Chapter Text
❖ Official Line of Succession of the Darkborn Aristocracy ❖
Following the Reigning Sovereign Pair:
Seo Dalya (Omega) & Jeon Taehwan (Alpha)
of the ancestral House Gwanryeo
1st Rank – Jeon Jungkook of House Gwanryeo (Alpha)
2nd Rank – Jeon Minhyun of House Gwanryeo (Alpha)
3rd Rank – Min Yoongi of House Gwanryeo (Alpha)
4th Rank – Han Isayeon of House Namsaeng (Beta)
5th Rank – Seo Jisoo of House Hwanbyeok (Beta)
6th Rank – Jung Hoseok of House Seoryeon (Alpha)
7th Rank – Kim Namjoon of House Baekho (Alpha)
*******
❖ Excerpts from the Crimson Codex ❖
Compiled Laws of Bloodline, Reproduction, and Magical Regulation
Issued and enforced under the High Authority of the Sovereign Blood Court
§3 — Of Thirdborn Omegas and the Sovereign Claim
“Should a Noble Bloodline be blessed with a thirdborn child bearing the Omega designation, that family is bound by law to present said Omega to the Sovereign House of their lineage upon the child’s eighteenth nameday. This offering is intended for the purpose of official union and heir production.”
1. The Alpha Sovereign may lay claim to the thirdborn Omega either for themselves or for a designated heir.
2. If the reigning Alpha chooses to claim the Omega personally, it is within their legal right to annul any existing mating bond with their current consort, without penalty.
3. Any refusal to comply by the family of the thirdborn Omega shall be considered High Treason and punished in accordance with §14 of the Crimson Codex.
“The fertility of a thirdborn Omega is deemed a national resource, and the preservation of such wombs is the duty of the kingdom.”
⸻
§5 — Prohibition of Blood Union Between Light and Dark
“As of 17 November 1771, any mating or carnal union between a Lightborn and a Darkborn is forbidden by edict of the Sovereign Court. The combination of opposing forces within a single womb results in the fatal rejection of mother and child.”
1. Discovery of such unions is grounds for immediate separation, nullification of bond, and sterilization of the offending parties.
2. Should a Darkborn be found guilty of impregnating a Lightborn, execution is to be carried out within twenty-four hours of confirmation, should identity be proven.
3. Offspring born of such unlawful unions, should they survive, are to be taken into Sovereign custody and raised in sterile magical containment.
“The sanctity of magic must never be compromised by hybridization. The blood must remain pure, lest it rot from within.”
⸻
§12 — On the Manifestation and Peril of Magical Subtypes
“The life-giving power of the Lightborn and the death-touch of the Darkborn awaken between the onset of puberty and the eighteenth year. Should this emergence be delayed, the host’s body may reject the trait violently.”
1. The rejection syndrome, known as Magical Collapse , presents with convulsions, internal hemorrhaging, and cardiac arrest.
2. Without intervention, 33% of delayed manifestors perish before formal assessment.
3. All children displaying early symptoms of either Light or Dark affinity must be registered with the Noble Registry Office and monitored by certified Arcanic Physicians.
⸻
§17 — Preservation of Noble Heirlines and Procreation Mandate
“The continuation of noble bloodlines is the cornerstone of national stability and magical heritage. Therefore, all childless unions within the Blood Aristocracy, regardless of designation (Alpha, Beta, Omega), are obligated to seek reproductive consultation before their third bonding year.”
1. Failure to conceive by the third year of bonding triggers mandatory enrollment in an Heir Production Facility.
2. Should couples meet the outlined criteria under §30, they shall be eligible for full funding under the High Sovereign Fertility Act.
⸻
§21 — Regulation of Magical Abilities: The Use of Life and Death
“The application of Light-giving or Dark-touch magic must adhere strictly to regulation. As these abilities affect the entirety of a living organism, improper use poses catastrophic risk to the bloodline and the public.”
1. Any use of the Light or Dark gift must be documented through the House of Magical Oversight.
2. Use of the life-gift (Light) is sanctioned only for medical revival, sanctioned heir-conception rituals, or Sovereign blessing ceremonies.
