Chapter Text
The wind off the sea was harsher than Seokjin remembered.
It carried the scent of salt, sharp and wild, tugging at his hair and clothes as he guided his horse down the narrow, rutted path toward the cluster of homes nestled against the cliffs. No guards flanked him, no gilded carriage announced his arrival, just him, a plain traveling cloak, and a borrowed horse that looked almost as weary as he felt.
He had insisted on it.
Yoongi had frowned but hadn't argued.
Maybe, Seokjin thought, he had wanted to arrive like this.
Unremarkable.
Unnoticed.
Just a son returning home.
But as the village came into view, Seokjin's chest tightened.
He hadn’t wanted to leave the palace.
Hadn’t wanted to leave him.
Even in the final hours before his departure, he had lingered at Yoongi’s side, finding excuses, small and clumsy.
The way Yoongi’s long, golden hair needed combing again.
The way the twins kicked more at dusk, and surely Yoongi would want Seokjin's hand there to soothe them.
The way the gardens needed walking through, yes, walking, slow and careful, maybe together.
Yoongi had humored him at first, smiling that patient, knowing smile.
But then, with a softness that cut sharper than any command, Yoongi had touched his cheek and said,
—You should go.
And Seokjin had understood.
At first, he'd thought it was Yoongi's way of showing strength.
Showing the ministers, the court, the entire realm that even heavy with heirs, even without his alpha at his side, he was still their king.
Still unshakable.
And Seokjin agreed, Yoongi could rule without him.
Could crush nations beneath his heel with a child in his womb and a dagger in his hand.
Yoongi didn’t need him to protect his reign.
But... maybe Yoongi needed something else.
Maybe he needed Seokjin to remember who he was.
Not just the king’s consort.
Not just the father of heirs.
Not just a weapon fashioned by loyalty and love.
But Seokjin.
A fisherman’s son.
A boy made of salt and sky.
Someone whose roots went deeper than any palace stone.
His departure was swift, his duties carried out efficiently.
But something nagged at him the entire time.
And then—he *saw* him.
A shadow in the crowd. A figure draped in light color fabric, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring their face.
But it was the *scent* that made Seokjin freeze.
It was faint, almost undetectable beneath the busy streets, the scent of smoke and horses and damp earth.
But it was *there.*
Familiar.
*Too* familiar.
It reminded him of Yoongi.
And not just in the way that two people of the same blood carried similarities.
It was *Yoongi’s* scent, but *off*—a strange, distorted echo of it.
Seokjin’s gut twisted.
He didn’t believe in omens.
But he didn’t trust coincidences either.
Without wasting another moment, he had set off to his hometown.
The horse snorted, shaking its mane, and Seokjin slowed its pace.
The village hadn’t changed much.
The boats still bobbed in the shallows, patched and worn but stubbornly afloat. Nets still hung from posts to dry, and children still darted barefoot through the sand, their laughter carried away by the sea breeze.
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing it in.
The old life.
The forgotten life.
It felt... smaller now.
Not lesser.
Just... something he had outgrown without noticing.
Still, his heart ached with something bittersweet.
Because this wasn't about permission.
It was about trust.
And Yoongi had given him that, freely and completely, when he'd said those three simple words:
You should go.
So Seokjin went.
Not as the king's consort.
Not as the feared alpha of the palace.
But as a son.
Returning home.
Now, the wind off the sea carried the scent of salt and fish and woodsmoke, sharp as a blade between his ribs. Seokjin touched his jaw absently, the skin still smooth where Yoongi’s razor had passed.
He exhaled, long and slow, the memory of Yoongi’s hands followed him like a second shadow.
He dismounted, boots crunching against the gravel as he led the horse toward the familiar row of cottages. His fingers brushed the gold and jade pendant Yoongi had pressed into his palm before he left. The one that had made their paths cross together, the one that had sealed Seokjin’s fate with the ruler of this land.
“Come back to me”.
Seokjin squared his shoulders.
He would.
He would tell them.
Tell them about the life he had found, the love he had been given, the future he was building.
And when he returned...
Gods, when he returned, he would kneel before Yoongi and whisper, “thank you” not just for letting him go, but for trusting that he would come back.
Always.
The familiar cottage stood at the end of the lane, its weathered timbers bowed slightly with age but still stubborn against the salt-heavy wind. Smoke curled from the crooked chimney, and Seokjin caught the faintest whiff of fish stew and damp wool, scents so achingly familiar that his throat closed up.
He hesitated.
The horse nudged his shoulder, impatient, and Seokjin let out a shaky breath.
Go.
