Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At first glance, Seoul hasn’t changed at all, and yet everything is different.

The noise is there – Incheon International Airport at three in the afternoon. It’s crowded and busy, and Jimin is hearing so many different languages all at once that it doesn’t really hit him yet.

But then he makes his way to the entrance hall of the airport, and there are people waiting for him, as always, people that he knows. Hyunwoo, one of the Council’s bodyguards. Some other members – gunungsin, most of them, judging by the bulk of their muscles and the sheer armada of weapons they’re carrying whose disguise Jimin can immediately see through. There aren’t any gunungsin in France, at least not the way they exist here. No war spirits that protect the world of the living against malevolent ghosts. Certainly none that have come to be employed by the magical council of all of South Korea, as bodyguards to the returned sons of recently deceased Heads of the Council.

Jimin has barely stepped through the double doors into the hall, and already Hyunwoo has made his way to Jimin’s side. He moves fast and swift, nearly soundless, like all the gunungsin, and grabs the handles of the two suitcases Jimin was dragging behind him. As if carrying luggage is what he has been ordered here to do.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo says, bows deeply, “welcome back. It’s good to see you.” Jimin tries a smile and bows back, not as deeply, to return the gesture at least if not the sentiment. He can’t bring himself to repeat those words back to Hyunwoo. Maybe he would have, one month ago, two months. He has missed Korea, that much is true, and it’s good to see Seoul, good to hear his mother tongue spoken all around him, and he probably would’ve been glad to see the gunungsin, many of which have been around for as long as he can remember, longer even than that. He would’ve been glad, this might have been good, if this was any other circumstance.

 But it’s not, and he has just gotten off a thirteen-hour flight that he didn’t know of until two days ago, and he quite simply can’t find the energy.

For anything.

He’s wading through fog. He’s been wading through fog ever since the news broke.

“Sehoo?” Hyunwoo asks, and Jimin realizes he’s been standing there, mostly frozen, and that everyone is waiting for him.

“Yes. We can go,” Jimin says after a moment, tries to blink some of the fog away. Sehoo, Hyunwoo had called him. Council’s Heir. It’s the title he has held, that he has been addressed as for – for almost all of his life, and all of that which he can remember. He doesn’t know if it’s still appropriate.

He doesn’t know what will change.

In a way, everything already has.

Jimin keeps thinking it, on the way to the parking lot and then from the backseat of the car, looking through the window. It’s cold, but the air is crisp and the sky brilliantly blue; something he has desperately missed during the rainy and gray winters of Paris that seem to drag on for the better part of a year. His eyes trace along the familiar skyline – the red towers of Yeoido, Namsan, all the skyscrapers; follow the sun’s glittering patterns on the surface of the Han. Everything is familiar, and yet. And yet.

They drive past Gwanghwamun Square and head in the vague direction of Changdeokgung Palace, and then, finally, the light at the intersection in front of them turns bright purple. When they drive across, the air shimmers for a moment, and then it unfolds before them: Bigyeongdong, Seoul’s magical district, the heart and center of South Korea’s magical community – and Jimin’s home ground.

He knows every street here. Has spent most of his childhood running through them, wandering into this shop and that café, dragging one or two of the gunungsin with him wherever he went. In his memories, Bigyeongdong is a vibrant place full of wondrous people and near endless possibilities; constantly shifting, timeless and yet always new. Now, most of the storefronts are donned in white, and the masts are flying white flags, fluttering in the winter breeze. It seems to have robbed the district of all its colors, all its wonder, and Jimin swallows and closes his eyes.

He barely notices when they enter the grounds of Mugeukgung, the Infinite Palace. Catches one of the pagodas that are situated in every corner of the ground; the many buildings flying by. Their stone tiles in their dark purple that appears almost black that he has always loved – the color of magic – seems too gloomy now, as if no light is bouncing off them despite the sun shining down from a mockingly blue sky.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the last of the inner gates, after which no cars are allowed on the grounds. The gunungsin that was driving them navigates them into one of the parking spaces. Usually, there’s always enough space – the palace grounds are huge – but on this day, the parking lot is packed with cars, some of which Jimin vaguely recognizes as belonging to this or that council member. Today, not only the council members have gathered. Today, everyone is here.

The thought alone emphasizes his fatigue. When he steps out of the car, there’s a moment of quietness, when he’s almost thankful for the fog he seems to constantly live in right now, when he closes his eyes again and imagines this being a return like he had pictured it; going back to the Council Head’s quarters, sharing a jjigae with his father, his sister, and then heading straight to bed to sleep off the jetlag. Imagines a return that doesn’t follow hard upon tragedy and chaos, where he would have been granted the luxury of rest.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo says, and the momentary illusion breaks. “Sehoo, we should head inside.”

Jimin blinks, allows himself another breath. “Let’s go,” he says then.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out that they’re taking him towards one of the lesser buildings on the grounds; the Hall of Records. It does nothing to suppress the chill that has him burrowing deeper into his jacket, but at least it’s not the Council Hall, he supposes.

Hyunwoo opens the door for him, Jimin’s suitcases by his side together with a good half dozen gunungsin that are clearly to remain outside. For a moment, Jimin looks at Hyunwoo. The guard’s dark hair is untouched from the winter breeze, but Jimin thinks he can detect a paleness to his face that has nothing to do with the nature of a spirit’s existence and more with everything that has transpired. When Jimin meets his eyes, the stoic expression on Hyunwoo’s face softens, and Jimin knows an unspoken good luck when he sees it. He gives a small nod, draws back his shoulders. He knows he’s not looking his best after the flight, after everything, but he tilts his chin up and steps through the doorway with his back straight and his eyes dry.

Several other gunungsin are lining the walls inside, and candlelight flickers off the painted ceilings. Jimin has no appreciation for it on this day.

He rounds the corner to the main space, and the quiet conversation that had apparently been transpiring between the people in the room dies down immediately. There are about ten or eleven of them – Council members or their offspring, every last one of them.

“Sehoo,” someone greets, and the title soon echoes through the room as the members in front of him bow to him. Jimin bows back, not as deeply, of course, but his eyes don’t rest on them.

“Jimin-ah.” One of the Council members steps aside, and Jimin immediately wants to step forward and collapse into his mother’s arms. She looks tired but put together; her black hair in a tight bun on top of her head, her make-up immaculate, and the white suit she’s wearing is tailored to sit perfectly on her waist.

“Chongbin,” he says with a bow. Lady of the Supreme. The title seems to burn in his throat, and the eomma he really wants to call her is sitting right behind. But he refrains himself from showing his emotions, and simply straightens back up, blinks. He will give no one here the satisfaction of seeing his tears. Not now. Not when he hasn’t been home in years, and not when – not when they are still using his title. He cannot afford it.

His mother gives a momentary smile, a half-there thing that barely moves her lips at all. “It’s good that you’ve arrived,” she says, and it’s as close to a Welcome home as he’s going to get.

He wants to tell her that he had nearly paid thousands of euros on a flight out of Paris the minute his phone had pinged with the news, that he had all but ravaged his apartment in a frantic search for his passport. And then he booked a flight for two days later, barely able to see through his tears, and spent the time in between packing up a life.

He doesn’t tell her any of that, simply dips his chin in a small nod. “Where’s my sister?” he asks, because he had thought she’d be here.

His mother’s shoulders draw up a little, a motion so small Jimin is probably the only one to have noticed.

“In your father’s office,” someone else answers. “She’s already aware of what we wanted to discuss with you. There was no need for her to be here, so we saw no need to disturb her.”

Jimin nods again, swallows down the disappointment. I needed her here, he wants to say, and ask: why is she in my father’s office?, but doesn’t. Instead, he finally turns his gaze on his uncle, who had answered in his mother’s stead. Park Kijung is standing just behind his mother, hair slicked back. Jimin looks at him and immediately notices the copper brooch pinned to the chest pocket of his white suit: The image of a three-legged crow, wings lifted as if to take flight.

Ah.

“Jageunabeoji,” Jimin greets with a bow, and notices the stiffening of several people’s postures. But he ignores it and gives his uncle a smile as he meets his gaze, pretends it doesn’t signify anything that Jimin is still referring to him only as his father’s younger brother and not, as the brooch points him out to be, the acting Council Head.

If his uncle thinks anything of it, he hides it well. He easily returns Jimin’s smile and bows in return. “Sehoo,” he says, and Jimin restrains himself from reacting. “I hope the journey was as comfortable as can be.”

The journey was unbearable, of course. “Thank you,” Jimin replies, and refuses to supply anything further.

“Good,” Kijung says, and then continues: “I know that you must be tired, but I thought you should know right-away.” He takes a step forward, side-stepping Jimin’s mother with a hand to her elbow. “For the moment, I’ve assumed your father’s position as acting Council Head. You are, of course, the heir as my brother’s first direct offspring. But I’m afraid the suddenness of everything prompted the need for some immediate decisions, and we simply could not wait for you to return from France.”

It took me two days, Jimin wants to snap. “I understand completely,” he says instead. Refuses to give his uncle the satisfaction of asking what decisions, exactly, couldn’t have waited. “Don’t worry, Jageunabeoji.” Jimin smiles with one corner of his mouth, and allows his fatigue to show for a second. “If these are all the news you needed to tell me right-away upon my arrival, I would appreciate it if I could take my leave. As you have so accurately pointed out, I really am tired and would like to retire to my chambers.” The words feel foreign in his mouth, stilted. He hasn’t played the game of the Council in so long.

His uncle looks at him for a moment longer, then lifts a hand to place on Jimin’s forearm. “Of course, Sehoo.”

Jimin manages to endure the touch for another second, then bows, relieved to be dismissed. He wants to reach out to his mother, who is standing somewhere behind Kijung, whose bun looks too tight, whose skin is too pale. He wants to send all of the Council members and his uncle away and hug her. Wants to just be with his family, the way it should have been, the way he should have been.

He can’t afford to slip now, of course, and he doesn’t. He simply meets her gaze again before nodding to the rest of the people in the room in goodbye and retracing his steps back to the entrance.

One of the gunungsin opens the door for him. The cold winter air hits his face, and for a moment, Jimin is surprised it’s still light out. He knows, of course, that the meeting cannot have been longer than minutes, but he also knows that’s not what it felt like. He allows himself to blink against the stark breeze for a second. It’s almost cold enough to chase the fatigue out of his body.

“Sehoo?” Hyunwoo asks, and Jimin turns to him. His suitcases are no longer on the ground next to the gunungsin – someone else has presumably taken them to his chambers already, something Jimin finds himself grateful for.

“I’m going to my chambers now,” Jimin explains. “Can you please let my sister know that I’ve arrived and where I will be?”

There’s hardly a face he wants to see more than hers, outside of the one that’s impossible.

“Of course I will, Sehoo. Do you…,” Hyunwoo trails off, and the softness from earlier returns to his features. “Do you need anything else, Sehoo? Maybe someone to accompany you to your rooms?”

Jimin smiles but shakes his head. “Thank you, Hyunwoo-ssi. But I’m alright.”

No matter how they’re all acting in this grand theater that are their surroundings, the magical society of Korea no longer lives in a monarchy, and the gunungsin aren’t sworn to protect him as a person, not entirely. They don’t need to follow him everywhere, and he did live in Paris for three years, mostly on his own.

In fact, he’s glad to be alone as he walks across the grounds towards his family’s hanok. In his opinion, it’s entirely outdated that so many Council members live on the premises of the palace at all – delusions of grandeur; hubris at its best – but he has grown up here. He can’t deny the beauty of it; or the comfort of its familiarity. The crunch of gravel underneath his shoes, the wind whooshing through the branches and leaves of the willow that stands looking over the pond to his right. The pavilion in its middle, purple roof tiles pointing skyward on the corners, the ceiling paintings he can but catch a glimpse of. Most of it is magical imagery that he knows all too well; the bear and tiger of the founding myths, dragons, foxes, and, of course, crows. Despite the fact that the Infinite Palace still lies, technically, in the middle of Seoul, it’s mostly quiet. It could almost be peaceful, were it not for the white ribbons that Jimin glimpses in every corner: on the branches of the weeping willow, the pavilion’s legs, the fence on the other side of the pond.

In France, the color of mourning is black, and Jimin finds that he does indeed feel like darkness has been set upon him, is shrouding him.

But no. It is daylight, and the sun reflects all too well off of the white he can see everywhere.

Jimin quickens his steps, suddenly unable to look at any of the grounds for a moment longer.

Thankfully, the door to his family’s hanok slides open immediately – unlocked – and he slips out of his shoes. The floor inside is heated, and it smells like chrysanthemums. His mother has always liked lighting scented candles, especially in winter, and she loves the aroma of chrysanthemums. There’s the rack for their jackets – his sister’s red coat sticking out due to its color – there are the paintings: some Lee Ufin in the living room, and there’s a Klimt print in the hallway. There’s a drawing he did when he must have been five or six still stuck on the kitchen fridge: four simple stick figures in colorful crayon, and a purple crow flying above their heads in a blue sky.

“Jihye?” he calls out, just in case. But his sister doesn’t answer. The house is empty, and suddenly Jimin finds the fog that he can feel around him is heavy, so heavy. He bends forward, his hands on his knees, and tries to drag in breath after breath in this house, this beautiful house that he grew up in, that is empty now, in more ways than one.

He makes his way to his room with a hand on the wall for support. His two suitcases are standing in front of the door, but someone has been in his room anyway. His bed has been freshly made, the window is cracked open for some air, and the surfaces are all free of dust. Jimin barely manages to drag the suitcases inside behind him and slip out of his jacket. It lands on the floor and he doesn’t bother picking it up, instead stumbles over to the bathroom and almost gets into the shower with all his clothes on in his despair to rinse the past day, days, off of him.

He tries not to stay under the warm spray for longer than necessary, especially because he hopes Jihye will turn up any second now, but he does enjoy the water raining down on him. It’s hot against his skin, which feels soothing to the knots in his shoulders, the tightness of his entire body.

Then he’s out and standing in front of the mirror in fresh clothes, white sweatpants and a soft cream sweater someone had laid out for him on the bed. Probably Jihye. His hair is still wet and darker than the brown he dyed it to one of his first months in Paris, and it’s long enough in this state to almost fall into his eyes. He likes to think it suits him, gives him a bit of an edge – but right now, paired with the gauntness of his cheeks and the redness all around his eyes, he just looks messy. Chaotic. Like he’s been standing, unprotected, in a storm.

“Jimin?” someone calls then. The voice is coming from the entrance, but it’s a man’s voice, not his sister’s, and for a moment, he almost panics as quick steps sound through the house.

But then Taehyung is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, cheeks red as if he’d run here, his dark brown curls disheveled.

“Jimin,” Taehyung says again, and then, catching himself: “Sehoo.”

But before he can finish the word, Jimin has already slung himself forward in a way totally unfitting of his supposed rank. It doesn’t matter. He clashes against Taehyung’s chest almost violently, and arms come up around him. With his last shred of self-control, Jimin stops himself from breaking down entirely and tries to focus instead on the happiness he is also feeling: Happiness upon seeing one of his best friends, on reuniting with someone he has grown up with.

As the son of one of the high-ranking Council members, born in the same year as Jimin, Taehyung has been around for as long as he can remember. His entire childhood was spent chasing Taehyung through the vastness of the palace grounds, and, on occasion, through the chaotic vibrancy of Bigyeongdong. They’ve kept in contact while he was away, but even with phones and video calls, it’s not easy, and they both had their own lives to deal with that were suddenly entirely separate from each other.

But now – now, after three years in Paris that ended more abruptly than Jimin could have ever foreseen, after the past three days that shook the foundations of everything – Jimin can only melt into Taehyung’s embrace. It’s warm and familiar, and Taehyung’s fingers are a welcome pressure against the small of his back.

“You’re here,” Jimin whispers. For a moment, he thinks the fabric of Taehyung’s white blazer must have swallowed the sound of the words.

“Of course I’m here,” Taehyung says then, and his voice is dulled but soft. And of course: When they were running through the palace grounds as little children, playing and laughing, they were here, in Jimin’s family’s hanok, on many occasions, and Taehyung must have had dinner or lunch with them more than a thousand times.

Jimin swallows, presses his eyes closed. “I missed you,” he murmurs, because it’s the truth. “There were… I thought of you in Paris.”

The truth is: there were many moments in Paris when he kept thinking that Taehyung would’ve loved this, enjoyed this, would’ve bloomed in the sight of this painting or that in the Louvre, in the Musée d’Orsay. He remembers walking through Montmartre on a sunny spring afternoon and thinking: Taehyung would’ve fit right in here. The truth is: They haven’t kept in touch as much as he thinks they both would’ve liked, but there’s a space in Jimin’s heart that has been Taehyung’s for as long as he can think, and he feels it even now, when he’s in Taehyung’s arms. The truth is that he thinks he could tell Taehyung all of this; wants to tell Taehyung all of this, because they have only ever accepted the other, and this is just one more truth about himself that Jimin wants Taehyung to know; but the truth is also that he is tired down to the bone, and they don’t have the time, not now.

Some part of the sentiment gets through anyway, Jimin thinks, because Taehyung presses him ever so much closer. “I missed you too,” he whispers, mouth against Jimin’s temple.

Jimin doesn’t reply – what else is there to say, right now, in this moment?

They just stay there for another minute. Jimin lets himself believe that this is how he always would’ve come back, that they would’ve stood here like this and hugged to say hello. But when he opens his eyes, the fabric in front of his face is still white, and then there’s the sound of the door sliding open coming from the entrance.

Taehyung lets him go, and Jimin takes a step back, tries a smile. Taehyung doesn’t return it, just moves a bit to the side, his eyes sad and worried where they’re resting on Jimin.

“Come to the pavilion tonight,” he says in a low voice, almost mumbled. Jimin wants to ask why, but Taehyung shakes a hand, already taking a step back. So Jimin just nods in confirmation and watches as Taehyung draws back.

“Oppa?” Jihye calls, and then she’s in the room: His sister, long black hair let down and tousled, in an oversized white sweater that reaches down to her knees. Jimin doesn’t know he’s moving until he already has her buried against his chest. She’s smaller than him, though not by far, and he notices immediately that she has lost weight. She’s crying, almost instantly, hiding her sniffles against his neck, her tears cold and wet against his skin. But she’s warm and she smells like peach shampoo and their mother’s chrysanthemum candles. His sister.

“Jihye-yah,” he whispers with a kiss to the side of her face. His voice is trembling and he has to close his eyes again against the onslaught of tears.

He holds her tight against him as he somehow maneuvers the both of them out of the bathroom and into his bed. With the headboard behind him, he curls up with his sister and lets her cry, finally lets his own tears flow in the safety of his family home. She’s here, Jihye’s here, alive and sobbing but alive, and he hasn’t seen her in way too long, and she’s alive.

“He’s dead,” Jihye says, voice hoarse from crying.

Jimin kisses her temple, finds her hand. “I know.”

“He’s dead,” she repeats anyway. She looks up, and her bloodshot eyes meet his. “Appa’s dead.”

Jimin nods, even though the movement alone is like moving through lead. “I know,” he says again, and then, finally, with his sister in his arms, nestled into his childhood bed, the fog comes down around him, takes him down with it until he feels it, knows it, feels it: He’s in his family’s home back in Seoul, back in Korea. And his father is dead.

Time seems to float around them; a meaningless concept while they come apart and then build themselves back up, piece by piece, tear by tear until Jimin remembers where his grief ends and where he himself starts.

Only then does he realize that Taehyung must have left not only the room, but the entire hanok. He glances at his wristwatch. It’s half past six now, an hour and a half since he came back to the hanok – morning still in France; and neither of those times makes sense to him. He’s tired. He has been tired for days, and he thinks he would have to sleep for days to make some of it go away, and the deepest parts of it would stay still. Thinks that they have burrowed their way down through his body and further and are now somewhere beneath the ground, weights attached to his limbs and his eyelids, his fingertips.

Jihye, on the contrary, is a welcome weight against him. She’s sniffling softly, but no longer wailing. The violent shaking of her shoulders has ceased, and Jimin, too, finds he is out of tears, finds the blunt edge of it has once again dulled.

He wonders how many more times it will flare up like this, sharp and piercing to his softest parts; how many more times it will flood and ebb, flood and ebb, the breathing of his pain. The breathing of his grief, his father’s breathing.

“Jihye-yah,” Jimin says eventually. “Do you know when eomma’s going to come back? I wanted to eat with you. Together.”

His sister draws back enough to look at him. The tears have left red splotches on her face, and her eyes are swollen but dry. “’M not sure,” she answers quietly. “Oppa, it hasn’t… there’s been so much to do, so much to take care of. We’ve – we haven’t been spending a lot of time together, I’m not… I’m not sure when she’s going to be here.”

Jimin stills, then carefully cups her face. Traces a thumb across her cheek, remembers the usual fullness of them. They share that feature: chubby cheeks that make them look young and soft and that earned them their nickname. My mochis, their father used to call them. It’s a feature Jimin has both hated and loved. Now, Jihye’s face is sharper, angles more pronounced. Hollowness underneath her eyes, underneath the cheekbones.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice thick, thumb sliding over her skin. “Then we’ll just make something, and maybe she’ll be here by the time we’re done. And if not, the two of us can eat together, yeah?”

She smiles, a fluttery and momentary thing. “Okay,” she concedes.

They make their way over to the kitchen. The fridge isn’t stocked well, another sign that things aren’t normal – their mother loves to cook, and they usually have all the ingredients for most Korean staples at hand and then some. But now there are no containers of kimchi waiting and there’s not even any rice in the rice cooker. A few vegetables are there, though; and it’s going to be enough. Jihye washes some rice next to him and he chops up some zucchini and bell peppers, slices up a block of soft tofu.

“What was your favorite food in Paris?” Jihye asks after a few minutes of silence, and at first, Jimin is startled. Then he figures that there is only so much grief one can take in a day, and that not all conversation needs to circle around it. Distraction will be good, for both of them.

He hums while he thinks, tossing some sliced-up onions into a pot with some soybean paste and gochujang. “There was this bakery, just down from my apartment – it’s really small, and you can’t sit down anywhere, but they sell amazing croissants. The dough is super soft and light, I don’t know how they do it. That was – almost a revelation, the first time I tried it.” He finds himself chuckling. “You know, we’re good with cakes and stuff here, but it was just… different. You would like it, too, I’m sure.”

“It sounds good. You’ll take me one day, right?” She asks, now leaning against the counter while the rice is cooking. There’s a lightness in her tone he has sorely missed.

He turns, and finds the smile comes almost easy, finds it almost wants to stay. “Do you doubt that?” he answers. They’d talked about that, from the moment he learned he was going to go – that he’d come back for her, take her there, show her the city and everything he was certain he was going to love about it. And he did. She was meant to come in April, when spring would have really started, so they could have seen everything blooming in the Luxembourg Gardens, so they could have sat outside for a coffee, or a crêpe.