3. Use of the death-gift (Dark) is limited to sanctioned executions, battlefield mercy, or duel of honor—any deviation is considered Magical Treason.
4. Abilities used for selfish purposes, personal vengeance, or unapproved execution shall be punishable by incarceration, sensory suppression, torture, or death by Red Guard decree.
********
Sovereign Blood Court of Gwanryeo
Office of Lineage Enforcement — Crimson-Sealed
To Lord Kim Jaemin & Lady Yun Harin of House Baekho
Under §3 (Thirdborn Omega Mandate) of the Crimson Codex, you are ordered to return to the capital within one lunar cycle.
Your thirdborn child, Kim Taehyung — Omega, Darkborn, age 17 yrs 6 mos , will reach legal maturity in six months. On that nameday he must stand before the Black Court for Bonding Selection:
• Primary Claimants — Jeon Taehwan (Alpha Sovereign) or Jeon Jungkook (Alpha First Heir).
Taehyung’s unmanifested Dark subtype and uniquely fertile thirdborn status are now classified “state-critical.” He is to begin immediate obedience and heat conditioning. A black-onyx collar, warded for pheromone lock, accompanies this notice; it must be fitted upon your arrival.
Non-compliance constitutes High Treason (§14) and will result in asset seizure, title erasure, and forcible reclamation of the Omega womb.
Prepare your Omega. Present him willingly.
The bloodline will be served.
By proxy of the Sovereign Pair,
Jeon Taehwan (Alpha) & Seo Dalya (Omega)
Seal: Black lotus veined in silver, bleeding into crimson
********
Taehyung
The estate smelled like blood. Not fresh, not spilled; older than memory, steeped into the stone, hanging beneath the velvet of imported drapes like something breathing, watching. Waiting.
Taehyung stood at the base of the grand staircase, duffel at his feet, coat still on, the carved mahogany banister beneath his gloved hand cold and uninviting. He hated it already. This place. This life. This fate that had been coiling around his throat since the moment someone had whispered, thirdborn… omega… fertile.
“Stop loitering,” Namjoon’s voice came sharp from the landing above, clipped in that usual Baekho-honed Alpha timbre, all cold steel and clean-cut command. “The staff will bring your things to your wing.”
Taehyung didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Not until Jimin glided into view beside Namjoon, an eerie mirror of court perfection in his soft navy coat and freshly perfumed skin, looking more like an ornament than a brother. Omega by designation. Political by nature.
“Well,” Jimin murmured, tilting his head, voice honeyed. “It’s not entirely a prison.”
“Only if you forget why we’re here,” Taehyung bit out, finally stepping forward. The parquet creaked under his boots.
Namjoon exhaled like someone trying very hard not to commit a capital crime. “Don’t be dramatic. You turn eighteen in six months. The Sovereign Court expects proper submission and magical readiness. You’re lucky you’ve been summoned before the collapse sets in. Do you want to die coughing up your own lungs because you were too weak to manifest?”
Taehyung didn’t answer. The truth burned. He hadn’t manifested. Not yet. And his time was running out.
In the world of the Blood Aristocracy, magic was inheritance. Magic was worth. Magic was survival. The Lightborn gave life. The Darkborn took it. But only a sliver of the population had either gift, and fewer still had the purity of blood to make it stable.
Taehyung was born into one of the oldest.
House Baekho.
Darkborn. Elite. Diplomatic blood with ancient power—at least, in theory.
Jimin had manifested his subtype early, at thirteen. A rare, calm-touch omega with Darkblood, his fingers able to coax the breath from lungs as gently as he coaxed secrets in court. Namjoon had been even younger. Twelve.
And Taehyung?
Seventeen. No signs. No death-touch. No spells woven into his skin or black lightning in his veins. Just the scent of a thirdborn omega’s ripening cycle becoming more noticeable with every full moon, and the heavy whisper of duty wrapped in velvet and laws.
He was late. And everyone knew what that could mean.
“You should’ve stayed abroad,” Taehyung muttered, trudging up the steps past them. “Why ruin your lives for a defective little brother?”
