the same corridors, just to walk together."

"That sounds lovely."

"There was this alcove," Seungmin continued, deciding to paint the complete story for Minho. "Hidden between two pillars in the east wing. We'd meet there sometimes, just before dawn. He'd bring tea he'd stolen from the kitchens, and we'd share it while watching the sun rise through the windows."

Minho's eyes had grown bright, caught up in the romance of it. "Like a secret."

"Everything was a secret. But those mornings... those were ours. He'd rest his head on my shoulder, and we'd plan impossible futures. A cottage somewhere far from court. Gardens we'd tend together. Simple meals, honest work, time that belonged to no one but us."

"Did you... did he kiss you?"

The question hit Seungmin off guard. His mind immediately flooded with memories. Not of gentle, romantic kisses under starlight, but of desperate, hungry encounters. Fumbling with uniform buttons in darkened corridors. Mouth and teeth and tongue, hot and demanding against his throat. Quick, desperate fucks before duty called them away again.

But there had been kisses too, hadn't there? Soft ones in those precious dawn moments. Lazy, tender presses of lips when words weren't enough to convey what they meant to each other.

"Yes," Seungmin said finally. "We did."

"How romantic," Minho sighed. Seungmin almost laughed, or maybe cried. Romantic. Such a light word for something that had been desperate and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

"What did he smell like?" The question slipped out before Minho could stop it, and he blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, that's—"

"Cedar and smoke," Seungmin answered without hesitation. "And something underneath that was just... him. Warm and grounding and safe. When I was with him, the world felt less sharp around the edges."

Minho sighed softly.. "I've never had that. Someone whose scent made everything feel safer."

"You will," Seungmin said gently, though his voice lacked conviction.

"No." Minho corrected. His voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through the fantasy world they had been creating. "I'll have someone whose scent has been designed to complement mine. Someone whose compatibility has been calculated by alchemists and political advisors. It's not the same thing."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their respective griefs—one for love lost, one for love that would never be found. Minho’s roses and blackcurrant twirling around them to keep the fantasy alive for as long as possible.

"What happened?" Minho asked eventually. "Why did it end?"

Seungmin's expression grew distant, pained. "He started to break under the weight of it all. The things we had to witness, the orders we had to follow. He had such a strong sense of right and wrong, and watching the court... it was killing him slowly."

"And you couldn't help?"

"I tried. But I was bound by the same oaths, the same duties. I couldn't leave. My word, my honor, everything I was built on depended on staying." Seungmin's voice grew heavy with old grief. "And he... he dreamed of something different. Something free."

His hands trembled slightly. "He begged me to come with him. Said we could disappear one night, start over somewhere new. Be who we really were instead of who duty demanded."

"But you didn’t."

"I couldn't break my oath. Couldn't abandon my post." Seungmin's voice grew quiet. "And he... he couldn't wait forever. So one night, he left. I think he knew that if he said goodbye, I might have tried to stop him. Or that I might have chosen duty over him again."

"Do you regret it?"

The question hung in the air between them. In the candlelight, Seungmin looked older now, worn down by years of carrying burdens he couldn't share.

"Every day," he whispered. "I loved him dearly. But I hope... I hope he found what he was looking for."

Minho reached out without thinking, covering Seungmin's clenched hand with his own. The touch was gentle, comforting, the kind of contact that existed outside the rigid boundaries of their usual roles.

"I'm sorry," Minho said simply. "For your loss. For the choice you had to make."

Seungmin stared down at their joined hands. "Why did you ask? About my personal life?"

Minho was quiet for a moment, considering. "I needed to know that somewhere, someone gets to choose who they love. Even if they lose them. Even if it breaks their heart." 

Minho's grip on Seungmin's hand tightened slightly. "He was lucky," Minho concluded. "To be loved by someone like you. Even briefly."

"He didn't think so at the end."

"Then he was also a fool." Minho's voice carried surprising conviction. "Anyone who earns your loyalty, your devotion, your protection, should treasure it. Even if circumstances make it impossible to keep."

Seungmin looked up then, meeting Minho's eyes directly. "You're too kind, Your Highness."

"I'm honest." Minho smiled, and for once, it reached his eyes. "Thank you. For sharing something real with me. For reminding me that love exists, even when it's complicated."

Chapter Text

Minho woke to the sound of sharp voices cutting through the early morning quiet.

He was warm. Warmer than he'd been since arriving at the cabin. His cheek was pressed against something solid and steady. Chan's chest, rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Strong arms were wrapped around him, holding him secure against the alpha's side on the raised platform of the pack leader's sleeping space. 

Minho was basking in his firm cedar scent, tinged with protectiveness. Close, he was so close to Chan he thought he could melt into him. He was even purring, a barely audible rumble in his chest that spoke of deep contentment. He felt so warm, so safe. 

But the voices cut through the fuzziness in his brain like knives. And for the briefest moment, he scrunched his nose in irritation. 

They were coming from the main area of the cabin, just beyond the nest. Hyunjin's voice, sharp and angry. Felix, trying to mediate. And Chan's responses, growing more defensive by the second.

"—don't care what you think this is," Chan was saying, his voice carrying clearly across the space. Though he tried to stay as still as possible.  "He was having nightmares. Crying out in his sleep. What was I supposed to do, let him suffer?"

"You were supposed to wake Felix or Jeongin," Hyunjin snapped back. "Not drag him into the nest like some lost pet."

Minho kept his breathing even, his body relaxed. Let them think he was still asleep. Let them fight over him.

"He needed comfort," Chan said, and Minho could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest. "He's been through trauma. He's scared and alone and—"

"And you don't know anything about him!" Hyunjin's scent was spiking with frustration. "His scent is wrong, Chan. Everything about him is wrong. And now you're—"

"I'm being compassionate. Showing basic omega care." Chan's arms tightened slightly around Minho. "Not everyone grew up with your advantages, Hyunjin. Not everyone had the luxury of growing independent."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"My advantages?" Hyunjin's voice was dangerously quiet.

Felix made a small whimpering sound. "Chan, what do you mean by that?"

Chan seemed to realize he'd stepped into dangerous territory, but instead of backing down, he doubled down. “I mean you’re both strong. Independent. Survivors. I love that about you. But Minho, he’s not there yet. He is still fragile and last night he was in need of an alpha to settle him. It was instinct, just pure omega nature.”

Minho felt something cold settle in his stomach. Even he could hear how that sounded.

"Pure omega nature?" Hyunjin choked out. "As opposed to what. Our corrupted versions?" 

"That's not what I…"

"No, I think that's exactly what you meant." Felix's voice was small, wounded. "You think he's a better omega than we are."

"I think he needs protection!" Chan's voice rose, frustration bleeding through. "All he does is being exactly what an omega should feel safe enough to be: soft and trusting, vulnerable and—"

"And what, we're not?" Hyunjin cut him off, voice high pitched in his anger. "Is that it, Chan? Are you tired of loving us despite our damage?"

The words hung in the air like poison.

"Hyunjin, that's not—you know I don't think that," Chan said, but his voice lacked conviction now. "I love you. Both of you. Exactly as you are."

"But you love him more," Felix whispered. "Because he's easier, because he needs you to save him."

The silence stretched out, heavy and damning. Minho closed his eyes tighter and tried to ignore the way his chest was tightening. He needed to remind himself that this was for his own survival, just until he could reach the white trees. Wherever they might be, whoever might still be waiting there for him, or not anymore…and then what? Nausea crept up in his throat but he willed it down, it was for later concern. All that mattered now was that Chan would keep him, and the others would learn to love him. In time.

"I can't—" Hyunjin's voice cracked. He wiped a desperate hand over his heated face, then let it fall heavily to his side in defeat. "I can't listen to this bullshit anymore."

The sound of footsteps, sharp and quick across the wooden floor. The door slammed open, then shut with enough force to rattle the windows. 

Felix let out a small, dry sob, choking on tears that wouldn’t come. He slung his arms around his waist, suddenly spiraling alone in the middle of the cabin. "He thinks I'm damaged."

"No, Lix." Jisung's voice was suddenly close, gentle but firm. "He's being an idiot, but that's not what he meant."

"Isn't it?" Felix's voice was barely a whisper, locking in on Jisung nearby. He wiped the hot insistent tears from his face. "Maybe he's right. Maybe Minho is what a true omega should be. And I—"

"Stop." Jisung again, closer now. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. Come on, let's get some air."

More footsteps, softer this time. The door opened and closed again, leaving behind a silence that felt thick as smoke.

Jeongins voice cut through the quiet, clinical and sharp. "Chan, I need to check Minho's wounds. He needs to be moved to the healing area for proper examination."

"He's fine where he is," Chan said, his arms tightening protectively around Minho.

"His bandages need changing, and I need proper light to check for infection. Medical necessity." Jeongins tone brooked no argument. "Now."

A pause. Then Chan's arms reluctantly loosened. "Fine. But I want to stay with him."

"No. Patient privacy. And Changbin needs to speak with you anyway."

Minho felt himself being gently lifted, transferred from Chan's warm embrace to Jeongin’s more clinical grip. The loss of the alpha's protective scent hit him harder than he expected.

"Be careful with him," Chan called after them, voice tight with worry. "He's still weak."

As the curtain fell closed behind them, Minho heard Changbin's low voice, carefully controlled: "We need to talk, Chan. Right now."

The silence stretched between them. Chan stood in the empty nest area, hands clenched at his sides, still radiating protective energy with nowhere to direct it.

Changbin’s voice cut through the quiet. “What the hell was that?”

Chan’s head snapped up. “What was what? I was protecting someone who needed it. Same as I did for all of you.”

“You were choosing him over your mates.” Changbin stepped closer, his tone low and dangerous. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“I told the truth,” Chan shot back, though doubt flickered in his eyes. “Hyunjin’s paranoid, and Felix—”

“Felix what?” Changbin’s voice sharpened. “Traumatized? Broken? Not good enough for you?”

Chan flinched. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean? Because what I heard was you telling the two people you love they’re less than some stranger we dragged out of a trap.”

“He was cold. He needed comfort—”

“So you put him in our nest.” Changbin’s scent spiked with frustration. “The space that belongs to all of us. After we agreed it was too soon.”

Chan’s mouth opened, then closed again. Silence.

“I can feel it too,” Changbin said quietly. “That pull. That perfect omega scent. It makes every instinct want to protect him, care for him as your own.” He locked eyes with Chan. “But I’m not letting it control me.”

“You think I’m being controlled?”

“I think you’re being an idiot!” Changbin bellowed. “You’re not in love with him, Chan. You’re in love with an idea. Some fantasy of what an omega should be.”

Chan’s breath stuttered. “But Felix, Hyunjin—”

“Are real.” Changbin’s words cut clean. “With scars, with strength, with choices. Survivors. And you just told them survival makes them less worthy of love.”

The air had cleared enough from Minho’s scent for the words to pierce through Chan’s clouded mind. The blow landed and Chan’s face fell in horror as he replayed the fight in his mind. He sank onto the edge of the nest in disbelief, burying his face in his hands. “Gods, how could I?  What have I done?”

“You fucked up,” Changbin said bluntly. Then, gentler: “The question is what you’re going to do about it.”

Chan looked up, stricken. “How do I even fix this?”

“Start by asking yourself why you were so ready to throw away everything we built for someone you don’t even know. Then you grovel. A lot.”

Changbin turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and Chan, next time you feel the urge to play savior, remember who was there when you needed saving. Because it wasn’t him.”

The healing area was quieter than the rest of the cabin, insulated by heavy curtains and the scent of drying herbs. Jeongin set Minho down in the nest with efficient movements, his touch impersonal and clinical.

Minho kept perfectly still, watching the beta's face for any sign of what was coming. Jeongin’s scent was controlled, neutral, but there was a tightness around his eyes that spoke of barely contained emotion. Not directed at Minho, not really, but at the situation he represented. The chaos he was bringing into their carefully balanced world.

"I need to check your wounds," he said curtly, already reaching for his supplies. His voice was professional, distant. Nothing like the gentle healer who'd tended him while he was unconscious.

Minho nodded, not trusting his voice. He'd pushed too far, too fast, he realized that now.

Jeongins hands were rougher than necessary as he peeled away the old bandages. When he examined the healing gash on Minho's side, his fingers pressed deeper than needed, making Minho's breath hitch involuntarily.

"Healing well," Jeongin muttered, but his touch didn't gentle. If anything, it became more impersonal, more harsh.

He moved to check Minho's range of motion, lifting his leg to test the flexibility of his healing ankle. But instead of the careful stretches Minho expected, Jeongin pushed his knee toward his chest with firm, unrelenting pressure.

Fire shot through Minho's hip and thigh. His healing muscles screamed in protest, but he bit down hard on his tongue, tasting copper. He wouldn't give Jeongin the satisfaction of crying out.

"Flexibility is returning," Jeongin noted clinically, even as sweat beaded on Minho's forehead from the strain.

Next came the herbal wash for his wounds. Jeongin applied it with the same ruthless efficiency, the antiseptic burning like liquid fire against Minho's raw skin. It was meant to sting, Minho knew that, but this felt deliberately harsh. Punitive.

Minho's hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as he fought not to react. Sweat broke out across his skin, his breathing becoming shallow and controlled. But when Jeongin pressed a particularly tender spot where the snare had bitten deepest, a small whimper escaped before he could stop it.

The sound seemed to break something in the air.

Jeongin's hands stilled instantly. He looked up at Minho's face, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. Horror. Recognition. His scent spiked with self-disgust.

"I—" Jeongin pulled his hands back as if burned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

He stared at his own hands, then at Minho's pale, sweating face. This wasn't him. He'd never been unnecessarily rough with a patient in his life. Healing was sacred to him, care was sacred. And yet here he was, taking out his frustration on someone who was actually injured and vulnerable. This wasn’t one of Minho’s games, it was real. 

"Fuck," he whispered, stepping back from the nest. "I'm sorry. That's not…I don't do that. I would never—"

Minho watched him with careful eyes, reading the genuine distress in the beta's posture. 

"You're angry," Minho said softly, his voice hoarse from holding back his reactions. "At what I'm doing to your pack."

Jeongin's jaw worked, conflict was written across his features. "That doesn't excuse—"

"No," Minho agreed quietly. "It doesn't."

The silence stretched between them. Jeongin looked at his hands again, then at the medical supplies scattered across his workspace. His scent was heavy with shame and self-recrimination.

"I'll finish the examination properly," he said finally, voice thick. "You deserve proper care, regardless of…" He cut himself off.

"Regardless of what?" Minho asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

Jeongin met his eyes directly for the first time since the examination began. "Regardless of what you're really doing here."

The words hung in the air between them like a challenge. Jeongin knew. Maybe not the details, but he knew Minho wasn't what he seemed. And he was offering proper medical care anyway, because that's who he was. Who he chose to be, even when everything in him wanted to do otherwise.

"Thank you," Minho whispered.

Minho lay quietly in the alcove long after Jeongin had finished tending his wounds. He was alive, healing, and under Chan’s protection. Exactly what his mother had trained him for: read the room, find the weakness, exploit it. Survival, pure and simple.

But the sound of the pack’s fracture still echoed in his ears. He had done that. With careful words, calculated vulnerability, and that gods-cursed artificial stench, he had cracked them open and turned a family against itself. His mother’s voice whispered through memory: We don’t get eaten. But the truth pressed harder with every breath: he was the one doing the eating.

His plan had been simple once. Endure long enough to reach the white trees and find his mother’s contact. Vanish into the life she had prepared — a safe house, a false name, orders to return only when called. It would be clean, controlled and secure. His mother’s signature.

But time had slipped too fast. In hind sight, he should have sent Jisung to the trees. Trusted Felix with the pendant and the contact. Let Jeongin stitch him just enough to stumble the rest of the way with a pack full of provisions and the rogues waving him goodbye at the door. He hadn’t. And now it was too late. Contacts never linger.

So he was astray. Stranded in a liminal space that was not quite safe, not quite hostile. Neither here nor there. Because he had been weak. Because he had let himself be drawn in.

Blinded, enthralled, by this ragged pack of rogues. By their impossible tenderness, the way they touched without hesitation, spoke without fear, always found their way back to each other. They were already mending, because Chan knew all the right words and gestures and Felix and Hyunjin were the forgiving kind. He had watched it all like a stranger at a window, aching at the warmth inside.

Truth was, he wanted it too. He wanted to be part of it, or even just witness it. Even if they never wanted him back, hated him for what he was…

Minho turned his face toward the ceiling, chest tight with something he refused to name. It was complicated, and untethered. He needed something. A steady hand. A voice with answers. He wanted Seungmin.

For a heartbeat, the thought almost steadied him. But then memory soured it. Seungmin was never his, Seungmin belonged to the crown. His father’s man. Loyal until the end —until Minho’s end. The tightness in his chest cracked. He was unraveling at the seams and he didn’t know how to stop it. He needed care, not strategy. And so, when he finally moved, it was not toward Seungmin but toward Felix.

Felix, whose touch could mend without judgment. Felix, who might still be willing to soothe the jagged edges. Because Minho was slipping. And if he didn’t catch hold of something, of someone soon, he feared he would break.

Chapter Text

Minho followed the faint sounds into the kitchen area on instinct, his heart was beating too fast for what should have been nothing. He found Felix at the table, sleeves pushed up, hands dusted with flour, working the dough with brisk, efficient motions.

“Felix?” Minho asked softly. The name tasted unfamiliar, like he wasn’t supposed to use it, but he said it anyway.

Felix’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t look up. “Not now, Minho. I’m busy.”

But Minho moved closer, unwilling to stop. He reached out carefully, the way Felix had so many times reached for him. A brush of fingers against his wrist, seeking contact, seeking solace.

Felix flinched. A sharp hiss escaped before he could swallow it back and he bared his teeth on instinct as he pulled away like he was burned, flour scattering like dust between them.

The two of them froze. Both their eyes dropped to the empty space where they didn’t touch. And in that moment, they both understood it: Felix had placed Minho in the not-safe zone. 

Something in Minho shattered. The practiced softness in his face slipped, masks falling away all at once. What looked back at Felix was not the manipulator Felix was expecting, not the omega with roses on his skin. It was something fragile, made of glass. Stripped bare to the bone.

