Chapter Text
Seokjin moved through the shadowed halls of Frostpire like a man pursued by ghosts. His breathing came ragged and quick, each inhale tasting of cold stone and the faint, lingering smoke of hearth fires long since banked for the night.
Dread clung to his shoulders like a sodden cloak, heavy and inescapable, pressing down with every step up the winding tower stairs. The raven tower —usually alive with the rustle of black wings and the sharp caw of messages— loomed silent above him.
Empty.
The stubborn pair of ravens that served the King had remained at Yoongi’s side, wherever he had gone. There was no way to reach him. No way to confirm the nightmare unfolding in Seokjin’s hands.
He clutched the crumpled parchment until his knuckles whitened, Captain Jung’s seal already broken. The letter had arrived that morning, delivered by a young soldier whose hands trembled so badly he could barely salute. Seokjin had read it three times in the privacy of his chambers, each pass heavier than the last.
The words still echoed in his head…
To Lord Kim, High Advisor to the Crown of Frostpire, Kingdom of The North
It is with the heaviest heart that I write to you alone.
His Majesty The King has been missing for over a month.
He ventured alone into the western woods to hunt a fiend that had begun preying upon outlying villages near Coalridge. The beast was slain —we found its corpse— but the King did not return. No tracks. No sign of struggle or dragonfire. We have searched every league of the western border and found nothing.
I have no lead left to follow, and the men grow restless with fear and rumor.
I beg you, my lord, tell me what to do. The North cannot lose its footing. Not now.
Yours faithfully,
Jung Hoseok, Captain of The Royal Army
Seokjin stopped at the top of the tower, leaning against the cold stone parapet as the night wind whipped around him, carrying the distant scent of pine and frost from the mountains.
He hated this. Hated the lie that had become his daily shield.
Jimin was already carrying the unbearable weight of the crown as regent —ruling in Yoongi’s stead with quiet grace while his belly swelled with their second child.
The omega rose before dawn to pore over ledgers, held court with steady kindness, and still found time to cradle little Jiyoon against his chest each night, singing soft lullabies in that gentle voice of his.
Telling him the truth would break him.
Seokjin could not bring himself to cause such distress. Not when Jimin's eyes already carried shadows of exhaustion and longing. Not when the Crown Prince still reached for his father’s absent presence in the nest.
The lie sat like poison in Seokjin’s throat, but it was kinder than the alternative.
He folded the letter with shaking hands and tucked it deep into his coat, close to his heart. Below, the castle slept under a blanket of stars, unaware that its King was lost somewhere in the wilds —and that the advisor who guarded his most precious bloom was slowly crumbling under the weight of secrets.
Seokjin closed his eyes, breathing in the cold night air, and whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen.
Come home, Yoongi. Please… come home.
🐲
The golden fields of wheat whispered under a bruised setting sky.
Shadow cawed once from the treeline before the silence swallowed it whole. The air hung thick with the scent of dry grain and cooling earth.
The blade rang out again, cold steel coming to rest just beneath Yoongi’s chin. This time, the edge trembled.
“How do you know my son?” the older alpha demanded. Her voice cracked, raw with fear.
“What have you done to him? Speak, Dragon —or I swear I’ll cut the truth from your throat.”
Yoongi drew a slow breath, the chains still humming against his skin. He kept his voice level, controlled.
“He is safe. Unharmed.”
He is my mate. The mother of my child. The only soul I breathe for.
The words burned behind his teeth, but he swallowed them. Not yet. Not while steel kissed his skin.
“Unbind me,” he said instead, “and I will tell you everything. I will show you.”
The Duchess hesitated, chest rising and falling sharply. Then, with a sharp exhale, she sheathed her blade. Her hands were quick but careful as she worked the locks. The chains fell to the earth with heavy, final thuds.
Yoongi rose slowly, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of freedom settle back into his bones. The setting sun painted his dark hair in copper and gold as he straightened to his full, imposing height.
“Your Ladyship,” he began, voice low, “I should properly introduce myself—”
“I know exactly who you are.” Her tone was ice.
“I knew your father, Gieon. He would weep to see what you’ve become. His only son —the Last Dragon— turned butcher and Mad King.” The words were spat like poison.
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. The name struck deep.
“My father’s name has no place in your mouth,” he said quietly, dangerously.
“And you are mistaken. What I did was not cruelty for sport. My uncle’s rot had festered too long. I burned it out.”