His boots dragged a little on the worn stone path, every step pulling him deeper into the weight of memories, small hands hauling nets from the shore, voices calling him home at dusk, the fierce, untamed laughter of his father echoing across the beach.
Before he could think better of it, he lifted his hand and knocked.
He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened almost immediately, and there stood his mother, her hair threaded with more gray than he remembered, her hands still damp from cooking. Her face changed slowly, from confusion to dawning recognition, and then she stepped forward and pulled him into a tight, breath-stealing hug without a single word.
Seokjin clung to her, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn there.
—Seokjin,— she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. —. You came back.
He nodded against her shoulder, swallowing hard.
Behind her, his father appeared, slower, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze heavy and assessing, not cold, not unkind, just... wary in the way men became when they had loved someone too much for too long.
—You look thin,— his father said gruffly, and Seokjin let out a small laugh.
—You look exactly the same,— Seokjin shot back.
A corner of his father's mouth quirked up, the closest he would ever come to smiling first. But he stepped aside, letting Seokjin into the small, familiar warmth of the house.
It was like stepping into another life.
The old nets hung over the mantle. The battered table where he had eaten countless bowls of stew still sagged under its own weight. Even the cracked mug he used to favor sat in its usual spot, as if waiting for him.
He lowered himself onto the bench beside the fire, his mother bustling immediately to bring him something, anything, to eat, to drink, to wrap around his shoulders. He let her. Always, he had been her boy.
—You could have sent word,— his father said eventually, leaning against the doorframe.
Seokjin met his gaze calmly.
—You heard the rumors, didn’t you?
His father grunted. —. Hard not to.
There had been whispers, even reaching this far, of a fisherman’s son who had risen through the palace ranks, who had fought alongside the king’s forces on the northern coast, who had commanded soldiers and turned back invaders with nothing but a handful of men and a sharp tongue.
Rumors that sounded too big, too unlikely.
And yet here he was.
Alive. Whole.
Changed, but still their son.
His mother returned, pressing a warm cup of broth into his hands before sinking onto the bench beside him, close enough their shoulders brushed. She hadn’t stopped touching him since he walked through the door, like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Seokjin leaned into her without shame.
If he could have, he would have curled into her lap like he had as a boy.
—You don’t have to tell us everything,— she murmured, stroking his hair back from his forehead, as if he were still small enough to sit at her feet and fall asleep against her skirts. Not yet.
He nodded, grateful beyond words.
His father’s voice came rougher.
—You made a life for yourself,— he said. —. You did well.
It wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t praise.
It was something harder, heavier, something like pride, but weathered with time and disappointment and the kind of love that didn't always know how to be kind.
Seokjin met his father’s gaze and nodded once, deep and respectful.
He remembered the last thing his father had said to him before he left for the palace all those years ago, If you’re going to be a king’s consort, don’t just warm his bed. Make yourself useful. Make it count.
Seokjin had.
Gods, he had.
The weight of that truth pressed against his ribs as he cradled the cup in his hands, feeling his mother’s steady warmth at his side.
He let them talk around him for a while, the weather, the fishing, the neighbor’s new baby, before he realized he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
He cleared his throat, and his mother immediately stilled, sensing something.
—I have something to tell you,— Seokjin said, voice rough with emotion.
Both of them turned to look at him, his father straightening slightly, his mother’s hand tightening on his knee.
—I’m going to be a father,— he said.
The words landed like a stone thrown into still water, sending ripples through the small room.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then his mother made a sound, half a laugh, half a sob, and threw her arms around him again, pressing her face into his shoulder.
—A father,— she whispered fiercely. —. Oh, my boy.
His father coughed, clearing his throat noisily, rubbing at his eyes in a way that made Seokjin look away out of mercy.
—I hope you’re ready,— his father said finally, voice gruff but proud.
Seokjin smiled, wide and true and aching.
—I am,— he said simply.
He thought of Yoongi waiting for him, stubborn and brilliant and merciless, but his hands cradling the swell of new life between them, and felt the truth of it settle in his bones.
—I truly am.
His mother sat back after a long moment, dabbing her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, her hand never straying far from Seokjin’s arm. His father settled down heavily, the weight of his gaze pressing into Seokjin like an anchor.
—A father,— his mother said again, wonder thick in her voice. She gave a small, hesitant smile. —And... the other parent?
Seokjin blinked, confused for a moment.
He smiled faintly, brushing his hand against the rim of his cup.
—He is doing well,— he said carefully. —. The pregnancy’s been smooth. He’s strong.