Felix’s breath caught. By the Mother, he wanted to reach back. To offer comfort to this version of Minho, to gather him close and whisper that it wasn’t all broken. But his own body betrayed him, still braced, still afraid of the sting. Carefull now that there were no other pack members around.

Minho saw it all, breathing too fast, too heavy. Before Felix could move, he turned. The door opened with a rush of cold air, then shut again.

The forest was annoyingly peaceful in the afternoon light, dappled shadows dancing across the ground as a cold breeze stirred the trees. It was freezing outside, leaves crackling beneath his shoes. Minho shuffled slowly between the trunks, carefully arranging his masks again, testing his strength, watching how his breath made small clouds in the frosty air. Like the day he was found. It was okay, he could still fix it, somehow.

He was leaning against an oak tree, catching his breath, when footsteps approached through the undergrowth.

Changbin emerged from between the trees, sweat glistening on his forehead, axe casually slung over one shoulder. He'd been chopping wood, from the look of it. Working out his frustrations on something that couldn't be hurt by his anger.

When he saw Minho, he stopped dead.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Changbin started after a beat, but his voice lacked conviction. His scent was complex: charcoal and pine, lined with frustration and desire and anger, all tangled tightly together.

"I needed air," Minho replied quietly. "I won't be long."

Changbin set the axe aside, never taking his eyes off Minho. There was something predatory in his gaze, something that made Minho's omega instincts flutter with a mix of excitement and fear. He breathed him in deeply, allowing the scent to fill him up. Changbin always smelled safe.

"You should go back inside," Changbin said, stepping closer.

"I will," Minho agreed, but he didn't move. He couldn't move, pinned by the intensity in Changbin's gaze.

Another step closer. "Now."

Minho pushed off from the tree, intending to do exactly that, but his healing leg chose that moment to buckle. Changbin caught him as he stumbled, arms closing tight around him. For a heartbeat, Minho melted against the heat of his chest. Then the alpha pulled him back, holding him at arm’s length like distance alone could keep him steady. His jaw was tight, his breath ragged.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” His voice was low, frayed at the edges.

Minho’s lips parted. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” Changbin’s hands tightened on his shoulders, not bruising but close. His eyes burned. “You know exactly what you’re doing. With that scent, those gazes, every fucking calculated move you make. You get under my skin,” Changbin rasped, voice almost breaking. “You crawl into my head even when I don’t want you there.” 

The words seemed torn out of him, frustrated and sharp. His scent spiked hot around them.

“I dream about you. Every gods-damned night since I carried you out of that forest.” His voice tore like claws, confession ripped from his chest. “I dream about pinning you down, about sinking into you until there’s nothing left, about claiming you so no one else can.” Changbin bit his teeth to prevent himself from growling. “I hate it. It’s not who I am. It’s not the alpha I want to be.”

Minho shivered, he wanted to move away, or move even closer. He just wanted.

“I wake up hard and hungry. Wanting to be near. And I hate myself for it,” Changbin whispered hoarsely, voice ragged with shame. “Because whatever this is—whatever game you’re playing—it can’t be real.”

The silence throbbed between them, thick with instinct and denial. Minho could feel how close he was to giving in, how much he wanted to, and how much he despised himself for it. And something inside Minho, some foolish, instinctive part of him, wanted him to slip, to be claimed, kept, loved.

So Minho lowered his gaze. Tilted his head. And bared his throat. The smell of roses bloomed around him.

Changbin’s pupils blew wide in response and with a single step he closed the distance between them. He grabbed Minho by his chin, and crushed their mouths together. It was hardly a kiss, all teeth and heat and desperation. He hauled him closer, thigh pressing between Minho’s legs, pinning him even tighter against the tree. His hands were everywhere at once. Roaming, groping, pulling Minho closer like he couldn’t bear any space between them, like he wanted to take him under his skin.

Minho gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed, caught in the spiral of instinct and shock. It was too much and too sudden. His hands clutched at the alpha’s arms for anchorage, holding himself up, but he didn’t pull away.

Changbin did though. Abruptly, as if burned, the alpha tore himself back with a ragged breath. His eyes were wild, mouth swollen, chest heaving like he’d just escaped something.

"Fuck," he breathed out, stumbling backward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He shook his head in disbelieve, shame and anger: "Fuck, what are you?"

He fled, stumbling into the trees.

Minho slid down the trunk the second he was gone, bark scraping his palms. His lips were throbbing, tinged with the faint taste of iron where a fang had nicked him.

His first kiss. 

And it had been nothing like he imagined. He had dreamt about kisses under moonlight or stolen in secret alcoves, with whispered promises and trailing soft touches. Exciting and sweet. Not like this, nothing like this.

He pressed trembling fingers to his mouth where his lips felt swollen and sore. He had just left him there. Minho ended up alone.

He had no one to blame but himself. With his scent, his behavior, his strange need to belong to a pack of rogue wolves. And what had it gotten him? Nothing. No bond, no place, nothing but shame.

He forced himself to his feet, limbs shaking and clumsy. Staggered through the trees until he reached the stream. The water was black and fast-moving beneath the ice, cold air stinging his lungs with every breath. He knelt in the snow beside it and reached up with numb fingers to tug at his collar, freeing his glands.

They were throbbing. Artificial pheromones clung to him like thick oil. He could even taste the rose and blackcurrant, no one should smell like that. Minho dipped his hands into the icy stream and began to scrub.

Hard, then harder. Cold water and rough fingers, dragging over the sensitive skin at the curve of his neck and wrists. He took a smooth stone and scraped until it stung, until the false scent began to wash away. Or maybe it didn’t, maybe it never would. Maybe it was in him now, under his skin. Something he could never be free off.

Tears blurred his vision. But he didn’t cry and he didn’t stop. He couldn't. And so he didn’t hear Jisung approach. Only when a shadow moved at the edge of his vision did he jerk upright, eyes wild, throat raw from panting.

“Hey,” Jisung’s voice was gentle, low. “You okay?”

Minho turned away sharply, water dripping from his chin, his shirt plastered to his chest. His scent was stripped raw, nothing but wet earth and adrenaline. No masks. No control.

His lips parted around the lie: “I’m fine.”

Shame burned hotter than the cold water biting his skin. Because Minho hadn’t meant to be seen like this. And he didn’t want to be seen like this.

But now Jisung was here. And he just stood there, hands visible, posture soft. His scent was a steady calm, devoid of pity or anger. And his voice was gentle and concerned: “Minho…”

It was enough. Minho broke.

He clutched the muddy bank with both hands, bowing his head as the first sob tore from his throat and it was nothing elegant or poised, just raw grief. His body folded inward as if trying to disappear. All the things he hadn’t allowed himself to feel came out in gasps and choked whimpers. 

He hated it. Hated himself for falling apart like this. For not controlling it. For letting someone see it. This was not princely behavior.

“Don’t—” he managed between sobs. “Don’t look at me. Don’t come any closer.”

“I won’t,” Jisung just said. And he knelt a few paces away, close enough to be felt, far enough not to be a threat. His back turned towards the breaking prince on the icy river bank.

Minho wiped at his face with the back of his trembling hand once the sobbing had subsided. Then he laughed, broken and bitter: “You must think that I staged this as well. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re a person.”

“I am not,” he countered. It made Jisung pause for a beat.

“If you don't know what you are, then start here,” Jisung said gently. “Start with being someone who cries at the stream when it’s too much. Though I’m pretty sure you are not an animal…or a plant.”

Minho said nothing.

Jisung sighed deeply. “You don’t have to know everything,” he added. “You don’t even have to be okay right now.”

Minho turned his face slightly toward him, still keeping distance. But the worst was over. The sobs had passed. The air was still. The stream kept running. And Jisung was still there.

“Can you… just give me a moment?” he asked hoarsely, not quite looking at Jisung. “Before we go back. I need to—” He gestured vaguely at his face. His soaked shirt. The mess of himself.

Jisung nodded. “Of course.”

He glanced around, then helped Minho to his feet with a quiet, “Come on.” The support was steady but never overbearing. Just a hand beneath Minho’s elbow.

They moved slowly up the stream bank to where a smooth-barked tree had fallen across a patch of moss. Jisung gestured to it wordlessly, and Minho sat, careful of his still-aching body. The cold water clung to his skin. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to wring out some of the wetness, then gave up and simply rested his hands on his knees.

They were silent for a while. Just breathing. The sun was setting. Somewhere in the forest, an owl called. The stream murmured behind them. Minho sat there until his breathing evened out, until his senses returned. Until a shiver went through his body, suddenly feeling the wind on his soaked shirt.

That was the moment Jisung stood up, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Alright. Time to get you warm again.” He offered his hand, mouth quirking slightly. “Let’s get you into something dry. Jeongin will have my head if you catch a chill after all his fussing.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched despite himself. Not quite a smile, but close. A small sound slipped out, something between a scoff and a snort, and it startled him enough that his eyes darted away.

Jisung only grinned. “There it is,” he said warmly. “Proof you are human.”

Chapter Text

The cabin door opened with a soft creak, letting in a gust of cold air that made the fire in the hearth flicker and dance. Jisung stepped inside first, his steady presence a shield between Minho and the rest of the pack as they entered together.

Minho followed slowly, his step unsteady. Water was still dripping from his clothes, his hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was blotchy and swollen from crying, eyes red-rimmed and raw.

The warmth of the cabin hit him like a physical embrace. The scent of pack hung in the air. Honey and cedar, pine and juniper, green apples and bread, all of it mixing with the smoke from the fire and the lingering smell of evening stew. It was overwhelming after the stark coldness outside, almost too much comfort.

Everyone was there.

Chan sat at the far end of the long wooden table, shoulders still hunched with guilt, his usual confident posture dimmed. Felix was curled in the chair beside him, arms wrapped around his knees, still looking wounded from the morning's fight and his aftermath with Minho in the kitchen. Hyunjin sat next to him, quiet emotional support through a difficult conversation. Jeongin sat across from them, clinical mask firmly in place, but his eyes were watchful, concerned.

And Changbin—Changbin sat with his back to the door, shoulders rigid with tension. When he heard them enter, his entire body went still. He didn't turn around, but Minho could see the way his hands clenched into fists on the table.

The silence stretched awkward and heavy. No one seemed to know what to say, how to address the fractures that had opened between them over the past few days.

Jisung guided Minho, not toward the nest where warmth and comfort waited, but not to the healer's alcove either. Instead, he pulled out a chair at the center of the long table. Neutral ground, where Minho could be seen and heard.

"Sit," Jisung said softly, and Minho sank into the chair, his legs still shaky from the breakdown by the stream.

Felix immediately stood, moving toward the kitchen area. "I'll get tea," he murmured, his voice carefully neutral. "And dry clothes."

"I'll help," Jeongin offered quickly, following Felix's lead.

They busied themselves with small kindnesses: a kettle on the fire, clean clothes retrieved from storage, a towel for Minho's wet hair. The domestic routine gave everyone something to do with their hands while they processed the shift in the air.

Because something had changed. Even Hyunjin could sense it. His eyes immediately found Minho, and for the first time they met, he really saw him, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly.

Minho accepted the towel Felix offered him with a quiet "thank you," his voice hoarse from crying. He dried his hair slowly, methodically, buying time before he had to speak. Before he had to explain.

The tea appeared in front of him, steam rising from the simple ceramic mug. Jeongin had pressed it into his hands with careful fingers, and the warmth spread through his palms like a lifeline.

"Minho," Chan said finally, his voice gentle but strained. "What happened? You look..."

"Like I fell apart." Minho finished quietly, staring down at his tea.

Changbin's shoulders tensed further, but he still didn't turn around. The guilt was rolling off him in waves now, mixing with his natural scent until the air was thick with self-recrimination.

"It's my fault," Changbin said, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's not," Minho interrupted, looking up for the first time since sitting down. His eyes were still red, but they were clear now. Honest. "It's mine. All of this is my fault."

Jisung's hand came to rest on his shoulder, a silent show of support that seemed to give Minho strength. He took a shaky breath, wrapping his hands tighter around the warm mug.

"I've been lying to you. Since the moment I woke up here. About who I am, where I came from, why I was in those woods." His voice was quiet but steady, each word carefully chosen. Minho closed his eyes briefly, gathering courage to lay himself bare in a way he never had to do before.

"My name is Minho, I was raised at court."

He opened his eyes, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

"When I was sixteen, they started... modifying me. Alchemic procedure. Because omega are weak by nature, and this was the only thing that could give me some control over my life at court. My mother called it perfectioning, that I should be grateful for it. Hence the strange scent."

Felix made a small, wounded sound. Jeongin’s clinical mask slipped entirely, revealing open horror. Minho's hands trembled slightly around the mug, but his voice remained steady.

"The marriage they arranged was just for show. To keep the bloodline pure my brother was appointed to—" Minho didn’t finish the line. He didn’t need to. The sharp intake of breath came from multiple sources. Even Changbin had turned around now.

"So I ran, I got lost, I fell, and then I got caught in a trap.” He scoffed softly at the summary of his pitiful escape. Not fit to be outside indeed.

He looked down at his hands, voice growing softer.

"And then you found me. You were so damn kind. I didn’t know what to do with that. It was so alluring that I got greedy. I just…wanted you to care for me too. I wanted to be part of it. But it wasn’t real, or genuine. And it only led to you tearing yourselves apart over me. I didn’t know how to fix it — I still don’t. Whatever I tried, it just got worse." 

The confession hung in the air like smoke. Minho forced himself to look up, to meet their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He let the words settle. Forced himself not to rush past them like he had so many times before. He swallowed. “I never meant to hurt you. Any of you. But that doesn’t change that I did.”

His voice cracked but he pushed through. “I don’t belong here, especially not after all this.”

He looked back at the table, fingers tight around the mug.

“So I’ll go. I promise I’ll leave. You don’t owe me safety. You don’t owe me kindness.”

He set the cup down carefully, as if returning something borrowed.
“I just needed you to know the truth.”

Silence stretched. The hearth crackled, and somewhere outside the wind pressed against the shutters. Minho’s words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and impossible.

Felix’s mouth opened, closed again. He looked stricken.
“Minho…” was all he managed.

Jeongin shook his head, sharp. “You’re not fit enough to leave yet.” His tone was too blunt, too clinical, as if focusing on that single thread could shield him from the rest of what had been said.

“That’s not the point,”Jisung bristled, “he’s trying—”

Changbin’s hand tightened on his knee.
“He knew what he was doing,” he muttered, voice low but cutting. His eyes flicked up at last, hard and unreadable. “There’s always a price for games like that. And he knew the stakes.”

Minho pushed the mug away. His voice was almost calm. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The words hung, strange and heavy. A dismissal, an apology, and a surrender all at once.  Then he rose, slow and unsteady, and walked toward the healer’s alcove. He didn’t look back.

The quiet that followed was suffocating.

Felix pressed his palms into his eyes  and breathed in deeply, like he could rub the images away. “He was just sixteen..” he whispered, voice trembling.

Jeongin’s reply was sharp, almost too sharp. “Doesn’t change what he did.”

“He just tried to survive!” Jisung shot back, fierce and loud, his hand slamming against the table. “He was scared and alone. He was taught this way, and he just—”

Changbin leaned forward, fists locked, eyes hard. “Taught or not, he knew there would be a cost. He said so himself: he doesn’t belong with us. Not if this is what he brings.”

Hyunjin’s gaze lingered on the closed curtains of the alcove, eyes unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, steady, a blade slipping under the silence.
“And even after all that, he’s still holding something back.”

The words stilled the room.

Chan’s jaw worked, muscles tight. He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. “I saw it too,” he admitted at last, exhaling slowly, gaze distant. Finally, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Enough for tonight.” His tone was tired and final. “We’ll sleep on it. Talk again in the morning.”

No one argued. The pack began to drift apart, preparing for the night. Only Jisung remained in his seat, unmoving.

Minho sat in the healer's nest, staring at his hands, trying to process what had just happened. Soft footsteps approached the curtain. Not Jeongin’s efficient stride, not Felix’s light bounce. Someone moving carefully, deliberately quiet.

“Minho?” Jisung’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Can I come in?”

Minho looked up, surprised. Of all the pack members, he’d expected Jisung to be the one keeping his distance now. “I… yes.”

Jisung slipped through the curtain, carrying a small wooden bowl and strips of clean cloth. His scent was controlled, but Minho caught hints of green apples undercut with something sharper.

“Your neck,” Jisung said simply, settling cross-legged beside the nest. “When you were scrubbing at the stream. Jeongin’s good, but he doesn’t know about…” He gestured vaguely at Minho’s throat.

Minho’s hand instinctively went to his scent glands, where the skin was still raw from his desperate attempt to wash away the artificial modifications.

“I made a tincture,” Jisung continued, showing him the bowl. The liquid inside was pale green and smelled of cooling herbs. “It’ll help with the inflammation. And the scarring.”

“Why?” The question slipped out before Minho could stop it. “Why help me now?”

Jisung was quiet for a moment. “Because you’re still hurt. And because…” He met Minho’s eyes. “Apparently, I’m too stubborn to let common sense win.”

He dipped the cloth into the tincture, the pale liquid catching the lamplight. “This might sting,” he warned, then paused. “May I?”

Minho nodded, tilting his head to expose his throat. The gesture felt different now. Not calculated submission, just trust. The first touch of tincture was cool, then warming. Jisung’s fingers were gentle but sure, his scent steady.

“You know,” he said after a while, “when you mentioned white trees to Jeongin that first day… I thought I recognized the description.”

Minho went very still. “You did?”

“Birch grove, two days northeast. Bark looks like snow in winter. Traders use it, or people who want to disappear.” His hands paused, cloth hovering. “That’s where you were headed, wasn’t it? Before the snare.”

Minho swallowed. “My mother said… someone would be waiting.”

“They might still be.” Jisung resumed dabbing, quieter now. “It’s not easy to find. Especially in winter.”

Minho studied his face. “Why are you telling me this?”

Jisung finished binding one wrist before answering. “Because I’ll scout ahead for you. When you leave. Make sure you’re not just walking in circles.”