“You slaughtered your own court,” she spat. “You carved your throne from corpses.”
“Perhaps,” Yoongi answered, unflinching. “But the pretenders and Westfield carved theirs from the bones of my people first. I simply finished what they started.”
The Duchess stepped closer, her shadow long across the wheat.
“Where is my son?”
Yoongi met her eyes without hesitation.
“Jimin is in Frostpire. Within the castle. He is safe.”
The words hit her like a blade between the ribs. She went utterly still. The color drained from her face as the truth slammed into her —she had been there. She had slipped through Frostpire’s halls like a ghost. She had stolen the Dragon’s chains from the dungeons beneath the very stones where her son now lived. She had been mere corridors away from one of her lost children and never known.
Her hand rose, trembling, to her mouth.
“Why?” The word tore out of her, barely a whisper. “Why is he there?”
Yoongi’s voice dropped, low and steady, carrying the weight of too many nights.
“Because Jimin is my husband,” he said. “He is my mate.”
The words hung in the faded sunset like a blade suspended between heartbeats.
The Duchess recoiled as if struck. Her face contorted, the proud lines of her jaw trembling with the force of a storm barely contained.
“Lies!” The cry tore from her throat, raw and ragged.
“He was stolen from his maid’s side while our home burned! He would never mate a beast… He was sheltered. Cherished. What did you do to him?”
Her blade rang free once more, the steel flashing in the dying light as she raised it with shaking hands. Tears she refused to shed glistened at the corners of her eyes, her voice cracking between fury and the terrible, fragile hope of a mother who had mourned too long.
Yoongi stepped back slowly, one large hand rising in open surrender, the other slipping inside his shirt to the inner pocket over his heart. He understood the terror in her voice.
He was a father now too. He knew what it meant to hold a child in his arms and fear the world’s cruelty.
“It is true,” he said quietly, voice steady despite the storm in his chest.
“Here. See for yourself.”
From within the folds of his shirt he drew a small, carefully wrapped bundle.
A square of soft silken handkerchief, its edges delicately embroidered with the crest of Anthos —a bloom of silver thread against deep forest green. Even after all this time, the fabric still carried Jimin's scent: sweet berries steeped in warm honey and the delicate, heady fragrance of Smeraldo blooms.
It was the only thing Jimin had managed to keep when he was taken all those moons ago.
The Duchess’s breath hitched the moment she caught the scent. Her blade lowered an inch, then another. With reverent, trembling fingers she took the bundle from Yoongi’s outstretched hand, as though it were made of glass.
She unfolded it slowly.
Inside lay a small painted portrait, no larger than her palm.
The Mad King of the North stared back at her in courtly finery —dark, towering, imposing in deep midnight silk and golden embroidery. A crown of dark jewels rested upon his brow. Yet his face was softer than rumor had ever allowed, peaceful even, the stoic lines gentled by something far more tender.
At his side sat Jimin.
Her son.
Long brown curls, wild and shining as they had always been, crowned with delicate gold and emeralds that caught the light like captured stars. He wore creamy silk that draped elegantly over his delicate frame, a healthy blush on his cheeks and a soft, radiant smile on his lips. His eyes had curved into happy crescents, the same eyes she had kissed goodnight what seemed like a lifetime ago.
And in Jimin's arms, wrapped in deep blue silk, was a tiny bundle —her grandchild. The dragon’s fierce features reduced to the sweetest baby softness: dark tufts of hair, round pink cheeks, and the exact depth of Yoongi’s eyes softened into innocence.
A tiny white cotton sock, still faintly scented with milk and the lingering sweetness of Jimin's skin, had been tucked beside the portrait like a sacred relic.
The Duchess turned the painting over with shaking hands.
On the back, written in Jimin's unmistakable hand, were the words that finally broke her:
We are always with you, My King. Come home safe.
Forever,
Your Flower.
“Jimin-ah…” The name left her lips like a prayer and a sob all at once. Her eyes welled, the tears she had fought for years finally spilling over as relief, fear, and old grief crashed together in her chest.
The blade slipped from her fingers and fell soundlessly into the wheat.
She clutched the portrait and the tiny sock to her heart, shoulders shaking as the last walls of her composure crumbled.
For one suspended heartbeat, the Duchess of Anthos stood utterly still —a statue carved from grief and shock.
Then her knees gave way.