The firelight danced across the worn wooden table as Seokjin traced the rim of his cup. His mother leaned forward, her eyes bright with cautious hope. His father sat motionless, his fisherman's hands curled around his own untouched drink.
—There's... more,— Seokjin began, his voice softer than the crackling hearth. —. The physician confirmed it. We're not just having one child.
His mother's breath caught.
—Two?— Her hands flew to her mouth. —. Oh, Jin-ah…
—Twins,— Seokjin confirmed, the word thick in his throat. —. Two healthy heartbeats. Due when the autumn comes.
For a moment, the cottage was silent save for the wind whistling through the cracks. His father's calloused fingers tightened around his cup, his gaze sharpening with something like pride before he schooled his expression.
His mother's hands fluttered to her chest.
—Twins! Oh, but — She paused, brow furrowing. —There haven't been twins in our family, have there?— She turned to Seokjin's father. —Not in your line or mine?
His father rubbed his chin, the coarse sound of his calluses loud in the quiet.
—Not that I recall. Your great-aunt had two babes in one year, but that was different.— He turned to Seokjin. —. What of your omega's family? Any twins there?
Seokjin stiffened slightly. He knew exactly why they were asking, the unspoken question hanging between them. Were these truly his children?
—No,— he said firmly. He traced the rim of his cup again. —The physician said sometimes it just happens. Like lightning striking the same tree twice
His mother's eyes softened.
—A double blessing then.— But her fingers tightened around her own cup just a fraction too hard.
The air shifted.
His parents exchanged a look, swift, sharp, impossible to miss.
For a moment, the cottage was silent save for the wind whistling through the cracks. His father's calloused fingers tightened around his cup, his gaze sharpening with something like pride before he schooled his expression.
His mother reached across the table, her work-roughened hands grasping Seokjin's.
—This is wonderful news! And your omega?… — Her smile faltered as she searched his face. —. Will we meet them?
The smile on his mother's face grew wider, full of tentative hope. His father’s brow furrowed, but it wasn’t the suspicious frown Seokjin expected. It was something... softer.
—Who are they?— his mother asked delicately. —. A soldier? A merchant?
Seokjin frowned.
—What are you talking about?— he said slowly, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. —. You knew I was the king’s consort. Why would it be someone else?
The air shifted.
His parents exchanged a look, swift, sharp, impossible to miss.
His father’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in his cheek.
—You mean to tell me,— his father said, voice low, —. that it’s him?
Seokjin stared at them.
—Of course,— he said, baffled. —. Who else would it be?
His mother’s face crumpled a little, her hands wringing the fabric of her skirt. His father leaned back hard in his chair, the wood creaking under him.
—That monster?— His father's voice shook with something raw and wounded. —. After everything, after what they did to you, you let that mad king…
—Enough.— Seokjin's voice cut through the cottage, sharper than any blade. When he looked up, his eyes burned with a quiet intensity that made his father take an involuntary step back. —. Yoon- the king is my mate. The twins are ours. That is all you need to know.
—We thought…— his mother whispered. —. After the battles on the northern coast, after the stories we heard of you leading men, commanding armies, we thought you earned your freedom. We thought you were free, Jin.
The words hit harder than he expected.
As if the life he had chosen wasn’t a victory, but a loss.
—I am free,— Seokjin said, the protest scraping raw against his throat.
His father gave a harsh, humorless laugh.
His father's hands clenched around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening like sea foam on driftwood. A strange light came into his eyes, something hungry, something proud.
—So,— he said slowly, voice rough with sudden hope, —. the mad king carries your pups.
Seokjin stiffened at the term, but said nothing.
His father leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows into the lines of his face.
—Then it's done. You've won.— A bark of laughter escaped him. —. Gods, boy, you've tamed the untamable. Bred heirs into that monster's belly.— His calloused fingers tapped rhythmically against the wood. —. When do you take the throne?
The question hung between them, heavy as an anchor.
For a heartbeat, Seokjin saw it, the life his father imagined. The fisherman's son rising higher than any noble bloodline. The Kim name spoken in palaces instead of docks. His parents clothed in silks, their hands never again cracked from salt and nets.
Then the moment passed.
Seokjin's silence stretched too long.
His father's eager grin faltered. —. Jin-ah?
The teacup between Seokjin's hands had gone cold. He set it down carefully, the porcelain clicking against worn wood.
—There is no throne for me to take.
His father recoiled as if struck. —. What?
—Yoongi is king,— Seokjin said simply. —. I am the father of his children. That is all.
The fire popped loudly in the hearth.
His mother's hands fluttered to her mouth.
His father's face darkened like a storm rolling in from the sea.