Minho’s breath caught. “Jisung, you don’t need to—”

“I know.” Jisung looked up, expression flat. “I also didn’t need to watch you get eaten by the woods in those ridiculous shoes. And yet…”

Minho blinked, then let out the barest laugh. Jisung’s mouth twitched. “See? Already better.”

He shifted to the other wrist, working in silence until he murmured, “Change these every day. By the way, your real scent’s breaking through already. Sandalwood, isn’t it? Nice.”

Minho touched the bandage. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Jisung began packing up, slower now until he came to a halt. “You said you didn’t know how to start a fire. Or which plants won’t poison you.”

“I don’t know much of anything useful,” Minho admitted, flushing.

“Then you’ll learn. Tomorrow. After lunch. By the woodpile.” He checked the curtain before adding, “I can teach you.”

Minho’s throat tightened. “Why are you doing this? Really?”

Jisung stilled with the bowl in his hands, then sighed. “Because everyone deserves a fighting chance. And because I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t get one.”

He stood, balancing the bowl. “Besides, Felix would never forgive me if I let you starve. He won’t say it, but he’d pout for weeks. And I can’t live with that.”

Minho felt something warm unfurl in his chest. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. And Minho?” Jisung paused at the curtain. “Bring the court shoes. We’re burning them.”

When he left, the silence felt different. Lighter. For the first time since his confession, Minho felt a flicker of hope. Maybe leaving wouldn’t be a death sentence after all. Maybe, with Jisung’s help, he might actually reach the white trees.

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet in the early morning stillness. Minho slept deeply in the healer's nest, exhausted from the emotional toll of his confession and the weight of knowing he would soon be leaving the only place that had ever felt like home.

Jisung had been gentle when he'd woken him briefly before dawn, crouching beside the nest with careful hands.

"You can sleep in," he'd whispered, placing a soft touch on Minho's shoulder. "There's breakfast for you at the table. We'll be home before lunch."

The beta had lingered for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, then quietly retreated. Minho had heard the pack gathering their things, voices low and respectful of his sleep, boots shuffling toward the door. Then silence.

The soft creak of floorboards didn't wake him. Neither did the careful placement of boots, still damp from melting snow, on the rough wooden floor. But a presence did something that made his sleeping mind stir uneasily, some primal instinct recognizing danger even in dreams.

Seungmin knelt beside the nest, perfectly still.

His dark coat was travel-worn, snow dusting his shoulders, and his usually immaculate appearance showed signs of days spent tracking through winter forest. But his posture was as controlled as ever, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the hilt of his sword, as he watched the sleeping omega.

He'd been searching for weeks. Following cold trails and false leads, questioning villagers and traders, always one step behind. Until he'd caught the scent near the stream yesterday, familiar beneath the foreign overlay of pack and healing herbs. His prince. Alive. Thank the Gods.

Seungmin's expression was unreadable as he studied Minho's face. The omega looked younger in sleep, the careful court mask completely gone. There were healing scratches on his cheek, bandages on his body. Signs of hardships, and signs of care that made something clench tight in Seungmin's chest.

I should’ve been here, Seungmin reached out instinctively before stopping himself. The sound of approaching voices made him turn his head  toward the door, but he didn't move from his position. Let them come. He had every right to be here.

The door burst open with a rush of cold air and a whole pack of scents. Changbin entered first, arms full of bundled supplies, followed by Felix and Jisung. Their easy chatter died the moment they saw the armed stranger kneeling beside the omega.

Changbin dropped his burden instantly, stepping forward with lethal grace. His scent spiked with protective aggression, alpha instincts flaring at the sight of an unknown threat near his omega. Wait, his omega? MINE, his inner alpha growled in affirmation. He bared his fangs at the man on instinct. Making himself stand taller to shield his other packmates.

"Who the fuck are you?" Changbin's voice was deadly quiet, every muscle in his body coiled for violence. "And what are you doing in our home?"

Seungmin rose slowly, hands visible but ready. He was taller than Changbin, leaner, and there was something in his stillness that spoke of training and discipline. Palace-bred control.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone," Seungmin said calmly, though his eyes never left Changbin's face. "I've come to take him home. Thank you for your care. You will be fairly compensated."

The simple words sent ice through the cabin. Felix made a small sound of distress. Jisung stepped closer to Changbin, baring his teeth while growling. Making a front against the stranger in the house.

Then Minho stirred, and everyone froze.

Consciousness came slowly, pulling him from frantic dreams by the tension crackling through the air. The scent was awfully familiar, something that made his sleeping mind recoil in instinctive fear.

Minho's eyes opened. And looked directly into Seungmin's face. For a heartbeat, there was only confusion. The features were familiar but wrong, out of place in this safe haven. Then recognition hit like a physical blow.

They'd found him. His father's loyal hound had tracked him down, had been watching him sleep, patiently waiting to drag him back to the palace.

Minho gasped loud, choking on a scream that wouldn’t come. His body moved before his mind could catch up, scrambling backwards through the furs, putting distance between himself and the man who represented everything he had tried to escape.

"No," he breathed, when he finally found his voice. "No, no, no—"

His back hit the edge of the nest but he kept moving, falling to the floor, crawling away without ever taking his eyes off his guard. The fear was so large it was pushing him out of his mind. Replacing every coherent thought with static, ordering every muscle in his body into flight.

Seungmin took a step closer, reaching out. “Your High—”

“Minho!” Felix cried out over him, his honey scent turned sour with distress as he tried  to get past the wall of defensive packmates.

Minho? Seungmin looked puzzled from the pack to Felix and back. His jaw clenched, and then deliberate:

“Minho.”

But the omega just scrambled faster, he hadn’t heard a thing. A wounded animal seeking shelter. His eyes found Changbin, solid, protective Changbin who had carried him from the forest, whose scent always eased his mind. Safety. He keened without restraint now. High, loud and full of distress, reaching for him with shaking hands. There was no room for propriety, all protocol and manners forgotten. He was moving on pure instinct.

The broken plea shattered something in the cabin's atmosphere. Changbin moved without thinking, stepping between Minho and Seungmin. He pulled Minho up against his chest, arms coming around the trembling omega, shielding him from view.

"It's okay," Changbin murmured, his voice gentle despite the aggression radiating from every line of his body. "I've got you. Nobody's taking you anywhere."

Minho hid his face against Changbin's shoulder, body wracked with tremors that had nothing to do with cold. The alpha's scent wrapped around him, pine and charcoal and fierce protection, and he held on like it was his only lifeline.

Seungmin stared at the scene before him and he flinched when Changbin wrapped his arms around his Prince. The omega he'd devoted his life to protecting, the one he had served day and night for years, clearly saw him as the enemy now. Seeking shelter with…dirty rogues.

"I'm not here to hurt him," Seungmin said quietly, addressing Changbin since Minho clearly couldn't hear him through his panic. "I'm here to safely bring him home. Where he belongs."

"Like hell you are," Changbin snarled, arms tightening around Minho's shaking form. "Look at him. Does this look like someone who wants to go home?"

Hyunjin had moved closer too. The scent of angry, defensive pack filled the cabin.

Then there was a sound of boots, stamping off snow on the ground. The door opened again, and Chan stepped through.

He stopped dead when he saw the scene before him. Took in Changbin holding a terrified Minho. The strange man in travel clothes standing too close to their nest. The tension that crackled like lightning through the air.

But it was the stranger's face that made Chan's world tilt sideways. What made time stop and the walls close in.

"Seungmin," Chan breathed, the name falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse combined.

Seungmin's carefully controlled expression cracked. And for a moment old pain flickered across his features. Then he straightened his back.

"Hello, Chan," he said quietly. "It's been a long time."

Chan's eyes studied Seungmin's face, as if he wasn’t sure he was real. Reading the familiar tension in his jaw, the way his hands remained carefully positioned at his sides. Palace training carved in flesh. Always ready, always controlled.

"Seungmin," Chan said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command despite the tremor beneath it. "let’s talk. Outside."

Seungmin's gaze flicked to Minho, then back to Chan. "There's nothing to discuss. I'm here on official business. I'm taking him home."

"Five minutes. Please." Chan said, stepping toward the door.

Seungmin hesitated, clearly torn between his mission and something deeper. Old respect, perhaps, or the pull of unfinished business. His eyes found Minho again, the omega definitely needed to calm down.

"Five minutes," Seungmin agreed finally, his voice clipped. "Then we’ll leave. With or without your cooperation."

The moment the door closed behind them, the remaining pack members sprang into action. Felix was already moving toward Minho, his omega instincts overriding any lingering tension from their earlier conflicts.

"Come on," Felix whispered, pressing against Changbin as well so he could look Minho in his eyes, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

Hyunjin appeared at Felix's side, his usual suspicion replaced by fierce protectiveness. "Let’s get him into the nest."

Together, they helped Changbin guide Minho to the large nest by the hearth. The omega moved like someone in a trance, muscles locked with terror, eyes unfocused and wide. When they settled him among the soft furs and familiar scents, he was like a porcelain doll. Back straight, limbs stiff, face white as a sheet.

"I came this far," Minho whispered, voice broken and desperate. "He can't take me back now. He can’t."

Felix settled beside him, trying to melt his limbs with his warmth. "Who is he, Minho? Really?"

"My bodyguard," Minho said, the words barely audible. "Seungmin. He's been... he's been with me for years. But I can’t trust him. My mother told me. I shouldn’t have…" 

Hyunjin's eyes sharpened. "Your bodyguard? What kind of minor noble has a personal bodyguard?"

Before Minho could answer, Felix was already smothering him under blankets and furs.

Chan could only stare. Because there he was, on his porch, looking exactly like he remembered him. Though his eyes were colder, the way he was looking him up and down, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Wait, he should be talking. He cleared his throat.

“What are you doing here, Seungmin?”

“It's Captain Kim now.”

Chan blinked. “What business do you have here, Captain?

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to help a lost omega back to his family. As is my duty. I’m sorry he found his way to your doorstep. I didn’t know you chose a house this close to— We will be on our way shortly.”

“He told us what awaits him at home and why he wanted to leave. By the Gods, he’s just an omega, Seungmin.”

“Just an omega?” Seungmin’s composure cracked for the barest second. “He’s the—” His jaw snapped shut, then set hard. “He has responsibilities. You can’t just disappear because life becomes difficult.”

“Like I did, you mean.”

“Yes.” One word, quiet but heavy as a blade. “Like you did.”

Seungmin looked at Chan with something close to anticipation. He hated how his body leaned into him, how the scent of smoke and pine affected him, how he longed to hear words just for him. But Chan did not speak. And Seungmin had a job to do.

His tone shifted to something more quiet. “Is he still pure?”

Chan blinked, blindsided. “What?”

“You heard me.” Seungmin’s eyes were flat. “Don’t act naive. You know what they’re like at court. They will examine him thoroughly. I need to know what I’ll have to prepare him for. And since you seem to be awfully informal with him…Did you touch him?”

Something hot flickered behind Chan’s eyes. “You think we—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. His voice came low and sharp. “No. None of my pack has touched him. Not like that. Not even Changbin.”

Seungmin studied him for a long moment, reading him the way only someone who’d once known him could. Chan didn’t flinch.

“Good,” Seungmin said finally, though his shoulders stayed rigid. “Because if you’re wrong, you know what it will cost him.”

“He’s terrified, Seungmin. You saw it too. Isn’t there another way?”

Seungmin’s hands curled into fists. His scent shifted, sharp with something that might have been conflict. “It’s not my place to question that.” His voice cracked once, then locked back into steel. “None of us get to choose. He'll heal, forget and learn to live with it.”

Chan took a breath, ready to push, but Seungmin cut him off with finality.

“Five minutes are up.”

They returned to find Minho tucked deep in the big nest, surrounded by the protective warmth of pack scent. Jeongin had appeared from somewhere, medical bag in hand, and was crouched at the edge of the nest with a concerned frown.

"He's not suited for travel," Jeongin announced without preamble, not bothering to look up at Seungmin. "His wounds have reopened from the stress. He's running a fever again. Moving him now could cause serious complications."

Seungmin stepped forward, clearly intending to verify this assessment himself, but Changbin moved to block his path.

"Don't," Changbin warned, voice low and dangerous. "He's been through enough."

"I need to see—"

"You need to listen," Jeongin interrupted, finally looking up with steely determination. "As his healer, I'm telling you he cannot travel. Not for days. Maybe longer if he doesn't stabilize."

Seungmin stared at the small group protecting Minho, clearly calculating his options. He could force the issue, his training certainly made him capable of it. But the omega's genuine distress, Jeongin's medical authority, and the united front of the pack gave him pause.

Finally, his shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly.

"Three days," he said curtly. "I'll give him three days to recover. But then we leave. Whether he's ready or not."

"A week," Jeongin countered immediately. "Minimum. And only if he shows significant improvement."

Seungmin's jaw worked silently. He looked at Chan, who stood carefully neutral, then back at the nest where Minho had gone very still.

"Five days," Seungmin said finally, the words dragged out of him. "Five days. Then we go home."

The silence that followed felt like a temporary ceasefire in a war that was far from over.

They’d appointed Seungmin the healers alcove, Hyunjin had not allowed him anywhere near the nest where they kept his prince.

He sat rigid on the edge of the narrow nest that smelled of Minho and court. Spine straight despite the exhaustion weighing down his bones. Through the curtain, he could hear them settling Minho. Soft voices, gentle movements, the rustle of blankets being arranged with care. It was maddening.

"Easy," Chan's voice drifted through the fabric, low and soothing. "Just let us—there. Is that better?"

A small sound from Minho. Not words, but something that might have been relief.

Seungmin's hands clenched in his lap. The prince shouldn't be sleeping with commoners. It was  improper and dangerous, he shouldn’t allow it and if anyone would ever find out…

"Hyunjin, can you hand me that fur?" Felix's voice, soft with consideration. "I think he's still cold."

"Of course." The rustle of fabric, bodies shifting to make space.

"Better?" Chan again, that same tender tone that made something crack in Seungmin's chest.

Seungmin closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. Now he could focus entirely on the sounds. On the way Chan's voice carried the same careful gentleness it had once held for—

No.

He opened his eyes, staring at his hands. Professional hands. Palace-trained hands, wielding palace swords, a perfect extension of the will of the crown.

"Sleep now," Chan murmured. "I've got you."

I've got you.

The words hit like a physical blow. Seungmin knew them well. Had heard it whispered in darkened corridors, in stolen moments between duty shifts. Had felt those same hands card through his hair when the weight of court politics became too much to bear.

Before Chan learned to hate what they'd both become.

The memory rose unbidden, sharp and merciless.

Palace corridors, five years ago. 

Dawn light filtering through tall windows, casting long shadows across marble floors. Seungmin walked with military precision, spine straight, every step measured. Beside him, Chan moved with growing reluctance, shoulders hunched as if carrying invisible weight.

"You're quieter than usual," Seungmin observed, voice pitched low to avoid echoing in the empty hallway.

Chan's laugh was hollow. "Am I?"

"You've barely spoken since the council meeting yesterday."

"What's there to say?" Chan stopped walking, turning to face him. Even in the pale morning light, Seungmin could see the exhaustion etched into his features. "Did you hear what they discussed? Really hear it?"

Seungmin frowned. "The trade negotiations with the northern territories. Border security. Standard diplomatic matters."

"Standard." Chan's voice was flat. "They talked about people like cattle, Seungmin. Marriage alliances that ignore consent. Trade agreements that will starve border villages. And we're supposed to stand there and smile and call it diplomacy."

"It's not our place to question—"

"It's not our place to question anything, is it?" Chan's eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously close to despair. "We're just supposed to follow orders. Protect the crown. Serve without thought."

Seungmin stepped closer, lowering his voice further. "Chan, you can't talk like this. Not here."

"Where can I talk like this? Where can I say that listening to those lords and crowns discuss the peoples future made me sick? Breeding omega nobility like livestock."

The words hung between them like blasphemy. Seungmin glanced around the empty corridor, then pulled Chan into an alcove between pillars. Their alcove, a secret hideout, temporarily safe.

"What's wrong with you?" he whispered urgently. "This isn't like you."

"Maybe this is exactly like me," Chan replied, leaning back against the cold stone. "Maybe I've just been pretending to be someone else for so long I forgot."

"Chan—"

"Do you remember why we joined the guard?"

The question caught Seungmin off-guard. "To serve. To protect."

"To help people," Chan corrected. "To make a difference. To be something more than just..." He gestured vaguely at the opulent corridor around them. "This."

"We are helping. We're protecting the royal family, maintaining order—"

"We're enabling monsters." The words came out stark, final. "We stand by while they plan to break every omega spirit completely. While they treat people like game pieces. While they—"

Chan's voice broke entirely. He pressed his hands to his face, shoulders shaking.

Without thinking, Seungmin reached for him. Pulled him close, let Chan bury his face against his shoulder the way he had so many times before. In this alcove, away from watching eyes, they could still be just... them.

"I can't do this anymore," Chan whispered against his throat. "I can't watch and smile and pretend it's right."

"You don't have a choice." The words tasted like ash in Seungmin's mouth.

"There's always a choice." Chan pulled back, and his eyes were red but determined. "We could leave. Tonight. Just... walk away from all of this."

Seungmin's breath caught. "Leave?"

"There are places beyond the kingdom's reach. Other countries that need good guards, good people. We could start over. Be who we really are instead of who they've made us."

"Chan, we swore oaths."

"To protect the innocent. To serve justice. How is any of this justice?"

The plea in Chan's voice was devastating. Seungmin felt his carefully constructed world tilting on its axis.

"Our oaths bind us," he said weakly.

"Our oaths are what we make them." Chan's hands found his face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones with desperate tenderness. "Come with me. Please. We could have a life. A real life."

For a moment, Seungmin let himself imagine it. A small cottage somewhere far from court. Chan's laugh without the edge of bitter irony. Waking up beside him without the weight of duty pressing down on their chests. It was everything he wanted. It was impossible. A fairy tale.

"I can't," he whispered, and watched Chan's face crumble. "My oath... if I break my word, what am I worth? What would any promise I made mean?"

"What's your oath worth if it forces you to enable cruelty?"

They stared at each other in the growing light, love and duty warring between them like physical forces.

"I have to go," Chan said finally, voice hollow with resignation. "I can't stay and watch this. Watch them destroy all I stand for. Watch them destroy us."