She sank into the wheat with a broken, guttural wail that tore through the quiet evening like a blade through silk. It was the sound of a mother who had buried her children in her heart moons ago, only to discover they had been alive and waiting all this time. Relief crashed into old grief, and the force of it ripped open every wound she had tried so desperately to close.
Her shoulders shook violently. One hand clutched the small garment to her forehead while the other pressed the portrait against her heart, as though she could pull her son and grandchild through the painted surface and into her arms. Tears streamed down her face unchecked, her proud warrior braids coming loose in the wind.
Yoongi moved without hesitation. He dropped to his knees in the wheat beside her, the dry stalks rustling around them both. His large hand settled firmly on her shoulder —not to restrain, but to anchor.
Warm, steady, and unyielding in its gentleness.
“I swear to you, Your Ladyship,” he said, voice low and sincere, carrying the weight of every vow he had ever made.
“On my blood. On my parents’ names. On Jimin and our son. On everything I hold sacred in this world... Jimin found sanctuary in Frostpire —nothing more. He was always free to walk its halls. Free to leave, if he ever wished it. My scouts searched for you, for all of you, for months after he arrived. We found nothing but ash and ruin at the Abbey. I swear it on my life.”
He paused, letting the words settle between them like a sacred offering.
“We were married two springs ago,” he continued, softer now.
“Then blessed beneath the elven boughs in the old groves. Our boy, Jiyoon, was born last autumn —only a few days after Jimin’s birthday. Jimin is well. Strong. Healthy. The people of the North look upon him with reverence. They pray for him in the temples. He is loved beyond measure… by everyone.”
Yoongi’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, his thumb brushing once, slowly, in a gesture of quiet comfort.
The setting sun painted the wheat around them in molten gold, and for a long moment the only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the ragged, healing breaths of a mother who had finally been given back her heart.
The fading light of dusk had given way to the deep indigo of twilight by the time they moved. Yoongi had suggested it gently, his voice measured so as not to startle her.
“We should go deeper into the trees,” he said. “Western scouts sometimes ride the edges of these fields at night. Better we are not seen.”
The Duchess had nodded without speaking, her movements slow and heavy, as though the weight of too many nights had settled fully upon her shoulders. She rose with the portrait and the tiny sock still clutched to her chest, and together they walked in silence into the forest’s embrace.
The trees here were older, their trunks thick and gnarled, the canopy above dense enough to swallow most of the moonlight. They found a small hollow between two massive roots, sheltered from the wind.
Yoongi gathered fallen branches with quiet efficiency while the Duchess lowered herself onto a patch of soft moss, her back resting against one of the ancient trees. She did not move to help. She simply sat, the small painting cradled in both hands like a sacred relic, her eyes tracing every brush stroke again and again.
Yoongi built a small fire, feeding it dry kindling until the flames caught and began to crackle softly. The warm orange glow pushed back the darkness, casting flickering shadows across the Duchess’s face.
He did not speak. He wanted answers —desperately— but he would not press her. Not tonight. Not when her world had just been turned inside out.
So he tended the fire in silence, occasionally glancing toward her with quiet patience.
The Duchess barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the small painting in her hands.
Which gods should I thank? she wondered, the thought heavy and aching.
Which ones kept him alive when everything else was taken from him? Which ones watched over him when I could not?
She traced the painted curve of Jimin's smile with one trembling fingertip.
How did you survive, my darling?
The question burned behind her eyes.
When they stole you from your maid’s side… when our home burned… did you scream for me? Did you cry yourself to sleep in strange beds, in cold rooms, surrounded by people who did not know your name?
How many nights did you weep for your mothers, for your sister, for the only home you had ever known?
Her gaze lingered on the tall, dark figure beside Jimin in the painting —the Mad King, softened in this portrait in a way the world had not been allowed to see.
How did you end up there, in that ruthless North? she wondered.
How did my gentle boy become the Consort of the Dragon King? Did they force you? Did they break you first?
Or… did you choose him?
A fresh wave of tears gathered, but she did not let them fall.
How did you tame a dragon’s flame, Jimin-ah?
The thought was almost too large to hold.
How did you turn something meant to scorch into something that warms instead?
How did you survive carrying his child? Did anyone hold your hand when the pains came? Did anyone sing to you when you were afraid?
When your boy was born… were you surrounded by love, or were you alone in that cold northern castle, far from everything that was ever yours?
She looked at the tiny white sock resting against the portrait, so small it barely covered two of her fingers.
And now you have a son of your own, she thought, the ache in her chest blooming into something warmer, something fiercely protective.