—You mean to tell me,— he said, each word sharp as a harpoon, —.that you put twins in that omega's belly and asked for nothing?
Seokjin met his gaze steadily. —.I asked for him.
The chair screeched as his father shoved back from the table.
—Fool!— Spittle flew from his lips. —All this time, I thought…— He broke off, chest heaving. —. They say he's mad. They say he's cruel. And you, you let him leash you like some tame dog!
The words should have stung.
They didn't.
—You were supposed to use him,— he said bitterly. —. Use the palace. Use the title. Secure yourself something better.
Seokjin said nothing.
Because once, a long time ago, those words had made sense to him too.
Yoongi had looked at him and seen him, the sharp edges, the ambition, the hunger for more, and had loved him without flinching.
And Seokjin had loved him back.
Not because he had to.
Not because it was smart.
But because it was inevitable.
—I didn’t use him,— Seokjin said finally, voice steady. —. And he didn’t use me.
His father’s mouth twisted.
His father laughed, bitter and broken. —. No son of mine would…
—Enough.— Seokjin's voice cut through the room like a blade. For the first time, his parents saw it, not the boy they'd sent away, but the man who'd walked through fire and come out holding a king's heart. —. I came to share my joy. Not to beg your approval.
The silence that followed was heavier than the ocean at midnight.
His mother reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve. —Jin-ah…
His father interrupted.
—You fell in love with him,— he said, disgusted.
Seokjin didn’t flinch from it.
The fire crackled in the silence.
His mother wiped at her eyes again, but this time she didn’t stop herself from reaching for him. She held his hand tightly between both of hers.
His father didn’t speak. Just looked at him like a man watching a ship vanish over the horizon.
Seokjin turned to his mother.
—You’ll be welcome, if you ever wish to visit. When the children are born.
Her face crumpled again, but she nodded, one trembling hand pressed to her mouth.
He lingered a moment longer in the warmth of the hearth, the smell of fish stew and brine heavy in the air, before stepping back outside.
The wind hit him like memory, bracing and clear.
Yoongi, with his quiet strength and his maddening stubbornness.
Yoongi, with the twins nestled beneath his heart.
He understood it now, the sharpness, the bitterness. It had all come from fear. From love.
But Seokjin wasn’t a boy who needed protecting anymore.
He was a man who had chosen his path.
Then he turned away, his mother rising to catch him in her arms, to hold him fiercely against her as if she could shield him from the weight of the world with nothing but her embrace.
And for a moment, Seokjin let himself be that boy again, the boy who had once thought his father’s pride was the highest peak he could ever hope to reach.
But he wasn't a boy anymore.
He had already climbed a mountain far greater.
—————-
Seokjin stayed longer than he planned.
The sea air clung to his skin, familiar as an old song, and for the first time in years, he let himself breathe without the weight of crowns or wars pressing down on his lungs.
On the third morning, his mother nudged him toward the docks with a basket of fresh bread and honey.
—Seungwan had her pup last winter,— she said casually, too casually. —You should visit.
The name sent a ripple through him, not pain, not longing, just the quiet ache of time passing. Seungwan, with her sharp laugh and clever hands, the girl everyone had whispered would be his mate one day.
Now she was someone else’s.
The thought didn’t sting.
Not when he had Yoongi’s teeth marks on his neck and the memory of his scent clinging to his skin like a prayer.
---
Seungwan’s cottage sat at the edge of the village, where the salt-spray kissed the windowpanes and the cries of gulls mingled with a baby’s wails.
Seokjin knocked once.
The door swung open to reveal a harried but glowing Seungwan, her hair piled messily atop her head, an infant cradled against her chest.
She blinked.
Then her face split into a grin.
—Kim Seokjin,— she said, voice dripping with mock outrage. —You bastard.
Seokjin laughed, loud and unguarded, the sound startling a seabird from the rooftop.
—Missed you too,— he said, holding up the basket. —Brought bribes.
She yanked him inside by the wrist.
---
The alpha was watching him.
Seokjin felt the man’s gaze like a physical weight, heavy, assessing, lingering on the way Seungwan swatted Seokjin’s shoulder as he cooed over the baby.
—She has your nose,— Seokjin murmured, tracing a finger over the infant’s tiny button of a nose.
Seungwan beamed. —And her father’s temper, gods help me.
The alpha, Jongin, Seungwan introduced, puffed up slightly at that, pride warring with suspicion in his expression.
Seokjin bit back a smile.
He knew that look.
He’d worn that look, when Seokjin had seen the look on the court Alphas faces every time they saw Yoongi.