"Chan, please—"

"Come with me. Last chance."

Seungmin's throat felt raw. "I can't."

Chan nodded slowly, like he'd expected nothing else. He leaned forward, pressed one last kiss to Seungmin's forehead.

"I'll always love who you could have been," he whispered.

A soft laugh from beyond the curtain yanked Seungmin back to the present. Jisung, saying something too quiet to catch. The others responded with gentle humor.

Chan's voice, warm with affection: "Sleep, troublemaker."

Just four days left. Four days of watching Chan giving someone else the life they could have had together. Four days of being the villain in this twisted, warm, fairytale universe of Chan. Four days to remember exactly what duty had cost him.

Chapter Text

Minho stirred in the healers nest, breath shallow, skin still fevered beneath the fur-lined quilt. Seungmin had insisted he be moved back there, since it was the most suitable place for him to heal. Jeongin had reluctantly agreed and now Minho was in the alcove with Seungmin hovering near. Changbin was brooding in a corner of the cabin and all the others were tiptoeing around the house. No one knew how to deal with the situation properly.  

Minho blinked slowly. The room was dim, lit only by the orange glow of the hearth. Shapes loomed quiet beyond the curtain. The main pack nest lay undisturbed. But someone was sitting just beside him, outside the circle of warmth, knees drawn up, spine straight.

Seungmin.

Minho's gaze locked on him and panic bloomed fresh and vicious. He was still here. Of course he was still here. His breathing quickened before his thoughts caught up. He couldn't get enough air. But he shouldn’t show vulnerability now. So he just stared.

"Good morning," Minho whispered, barely audible.

Seungmin turned and saw that something was wrong. Not in his face, but by the way his chest rose too shallow, his complexion turning ashen. It was also in the way Minho was struggling for composure. He looked… lost.

Seungmin moved toward the nest but didn't touch, hovering with that strange, unreadable stillness of someone trained to remain distant and in control no matter what.

"Minho," he said gently, and then firmer, "Don’t worry, you're safe."

But by now, Minho could hardly hear it. He just nodded, that was always the right answer. Air, he needed air. There was no sound. Just that awful, rapid-fire staccato of panic overtaking reason.

From the main cabin, Felix and Jisung exchanged worried glances. Something in the tension bleeding through the curtain made them both edge closer to the healer's area, staying just out of sight but within earshot. Watching them through a gap in the curtains.

Seungmin's hands hovered uselessly for a moment. He didn't know how to fix this, not the way these rogues seemed to, with their easy touches and pack comfort. He couldn't offer that warmth. And he couldn't lie, not when his orders still rang in his ears.

So instead, he did what he had done once before, when Minho had been a boy overwhelmed by court pressures.

"Minho," Seungmin's voice was gentle but firm, the tone he'd used countless times in the palace. "Pray with me."

Gentle hands found Minho's shoulders, drawing him upright until he was kneeling properly in the nest.

"That's it," Seungmin murmured, positioning Minho's hands with careful precision. "Just breathe and pray."

Minho's hands were trembling as Seungmin cupped them with his own, fingers interlacing. The position was achingly familiar: spine straight, head tilted.

"Mother of warmth, who made the world soft and safe," Seungmin started, just above a whisper, his voice taking on the ritual cadence of court prayers.

Minho whispered the line a beat late. His chest eased by reflex.

“Look kindly upon your children,” Seungmin continued, “and grant peace to those who wander far from home.”

The panic bled from Minho’s scent, smoothed into a swirl of roses and blackcurrant. The trembling stopped. His back straightened. His voice grew steady, falling into the familiar cadence. It was easier this way. Easier not to fight it:

“Blessed be your scent, O Mother, sweet and sure. Blessed be your touch, your cradle of stars.”

Felix pressed a hand to his mouth, horrified. Jisung’s fists clenched.

By the time Seungmin finished, Minho was already moving on without him, reciting whole stanzas from memory. His voice was empty. Perfect posture, the high fever-blush on his cheeks now only highlighting his beauty. When he lifted his head, his eyes were clear but distant. Minho looked poised and demure.

The sight soothed something in Seungmin. A reset. A return to what they knew. A script they both understood. This was the Minho he recognized, the omega prince he'd been trained to protect and guide.

"Better?" Seungmin asked gently. His voice carried a note of relief that made Felix's stomach turn.

"Yes," Minho replied, voice soft and melodious. "Thank you for... for reminding me."

"It's what I'm here for," Seungmin said, finally settling back. "To guide you home. To help you remember who you are."

From the shadows beyond the curtain, Jisung clutched Felix's arm with white-knuckled fists. “No way…” Felix whispered, a hand pressed to his chest as if trying to keep his heart from breaking. 

The worst part was how easily it had worked. How quickly their broken, raw Minho had vanished beneath layers of practiced perfection, leaving behind someone who looked exactly the same but felt like a beautiful, breathing corpse. His stark artificial scent bloomed brightly around him. Alluring and off putting at the same time.

Neither Felix nor Jisung moved until long after both Minho and Seungmin had settled into quiet rest, making sure that Seungmin fell asleep, on the floor next to Minho, like a guard dog. Only then did they dare to move towards Chan and Hyunjin. “Hyungs, we need to talk…”

Chapter Text

“I know it’s hard. But we can’t intervene,” Chan held his hands in the air in a placid motion, trying to calm Felix down.

“Why not? It’s happening right here, Chan. What if… what if the Overseer comes knocking, will you let him take me back too?”

Chan’s eyes went wide: “No of course not! You’re pack, ours. I will never give you up.”

“Then why is this omega so different? Why can’t we protect him? I don’t understand.” Felix choked out. Jisung stepped closer, placing a careful hand on his back.

“Yeah Chan, what do you expect us to do? Make him a lunchbox and wave him off so he can go have babies with his brother? How can I live with myself after that?” Jisung even bared his teeth at the thought.  

“You know him, don’t you? That bodyguard,” he said, looking right at Chan. 

“I…do. From my time in the palace.”

“Can’t you talk to him or something? Talk him out of it?”

Chan breathed in deeply. “I’m not sure that will work. Seungmin is here to do his job. There will be consequences if he doesn’t.” His brow furrowed as he realized how that sounded.

“Can’t we make him, you know, disappear?” The shocked faces around told Jisung that that wasn’t a first option to consider. 

“Or maybe we can smuggle Minho out, right under his nose! We know the routes through the forest, and then we’ll get him to those white trees, his liaison will be waiting there, and then he will have a fair chance!” 

Hyunjin stirred. Minho should have been at that rendezvous point weeks ago, chances were slim that someone was waiting for him there.

“He's still hiding something,” Hyunjin said, tone lower than usual. “That was why he couldn’t stay. Yet…he’s here. And when he was in that nest, falling apart, he wasn’t some nobility or a liar. He was just omega. Mother be damned if I abandon one of my own to his fate under this roof.”

Chan exhaled slowly, looking between them. “I’ll talk to Seungmin. Maybe I can reach him, maybe not. He wasn’t always like this..” he added under his breath. “But until then, Minho stays here, under our protection. We still have a few days to come up with something.”

Hyunjin’s gaze lingered on Chan, unreadable for a moment, then softened just slightly. “Good,” he said simply, and for once it sounded like agreement. 

“So tomorrow, we’ll invite them for breakfast.” 

The morning light spilled across the long wooden table, catching on bowls and mismatched plates. They had dressed the table elaborately, complete with napkins, tablecloths and all the cutlery that they owned.  

Minho sat perfectly straight, shoulders pulled back, every movement measured. He held his spoon delicately between two fingers, lifted it with courtly precision, and sipped without the faintest sound. His posture was flawless, his expression serene. The sweet scent of roses gentle around him. He looked like a portrait. An omega noble dining at some grand estate rather than in a cabin full of rogues.

The pack tried. Gods, they really tried.

Chan chewed slower than usual, careful not to hunch his shoulders. Hyunjin dabbed his lips with the corner of a napkin that he kept in his lap. Even Felix kept his elbows tucked in, passing the breadbasket with ceremonial grace that would have made any steward beam with pride. It almost worked. For a few minutes, silence and soft clinks reigned.

Then Jeongin spilled his cup.

The tea sloshed across the table and straight into Changbin’s lap.

“Ah! Gods above—!” Changbin shot up from his seat, chair screeching back as he shook his thighs out like he’d been set on fire.

Jeongin’s eyes went wide and he sprang up from his chair. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s hot!” Changbin bellowed, though his protest was more startled than angry. He fumbled with the edge of the tablecloth.

“Sit still,” Hyunjin scolded, already yanking the entire cloth toward him with an exasperated sigh. Half the bread rolls tumbled to the floor in the process. But he gave it no mind, instead he started to aggressively dab the cloth over Changbin’s crotch. “Carefull with that,” the alpha warned while trying to back away.

Felix burst into helpless giggles, while Jisung smacked the table like a judge calling for order, eyes alight with mischief. 

And Minho…His lips twitched. The corner of his mouth betrayed him. A muffled snicker escaped before he could stop it.

Jisung pounced.

“Oh-ho!” he declared, leaping to his feet, pointing dramatically across the table. “He cracks! His Grace does have a smile after all!” He swept into a bow as though presenting Minho’s expression to an imaginary audience. Then he reached over to stomp Changbin on the arm without taking his gaze off from Minho. “Come on Changbin, do something stupid again. Trip over a shoe or something.”

Felix laughed harder, nearly sliding off his chair. Chan groaned into his hands. Hyunjin muttered something sharp, but even he couldn’t quite disguise the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Minho cracked. The sound escaped him before he could stop it, a laugh that broke through all the careful control. Not the polite chuckle drilled into him at court, but something real, unpolished. It slipped free, light and startled, then grew louder as the scene around him devolved into squabbling and giggles. He pressed a hand over his mouth too late to stop it, shoulders trembling with amusement.

For a moment, he simply basked in it. The mess, the noise, the warmth of it all. It was nothing like the rigid dinners of his past, nothing like the tense silences at court. This was loud, imperfect and alive.

Not everyone was pleased though.

Seungmin sat stiffly across the table, his spoon forgotten in his hand. His gaze flicked between Chan and Minho, jaw tight. The whole scene was a disaster. It was unruly, undisciplined, and made worse by the way Chan’s eyes kept straying toward Minho as if pulled there against his will.

By the time the laughter ebbed, Chan lifted his hand with a weary chuckle, reeling them all back in like a shepherd with wayward pups. “Alright, enough. Before we lose his respect entirely.” He shot Minho an apologetic smile, warm and faintly embarrassed. “Sorry. We’re not exactly refined company.”

Minho lowered his hand from his mouth, still smiling, eyes bright. “On the contrary,” he said softly, “I think it’s perfect.” 

Chapter Text

Minho sat at the edge of the healer's nest, plucking at a frayed quilt. The effects of the previous night's prayer were fading steadily. Seungmin tried to ignore it. Minho probably just needed some more reminders of his status to get the past few weeks out of his system. The perfect posture was still there, but something restless flickered in his eyes, something real breaking through the manufactured calm. Seungmin sat nearby, methodically checking his travel supplies.

"You could tell them you never found me," Minho said quietly, his voice still carrying traces of that courtly polish but with an edge of desperation creeping in.

Seungmin's hands stilled on the leather satchel. "What?"

"Go back. Tell the court you searched but found no trace." Minho's words came faster now, the idea taking shape as he spoke. "Tell them I must have died in the woods. Wild animals, maybe. Or the cold."

"Minho—"

"I could stay hidden. Just a little longer. Until the search parties stop coming." His eyes were bright with desperate hope. "You could take this—" He fumbled for the silver pendant at his throat, the one his mother had given him. "Take it back as proof. They'd believe you."

Seungmin abruptly stood up, his composed mask slipping. "You can't be serious." He started to move out of the alcove, trying to escape the ridiculous conversation. 

"Why not?" Minho followed him with determination. Wild around the edges, defiant. "What difference would it make? You could be free of this duty. Free of me."

"Free of—" Seungmin's voice cracked slightly. "You think this is about freedom? You think I see you as a burden?"

"Don't you?" The question hung in the air between them. "Isn't that what I've always been? A difficult responsibility?"

Seungmin's jaw worked silently. Around them, the cabin had gone very quiet. The pack was listening, though they tried to pretend otherwise. Felix and Jisung had stopped their quiet conversation by the fire. Even Changbin had paused in sharpening his knife. Everyone actively  avoiding the conversation in the healers corner. 

"I chose to serve your family," Seungmin said finally, his voice tight with control. "I chose to protect you. I even vowed an oath to it. That means something."

"Then choose differently now." Minho stepped closer, his scent shifting with emotion, no longer the artificial sweetness from the night before, but something rawer. Sandalwood, overpowering the rose. He reached for Seungmin’s hand, "Choose to let me go."

"I can't—"

"You can." Minho's voice was gaining strength, conviction. "You can walk away. Tell them I'm dead. Start a new life somewhere far from court. You don't owe them anything."

"I owe them everything!" The words burst out of Seungmin like a dam breaking. He tore his hand free. "Everything I am, everything I have, it all comes from that life. From serving, sacrifice and duty."

"From chains," Minho shot back. "Just like mine."

Seungmin's hands clenched into fists. "It's not the same. You have a divine purpose. You can't just throw that away to play house with—"

He caught himself, but Minho's eyes had already sharpened.

"With what, Seungmin? Say it."

"Minho, please. Just let us return. This fantasy you're living—"

"It's not a fantasy." Minho's voice was rising now, all traces of courtly composure gone. He pointed at the nest, where the rest of the pack was now looking back at the pair. "This is real. They're real. They care about me, not my bloodline or my womb or my political value. Just me."

"They don't even know who you are! You told me that they weren’t even willing to keep you around. Are you really that keen on throwing everything away?" Seungmin replied, voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "For what? To live in squalor? To pretend you're common, like them?"

"These people saved my life!"

"And I'm trying to save your future!" Seungmin loudly smacked the healer’s table with his flat hand. The glass vials rattled. But he wasn’t done yet. He strained his fingers in front of him, emphasizing each word as they spilled out, desperate to get through.

"Why can’t you understand? This. cannot. be! You can’t stay in this…this cabin with deserters and harlots and thieves! You're a Prince of the Realm, for crying out loud!"

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to stop crackling.

Seungmin's face went pale as he realized what he'd just revealed, staring right into Minho’s shocked face. His hands flew to his mouth as if he could somehow take the words back, but it was too late. They hung in the air like a curse, impossible to ignore.

Prince of the Realm.

Around them, the pack was staring. At Seungmin, at Minho, at the space between them where the most dangerous secret in the kingdom had just spilled out like blood.

"Prince, the omega Prince?" Felix whispered, the word barely audible.

Changbin's knife had gone completely still in his hands. Chan stood frozen by the door, his face carefully blank but his scent spiking with shock.

"You're—" Jisung's voice cracked. "You're not minor nobility at all."

The last curtain had fallen and it left him utterly exposed. Minho closed his eyes briefly, shoulders sagging with defeat. When he opened them again, all the fight had gone out of him. He looked smaller somehow, diminished by the weight of his true identity.

"No, I’m not minor nobility," he said quietly, his voice hollow with resignation. Then he scoffed out a laugh, bitter and empty. Because he just realized the inevitability of it all. It was foolish to think he could stay hidden. But even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. The truth was too wild, too serious to be spoken out loud. The consequences too big.

The pack realized it too, the air around them turning colder. They were harboring the heir to the throne. The kingdom's most valuable omega. The prize that armies would march for and heads would roll for hiding.

Seungmin stood in the center of it all, looking like a man who'd just destroyed everything he'd sworn to protect. His hands were shaking now.

"I—" he started, then stopped. Because what was there to say? He couldn’t take back the words. "Four days," Seungmin breathed out, mostly to himself. The words came out strangled, barely audible. "Four days, Your Highness."

And then he turned and walked out of the cabin. The silence in the cabin was suffocating.

Minho stood in the center of the healers alcove with nowhere to hide. And now he had to face the pack, alone. His shoulders squared, he lifted his chin at the precise angle he'd been taught since childhood. The broken, desperate omega who had begged Seungmin to let him go was gone, replaced by something regal. 

Without invitation, without permission, he moved to the head of the long wooden table and sat down. The chair creaked under his weight, but his posture remained perfect. Spine straight, hands folded, every inch the prince his bloodline demanded him to be. The transformation was so sudden it was almost frightening, as if the past weeks had been nothing more than an elaborate performance, and this was who he'd always been underneath. The mask was airtight, fixed firmly on his face.

"Please," Minho said, his voice carrying the cool authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. He motioned at the seats around the table. "Sit."

It wasn't a request.

The pack exchanged uncertain glances. Chan moved first, taking a seat across from Minho with careful neutrality. The others followed slowly, Changbin tense and alert, Jisung watching with sharp eyes, Hyunjin settling with predatory grace that suggested he was ready to bolt or fight at any moment. Jeongin sitting at the far corner of the table, looking distant. Only Felix remained standing, hovering near the fire with an expression of confused hurt.

"I imagine you have questions," Minho continued, his tone measured and diplomatic. "Concerns about what my presence here means for your safety, your future." He paused, studying each face with royal calculation. "I want to assure you that there will be no consequences for the aid you've provided. You will be compensated generously for the inconvenience."

Inconvenience. The word fell between them like a stone.

"Furthermore," Minho's voice never wavered, "I will ensure that your involvement in this matter is portrayed as reluctant assistance to an injured traveler. Your reputation will remain intact."

Chan's jaw tightened. "Our reputation?"

"You are, by definition, harboring a fugitive member of the royal family," Minho replied with clinical precision. "The penalty for such actions is typically severe. However, given the circumstances..." He gestured vaguely in the air.

Changbin's hands clenched on the table. "Are you threatening us?"

"I am protecting you," Minho corrected, his tone suggesting the distinction should be obvious. "By ensuring the proper narrative is maintained when I return to court."

When, not if. The certainty in his voice made the room feel colder.

"I see." Hyunjin's voice was soft, dangerous. "And what narrative would that be, Your Highness?"

The title hit like a slap. Minho's composure flickered for just a moment before sliding back into place.

"That you found an injured noble and provided aid until his guard could retrieve him. Nothing more."