Namjoon didn’t blink. “Because if you collapse, it reflects on the entire House. And if you survive, you’re going to be fucked by either the Alpha Sovereign or his son. That’s not something to leave unsupervised.”
“Such poetry,” Taehyung sneered, heart hammering against the rising stench of old dark magic that clung to the upper halls. “You could’ve been a romantic, hyung.”
Jimin reached out, lightly brushing his fingers to Taehyung’s jaw. “Just remember… no matter how much you fight it, your heat will come. And the Court will send him.” He smiled. “Jeon Jungkook.”
Taehyung froze. The name made his stomach flip.
Jeon Jungkook. The first heir. Alpha. Darkborn. Just 19 years old and trained since birth to be everything the Sovereign Pair desired. Efficient. Dangerous. And worst of all… likely to claim him.
“Stop,” Taehyung snapped, jerking back. “I’d rather die in collapse than let that monster knot me for the sake of his bloodline.”
Namjoon’s jaw tensed. “That monster is the only reason our bloodline hasn’t been extinguished by war or infertility.”
“Then let it die!” Taehyung shouted, his voice cracking with fury. “Let the whole rotten system burn! ”
Silence.
Somewhere beneath them, the estate groaned with age. Or magic. Or memory.
Jimin’s smile didn’t falter. “Careful, Tae. You sound like a revolutionary. That’s a traitor’s tongue.”
“And traitors die,” Namjoon added, voice like ice.
“Maybe I will,” Taehyung whispered. “At least then I won’t end up bred like livestock. ”
But the truth was, he wouldn’t die. Not unless his magic failed to manifest. And the odds were stacked against him now. Statistically, Darkborn magic in thirdborn Omegas awakened under extreme duress. Which meant…
The Court would give him exactly that.
Later, as he sat in the East Wing chamber assigned to him, its high gothic windows curtained against the rising moon, Taehyung unwrapped the last of his imported clothes, his scent suppressants, the ceremonial collar that had already been mailed ahead in polished onyx.
Property of House Gwanryeo.
His fingers curled around the collar’s cold clasp.
He was seventeen. Nearly legal. And by law, on his nameday, the Sovereign Pair would be allowed to summon him before the Black Court and inspect his readiness. If his magic came in—if the touch of death bloomed across his fingertips as it had for his brothers—he would be bound, married, and knotted before the next spring equinox.
Likely by Jungkook. Possibly by Taehwan, the Sovereign himself— an Alpha older than his father.
Taehyung swallowed bile.
There were rules for magical bonding. Laws. Rituals. And yet none of it felt like choice. Not for an Omega. Not for a thirdborn.
Outside, wolves howled past the hills. Inside, something in him stirred, painfully, like a muscle waking from years of sleep.
He didn’t know if it was his magic.
Or his rage.
But something had been touched. And it would not sleep again.
*******
The mornings were the worst. Cold light poured through the tall arched windows like judgment, slicing across the lacquered floors of the Eastern Wing. Each day began the same: silence, stale tea, and the private tutor who insisted on calling him “Taehyung-ssi” with clipped Beta politeness, like that formality could veil the fact that every lesson was a prelude to bondage.
This morning, it was etiquette. Again. The dance of subservience. The right way to bow. The correct tilt of the neck to offer one’s pulse to an Alpha without seeming eager for the bite.
He wanted to spit on the floor.
“If an Alpha of the Sovereign House invites you to a Red Court ball, what do you do?” Mr. Yoon, his grey-haired instructor, asked tightly, folding his fingers together. “Assume he is ranked above you in blood.”
Taehyung leaned back in the ornate chair, arms crossed over his chest, expression blank as a noose. “I offer my neck, pray he doesn’t test his magic, and thank him for the honor of possibly dying before dessert?”
The tutor exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s move on. Geography, then. Unless you’d prefer we revisit Highcourt dialects?”
“I’d prefer to revisit my flight out of this hellhole, but since that’s off the curriculum, geography is fine,” Taehyung drawled, lifting a single brow.
Before Yoon could respond, the doorbell echoed through the estate.
Taehyung flinched.