Now, of course, it’s November and he’s no longer in Paris. But one day. He still wants to take her.

The mood is a bit subdued for a moment – they’re both thinking of her now cancelled visit, he’s sure – but then he starts telling her about the many afternoons he spent sitting in front of Sacré-Coeur, listening to street musicians, and the kitchen fills with the smells of doenjang jjigae and scented chrysanthemum candles, and some of the stew’s warmth makes its way through to Jihye, who seems a little less pale, to Jimin, who finally feels like he is, indeed, home, and not everything has changed.

This – him and her, this bond they’ve always had, forged by a shared childhood and their shared family home – is still there, strong and loud. He has her, he still has her.

Their mother doesn’t show up, not when the sun finally sets, not for dinner, and not after. Jimin wraps Jihye up in a blanket when she falls asleep in his bed, slips out from where she had rested against his shoulder. It’s dark in the hallway, but three years away are nothing compared to the childhood he has spent here; and he finds his way easily in the dark. He’s still in the white sweater and pants Jihye had laid out for him, but he slips into a long black coat that manages to hide some of the bright color that would surely catch some potentially unwanted attention. The pavilion, Taehyung had said. Of course, the grounds of the Infinite Palace house more than just one pavilion; but there’s only one Taehyung could have meant.

Growing up together as the sons of Council members has meant different things for them, given that Jimin’s father has been the Head of the Council while Taehyung’s was – and is still – the Council’s Chief Scribe. There’s a hierarchy between them; there always has been, and they spent most of their childhood carefully navigating their roles and their friendship. That included more secret meetings after dark in the Water and Moon Pavilion, Suwoljeong, than Jimin can count, where they didn’t have to be anything but Jimin and Taehyung.

Of course, they were lucky in a way. Lucky that Jimin’s father didn’t mind their friendship, even if Taehyung’s father ranked so much lower than he did. Despite the secret meetings, they were incapable of pretending they were nothing but acquaintances as same-age sons of Council members living in the grounds of Mugeukgung, whose vastness could easily turn lonely, especially for children.

Now, Jimin slips through the hanok’s door, mindful of his sister finally sleeping seemingly peacefully in his room. The cold wind is more biting than a few hours earlier, and Jimin burrows his hands in the pockets of his coat. It hasn’t snowed yet, as far as he knows, but judging from the weather it won’t take very long anymore.

The walk to Suwoljeong takes him a few minutes – his family’s hanok is somewhat separated from everyone else’s, and they decided on the pavilion as something of a middle ground.

It’s a beautiful pavilion. It’s small; erected above the shimmering water of a mid-sized pond. The purple-tinged roof tiles are black in the darkness, and the whites and browns of the wooden panels seem washed out in the light of the moon. Through an open sliding door, the light of a candle flickers through, and Jimin knows Taehyung is already waiting for him.

“Tae?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It’s late, but given that his mother still hadn’t returned to their hanok, the Council must still be up, and not everyone will be as lenient as Jimin’s father was.

He takes the stone steps to the slightly elevated platform of the pavilion with practiced ease, and by the time he’s up, Taehyung’s silhouette has appeared between the doors. He’s half shrouded in darkness, but the candlelight makes his features warm and soft, his hair a fluffy cloud.

“Sehoo,” Taehyung greets, and this time, there’s a teasing tilt to it, unlike earlier, when it seemed like he wasn’t sure how to address Jimin now, what their standing was.

Jimin almost cracks a smile. “Sosa,” he replies – Taehyung’s proper title as a junior magister, son of a Council member. They’ve barely ever referred to each other as such in earnest, and now, in the darkness, it doesn’t fail to remind Jimin of the ease of their friendship, of their closeness. How much Taehyung’s presence had taken him out and away from here, away from his duties as the heir, away from all of it.

Now, Taehyung’s mouth curls at the corners, and Jimin can almost forget the white ribbons that effortlessly catch the moonlight hanging from every corner of the pavilion. Taehyung steps aside, and Jimin slips through the door and inside. It’s a small space, with a single low table and woven seating mats arranged around it, a single candle placed on top. The light paints an almost golden hue over the intricate wave patterns painted onto the wooden beams of the ceiling.

Jimin turns to Taehyung. Neither of them sits, and for a moment, they’re just looking at each other.

“Jimin,” Taehyung says then, and doesn’t correct himself. But his tone is serious, and a frown has appeared between his brows. “Jimin, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?” he asks, searching Taehyung’s eyes.

They’re expressive eyes; and Jimin knows Taehyung, has learned the language of his eyes years ago. Now, they’re telling him that Taehyung is sad, and scared – and careful.

“Taehyung, tell me,” Jimin says, reaches for Taehyung’s arm, rests his hand on top of the long sleeves of his jacket.

Taehyung exhales slowly. Closes his eyes for a moment, then nods.

“Jimin, I… I think I saw him yesterday,” he says then.

Jimin frowns. “Saw who?”

A pause. “Your father,” Taehyung whispers then, barely audible. For a second, Jimin doesn’t think he’s heard correctly.

“M-my father?”

Taehyung’s hand comes to rest on top of Jimin’s, keeps him in place. Their eyes meet, and Jimin knows Taehyung, and he speaks the language of his eyes. He’s telling the truth.

Jimin’s throat gets tight.

“As an apparition,” Taehyung clarifies. Almost apologetically. “A ghost.”

Jimin barely hears him. His father. His father, who passed three, almost four days ago now, who Jimin hasn’t seen in years. His father is dead. But Taehyung saw him yesterday.

“A g-ghost? But… but when? Why?”

Taehyung answers the easier question. “Two days ago, one of the gunungsin came to me. Hyunwoo. He told me he saw… something, during the hours of his watch. He still guards the entrances to the important halls or pavilions, and that night, he was in front of the Arcane Hall. He found me the next morning, as early as he could. Said he’d… seen something, in the middle of the night. A figure like your father. So, I decided I’d… keep the watch with him, on the next night.”

He pauses. His hand is still on Jimin’s, a welcome warmth as the news’ chill seems to deepen the night’s cold. “It was late, very late, almost morning – and the… the apparition came.”

He swallows. “Jimin-ah, I knew your father.”

Taehyung lifts both hands, in reference to each other. “These hands are not more like each other than that apparition was to him. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Jimin whispers. He feels cold. He’s glad for Taehyung’s hold on him, because he’s unsure his knees would keep him steady otherwise. He tries to take a breath, and then another one. “Did… did he… did it say anything? Did you speak to it?”

It.

The apparition. That’s easier to think of than… than his father.

Taehyung shakes his head, a frown deepening between his brows. “I tried to speak to it, but… it didn’t answer. Wouldn’t speak to me. It disappeared as soon as the first light appeared on the horizon.”

Jimin swallows, and finds his throat is horribly dry. “D-does Hyunwoo hold the watch again tonight?”

Taehyung nods, and Jimin finds himself mirroring the motion, once, twice. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll join him. I’ll join him tonight, and if – if the – if the apparition comes again, I’ll see it.” His voice, all in all, is less shaky than he would’ve thought it would be just seconds earlier, but now, he has half a plan, at least. Something he knows he must do.

He looks up at Taehyung. “Will you… will you join me?”

He barely has to finish the sentence before Taehyung is already nodding. His grip on Jimin’s hand is tightening. “Of course I’ll join you. I’d never leave you to deal with this alone,” he says with such conviction that some of the tension melts from Jimin’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he breathes, lets his eyes shutter close for a moment. Lets himself feel it: how scared he is. That it’s true, that his father appears as a ghost at night, that there is something keeping his father – somewhere. And how scared he is simultaneously that it’s not. That it’s not true. That it’s something else, whatever else, and that his father is gone, irretrievably. Now, when he… when he has heard there’s hope he’ll see him again.

“Tae,” Jimin whispers, and now, now, there it is: The tremble in his voice. His voice, his chest. It goes through his entire body like an earthquake, and his fingers instinctively grab tight to both of Taehyung’s arms.

Taehyung reacts by pulling him into his arms so deeply, so entirely that his knees barely need to sustain Jimin’s weight anymore. He knows Taehyung is scared too, that he is sad as well, but his chest is broad and stable and rising slowly with his breathing, and he’s standing safely. Not moving, not stumbling.

And Jimin needs it. Needs the hold. A shelter around him from the storm.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, how long he shakes apart in Taehyung’s arms. How long he allows himself the weakness. To need someone else so desperately, so profoundly.

Then, an owl hoots outside, and Taehyung shifts. “Jimin-ah,” he says. His voice is just a little above Jimin’s ear. “Jimin-ah, if you want to… join Hyunwoo’s watch tonight, then we need to go.”

Jimin allows himself another few seconds. Allows himself to breathe in Taehyung’s warmth in the winter night, as if he can store it somewhere to brace himself with for what he knows is to come. He’d need it either way, no matter which way things go. He’ll need it either way.

“Okay,” he murmurs then, and finally draws back. Gathers himself back up until his spine is straight and his legs are steady, puts the shaking back into a little box somewhere in the depth of his stomach, where it won’t come out again until he lets it. He’s good at that. He always had to be.

He meets Taehyung’s eyes, and reads so much there. Sadness. Empathy. And the fear.

He’s glad they share it.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice steady again. Taehyung nods, and then his hand finds Jimin’s, where it had dropped down to his side. Intertwines their fingers for a quick squeeze and then pulls away – outside of the pavilion, their pavilion, they cannot afford the risk to be seen sharing such intimacy. Even if it might not mean what people think it would. Jimin knows all too well that it is not reality that matters most. It’s what others think is true that holds the power.

So they step outside of the pavilion with various meters behind them. Jimin’s leading as the Council Head’s son – or something like that, at least. He knows the way, he’d know it in his sleep.

The Arcane Hall – Hyeonbeopdang – is the most important hall of the entire palace. It used to be the King’s Hall, but now, that the Council is not a monarchy, it’s the main meeting hall of the Council, where all important decisions are taken. It’s one of the biggest and most pompous buildings of the grounds, even if beautiful. When it comes into sight, Jimin sucks in a slight breath. After three years, the grandeur doesn’t fail to impress him: The height of it, easily exceeding all other buildings on the grounds by several meters; the purple shimmer of the magical sigil on the door – the three-legged crow – that serves as a shining beacon; the figurines on the corners of the roof: crows as well, naturally. There’s no light on inside. Assumably, the Council members are still in the Pavilion of Records, where he’d met them earlier.

Hyunwoo is standing to the right of the stone steps leading up to the main doors of the Hall, and he doesn’t look surprised when he spots them.

“Sehoo,” he greets with a bow.

Jimin inclines his head. “Hyunwoo-ssi,” he says. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier. Why didn’t you?” It’s said without judgement, but he is certainly curious.

They’re not really friends per se, Hyunwoo and him. It’s a little difficult, seeing that Hyunwoo, as a spirit – neither entirely living nor entirely dead, has been around in this form since Jimin was a child and hasn’t changed since, won’t until long after Jimin’s own passing. But he likes to think they get along, likes to think they have some rapport; knows Hyunwoo feels empathy for him and wants to protect him not only because it is his duty. And he likes Hyunwoo in return; has often found himself thankful for the small acts of care despite the distance that has remained in their relationship thanks to the bodyguard-guardian nature of it. He’s one of the only gunungsin who knows of his and Taehyung’s close friendship. So – he would have expected Hyunwoo to inform him of something as important as this, knowing how much it would mean to him.

Hyunwoo nods in understanding. “I’m sorry, Sehoo. I thought about telling you, but I knew Taehyung-ssi was waiting for you to come back and I’d already told him. I figured you already had enough on your plate returning from France and having to face the Council straight away. As you’d need to wait until night-time, I thought the best time to inform you would be later, to not further disturb and worry you. I’m sorry if you would’ve liked to have been informed immediately.”

“No.” Jimin shakes his head. “Thank you, Hyunwoo-ssi. It was actually very thoughtful, and you’re probably right. It certainly would’ve made the meeting with the Council incredibly difficult, and I’m not sure I could’ve have played it as I did, had you told me earlier.” He draws up his shoulders. “I do wish I had known nonetheless, just because it’s… just because it concerns my father. But I understand that sometimes, what we wish for isn’t what’s best for us. You’ve made a good decision.”

Taehyung steps up behind him, close enough that Jimin can feel his welcome warmth.

“Thank you, Sehoo,” Hyunwoo responds. He smiles for a moment, and Jimin tries to return it, but it’s cold and dark and he’s afraid.

Instead, Taehyung places a hand on his elbow for a second only to push him forward, until they’re standing near the entrance of the Arcane Hall, slightly behind Hyunwoo. They wait, none of them speaking.

“It’s so cold,” Jimin murmurs an unknown amount of time later, as a breeze picks up and rustles through his clothes. Since he came here, the temperature seems so low that no clothes of his can keep him warm entirely. Maybe he’s just not used to Korean winters anymore.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung asks in response, quietly enough that Hyunwoo would probably have to strain to hear the words. He turns to him, a hand on his arm, worried crease in his brow, and opens his mouth to speak again.

“Sehoo, look,” Hyunwoo says then, voice tight. Jimin turns immediately, Taehyung’s hand slipping from his arm.

The figure is standing some thirty, perhaps forty meters away from them, in a spot of darkness where the moonlight doesn’t reach. It doesn’t matter. A hanbok that’s long and doesn’t move in the wind, and Jimin knows without seeing it that its color is the same as the purple of the roof tiles all around him. A talisman around a pale neck. Jimin can’t see the shape but knows it’s the samjoko, the three-legged crow. A pair of hands, reaching out towards him – and his father’s face, pale, half-shrouded in shadows, looking straight at him.

Jimin gasps, takes half a step. His knees almost don’t want to carry him.

“Abeoji?” He whispers. His voice is quiet and yet it carries. “Appa?”

The figure doesn’t answer, and Jimin takes another step until he’s standing next to Hyunwoo.

“Abeoji?” He repeats. “Chongsa?”

Father, Council Head, Dad. It doesn’t seem to matter what Jimin calls him, there is no answer outside of the pounding of his heart in his ears. Only the pair of outstretched arms, calling to him.

“I think it wants you to go away with it,” Hyunwoo says, and for a second Jimin is surprised the others are still there with him, that the entire world hasn’t disappeared to leave him alone with this apparition of his father.

“But don’t go with it!” Taehyung. Stepping to his side, voice intense.

Jimin doesn’t look at them both. “He won’t speak,” he whispers. “So I’ll follow him.”

Taehyung, immediately, grabs his arm. “Don’t,” he repeats. On Jimin’s other side, Hyunwoo, too, has stepped close, and the gunungsin’s hand on his arm is cold as the winter breeze.

“He’s right. Don’t go, Sehoo.”

“Hold off your hands!” Jimin says. He looks at them, for a moment only, afraid the apparition will disappear. He knows his eyes are blazing – know they see it. He needs this. He needs it so much. “Unhand me,” he repeats, more calmly, and slowly, hesitatingly, both of them obey.

“Jimin,” Taehyung says. His voice trembles.

Jimin shakes his head. “I need to go,” he whispers. There are hands reaching for him that he thought would never reach for him again. And even if he might not be able to touch them, he needs to follow.

He hears Taehyung exhale. “I know,” he whispers then, and a hand appears on his elbow. A slight push. “If you go, I’ll go with you.”

Jimin draws in a breath, almost turns and then doesn’t. “Thank you,” he says, hopes Taehyung knows how much he means it. But he can’t bear to look away, and now, that he’s moving, the apparition is, as well. They aren’t steps. Just the hanok’s seams brushing against the cobbles of the ground.

“Hyunwoo-ssi, please stay here and wait for us,” Taehyung says, and then Jimin hears him follow.

The apparition moves through the grounds like the surroundings aren’t vast and confusing, weaves past pagodas and pavilions and past smaller Council halls, further and further away from the Pavilion of Records, where the Council members are meeting tonight. Finally, they come to a halt in one of the most secluded corners of the Palace grounds. There’s a small pagoda rising behind where the apparition stops, but otherwise, there’s only grass and a badly-kept footpath winding back to where they come from.

They’re closer now, and Jimin can see his father’s face more clearly.

It’s so pale. Almost entirely white.

His father’s eyes, when they meet his, though, are as dark as the night sky above them and as starless.

Listen to me, something says, and it’s almost a voice but too much wind, and his father’s mouth barely moves.

Jimin’s breath stutters, and Taehyung touches his side.

Listen to me.

“I will,” Jimin whispers. Of course he will.

Jimin-ah, the voice says. His name, carried somehow through the night and the cold, and it almost sounds like his father. His father, who is dead, and who is standing before him, who might be benevolent, but he might just as well be an evil gwisin. But it’s his father, in whatever form, and Jimin isn’t sure there’s anything else that matters.

Jimin-ah, my son, the ghost says, and Jimin feels the tears welling up in his eyes. I promise I mean you no harm. Never you, my son. My heir.

The breeze picks up again, ruffles through his hair.

I don’t have much time, but I need to tell you: What you think you know about my death – it’s not true. Jimin-ah, they’re lying to you. There was no accident.

Jimin shivers. Begs his knees to hold him. Looks at his father, the pale figure of his father, untouched by the wind. His father, who he was told died in the mountains rising behind Seoul. Who he was told must have ordered the gunungsin accompanying him to give him some space. Who he was told must have slipped, somewhere around a corner, out of sight of the gunungsin. Fell, too fast to catch, fell hundreds of meters. A quick death, a natural one. An unnecessary death.

There was no accident, the ghost says. I was pushed.

Jimin doesn’t dare to breathe.

Jimin-ah, his father says. Your uncle pushed me.

The breeze flares. It is so bitingly cold a whole-bodied shiver goes through Jimin, forceful enough to bring him to his knees. The ground is hard, but he barely feels it. It is so cold his tears are freezing on his cheeks.

“Jimin,” Taehyung says, but the ghost of his father is not yet done.

A pair of hands, raised toward him. Jimin meets his father’s eyes, those starless eyes. They’re burning.

Jimin-ah. My son. The breeze, the voice. Trembling almost. My heir. The Council is your birthright. The power is your birthright. You must claim it. Do you hear me, Jimin-ah? Will you remember? The power is yours unless it is taken. Remember that you are my heir.

The wind is growing quieter.

Remember, his father says. Remember.

The silhouette disappears into the shadows, the seams of his hanbok one with the night. The moonlight reaches where his face had been, just a moment before, and the breeze dies down.

Jimin is kneeling on the ground, small stones pushing into his knees, and his father has gone.

“Taehyung,” he gasps. A body drops down next to him, a hand is on his arm and another on his back. The warmth is almost shocking.

“Oh God, Jimin,” Taehyung whispers. His voice is shaking so hard Jimin can barely understand him.

He can still barely feel his body.

“Jimin, what are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

Jimin has no answer. He has no answer besides his father’s burning, ice-cold eyes.

My heir. Remember that you are my heir.

Remember.

Chapter Text

Do you hear me, Jimin-ah? The power is your birthright. You must claim it. Do you hear me, Jimin-ah? Do you hear me? You must claim it, you must! Do you hear me, my heir?

Jimin gasps awake.

He’s upright in his bed, legs tangled in the sheets. His hands are both in fists, grabbing onto the blanket, and he thinks if he only closes his eyes again, it will be there: the apparition, pale where the moonlight slips in through the window into his room. There his father will be. Will call his name with a voice of wind.

Do you hear me, Jimin-ah?

Jimin shudders and presses a hand to his racing heart. His father’s voice is still echoing in his ears. So loud. In the dream, and before. When they were in the grounds.

Taehyung led him back inside because Jimin hadn’t been sure his knees wouldn’t give out on him. They were both shaky, and it was difficult to find any words. In the end, as they were standing in front of Jimin’s hanok, Taehyung simply grabbed onto his hands and told him they would look into it again tomorrow, after a night’s sleep.

Now, Jimin wants to laugh, but finds he has no breath to do so.

A night’s sleep. He doesn’t think he can go back to sleep now, and the clock on his nightstand tells him it’s barely past four in the morning. He also doesn’t think the sleep he got before he woke up did much to calm him. He doesn’t feel rested. On the contrary: He feels as if his father’s pale and ghostly hand has reached right into his chest and grabbed tight onto his heart to make it beat this fast. To make him this afraid.

His uncle.

Park Kijung, acting Head of the Council. His uncle.

Bile rises in Jimin’s throat. He can’t think of it. Not yet.

For minutes, he stays right where he is; sheets still tangled between his legs and tries to breathe. Tries to remind himself that he’s here, and he’s not alone: Jihye, just one room away, whose bed he could sneak into if he wanted without question; his mother, who might not have come back last night, but who he’ll force to share a meal with them, so that they’re all together. Even Hyunwoo, who has apparently been trying to protect him, shield him, who kept the most important secret of them all. And Taehyung.

He’s not alone.  He’s not. And yet. His breathing is slow to calm down, his heartrate only gradually returns to normal, and his skin is clammy with cold sweat.

Eventually, he makes it out of his bed and traipses over to the bathroom. When he flicks on the overhead lights, everything is too bright, and for a moment, he himself looks like a ghost in the mirror; pale, skin white, the gray of his eyes entirely washed away. He’s not alone, but it’s just past four in the morning, and he’s alone right now.

Jimin swallows and splashes water into his face, freshens up despite his mind still being hazy. He changes into a new shirt, a fluffy and soft one that swallows him whole, and doesn’t spare his own reflection another glance before he turns off the lights. It takes a good half minute until his eyes have re-adjusted to the darkness, but then he finds his way to the door easily and tiptoes across the hallway.

It’s now half past four, and he doesn’t want to be alone.

Jihye’s door creaks quietly when he slides it open and slips through. The curtains are drawn, and barely any light makes it into the room. It doesn’t matter. Jimin knows where everything is almost as well as in his own room, and he finds his way to the bed with ease. His sister is a lump he can just so make out – a heap of blankets that moves a little on instinct as he climbs onto the mattress.

“It’s me,” he whispers as she shifts. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jihye blinks at him, her eyes open halfway. “You okay?” she asks, her voice gruff with sleep. She moves again, as if to sit up, but he motions for her to stay as she is. She’s holding a plushie clutched against her chest, he notices. It’s a winged yellow dragon that she’s had for years, since their father brought it back for her from a trip to England when Jimin must have been seven and Jihye five. He hasn’t seen it in years.

“No,” he admits into the night, gaze fixed on the dragon plushie. His voice is so quiet that the crack in it is barely audible.

Jihye makes a sound low in her throat and reaches out, tugs at his arm, and Jimin collapses into the pillows next to her. She shifts until there’s room for him under the blanket and turns to him once he’s comfortable and warm. Her eyes are soft and black in the darkness.

“D’you want to talk about it?” she asks.

Jimin shakes his head. It’s late, and he can tell she’s tired. He’s tired, too, and her voice is so much softer than his father’s.