A boy. Healthy. Loved. Revered.
How does it feel, my son? To hold your own child in your arms after everything that was taken from you? Do you sing the same lullabies I once sang to you? Do you kiss his forehead and promise him the world the way I once promised it to you?
The questions crowded her mind, too many and too heavy to speak aloud. They pressed against her ribs until breathing felt difficult. She wanted to ask everything at once—
How did you survive? How did you find love in that cold place? Did you ever stop hoping we would find you?
—but the words would not come. They tangled in her throat, caught between grief and relief, between the mother she had been and the stranger she had become.
Across the small fire, Yoongi watched the flames paint warm light across her face. He wanted to ask his own questions, but he held his tongue. This quiet was not for his curiosity. It belonged to a mother who had just been given back her son.
So he fed another branch into the flames, as the sparks rose like fleeting stars into the dark canopy above.
It was the Duchess who finally broke the silence.
“Is he happy?”
Yoongi’s mouth curved into a small, quiet smile. He nodded once, eyes following the glowing embers as they drifted upward and vanished.
“He is,” he said softly. “More than I ever dared hope.”
He reached for the satchel the woman had taken from him when she bound him. The leather was worn smooth from travel. From within, he drew a small, neatly tied stack of letters, their edges softened from being opened and read too many times.
“You can read them,” he offered, holding them out across the fire.
“He used to write once a week, sometimes twice. Now that Jiyoon is older and more demanding, it’s a miracle if he finds the time.”
The Duchess took the bundle with careful hands. For a moment she simply held it, as though the weight of her son’s words might be too much and too little all at once. Then, with a steadying breath, she untied the ribbon and began to read.
The first few letters were short, filled with the gentle rhythm of daily life at Frostpire.
Jimin wrote of the way Jiyoon’s tunics no longer fit around his little belly and how the boy seemed to have inherited a quite voracious appetite.
“I blame you entirely, My King. Our son eats as though he means to grow big enough to conquer the kitchens single-handedly. I have had to let out three tunics already this month. Do not look so proud when you read this —it is absolutely your fault.”
The Duchess knew it wasn't true. She remembered with remarkable clarity often finding Jimin sneaking sweets in the kitchens of the Abbey at midnight, cheeks adorably round from scones or rice pudding.
Another letter spoke of late nights in the kitchens with Prince Jeon. Jimin described how the two of them would sneak down long after the cooks and maids had retired, lighting a single lantern and sharing sweet tea and warm biscuits while the rest of the castle slept.
“Jungkookie insists he loves you more than I do. We argue about it like children until the biscuits are gone. It is always me, My King. I am the one who loves you most. Madly. The one who admires you deepest, and the soul that can’t rest until I am in your arms again.”
The Duchess’s fingers trembled slightly as she traced the last line. Her eyes lingered on the familiar handwriting —the same careful loops and gentle slant she had once watched him practice as a boy.
She turned to the next letter. Jimin had written about how the early spring rains had turned the eastern gardens into a muddy mess, and how he and Jiyoon had spent an entire afternoon watching the ducks waddle through the puddles from the safety of the covered walkway.
“Jiyoon laughed so hard he hiccupped for nearly an hour afterward. I wish you could have seen it. He’ll be trouble once he starts walking —tracking mud all over the halls.”
Another short note mentioned the elven prince and the Captain in passing, almost as an afterthought:
“Taehyung-ah has been trying to teach Hoseokie how to play that ridiculous elven strategy game again. The Captain keeps accusing him of cheating with ‘magic runes.’ I had to step in before they started another shouting match in the middle of your study. You would have found it endlessly amusing.”
The fire popped softly. The Duchess read on in silence for a while, the corners of her mouth softening at the small, ordinary details Jimin chose to share —the way the new spring herbs in the kitchen garden were already thriving, how Jiyoon had developed a sudden and fierce attachment to one particular wooden horse toy, and how the castle cats had apparently decided the royal nursery was now their territory and kept him sneezing.
She turned another page. This one was shorter, but written with such fierce affection it made her heart ache:
“The nights are still cold here. I find myself settling in your side of the bed often. The furs still smell like you when I press my face into them. I know it is foolish, but it helps. My King, don't keep me waiting too long.”
The Duchess closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her fingers gently over the ink as though she could feel her son’s warmth through the words.
Across the small fire, Yoongi watched the stars without speaking, sending a quiet prayer of thanksgiving to the Gods.