From the floor below, hushed French filtered up through the stairwell—his eldest brother, Namjoon, murmuring into the phone from Father’s study. Something about emissaries. Highblood interference. A breeding summons being “premature.” His voice cut off abruptly, followed by the sound of a door closing with unnatural force.
A moment later, a servant entered the study with a black-wrapped package, a deep crimson ribbon tied perfectly around its middle.
“For Taehyung of House Baekho,” she read aloud, eyes wide, voice hushed.
His blood went cold.
“Would you do me the honor of wearing this to the Red Audience? I’d like to see how brave you are.” Min Yoongi of House Gwanryeo.
The Sovereign’s nephew. Third in line.
He dropped the card like it burned.
Min Yoongi. He had a reputation for silence and strategy, not courtship. And certainly not attention toward thirdborn Omegas.
Yoon cleared his throat. “Your… ah. Reputation appears to be spreading.”
Taehyung’s stomach roiled.
“They smell the magic, don’t they?” he asked bitterly, still staring at the box. “Even if it hasn’t shown yet. They can sense the heat building. They know I’ll manifest or collapse. And they want to be the first to stake a claim before either happens.”
Yoon hesitated. “Thirdborn Omegas have always drawn attention. You’re… extremely rare. And your bloodline—”
His fingers shook as he pushed the box aside. “The Sovereign still gets first claim. Right? No matter how many vultures send pretty dresses and promises.”
“Technically, yes,” Yoon said, quietly. “Though, rumors suggest the succession may be in flux. That… House Gwanryeo is maneuvering.”
That stopped Taehyung cold.
Not just Jungkook, then. Not just one Alpha of blood and magic: multiple.
Jungkook. Yoongi. Maybe even Jung Hoseok. All trained from birth to claim what the laws of scarcity demanded: heirs. Lineage. Thirdborn fertility.
And Taehyung, unmanifested, unbonded, and legal in six months, was the last untouched piece on the board.
Suddenly the room felt too small.
His scent suppresants weren’t strong enough anymore. He could feel the pull in his gut, low and heavy like a tide rolling in from beneath his skin. Heat was weeks away at best, maybe sooner if he got near an Alpha with strong magic.
Or worse, if one of them touched him.
He remembered Jimin’s fingers at his jaw. The way his brother had spoken Jungkook’s name like it was prophecy.
Like it was fate. But Taehyung didn’t believe in fate. He believed in escape.
As Yoon began reciting river systems of the Eastern Kingdoms, Taehyung tuned out. His mind spun with questions. And suddenly, a memory surfaced—something Namjoon had said in a low voice the night they arrived:
“If the others catch wind that you’re unclaimed… they’ll make their moves before Jungkook can seal the deal.”
The royal line was desperate. Fertile Omegas were vanishing. Collapsing. Unstable magic. Failed bonds. Infertility sweeping the Light- and Darkborn families like a curse.
Taehyung clenched his fist so tightly the edge of the invitation cut into his skin.
Would you do me the honor…?
Taehyung’s lips curled.
“Sure,” he muttered under his breath, dark eyes narrowing as a whisper of cold flickered through his bones.
“But if I wear it… you better run.”
*******
Taehyung exhaled sharply as he entered his chambers and caught sight of the neatly stacked towers of black and ash-grey gift boxes beside his bed. Most were bound with blood-red ribbons—silken, glossy, and obscene in their implication.
Thirdborn.
He hated that word.
He hated what it made him. What they saw when they looked at him. Not a son. Not a soul. Just an Omega with a womb they could lay claim to: ripe, untouched, and damnably fertile.
He collapsed onto the bed, eyes fixed on a wilting bouquet of dark red roses laid out on the glass table near the door. The petals were curling, brittle with death, yet they still reeked of ceremonial perfume and expectation.
How was he supposed to survive the next few weeks like this? Let alone the Red Audience, where the alphas would circle like wolves in velvet.
The Sovereign House had the lawful right to his bond. And House Baekho, his House, would never challenge that claim. Never dare defy the will of the Darkborn Sovereign.
Which meant one thing: he was going to be given away like fine silver.