“Just… couldn’t bear to be alone,” he whispers.

Jihye nods and doesn’t say anything. He knows she understands. Knows because she slides the plushie across to him and gives an encouraging half-smile when he hesitates. Knows because they did this often when they were kids, when their parents weren’t back yet from this Council gathering or that advisory meeting: crawled into bed with each other because the hanok seemed too big when it got dark, because the entire palace grounds seemed to expand in the night into the infinite that it claims as its name. Didn’t want to be alone, Jimin remembers Jihye saying, standing in his doorway with the dragon plushie in her arms. Didn’t want to be alone. He’s said it himself numerous times, just minutes after going to bed and in the middle of the night, waking up to find the hanok still empty and their parents still not returned.

“I’m here,” Jihye says eventually, soft but determined like a promise.

Jimin looks at her through the darkness. His sister, who knows. Who understands.

“I’m here,” he repeats back at her.

He thinks for a moment there’s a wet glisten to her eyes, thinks for a moment her chin wobbles. He understands.

He listens to her breathe, listens to her shift in the blankets. He’s warm, and he can tell she has fallen back asleep as her breaths get deeper. She’s here, her chest raising steadily, the subtle movement an anchor to his own chest. Inhale, exhale.

He’s not alone. She’s here, and he’s not alone, and he won’t be alone, not now and not when the morning finally comes, and he has to face the thing he doesn’t want to think about yet.

He’s terrified for a brief moment that it will wait for him in his dreams the second he closes his eyes again, but his body has already sunken into the blankets and his sister is next to him and he can feel her warmth, can feel the soft dragon plushie between his hands.

He falls back asleep.

Jimin meets Taehyung half an hour before he has to be present at another Council meeting. Taehyung is waiting for him in the Water and Moon Pavilion, which looks a little faded in the light of the morning. The sliding door is open. Jimin steps through, closes it behind him, and finds himself enclosed within a pair of arms not a second later.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung asks, his voice somewhere above Jimin’s left ear. The question makes sense – neither one of them had been any semblance of okay last night, and Taehyung knows him, knows him well.

Jimin exhales and pulls back enough to look at Taehyung. “As okay as I can be,” he answers with a shrug and half a smile. “Snuck into Jihye’s room.”

Taehyung’s gaze softens. “That’s good,” he murmurs, and Jimin allows himself to slide his hands up to Taehyung’s shoulders.

“And you? How are you feeling?”

A valid question, too – his father was important to Taehyung, as well, and he doesn’t want all the focus to be on his grief alone. He doesn’t think he could bear it.

Taehyung lifts a shoulder. “I got to admit, I think I’m still… in shock? I… seeing him like that, seeing Chongsa-nim like that, it was…”

“Jarring?” Jimin finishes, and they both know the word does not come close to encompassing the experience.

Taehyung nods nonetheless, and then takes a step back. “We don’t have a lot of time, you need to go to the meeting,” he says, and it’s only now that Jimin notices the piece of paper that’s on the table. It’s small, probably ripped out from a notepad. A few lines are written on it that Jimin can’t decipher from here.

“I think… Jimin-ah, I think we need some help,” he ventures, his eyes grave. Jimin instinctively crosses his arms, as if to shield his body. Something within it. Taehyung bites down on his lower lip. “I know you don’t want to tell anyone else. I know it could be… really dangerous.”

“Would be,” Jimin corrects softly. “Not could. It would be incredibly dangerous.”

If it wasn’t Taehyung, he thinks he would’ve already left the room. But it is Taehyung, and so he’s staying, and listening. Judging by Taehyung’s posture – the high line of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw – he knows all this.

“I know,” he concedes. “But – I think we need to. On our own, what could we do? You haven’t been here in years, you’ve missed so much that happened in the magical society, and I don’t know enough to tell you, because my father doesn’t tell me enough. Or doesn’t know enough.” He shrugs helplessly. “What I mean is – Jimin-ah… I have no idea who you can trust.”

That sends shivers down Jimin’s spine.

“So you advocate for me trusting a complete stranger with the information?”

Taehyung hesitates. “They’re not strangers,” he murmurs then, and Jimin’s back straightens to his full height immediately.

“They?” he repeats.

For a moment, Taehyung closes his eyes. “Jimin-ah,” he says then. “Do you trust me?”

Some of the tensions melts from him immediately, and Jimin takes half a step forward. “Of course I trust you,” he whispers. “I’m just… Taehyung-ah, I’m scared.”

“I know.” Their eyes meet, and there is so much sadness and understanding that Jimin can read in Taehyung’s that it makes him swallow hard. “I know. But if you trust me, then trust my judgement, too.”

Inhale, exhale. Jimin briefly closes his eyes and then lets his arms uncross and fall to his sides. Gives half a nod.

“I promise they’ll help us,” Taehyung says, and when Jimin looks at him and gives him another encouraging nod, he goes on: “I want to introduce you to a group of spirit shifters.”

Shifters.

Jimin frowns. The shifters – timeless creature spirits – have lived with the human shamans in Bigyeongdong for as long as it has existed, but their level of interaction is somewhat low. While the Council does rule over all of them, the shifters usually don’t get involved with politics of the Council, which must seem small compared to their long lives. They’re timeless, but all shifters can die – and many have. No shaman would exist without them.

“Why?”

Taehyung looks at him, straight in the eye. “There’s unrest,” he says, and Jimin reads in his eyes that it’s true. “I think… I know it’s worse now, after Chongsa-nim’s passing. But… Jimin, they weren’t happy before. I think the shifters have been unhappy for a very long time.”

One shock after the other.

“Even during… during my father’s time?” Jimin asks, just to be sure.

Taehyung nods. “I still spend a lot of my time in the district, and I regularly visit Sinryeong-ro. I… I met them there, after overhearing some conversations. I was alarmed by the tone of it – by the clear frustration with the way thinks work, with the way they have worked for a very long time. But no one really wanted to talk to me when I approached anyone – which makes sense, because I’m not one of them. But the shifters I want to introduce you to – they did, more than anyone else, and I think they’ll talk to you more than they would to me. You’re… you’re still the Head’s son. You should really talk to them.” Taehyung pauses. “I… I don’t know who else could help. I don’t know who to trust here.”

Here - in the palace, the grounds of the Council.

Slowly, Jimin gives a nod. “Okay,” he says, and watches as Taehyung’s shoulders slump down a little in relief. “I’ll talk to them. When?”

“Do you think you can sneak out?” Taehyung asks in lieu of an answer. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips.

Jimin shrugs, almost playful. “If I managed it when I was under constant watch, I’ll manage it now when everyone is preoccupied with other things.”

Neither one of them is sure that’s entirely true – Jimin’s title, after all, has remained in place – but neither one of them says it.

“Okay,” Taehyung concedes simply, and reaches for the piece of paper to hand it to Jimin.

The words on it are an address, one that Jimin thinks is in the back roads and alleys of Bigyeongdong, where usually the higher shifters have made their home – further away from the hustle of the bigger streets and all the noise of it.

Jimin wants to ask, but he knows they’re running out of time.

“Tonight?” he asks, and Taehyung nods.

“Can you make it at ten? I’ll try to meet you at the Arcane Gate, but if I’m not there, that means I had to leave earlier, and you should just make your way to the address alone.”

Jimin folds the paper and tucks it safely into his pocket. “I’ll make it,” he promises, and steps forward to touch Taehyung’s arm. “I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung whispers, and Jimin frowns. “For trusting me with this.”

Jimin tries a smile. “I’d trust you with everything.”

He doesn’t wait for Taehyung’s reaction. He slips out of the door and makes his way towards the Arcane Hall.

It’s… difficult, to say the least, to see his uncle.

Jimin enters the Arcane Hall, and almost everyone of note is there: Council members that he hasn’t seen in years, even Taehyung’s father; his own mother, standing next to his uncle. Her hair is still tied up in a bun that looks too tight, but a few strands have escaped and Jimin wonders how much sleep she got last night. It can’t have been a lot, considering she didn’t come home – she must have slept in her office, like she sometimes does when things are too hectic and the evenings get too late and the mornings too early. When he finds her gaze, he thinks she looks frenzied; the circles underneath her eyes darker, the lines on her forehead and those framing her mouth darker, like she’s been frowning a lot and not smiling much. He reinforces his own conviction in getting her over for dinner before he makes his way into Bigyeongdong.

But then, of course, there’s his uncle.

Park Kijung, his father’s brother, acting Council Head, with the three-legged-crow brooch to prove it. He’s still in white, because everyone is, and Jimin finds, insanely, that this is the thing that immediately, instinctively itches him, the thing that he focuses on: Not what his uncle must have done, what the ghost of his father has told him his own brother must have done to him; not what it might mean for Jimin or for the rest of the Council or for the magical community and the spirits, like he was talking about with Taehyung. None of that seems to matter among the audacity that Park Kijung is in white. White, from head to toe. Fitted pants, a tailored shirt – even the buttons are white, and Jimin finds he wants to rip them off with his bare hands, every last one of them. Wants to wrap his fingers around the fabric of his uncle’s shirt and rip and rip until he finally knows what’s underneath, and maybe he wants to keep going even then, wants to keep going and going until Kijung’s chest is exposed and his heart is laid out bare in front of them so that everyone can see. Yes. Everyone will see what his uncle has done, everyone will see it clear as day.

He can’t do that, of course, and he won’t.

Instead, Jimin folds his hands respectively behind his back and hopes no one notices just how tight he’s gripping onto his own fingers. Hopes no one pays attention to the suspiciously calm way he’s breathing; measured, with way too much attention to it. Or – maybe if someone does notice, they’ll attribute it to his grief. He doesn’t want it to be used like that, can barely stomach the thought – but what is he supposed to do? His uncle is right there, and Jimin knows what he knows, and he can’t reach a hand inside Kijung’s chest until he holds the truth of his heart in his bare hands, at his mercy.

“Chongbin,” he greets first, intentionally. His mother, first, before he greets his uncle. He knows that it won’t be lost on anyone, but this act of defiance he can afford himself, if nothing else. When he does turn to his uncle and sees the swiftly concealed blaze of annoyance in his eyes, it’s immediately and entirely worth it. “Jageunabeoji,” he says with an incline of his head, and watches with perfectly concealed satisfaction as a muscle in Kijung’s jaw tenses at the title. But Jimin hasn’t called him chongsa when he arrived, and he’s not about to start now.

“Sehoo,” his uncle greets back, among with the other Council members.

Jimin almost smiles, but stops himself before he can.

“What is the matter of discussion of this meeting?” he asks then, even if it appears blunt. He’s pretty sure that, too, will be attributed to his grief, and a therefore understandable lack of patience for small talk. It’s not untrue, certainly – just currently not the only reason behind Jimin’s need to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Sehoo, we need to update you on the contemporary political developments that you’ve missed while you were away,” Kijung says, and Jimin allows himself a moment to breathe in at the barely concealed condescending tone.

“I can assure you, jageunabeoji, that I have made a conscious effort to remain as up to date as was possible without attending meetings myself. All information that was available to me I am quite familiar with,” Jimin says, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Yes, I’m sure you have done your very best,” Kijung replies, with an almost-smile. “However, as you’ve already so aptly pointed out yourself, there is quite a lot of information that was inaccessible to you from your position, being so far away. Thus, I’m afraid that your current level of knowledge does not correspond to the intricacies and nuances needed for these political dynamics.”

Jimin takes another breath, and tries to not look too much at Kijung’s white shirt. He knows belittlement when he hears it. I’m sure you have done your very best, but your best’s just not enough.

It’s not like Jimin himself has advocated, numerous times, for the establishment of at least some type of confidential online communication and meeting system for the Council. Thus far, only the most trivial matters have clearance to be communicated digitally, everything else needs to be talked about in person, which explains why Kijung can deem Jimin’s knowledge to be lacking and why Jimin cannot even protest.

It’s not like they’re incapable of developing a safe and magical online system. It’s just – tradition, and hubris. And the fact that power, of course, comes across better in person; and who doesn’t like to exercise their power.

“I understand,” is what Jimin says instead of voicing any of his thoughts.

Kijung is still smiling, one corner of his mouth lifted, then gestures toward the table in the middle of the room. “Shall we?”

They sit down. The room hasn’t changed much since Jimin has last been in it – there is a round table in the middle of it, some chairs pushed back against the walls in case there are more people present than fit the table. There are decorations of the three-legged-crow everywhere, because of course there are: in the paintings on the walls, the motifs on the ceiling.

“Lee Busa will explain the situation,” Kijung instructs.

Lee is one of the lesser Council members, who are all referred to as busa for their title. Jimin can’t remember having spoken to him a great many times, and the man that clears his throat doesn’t exactly come across as someone with a lot of charisma. He seems shy, and serious. And worried.

“What you should know first, Sehoo, is that there is some unrest within the shifter population,” Lee starts, and Jimin is suddenly sitting ramrod straight.

His uncle is informing him of the shifter unrest? Why? How much does he know – and, more importantly, what does he intend to do about it? And, most importantly – why is he telling Jimin? What does he want from him?

“The unrest has carried on from your father’s rule,” Lee continues, which doesn’t surprise Jimin. After all, Taehyung has already told him as much. “And frankly, most probably from your father’s father before that.”

Oh.

I think the shifters have been unhappy for a very long time, Taehyung has said.

“During your father’s rule, the shifters have been advocating for a shifter representative within the Council –”

“Which is futile, of course, as we already have one,” Kijung interrupts, gesturing to one of the members, who is sitting a few seats down to his left.

The member in question, Moon Beomseok, straightens up. The Moons have held the position of the shifter representative for centuries, but the Moons, like all other Council members, are shamans – not shifters.

Jimin knows what Lee is going to say before he does.

“The shifters have been calling for the need to have a shifter installed as their representative.”

Jimin hums, and tries not to let it show on his face just how quickly his heart is beating. A shifter, within the Council. He wonders if Taehyung knows that. Wonders if that is one of the things he has overhead down in Sinryeong-ro, one of the busiest streets of the district. Wonders what it would mean, to have a shifter in the Council, and wonders with an accompanying pang what his father thought about it.

Kijung interrupts Lee again. “Which is, of course, unnecessary. We have always ensured that the shifters’ needs were appropriately addressed, through one of our rank communicating for it. There would be no added benefit of this representative being a shifter themselves. Additionally, of course, the Moons carry the right to this position within their bloodline.”

“Of course,” Jimin says, inclining his head, and tastes bile in his throat.

The power is your birthright.

Kijung gestures for Lee to continue. “The Council Head is right, naturally. Nonetheless, there have been continued reports of meetings that have carried some… worrying undertones. We are afraid there might be some… radicalization, within the shifter community.”

Radicalization.

What does that mean? What would it mean, for the Council, for the shifters?

Jimin doesn’t voice any of these questions. He intends to let Kijung show more of his hand, first, before ever revealing any of his own worries.

“These meetings have, most recently, increased in frequency,” Lee says, and Jimin inhales slowly.

Ah.

I know it’s worse now, is how Taehyung has worded it.

Jimin knows how to read between the lines. Knows what’s written there.

Suspects, now, what Kijung wants from him.

“We believe the shifters are reacting, as we are, to the recent passing of the previous Council Head. Its unexpected nature has, naturally, left some chaos in its wake that was most appropriately dealt with through a swift and certain shift of power to someone new.”

“Indeed,” Jimin says, forcing himself to smile. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Kijung returns the smile but doesn’t speak.

“However, the shifters do not seem to see it that way. In the most recent meetings, they have expressed concern about this shift of power, especially as it relates to our most important bloodline.”

There it is.

Jimin finds it incredibly difficult to wipe the smile off his face all of a sudden, and to replace it with a more somber expression.

“Ah,” he lets himself say, which could really mean anything.

Lee seems to have finished his report of the situation, because Kijung leans forward in his seat. His eyes, like a hawk’s, are fixed on Jimin; watching for any slip-up, the most miniscule tip-off that reveals his proper feelings.

But Jimin has grown up here. He knows the game – it’s in his blood. It’s not something he could ever forget.

“We were hoping,” Kijung starts, still looking at him, “that you would be so kind as to placate these concerns for them. We are, of course, working together, and we are all aware that the current situation is still a shifting one.”

Jimin leans back. “Indeed,” he confirms. “And I would be most delighted to be of service in that regard – but I must admit I’m worried, jageunabeoji. Are you quite certain that my current level of knowledge is enough to navigate the intricacies and nuances needed for these political dynamics?”

His voice is almost sweet as he asks. In response, he hears several people shift in her seats, clearly uncomfortable.

He, however, is the most comfortable he has felt since he has returned.

Kijung needs him.

Jimin can work with that.

Kijung’s expression has gotten tight, his mouth a thin line. The smile he’s sporting looks obviously forced to Jimin. “I quite believe you are capable,” is what Kijung eventually settles on, “despite the knowledge gap of the recent years.”

Well. Jimin didn’t expect anything more than that.

He smiles, and it’s easy, so easy now. “In that case,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “I would be delighted indeed. What exactly did you have in mind?”

“A speech, to start with,” Kijung responds. “As soon as possible. We have already prepared a text for you.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side. “How kind of you, to take some of the work off my shoulders,” he says, “but I will look over it before I hold the speech. You must understand, jageunabeoji. I find it is quite vital that such speeches have an air of… authenticity.”

He thinks his uncle is grinding his teeth. “Naturally,” Kijung replies.

Jimin smiles in response.

He admits – the games of the Council can be fun. It’s certainly fun to win them. And Jimin has been raised to be a good player. The best, really. It’s both in his nature and in his nurture. He’s the Heir, after all, and Kijung needs him.

Power does feel good, Jimin can admit it.

“Anything else can be agreed upon on a later date, I’m sure,” his mother says then, the first words he has spoken yet. Jimin looks at her, and notices once again the depth of the blue underneath her eyes, and the fact that he can tell from here her make-up should be reapplied soon if she wants to have some color at all to her face.

“I’m sure it can,” he says, before his uncle can say anything else. “I, for one, find I am still quite tired from my long journey, and I would enjoy an evening in the circle of my family.” He stands up before anyone can protest, because he knows now that they need him more than they currently can afford to cross him, and extends a hand to his mother. “Chongbin, would you join me?”

He doubts it’s lost on anyone that he does not extend the same courtesy to his uncle, who is seated right next to his mother. She, for one, is already getting to her feet.

“Gladly,” she replies, and he can tell how much she means it.

“Well.” Jimin comes around the table and lets their hands clasp – the first touch they have allowed themselves, and he instantly wants more of it. Wants to be small, and curl up in her lap, her fingers carding through his hair. Instead, he guides her hand to his arm, where she hooks herself on to his elbow. “Until the next meeting. I’m sure you’ll let me know immediately once it is scheduled. Thank you, everyone.”

Jimin sends his uncle another smile before he turns his back to him, and guides his mother out of the room to the sounds of various Council members bidding him goodbye by his title.

They don’t talk much while crossing the grounds, because they both know there are ears and eyes everywhere, and because they have both spent their last decades reserving any intimacy for moments behind closed doors and out of sight. Jimin does, however, feel the tightness of his mother’s grip on his arm.

Hyunwoo, who must have just begun his shift as Jimin’s bodyguard, comes to a stop in front of the hanok while Jimin and his mother are both already slipping out of their shoes.

“I’ve been informed that Senyeo-nim is in her father’s office,” Hyunwoo supplies, and Jimin turns with a frown. “Should I go and retrieve her?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Hyunwoo-ssi,” his mother replies before Jimin can say anything, but it doesn’t stop the questions in his mind. Why is his sister in their father’s office – again? Has she been spending a lot of time there? That can’t possibly be helpful in her grief, can it?

Hyunwoo is already gone by the time Jimin shakes himself out of his thoughts and follows his mother inside.

She has already taken her coat off, and now, within the comfort of their own house, some of the tension slips from her shoulders. Jimin can now clearly see the wrinkles in the fabric of her shirt, a smudge of mascara underneath her lower lash line where she must have rubbed at her eyes at some point, probably in the early hours of the morning. She reaches for the bun and lets her hair down, pulling out one pin after the other, and Jimin thinks now, finally, she has started to look more like Park Yewon, his mother, and less like Park Yewon, the Chongbin.

“Let me help, eomeoni,” Jimin says softly.

She turns her face to him as he is already stepping closer. She’s smaller than him; has been for a few years now. She doesn’t reply, just tilts her head when he is close enough. He has done this for her before, although more often for Jihye.

But she relaxes a fraction underneath his touch, upon the careful motion of his fingers in her hair. He pulls out twelve pins all in all, slowly, so not to hurt her, and doesn’t fail to notice when some of the creases on her forehead smooth out.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” he whispers as the last of her hair comes free. It’s longer than he remembers, reaches all the way to her waist. She’s too slim, like Jihye. “I’m here, okay?”

Yewon doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m glad you are,” is what she finally replies, and her voice is tired. “I just wish you could have been here earlier.”

“I know,” Jimin says quietly. It hurts him, too, that he wasn’t.

His mother looks at him. Another moment of silence extends between them, too long. It speaks of years spent apart, and the betrayal that she must feel came with it. Of the consequences that they must bear now.

“I missed you, Jimin-ah,” she says then. Her hand reaches for his arm. “So did he.”

Jimin can’t help but close his eyes against the surge of the pain.

“I know,” he repeats. He knows his own voice is close to breaking. He can hear it. “Eomma, I missed you too.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but she does hug him, even if he can tell there are other words she wants to ask. If you missed us, why did you leave? Jimin knows nothing he could ever say would appropriately explain, and he has tried too many times to do it now.

It’s not the time. Instead, they stand there in silence, in the middle of the corridor, hugging, and it’s close. But it’s not close enough. Jimin presses his eyes tightly together and promises himself that this, at least, is something he can fix. Something he will fix.

By the time his sister arrives, Jimin has already sat his mother down at the table and is busy cooking in the kitchen. Nothing fancy – he put some rice into the rice cooker last night, so that it wouldn’t be empty again when they needed it, and he has tossed some vegetables into a pan. The kitchen smells of onions and olive oil, something he has started to cook with properly in France and has come to enjoy quite a bit. The result isn’t much: rice and soy sauce, some dried laver he found in one of the drawers, some zucchini, onions, half a can of corn. But it’s a meal, and it’s warm, and they’re finally together.

“How was the meeting?” Jihye asks once they’re all seated and once their mother’s plate is full.

His mother shrugs, so Jimin answers in her stead. “It was fine. They want me to hold a speech, maybe more, for the public,” he explains, and finds Jihye frowning.

“Why?”

Jimin sends a gaze to his mother. Does Jihye not know? Has no one stopped to tell her? But – then again, his sister wasn’t at the meeting yesterday; his mother apparently isn’t home as much as he would like, so maybe she indeed wasn’t informed.