"Nothing more," Jisung repeated flatly.

"Nothing more," Minho confirmed.

The silence stretched again, heavy with things unsaid. This wasn't the Minho they knew, the broken boy who'd cried by the stream, who'd reached for Changbin in terror, who'd laughed with surprised joy at breakfast. This was a stranger wearing his face, speaking in careful courtesies that sounded utterly out of place at their table.

Felix took a step forward from his place by the fire.

"Are you cold?" he asked quietly. The simple question cut through the formal atmosphere like a blade. Minho blinked, his royal mask slipping slightly.

"I—what?"

"You're shivering," Felix said, moving closer with that same gentle concern he'd shown that first night. "Are you cold? Or scared?"

"Your concern is commendable, but I am neither cold nor—" Minho began, but Felix was already moving, settling into the chair beside him instead of across the table. Too close. Far too close for royal protocol.

"You were both, that first night," Felix continued conversationally, as if Minho hadn't spoken. "Cold and scared. I could smell it on you even through all that artificial perfume."

Minho's breath caught. "Felix, you shouldn't—"

"I scented you," Felix said simply, reaching out to touch Minho's wrist where it rested on the table. His fingers were warm, callused from work, utterly human. "Before I knew who you were. When you were just Minho."

The touch burned. Not with fire, but with memory. With the echo of safety Minho had felt that night, wrapped in Felix's warmth and honest care. Just before Changbin came to chase him out of the nest.

"You can't," Minho whispered, his carefully controlled voice finally cracking. "You shouldn’t—I'm —"

"You were cold and scared then," Felix repeated, thumb stroking across Minho's pulse point where his scent gland lay hidden beneath bandages. "You're cold and scared now. That hasn't changed."

"Everything has changed," Minho said desperately, trying to pull his hand away. But Felix held on, gentle but unyielding.

"Not to me."

The words broke something in Minho's chest. The perfect posture crumbled slightly, shoulders curving inward as if to protect himself from the kindness he didn't know how to accept. 

"I'm royalty," he said, and it sounded like an apology. "I'm the omega prince and I brought danger to your door and I've ruined everything with my foolish play… and you weren’t even planning on keeping me, I was planning to leave you."

"You're still Minho," Felix said firmly.

Felix moved closer, his scent warm with regret and determination. "And we were wrong. We were just afraid because we could feel you were holding something back, could sense there was more to your story. But instead of asking, instead of making you feel safe enough to tell us, we decided for you that you didn't belong."

His voice cracked slightly. "We felt the bond forming, and there was this artificial scent around it. So we told ourselves that it was all manipulation, that your need wasn't real. But most of it was real, wasn't it? Your fear, your loneliness, the way you were trying to reach for us in your own, desperate way, that was all real."

Minho's breathing was becoming uneven, the royal mask dissolving under Felix's relentless gentleness. 

"I cannot be ‘just Minho’," he whispered, voice small and lost. "You were all witness to that, I was terrible at it. It is not my part to play. I belong at court."

Felix's other hand came up to cup Minho's face, thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped without permission.

"But you can learn to be. We’re in the woods, the palace is days away. You can be ‘just Minho’ with us." Felix said softly. "You can take your time, figure it out."

The silence that followed was different now. Warmer. But Minho was shaking his head, scrambling back into his porcelain shell, untangling himself from Felix’ hold. He had taken it too far and now it’d gotten all confusing and informal and just plain, wrong.

"I never meant for any of this," his voice was thick with tears but gaining strength, clinging desperately to the last royal straw. "I know my presence here has put you all at risk. But- but I want you to know that your service to the crown, even unknowing, will not go unrecognized.” He sat up straighter, blinking his eyes as he tried to remember the right words. 

“You have served the realm well, and for the glory of—"

The chair scraped violently against the floor and all eyes turned to the youngest member of the pack, at the other end of the table.

Jeongin had gone rigid over Minho’s speech, his face now drained of all color. His breathing had become erratic, his eyes unfocused and wild. He looked haunted. Both terrified and terrifying. He was seeing something else, somewhere else. His hands started to shake, clawing into the wood of the table. Minho took one look across the table to realize what was happening, and that he had set it off by carelessly using his Fathers words.

Chan stood up with a concerned look: “Jeongin, are you okay?”

Chapter Text

The battlefield. Smoke and screams and the copper taste of blood in the air. A young soldier, barely eighteen, lying on the makeshift table while Jeongin stitched up a gash across his ribs.

"You're done, son," the commander said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "Time to go home. Heal up proper. Your time to fight for the crown will come another day."

But the boy shook his head, sitting up despite the fresh stitches pulling. "No, sir. I can fight. For the glory of the realm, for the crown, I won't abandon my post."

"Boy, you're bleeding through your bandages—"

"I'm young and sturdy, sir. The crown needs every sword."

By evening, when Jeongin walked the battlefield looking for wounded, he found what was left of him. Ripped into three pieces. The boy who'd been so eager to serve, so proud to fight for the glory of the realm.

"Fuck your crown," Jeongin hissed, his voice cracking. That was when the terror shifted to anger. Unbridled, all consuming, white-hot anger that clawed at his ribs from the inside, that flooded his head. It was so large that he could smell it like bloodwet earth. It burned behind his eyes, as if Minho’s words had breached the dam. It finally found a way out.

Jeongin lunged. The attack came so suddenly that the air seemed to crack. He was next to Minho in three steps. His hands found Minho’s throat in seconds. He yanked him upright with savage force, the chair clattering against the floor. His face was twisted with grief and rage and something that looked like madness.

"For the glory of the realm!?" he screamed, his voice breaking. "For the fucking crown? They were just boys! They were just children and you sent them to die!"

Chaos erupted. Chairs scraped and toppled as everyone sprang up. Some lunging toward the violence, others scrambled away from it. And then the door burst open, rattling in its hinges. Seungmin appeared like a dark wind, sword already drawn, his trained eyes cataloguing the scene in a heartbeat: his prince with hands around his throat, face reddening.

"Stand down!" Seungmin snarled, steel gleaming as he moved with lethal precision, seeking an opening that wouldn't risk Minho's life.

"Seungmin, no!" Chan stepped forward, trying to grab at Seungmins sword arm. "He's not… this isn't what it looks like."

"Don't." The voice that cut through the chaos was Minho's, raw and hoarse from Jeongin's crushing grip but carrying absolute authority. "Don't touch him."

Minho's arms came up, trying to wrap around the thrashing body pressed against him, but Jeongin twisted away from the embrace. His fist connected with Minho's jaw, snapping the prince's head sideways. Blood bloomed from his split lip as he stumbled but didn't fall, didn't let go. Instead he turned them both, his feet sliding on the stone floor as Jeongin's fists hammered into his ribs, his chest, anywhere they could reach. Each blow sent shockwaves through Minho's injured side, but he gritted his teeth and made himself a shield between the broken healer and Seungmin's gleaming blade.

"Put the sword down," Minho ordered through gritted teeth, royal command ringing even as Jeongin's elbow drove into his healing wound. He couldn't suppress the grunt of pain, couldn't stop the way his vision blurred for a heartbeat. "Now."

Seungmin hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the bizarre sight of his prince protecting his attacker. Jeongin was still fighting, still lost in the memory, fists beating against Minho's chest.  Screaming at him at the top of his lungs."They died for nothing! For your glory, for your crown. Royal scum!"

"I know," Minho whispered, holding on tighter as Jeongin tried to break free, thrashing in his arms. His voice was steady, gentle, speaking directly into Jeongin's ear. Words only for him. "I know they did. You're right."

The words seemed to pierce through Jeongin's rage. His struggling slowed, confusion flickering across his face, as the punches slowed down to half hearted slaps.

"You were brave," Minho continued, his voice soft but carrying the formal weight of royal acknowledgment. "You were far too young to see what you saw, to carry what you've carried.” His thumb traced unconsciously along Jeongin’s shoulder blade, feeling the tension there. They were both panting. “You served the crown well, but the kingdom was careless with your sacrifice."

Jeongin's breathing was still ragged against Minho’s neck. Hot, uneven, out of breath. But he'd stopped fighting, instead he held onto Minho’s shirt. The fight bleeding out of him drop by drop, leaving tremors in his wake.

Minho sniffed, feeling the tickle of blood reaching his upper lip. But he didn’t let go.  

"I apologize," he said, and the formal words carried the weight of the crown he'd been born to wear. "On behalf of the realm, on behalf of the royal line that sent children to die for glory…” He paused, swallowing hard, catching his own breath. “I apologize. You have served enough. You have paid enough penance for us."

Jeongin's face began to crumple, slow but inevitably. The rage drained out of him, leaving behind raw, devastating grief. His knees began to buckle. Minho held him upright. 

"You may put it to rest now," Minho whispered, his lips brushing against Jeongin's sweat-damp hair with the kind of gentle comfort only an omega could offer. "You've done well and you've done plenty. You can rest now."

The words sank underneath Jeongin’s skin. His breath caught, held, and then he released it in a sound that was half-sob, half sigh. 

And then he broke.

He collapsed against Minho's chest, sobs tearing from his throat like they'd been trapped for years. His whole body shook with the force of grief finally allowed to surface, hot tears soaking through Minho's shirt until the fabric clung to his skin.

Minho held him through it all, instinct overriding everything else. One hand threading through his hair, the other tracing soothing circles onto his back. The omega in him purred, a sound barely audible, but felt in the vibration of his chest. Ancient comfort, meant to calm and heal.

Around them, the cabin had gone completely silent except for Jeongin's broken sobs and Minho's gentle murmurs. Seungmin slowly lowered his sword, the blade trembling as it sank towards the floor, staring at the scene before him with something like wonder. A whole different side to Minho he didn’t know existed. 

"I'm sorry," Jeongin gasped against Minho's shoulder, the words broken by hiccups. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—I just saw—the boys, their faces…"

"Shh," Minho soothed, still holding him close. Talking quietly, but enough for the others to hear. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all."

Jeongin's sobs gradually quieted to shuddering breaths, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he held on tighter, his fingers clutching at Minho's shirt like a lifeline. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw and broken, words choking out.

"Please," he whispered against Minho's shoulder, the word barely audible. "Please don't—don't leave."

Fresh tears spilled over. "I can't—I need—" He gasped, struggling to form coherent thoughts. "What you said, what you did—no one ever—"

The words dissolved back into broken sobs again. Jeongin pressed his face harder against Minho's shoulder, as if he could disappear into the warmth and safety he'd found there. The desperate grip of his hands said everything. Don't leave me.

Hyunjin moved first, his usual sharp edges softened with concern. He approached slowly, gently placing a hand on Jeongin's back.

"Come on," Hyunjin murmured, his voice unusually tender. "Let me take you. You need to rest."

Jeongin shook his head frantically, clinging tighter to Minho. "No, no, he'll leave. He'll go back to his palace and his crown and—"

"I've got you," Hyunjin said, firm but oh so gentle as he carefully pried Jeongin's hands from Minho's shirt. "I've got you, Innie. Come to me."

With infinite care, Hyunjin gathered the shattered beta into his arms, supporting his weight as Jeongin collapsed against him. The transfer left Minho suddenly cold, bereft of the warmth and desperate need that had anchored him to something real.

He stood there for a moment, bleeding, bruising, drained and tired. Caught between worlds. Between the omega who had just offered comfort and healing, and the prince who was expected to return to duty. Between Minho, who belonged in this warm cabin with people who cared, and His Royal Highness, who belonged to the crown. 

Every eye was on him now, waiting to see what he would choose, what he would do.

Minho straightened his spine.

The change was subtle but devastating. His shoulders squared, his chin lifted just enough and that careful, distant mask slid back into place. When he looked at them now, it was with the cool composure of royalty acknowledging subjects.

He gave a single, formal nod. Polite, final, dismissive.

Then he turned and walked away. There was a small limp in his step he couldn’t quite hide. His spine remained straight as a sword, but there was something fragile in the set of his shoulders, something that suggested the armor was thinner than it appeared.

He didn’t turn to the nest by the hearth where warmth and acceptance waited, instead his feet carried him back to the healer's alcove, back to the curtained sanctuary that had become his refuge.

Seungmin followed immediately, his relief palpable. Glad that his prince was coming to his senses. Controlled, distant and accepting of his fate with the quiet resignation that had been bred into royal bones. His prince who understood that duty was forged stronger than love, that crowns were worn alone.

Behind them, the pack sat in stunned silence.

Felix was crying quietly, still pressed against the wall where Hyunjin had hid him during the chaos. Tears tracked silver paths down his freckled cheeks as his shoulders shook with silent sobs, one hand pressed over his mouth as if he could hold back the sound of his breaking heart. The violence had terrified him, but this quiet devastation, Minho’s choice, was somehow worse.

Changbin's hands were clenched into fists on the table. His jaw worked soundlessly, muscles jumping as he fought against words that would only make everything worse. The alpha in him wanted to chase after the retreating prince, his omega, to demand he choose differently. To get him to choose for him, for his pack. But even he understood the futility of raging against the inevitable. 

Chan stared at the space where Minho had been, something breaking behind his eyes. But he didn’t know the words. He had no idea what kind of plea could compete with the crown. Because Felix had been right. They had been wrong about him. But that realization had come too late, for all of them.

And Hyunjin held Jeongin as the beta cried himself into exhaustion, whispering broken pleas for someone who had already chosen to walk away.

Jisung had watched it all from the shadows by the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. The violence had frozen him in place, but this aftermath finally spurred him into motion. His eyes found Felix, still trembling against the wall, and something fierce and protective flared in his chest.

He crossed the room on silent feet, sinking down beside the crying omega. Without words, he reached out and gently took Felix's hand from his mouth, threading their fingers together. Felix's breath hitched, fresh tears spilling as he turned into Jisung's offered embrace. 

And behind the curtains, Seungmin sat in the uncomfortable silence. Watching Minho's carefully controlled breathing, the way his hands trembled as he dabbed the blood from his face with a scrap of linen and that infinite royal omega grace. The prince was falling apart so quietly, so perfectly contained, that it was somehow worse than screaming would have been.

He couldn't watch it.

"You should rest," Seungmin said abruptly, the words coming out harsher than intended as he stood up with perhaps more haste than necessary. "You've been through a great deal today. All this stress is not good for your recovery."

Minho didn't protest. He simply nodded once, a perfect, obedient acknowledgment that made Seungmin’s stomach twist, and lay down in the nest.

Seungmin reached for the furs, pulling them up high to cover Minho's still form with hands that weren't quite steady. "Sleep will help.” He said certainly, though he wasn’t so sure. “Tomorrow we can begin preparing for our journey back."

Minho nodded again. Seungmin could see the tension in his shoulders, rigid like he didn’t know how to rest anymore. He stared at nothing.

"I'll be nearby," Seungmin added, though he was already backing toward the curtain like he was fleeing a burning building. "If you need anything at all."

Still no response. Minho lay there like a beautiful corpse, breathing but not living. Present, but already gone. Seungmin needed to flee, to run from this damned cabin until his lungs burned. He pushed the curtain to the side.

“Captain Kim?”

He halted in midstep. Then turned back on his heels with military precision. 

“Your Highness?”

“You were right.”

Seungmin swallowed hard.

“Of course you were right.” Minho continued, “It was all just a ruse. A moment of weakness on my part. I let myself get…confused. I’m glad you’re by my side now. I’ve been scared on my own and way out of my depths. Let's not put these kind people in more danger. Let's leave as soon as possible.”

“Rest now, Your Highness,” Seungmin managed. It was everything and at the same time nothing he wanted to hear from him. 

“All will be well.”

That was when he left and kept walking, past the pack's whispered conversations that died as he past, straight out the cabin door into the cold afternoon air. Taking it in with desperate gulp as he kept walking and walking. He needed to not see the devastation in Minho's eyes.

For the first time in his life, Seungmin began to question whether duty was worth the price. Whether loyalty meant watching his prince die a little more each day in service to a crown that would never love him back.

Chapter Text

The woodshed behind the cabin was quiet, sheltered from the wind by thick pine trees. Chan had been splitting logs with mechanical precision for the better part of an hour, each swing of the axe a little too forceful, a little too controlled. Hyunjin watched from the doorway, noting the tension in Chan's shoulders.

“Jeongin is fast asleep. He’ll probably be out for hours.” Chan didn’t respond.

"You're going to split that log into splinters," Hyunjin said quietly, stepping into the small space.

Chan's axe paused mid-swing. He didn't turn around. "We need firewood."

"We have enough firewood to last through this winter and the next." Hyunjin moved closer, his footsteps soft on the scattered wood chips. "This isn't about firewood."

Chan set the axe aside with careful control, finally turning to face him. His expression was carefully neutral, but Hyunjin could see the storm behind his eyes.

"I'm fine," Chan said.

"You're many things," Hyunjin replied. "Fine isn't one of them." The silence stretched. Hyunjin had always been able to read Chan like a map.

"It's him, isn't it?" Hyunjin said quietly. "The one you won't speak of. The one whose name you've never said, not once in all the years I've known you."

Chan went very still. "Hyunjin—"

"I see what it's doing to you," Hyunjin continued, his voice gentle but relentless. "Watching you try to hold yourself together around him. The way you flinch every time he speaks. The way you can barely look at him."

Chan turned back to the woodpile, hands clenched at his sides. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago."

"Was it?" Hyunjin pushed off from the doorframe, closing the distance between them. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like it's happening right now. Like you're still bleeding from whatever wound he left."

"I left," Chan said sharply. "I'm the one who left."

"Yes. That is probably why he looks at you like you broke his heart.” Chan's breathing had gone shallow.

"You've been carrying this for years," Hyunjin said softly. "This guilt, this grief, whatever it is that made you run from the palace. And now he's here, and you're falling apart."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Hyunjin's hand found Chan's shoulder, warm and grounding. "And that's okay. But hiding from it, pretending it doesn't matter, that's not protecting anyone. Not Minho, not us, not yourself."

Chan's composure cracked slightly. "You don't understand. What we had, what I threw away—"

"Then help me understand." Hyunjin's voice was patient, loving. "Because right now, we have Minho breaking apart in there, Seungmin following orders he doesn't believe in, and you carrying wounds that won't heal. And I think—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think you need this. To heal. To face whatever you've been hiding deep inside of you."