Married off. Owned.
His fingers curled into the sheets as a chill licked down his spine. He forced himself upright, pacing across the room like a caged creature. His bare feet pressed against the cold marble tiles as if to anchor himself, but it did nothing to stop the flare of magic inside his chest—dark, unformed, dangerous.
A knock broke through his thoughts. Low. Reserved. And unwanted.
Taehyung grimaced, stepped away from the withering bouquet, and forced the word out through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
The door creaked open, and in swept his mother. She was dressed, as always, in austere dark—pressed slacks, tailored blazer, hair tied back so tight it looked like it might snap her spine.
“You’ve yet to open your gifts,” she noted
“I don’t want to,” Taehyung replied coolly, settling back onto the bed.
Her heels clicked sharply as she moved to the desk, withdrawing a stack of crimson-embossed cards. “Regardless. You will write thank-you notes. That is custom.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared at the curve of her mouth, unyielding as always. They never asked him what he wanted. Not once.
“Can’t we just send them back?” he muttered, gaze drifting to the boxes. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want their silk or their sapphires or their intentions.”
His mother turned to him slowly, her expression chilling in its stillness. “Returning them would be offensive. The families have spent lavishly. To refuse them is to dishonor your role.”
“I didn’t choose this role,” he hissed.
“You are a thirdborn Omega,” she answered, and that—apparently—was supposed to end the argument.
He said nothing. There was nothing else to say. Nothing that would matter.
“I assume you’ve been instructed about the mourning rites?” she asked, tone brisk. “The ceremony will be your formal introduction to the surviving Darkborn families. The tutor said your progress is… acceptable.”
Taehyung rolled his shoulders back, pulse heavy in his throat. “It’s a funeral,” he said flatly. “For a Darkborn who could kill with a touch. What kind of introduction is that?”
“One that will define your future.”
He clenched his jaw.
His mother’s gaze flicked over the black boxes again, then to the bouquet. The petals were nearly dust, but their death was elegant—dignified. Fitting, in a way.
“If you choose to wear one of the gifted ensembles to the ceremony,” she said quietly, “they’ll take it as a sign. A signal of favor. Of preference.”
“I don’t know them,” he snapped. “I don’t even know most of their names.”
“But they know yours.”
The silence after that hung heavy, charged with magic, blood, and lineage. Taehyung could almost feel the bond threads in the distance; alphas sharpening their teeth, betas planning alliances, even the Lightborn eyeing him.
He stood and walked slowly to the gift pile, lips curled in disdain. Then, deliberately, he grabbed the nearest parcel and ripped it open without care, shredding the black velvet and letting a silver cuff clatter to the floor.
“There,” he said, voice dark as his bloodline. “Happy?”
His mother didn’t flinch. “You’ll wear the outfit I selected. Our staff will bring it to you before the ceremony.”
Taehyung gave a curt nod. “Fine.”
But in his mind, the cold was spreading again. Slowly, steadily—down his arms, into his spine. He had felt that sensation before. The darkness waking. The power in his veins remembering what it was bred for.
Not to be touched. But to end.
********
Taehyung sat on the wide velvet bench beside the window, the afternoon sunlight gilding the curls at the nape of his neck, trying very hard not to scowl. But the pile of unopened packages stacked high by his bedroom door made it impossible.
He huffed and picked up the top parcel. The envelope bore the wax seal of House Seoryeon: an elegant crane bathed in ink. Jung Hoseok. He tore the parchment open and unfolded a linen-bound bundle inside—lavender silk gloves, laced with scent-neutralizing threads, tailored for an Omega’s more “sensitive wrists.” There was also a hand-written note tucked beneath the gloves:
“To the future jewel of the court. I heard you’re delicate. Keep your hands safe until an Alpha can hold them properly.” Jung Hoseok
Taehyung gagged.
He reached for the next box. This one heavier. Denser. Colder.
House Gwanryeo seal.
He froze. But then saw the name on the corner: Min Yoongi. It wasn’t him. Thank the moon.
He opened Min Yoongi’s second gift carefully.