He takes a bite of food before he answers. “There’s some unrest within the shifter community, apparently,” he supplies, because he isn’t one to keep his sister in the dark.

“Because of the recent – and sudden – power shift,” his mother cuts in, and meets Jimin’s gaze. There’s a warning there, and Jimin exhales slowly through his nose. But he heeds it.

“So you’re meant to placate them?” Jihye scoffs, making no effort to hide her thoughts. Jimin wants to find it funny, but Yewon very visibly doesn’t.

She puts her spoon down with a clank and her eyes are stern, are all chongbin, and not at all mother. “It’s a good idea, Jihye-yah. We need to make sure the situation remains in balance, and Jimin-ah is in an ideal position and has already agreed. It does not do you any good to question those decisions.”

Jihye flinches, but she conceals the movement within half a second. Her expression shutters closed, and Jimin recognizes what emerges immediately. It’s the Senyeo’s mask – the face she wears whenever she deals with the Council as the daughter heir, which doesn’t mean nearly as much as Jimin’s title, but which places her clearly within the three-legged-crow’s bloodline.

“I understand, Chongbin,” Jihye says, and now it’s Jimin’s turn to flinch. They don’t refer to one another by their titles at home, they never have. But before he can say anything, Jihye, too, places her spoon down, flicks her eyes up at him for barely a second. “Thank you for cooking, Jimin-ah. Please excuse me.”

She doesn’t wait for their mother to actually excuse her, just leaves her spot at the table. The door to her room falls closed with a quiet click, and then the hanok is silent except for the sound of his mother’s chopsticks against her bowl where she has returned to eating.

“Eomma,” Jimin says. Finds he cannot keep the shock out of his voice, not now, not here. “What was that?”

His mother eats another bite, and then, slowly, places her utensils down. “I’m tired, Jimin-ah,” she says in lieu of an answer.

Jimin takes a breath. It’s a little shaky, and watches, wordless, as she gathers both her and Jihye’s bowls and places them into the sink. Neither of them has finished more than half of their portion.

He wants to say something, anything, but then his mother has already disappeared down the hallway. He hears another door click close, the one to his parents’ bedroom, and cannot help but flinch again at the sound, despite its quietness.

The kitchen still smells of zucchini and onions, and the food in his bowl is warm. And yet he’s sitting alone at the table, just minutes after they have all sat down – together, for the first time in years, for the first time after – and he’s alone. There are more things broken than just the empty spot at the table.

Jimin mindlessly brings the spoon to his mouth and finds the food tastes like ash.

It’s a quarter to ten when Jimin sneaks out of the hanok, and it’s simpler than he expected it to be. Mostly because neither his mother nor Jihye have reemerged for the rest of the day – he knows Jihye snuck out herself at some point; which technically isn’t sneaking out at all, because she’s mostly free to do whatever she wants with her time, out of when she is expected to attend Council meetings. But from what he has gathered during their conversation at lunch, that’s been the case less and less. His mother also left shortly before Jimin would’ve probably tried to convince her to have some dinner, presumably for another, less important meeting or talk that he wasn’t needed for.

So. Sneaking out is easy, because his mother isn’t even home, and Jihye is in bed and wouldn’t tattle on him anyway.

He’s more concerned with ditching the gunungsin on shift, who’s thankfully not Hyunwoo.  Jimin takes the back door and slides it closed so slowly it doesn’t make a sound, and stays close to the hanok’s wall until he can peek around the corner to see where the gunungsin is standing. By the door, still, thankfully without having heard anything that has transpired. It would’ve been faster to reach the Arcane Gate from the front door, but it’s okay – Jimin knows these grounds, and he manages to make his way across them through running and then tiptoeing around the edges of buildings, making good use of every dark corner and shadow he can find.

When he reaches the Arcane Gate, he doesn’t spot Taehyung, which would’ve made him worry had Taehyung not told him that could happen.

So Jimin just keeps going, draws his hood up and his mask high into his face and leaves the palace ground without a further thought.

Bigyeongdong on foot is an entirely different experience than driving through it in a car, mostly because there are so many nooks and alleys that one simply doesn’t have time to spot from a moving vehicle. The street lanterns are on, their bright light shimmering with a purple sheen, and it’s still Seoul, which means there are still some shops that are open, because they’re always open. A restaurant to Jimin’s right, whose neon sign is flickering slightly underneath the power lines that thread their way through the streets. The building to his left is a traditional hanok with beautiful wood carvings, and the one crammed right next to it, so close not even a mouse could squeeze through them, is modern, with a big glass front that reflects the streetlights. Every one of the lanterns’ bodies is covered by a white scarf-like crochet work, and there are white ribbons attached anywhere they will fit.

Jimin swallows and takes a right.

The address Taehyung has written down for him is not on one of the main streets, but not far from Sinryeong-ro either, where Taehyung told him he heard all of his information, where he met the people he’s introducing Jimin to tonight.

Sinryeong-ro. The Street of the Spirits. Jimin loves it, but it’s a bustling place, especially at night, and he can’t afford to be recognized. He steers clear of it and takes a detour through a few of the alleyways.

Nonetheless. It doesn’t take long, and then Jimin is standing in front of a building that’s somewhere between traditional and modern, with curved ceramic tiles on the roof but the structure of a normal building underneath. Two stories in the front, and then there seems to be a sort of annex towards the back that appears more like a hanok, one story high. Jimin can only see it because there’s a small pathway between the house and the one to its right, lined with a random assortment of plants and pedestal lanterns glowing with soft golden light, leading to what he can only presume must be a small garden, largely hidden from view. There’s a windchime above the door, and a white band next to it, swaying gently. Some lights are on on the first floor, and Jimin swallows down the nerves rising in his throat and presses the bell.

It takes a moment, and he hears shuffling on the other side of the door.

When it opens, Jimin finds himself momentarily surprised it’s not Taehyung standing before him.

Instead, it’s a broad-chested man, taller than Jimin by a good amount, clad in wide flowing black pants and a beige-colored sweater. A silver necklace disappears beneath the fabric, and Jimin immediately assumes it’s a shifter talisman of some sort that would reveal the man’s other form, and that he doesn’t want to do so in front of Jimin. Thus far, the only thing that tells him the man standing in front of him is not human is the color of his hair: a flash of silver, dark enough in some places to be gray, and white in others.

“Sehoo,” the man says. His face is closed but not unkind when Jimin looks up at him. It’s a round face, single-lidded eyes. Jimin thinks if he were smiling, there would be dimples right there, in the middle of his cheeks. “Welcome.”

Jimin inclines his head, not deeply, but genuinely. “Sinya,” he greets back. “Thank you for inviting me.”

The man – the shifter – also gives a short bow, deeper than Jimin’s. “Taehyung-ssi has told us a great deal about you,” he says, and Jimin straightens. He knows that means there are expectations, and he doesn’t yet know if he will be capable of meeting them.

He chooses not to reply directly and instead gestures inside. “Speaking of – where is Taehyung? Inside already?”

“Yes. He arrived some minutes before you.” Without further ado, the man steps aside for Jimin to enter, and he does, glad he doesn’t have to face the situation alone.

Taehyung is waiting for him in the entrance to what seems to be the living room, after Jimin has slipped out of his shoes and taken off his coat. The shifter hangs it on a rank where Jimin can count at least ten jackets, and there are too many pairs of shoes for him to count in the brief second before he has started making his way to Taehyung.

“Sosa,” Jimin greets, because he doesn’t know exactly what familiarity the situation suggests – or lack thereof. And it’s always better to hide intimacy, that much he has learned. It’s certainly always better for him.

Taehyung’s responding bow doesn’t give much away. “Sehoo,” he replies in kind, which elicits a response from inside: some murmurs, the bristling of clothes.

Taehyung steps aside, and Jimin feels the presence of the shifter behind him, and takes the hint.

The living room he steps into isn’t too spacious, but it’s warm and coated in golden light. There is a bookshelf on one side, a couch on the other, and a big table in the middle. But Jimin doesn’t allow himself to inspect the room too closely, because the people in it immediately capture his attention: Four of them, not counting the shifter behind him and Taehyung to his left, all men from what a first glance seems to tell him, and all more or less visibly marked as shifters.

The man closest to him sports a blue-glowing swirl in the middle of his forehead. Kirin, Jimin’s mind supplies, somewhat taken aback, although he of course cannot be one hundred percent sure about it. His hair – red and orange, like fire – is too vibrant to be entirely human, too.

Right behind him is someone else with red hair, although less clearly magical; a deep red, almost brown, that could be human were it not for the white of the tips. Jimin guesses gumiho, and is immediately astonished because most gumihos are women, and this one clearly isn’t.

The man furthest back doesn’t have an astonishing hair color – black, but his skin is the giveaway. He’s not even moving, but Jimin sees the feather-like pattern that seems to glow underneath his skin. It’s iridescent, and subtle, but Jimin, of course, has been trained to notice things, and doesn’t fail to notice this. A bird of some sort, he supposes, but there are a few bird-like creatures, and he’s not entirely sure which one this corresponds to unless he spots another marker.

It doesn’t get any simpler for the last man, who’s standing closer to Jimin on the other side of the table. He looks younger than the others by a few years, which doesn’t necessarily mean much. His hair, like the first shifter’s, is a shock of white, although his is fluffy and looks very soft. At first, it’s the only mark Jimin can spot, which is not a very distinguishing feature, until he catches sight of the birthmark on the man’s right cheek when he slightly turns his head. A crescent. Silver.

Oh, wow.

He hasn’t come across some of these shifter types in years, years even before he left Seoul for Paris.

“Sehoo,” the first shifter says, and Jimin quickly adverts his gaze. He’s quick in clocking people – he’s had to be – but he doesn’t want to come across as strange, as someone who stares. He turns to face the shifter, who’s gesturing for the table. “I assume none of us has any time to waste. Let’s sit and talk.”

Jimin inhales and makes sure his posture is good. Knows Taehyung is looking at him from the side, an expression on his face that Jimin could read if he turned to face him, but Jimin doesn’t know these people, and he is the Heir, here. Has to be.

He doesn’t sit down at the head of the table, but the chair to its right, and the shifter that opened the door for him slides into the free seat instead. The others all follow suit, Taehyung to Jimin’s right.

He clasps his hands together and allows himself to take a deep breath. “Let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

“I’m aware you all already know who I am, but I hope you will indulge me in introducing myself nonetheless,” Jimin says once they have all sat down around the table. He knows he’s sounding stilted, but he can’t help it – the etiquette and manners taught to him and engraved in his blood always come through in moments where he isn’t sure how to act. He still makes a conscious effort to meet all of the shifters’ gazes, and hopes they will return his introduction with their own. “My name is Park Jimin. As of this moment, I’m the heir of the shaman bloodline of the three-legged-crow, and I am the heir to the position of Council Head.”

He doesn’t mention that his uncle has, potentially temporarily, taken up the position in his stead. They know this; but he doesn’t need to show them the uncertainty within his family, or the Council. His own uncertainty.

The shifter who opened the door for him nods in acknowledgement. “Allow us to introduce ourselves, too, Sehoo,” he says. “It is only fair.” He gestures first to himself, in a motion encompassing his silver hair, the broad shoulders, and the talisman disappearing underneath his sweater. “My name is Kim Namjoon. I am an imugi shifter, and I am the leading spirit of this coven.”

Ah.

That makes sense – he was the one that opened the door and that invited him inside. Imugi, as proto-dragons that become fully fledged once they reach a thousand years of age, are amongst the most powerful creatures in Korea, too. In all of Asia, if Jimin’s being honest. Namjoon, as the leader of the coven, is probably old enough to have almost reached his dragon form; but it doesn’t escape Jimin’s notice that he didn’t reveal his age.

At least he now knows they are a coven. It didn’t use to be very common in Asia – creatures sometimes live in herds, but usually only within their own kind, and shamans traditionally worked alone. The Council changed that somewhat; but the bigger changes have occurred within the last few hundred years, as a result of increasing ties with other magical cultures around the world, many of which did use covens, and impressively well.

Namjoon gestures towards the shifter who has sat down on his left; the one with the iridescent pattern underneath his skin, who Jimin couldn’t entirely place. The man gives a slight smile. “I’m Kim Seokjin, and I’m an inmyeonjo.”

Jimin blinks.

Inmyeonjos are rare and mysterious. He has encountered maybe five in his entire life span and cannot recall having had a proper conversation with any one of them. Despite his immediate curiosity regarding the intricacies of Seokjin’s powers, he doesn’t move and only gives a simple nod.

For a moment, Seokjin almost looks disappointed at the lack of reaction. Then Namjoon is already moving on to the shifter with the fiery hair, who Jimin already knows is a kirin by the swirl on his forehead. Interestingly enough, the shifter evidently assumes that Jimin knows, and only, somewhat tonelessly, gives his name: “Min Yoongi.”

The shifter with the deep red hair that’s going white at the tips smiles at Jimin when it’s his turn. The smile is bigger than Seokjin’s, and he has leaned forward slightly, his face propped up on his hands. “Hello, Sehoo,” he greets. “My name is Jung Hoseok. Gumiho.”

Jimin nods in return, still refusing to show more of his emotions, and enjoys it as he definitely spots some disappointment on Hoseok’s face.

The shifter who remains is the one that looks the youngest, which makes Jimin wonder whether they have, as would be tradition, introduced themselves by order of age.

He smiles, too, although only briefly; and his eyes only manage to meet Jimin’s for a moment before they flicker back down to his hands, laid on the table. Jimin can spot the edges of tattoos adorning his wrists, but his baby blue sweater is covering the rest of them. “Sehoo, my name is Jeon Jeongguk. I’m a moon hare spirit.”

Yes.

Jimin knew it from the crescent mark on his cheek, but it’s good to have confirmation. Moon hares are incredibly rare, even more so than inmyeonjos, perhaps. And it’s even less likely to meet them in any type of coven setting that includes other types of creatures. They’re known to be solitary creatures, or at least keeping to their own kind, and Jimin has heard them described as shy often.

Judging from the way that Jeongguk’s eyes still have not moved from the table, maybe those accounts are correct.

Taehyung, sitting to Jimin’s right, clears his throat. “Well, if we’re all doing introductions,” he says, in a clear attempt of diffusing some of the tension, as everyone present already knows him: “My name is Kim Taehyung, I’m a shaman from a dokkaebi bloodline, and my father is the Council Head’s Chief Scribe.” He smiles, in a somewhat crooked manner, and then gives a miniature bow from where he’s sitting. “It’s a pleasure.”

Namjoon doesn’t smile, and neither does Yoongi, but some of the others do; Hoseok does, and Jeongguk’s lips definitely twitch. Jimin allows himself to let his shoulders relax a fraction and flashes Taehyung a smile that disappears directly after.

“Sosa,” Jimin prompts. “You wanted me to come here tonight. Why?”

Taehyung crosses his legs. His eyes settle on Jimin. “I told you there has been unrest within the shifter community,” he starts, and by the lack of reaction of the shifters present in the room, Jimin figures he can safely assume Taehyung already informed them of their conversation. “Both before the Council Head’s death, and now. Worse so now.”

“You have,” Jimin acknowledges. He wishes he could let Taehyung know what Kijung wants from him; what transpired today during the meeting, but as it stands, he doesn’t dare.

“I think the details should better be explained by one of them,” Taehyung says and gestures to Namjoon, who nods.

“Sehoo.” His gaze fixes Jimin. His eyes are narrow; not unkind, not necessarily, but distant. Secretive. Jimin doesn’t hold it against him. “How much do you know about the unrest?”

Smart. A question, so that he learns what not to give away.

Unfortunately for him, Jimin also knows how to play this game.

“I’m afraid my knowledge is limited to what Sosa-nim has told me,” he answers without hesitation.

Namjoon hums. “And that would be?”

Jimin wants to chuckle. He is about to respond, but thankfully, Taehyung does it for him – who, without a doubt, is more comfortable navigating the dynamics; as he knows both the coven and Jimin, and knows where he stands with either.

“I informed him that I witnessed some gatherings in the district, and that the tone of them has been getting increasingly worse. That I’d learned all of this because I venture frequently into Sinryeong-ro, and that that’s how I met all of you,” Taehyung explains, lifting a hand across the room to encompass the coven.

“Ah,” Namjoon says, and Jimin has to give it to him: He’s good at this game too. Which will make their interactions more difficult, but really, it’s a good thing. Jimin cannot trust anyone with the type of knowledge Taehyung insinuated he should trust them with if they’re utterly incapable of understanding and navigating the intricacies of the Council’s politics.

Jimin decides to give him something. An indicator of faith. An outstretched hand, perhaps.

“Sosa-nim also told me that you were some of the only shifters who were willing to talk to him,” he says and leans forward. “And that you would be willing to talk to me even more. I’m here in the hopes that you are.”

There. Now he’s let the shifters know that he has some interest in this, without specifying what that might be – they can speculate all they want for now. And he has also told them that he knows they also must have some interest in this, because of what Taehyung told him.

Namjoon definitely understands, judging by the way he slowly leans back in his chair, his eyes never once leaving Jimin’s. Eventually, he gives a nod, and Jimin notices out of his periphery that both Hoseok and Jeongguk’s shoulders relieve some of their tension. The same is true for Taehyung.

“We are,” Namjoon confirms. “Willing to talk to you.” He takes a pause, clears his throat. “Sehoo. You know better than most that our current system has been in place for centuries. More than a thousand years, in fact, with your family at the very top.”

One thousand, three hundred, and fifty-seven years, if Jimin were to be exact. Since 668, when Goguryeo fell to the unification wars of Silla, and when the magical community decided to split from the non-magical one.

“This system, although revised at one point or other, at the core still remains the same: Shamans who govern over Korea’s magical community through their Council, who is composed of the rarest creature heritage bloodlines in the country. A system that has been accepted, for the longest time, by lower shaman families and shifters alike, because those rare heritage bloodlines are the only inheritors of that creature magic that is left to us. Creature magic of the eldest dragons, for example, or the bonghuangs. And,” he nods to Jimin, “the samjoko.”

The three-legged crow. Singular, because this specific creature only ever existed once; inherently tied to, and with powers of, the sun.

Namjoon shifts in his seat. “However,” he starts, “that has changed in recent decades. Along with the democratization of the outside world came our own, but for us shifters… the developments weren’t enough.”

This, Jimin as already gathered. The shifters, as Kijung mentioned earlier during the meeting, have a representative in the Council – only the one, even if they make up roughly half of the magical community’s population, if not more. And this representative has always been human, something that Lee informed him of during today’s meeting the shifters were unhappy about.

“Starting from when the monarchical system was abolished,” – 1981, eight years before the democratization of outside Korea – “shifters have repeatedly called for the installment of a shifter as a representative. It has been a topic of discussion within shifter politics and the community since then, and it has been a topic that’s been brought forward and addressed towards the Council and the Council Head on numerous occasions. Most frequently in recent years, with your father.”

They weren’t happy before Chongsa-nim’s passing. I think the shifters have been unhappy for a very long time.

Jimin hears Taehyung’s words echoing in his ears, and wishes, for the umpteenth time, that he could talk to his father. Just once more. Even as a ghost – ask him some of these questions, on these matters that he had little idea about while he was in France. He wants to ask what his father wants him to do, how he should act. He doesn’t want to make any of these decisions on his own.

He knows he might have to.

He will have to.

“Your father,” Namjoon continues, “was willing to listen to us. He scheduled numerous meetings over the past few years, none of which have come to any constructive outcome. Largely due to the prevailing sentiment in the Council that a shifter as a shifter representative is entirely futile.”

Jimin notices that Yoongi reacts to that with a deep scowl. Namjoon doesn’t show his thoughts on that quite so clearly, but Jimin knows what they must all be feeling. He might not have known this was as big of an issue as it is, but he remembers sitting in one of his tutoring sessions when he must have been all but seven and asking why there weren’t any shifters on the Council if half of the magical community was comprised of them. He also remembers the expression on his tutor’s face, and how quickly he had learned not to ask that question again.

“In response to the deadlock, the sentiment in our community has worsened,” Namjoon says, and Jimin looks at him. “Most recently, after the Chongsa passed away, the situation has become more precarious.”

We are worried there might be some… radicalization, Lee said earlier.

Namjoon pauses, but then he does answers the question Jimin couldn’t ask in front of the Council. “There is a growing call within the shifter community that seeks to… overthrow the existing system entirely,” Namjoon says, and Jimin doesn’t dare to move a single muscle. “An increasing amount of shifters no longer only want proper representation within the Council. They no longer want power to be in the hands of shamans.”

There’s another pause, and Jimin doesn’t even blink.

Namjoon’s gaze fixes Jimin’s. “In your hands,” he specifies, and Jimin slowly and very consciously takes a breath.

He knew it was bad. Kijung told him so himself, Taehyung told him, and Taehyung wouldn’t be worried like this over nothing. The Council knows and informed him about it, despite his unclear status, despite his probable unpopularity with Kijung and his closest advisors, which means it’s bad. Bad enough to warrant worry, to warrant some kind of political reaction from the Council.

Jimin didn’t know it was going to be this.

That half of the country’s magical population increasingly thought to shake – to abolish – their very foundation.

Everything is built on the Council’s power. The Council makes political and economic decisions, yes, but it’s more than that: When the magical community decided to go into hiding, it was the quickly established Council – the shamans– that created the protective magic that separated them from the rest of the country, from anyone non-magical. The Council has kept up these wards, improved upon them, and strengthened them, for more than a thousand years, withshaman magic.

Shaman magic, which rests, first and foremost, on bloodlines.

Which is why Jimin can feel the wards, specific aspects and tethers of them, whenever he comes near them, whenever he crosses through them. Why he feels, as an actual, physical sensation somewhere in his chest, every street and every alley of Bigyeongdong, as if it’s a part of him, somewhere deep within. Because it is.

Because Bigyeongdong’s existence as a hidden district rests on his bloodline’s magic, and the Council members’ bloodline’s magic.

If that stopped – he doesn’t know what that would mean. He doesn’t think anyone knows what that would mean.

“Well, it’s not entirely your hands, per se,” Hoseok says, interrupting Jimin’s train of thought with the surprise of hearing someone else aside from Namjoon during this part of their conversation. “Currently, they don’t want power to remain in the hands of Park Kijung.”

Jimin breathes in, once again keeping it entirely controlled.

“Shifters have accepted shaman rule because of the passing down of rare creature magic through those shaman bloodlines that are, and have been, in power,” Namjoon reiterates, and Jimin understands before he can say anything else. “The shifter community doesn’t want Park Kijung in power, because Park Kijung is not the direct heir to the samjoko bloodline.”

Of course.

Bloodline magic is tricky. It passes down, theoretically, from the respective creature’s first child, down to their first children, and so on, and so on. But it’s not that simple: magic like that seeks its own survival, and if this first child – the first heir – dies, the magic does not simply die with it, it manifests elsewhere. First children always enjoy the firmest manifestation of the magic, but they’re not the only ones who can feel the magic in the bloodline, who have some part of it. All children retain some of it, and if the proper heir dies, the most powerful manifestation simply moves down to the next immediate blood heir.