Chan was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands.

"I loved him," he said finally, the words barely audible. "And I left him there. In that place. With those people. I chose my conscience over him, and I've regretted it every day since."

"Then maybe," Hyunjin said gently, "it's time to stop hiding it and start fighting for what matters."

He squeezed Chan's shoulder once more before stepping back.

"He's here, Chan. Whatever you had, whatever you lost. He's right here. And so are you. That has to mean something."

Chan's throat felt tight. "Hyunjin, I—"

"Whatever happens," Hyunjin interrupted gently, reaching up to cup Chan's face with careful hands, "whatever you decide you need to do about him, about your past, we're right here too. I'm here."

Chan's eyes closed at the touch, leaning into the comfort Hyunjin offered so freely.

"I know you loved him," Hyunjin continued, thumbs brushing across Chan's cheekbones. "I think you still do. I can see it in the way you look at him."

"That doesn't change how I feel about you," Chan said urgently, his hands coming up to cover Hyunjin's. "About us. About the pack. You know that, right?"

Hyunjin's smile was soft, radiant. "Of course I know that. Love isn't finite, Chan. It doesn't run out just because you give it to more people."

He leaned up, pressing a gentle kiss to Chan's lips. It was soft. Hyunjin was rarely soft, but with Chan he could be.

"Your pack is strong enough for this," Hyunjin murmured against his mouth. "We're strong enough. For all of it—Minho, Seungmin, whatever complicated history you're carrying. We can hold it all."

Chan kissed him back, deeper this time, pouring years of gratitude into it. "How did I get so lucky?"

"By being the kind of alpha who puts love before duty," Hyunjin replied, pressing one more soft kiss to the corner of Chan's mouth. "By building something beautiful."

He stepped back slightly, but kept his hands on Chan's face.

"Go," he said gently. "Talk to him. Find out if what you had can be salvaged, or if it needs to be laid to rest properly. Either way, you need to stop carrying it alone."

Chan nodded, capturing one of Hyunjin's hands and pressing a kiss to his palm.

"I love you," he said simply.

"I know," Hyunjin smiled. "I love you too. Now go heal."

Minho lay on his back, counting the knots in the beams above to avoid his thoughts from short circuiting his brain. Feeling how the fresh bruises on his body pulsed in time with his heart. He was going insane, by now he was quite sure of it. When he returned, they would probably name him the Mad Prince. He had an ancestor who they called Mad, maybe it ran in the family. 

Maybe they would allow him more. After all, insanity strips you from accountability, he was quite sure of that too. The roof was slowly coming down, he had to use all his willpower to keep it up. The curtains stole oxygen from the air, because every breath was becoming harder. 

Minho turned his head, peering beneath the hem of the curtain. Jisung lay there on the floor, staring back. For a moment it was like looking into a mirror. He blinked once. Twice. Jisung blinked back. He couldn’t be real though. None of this was real. An elaborate fairytale about a pack of rogues, in a cabin in the woods that his brain had made up. He wasn’t sure about the moral of it yet. But he would probably wake up soon.

But then Jisung moved. He lifted an arm and opened his hand. Minho was looking at the motions with bated breath. The arm reached, breaching the invisible wall, finding his way into reality. It slipped under the curtain, just a silent invitation. 

Minho blinked again. And then his hand carefully reached for Jisung’s and their fingers linked together. The hand was warm. Jisung laid their joined hands in the nest and silently turned his gaze upwards again. Minho did so too. The knot in his stomach eased, his chest loosened. He could breathe again.

Maybe he was insane. Maybe not. He was insanely tired. 

He missed Seungmin.

Chapter Text

Chan found Seungmin by the stream, sitting on the same fallen log where Minho had broken down days earlier. Apparently this place seemed to call to people when they needed to fall apart.

Seungmin's usually perfect posture was gone. His shoulders were hunched, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. Even from a distance, Chan could see the tremor in his frame, the careful control finally cracking after years of holding everything together.

"Seungmin."

The beta's head snapped up, eyes wide with something that looked like panic before his training kicked in. He stood quickly, spine straightening, but the mask didn't quite fit anymore.

"Chan." 

Chan caught the slight rasp, the way it threatened to break: "You look like hell.”

"I'm fine." 

The automated response, the same lie Chan had been telling himself for years. "No, you're not."

Seungmin's jaw tightened. "My personal state is not your concern."

"Isn't it?" Chan stepped closer. "After everything we—"

"After everything we what?" Seungmin's voice cracked, years of buried pain finally breaking through. "After all those nights you painted pictures of freedom, of a life outside those wal—" He cut himself off, breathing hard.

Chan's throat felt tight. "But, you chose to stay."

"I hate you," Seungmin suddenly spat out, his voice raw. "I hate you for leaving. I hate you for being right about what life could be like." His eyes filled with tears. 

"And I hate myself for choosing duty over you."

"I don't hate you," Chan said softly, stepping closer.

"But I do." But Seungmin's voice wavered. "I've hated you every day for five years. Hated you while I threw myself into training, while I clawed my way up to royal guard. I missed you like crazy, convincing myself that serving the crown was enough." His breath hitched.  "While I made sure no one else could ever get close enough to hurt me the way you did."

"No one else?"

"No one." The admission came out broken. "How could there be? You took my heart with you when you left."

They were close now, close enough that Chan could see the tears Seungmin was fighting, could smell the familiar scent that had haunted his dreams for years.

"I never stopped loving you," he whispered.

"Don't. Don't say that. Don’t you dare speak to m…" But then Chan’s hand reached up for him and Seungmin just shut up and pulled him in.

Their mouths crashed together with years of longing and resentment and desperate love. It was bruising and angry. Seungmin's hands fisted in Chan's shirt, pulling him closer while pushing him away, caught between need and self-preservation. 

"I hate you," Seungmin gasped against his mouth again like it was a mantra, even as he kissed him deeper, shoving his tongue into his mouth. 

"I know," Chan breathed back before giving into him, clinging onto him while returning the kiss with the same desperation. Seungmin bit his bottom lip in reply, hard enough to draw blood. Chan groaned, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue as he tried to claw Seungmin under his skin. It wasn’t enough.

Seungmin walked them back, before tackling him onto the moss. Chan pulled him down with him easily. His fingers tore at Chan’s shirt, buttons scattering into the dirt as Chan held him steady on top.

“You moved on,” Seungmin hissed into his face with grief and fury. He grinded down through layers of cloth, just to make Chan feel what he had missed out on. “Gave them everything you promised me.”

“I never—” Chan gasped, bucking up against him, already desperate. “I never let you go.”

“Liar.” Seungmin’s hands were frantic on his own belt, dragging it open with shaking fingers, trousers shoved halfway down. All focus was on Chan’s crotch, yanking at his waistband as soon as he was done. He freed Chan’s cock, hard and flushed and so achingly familiar. He wanted to wrap his lips around it, feel the weight on his tongue, taste the musky saltiness of him. Instead he sat back up and spit in his palm. His whole body trembled as he wrapped spit-slick fingers around it, rubbing messily before reaching back between his own thighs.

Chan’s eyes went wide, breath catching. It all went too fast for his brain to catch up. “Fuck, Seung—”

“Don’t make me beg,” Seungmin snarled to shut him up. His jaw was clenched, every muscle trembling. He was angry and horny and eager to bite.

“Never,” Chan rasped, his hands traveling over Seungmins body as if he had to verify that this was real. Seungmin was single minded, sinking down in one brutal, shuddering push. The stretch teared a cry from his throat. He shook all over, nails clawing at Chan’s chest, sweat breaking out across his brow. 

“Fuck—” Chan choked out, letting his head fall back. “Gods, you feel—”

“Shut up,” Seungmin hissed, but the words broke into a moan as his body adjusted, thighs quivering. He began to move, bouncing on his cock with a reckless, furious rhythm. Every downward slam made a wet, obscene sound between them, every grind made Chan’s breath hitch louder.

Seungmin growled between his panting, baring his teeth. The sound of it loud and foreign over the stillness of the forest and the quiet tickle of the stream. His nails raked welts into Chan’s skin, marking him up. Claiming him back as his own. 

“I know,” Chan groaned, as if answering a question, meeting his thrusts, holding onto his hips so tight he’d leave bruises. “You can.”

Seungmin’s movements turned frantic, desperate, his cock slapping wet against his stomach as he fucked himself down on Chan’s length. His head tipped back, throat bared, lips bitten raw from holding back. Holding back from sobbing, moaning, falling apart, declaring his everlasting love.

Chan felt it, or maybe he just sensed it in the air between them. He sat up with a guttural sound, wrapping arms around Seungmin’s waist, burying his face in the beta’s neck to breathe him in deeply.. “Look at you,” he panted, rutting up into him now, harder, deep enough to make Seungmin cry out brokenly. “Taking me like you’re fucking starved.” 

As if nothing had happened, as if they were still together and this was their break between shifts. Because they looked the same, and they smelled the same and the desperation was still there.

“Fuck you,” Seungmin bit back, teeth grazing over Chan’s shoulder, his neck, the spot he’d never claimed for himself. Grazing over his scent glands to drown himself in cedar and spice. He felt high, and drunk, and hazy and angry. Chan growled. A deep, possessive rumble in his chest that made Seungmin’s heart jump.

He took over, hooking an arm under Seungmin’s thigh, and pushed him down flat against the moss, spreading him open, taking him hard. The new angle had Seungmin keening, nails digging furrows into the earth.

“That’s it,” Chan groaned, snapping his hips, every thrust angled to hit the spot that had Seungmin’s body convulsing. “That’s where you want me, isn’t it? Deep. Gods, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

“Chan—” Seungmin’s voice broke, tears spilling hot across his temple, his body arching beautifully under the force of every thrust.

“I’ve got you,” Chan gasped, his own rhythm stuttering as he lost control. “Always. You were my first, Min—fuck—you’ll always be mine.”

Seungmin sobbed, legs locking around him, pulling him in deeper, closer. “You were mine,” he gasped, words torn from his chest. “You were mine before them, before everything—”

Chan pressed their foreheads together, voice breaking with the force of it: “I still am. Always. Yours.”

That undid them both. Seungmin came with a cry, still untouched, spilling hot between their stomachs as his body clenched down hard. Chan followed with a desperate groan, thrusting deep as he spilled inside, grinding through the aftershocks until they both collapsed, shaking, tangled, sweat-slick and clinging.

For long minutes, there was only the sound of them breathing ragged against each other’s mouths, bodies still locked together. Close, so close. Chan’s mouth dragged over Seungmin’s neck, tasting him in the aftermath. The way his scent had sweetened, mixed with the saltiness of his skin. Again that possessive rumble, vibrating from his chest, right through both of them as his fingers tightened around the beta, just for a second. So fucking familiar. Like home.

But then Seungmin turned his face away, shame flickering as the weight of it all came back. He shoved weakly at Chan’s chest and fumbled for his trousers with shaking hands. He avoided looking at him, avoided touching him again. His belt clattered as he buckled it closed, his shoulders trembling.

“This was a mist—. Nothing happened,” he muttered hoarsely, halfheartedly as he tried to mimic Minho’s maskgame.

But Chan caught his wrist before he could completely pull away. His eyes were still dark, he hadn’t even caught his breath yet, with his kiss swollen lips and hair mushed with leaves and moss. He was so damn gorgeous that it hurt. 

“That’s not true,” he said. “And you know it.”And then he had to add those words, because Chan was soft and sappy like that, especially in the aftermath of things. “I love you.”

Seungmin froze, belt half-fastened, chest heaving. He didn’t deny it, he didn’t return it. He just lingered. Only now did he notice the cold, goosebumps flashing over his skin. Then his eyes met Chan’s for one breathless, dangerous second before he stood up and walked back towards the cabin.

Chapter Text

The cabin felt different the next morning. Not tense, exactly, but careful - like everyone was walking around a soap bubble, afraid to pop whatever fragile peace had settled over them after yesterday's chaos.

Minho sat at the table, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Seungmin was nowhere to be seen. The pack quietly moved around him, giving him space. But then Felix stumbled out of the nest, yawning. Eyes small, hair mushed and sticking out. He was wearing nothing but this oversized tunic from Hyunjin as he shuffled through the cabin, passing the table only to halt and throw his arms around Minho from the back. “Good morning,” he rasped out in his deep deep voice, stroking Minho’s arms up and down.  

Minho tensed, goosebumps breaking out all over his body, hair on the back of his neck rising. “Good morning, Felix,” he whispered back. But the omega had already left him. And before he could process it, there was Jeongin, who slipped into the seat right beside him. He looked worn, shadows beneath his eyes, movements stiff. On the mend, but not there yet. He had no energy left to read the room and stared into his cup of tea.

“How are you?” Minho asked quietly.

Jeongin blinked, startled by the question, then gave a small smile. “Better now, Your Highness.”

The words struck heavier than Minho expected. He shook his head, voice low. “Not Your Highness. Just… Minho. Please.” He surprised himself with that. Because had he not chosen differently? Was he not leaving them alone as soon as possible? But It was too late to take it back now. Certainly when Jeongin’s cheeks flushed and he was smiling all shy and meaningful. “Minho, then.”

Well, shit.

It was strange, what they did to him. For weeks, he'd been so afraid of being discovered, so desperate to earn their acceptance. Now that the worst had happened - now that they knew exactly who and what he was, they still chose to put that aside. He was allowed to be part of the fairy tale for now. It made his heart flutter. He could do this. Be just Minho, act like one of them. Just for three days. No one would ever know. Insane.

"Minho?" Jisung appeared at his elbow, brown eyes warm with determination. "Want to learn how to make fire?"

Minho blinked, setting down his mug. "Make fire?" He glanced toward the hearth where flames already crackled merrily. "Why would I need to know that?"

Jisung's confidence faltered slightly. He'd been planning this lesson for days, back when Minho was going to venture into the world alone and defenseless. Now, with Seungmin just outside, a royal escort waiting to take Minho home..

"Well," Jisung said, scrambling for a reason, "you never know when... I mean, what if you go camping someday?"

The suggestion was so absurd that Minho actually laughed, bright and surprised. "Camping? Me?" He gestured vaguely at himself. "Can you imagine? Me and forty courtiers in the wild?”

"Why not?" Jisung's grin widened, encouraged by Minho's laughter. "Maybe you'll get tired of palace life. Maybe you'll want to sneak out for a midnight adventure."

"Right," Minho said, still smiling. "A midnight adventure. Seungmin will get a heart attack."

The words should have been bitter, but somehow they weren't. Instead, there was something almost giddy about the whole ridiculous idea.

"So?" Jisung pressed, extending his hand. "Want to learn the most useless skill a Prince could possibly have?"

Minho looked at the offered hand, then at Jisung's hopeful expression. "Alright," he agreed, taking Jisung's hand and letting himself be pulled to his feet. "Teach me how to make fire."

The crisp afternoon air bit at Minho's cheeks as they made their way to a small clearing behind the cabin. Felix had joined them, by now fully dressed and bouncing alongside with an armful of kindling and an expression of barely contained excitement.

"I've never actually watched someone learn from the very beginning," Felix said, dropping his bundle near a ring of stones that had clearly been used for fires before. "This is going to be fun."

"Fun for you, maybe," Minho muttered, but he was still smiling. "I have a feeling I'm about to embarrass myself thoroughly."

"That's the spirit!" Jisung laughed, crouching down to arrange some dry grass and bark shavings. "Okay, first lesson - tinder. This is what catches the spark first."

Minho knelt beside him, watching intently as Jisung demonstrated how to prepare the nest of fine, dry material. It looked simple enough.

"Now you try," Jisung said, handing him a handful of birch bark.

Minho took it carefully, trying to mimic Jisung's movements. The bark immediately crumbled into pieces far too large to be useful.

"Smaller," Felix encouraged gently. "Like... imagine you're shredding it for the world's tiniest bird's nest."

"I've never built a bird's nest either," Minho pointed out, but he tried again, this time managing to create something that vaguely resembled tinder.

"Not bad!" Jisung said with perhaps more enthusiasm than the result warranted. "Now for the actual fire-making part."

Minho took the tools with careful hands. "Like this?" He struck the steel against the flint.

Nothing.

"More force," Felix suggested. "Really snap your wrist."

Another strike. A tiny spark that died immediately.

"This is no use," Minho said solemnly.

"Try again," Jisung encouraged. "It takes practice."

What followed was perhaps the most determined display of failure either of them had ever witnessed. 

"This tinder has opinions," Minho concluded. "Very negative ones."

"Here," Jisung said, moving behind him. "Let me guide your hands."

With Jisung's steady guidance, Minho finally managed to land a spark that caught. The tiny ember glowed red in the nest of tinder, and both Felix started encouraging him to blow on it gently.

"Carefully," he said. "Like you're waking up a butterfly."

Minho blew. Too hard. The ember died instantly.

"I killed it," he said mournfully. "I murdered my first fire."

Felix was laughing so hard he had to sit down. "You're taking this very personally."

"It IS personal," Minho protested. "This is a battle between me and the fundamental forces of nature, and nature is winning."

"Try again," Jisung said, still grinning. "Third time's the charm."

It took six more attempts, but finally - finally - Minho managed to nurse a tiny ember into actual flame. The tinder caught, then the kindling, and suddenly there was a real fire crackling in front of them.

"I did it!" Minho exclaimed, looking so genuinely proud that both Felix and Jisung felt their hearts clench. "I actually did it!"

"You did," Felix said softly, watching the firelight dance across Minho's delighted face. "You made fire."

Minho stared at the flames with wonder, as if he'd accomplished something truly miraculous. And maybe for him it was.

Chapter Text

"Your turn!" he declared, eyes bright with mischief. "Teach us something we don't know. Something... princely."

Minho blinked, caught off guard. "Something I know that you don't?" He considered this seriously. "Well, there's philosophy. I could recite some Confucius, or perhaps some verses from the Meditations on Governance..."

The enthusiasm on Felix’ face dimmed noticeably.

"Or," Minho continued quickly, "poetry? I know several epic ballads by heart. There's one about a tragic knight that's quite stirring, though it does go on for about forty-seven stanzas..."

Jisung made a face that suggested forty-seven stanzas might be a bit much.

"Dancing?" Minho suggested, almost as a joke.