Inside lay a leather-bound tome—ancient and weathered. “On the Nature of Thirdborn Omegas: Ritual, Rites, and Resistance .” He stared, silent for a long beat. That… wasn’t entirely a bad gift. There was no perfume, no pretense of flirtation. Just… brutal honesty.
Of course, it had to come from Min Yoongi. Still, the moment of appreciation died fast.
Because the next package was slim. Wrapped in expensive grey paper, no seal visible. Curious, he opened it.
Inside, nestled in dark silk, lay a strip of translucent black lace—delicate, whisper-thin, and unmistakably tailored for an Omega. It shimmered like night water, sheer and intimate. The scent that curled from the fabric hit him hard, like the first thunder before a storm, like rain on stone and shadow in heat. Cold and burning.
Dark rain.
His breath stuttered. Knees weakened under the weight of it. It was the scent of a Darkborn Alpha. More than that, it was sovereign.
Taehyung barely registered his own movement as he pulled out the small card tucked underneath.
Black vellum, thin as breath, the writing in silver ink:
“You’ll recognize me when it matters. I never chase—only claim.”
—JJK
His vision swam. The bastard hadn’t even signed his name. Just initials. But the scent told him enough. His body, bound by ancient instinct, knew it.
“Fuck,” he whispered, hands shaking as he dropped the card like it stung.
Of course it was him. Jeon Jungkook. First Heir to House Gwanryeo. The alpha every court whispered about and no one dared to deny.
Taehyung’s inner Omega—traitorous bastard that it was—shivered involuntarily. Preening under the attention of such a powerful bloodline.
“Pathetic,” he whispered to himself. “You’re pathetic.”
“Talking to yourself, little brother?” came Jimin’s voice from the door, all sugar and sharp teeth.
Taehyung whipped around, eyes wide.
Jimin waltzed in with a lopsided grin, his silver robe trailing behind him like royalty. He moved directly to the discarded black slip, holding it up between two fingers and raising a perfectly plucked brow.
“Oh, this is spicy,” he smirked. “Your taste is bolder than I thought.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” Taehyung growled.
“But are you sending it back?” Jimin asked, voice dripping with mockery. “Or are you saving it for your first night , huh?”
“Get out.”
“I’m just asking if you’re excited to meet your future Alpha.” He dropped his voice into a sultry mimic of court gossip: “The First Heir. The Darkborn Sovereign’s Prodigal Son. The one with hands that kill and eyes that claim. ”
“I swear to the moon, Jimin, I will poison your tea.”
“You won’t. You need me too much.”
Taehyung seethed, but the heat curling in his gut was hard to deny. Even now, just thinking of the possibility—being seen by that monster—was enough to make his skin prickle.
Nature was a cruel mistress. He hated it. Hated that his inner Omega responded to any of it. That his body could react when his mind wanted to retch.
“I don’t want to see any Alpha,” he spat. “Especially not him.”
Jimin only tilted his head, smile fading into something eerily serious. “You’ve got a few months left, Tae. When your magic shows, when you turn eighteen… it won’t matter what you want. The Sovereign will claim you. Or he’ll hand you off to his son. Either way—”
“Stop.”
“—you’ll belong to Gwanryeo,” Jimin finished, quiet now. “You think you can outrun that? You think gloves or books or your attitude change that?”
Taehyung looked down at the floor, where Jungkook’s gift still lay, a dark stain against the sunlight.
“I’d rather die,” he said.
But the truth was.
Taehyung wouldn’t just be a thirdborn Omega. He’d be a Darkborn thirdborn Omega. And that meant the Sovereign or Jungkook wouldn’t just claim him. They’d never, ever let him go.
*******
The silk sleeves clung too tight at the wrist.
Taehyung tugged at them for the third time, eyes fixed on the tall mirror set into the mahogany frame across his bedroom. His mother had chosen the outfit.Regal. Refined. Ridiculously revealing. The collar plunged low enough to expose the faint birthmark at his collarbone. The sash at his waist was a whisper away from sin.
It was mourning attire, technically. Traditional. But make no mistake, this wasn’t about grief.
This was about showcasing him.