Which is why shaman families usually have more than one child – an heir and a spare – although not too many, for fear of diluting the magic; and why the magical community has never cared much about gender norms that were popular in the outside world: creature magic does not care about gender. It simply cares about blood.

Park Kijung is not the Chongsa’s first heir. He’s not even the second.

Technically, he should have been third in line to inherit the Council Head’s position, as it mirrors the bloodlines. And he is only third in line to inherit the most potent creature magic, the so-called sanghyeol. Jimin is first, and his sister comes after him. Only then would the magic pass to his uncle.

And Jimin is still first, with the magic, no matter Council positions.

Well. Technically, he assumes, he’s not an heir anymore in regard to that.

Because Jimin felt it, when his father died.

He felt it before the news ever came through to him, before his phone ever pinged. He remembers sitting in his apartment in Paris, utterly breathless for the better part of an hour, because the might of the magic hit him like a strike of lightning, and he wasn’t able to process anything, focusing only on how to keep it under wraps.

And then his phone lit up with messages. And then he knew.

“I understand,” is the only thing he says, once he realizes that the shifters are waiting for his response. They’re watching him; all of their eyes fixed on him, and he knows Namjoon, at the very least, is waiting for any sign of Jimin’s true reaction to what he’s hearing.

There are moments when he thinks if all of this will keep on for much longer, that he is simply going to come apart.

Won’t be able to hide anything anymore. That his mask will just shatter, that the outer layers of his skin, of his body, will simply fall away and reveal the raw blood beneath, the truth of his bones.

But not yet.

“And you?” he asks them, encompassing with a swiping hand the coven members seated at the table. “What do you want?”

It’s not that he distrusts Taehyung. He doesn’t think Taehyung would lead him here, if these shifters also wanted the abolishment – and probable eradication as a result – of Jimin’s entire bloodline and his family. If they wanted to burn everything to the ground, even if it kills more than a thousand years of a foundation and magic. And people.

But he does need to know, from their own mouths.

Namjoon is silent for a moment, a line between his brows while he’s thinking. “We think radicalization in any form always harbors danger,” he says then, slowly, which Jimin thinks is a diplomatic way of putting it. “We would prefer for there to be more room for discussion. Within the shifter community, but also within the Council. Room for discussion together.”

And here it is.

Here is why they need him. Here is why they can use him.

Jimin is still his father’s heir. He has still inherited the samjoko’s sanghyeol, and he still stands to potentially inherit the Council Head position. Which means – in more ways than one – that he has power, power that Namjoon and his coven can use.

He meets Namjoon’s gaze. “I understand,” he acknowledges, “thank you.” He lets his voice show that he means it, that he’s thankful Namjoon put his cards on the table like this. If they do this, if they decide to work together, they need rapport, if not trust.

Trust comes with time, but they can start building it now. Need to, in fact.

Jimin takes a breath. “You’ve said my father was willing to listen to you, and to the shifter community as a whole. I’m also willing to listen. You also said that my father didn’t manage to sway the Council’s prevailing attitudes on the issue, or that he didn’t care enough to try.” He pauses. He knows they have criticized his father, but he also knows that his father, first and foremost, was a person, and that he has never been infallible. “I would do my best to achieve a different outcome.”

Yoongi scoffs. It’s quiet, but Jimin hears it nonetheless, his eyes flicking to the kirin immediately; and judging from the gaze Namjoon throws at his coven mate, it wasn’t meant for anyone’s ears. Yoongi doesn’t let that dissuade him, not once he notices that Jimin has heard it anyway.

He looks at Jimin, and for a moment the dark of his eyes flashes as fiery and red as his hair. “What does that mean, you would do your best? Is that really the best you can promise? Are we meant to be satisfied with that cliché of a phrase?”

The kirin’s words are burning, and Jimin understands where they come from. To the shifters, he and his careful phrasing, the stilted way he talks that hides more than it expresses – it must seem flowery, hollow, even tactless perhaps in light of how much they must care about the issue. But Jimin has no choice.

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, but Jimin lifts a hand. “I understand,” he says again. “And I know that meeting me here, in your home ground, and having to trust me with your hopes and plans is difficult. Especially because you must feel like you have given much away and I too little.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “But I would ask that you don’t take me for a fool, sinya. I don’t take you for one. You know my position, and you know what that means. You know what it means that I came here to meet you, on this day, so shortly after returning to Seoul. You don’t have the right to ask me for more, not yet. You already know I’m not capable of giving it.”

He looks at Yoongi, who blinks, whose anger has dissipated at Jimin’s words. They all know what he’s pointing out: that he wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something at stake for him, that he needs them for something, too, even if they don’t know yet for what. For a moment, Jimin thinks the expression on Yoongi’s face is even a little chastised. Only then does he continue.

“What I can tell you,” he says quietly, and feels their increased attention on him immediately, “is that the shifters aren’t the only ones who are unhappy with Park Kijung’s current position.” He himself, for one. Jihye, who likes Kijung about as much as Jimin does; their mother. Some of the Council members, who Jimin would bet money on being secretly on his side. “It makes the situation unstable and dangerous.” He pauses, takes a moment to meet all of their gazes. “There is more that I would tell you, in time.”

More that I would need your help with, he means, and he’s sure they understand enough of it. Taehyung certainly does. The creases around his eyes soften, and Jimin knows this look, knows Taehyung would seek to offer comfort, now, would give a soothing touch, if he could. Jimin yearns for it more than he can admit.

He’s so tired, again. This role he has to play is heavy, and sleep – if he can even get the time or the relative calm needed for it – that’s not haunted by nightmares is a luxury he assumes he won’t be able to enjoy for quite a while.

He misses France. He misses France of four days ago.

He misses himself of four days ago.

“Sehoo,” Namjoon says after clearing his throat. “We do understand your situation, as you evidently do ours. In time, I hope we can be more open with each other.”

Drop all the pretense, he means, drop this manner of speech and just be honest with each other. Jimin nods, even though he’s not sure that will ever be possible for him.

“What should we do in the meantime?” Namjoon asks, and Jimin draws back his shoulders. He doesn’t have something as sophisticated as a plan. Not yet. It’s been too little time, and everything is moving too quickly.

“For now, I am going to get closer to my uncle,” he says. “As you all know, I’ve been away for some time. It’s better if he adjusts to my presence again quickly, and I will try to learn from him what I can.”

There are some nods around the table, although Jimin can tell not everyone is happy with that ‘plan’. Taehyung, for one, looks concerned; Jimin feels his gaze on him, unwavering from his face, carefully watching.

“And what should we do, Sehoo?”

Jimin gestures to the door to answer Namjoon’s question. “Until we have met again with some more information, I suggest you simply carry on as you did before. Mingle on the Street of the Spirits, meet some people. Get a feel for what exactly is happening in the shifter community. If there is anything urgent, you can always contact me through Sosa-nim – although I would hope you use that option sparingly.”

Potentially, of course, they already know some of that information he hopes they will reveal to him at their next meeting – and just haven’t told him yet. Haven’t deemed him trustworthy enough or are just heedful of the situation and its dangers. If anything, he awards them for it.

“Okay,” Namjoon agrees nonetheless. “And when do we meet again? I assume you will come here?”

“It would be too dangerous and frankly difficult to get six shifters into Mugeukgung undetected. So yes. I’m afraid our meetings will have to take place here for the foreseeable future.” He briefly tips his head to show them his acknowledgement of that. “I suggest we meet again next week. Same day, same time. If anything changes with my schedule, I’ll let Sosa-nim know.” Jimin flicks a hand in Taehyung’s direction. “Please do the same on your side.”

“We will.” Namjoon nods, and Jimin knows that this conversation has run its course. He gives a smile that’s brief and hollow, a smile that belongs to sehoo and not him. Meets everyone’s gazes.

None of them seem apprehensive of him – Jeongguk seems too shy to look at him much, and Seokjin and Hoseok mostly look intrigued – outside of possibly Yoongi. If it weren’t directed at him, Jimin could probably have learned to like the kirin’s fiery demeanor.

“Well.” Jimin pushes back his chair as he stands up, ensures his spine is straight. “I shall not overstay my welcome. Have a pleasant evening.”

He doesn’t thank them, and they don’t thank him either.

Namjoon brings him to the door after the shifters have gotten up and bowed. He watches with a careful eye as Jimin slips back into his loafers and his coat and as he brings the hood down low over his face, his mask up to the bridge of his nose. Behind him, Taehyung appears in the doorway, and he puts on his own shoes and jacket.

“I’ll be accompanying you, Sehoo,” he says, and Jimin wants to slump forward in relief. Instead, he barely nods in acknowledgement and simply waits until Namjoon opens the door for them and steps aside to let them pass.

“Safe journeys home, Sosa,” he says, and then his eyes shift to Jimin. He thinks they’re still cold, but he also thinks there is a kind of understanding in them. Whatever understanding they have come to tonight. “Sehoo.” He bows, low.

Jimin meets his gaze for a moment, then steps out into the night.

Chapter Text

They’ve barely made it across the street and into the next crisscrossing alley when Jimin stops Taehyung with a hand to his arm and leads him towards the wall, where the shadow is darkest.

“Is it safe?” he asks quietly.

Taehyung understands immediately. He looks back the way they came, then checks the alley they’re standing in. “It should be, if we keep quiet,” he assesses. “I’ve never been followed here, or on the way back from here. It’s not one of those neighborhoods.”

Jimin knows this – has known this, but he hasn’t lived in Seoul in years and he needed to be sure. And safe means something different now that he’s inherited his father’s powers, now that his father is dead.

So he leans close to Taehyung, so close their cheeks are almost touching. His mouth is at Taehyung’s ear, and he’s sure the other must hear is breathing, must be able to feel it.

“The meeting today,” Jimin whispers, and proceeds to tell Taehyung what transpired earlier today. That Kijung informed him of the shifter unrests, that he was asked to hold a speech to appease them. “I said yes.”

For a moment, Taehyung looks shocked, but it makes way to understanding. “You need to appease Kijung,” he deduces, and Jimin simply nods. They’re still so close that Taehyung must feel the movement more than he sees it.

Taehyung inhales. “You should tell them, at the next meeting,” he murmurs, and Jimin draws back enough to look at him. Taehyung’s brows are drawn, but Jimin can tell by his eyes that he means it.

Jimin shrugs. He doesn’t want to discuss anything else here, not while they’re in public; and Taehyung knows him well enough to understand Jimin isn’t ready to promise anything in that regard. He doesn’t trust the shifters yet, but he hopes he might soon. If he truly wants their help, he needs to tell them about his father.

Taehyung knows the conversation is over, and he takes a step back into the light of the lanterns. His face, now bathed in soft yellows, is warm as a hint of a smile steals into the edges of his mouth.

“Jimin-ah,” he says, “have you been back to the district yet?”

Jimin hasn’t, of course, not in a way that matters.

So that’s what they do. He makes sure his mask is drawn all the way up, keeps his hood on, closes his coat. He didn’t wear white because it would surely have been a dead giveaway, and the black material of both his pants and his jacket are appropriately innocuous.

Taehyung takes him by the elbow and leads him out of the coven’s neighborhood.

Sinryeong-ro, the Street of the Spirits, is a sight to behold at night. The street isn’t really wide by any measure, but it’s enough to have space for all the stalls in the middle – mostly just wooden tables; boxes propped up on each other. They display a wide variety of things: Jimin sees intricately carved shifter talismans next to an assortment of herbs like mugwort and garlic. There are enchanted instruments – a cylindrical oboe, a piri; huge traditional drums, buks, that Jimin has seen people use in magical performances of traditional music; a beautiful black haegeum, its strings shimmering silver.

And, of course, there’s food: the standard array of tteokbokki, hotteok, and dumplings with sweet bean paste that are available in non-magical Korea, but he can also spot magical variants. The last time he was in Seoul, he remembers getting sunflower pretzels from one of the stalls that made him feel warm and light from the inside. He doesn’t see any of those this time, but a few stalls over, someone is advertising bungeoppang filled with something called dream cream, whatever that’s supposed to be, and he’s pretty sure the woman selling noodles a few steps ahead is a kirin and her sauces probably carry more fire than Jimin could stomach.

It's busy, as it always is at this time of night. Jimin hasn’t been amidst this many people in a while – he went to all the major tourist attractions in Paris during his first months and quickly figured out during which seasons he could avoid the masses, and Seoul is a bigger number than Paris anyway, in that regard. For a moment, he feels overwhelmed by it: the constant movement all around him, how close people are getting when they squeeze past him, the cacophony of voices and conversations, the sounds of so many shoes on the asphalt, and the sizzling of different food cooking in their respective street stalls.

“You okay?” Taehyung asks under his breath. His hand is still on Jimin’s arm, and that helps. He takes a breath, and lets it all in. The smells, the sounds. He has been here so many times as a child – granted, often with some kind of supervisor and not this late – but he loves it. He has always loved the district, he has always loved the Sinryeong-ro.

So he nods up at Taehyung, allowing a smile to play on his lips. Taehyung smiles back: the biggest one Jimin has seen yet, since he came back; almost unrestrained, a wild egde to it, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

It brings Jimin back to his fondest memories.

They make their way through the street like this: Taehyung’s hand has left Jimin’s arm, but they’re never far, always close enough that Jimin can sense Taehyung’s body almost as well as his own. They share fish cakes sold by a gumiho and grin when they both blink and see tails moving in the shades for the span of seconds. Taehyung drags Jimin over to a table displaying beautifully carved pieces of jade, placed in amulets and rings and necklaces, and Jimin turns to the side so that his face can’t be seen as Taehyung buys a pair of stunning earrings that Jimin thinks might be spelled to make Taehyung seem even more ethereal than he already is. At some point, Jimin spots someone selling French crêpes citron. They’re so sour and then so sweet on the tongue that Taehyung gets jealous of the magic Jimin experienced on a day to day basis just a few days ago.

“I’ll take you,” Jimin promises, almost reaching out a hand to wipe a remnant of sugary sirup from Taehyung’s lower lip and restraining himself in the last second.

One day, he promises himself. One day, they’ll do this in Paris, and they’ll be happy.

Jimin finally makes his way to Hwangjeong, the Sunlight Courtyard, early the next morning. He hasn’t had the time to perform a ritual since he came back from Paris, and by now, on day four of his return, he feels it: His hands have a slight shake to them that he knows he won’t be able to repress for more than a few days; and every shift of his clothing or even just the brush of the wind lets goosebumps erupt on his sensitive skin. He hasn’t had the time to expel the superfluous energy, but…

As he enters the courtyard about an hour and a half before dawn breaks, his fingers exhibiting their magical tremor, he can admit to himself that that is not the only reason. He’s nervous. He’s scared.

He felt the immensity of the samjoko’s magic the moment his father passed, and it took him to his knees. It took him hours to assemble enough feeling in his limbs to properly sense and use his body. He doesn’t know how his father did it. He doesn’t know how anyone in their family has done it before.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have time.

He was supposed to come back from France in a year or two, having learned and lived amongst Europe’s magical communities, and he was meant to train with his father for this. They were meant to practice together, in a controlled environment, so that the magic wouldn’t overwhelm Jimin when it finally would pass onto him. That’s not to say that they have never conversed on the topic or that Jimin is entirely useless when it comes to using his family line’s magic – he’s always had the sanghyeol promise, and that means something; and diffused versions of the magic are accessible to everyone in the bloodline. He has practiced. He has accessed his part of the powers, before. But he was meant to have time. He was meant to be prepared.

Instead, he’s standing in the middle of his family’s designated ritualistic ground, and he’s alone. The courtyard is wide, with enough space for whichever mode of practice one of them might choose, and the tiles underneath Jimin’s feet are dark black, just slightly transparent so the water of the underground pond that extends underneath the entire plaza is visible during the day, in ripples and soft reflections of light. In summer, the pond beneath ensures that the tiles never absorb too much of the sun’s heat. Now, there are fire basins spread out methodically across the ground to keep it free of potential snowfall, and the first thing Jimin does is extinguish the flames burning within every single one of them.

It’s dark and cold when he slips out of his shoes and places them at the edge of the yard. For a moment, his eyes trace the patterns carved into the tiles underneath his bare feet – hanja for light and sun or drawings of the samjoko. He can barely see them this early in the morning, and the water beneath isn’t visible at all, entirely still.

He takes a deep breath. He can do this.

He finds the precise middle of the courtyard without even looking. The only indicator would have been the moon-stone imbued edges of the tile, but Jimin doesn’t look down now. In fact, he takes another breath and closes his eyes.

His favorite mode of ritualistic practice has always been movement.

He still has more than an hour until dawn will properly break. It should be enough time. He hopes, at least.

Without opening his eyes, Jimin lets his senses draw inwards. To the tremor in his hands, to the irritation of his skin at the touch of the breeze. The feeling of his breath in his lungs, slowing and slowing. There, in the middle of his chest, extending outwards like his veins, through his veins.

He goes further inwards, into that spot in his chest. Further and further.

And then he feels it like his own body: The pulse of the district around him. The dome of protection spells, layered through time and blood. It’s in the pond beneath him, it’s in the pavilions and the gate he passed through just hours ago. He can feel it in the streets outside of the palace, feels it in every alley of Bigyeongdong. He senses every stone in the Street of the Spirits, knows where magical lanterns are anchoring intersections. Without looking for it, he feels the magic of the shifters’ house, the foundations it must have been built upon, the first stones laid hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

The district is pulsating within his body, tremoring through his fingertips.

When he feels it all, feels it all encompassed within him and the countless people who came before him – when it’s all there, he finally starts to dance.

The movements are instinctual. No thought to them. His limbs move entirely of their own accord, his feet tracing shapes on the tiles no one would recognize. His arms extend to the sky and bend down again faster than possible for a human body. The magic tilts his head back, exposes his throat to the stars and the still-reigning night above him. His fingers spell words in a language no one speaks anymore into the night, his body following after them, contorting and bending. His back towards the floor, his knee towards the sky.

The magic guides him through all of it. It’s warm in his limbs, warm in his fingertips, warm in the streets where he can feel it pulsing. His eyes are still closed and it doesn’t matter. The magic wouldn’t let him stumble, wouldn’t let him fall.

He jumps, turns. He thinks somewhere, behind him or above him, underneath or within him, there are others dancing with him. Others that carried this magic, others that came before him. The blood rushes in his ears, his own and that of the entire line. There’s no room for any other sound for a long time, and then:

Jimin jumps, and hears the flapping of wings.

His eyes are closed and still he sees the light.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and he doesn’t stop dancing. The magic still needs him to keep going, only gradually slowing down and returning him to himself. Through it all, the light is bright behind his eyelids; bright and then brighter still.

Eventually, his limbs are his own.

Jimin slows and comes to a stop. Gently lowers his body down, feels the chill of the tiles underneath his feet, his knees, his fingers. He blinks his eyes open, surprised to find his lashes and cheeks wet with tears.

What he sees then takes his breath away.

It’s as if the courtyard exists in a vacuum. Behind its edges, it is night – the clouds are just starting to show signs of purple and red, traces of the width of a fingernail, no more. But here?

The courtyard is filled with sunlight. It reflects off the tiles and off the water underneath that glistens beautifully. Jimin thinks the carvings in the tiles appear clearer than he has ever seen them, and everywhere around him, the sun has started burning in the fire basins. The flames are still so bright that they’re blue and white, and it takes minutes to die down enough until they return to their normal, orange-red color.

Jimin raises an entirely stable hand to his face and wipes off the tear tracks underneath his eyes. He filled Hwangjeong with light, and he might have been alone. But he wasn’t really.

He has the magic. He will always have it.

No matter what happens, he will always have the samjoko.

The next Council meeting starts at nine, and Jimin is on about five hours of sleep.

They are gathered in the Arcane Hall, and it’s one of the strategy meetings – fewer people, only the inner circle. His uncle is there, of course, seated at the head of the table. His mother is sitting to his right – she came home at some point during the hours Jimin was gone, and she must have left this morning earlier than he did. Jihye is, once again, not present; and when Jimin asked Hyunwoo where she went as they were walking up to the building, he simply supplied an answer Jimin has heard one too many times by now: His father’s old office.

Judging by how much else Kijung has taken from him, Jimin’s surprised the office isn’t also now Kijung’s. But maybe that’s what his sister is doing there – guarding one of the last of their father’s spaces from their uncle.

Outside of their family, the other Council members present are all high-ranking – the Guardians, as they have come to be called. Moon Beomseok, the Guardian of Shifters, to the lower end of the table. The Commander of the Gunungsin is there; as are the Guardian of Principles and the Guardian of Wards. Just after Jimin enters, the last high-ranking member makes his way into the room; Lee Yejeong, the Guardian of Whispers, and sits down to the right of the Commander.

It doesn’t leave Jimin a seat.

He comes to a stand and slowly meets his uncle’s gaze at the other end of the table. “Jageunabeoji,” he greets, then gestures to the room at large with a perfectly placed smile. “It seems the situation requires an adjustment for the Inner Council.”

He tilts his head in Hyunwoo’s direction. His bodyguard came inside with him, though stayed by the door. He only gives a simple nod aimed at Jimin and swiftly disappears through the entrance.

“Handled swiftly,” Lee Yejeong comments, a corner of her mouth rising. She is the latest in another dokkaebi bloodline, and Jimin has always found that the well-known dokkaebi mischievousness has no gentle air when it comes to her. Instead, her features – high cheekbones, long neck, darkly lined eyes – make her seem cruel and cold, and over the time Jimin has come to know her, her words as well as her actions have tended to confirm that impression. He meets her gaze steadfastly now and arches a brow. “Sehoo,” she adds and inclines her head. She never breaks their eye-contact.

“Thank you, Busa,” Jimin replies and doesn’t blink until she finally looks away. In his opinion, Lee and her knowledge – the Guardian of Whispers is essentially the guardian of spies – can pose one of the most potent dangers to him, and he intends to tread carefully with her.

Behind them, the door opens with a slight creak.

“Here you are, Sehoo.” Hyunwoo bows and places the chair he retrieved to Jimin’s right. Jimin is still, tactically, standing at the other head of the table, facing his uncle, the Guardians to both of their sides.

With a smile, he slides the chair into position and finally finds his seat. Park Kijung, however, hides his annoyance well, and simply returns Jimin’s fake smile.

“Wonderful then, that this matter is settled. Welcome to the Inner Council, Sehoo,” he pronounces, as if Jimin hasn’t been privy to quite a number of Inner Council meetings before he went to France, as he was observing his father. His uncle, on the other hand, was rarely invited – much like his sister now, Jimin thinks.

It would be different, if he was Council Head.

Perhaps it yet will be.