—Relax,— Seungwan told Jongin, rolling her eyes. —Seokjin’s so far out of my league, he might as well be a constellation.
Jongin scowled.
Seokjin grinned.
—She’s right,— he said cheerfully, bouncing the baby gently. —I’m spoken for. Quite violently, in fact.
Seungwan’s eyes dropped to the claiming bite peeking above his collar. Her smirk softened.
—Ah,— she said. —So it’s like that.
Seokjin didn’t blush.
He didn’t.
Later, as the sun dipped below the waves, Seungwan walked him to the shore.
—The king,— she mused, kicking a pebble into the surf. —Really, Jin? You couldn’t have picked someone simple?
Seokjin watched the horizon, the place where the sky melted into the sea.
—Love’s never simple,— he said.
Seungwan snorted. —No. But you? You picked a hurricane.
Seokjin thought of Yoongi, all sharp edges and sharper wit, the way his hands gentled when Seokjin touched his stomach, the way his voice cracked when he whispered ours, ours, ours into the dark.
—Worth it,— he said simply.
Seungwan smiled, small and knowing.
—Good,— she said.
And that was that.
---
Everything was in peace.
Until it wasn’t.
It started with smoke on the wind, thin at first, easily mistaken for a fisher’s hearth. But then came the shouts. The running. The sudden, sickening crack of fire leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
Seokjin dropped the basket of smoked eel he’d been carrying and ran.
The village was burning.
The sea glowed orange with reflection, smoke curling like serpents into the sky. The wind, once bracing and clean, was now thick with ash and screams.
He found Seungwan outside her cottage, cradling her child as Jongin doused the roof with seawater, frantic and useless.
—Go!— Seokjin shouted. —Take her down to the cove. Stay low. I'll…
A sword hissed from its scabbard behind him. Seokjin spun just as the first soldier lunged, blade glinting orange with reflected firelight. He barely dodged, feeling the whisper of steel against his cheek.
Seokjin's body moved before his mind could catch up. He grabbed a burning timber from the ground, swinging it in a wide arc. The flaming wood connected with the soldier's helmet with a sickening clang.
Three more emerged from the smoke.
—It's him!— one shouted.
Seokjin's blood turned to ice. They knew him. They were looking for him.
He barely had time to grab the fallen soldier's sword before the others attacked. His muscles remembered what his heart refused to accept, the drills he learned, the way a blade felt in his hand. The first attacker fell with a gurgle, the second stumbled back clutching his arm.
The third hesitated just long enough for Seokjin to see the royal insignia on his pauldron, the same one that adorned Yoongi's personal guard.
Then the soldier turned and fled into the smoke.
When the fires were finally out, when the dead were counted and the living huddled in salt-stained silence along the shore, Seokjin sat in the ruins of his childhood home, staring at the sword he'd taken. The hilt bore the king's mark.
His father stood in the doorway, his silhouette black against the dying glow of embers.
—They tried to kill you,— the old man said, voice rough as the shingle beach. —His own men. Does that not tell you something?
Seokjin ran his thumb over the engraved insignia. —There's an explanation. There must be.
—Open your eyes, boy!— His father kicked a charred timber, sending up a shower of sparks. —That monster used you.
—NO.— Seokjin was on his feet, the sword trembling in his grip. —You don't know him.
—I know what I saw tonight!— his father roared. —Men wearing his colors, hunting you like a dog!— He stepped closer, the firelight carving deep lines in his face.
—This wasn’t him. Yoongi wouldn’t…
—Don’t say his name in this house.
Seokjin’s jaw clenched.
His father stepped closer, the firelight catching in his eyes like judgment.
—Everything that man touches burns.
The sword clattered to the ground. Seokjin's hands shook, not from fatigue but from the terrible doubt creeping like seawater into his chest.
Because the soldier had recognized him.
Because he'd fled rather than explain.
Because the royal guard didn't act without orders.
Somewhere in the distance, a baby wailed, Seungwan's child, or what remained of the village's future. The sound cut through Seokjin sharper than any blade.
When the fires were finally out, when the dead were counted and the living huddled in salt-stained silence along the shore, that’s when the murmurs began.
The boy from the palace.
The one who brought them here.
A man with a king's scent on his skin and royal blood in his mouth.
A traitor. Or worse… bait.
Seokjin sat in the ruins of his childhood home, a bucket of seawater beside him, his hands raw from trying to save what little he could.
His father stood in the doorway, shadowed by ash and smoke.
—————-
Seokjin worked like a man possessed.