Taehyung’s jaw clenched as he adjusted the sash again, hating how it framed his hips. The fabric shimmered like dusk, cool and soft, mocking him with every fold.
He could already hear them whispering. The other Houses. The Sovereign Court. All of them watching, waiting for his eighteenth nameday like vultures circling a still-warm kill.
He looked older now. He knew that. Taller, sharper at the jaw. His mouth fuller. His scent, though not fully bloomed, already pulled curious glances. But his magic had yet to manifest. And without it, he was vulnerable. Unready.
But not for long.
He brushed a hand down his chest, where beneath the surface, something ancient stirred. Still dormant. Still sleeping. But it was there. He felt it more lately—a cold ache behind his ribs, a flicker in his fingertips when he was angry or along.
The death-gift. The Darkborn curse.
“Taehyung! We’re leaving in five.”
Namjoon’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a whip.
Taehyung didn’t answer at first. He stared at his reflection. The mirror didn’t lie. He looked exactly like what the court wanted him to be: desirable. Breedable. Claimed.
He wanted to break the glass.
By the time he descended the staircase, Namjoon was already at the door; towering, armored in formal blacks with the faint shimmer of Dark sigils etched into his cuffs.
Jimin lounged beside him, dressed in velvet storm-blue, lips tinted wine-red, and wearing grief like a fashion statement. “You clean up nicely, baby brother,” he purred. “They’ll be foaming at the mouth to bend you over an altar.”
“Choke,” Taehyung muttered, breezing past him.
Their mother stepped into the hall, regal and sharp in mourning golds, father just behind her in layered robes marked with Baekho’s crest. “Enough,” he said. “Let us not arrive squabbling like lowborn mutts. We are Baekho. The blood answers differently in us.”
“Even if it hasn’t answered yet?” Taehyung murmured before he could stop himself.
His fathers eyes flicked to him. “It will.”
The car ride was silent for a while. Even the air inside the vehicle felt tense, as if the mourning itself had weight.
Outside the windows, the capital passed in muted grays; sharp spires, black-veined marble, flags at half-mast. A Sovereign cousin had died. And that meant the entire elite had gathered to honor him.
It would be Taehyung’s first time among them.
His first step into the blood-soaked halls where marriages were arranged, deals forged, and Omegas like him were auctioned off with smiles.
“Back straight,” his mother said, glancing at him. “And do not lower your eyes. When the Sovereign pair passes, you bow; but you never kneel unless ordered.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Your scent barrier is still in place?”
Taehyung nodded.
“And your pills?”
“I took them.”
“Good.” She turned forward again. “This is the last time you’ll be seen as a child. Make sure you aren’t remembered as one.”
Beside him, Jimin was humming under his breath, head tilted toward the window. “Do you think they’ll test him for the death-gift at the reception?”
“They can’t,” Namjoon said. “Not before the nameday.”
“They’ve bent laws for less,” their father muttered.
Taehyung’s hands clenched in his lap.
When they reached the Palace, the guards bowed low as the Baekho car pulled in.
The moment Taehyung stepped out, heads turned. A hush rippled down the path. Whispers sparked like static.
“That’s him—”
“Seventeen and unclaimed—”
“Darkborn, thirdborn Omega. They’ll collar him before winter’s end—”
His back stiffened. The scent of warded incense barely masked the perfume of interest in the air. Alpha signatures flared like hot iron against his skin.
He didn’t look at them. He looked straight ahead.
But just as they passed beneath the arched gate, a gust of wind rolled through the courtyard and with it, something that nearly brought him to his knees.
It hit like a storm.
Rain. Cold stone. Thunder still bleeding in the distance.
The scent struck Taehyung like a curse. He stumbled. His grip on Jimin’s sleeve tightened for a second too long.
“What’s wrong?” Jimin whispered, eyes flicking toward the Sovereign guard lines.
Taehyung didn’t answer.
Because the scent had already vanished, like a promise made only to vanish on arrival.
But even as it faded, Taehyung swore he could feel it—
That pressure in the air.
A gaze.
Watching. Waiting.
And somewhere behind the obsidian doors of the palace, Jeon Jungkook smirked.