“What a warm welcome,” Jimin answers, casually leaning back in his seat. Kijung will lead the meeting, as he is the acting Council Head, but it suits Jimin well; like this, he can observe first, speak after. Which is important, if he is to figure out which ones of the Guardians are fully on his uncle’s side – and which ones might not be.

Kijung, as if in response to Jimin’s movement, leans forward, his hands resting intertwined on the table. “Proceed with the reports please, Guardians,” he instructs.

Seo Chaewon, the Guardian of Wards, is first – his uncle seems to know the customs, or at least has been taught them quickly. Chaewon is the latest daughter of a bulgasari bloodline, and she looks the part. Her shoulders are as broad as the men’s, her muscles more pronounced. Her hair, partly tied back with the rest flowing down her back, is grey as the steel her bloodline’s originator is known to have eaten to increase its strength and resilience. Bulgasaris are rare, now. Their – almost perfect – indestructibility made them some of the most hunted and sought-after creature spirits just before the separation of the magical and the non-magical worlds. Both their rarity and strength have ensured the oldest bulgasari bloodline, the Seo bloodline, the Guardians of the Wards position.

“No disturbances of note,” she says, brief and to the point, as Jimin has known her to be. “All protective layers are active and whole.” She gestures to the Guardian of Principles, sitting to her right.

Ahn Dowon is a tall man, still lean despite his now-advancing age. Jimin doesn’t think he has ever encountered a member of the Ahn’s moon bulgae bloodline that wasn’t as physically fit as can be. For the bloodline of the fire dog said to have chased the moon through the sky at night-time, Jimin has always found Ahn Dowon to be astonishingly cold. “We have yet to arrest any of the shifters causing unrest in the district, Chongsa,” he reports. “Although as instructed, numerous cells have been prepared for the inevitability.” He gestures towards the Commander of the Gunungsin, Yang Mansu, who simply gives a confirming nod, and pauses. “Otherwise, I would like to discuss the matter of the sanghyeol with the Sehoo.”

Jimin hums. It was only a matter of time – Ahn, as the Guardian of Principles who watches over both the laws of their community and their magical rituals, is well informed and experienced on when bloodline magic ought to be performed, and for what purpose. He’s certainly aware that Jimin has either conducted a ritual, or must do so very soon.

The topic makes Kijung tense, almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” is all he says.

Jimin gives a nod in Ahn’s direction. “Rest assured, Busa. The sanghyeol is settled.” And it is – now, that he has performed this morning’s ritual. He doubts he will ever inform anyone in this room how much it initially pained him, to receive it, and how intimidating its power was, how vast and big it feels.

“Ah. A relief,” Ahn replies. Jimin, in another circumstance, would have scoffed. “Be that as it may, I do think both of us would stand to benefit from a check-up and a further conversation on the matter.”

“As our Guardian of Principles, you do know best.” Jimin smiles. “You may set up a meeting.”

Ahn inclines his head, and the conversation shifts to Moon Beomseok, who clears his throat in a clearly self-important manner, and reaches for a piece of folded paper he had stored in one of his pockets.

“We have received yet another formal open letter advocating for the shifter representative position to be given to a shifter,” he announces, gesturing in Kijung’s direction. “Making this the first one since you have become Council Head, Chongsa, and the sixth one in the last year alone.”

Six open letters from the shifters, five of which were during his father’s time – and only the last year, at that, and Jimin can tell from the wording there must have been quite a number before that. He files the information away for later and focuses on his uncle’s response.

“Anything new or of note that they have added since the last of these letters you have received, Busa?” Kijung asks. He’s frowning, ever so slightly.

Moon clears his throat. “There is indeed, Chongsa.” He unfolds the paper and Jimin notices the faint tremor in his fingers. Flicks his gaze to Moon’s forehead and finds pearls of sweat sitting at his hairline.

They don’t want power to remain in the hands of Park Kijung, the shifters told him last night. The community doesn’t want Park Kijung in power, because Park Kijung is not the direct heir to the samjoko bloodline.

Ah, Jimin thinks.

“The beginning is much the same; arguing that there should be a shifter present in the governing body of our community if half of that community is composed of them. This is their usual argument, that we have repeatedly dismissed in response.” Moon starts, then pauses with a nervous gaze to Jimin’s uncle. “However, at the end of the letter, the shifters… are expressing their concern about the fact that the Council might become unstable if there is neither a shifter present to represent the shifter community, and if there is also now a… dislodgement of long-standing rules regarding the inheritance of titles and positions regarding our most sacred bloodlines.”

Jimin wants, rather desperately, to smile.

His uncle rather obviously does not.

“Perhaps,” Kijung answers, his tone cold and tense, “we would do well to remind the shifters that I am the past Council Head’s oldest heir, and the only one present at the time of his demise ready to take his place. And perhaps we might also seek to remind them that they have arguably little knowledge of shaman magic, seeing as they so often prefer to keep within their own kind.”

Because we have, and continue to, systematically alienate them, Jimin wants to say.

“And you may also remind them, when you answer this audacious letter, that perhaps shifters should keep their political… concerns to themselves, seeing as they have no knowledge in politics and should better leave it with us, as we are experts.” Kijung leans forward. “And lastly,” he continues, raising a hand in both Ahn and Yang’s directions, “you may remind them that there are specific utterings that can and will be considered treason. I would hope they are aware of the consequences of such treachery but judging from the stupidity of sending letters with the same content and expecting different results – well, you might also remind them of what happens to traitors.”

Jimin almost bites down on his lip. As it is, he only intertwines his hands and presses his thumb, out of sight from everyone at the table, into the soft skin of his palm as hard as he can.

Life imprisonment – for vocalizing worries that Jimin quite suspects everyone within their community has, shifter or not.

“As you command, Chongsa,” Moon acquiesces, folding the letter back up. None of the people around the table seem remotely frazzled by his uncle’s requests – but they are all adept players at the game of the Council.

Jimin makes sure his mask is firmly in place, and he listens to the Guardian of Whispers reports. But he says nothing else through the entire meeting, only processes as Lee informs them that there has been another meeting within the shifter community, down in Sinryeong-ro, the first night that Jimin returned.

“Have you identified any of the shifters present yet?” Kijung asks her, and Jimin finds himself relieved when Lee shakes her head.

“Rest assured, Chongsa. I will soon.”

“Where is the Chief Scribe’s son?” Jimin asks, as soon as he and Hyunwoo have put sufficient distance between them and the Arcane Hall and there is no one else near.

“Taehyung-ssi? I believe he went out, Sehoo,” Hyunwoo provides, blinking. He’s clearly surprised by Jimin’s curtness, but Jimin finds he is close to running out of the unaffectedness of the Sehoo.

“The district, you mean?” He asks, to make sure. “Sinryeong-ro?”

“Yes, I think so. He ventures into the district often.”

Jimin exhales. “Thank you, Hyunwoo-ssi.” He flashes a brief smile at the gunungsin, although it’s hard to muster. “Would you please escort me to my father’s old office?”

Taehyung can wait – or rather, Jimin can wait; since he suspects Taehyung will not be back at Mugeukgung until late, and the Sehoo cannot simply disappear in broad daylight, just after an important meeting, the first Inner Council Meeting since his return.

“Certainly, Sehoo.”

Their father’s office is in Munseogak, the Pavilion of Records; where Jimin met the Council members just after he returned. Now, the Pavilion is mostly empty, as the Inner Council was just in the Arcane Hall, and the rest of the Council members are elsewhere tending their duties.

“Wait here,” Jimin instructs Hyunwoo in front of the door to his father’s office.

It creaks quietly as he turns the knob and pushes it open. His father’s office has always been one of Jimin’s favorite spaces, even though he was scarcely allowed in it. All four of the walls are completely hidden by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled to the brim with scrolls and books, their titles in several languages: Korean, English, Chinese, some French. His father’s desk is also stacked with books, and there is an opened scroll on it with some unfinished calligraphy.

Jimin steps inside and coughs. The air is stale and too warm for the winter they’re in, and for a moment, he fails to see his sister.

But then she hears her crying. It’s quiet, even in the empty room, and Jimin slowly crouches down.

Jihye is sitting underneath their father’s desk, hidden halfway by the armchair in front of it that Jimin himself has curled up in on numerous occasions. Tears are rolling down her face, and her cheeks are blotchy and red. He cannot see her eyes, because her bangs are low enough to obscure them from view, and Jimin notices that she can’t have brushed her hair this morning – or last night. The beautiful and normally healthy black strands are tangled and tousled, and as he’s watching, Jihye buries her hands in it and tugs, hard enough that it must hurt.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, hopes his voice isn’t breaking.

Jihye looks up. Her eyes are bloodshot, and when she meets his gaze, even more tears well up in their depths. “Jimin-oppa, I really miss him,” she says immediately, as if it has been waiting to burst out of her.

Jimin’s chest gets tight. “Me too,” he replies, and makes himself small enough to squeeze under their father’s desk with her.

Jihye collapses into him, and he wraps his arms around her, one hand in her hair to gently disentangle the knots as she cries.

It is not even twenty-four hours after the last time he has been here, and Jimin is making his way through the district. He’s alone, and this time, no one knows he’s here, which is dangerous. The coat he’s in falls all the way to his fingers, and the hood is low enough that it obscures his view – he hopes it’s enough.

The district is especially alive tonight. People brush past him even in the smaller alleys, and it’s so busy he’s scared someone will recognize him, but everyone seems to be going somewhere. As he passes it by, he can hear raised voices coming from the Street of the Spirits. He swallows his curiosity down and instead makes his way into one of the alleyways, following the same path he walked just last night until he’s standing in front of the two-story building with the windchime and a white band above the door, where a pathway to his right is leading into the garden.

No lights are on inside, but he presses the bell nonetheless. Once, and then a second time when no one comes to answer.

When another thirty seconds pass without a response, Jimin lets his hand fall back at his side and curses softly underneath his breath. He had texted Taehyung, of course, at some point in the afternoon after he brought Jihye to their family’s hanok – some innocuous message, just in case someone is keeping tabs on his phone – but the message didn’t even send.

And now he’s not here, and Jimin wants – needs – to talk to him. His mother is never home, his sister is clearly shaken by her grief, and there is no one else in the vastness of this city that he can trust.

“Damn you, Taehyung,” he whispers into the night, into the empty alleyway. Only the lanterns leading into the garden are on, and the ones that alight the way into the busier parts of the district. “Okay then,” he mumbles.

It’s still busy, but less so than a few minutes ago when he was making his way here. A few turns later, and then Sinryeong-ro expands before him. Jimin’s breath falters.

Because it’s not like it was last night. Tonight, the stalls in the middle of the road have all but disappeared, pushed towards the sides or deposited elsewhere. The restaurants and shops in the buildings lining the road are all open, though; their lights are on, not even one storefront that isn’t bright, and Jimin sees people crowding around tables filled with liquor and some snacks in most of them, even the ones that normally sell clothes, or books, or any other types of trinkets. And outside of the buildings, the street is still packed. He doesn’t think he has ever seen Sinryeong-ro this full, and he has been here on ritual days and market nights, he has frequented this place when he was younger. And yet, and yet.

Jimin can barely squeeze through the crowd. Everyone seems to be heading in one direction, and he tugs his hood deeper into his face despite no one even looking his way and joins them. He sticks to the sides, his hands close enough to touch the buildings and storefronts, chasing shade and darkness wherever he can find it. All the while, people are chattering around him, and while he doesn’t stop long enough to catch more than whisps of the conversations, he can hear their excitement. Their nerves.

There is something in the air. He can almost taste it.

When the speeches start, he can hear them even though he must still be a good two hundred meters away.

“Sinya!” Someone shouts. Jimin can just so make out a figure, a silhouette above the crowd. The person must be standing on a chair, or a table. Jimin knows where they are: This is the small marketplace, at the end of the Sinryeong-ro, where there are usually dancers or singers or performers of some sort entertaining. Not tonight. “I’m glad we have all gathered once again for our community – thank you so much for being here!”

Jimin presses himself into the entrance to an alleyway, where there are just enough shadows to fall over his face, and scans the crowd.

Sinya, the person shouted, and yes. As far as Jimin can tell, the people gathered here are all shifters, their markers ranging from incredibly obvious like the fiery red hair of the gumihos – some even have their tails out – to as inconspicuous as birthmarks or bracelets Jimin can barely catch a glimpse of.

His heart is in his throat as his suspicion gains more and more traction.

He knows what this is. He has been told of this, multiple times now, from multiple sources. He knows what has been happening in the district, right here, where he is standing. The Street of the Spirits.

It’s political. Unrest, is the word Taehyung had used, and: They have been unhappy for a very long time.

This, however, is anger. It’s in the shouts when people respond to whomever is speaking from that table in the front, it’s in the way the shifters move with it, their bodies restless and filled with anticipation. It’s in the air, so palpable like the shaman’s magic Jimin can feel in his every bone.

Anger, loud and wild, like it’s about to catch fire. Like it wouldn’t care what it might destroy in its wake if it did.

The crowd shifts, and suddenly Jimin has a clear view towards the front.

His breath halts in his throat.

He knows the person on top of that table, has seen them just last night.

“I promise you, we will get what we deserve, just as they will get what they deserve,” Yoongi shouts, his hair fiery, the mark on his forehead burning.

The crowd roars in response.

Chapter Text

For a prolonged moment, Jimin does not know what to do.

He simply stands there, amidst the raging crowd, unable to divert his eyes. His brain starts a whirlwind of thoughts, possibilities of explanations, potential consequences – for the shifters, the coven, for Taehyung – where the hell is Taehyung? – for himself, for his fragile alliance with the coven. Does this mean the coven supports the unrest more than they let slip yesterday, and did they lure him in under false pretences, making false promises? If so, does Taehyung know, or did they fool him too? If he does know, then Taehyung has betrayed him, an idea that feels so preposterous Jimin wants to laugh if the thought alone didn’t scare him so much his chest gets tight enough to make all his breaths feel like they’re squeezing through a continuously narrowing tunnel. Taehyung can’t know, there’s no way he would let Jimin walk into this, would lead him into it –

Someone shifts before him, and Jimin forgets to breathe entirely.

Taehyung is there.

A few metres in front of him. Sure, he’s wearing a long beige coat that’s a little too big on him and hides some of his contours; and a mask pulled up to the bridge of his nose. But the dark brown of his hair is tousled like it was the day Jimin came back, and he’s standing half in profile, and Jimin knows his eyes, the elegant sweep of his brows. There’s a beauty spot almost hidden amongst his lash line, and another peeking out from the mask every now and then. Jimin recognizes him easily, would recognize him anywhere.

When the breath finally rushes back into Jimin’s lungs, the tunnel has narrowed to the size of a flower stem. A brittle branch. About to splinter and scatter and pierce through all his soft parts.

Maybe he has walked, trusting like a fool, into a trap laid out specifically for him. Maybe he has forgotten, over years of memories piled in his mind and his heart, to analyse Taehyung like he does everyone else, and maybe his naiveté has now been turned against him, a lance his best friend is wielding in his hands. Maybe Jimin has erred, thinking that there is one person besides his immediate family with whom he doesn’t need a mask.

He forces himself to take another breath, to blink when he realizes his gaze has been fixed on Taehyung for what could have been minutes, and his eyes are burning.

But no, he will not cry. He will not despair or allow his mind to spiral further. He’s the Sehoo. He has things that he believes in, and he will get answers.

Jimin turns briefly to the side, gathers the wetness that clings to his lash line. Breathes. Pulls his hood so low it obscures part of his vision and tilts his head down until his gaze catches the beige material of Taehyung’s coat, latches onto where Taehyung’s slender hands emerge from the sleeve. He knows those hands, too.

He allows himself one more moment, a breath as deep as he manages, and moves. Keeping to the shadows of the storefronts and buildings isn’t so convenient now that he’s trying to get to someone, someone who is clearly not as preoccupied with staying hidden, who’s standing a good three meters away from the nearest wall in the crowd. At least for this, the atmosphere helps. Yoongi helps. He’s still shouting – “our lives should not be limited when theirs are abundant” and “all of their power came from ours” – and Jimin tunes most of it out. But the people around him certainly don’t, and their attention is utterly focused on Yoongi.

Jimin squeezes past another shifter and then the beige coat is finally in reach. He does not look up, simply stretches out a hand and grasps the fabric.

Taehyung is smart enough to not whirl around immediately. When he turns his head, it’s deliberate and slow, a show of how little he cares. But Jimin hears the sharp intake of breath and feels it through the fabric when Taehyung’s entire body draws tight like an arrow.

Yes. Maybe Jimin has been betrayed, and the only upper hand he can still gain is by thwarting whatever plan was in place before he gets shot.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he simply moves – his body tense – and Jimin follows, back to the shadows at the side of the road and past them, into an alley and another alley and another, until Sinryeong-ro’s noise has faded.

Jimin lets go of Taehyung’s coat and confirms the escape route he mapped in his head, in case.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung says, more breath than word.

Jimin reaches upwards and draws his hood back. The light in the alley is dim; they’re standing as far away from the next streetlamp as they can, just like they did last night. He meets Taehyung’s gaze. It’s difficult to not become swayed immediately by the compassion in Taehyung’s eyes, by the apologetic expression, the fear. It looks believable, and Jimin has long since prided himself on knowing how to read Taehyung.

But he can risk nothing more, and his mask stays firmly in place. Something in Taehyung’s face shatters.

“It’s not what you think,” Taehyung says, and Jimin is glad at least that he doesn’t even have to ask. “I promise. It’s a gathering, yes, as you’ve seen – you already knew the shifters were coming together like this. Yoongi-ssi isn’t… he’s not what you think he is.” The words are tumbling out quickly in his haste to explain, but still Jimin doesn’t budge. “He’s one of the community’s – leaders, maybe? One of its important voices? But he isn’t trying to feed the flames. I promise.”

“It didn’t sound like that,” Jimin says quietly. His eyes are roaming Taehyung’s face, searching for a trace of a lie, a hint of betrayal.

Taehyung bites down on his lip. It’s trembling. “I know,” he admits, “I know what it sounded like. I – Jimin-ah, I can’t speak for them. I can’t speak for Yoongi-ssi, or the others. Please.” He takes a step closer. Jimin’s eyes find the mole hidden between his lashes. “Please let them explain. I’ll – I’ll get them to the coven house as soon as I can, and I swear to you they’ll explain. Just – give me half an hour, the gathering will be over by then, and they’ll all get back to the house. Please.”

“No.” Despite the harshness of his voice, there’s not a single part of Jimin that enjoys the way that Taehyung flinches. He almost softens. “I can’t give you half an hour. You have ten minutes, and if you’re not back by then, I’m going to leave. I can’t stay in the district when it’s like this, and especially not if shifters are returning from a gathering against everything I represent.”

Taehyung flinches again, guilt flickering across his features. “Ten minutes,” he confirms, and Jimin steps back.

“I’ll be in front of the coven house,” he says and turns to leave when a hand catches his sleeve.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung whispers. Their eyes meet, and Taehyung’s are wide with fear and begging Jimin to believe him. “I promise you can trust me.”

Jimin wants to. Just half an hour ago, he thinks he did.

“Can I?” he asks, aware his voice is sharp like glass shards. “I’m not sure I can afford to trust anyone.”

Taehyung draws a shaky breath, but then his fingers slip from Jimin’s coat. “Ten minutes,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

He turns on quick heels. Jimin stares after him for a moment, carefully breathing through the tunnel. His chest is filled with splinters, and he’s not sure he can afford the hope Taehyung’s guilt-stricken expression filled him with.

He draws the hood back on and spends the walk to the coven house willing his fingers to stop shaking.

When he arrives, Jimin keeps to the side of the alley and waits. The lights are still off, and even from here, he can hear some of the noise coming from the Sinryeong-ro. He shifts, and counts the seconds in his head.

Thankfully it doesn’t take ten minutes. He has counted eight minutes and a half by the time that the sound of rushed footsteps is nearing him, and he forces himself to stay still and wait despite the instinct telling him to run off in a dangerous situation. The same instinct relaxes once he catches sight of Taehyung’s beige coat, fluttering with the speed of his running; and Jimin hopes that he won’t have to re-train every molecule inside of his body until his instinct knows not to trust Taehyung.

Taehyung leads them, but the rest of the coven members isn’t far behind. They come to a stop in front of the house, and for a moment, Jimin just watches as Namjoon unlocks the door, as Taehyung’s searching gaze quickly checks the alley. Jimin takes a step forward the moment that Taehyung’s eyes meet his, and he sees the way that Taehyung’s shoulders slump, catches the miniscule uptick of his lips.

Jimin breaks their eye contact and heads over to where they’re standing. Namjoon has started ushering his coven members inside with a hushed voice, and Jimin briefly wonders how exactly Taehyung managed to extricate Yoongi from his spot up on the podium. But he figures he’ll know soon – figures he’ll know much more than he does now.

Jeongguk steps through the doorway before him. Namjoon is holding the door open, and Taehyung is the only one still outside beside him. Jimin drags his hood down once more, feels the beginning of a touch ghosting over his back – a hand, hovering over the fabric, almost close enough – but slips out of its reach and into the coven house.

“Here,” Seokjin is still in the hallway, an arm extended to take Jimin’s jacket. But he doesn’t take the offer. He slides out of the coat but leaves it draped over his arm; knows which signal it sends – wants it. Everyone present needs to know he is ready to leave at a moment’s notice, that nothing and none of them can keep him here if he does not think it worthy of his time.

Seokjin’s eyes flicker down to the jacket, but then he simply lowers his hand, takes a step back to allow Jimin entry into the living room. Everyone already inside is seated the same way they were last night: both the seat at the head of the table and the two to its right are free; Yoongi is sitting on the left side closest to him. There’s a muscle moving in his jaw, and his eyes, though wide, seem hard. Hoseok, Seokjin, and Jeongguk at least each sport somewhat apologetic looks.

Jimin walks up to the table and draws the chair at the head of the table, draping his jacket over the back. Yoongi scoffs, and somewhere behind him, Taehyung draws in a stuttering breath. Jimin only sits down. He knows full well this is Namjoon’s chair, he’d left it free last night.

But not today.

No one says anything, and Taehyung’s expression is downcast as he slides into the same seat he occupied yesterday, but this time, Namjoon settles down at his side.

Jimin still doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to wait long.

“You already knew about the unrests, Sehoo,” Namjoon starts, and Jimin finds himself immediately glad that they’re not bothering with preambles.  “I am fully aware that we mostly alluded to things yesterday, in favour of retaining as much of our respective privacy – and subsequent security – intact. Nonetheless, I’m assuming that you guessed at the fact that we, as a coven, are involved in the unrest; are involved with the shifter community.”

He had. That’s not the problem.

“Yesterday,” Jimin says quietly, “you led me to believe that you, as a coven, advocate for moderation.”