Through the acrid smoke and the sting of salt-wind on burned hands, he hauled water from the poisoned well, dug graves for neighbors who'd once bounced him on their knees, rebuilt Seungwan's cottage beam by blackened beam while her alpha watched him with wary eyes. Then Seokjin rebuilt the fish sheds with Jongin, even though he wouldn’t look him in the eye. Helped mend the boats, even when no one would speak to him.
The villagers didn’t say much.
But they didn’t have to.
Their eyes said enough.
The villagers took his labor but never his help.
—We don't want your royal charity,— an old man spat when Seokjin tried to mend his fishing nets.
—It's not charity,— Seokjin muttered, fingers still working the frayed ropes. —It's penance.
The words slipped out before he could stop them. The old fisherman's eyes narrowed in understanding.
He didn’t sleep in the house. He didn’t eat with his family. He took a cot in the old boathouse, among the broken nets and salt-stiff ropes, letting the cold creep into his bones as punishment for something he hadn’t yet named.
Still, he helped.
Because someone had to. Because the people needed it.
Because he owed them.
But mostly—because he couldn’t shake the image of that soldier’s eyes when he recognized him.
Not surprise.
Not pity.
Hate.
And still—Yoongi wouldn’t have ordered this.
Would he?
Seokjin’s hands shook as he lashed down a half-built roof. He didn’t stop. He did it. For days.
Until finally, he couldn’t.
His body gave out before his will did, knees folding as he tried to lift one last beam. Jongin caught it before it crushed him, muttering a curse but nothing else.
Seokjin sat there, breathing hard, staring at the smoke-streaked sky.
On the last night, Seokjin found his mother trying to scrub soot from their family's ancestral soup pot, the bronze now warped from the heat. Her hands trembled as she worked.
—There's a house,— Seokjin said abruptly, kneeling beside her in the ashes. —Near the white cliffs. Sturdy. Good fishing nearby. Tucked away behind a row of spice merchants and a candle-maker’s. You and father could…
—Whose house?— His father's voice cut through from behind them.
Seokjin didn't answer.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.
His father spat into the ashes. —That's what I thought.
His mother kept her head bowed, fingers still working at the dead plants. —We'll stay here. This is our home.
—Even like this?— Seokjin gestured to the ruins around them.
—Especially like this.— His father stepped closer, the scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. —You don't burn a man's home then offer him charity from the same hand that struck the match.
Seokjin flinched. —I had no part in this.
—But you brought his shadow here.— His father's gaze dropped to the claiming bite on Seokjin's neck. —That mark makes you his. And now we all bear the cost.
A gust of wind sent ash swirling between them like gray snow.
Seokjin opened his mouth to argue—to defend, to explain—but the words turned to dust on his tongue.
Because the truth was simple:
The soldiers had come for him.
The village had burned because of what he was to Yoongi.
And no amount of hauling water or digging graves would wash that stain away.
The silence stretched taut between them. His mother's breath hitched when she noticed what Seokjin was unwrapping from his sash - the jade pendant Yoongi had given him before coming. Worth more than the entire village.
—Take this,— he said, pressing the cool stone into his mother's cracked palm. His father made a wounded noise in his throat.
—That's—
—Not his,— Seokjin lied smoothly. —I won it gambling.
His mother's fingers closed around the jade. She knew. They both knew.
—You're leaving,— his father stated.
Seokjin stood, brushing ash from his knees. —The house key will be under the blue stone by the door.
—Jin-ah—
He walked away without looking back, the weight of the pendant's absence heavier than the sword at his hip. Behind him, his mother began to weep, not for the lost home, but for the son walking into the gathering dark with fire at his heels and a king's name on his lips.
The road to the capital had never seemed so long.
That memory bled like ink into the corners of Seokjin’s vision as he stared down at the bundle in his arms.
Two of them.
Tiny. Soft. Breathing against his chest like they belonged there.
Like he belonged here.
Seokjin blinked, his hands trembling. The scent of smoke and salt still clung to Seokjin’s skin, even now, years later. The weight of the jade pendant’s absence still pressed against his chest like a phantom limb.
The hut was quiet.
Too quiet.
The smell of milk, of sweat, of freshly washed blankets filled the air, but underneath it was something older. Something his blood remembered.
The omega hadn't spoken much since the birth.
Had only said, —They seem to like you.— As though it was nothing. As though it wasn’t everything.
Seokjin had whispered, without meaning to, “Yoongi…” when he first saw the omega’s face again after the labor, soaked in sweat and moonlight and impossible resemblance. But the omega hadn’t responded. Hadn’t even blinked.
And still… Seokjin couldn’t stop seeing him.
Couldn’t stop feeling him.