Felix's entire face lit up. "Dancing! Yes! I've always wondered what court dancing looks like!"

"Really?" Minho seemed surprised by the enthusiasm. "It's quite formal. And you need proper space, and music, and a partner who knows the steps..." He trailed off, then his expression shifted to something almost mischievous. "Though I suppose we could improvise."

Before they could ask what he meant, Minho was on his feet, heading for the cabin with determined strides. "Come on! We'll need to move things around."

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of activity as they burst through the cabin door, startling the others. Minho was suddenly everywhere at once, directing them to push the table against the wall, roll up the rug, clear a space in the center of the room.

"What are you doing?" Hyunjin asked, but he was already helping move chairs.

"Making a ballroom," Minho said as if this were perfectly obvious. "Felix wants to learn court dancing."

"In here?" Chan looked around the transformed space. It was larger than expected with the furniture moved, but still decidedly rustic.

"Every ballroom starts somewhere," Minho said cheerfully. Then his expression grew more serious as he turned toward the healer's alcove. "Seungmin! I need you."

A pause. Then Seungmin emerged from behind the curtain, looking wary. "Your Highness?"

"I need a partner to demonstrate," Minho said, reaching for Seungmin's hands before he could protest. "You know the forms."

Seungmin went rigid. "I don't think that's appropriate—"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Minho said, and there was something commanding in his voice now, the authority he'd been born to wield. "It's just dancing. Do you need more encouragement than me asking?"

The words were light, teasing, but they carried just enough weight that Seungmin couldn't refuse. His jaw tightened, but he allowed himself to be pulled into the center of the cleared space.

"Right," Minho said, suddenly all business as he positioned himself properly. "This is a standard court waltz. Seungmin, if you would?"

What happened next was magic.

The moment they began to move, the rustic cabin transformed. Minho was grace incarnate, every step precise and flowing, as Seungmin led him through the complex figures with effortless skill. Seungmin, despite his reluctance, was an excellent partner - his military training translated into perfect posture and timing.

They swept across the wooden floor as if it were polished marble, turning and gliding in perfect synchronization. Minho's borrowed clothes suddenly looked elegant, his posture regal. For a moment, he truly looked like the prince he was born to be. This had always been his absolute favorite thing at court. He beamed up at Seungmin, who tried to keep his stare to another corner of the room. “Faster,” he whispered. It was a plea, and a command. Seungmin couldn’t do anything else then comply. Picking up the paces.

Felix watched with his mouth open, completely entranced. "Whoa, it’s unreal," Felix breathed.

When the invisible music ended, Seungmin immediately tried to step away, but Minho caught his arm.

"Wait," Minho said, breathing hard. Now that they had stopped he realised what dancing had cost him. He had turned a few shades paler but he didn’t stop. Instead he turned to Felix with a smile. "Your turn."

"What?" Felix's eyes went wide. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly—"

"Of course you can," Minho said, gently guiding a stunned Felix forward. "Seungmin will lead you through it. Won't you, Seungmin?"

Seungmin looked like he'd rather face an enemy army, but one look at Minho's expectant face and he sighed. "I... suppose."

What followed was even more remarkable than the demonstration. Felix, who had spent years flinching from alpha touch, who still struggled with casual contact, allowed this stranger to place hands on his waist and shoulder without hesitation. There was something about the formality of it, the clear structure and purpose, that made it feel safe.

"Like this," Minho murmured, moving behind Felix to adjust his posture, his chest pressed gently against Felix's back as he guided his arms into position. "Feel how Seungmin leads? Let him direct you."

With Minho's quiet encouragement and careful guidance, Felix gradually relaxed into the dance. He stumbled at first, apologizing profusely. But Seungmin was patient, and Minho's hands remained steady on his shoulders, helping him find the rhythm.

Soon they were moving together across the floor, not with the polished perfection of Minho and Seungmin, but with something just as beautiful - pure joy and discovery.

"Magnificent," Hyunjin murmured, and for once his usual sharp edges were nowhere to be found.

When they finished, Felix was glowing with achievement. "That was incredible! I felt like I was flying!"

"Every omega should know how to dance," Minho said warmly. "It's one of our great advantages."

He stepped back to watch as Seungmin guided Felix through another simple turn, the omega’s confidence growing with each step. But as Minho moved to the side, he caught sight of Chan. The alpha was watching Seungmin with an expression of such raw longing that it made Minho's chest ache. Chan's eyes followed every graceful movement, every precise step.

"He's beautiful when he dances," Hyunjin said quietly, appearing at Chan's shoulder. His voice was gentle, understanding. "I can see why you fell for him."

Chan's breath caught, but he didn't deny it. "He used to... we used to dance sometimes. In empty corridors, when no one was watching. He was always so perfect at it."

"He still is," Hyunjin murmured, watching as Seungmin patiently corrected Felix's posture. "But he looks lonely now."

Chan's hands clenched at his sides. In the center of the room, Seungmin was the picture of controlled elegance, but there was something hollow about it - like he was going through the motions of something that had once brought him joy.

"Go to him," Hyunjin said softly. "Ask him to dance."

"I can't—"

"You can," Hyunjin said firmly. "And you should. Before it's too late."

The music in Chan's head grew louder as he watched Seungmin guide Felix through one final turn, and he realized Hyunjin was right. Some chances didn't come twice.

As Felix stepped back with a delighted laugh, still glowing from his first court dance, the cabin fell into a comfortable quiet. Seungmin stood in the center of the cleared space, his posture still perfect but his expression carefully neutral - the mask of a palace guard back in place.

Chan took a breath. Then another.

"Seungmin," he said, his voice carrying across the room.

The beta turned, and for just a moment, his composure flickered. "Chan."

"Would you..." Chan stepped forward, extending his hand in the formal invitation he once used so much more often. "Would you dance with me?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Seungmin stared at the offered hand as if it might burn him.

"I don't think that's wise," Seungmin said quietly.

"Probably not," Chan agreed, his hand still outstretched. "But I'm asking anyway."

Around them, the pack had gone very still. Even Minho held his breath, recognizing the weight of the moment.

Seungmin's jaw worked silently. "Chan—"

"One dance," Chan said softly. "For old times' sake."

For a heartbeat, the careful guard's mask slipped entirely. Underneath was years of longing, of regret, of love that had never died. Seungmin looked at Chan's face, then at his extended hand, then back again.

Slowly, as if the movement cost him everything, Seungmin placed his hand in Chan's.

The moment their palms touched, something electric passed between them. Chan's other hand found Seungmin's waist with the sureness of muscle memory. Seungmin's free hand settled on Chan's shoulder, and suddenly they were eighteen and twenty-one again, stealing moments in empty palace corridors, pretending the world outside didn't exist.

They began to move, and it was like watching two halves of a whole find each other again. They knew each other's rhythm instinctively, could anticipate each turn and dip without conscious thought. Where Seungmin had been precise and controlled with Felix, with Chan he was fluid, vulnerable, real.

"I dreamed about this," Chan murmured, so quietly only Seungmin could hear. "About dancing with you again."

"Don't," Seungmin whispered back, but his grip tightened on Chan's shoulder.

"I dreamed about a lot of things," Chan continued, leading Seungmin through a complex turn that brought them closer together. "About what we could have had. About the life we talked about."

Seungmin’s breath hitched: “Chan, stop it.”

"I know you feel it too," Chan continued, his voice breaking slightly. "The way we fit together. The way this still feels like coming home."

They moved through the steps in perfect synchronization, two people who had learned to dance together, who had learned to love together, who had learned to break apart despite everything that should have kept them whole.

"This doesn't change anything," Seungmin said desperately, even as he followed Chan's lead without conscious thought.

"Doesn't it?"

The song in their heads began to wind down, their movements slowing until they were barely swaying, standing in the center of the cabin with their arms around each other and years of hurt and love hanging in the air between them.

"I never stopped loving you," Chan whispered, their foreheads almost touching.

"I know," Seungmin breathed back. "I never stopped either."

As they swayed together in the center of the cabin, Minho watched with growing wonder. The pieces were falling into place - the way Chan had looked when Seungmin first appeared, the careful distance they maintained, the pain that flickered in both their eyes when they thought no one was watching.

And then understanding bloomed across Minho's face like sunrise. His expression softened into something radiant, delighted, utterly enchanted by the romance of it all. This was better than any fairy tale - two lovers separated by duty and circumstance, finding each other again in this magical little cabin in the woods.

"It's him, isn't it?" Minho breathed, his voice full of wonder and joy.

The words were soft, almost reverent, but they cut through the moment like a blade. Seungmin's eyes snapped to Minho's face and saw it all there: the starry-eyed delight, the romantic dreamer who believed in happy endings, the naive hope that love could conquer all.

The same look that would get him destroyed at court. 

Seungmin pulled back so abruptly that Chan nearly stumbled. The spell shattered completely as reality crashed back over him like ice water.

"It's folly," Seungmin said sharply, stepping away from Chan's reaching hands. His voice was clipped, final. "All of this."

He turned toward the door without looking back, needing to escape before he convinced himself otherwise. The door closed behind him with quiet finality, leaving Chan standing alone in the center of their makeshift ballroom.

The silence that followed Seungmin's departure was thick and uncomfortable. Chan just stood there, lost in thought, still positioned as if he were holding a dance partner. Minho stared at the closed door with that fairy-tale wonder slowly fading from his face, replaced by something that looked like guilt.

Felix shifted uncomfortably by the wall. Jisung cleared his throat but said nothing. Jeongin looked between Chan and the door as if debating whether to follow Seungmin. The awkwardness stretched until it became almost unbearable.

"Right," Hyunjin said briskly, clapping his hands together with decisive authority. "Enough of that. We need to move the furniture back - dinner won't cook itself, and I'm not eating standing up because you all decided to turn our cabin into a ballroom."

The practical command broke the spell of uncomfortable silence. Grateful for something to do with their hands, the pack immediately sprang into action.

"Felix, can you check on the stew?" Hyunjin continued, taking charge with the same efficiency he brought to everything. "Jisung, we'll need bowls. Jeongin, help me with this table. Minho, see if we have enough bread."

The familiar rhythm of preparing for a meal gradually eased the tension. Chan finally moved from his spot in the center of the room, though his movements were mechanical, distant.

Minho went to the bread basket in their small kitchen space, and something warm bloomed in his chest at being included so naturally, so unconsciously, in the pack's evening routine. As if he belonged there.

"He'll come around," Hyunjin said quietly, grabbing utensils. "On his own accord."

"Will he?" Minho asked softly.

Hyunjin glanced toward Chan, who was methodically setting plates with unnecessary precision. "They both will. Eventually."

Chapter Text

Not for dinner. Not when the table was cleared. Not when Felix helped a weary and aching Minho to his nest. Not when the rest of the pack started to prepare for the night. The empty chair at the table seemed to grow more pronounced as the evening wore on.

That was when Hyunjin realised Seungmin was more stubborn than he'd thought.

He ladled leftover stew into a wooden bowl, grabbed a spoon, and slipped quietly out the door. He didn't have to search long - Seungmin sat on the narrow porch, back against the cabin wall, staring out into the dark forest with hollow eyes. His usually perfect posture was gone and there was something crumpled in his hand.

Hyunjin settled beside him without a word, placing the bowl of stew between them on the weathered boards. Steam rose from the food in the cold night air.

They sat in silence for a long time. The forest whispered around them, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called. Seungmin made no move toward the food, didn't acknowledge Hyunjin's presence, just stared into the darkness as if it held answers he couldn't find.

Finally, Hyunjin spoke. "What's that?"

Seungmin's grip tightened on the crumpled parchment. For a moment, Hyunjin thought he would stay silent.

"A message to court," Seungmin said quietly, his voice rough from hours of silence. "To announce that I've found him. That we'll travel when he's well enough."

"When did you write it?"

"The first day. I had it ready to send."

"But you didn't."

"No." Seungmin's laugh was hollow, broken. "I didn't."

"Why not?"

The question hung in the air between them. Seungmin's breathing had gone unsteady, and when he spoke, the words came out in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

"Because I know what will happen when I take him back." His voice cracked. "The Queen is still in her chambers. Heartbroken, or so they tell the people. But they are just making sure she's there to witness her son's return. Just so she knows her plan failed."

Hyunjin went very still.

"And then she dies." Seungmin's voice was gaining a horrible, bitter momentum. "They'll call it a tragedy. But I'll know what really killed her."

His hands were shaking now, the letter trembling in his grip. He forced his grip tighter, clenching his jaw to keep himself in check.

"Then they'll force him to breed. Just enough pups to secure the bloodline - two, maybe three if they're feeling generous. He'll die 'in childbirth' with the third one."

The words were pouring out now, years of suppressed horror finally finding voice.

"A pillow to his face, poison in his tea, something quick and quiet once they have what they need. And the whole kingdom will mourn the tragic young prince who died serving the realm. No doubt they'll build him a monument. No one will ever even question it."

Seungmin's choked on the words that sounded even more gruesome now that he had spoken them out loud. He looked to the sky, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay.

"I am not supposed to question it. I was trained never to question, just to act. I'm the extended arm of the crown, nothing more than a weapon pointed where they tell me to point. But I’ll know all that blood will be on my hands."

He was crumpling the letter even more, hiding it in his hand. Silence stretched. Then his voice broke open again, furious, desperate.

“He prays to the Mother every night. Since he was small, I’ve seen him kneel in that chapel, hands perfectly folded, reciting every word. I’m not even religious, but even I thought that She would look upon him with grace. Her most precious, pious child. But She’s done nothing. Nothing while they carved him up, poisoned his body, broke him down piece by piece.
It’s proof the Gods don’t exist. Proof that omegas get eaten no matter how perfectly they follow the rules. They’re alone. He’s alone.”

Hyunjin sat in stunned silence as the waterfall of words finally stopped.

"But the Mother did look after him," Hyunjin replied then.

Seungmin's head snapped up. "What?"

"She brought him here. To us." Hyunjin's voice was gentle but certain. "And She brought you here too."

"That's not—"

"Allow me to show you something." Hyunjin stood, extending his hand. "Please."

After a long moment, Seungmin allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Hyunjin led him around the side of the cabin to a small alcove tucked between the building and a cluster of pine trees.

There was a little shrine there, carefully tended. Small candles flickered in glass holders, their light dancing across carved symbols for different deities - the spirits of the woods, the old gods, and there, in the center, the graceful curves that represented the Mother. But what caught Seungmin's attention were the small wooden figures arranged around the symbols.

Wolves. Seven of them, each carved with careful detail.

"One for each of us," Hyunjin said softly, pointing them out. "Changbin, Jeongin, Felix, Jisung, Chan, me." He paused at the seventh figure, set slightly apart. "And I think that one is you. Chan never named it, but it was the first one he placed there. Before any of us came."

Seungmin stared at the small wooden wolf, something tight loosening in his chest.

"And this," Hyunjin said, indicating an empty space at the head of the arrangement, "is for the eighth. I had a dream once, years ago. To prepare for a pack of eight. We thought it meant pups at first. But not by Felix, and I’ve been with the pack for so long now…"

He looked back toward the cabin, where lights were dimmed and quiet conversation drifted through the air and his pack was settling into the nest.

"She's been preparing for this all along. For him. For you. For all of us to find each other."

Seungmin's grip on the letter had loosened. He stared at the shrine, at the empty space, at the small wooden wolf that had been waiting for him longer than he'd known this place existed.

"I want to believe you," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "But I can't... I can't just abandon everything I know because of a dream and some wooden wolves."

"I'm not asking you to," Hyunjin said gently. "I'm just asking you to consider that maybe there's more than one way to serve."

Seungmin was quiet for another moment, then carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his coat. When he looked up, there was something different in his expression - not hope, exactly, but maybe the faintest possibility of it.

"He still looks pale," Seungmin said slowly, as if testing the words. "We all saw how faint he was after just one dance. The journey back will be arduous, and there will be... celebrations when we return. Wedding preparations. He'll need his strength."

Hyunjin's eyes sharpened with understanding. "How much time do you think he needs to recover properly?"

"A week. Maybe two, to be safe." Seungmin's voice was growing steadier, more confident. "It would be irresponsible to risk a relapse by traveling too soon. The court physicians would agree."

"Of course they would," Hyunjin said softly. "You're just being thorough. Protecting your charge."

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Seungmin's features. "Exactly. I'm following orders. The King wants his son returned healthy and whole. I'm simply ensuring that happens."

It wasn’t acceptance. But it was movement. It was time. And sometimes, time was all you needed for miracles to happen.

"Come on," Hyunjin said, cradling the bowl of stew in his hands. "Let's go inside. The pack is waiting.”

Chapter Text

One week became two.

Seungmin found new reasons each day - Minho's color wasn't quite right, his appetite was still poor, the winter roads were treacherous. He wrote careful reports but never sent them, always finding some small detail that needed verification first.

Two weeks became four.

No one could really recall when it happened, maybe it was after a long night of playing games in the nest. Or perhaps it was on one of those bitter cold nights when the wind from the north blew icy draft over the floor. But somewhere along the line, Minho ended up sleeping in the nest. Firmly wedged in between Felix and Jisung, as if he had always belonged there. Seungmin made the healing alcove his own, even clearing out a shelve to store the reports that he needed to sent, but never gotten around to do so. 

Of course there were bad days too. Days where Minho straightened his back and remembered who he really was. He would demand his title and even Chan would indulge him in this, because he was in fact the Prince. He would tell Felix off for coming too close, and then he would flee towards the nest in the alcove. Filling the space with a haunted scent of roses, that became so much more prominent during those fits. He would order Seungmin to prepare for the journey home and force him to sleep on the floor next to him while he took the bed. He would pray to the Mother, begging her to forgive him for his trespassing and selfish acts. There would be nightmares and anxiety and angry fits. And then it would pass. And it would always end up with Minho shuffling back to the nest in the dead of the night, being welcomed by Jisung’s open arms. No judgement, no questions.

Now, on one such night, the roses were dizzying in the air. Minho knelt on the quilt, hands locked together, voice cracking as he prayed to the Mother in a flurry of words. "Forgive me. Forgive my trespass, forgive my weakness. I have strayed too far." His whispers turned frantic. "I am the Prince and I have abandoned the crown and my people. My responsibility to the realm. Give me the strength—"

The door banged open. Jeongin stumbled inside, Hyunjin close behind him. Their faces were taut, wind-burnt, eyes too dark. Snow clung to their coats, melting into dark patches on their shoulders.