Namjoon meets his gaze. “We are,” he replies. “What you saw today was one of the broad meetings – they’re designed to gather everyone, bring people together under one common goal. It’s meant to mobilize.”

Jimin hums, unconvinced. “And what common goal would that be, when the paroles used for that mobilization were systematically aimed against shamans?” He doesn’t need to cite them – they were all there.

Yoongi scoffs again, a motion that prompts Namjoon to swiftly close his eyes, and Jimin slowly turns his head from Namjoon to him. Meets his gaze. “Do you disagree, Sinya?”

“No.” There’s fire in Yoongi’s eyes; in the swirl of his kirin’s mark. “It’s the quickest way to make people feel something. The anti-shaman sentiment is strong. Has been for years.”

Yoongi hesitates, and Jimin waits. “Sehoo,” Yoongi continues eventually, “there are things much worse than what I said today that have been said before. False statements, personalized attacks. Specifically aimed against your bloodline, calling you all unfit for any position, no matter your inheritance status. Some of them have been specifically aimed against you.”

Jimin does not allow himself to shift in his seat. “What false statements have been made?” he asks instead.

Yoongi, for a moment, seems surprised – a quick tick of his brow – that Jimin does not ask for examples of the verbal attacks against his own person. Those, Jimin thinks, are most likely more hateful than he can counter; might be too deeply entrenched in emotion for him to argue against. Rationally, he knows full well he has never done anything personally that would warrant people to hate him; especially if those people are strangers. He certainly hasn’t done anything to gain their love either – but that he can still change. Where deep hate is concerned, his actions will probably serve more than his words could.

Yoongi clears his throat. His gaze is still on Jimin, and there’s a weight to it that makes Jimin ensure his spine is still straight. “Like the idea that some shaman bloodlines were not given their powers willingly. That they were stolen, unrightfully. That the practice has started since the slave days and has been ongoing since.”

Jimin suppresses a shiver. The cold travels down his body nonetheless, until the feeling settles just underneath his fingertips and in the crown of his wrist; ice about to break.

What Yoongi is talking about – it’s impossible, plain and simple.

Magic is complicated now, but it wasn’t always. Magic – as a marker for anything supernatural – now means shamans, means spirits, means shifters. But magic comes from two sources only. Is innate to two types of beings only – the maryeong.

Spirits on one hand: Spirits like the gunungsin, spirits who are either no longer flesh and blood or never were. The sansin, the mountain spirits; bound to their peaks. The spirits that come back – dead people that stayed, that interact with the living world in specific ways, ways that are set. The gunungsin, that come back to protect; the gwisin, evil spirits, that come back for revenge. Spirits are timeless; can be, if they want. Spirits can never be killed, they can only – move on. Disappear. They are deathless.

Shifters are different. All creatures are shifters, and all creatures can die. Many of them are timeless, too – a dragon’s lifespan can extend and extend into infinity. Some of them simply grow older so slowly it is barely noticeable, and some do not age at all. But none of them are immortal. All shifters can be killed.

Jimin has always thought that that is why spirit magic and shifter magic is so different – spirit magic is, and shifter magic does. A sansin’s happiness is evident in a successful climb to a peak; a gunungsin’s presence increases their protegée’s speed and vigilance and endurance. A gwisin amplifies everything negative until the people in its vicinity drive themselves mad with darkness.

But magic, as in powers? As in manifesting matter, as in twisting and bending what the world gives and changing it to something different? That is shifter magic. A kirin’s fire, the song of an inmyeonjo. The thousand shapes of a gumiho.

Shamans are humans, and humans own neither magic nor powers. All shaman magic is inherited magic. Is passed-down creature magic, because passing down powers to offspring is the only way for creature magic to continue to exist after a its death. But that is only ever possible once, to one child. Never with another shifter, because no being can carry two types of magic at once. Only ever to humans. And it comes with a price – passing on magic erases immortality. It is magic that makes shifters immortal, and once they sire offspring with the intent to give their magic, their life is numbered. Nine months with their magic, until a child is born. And a mortal lifespan after, without powers.

Giving away magic is a barter. It is always a choice.

Choosing to protect generations and generations of a family to come, choosing to live and grow old and to die with someone, choosing not to continue an eternal existence without them.

All the shaman’s families tie back to love stories in the end.

“The idea of stealing shifter magic is preposterous,” Jimin says quietly, instead of saying all that. “Any such story is simply untrue.”

“We know.” Namjoon has deep frown lines on his forehead. “It is one of the reasons we are so worried. The fact that misinformation like this – information that is so blatantly, so obviously false – is spreading throughout the shifter community… It means that there are societal factors we hadn’t considered before: that the educational system is failing where it comes to shifters, that our community as a whole, the magical community, is not safe from the disinformation campaigns of the mortal world just because we assume that our magic protects us from it, that it rises us above such matters. Young shifters use phones just like anyone else. The fact that the magical side of social media exists doesn’t mean that it is invulnerable to the trends in its non-magical counterpart.”

Jimin’s mouth is dry now. These aspects of it – he’s almost entirely certain that Kijung believes the educational alienation and separation of shamans and shifters is a good thing. That Kijung doesn’t worry about it, which is why Jimin had no idea in the slightest. As the Sehoo, he has never been permitted to have social media, magical or otherwise.

He swallows and hardens his resolve. “I agree that this is deeply worrying.” He pauses. “But it doesn’t change anything about the fact that the paroles you were shouting tonight were anything but helpful.”

There’s a pause, and then Namjoon sighs. “To be honest, Sehoo, we have fought about this amongst ourselves,” he says then, and judging by the way Yoongi’s eyebrows shoot up in a clearly surprised and slightly betrayed expression, this is an admittance they hadn’t agreed to make to him.

Jimin leans forward. “In what ways?”

Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a glance. A moment passes, and another. Eventually, Yoongi’s expression softens, loses some of its defiance. He doesn’t nod, but Jimin can tell that he has essentially just given Namjoon the go-ahead.

“Sehoo, you are correct in your earlier assumption that we generally advocate for moderation,” Namjoon starts. “We all believe that it is immensely dangerous to spread false information, and we all agree that dismantling the entire system the magical community’s existence is based on is… will not achieve the desired results. What we hope to achieve eventually is a balanced community, that fights alongside each other against common threats, and that works and grows together.” He sighs. “At the end of the day, while it is true that all shaman magic originated in creature magic once, that doesn’t negate the presence of it nowadays. There is shaman magic, and it cannot be taken away from anyone, and it shouldn’t be, as it was given willingly. There will always be shaman magic. A lot of this community benefits from shaman magic. There is no such thing as simply dismantling or abolishing it. Frankly, even an attempt to do so might produce disastrous results.”

“We are in agreement here,” Jimin says, and means it. The wards, the district, the magic underlining it.

Namjoon gives him a nod. “All of us agree on that, too,” he replies, gesturing to encompass all of the coven members. Hoseok even offers Jimin a small smile in confirmation. “What we disagree on – have disagreed on – is the best way to go about achieving this moderation. Yoongi believes that the anger within the shifter community should be used and channelled, and that utilizing it will draw more people into our ranks eventually.”

“I believe,” Yoongi interrupts, his eyes at least a little calmer than before, “that nothing will draw people in like speaking to their anger. They need a way to express it. They need other people to express it. Anger doesn’t do anyone any good if it’s bottled up inside.”

“But what you were doing, wasn’t that simply feeding into their anger? Amplifying it, instead of calming them down?” Jimin asks. His voice is still sharp, still suspicious.

Yoongi leans forward, his chin titled upwards. “What I was doing,” he responds, just as sharp, “was drawing a crowd. You need to get people interested first. You need to get people to show up first, and the easiest way to do that is through their anger.” He leans back. “Once they’re interested – once you have a crowd – then we can start talking about nuance.”

Jimin leans back as well and allows himself to frown. “I don’t believe that approach is as efficient as you think it is,” he comments quietly.

Namjoon clears his throat. “Neither do I,” he says then. Yoongi exhales audibly at the words. “This is what I meant when I said that we don’t necessarily agree on everything. I personally believe that while we do need to get people interested, to get them mobilized, I don’t think anger is a good way to achieve that. I think that anger stays longer than people tend to give it credit for. It’s hard to dissolve when it’s there, precisely because it’s so emotional.” He sighs. “On the other hand, emotion is the way to get people invested long-term in a project. People need to want it – emotionally want it, not just rationally think it might be a good thing.”

Jimin allows the following silence to stretch. Namjoon has clearly said everything he has wanted to say for now, and so has Yoongi. And he can admit that their words each hold merit. That there is potential, here, still.

 “Notwithstanding that I think Yoongi-ssi’s approach might not be efficient,” he comments eventually, “is that I think it has personal implications.” He knows Taehyung’s gaze is upon him, feels its weight. He doesn’t turn his head, but he does meet Namjoon’s eyes first, then Yoongi’s, allows them both to see his seriousness. “Personal implications for me.”

Yoongi lifts a brow.

“The anger that I saw tonight might not have been aimed specifically at me, like you implied other statements and other gatherings have been before,” Jimin explains, “but this anger that you want to utilize can immediately and directly be dangerous for me. If I am in the district on a night like tonight, it takes one person that recognizes me for that anger to boil over. If you feed into this anger, if you try to make it spread to more and more shifters, if you seek to generalize it – you might make the district a permanent danger for me. No matter how many people you might succeed in calming after, some will remain angry. To you, they might seem like collateral damage – people that you are okay to lose because many others might join your cause. But to me?” he shakes his head. “I am the Sehoo, Yoongi-ssi. I have asked you once before to recognize what my position means. Now I am asking you more than just that.”

He meets their gazes, all of theirs. Namjoon, who’s looking like he already knows what Jimin is going to say; Yoongi, who still seems somewhat angry. Seokjin, Hoseok, and Jeongguk, who have all been quiet, who are all watching him with interest, and something that he thinks might be respect. And then Taehyung, whose eyes are once again wide, whose guilt Jimin can read easily.

“If you are still interested in working with me, I will not allow you to put me in outright danger through your actions and choices,” Jimin says, his voice hard. There is no room for negotiation here. “I understand that some of you might believe that using anger is the easiest and fastest route to get you towards your goals. This is not a route that I have the option of taking. Neither will you, if this -,” he gestures to the space between him and the coven members, “shall have any future.”

There’s a pause. There is an expression on Yoongi’s face that Jimin does not know how to place, and Taehyung’s gaze grew heavier and heavier while Jimin was speaking. It seems like a stone is attached to his back as Jimin stands, draws his chair back.

“I will give you two days to consider,” he continues and reaches for his coat. “I do not have to remind you that time is not a resource we can afford wasting.”

Namjoon opens his mouth as if to speak, but Jimin lifts a hand. “Give me your decision through Sosa-nim,” he instructs, and nods in Taehyung’s direction. He knows he should meet Taehyung’s gaze, but he finds he cannot bring himself to. “If your decision is not in my favour, I nonetheless expect your discretion, as you will have mine. If that is the case, I expect this is the last time we will have seen each other.”

He slips into his coat. Taehyung rises – just as they technically all should, according to etiquette and protocol, but he figures he has stunned them.

“It is alright, Sosa-nim,” Jimin says and fixes the buttons on his coat. “I expect this will have been more than enough time for most shifters to have dissipated. There is no need to accompany me.”

Finally, the last button is closed, and Jimin draws his hood up. As he does, he gathers up the courage to look at Taehyung, and what he sees in his face makes him think that maybe he isn’t the only one that is breathing through splinters that he hopes can be fixed.

“Goodnight, Sinya,” he calls to the room at large. “Sosa.”

He turns to leave.

There is a scramble of movement as some of them clearly belatedly remember protocol and etiquette, but Jimin doesn’t turn, and no one follows him out.

Chapter Text

The way back to the palace is a blur. The lights of the district swim and swirl in front of Jimin’s eyes, a kaleidoscope of purples, whites, and shadows that makes him dizzy and nauseous, and it’s only once he’s slipped past the main gate that he fully realizes he’s crying.

The worst part of it is that he understands, he does.

He gets why Taehyung didn’t tell him immediately about all the intricacies of the coven’s advocacy, of their loyalties and their differing opinions. It’s not even his story to tell, it’s theirs – which they have now. That, too, Jimin understands – he understands wanting to draw a crowd, wanting to utilize the feelings that are already there to fasten the process along.

But it was his second time back in the district, a district filled to the brim with memories of him and Jihye, him and Taehyung. Memories of his childhood, of exploring and discovering, a childhood that ended at some point he has apparently missed – maybe it was when he left for France when he was twenty; or maybe before that, when he first started planning for it, when he first had to tell Taehyung and Jihye that he would leave. Or maybe it was just five days ago, when he felt the samjoko magic slam into him and understood what that meant.

Five days.

It’s only been five days.

Jimin feels like he has aged ten years in those five days. Today is only his third day back in Seoul, and everything that has already happened is enough to fill up months. Five days, and everything has changed, and changed, and changed again.

He can barely breathe through it. His father is dead, his father was murdered. The circle of people he trusts – knows he can trust – seems to draw tighter and tighter around him, and Jimin feels so out of depth he’s not even sure anymore that he can trust himself.

“Appa?” he whispers into the night, into the empty courtyards of Mugeukgung palace that stretch out before him. “Are you here?”

A breeze goes through the trees around him. For a moment, Jimin thinks maybe his father will really appear, will give him more to work with, will help him.

“Appa, I really need you,” he begs quietly, his voice breaking on the words.

But the apparition doesn’t come, and maybe it never will again.

Jimin meets with Ahn Dowon and Seo Chaewon the next morning.

The Guardian of Principles is in a tailored suit despite this not being one of the high-ranking Council meetings, and his hair – though thinning – is slicked back. They have never really gotten along, Jimin and Dowon, and Jimin is all the happier when he spots Chaewon by his side as he enters the Ceremonial Courtyard. It’s bigger than Hwangjeong, his family’s designated ritualistic ground, because this one is used by all Council members and employed for any and all important and official rituals.

“Sehoo,” they both greet in unison, heads bowed.

Jimin nods. “Ahn Busa, Seo Busa, it’s good to see you.”

Chaewon smiles at him, and if they were in private, Jimin would return it. Dowon, however, is as cold as ever, and simply steps forward.

“As discussed, Sehoo, we have gathered today to observe your control over the samjoko sanghyeol,” he says. “Seo Busa argued that as Guardian of Wards, she should also bear witness.”

“I fully agree,” Jimin replies easily. “What kind of ritual would you have me do?”

“Am I correct in the assumption that you executed raw shifter power when you used the samjoko sanghyeol previously?” Dowon guesses.

“You are,” Jimin says, and wishes for a moment he’d chosen differently yesterday morning in the Sunlight Courtyard. But it’s what comes easiest to him, always has been, and it’s never been a secret. Shamans can access raw shifter power, the way that shifters can, usually channelled either directly through the body or through movement, which is what Jimin prefers to do – it allows both the flow of more power, and more control over it.

Shamans also have the ability to build on shifter power in a way that shifters cannot – another reason why shamans hold, and have historically held, all the leading positions of the Council.

“In that case, I would like you to try ritualistic work,” Dowon says and pulls a scroll out of one of his pockets, handing it to Jimin, who unfolds it slowly.

Ritualistic work. Rituals are the only type of magic that only shamans can do. They are designed from various combined shaman magics, largely through trial and error, to achieve a desired effect, and only channel a certain part of a specific shaman magic, which interacts with the other magics used for it. This type of magic is built on history. Rituals might look like movements or a choreography, but they serve as a medium to access the building process of numerous types of shaman magic upon each other, and these magics are imprinted in the execution of certain movements. When done, they thus invoke the entire history of the ritual – which is the only reason why a shaman can now practice them on their own instead of always coming together in the same constellation of magics that was used for the invention of the ritual.

The wards of Bigyeongdong are one of the only rituals that are an exemption – that still require, because of their scale and weight, numerous shamans to renew them.

The ritual described in Jimin’s hand is, of course, much easier than that. It’s a simple warding ritual, one that he has done before. It’s a ritual for a fire ward, used usually against an imugi’s or a dragon’s water powers, devolved and created by shamans from fire power bloodlines – the fire bulgae bloodline, and a kirin shaman bloodline.

Jimin sighs. Of course Dowon would choose one that is bound to be harder for Jimin.

All shamans can technically execute all rituals, as they allow them to channel magic in a specific way by utilizing the ritual. But it’s much easier to do a ritual that is based, at least partly, on one’s own bloodline’s powers.

Jimin is already tired and exhausted, and this will make him more so. But he has no choice. Jimin simply studies the paper in his hands for a few more moments, makes sure he still remembers all the relevant movements before rolling it back up and dropping it back into Dowon’s waiting grip.

At Jimin’s gesture, both Dowon and Chaewon take a step back until they’re just outside of the borders of the Ceremonial Courtyard, marked by a circle of stone pillars with about a meter in between each of them. Dowon clasps his hands together in anticipation, his eyes interested but cold, already analysing. Chaewon offers a small smile as Jimin exhales and quickly rolls out his shoulders.

Then he closes his eyes to focus. The ritual is short, as it will only conjure a single wall, about three meters both in height and width, but he still needs to execute the movements properly.

He hones in on the feeling of the sanghyeol, of the magic. His arms rise, elbows up, before his hands do the same. He repeats the motion: down, and up again, before he curls his fingers in reminiscence of a flame’s shape to call on the fire. Jimin feels the magic stretching throughout him. To finish, he puts his hands palm-down towards the floor, then turns them skyward and slowly and in a controlled manner pulls them up.

His eyes have opened again, and he watches as the upward motion of his hands raises the flickering wall of fire in front of him.

He’s breathing hard as the ward reaches its full height, can feel the magic straining. It’s a defensive ritual, designed to counter a brief attack, but he knows full well Dowon wants a demonstration, so Jimin keeps his hands lifted, keeps the wall up. The fire isn’t stable, as the ritual isn’t supposed to be, and he feels the magic rebelling inside of him at being forced to remain in that shape for longer than intended – fire on its own isn’t stationary; it wants to climb and grow, but he doesn’t let it.

His arms have started burning, but he keeps them up for another minute. Feels the heat of the wall and refuses to let the discomfort show more than it has to.

Finally, he lets his hands fall. The fire falls with them, the wall disappearing, taking the heat with it. Suddenly cold, Jimin suppresses a shiver and looks over to Dowon and Chaewon. The latter is smiling, clearly proud, while there is something like recalcitrant acknowledgement on the Guardian of Principles’ face.

“It seems you are indeed adequately in control of the sanghyeol,” Dowon admits. “I’m sure the Chongsa will be glad to hear it, as the wards are due for a renewal soon.”

Jimin gives a smile. “I’m certain. Please do not make him wait on my account,” he adds, and watches a muscle tick in Dowon’s jaw. But then the Guardian of Principles simply nods, first to Chaewon, then bows deeper, to Jimin.

“Sehoo,” he says in lieu of a goodbye.

Jimin nods in reply, and watches as Dowon turns and leaves. Chaewon’s gaze, too, seems to follow him, until they can both be certain that the shaman is out of earshot. Jimin exhales and lets his shoulders drop some of their tension, although not all. Chaewon crosses the markings indicated by the stone pillars and joins him in the Ceremonial Courtyard.

“That was quite the show, Sehoo,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Jimin gazes up at her. Chaewon is taller than him, and has been since they were children, by at least a few centimetres – admittedly, not a hard feat due to Jimin’s own medium height. The Seo bloodline is known for their build, their height, and their strength, and Chaewon is no exception. Today, she’s in tight black clothes – thermos leggings designed for training outside even during Korea’s winter months – that showcase her muscles, and her grey hair is tied up in a ponytail.

“It’s good to finally see you alone, Noona,” Jimin responds, and allows himself a smile. She’s one of the Council members he has always gotten along better with, and he hopes she stayed behind for the reasons he thinks she did.

She returns the smile, but then it slips, and her expression turns somber as she takes another step in his direction. Still far enough to maintain etiquette, but close enough that he sees her worry.

“How are you, Sehoo?” she asks, voice soft. In another life, Jimin thinks he would have really liked being treated as the younger one, but as it stands, he has always been and is still the Sehoo.

He raises his shoulders. “I’m holding up, Noona,” he replies, which he supposes is truthful enough.

Chaewon tries a comforting smile, but she’s still frowning. “Sehoo, I hope you know I still consider you just as warmly as I always have,” she says then, and Jimin meets her gaze. Sees the weight it holds and feels the relief wash through him as he understands that she did, in fact, stay behind to let him know what he hoped for. “I consider you the same as I always have.”

As the Sehoo, the rightful heir to not only the samjoko sanghyeol, but the Council Head position.

“I’m glad,” Jimin supplies, glad for both their abilities to read between the lines. “Anything else worries me, and not for personal reasons.”

What he means is: it’s worrisome because of what it means for the system, its structure, its implications for the people, both shamans and maryeong. Because of what it might trigger.

Chaewon nods. “It worries me, too,” she answers.

They’re still maintaining eye contact, the respectful distance between them.

“Perhaps,” Jimin says slowly, quietly, “you could inform me if you believe you might be able to alleviate my worries.”

“I will.” Chaewon tries for a smile again, but the conversation has turned too serious, too laden with implications for the teasing notes their interactions usually held when they were both younger.

Jimin simply nods in what serves as both an acknowledgment and a goodbye. Chaewon turns to follow in the same direction Dowon went earlier, and Jimin stretches out his arms before heading towards his family’s hanok.

When he arrives, Jihye is in her room, and she steps out into the hallway as soon as she hears him enter.

“You okay, Jihye-yah?” he asks, unable to keep the worry from slipping into his tone. He can’t help but remember the last time he saw his sister, in their father’s study, curled like a ball underneath his desk and sobbing.

But she looks better now; her hair is neatly tied in a half-down half-up style, she’s wearing a nice pair of white slacks that look ironed, and she even put on jewellery. Jimin spies one of his rings on her forefinger - they’ve always shared.

Jihye gives him a small smile. “I’m feeling a bit better, Oppa,” she answers, and Jimin smiles back at her, relieved. “I was actually wondering… if you’d like to get out into the district with me? I haven’t really been outside much since…,” she trails off, but they both know which words would have followed.

For a moment, Jimin regrets that he has already been to the district without her since he returned, that he didn’t wait for her, didn’t take her with him.

But he can’t change that now. This wish, however, he can grant; and Jihye’s smile grows big and bright when he nods.

Bigyeongdong is a sight in the daylight, too, even if Jimin came to prefer it at night at some point in his teenage years.