His inner Alpha whispered with a growing certainty: These are mine. These are ours.
But that couldn’t be true.
But then…
A soft whimper.
Seokjin’s head snapped up, his alpha instincts roaring to life. The omega, the one who looked like Yoongi, was curled on the bed, sweat-damp hair, short and black, clinging to his forehead, his body exhausted from the birth. The twins, swaddled in roughspun blankets, nestled against his chest.
His.
The word thundered through Seokjin’s skull, primal and possessive. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to touch, to confirm that this wasn’t another cruel trick of his fractured mind.
But then…
A knock.
Hard. Insistent.
Seokjin’s body went rigid, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his sword. The omega’s eyes, Yoongi’s eyes, fluttered open, dark and wary.
—Jin-ssi?— His voice was hoarse from labor, but there was no fear in it. Only confusion.
The knock came again, louder this time, followed by voices, sharp, accusing.
—You in there! Open up!—
—We know he’s in there—that mad alpha who thinks every omega is his dead king!…
—Did he hurt you? By the gods, if he laid a hand on you…
Seokjin’s jaw clenched. He had heard these whispers before. The villagers in the capital, the soldiers, even the physicians, all of them watching him with pity or disgust. The broken alpha who couldn’t accept reality.
The omega’s breath hitched. He shifted, wincing as he tried to sit up.
—Don’t,— Seokjin growled, stepping forward. —You shouldn’t move…
But the omega ignored him, pushing himself upright with a quiet grunt of pain. He cradled the twins closer, his gaze flickering between Seokjin and the door.
—They think you’ve done something to me,— he murmured.
Seokjin’s throat tightened. —They’re not wrong to think that…
Because what sane alpha barged into a stranger’s hut, stared at their children, and claimed them as his own?
The omega’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then… voices.
Low at first. Then rising.
—he’s in there…
—saw him sneaking around the rice shed days ago…
—thought he was mad, talking to himself…
—that omega just gave birth, and now he's holding the babies…
Seokjin stood too fast. His body moved to shield them as the door slammed open.
Four villagers stood in the frame, broad-shouldered men, one with a hooked blade still at his belt, another with mud-caked boots that had never stepped aside for anyone.
—Kim,— one of them said. —What the fuck are you doing?
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The villagers faces twisted in suspicion, fell silent at the sight of him.
Another stepped forward. —. You think we don’t know about you? The madman from the coast, the one who lost his mind when the king died. Whispering to ghosts. Looking for him in every alley and tavern.
Their eyes flicked to the babies. To the omega, who hadn’t moved.
—You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t see you trying to take what’s not yours…
—He hasn’t taken anything.
The voice stopped them cold.
Soft. Calm. Unshaking.
The omega was standing. Still barefoot, still smelling of afterbirth and blood and wildflower soap, but his back was straight, and his gaze cut clean through the smoke.
Seokjin’s alpha howled in protest, protect, provide, why is he moving, why is he walking, he should be resting, but before he could stop him, the omega stepped forward.
Not to Seokjin, but *beside* him. Between him and the crowd.
—You… you’re alright?— one of them stammered.
The omega exhaled, his voice steady but gentle. —I’m fine. Seokjin-ssi hasn’t harmed me.—
—But he’s— The older alpha’s nostrils flared, his glare fixed on Seokjin. —Everyone knows what he is. What he *does*. He’s delusional. Dangerous…
A muscle in Seokjin’s jaw twitched.
The omega’s grip on the twins tightened. —He helped me,— he said quietly. —When no one else was here.
—That doesn’t mean…
—I owe him my thanks,— the omega interrupted, firmer now. —And my trust.
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The omega wasn’t yelling, wasn’t demanding. His tone was respectful, grateful even, but there was steel beneath it. A quiet authority that made them hesitate.
It was nothing like Yoongi’s sharp commands, his regal bearing.
And yet.
It made Seokjin’s chest ache all the same.
The older alpha scowled but took a step back. —Fine. But if anything happens…
—It won’t,— the omega said simply.
The silence stretched.
The villagers looked between each other. They didn’t know what to make of him. His voice wasn’t commanding like Yoongi’s. No clipped tone, no royal steel. Just soft-spoken gratitude. The way a field worker might thank the rain.
It made something twist painfully in Seokjin’s gut.
This wasn’t Yoongi.
This wasn’t him.
But the face…, the babies in his arms… the damn scar on his eye…
*They are yours,* his Alpha said. *He is yours.*
Then, with muttered curses and distrustful glances, the villagers retreated into the night.