"What is it?" Seungmin asked at once, pushing to his feet.

Jeongin shook his head, still catching his breath from their urgent ride. "The township... there are proclamations posted everywhere."

Hyunjin's jaw worked, as if he had to force the words past his teeth. "A week of mourning has been declared. The Queen... she's dead."

Minho froze. His prayer fractured into silence, his hands falling uselessly to his lap.

"They say she died of heartbreak," Jeongin continued, his voice hollow. "Pining for her lost son. The whole kingdom mourns her soul."

Jeongin's face was pale as he delivered the final blow. "And they've announced... they say the lost Prince has been found. Alive, but..." He swallowed hard. "His mind is gone. Completely shattered by his ordeal in the wilderness. The trauma was too great. They’ve sent him away after the Queen’s death."

"Where?" Seungmin's voice came out hoarse.

"The Temple of the Mother," Hyunjin replied, watching Seungmin's face carefully. "They say the holy sisters have taken him into their gentle care. That he'll spend his remaining days in peace and prayer, tended by those devoted to the Mother's compassion."

"The people are calling it beautiful," Jeongin added bitterly. "A tragic prince finding solace in the Mother's embrace. They say no visitors are allowed - his condition is too fragile, too heartbreaking to witness."

The words hung in the air like poison, and Seungmin felt something cold settle in his stomach as the pieces clicked into place with horrible clarity.

No witnesses. No one to see the truth. No one to ask inconvenient questions about why the "mad" prince never seemed to age or waste away, why he never got better or worse, why the sisters who once moved freely through the kingdom now never left their walls.

The words hit like ice water. Minho pressed both hands to his mouth, a strangled sound breaking loose. The roses thickened, sharp and suffocating around him.

The mad prince. That's what he had become. That's what they would have made of him - broken, drooling, a convenient tragedy to excuse whatever came next. His mother had died believing she'd failed to save him, never knowing he was safe, warm, loved.

But underneath the grief, underneath the horror of what had befallen the Temple, something else stirred. Something that made shame burn hot in his chest even as relief flooded through him.

He was free.

They had moved on. No one was searching for Prince Minho anymore. No search parties combing the forests, no rewards posted, no urgent missives sent to distant kingdoms. The mad prince was found, contained, explained away.

Jisung was already there, crossing the room in an instant, wrapping arms around him without hesitation. Felix followed, reaching out, gathering him close. Their scents wrapped around him - green apples and honey-warm bread, real and present and his.

"I'm sorry," Minho whispered against Jisung's shoulder, though he wasn't sure if he was apologizing for his mother's death, for the Temple's fate, or for the treacherous surge of freedom that bloomed in his chest despite it all. "I'm so sorry."

But even as the tears came, even as grief tore through him for everything lost, part of him was already settling deeper into Jisung's embrace. Into Felix's gentle hands stroking his hair. Into the knowledge that he would never have to leave this nest, this pack, this chosen family that had become more real than any crown or throne.

The cabin had settled into its familiar evening quiet. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Most of the pack had already found their places in the large nest, a tangle of warm bodies and soft breathing.

Seungmin stood at the edge of it all, watching Minho sleep among the others. The prince—no, just Minho now—was curled between Felix and Jisung, his face soft and unguarded in a way Seungmin had never seen at court. Safe. Loved. Protected.

It still felt like a miracle, even after weeks of this new reality.

Seungmin turned away quietly, heading toward the healer's alcove. His fingers worked at the fastenings of his formal coat, the palace livery that he still wore out of habit more than duty. He was tired. Bone deep, soul deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Soft footsteps approached behind him, barely audible on the wooden floor.

Hyunjin appeared at his side, moving with that fluid grace that made no sound. He didn't speak, didn't offer explanations or reassurances. He simply reached out and took Seungmin's hand.

Seungmin looked down at their joined fingers, at Hyunjin's long, elegant hand wrapped around his own scarred one. He should pull away. Should maintain the distance he'd been carefully keeping. Should retreat to his solitary space and his solitary thoughts.

Instead, he found himself letting Hyunjin lead him toward the nest.

Chan was awake, lying on his side on the raised platform at the back of the nest. His eyes met Seungmin's in the dim light, and his arms opened in silent invitation. No words, no pressure, just welcome.

Something inside Seungmin's chest finally broke.

He sank down into the nest, into Chan's waiting embrace. For a moment his body resisted, stiff with habit, but then Chan’s hand stroked through his hair and something inside Seungmin shifted. His breath left him in a shudder. He buried his face against the solid warmth of Chan’s chest. Chan's arms came around him immediately, holding him close, one hand stroking through his hair with infinite tenderness.

"I've got you," Chan murmured against his temple, so quietly it was barely a breath.

The covers rustled as Hyunjin slipped in behind him, the omega's warm body pressing against Seungmin's back. An arm draped over his waist, and then soft lips pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder - not possessive or demanding, just acceptance. Welcome. You belong here.

For the first time in five years, Seungmin let himself be held. Let himself be wanted. Let himself be home. And as sleep finally claimed him, surrounded by warmth and love and the quiet breathing of his pack, he thought maybe Hyunjin had been right about the Mother after all.

Maybe She had been looking after them all along.

Chapter Text

"It has to be perfect," Changbin muttered for the tenth time that morning, pacing around the kitchen while Felix hummed and worked at the counter.

"It will be," Felix said with certainty, carefully arranging food in a basket. "I've got savory pies, fresh bread, honey cakes, those strawberries from the market..."

"I found the perfect spot," Jisung announced, bursting through the door with dirt on his knees and leaves in his hair. "Clearing by the old oak, overlooks the valley. Private but not too far to carry everything."

Changbin groaned, running hands through his hair. "What if he doesn't like it? What if the food gets cold? What if—"

"What if you would just breathe?" Hyunjin interrupted, appearing with an armful of wildflowers. "I picked these for the blanket. Very rustic-romantic."

"Since when do you do rustic-romantic?" Jisung teased.

"Since our second alpha has been moping around like a lovesick pup for weeks," Hyunjin replied smoothly. "Someone has to help with the right ambiance."

From across the cabin, Chan looked up from where he was carefully folding his best shirt. The deep blue one that brought out his eyes. "This should fit you," he called to Changbin. "The color will look good on you."

"I can't borrow your shirt," Changbin protested, but he was already reaching for it.

"Course you can," Chan grinned. "We share everything. Besides, Minho deserves to see you looking your absolute best."

Changbin stood in front of the small mirror, adjusting Chan's shirt for the dozenth time. The blue fabric was soft and well-made, fitting him perfectly across his broad shoulders. His hair was neatly combed, his boots polished to a shine.

"You look handsome," Minho said softly from behind him, and Changbin nearly jumped out of his skin.

"You're supposed to be—I mean, the surprise—" Changbin stammered, spinning around to find Minho leaning against the doorframe with an amused smile.

"Felix told me to dress nicely for 'an adventure,'" Minho said. "I assume this has something to do with whatever elaborate feast he was trying to hide in the kitchen?"

Changbin's face went red. "He got a little... enthusiastic."

"I noticed," Minho said fondly, stepping closer. "It's sweet. You're all sweet."

"Are you ready?" Changbin asked, voice rough with nerves. Minho's smile was radiant. "I've been ready for weeks."

The clearing was perfect, Jisung had outdone himself. A gentle slope overlooking the valley, sheltered by the old oak's spreading branches, carpeted with soft grass and wildflowers. The afternoon sun filtered through new leaves, casting everything in golden light.

Changbin spread the blanket with careful precision, then began unpacking Felix's basket. Out came savory pies, fresh bread, honey cakes, strawberry tarts, cheese, dried fruits…

"Oh no," Changbin muttered, staring at the spread. "What's wrong?" Minho asked, settling beside him on the blanket. "Look at it," Changbin said weakly, gesturing at the food. 

Every single item was perfectly heart-shaped. Heart pies, heart bread rolls, heart tarts, even the cheese had been carefully cut into hearts. Minho blinked, then burst into delighted laughter. "Felix really committed to the theme, didn't he?"

"This is absurd," Changbin groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I'm supposed to be this tough alpha and I brought you heart-shaped… everything."

"Hey," Minho said softly, reaching up to gently pull Changbin's hands away from his face. "Look at me." Changbin reluctantly met his eyes. "I think it's perfect," Minho said, his voice warm with affection. "I think it's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me. Felix loves us both enough to spend hours making everything beautiful."

"You don't think it's too much?"

"I've never had anyone care enough to make me heart-shaped food before. I like it." Minho decided, picking up a heart-shaped tart and taking a deliberate bite.

They ate in comfortable quiet for a while, the tension gradually leaving Changbin's shoulders. The food was delicious, the setting perfect, and Minho kept making small sounds of appreciation that made warmth bloom in Changbin's chest.

"Can I ask you something?" Minho said eventually, setting down his cup.

"Anything."

"That day in the forest. When you kissed me." Minho's voice was quiet, careful. "Why did you run?"

Changbin went rigid, the easy mood evaporating. "Minho—"

"I need to know," Minho said gently. "Was it because I'm..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Because of what I am?"

"No," Changbin said quickly, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Yes. Maybe. It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it for me." 

Changbin was quiet for a long moment, staring out over the valley. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You were this perfect thing. This beautiful, untouchable omega who smelled like heaven and looked at me like I could save you. And I wanted you so much that it scared me." He glanced at Minho, then away again. "But you were also this broken bird, and I was supposed to protect you, not—not pin you against trees and take what I wanted."

"And when you found out I was the prince?"

"Worse," Changbin admitted. "Because then you weren't just untouchable, you were also unreachable. Royalty doesn't end up with rogues like me." 

Minho was quiet, processing. "What about now?"

"Now?"

"Now that I'm not going back. Now that I'm just Minho." He shifted closer on the blanket. "Do you want me now?"

Changbin's breath caught.

"Because I know what I want," Minho continued, his voice growing stronger. "I want the alpha who carried me out of those woods. Who made me feel safe for the first time in my life. Who looked at me like I was precious."

"You are precious."

"Then why won't you touch me?" The question came out almost desperate. "Everyone else can. Felix scents me, Jisung kisses me quietly in the dark, Chan lets me sleep in his arms. But you…you won't even sit close to me."

"Because I can't trust myself," Changbin said hoarsely. "Because when I'm near you, it clouds all my senses, until all I want to do is—"

"What?" Minho moved closer, close enough that Changbin could feel his warmth. "What do you want to do?"

"Kiss you," Changbin whispered. "Mark you. Make you mine so thoroughly that no one could ever take you away again."

"And what's stopping you?"

"You deserve better—"

"Don't." Minho's voice was sharp, commanding in a way that made Changbin sit back a little. "Don't tell me what I deserve. I've had enough people making decisions for me." He reached out, cupping Changbin's face with gentle hands, forcing the alpha to meet his eyes.

"I choose you," Minho said simply. "Not because I have to or because someone arranged it. But because I want you. Because you're kind and strong and you make me feel safe and desired and real."

"Minho—"

"I choose you," Minho repeated, leaning closer. "So please, please choose me back." And then, before Changbin could overthink it, before he could protest or pull away, Minho closed the distance between them and kissed him.

This kiss was nothing like the desperate, angry thing in the forest. This was soft, tentative, asking rather than taking. Minho's lips were warm and sweet from strawberries, and when Changbin made a soft sound of surprise, Minho smiled against his mouth. "Is this okay?" he whispered. 

Instead of answering, Changbin's arms came up around him, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. It was everything their first kiss should have been - tender, loving, chosen by both of them. When they finally broke apart, Changbin rested his forehead against Minho's.

"I choose you too," he said softly. “How could I not?”

Soft kisses became deeper ones, hands tangling in hair, scents mingling until Minho smelled like pine and charcoal, and Changbin carried the sweetness of sandalwood and roses. Until the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. 

Changbin's hands mapped the curve of Minho's jaw, the delicate line of his throat where his scent glands lay hidden beneath healing skin. Minho had climbed into Changbins lap so he could trace the strong line of Changbin's shoulders and back, marveling at the muscle and strength beneath the gentle touches.

"We should go back," Changbin murmured against Minho's lips as the first stars appeared, though he made no move to pull away.

"Why?" Minho asked, pressing closer, nipping at Changbins scent gland so he could breath him in even more. Much to Minho’s satisfaction, Changbin hissed, tightening his fingers around Minho’s arms. 

"The others will worry."

"The others will know exactly what we've been doing," Minho murmured against his skin, tracing kisses along his jawline. Changbin let out a sound that sounded more like a whimper. It finally made Minho pull back to look at his face. The alpha's hair was thoroughly mussed, lips swollen and red, eyes dark with contentment.

"Do I look as debauched as you do?" Minho asked with a big grin, attempting to smooth down his own wild hair.

“Debauched?" Changbin grinned, reaching out to fix a particularly stubborn cowlick. "You look thoroughly kissed."

"Good."

They stumbled through the door just as the pack was finishing dinner, hands still linked, hair hopelessly disheveled despite their attempts to tame it on the walk back. Minho's lips were pink and slightly swollen, and there was a satisfied glow about both of them that would have been obvious from across the valley. Felix looked up from the dishes he was washing, took one look at their appearance, and beamed. "So," he said innocently, "how was the picnic?"

"The food was delicious," Minho said primly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way Changbin's scent clung to him like a second skin.

"I bet it was," Jisung said with a knowing smirk, not bothering to look up from the book he was reading. "Looks like you worked up quite an appetite."

Changbin's face went red. "We just—"

"Had a lovely afternoon," Minho finished smoothly, though his own cheeks were flushed pink. "Very… educational."

"Educational," Hyunjin repeated dryly from his spot in the nest. "Is that what you kids are calling it these days?"

"You're all terrible," Changbin muttered.

"We're happy for you," Felix corrected, setting down his dishrag to pull both of them into an enthusiastic hug. "Both of you. You smell so much alike I can hardly keep you apart.."

"Good," Minho said, the same word he'd used in the clearing, but softer now, more vulnerable. "I like smelling like him.”

"About time," Felix said simply. "Now sit down and eat. I’ve saved you some."

As they settled around the table, Minho's hand finding Changbin's under the tablecloth, Felix caught Jisung's eye and grinned triumphantly. Their matchmaking had worked perfectly, all thanks to the heart-shaped food and green meadow of course.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered soft and golden through the cabin windows, catching on the fresh bite marks that decorated Minho's throat like the most precious jewelry. Seven sets of marks, given and received with love and intention, still tender and slightly swollen from the bonding ceremony the night before.

Minho sat at the edge of the large nest, running gentle fingers over the healing bites. The artificial scent that had clung to him for so long was finally, completely gone. Only sandalwood remained now. It was warm and woody and entirely his own. It mingled beautifully with the pack scents that had soaked into his skin over the past year, creating something new and perfect.

"How do you feel?" Felix asked softly, settling beside him to kiss his cheek and hand him tea.

"Different," Minho said thoughtfully, accepting the cup with a grateful smile. “Like I'm finally who I'm supposed to be."

Across the cabin, Chan was putting the finishing touches on something he'd been carving for weeks. Wood shavings littered the floor around his feet, and his hands moved with the careful precision of someone who understood that what he was creating was more than just art.

Seungmin watched from his place by the window, and there was such pride in his expression as he took in the domestic scene. His reports lay buried under a year's worth of dust in the storage chest, forgotten relics of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. When Hyunjin appeared behind him, sliding his arms around his waist, Seungmin leaned into the touch without hesitation. The omega nuzzled in his neck, kissing the white scar where he had left his mating bite, right next to Chans. 

"He's happy," Hyunjin murmured against his skin, eyes toward Minho.

"He sure looks like it," Seungmin replied softly. "But most importantly, he is free."

Chan, meanwhile, was focused entirely on his leader's task. The wooden wolf in his hands was perfect. Every detail was lovingly carved, from the alert ears to the proud stance. It was slightly larger than the others, befitting the omega who had become the heart of their pack, and the wood was pale birch that would catch the candlelight beautifully.

"It's time," Chan announced, rising from his chair and holding the wolf carefully in both hands.

The pack naturally gathered around him. This wasn't just about adding another figure to their shrine, this was about acknowledging what they'd all known for months. Minho belonged here, completely and irrevocably.

They walked together to the little shrine behind the cabin, where seven wooden wolves had stood sentinel for so long. Chan stepped forward first, his voice warm with ceremony and love.

"Minho," he said formally, though his eyes were soft, "you came to us broken and lost, and we barely knew what to do with you." A few quiet chuckles from the pack. "But you stayed, and you healed, and you became part of us in ways none of us expected."

He held out the carved wolf.

"This is your place among us. Not as a guest, not as someone we're protecting, but as family. As ours, and us as yours."

Minho's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the wolf, running his thumb over the smooth wood. His throat was tight with emotion, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

"I never thought I'd have a family that chose me for who I am," he said quietly. "You saved my life in more ways than one."

He turned toward the shrine, kneeling carefully in the soft earth, and placed his wolf among the others. Not at the center, not set apart, but as part of the circle - the eighth that completed them all.

For a moment, he sat in silence. Then Minho reached into his shirt, drawing out the silver pendant that had hung there since his escape. The Mother's sigil that had been his only proof of identity, his only connection to the divine protection he'd been taught to seek.

"You brought me here when I had nowhere else to go," he murmured, eyes closed, clutching the pendant. "Now please protect my family, and look kindly over all of us."

He placed the pendant at the center of the wolf circle, where it settled like a blessing.

"Welcome home, Minho," Chan said softly. "Welcome to the pack."

Minho turned toward his pack, face shining with pure joy. Unable to contain himself, he let out a delighted squeal and launched himself into Changbin's waiting arms. The alpha caught him easily, spinning him around as Jisung whooped, Felix clapped his hands in delight, and Jeongin smiled through happy tears with the soft, proud expression of someone who'd helped heal more than just physical wounds. Chan took the opportunity to pull both Hyunjin and Seungmin into a celebratory kiss.

Beautiful, joyful chaos. Just like it should be.