The omega closed the door slowly, his shoulders sagging the moment it shut. A pained breath escaped him, and Seokjin was at his side in an instant, hands hovering, wanting to touch, needing to steady him, but not daring to.
—You shouldn’t have done that,— Seokjin gritted out.
The omega turned to him, exhaustion lining his face but something unreadable in his eyes.
The omega turned to him with a tired smile. —.They were trying to protect me. This hut, this job… the rice fields, they gave me all of it. I owe them my life.
Something about the words, so free of bitterness, so full of quiet grace, made Seokjin feel like his ribs were cracking open.
—You just gave birth,— Seokjin snarled, his alpha surging forward. —You should be resting. Not defending a stranger who…
—Who what?— The omega tilted his head. —Who thinks I’m someone I’m not?
Seokjin’s breath caught.
The omega studied him for a long moment. Then, softly sighed, shifting the twins in his arms before holding one out, offering.
—Here,— he murmured. —. Hold them.
Seokjin didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
The child blinked up at him, face scrunched in that innocent, new-to-the-world way that cracked something open in his chest. His arms twitched with instinct. His Alpha pushed to the surface, *demanding* he take the baby, protect, warm, *claim*—
But he didn’t reach out.
Instead, his breath turned ragged as the past bled in through the edges of the present.
A dream.
The memory struck like lightning.
Not a memory, no. A dream. A recurring one, distant and strange andttoo vivid to forget.
It always came when Yoongi was gone for too long.
He'd seen them three times before. Always dreamed of him when Yoongi wasn’t here. The first time, when Yoongi had disappeared for a while and Seokjin had learned his way around the council meetings. The second, when Jaehyun’s attack occurred. Always quiet. Always far away.
And the third, when he was so drunk he hadn’t seen the mercenaries hunting him and someone had protected him from these men.
But the last time, there were two babies in the omega’s arms.
Seokjin never saw the omega’s face, never could, not fully. The hat was too wide, casting shadows.
But the scent…
Faint.
Familiar.
Unmistakable.
Now in this hut, it didn’t smell right, even when he had his dream now in front of him, even if he saw that stranger’s face fully now, not hidden by the hat and staring at him like Seokjin was the best thing that has happened to him.
He thought it was just grief. Just his mind giving him shapes to chase in Yoongi’s absence. The guilt. The ache. The yearning. The inability to let go.
But now…
Now he was staring at him.
The same delicate curve of jaw. The same lashes. The same eyes.
That was why he had recognized him that first day in the rice fields.
He’d been wearing the hat.
Seokjin’s hands trembled.
This was madness.
Dreams weren’t real. Ghosts weren’t real. The dead didn’t return. And Yoongi…
—Who are you?— Seokjin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The omega didn’t answer, but now he held the two babies out slightly, as if offering the children to Seokjin. The babies cooed softly, its tiny hands reaching out, and Seokjin felt a pull in his chest, a deep, instinctive need to hold the child. Seokjin got a deja vu of something that never happened.
He reached for them, just like always. And just like always, the dream ended before his fingers could graze skin.
He forced his Alpha back down with a guttural swallow, refusing the offered child.
—What do you want from me?— he rasped, voice breaking through the quiet.
The omega blinked, surprised. He lowered the babies back to his chest with practiced ease, but his eyes never left Seokjin.
—Nothing,— he said softly. —You came to me, remember?
But Seokjin was already staring at something else.
There. At the junction between neck and shoulder. Partially hidden by the baby’s swaddle.
A bite mark.
Not faded. Not gentle.
Still red. Still angry. Ringed with bruised skin.
A claiming mark.
Another Alpha’s.
Seokjin’s body locked. Fury and despair surged in tandem. His Alpha roared again, take them, they're yours, that should be yours, but Seokjin couldn’t breathe past the taste of bile in his throat.
—You’re claimed,— he said, the words like ash in his mouth.
The omega followed his gaze, then gently adjusted the baby’s blanket to cover the mark.
Not out of shame. But as if *protecting* it.
As if the bond it came from mattered.
—It’s not what you think,— the omega murmured.
Seokjin laughed. Bitter. Fractured. His hands were fists at his sides now, nails biting into his palms.
—Then tell me what it is.
But the omega only rocked the twins in his arms, gaze drifting to the window, where the moonlight spilled in soft and silver.
—Thank you for your kindness. I don’t expect you to stay. You’re free to go wherever you want. I have them now.
Seokjin stood there, caught between his Alpha’s instincts and his own unraveling logic, between a dream he couldn't explain and a present he couldn't bear.
And outside, somewhere in the distance, a wind stirred the rice fields, gentle, steady, whispering like a lullaby he’d heard before.