But now, it’s just after midday, and Jihye, walking before him, has a spring to her step. There’s a slight breeze that’s playing with her hair, and when she turns her head to urge him to catch up with her, he can see the smile in her eyes where the mask is hiding her mouth. Behind her, the district extends. They’re quite a bit away from the Street of the Spirits, and the streets here are lined with cafés and restaurants and stores that seem to offer a little bit of everything and advertise for it with signs and brightly coloured posters pinned to walls. Most of the buildings have more than one story; with a shop on the ground floor and people living above, and Jimin sees white flags donned to many roofs. Still, today it doesn’t seem as sad as when he first drove through the district with Hyunwoo on his way through from the airport. It’s sunny, too; sunny and bright, the light helped further along by Jihye’s mood.

“Come on, Oppa,” she shouts from a few meters ahead and heads into a smaller alley that Jimin recognizes. It’s one of the dokkaebi streets – most shifters have taken to settle somewhere close to others of their kind, and the names of alleys have developed in accordance. This one plays both on the fact that a dokkaebi’s creature form has sharp long teeth and the fact that the alley mostly holds restaurants: Fast Teeth Road, Bbareun-ibbal-gil. Jimin and Jihye, of course, have been here before.

The shop they enter doesn’t look like much from outside – an unadorned storefront and a singular plastic chair and table right by the door that Jimin has only ever seen occupied by the owner.

 The dokkaebi shifter in question looks up from the doorway to the kitchen when the doorbell jingles. She’s small, with a round face and nose, and when she flashes a smile, her teeth are sharper and longer than a human’s – her marker. Neither Jihye nor Jimin are intimidated, even though there is no way she still recognizes them. The last time they were here was more than five years ago, when they were both much smaller, and they’ve both put on masks to enter into the district as well as beanies (although those also help against the fierce cold).

“Welcome,” the ahjumma calls and comes over to their table. There isn’t really a menu, just a few signature dishes that are written on a board to the right of the door: japchae in numerous variants, all somewhat magical. Jihye and Jimin both place the same order they used to get, to-go, and in typical Korean fashion, it doesn’t take long at all until the dokkaebi shifter woman hands them their meals. Jimin pays; which Jihye acknowledges with a grin.

“It’s been some time since you treated me to a meal, huh?” she teases, but the statement does actually tug a little. He should’ve invited her to Paris earlier, should’ve made a bigger effort.

They exit, find a secluded alley behind a busier block of roads, and sit on a bare wall. Jimin does a quick ritual that will hide them from any passersby – it’s based on dokkaebi invisibility and the light of the samjoko, and can be reversed to reveal something that’s invisible or hidden – and they both finally take off the masks to enjoy the food. The japchae – stir fried glass noodles traditionally with vegetables and beef – in the version they have ordered is almost too hot to eat and vegan, with shiitake mushrooms replacing the meat. They accompanied their father to numerous trips outside of the country when they were younger; including, of course, Europe, where both of them noticed the vegetarian trend even if it hadn’t quite crossed over to Korea. Jihye, in response, had stopped eating meat entirely for two years or so after and still only rarely does so; with Jimin happy to oblige and adjust. The two of them have basically scouted and tried every single vegetarian and vegan restaurant that specialized on Korean food within the magical district, and this spot has been consistently one of their favourites.

It fulfils all their expectations now, and more.

“I missed this,” Jihye says over a mouthful of noodles. There’s a bit of sauce on her chin.

Jimin smiles. “Me too. Did you not come here after I left? You could’ve just come alone.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, sure, I could’ve. But this is our place, you know? We found it together, we always come together. It would’ve felt too weird without you.”

Jimin looks at her, and she flashes a grin while raising a bite to her mouth. She looks so much brighter today. Jimin’s chest floods with warmth and thankfulness for her, this girl, who was his first friend, his sister.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

Her expression softens. “I missed you too.”

They look at each other for a moment longer, and Jimin knows they’re thinking of the same things; all those shared moments, shared afternoons in these streets, and a thousand more somewhere else following their parents, where the constant was each other. He knows it would need more words than they could ever say to express how much that meant, how much it means, and how much it tore each of them apart when he left.

But in this moment, looking at each other over a bowl of japchae an alley from their favourite dokkaebi restaurant – maybe this is enough.

On that afternoon, they finally have the official memorial for the Chongsa.

Jimin is in a tailored suit in cream-white with rather wide-legged pants, and he put on enough make-up before this to look a little less like he hasn’t really been sleeping, and a bit of blush on his cheeks to seem less pale. Jihye next to him has done the same. She’s holding her arms crossed in front of her chest against the cold, and Jimin would like to hug her, but there are too many people watching.

They’re standing in one of the ceremonial pavilions. It’s open without walls; elevated so that they’re higher than the crowd that’s gathering beneath them, and the majority of the Council is behind them. Their mother is there, of course; just next to Kijung, who looks just a little smug in his white suit. Jimin forces himself to breathe in deeply and feels for the sheet of paper that’s folded in one of his pockets.

“You ready?” Jihye asks, quiet enough that no one else can hear. He told her what is expected of him, and is immensely glad for her presence, her understanding support.

He flashes her a smile that he knows full well is trembling a little. “As much as I can be,” he responds with a shrug. He’s not ready for the speech, but more than that he does not feel ready to say goodbye to his father with this official ceremony while his uncle – his father’s murderer – is standing just behind him, in his white suit that’s blasphemy and treachery made cloth. But his hands are tied, and he has to do this.

Kijung steps to the front, where there’s a microphone set up. They could technically also amplify their voices using their powers, but sometimes, the technical solutions work just as well, if not better, and don’t cost any of their magical energy.

“Welcome,” Kijung says into the microphone, his voice getting carried effortlessly through the crowd. There must be a few hundred people there, from what Jimin surmises. It could’ve been more, if they’d used the big ceremonial pavilion – it’s comparable in size to the space left in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, which he saw during his brief trip to Rome – but the Council chose this one, namely for safety. So the ceremony was invite-only. Jimin personally thinks that that might have only served to alienate and anger people further, but he refused to comment. Like this, there are members of all important shaman families present, notwithstanding Council members, most of which are gathered behind Jimin in the pavilion itself; and important shifters – some of the oldest dragon shifters, for example, some way older than the thousand years it takes for an imugi to shift into its full-fledged dragon form.

“We are gathered here today to mourn Chongsa Park Kimun,” Kijung continues, and Jimin clenches his teeth together at the sound of his father’s name coming out of Kijung’s mouth. “For the occasion, his son, Sehoo Park Jimin, has prepared some words he wants to address to all of you.”

He turns and gestures Jimin forward. There’s a brush of Jihye’s hand to his arm in comfort as he takes the first step, and he makes care not to touch Kijung when they pass each other. Kijung does smile at him, a smile that’s probably meant to be comforting, or understanding, or encouraging. But all Jimin sees in his uncle’s face is the ghost of his father: a pale reflection, with only the wind to carry his words.

There was no accident. Your uncle pushed me.

Jimin returns his uncle’s smile through gritted teeth and hopes it reads as nerves.

When he reaches the microphone, he takes a moment to breathe. He reaches for the paper in his pocket and unfolds it carefully – he wrote the speech himself, over the course of the last days, ever since Kijung first said that he wanted Jimin to do it. There have been, obviously, consultations and edits. There is no speech made in front of anyone – unimportant or not – that’s allowed to be unvetted, that hasn’t passed through the hands of the Inner Council in some way or other. The people who read his speech were Chaewon and then Taehyung’s father as the Council’s Chief Scribe, to help with his wording – up until that point he had been lucky, but then, naturally, Kijung had requested to see the speech for himself. Still. Jimin is happy with it, as much as he can be, and has moored over the word choices for what felt like hours on end. He only hopes the people who will hear it will spend a fraction of that time dissecting it; especially the shifters.

Otherwise, he will make no friends in the shifter community today.

Jimin clears his throat.

“Good afternoon,” he starts, which he thought is as good a beginning as any. “Like my uncle has already said, today we are gathered to mourn the passing of Chongsa Park Kimun as you have all known him. Park Kimun was Chongsa for thirty-seven years, and I do not want to spend this time rehashing what he has done or what he has witnessed during that time as Chongsa. What I do want to remind you of is that Park Kimun was not only my Chongsa. He was my father.”

Jimin swallows. “Park Kimun was the man that held my hand when I took my first steps. The man that brought back dragon plushies for my sister from his business trips to cuddle for the nights he was too busy with Council matters to be home for. The man that left me a message every single day while I was in France, for more than three years. He was not too shy or too embarrassed to finish every single one of our calls with an I love you.” Jimin blinks into the crowd. “I did not always immediately reply to his messages, and sometimes, a day would pass before I would, and he sent a second one anyway. I am not sure that I said it enough, but I think he always knew how much I appreciated it. Because that was the father that I knew: He made time for me, and he made sure I felt appreciated.”

He pauses. Lets his gaze roam over the people gathered before him. “I like to think that that was also the Chongsa he was. Someone who made time to listen. Who was there, whenever he could. I know that to some of you, thirty-seven years is not a very long time at all, but I still hope that some of you will nonetheless remember my father. For the man that he was, the Chongsa that he was. I hope also that one day, some of you might remember me for the man that I am trying to grow into.” He clears his throat. Now comes the important part, the part that he hopes he doesn’t mess up.

“One day, I would like to be remembered as a Chongsa that listened, that was there. That addressed the issues brought up to him, with benevolence and kindness and an open heart. A Chongsa that took well-thought-out decisions that benefitted as many of you as possible. I have, however, been away for an extended period of time. As you all know, I lived in Paris, France, to study and learn from other magical societies, and to strengthen our ties with them. I feel that both my person as well as my future decisions will be enriched by this experience, but I have only been back for four days. My father only died five days ago. His death was an immense shock to me, and it put our community in shock. But our community, its magic and its defences depend on stable magic. Hence, my uncle –,” Jimin turns his head and gestures to Kijung, standing behind him, who nods in an exaggerated display of solemnity – “together with the Inner Council made the executive decision that we needed an interim Council Head to bring us through this difficult period. To ensure that our defences, that we, are all safe. My uncle has thus provided me with the opportunity to adjust back to my life here, and to prepare myself for what lies ahead. I am very grateful for that.”

He once again looks at the crowd. There are definitely unhappy faces, people scowling. “I am fully aware,” he continues, “that this decision was not received in favourable light by everyone, and I can assure you: I understand.” He puts as much emphasis into this truth as he dares. “I assure you also that nothing about our family’s bloodline and its magic has changed. I carry the sanghyeol, and I am the Sehoo. The samjoko’s powers live in me, as it has lived in my father before me. My father spent much of his life ensuring that I would be well-prepared to one day take over his position, and I intend to do as such with my uncle’s full support. In return, he has my full support, and whatever sanghyeol magic he may require, while he remains acting Council Head. Our family will support each other through whatever challenges this time will bring.”

He allows his gaze to shift briefly to Jihye, who’s looking at him with almost more understanding than he can bear. “We will support each other through this grief,” he vows before he turns back to the crowd, exhales.

“No matter whether you have known my father personally or simply lost him as Chongsa, today we are here to support each other through this loss. His loss. The loss of a man who taught me that you might not win every battle you fight, and that there are moments when it is wiser to take a step back, not to fight. I will try my best to carry on his creed. To continue fighting his fights. Where I can, when I can, I will try my outmost to fight yours.”

Not everyone looks happy, but some people look thoughtful. It has to be enough.

“Thank you,” Jimin says, and bows. Ninety degrees, lower, as low as he can whilst standing, for as long as he can. “Thank you,” he repeats once he straightens before he retraces his steps to his place by Jihye’s side.

His sister’s hand finds his almost immediately. “You did well,” she whispers, and Jimin closes his eyes whilst someone else takes to the stand to speak and hopes, hopes that it’s true.

Once the ceremony is over, they make their way to the hanok; Jimin, Jihye, and their mother. They’re silent until the door falls closed behind them. Yewon manages to slip out of her loafers, her jacket; and then her shoulders start shaking.

“Eomma,” Jihye whispers.

Yewon doesn’t reply. She’s trembling, has a hand lifted to her mouth and her eyes are pressed closed.

Jimin lets his suit jacket fall to the floor instead of orderly hanging it on the rack and hugs her. It occurs to him that this is only the second time they have gotten to hold each other since he returned. Since his father has passed.

It takes Jihye a second, but then she joins them. Folds herself into Jimin’s side, her hands encompassing both of them, her head buried in their mother’s shoulder. Jimin closes his eyes and tries to breathe around the grief that’s lodged high in his throat. They both smell like chrysanthemums.

“Eomma,” Jihye says again, her voice choked up.

“I know, baby,” Yewon replies, and lifts a hand to the back of Jihye’s head.

It’s the first time since Jimin has returned that they have not fought, and the sadness is soft and sharp all at once.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but eventually they make their way into the kitchen. Jimin makes tea – a wintery blend of cinnamon and anise that he bought on a trip to one of Germany’s Christmas markets – and they sit. Simply sit together, until there is a knock on the door.

Hyunwoo is in front when Jimin goes to open. He’s holding a bag of take-out Chinese food.

“I thought you could use some dinner, and figured you wouldn’t have the energy to cook,” he says, and Jimin is so grateful he tears up.

“Thank you, Hyunwoo,” he replies, aware his voice is hoarse.

Hyunwoo only nods and hands him the bags. The scent of the food is comforting; it is bound to be spicy and warm. Before he steps back, Hyunwoo briefly brushes Jimin’s arm and leans close.

“Taehyung-sosa asks you to meet him at the Water and Moon Pavilion tonight,” he whispers. “Half past ten.”

Jimin is tired already, and it’s barely a quarter past six. He nods nonetheless. “Thank you, Hyunwoo. Tell him I’ll come, please.”

“I will.” Hyunwoo steps back. “Enjoy the meal, Sehoo.”

Jimin smiles, although it feels heavy, and goes back inside.

It’s bitingly cold when Jimin makes his way to the Water and Moon Pavilion. Against his predictions, it hasn’t snowed yet, but the sky is covered in clouds tonight, and he’s shivering in his coat.

In the pavilion, only a singular candle is lit, barely visible from further away. Taehyung is waiting inside when Jimin comes in, turning immediately. There’s a worried crease between his brows.

“Jimin-ah,” he says, and for a moment, it seems like he’ll reach out and touch him, or hug him, but then it passes. The distance between them is just as cold as the air, and Jimin blinks against what he hopes are not tears forming in his eyes. He is so tired.

Something in Taehyung’s expression softens. “I thought you handled that speech well,” he says, which sounds like an olive branch.

Jimin smiles; a shaky, fleeting little thing.

“But… I mean, I’m sure you know, or suspect, in any case – the shifters weren’t very happy, generally,” Taehyung continues.

Jimin sighs. “The shifters in general, or the coven?”

“Either. Both.” Taehyung takes a step in his direction. He’s still frowning. “Jimin-ah, I think you should go and explain to them why you made that speech. What you really meant.”

“Taehyung-ah.” Jimin is already shaking his head. God, he is so tired. “I have explained myself to them just last night, after they failed to explain themselves and blindsided me. After you blindsided me.”

“I-…”

Jimin holds up a hand. “I know. I get it. Really, I do. I understand that it wasn’t your secret to tell, and I understand that they had no reason to trust me. But I cannot keep putting myself on a silver platter for the slimmest chance of an alliance if the coven mistrusts me or casts me aside every time they do not understand one of my moves.”

“I know, Jimin-ah, but…”

“Taehyung, I’m so tired,” Jimin admits. He looks up, meets Taehyung’s gaze, and yes, okay. Tears have risen in his eyes, and his entire body seems filled with lead. “I’m just so tired.”

Taehyung looks at him, really looks at him. The tension melts from his face, and then, finally, he does reach out and touch: Pulls Jimin in and folds him into a hug like he did on Jimin’s first night back, before he told him about his father.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung whispers. “I’m really sorry.”

Jimin doesn’t move, simply lets himself be held. He wants to come apart entirely, wants to let himself sink down onto the floor. Wants to let himself cry properly, not like this, not quietly so that no one can hear him, so that it doesn’t wake the floods.

But he wants them. He needs the floods. He’s not sure how much longer he can afford to keep his dams up where they are, to keep the pain locked behind everything else he needs to think about.

A day. A day is all he wants. A day in which he is allowed to think of nothing but his father. Where he can remember, and grieve, and come apart entirely. Where he can be there properly for Jihye, and their mother; where they can experience this together, like they finally did for a bit earlier today.

A day. One day, one day only, which he cannot afford.

He did not know before how much it hurts to not feel something.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung murmurs. There is a kiss pressed to the top of his head, hands on his back. “I’m really sorry. But I need to tell you that the coven already decided. They want to keep working with you. Or at least they wanted to before the speech, I – I wasn’t sure whether you’d want me to tell them about it, so I didn’t. But. God, I’m so sorry. I know you want to go home. But you probably can’t go tomorrow morning, and the shifters… generally, not the coven… they really weren’t happy. If you go – if you go now, just for a half hour or so, and meet with the coven, we can work something out to appease them, maybe?”

Jimin slumps. He’s so heavy he’s not sure at all what it is that he is feeling. He is relieved that the coven has not decided to go their own way, that his ultimatum got him a result that will undoubtedly be good for them. He’s not even mad at Taehyung for asking him this. He can follow the argumentation, it makes sense, and Taehyung is right. Tomorrow will me a day with another full schedule – they need to refresh the wards, Bigyeongdong’s wards, for the first time since his father’s passing – and it’s bound to be a challenging task.

“Okay,” he acquiesces, toneless.

“Yeah?” Taehyung draws back, his arms still around Jimin. His eyes roam over Jimin’s face, a finger hovering over his cheek, as if wanting to smooth out his skin. “I’m really sorry.”

Jimin can tell he means it. “It’s fine,” he says and pulls himself out of Taehyung’s warm arms. “Let’s go.”

They make it to the coven house by a quarter to midnight. Namjoon opens the door almost immediately after Taehyung’s knock, which Jimin is grateful for. He’s still in his long coat, and he pulled a mask high unto his nose that he takes off now along with his jacket. He hasn’t changed since the ceremony, and he’s still in his white suit, although the fabric is significantly more wrinkled now than it was earlier.

“Sehoo, we’re honoured you could make it on such short notice,” Namjoon greets, and Jimin thinks he sees in his face some understanding for Jimin’s situation.

He only nods once in response and follows the coven leader into the living room. The other members are gathered around the table like the last two times he was here, but there are steaming cups of tea waiting for each of them. Jimin catches the aroma of chamomile and mint, and he blinks heavily when Jeongguk, with a smile that looks very soft, slides one of the mugs closer to him. They’ve kept the seat at the head of the table free for him.

Jimin sits down with as much grace as he can muster but wraps his hands immediately around the mug. The cold is still hard to stand. Even harder now, maybe. It doesn’t seem like the effort is lessening with time.

“Sehoo,” Yoongi says once they have all sat down, somewhat to Jimin’s surprise. The kirin’s expression is less angry than the other times they have met. “I’m not apologizing for my previous strategies, because I still think they’re worth something. So I’m not apologizing, and I won’t be. But I am sorry for not really considering your position. I’ll try my best to do that now.”

Jimin acknowledges that with an incline of his head, which seems to be enough for Yoongi.

“As Taehyung-sosa has already relayed to you, we do want to continue talking to you,” Namjoon expresses. “We feel it will be the method likely to bring about the best results. We don’t want to radicalize people further.”

Jimin nods again. He’s glad they’re reassuring him like this, but. But.

“Thank you for saying all this,” he says, before anyone else can continue. “Taehyung-sosa told me you wanted to know why I held that speech at my father’s memorial today. I first of all hope that you recognize the things I said for what they were. I am never able to speak entirely freely to the public, and the speech was asked for and vetted by my uncle. There are, naturally, a variety of things that I couldn’t say. I felt that this was the best compromise I could come to.” He explains a bit more; how Kijung had asked him for the speech in the first place and why. Explains how it’s good that his uncle needs him without going into too many details.

“We understand,” Namjoon assures him then.

“You should also know,” Jimin continues, “that Chongsa Kijung is planning to invoke rather harsh policies on the shifters.”

He intended to inform them of that at their last meeting, before Yoongi’s rallying of shifters on the square in Sinryeong-ro changed things. It’s more than an olive branch, it’s a gesture, a symbol of their hard-won and still-shaky trust now. Or whatever preliminary thing it is that they have now that is somewhat like trust now.

“He was reacting to a letter sent from the shifter community, as there have been numerous letters sent. It was discussed in the Inner Council, and he wanted to remind the shifter community at large that politics at large should be left to shamans, in his opinion.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi curses, interrupting him, and Jimin almost chuckles.

“I know. I agree,” he says, which is as honest as he can allow himself to get. “But I’m pretty sure the rest of the Inner Council, aside from one or maybe two exceptions, shares his opinions rather than mine. I would not be surprised if they referred to the shifters as jimya whenever I’m not around.”

The words provoke a shift around the table. Yoongi’s eyes are ablaze and he curses again, and everyone else shifts uncomfortably. Both Seokjin and Hoseok are scoffing.

Jimya. It means wild beasts instead of the wild gods that the shifters’ usual title corresponds to. It is an insult at best, and discrimination at worst. Jimin has never used it, and has never heard his father use it either.

He’s not so sure about his uncle.

“I know,” he says again. “I won’t use that word again. But I felt it was necessary to express the urgency of the situation. As is this.” He leans forward. “My uncle also said that he considers certain statements – statements that question his legitimacy, among others – as treason. Which means that it would be punishable to the highest degree.”

Namjoon takes a shaky breath. “Life imprisonment.”

Jimin nods. “Life imprisonment.”

Chapter Text

For a long moment, none of them speak.

“Shit,” Yoongi says then, tone dry, and Jimin would laugh if the entire situation wasn’t so serious, and if he was not so tired.

“That’s… really bad,” Hoseok agrees, sounding almost out of breath. “That means… that means…”

“It means that most people participating in the recent meetings would be considered traitors and subject to life imprisonment, if caught,” Jimin surmises, because he has had longer than they have to come to terms with this. He settles his eyes on Yoongi, who has turned pale. “That includes you.”

“Maybe more of us,” someone says, very quietly. Jeongguk, who Jimin feels like has barely spoken so far. Now his eyes are wide and round with fear.

Namjoon swallows. “Jeongguk’s right,” he admits, and Jimin knows this confession is mostly for his benefit. “We have all been to the meetings, as you know. I think by your uncle’s standards, we have all committed treason in the things we have said. In the things we have spread.”

“Then you need to lay low,” Jimin says immediately, with as much determination as he can muster in his state. “You are of no use to anybody if you’re in jail.”

Yoongi’s eyes are desperate, and Jimin recognises the fire in them for the fear that it is. “How are we supposed to do that? We can’t just stop – there’s no way we can just stop speaking up, stop meeting with others – there’s simply no way! We can’t leave the others alone in this, it’s still right to fight for it –,”

“I know,” Jimin interrupts, as gently as he dares. “I agree with you. But it’s too dangerous right now. You need to tone things down. Your friends need to tone things down.”

He means all the shifters that have participated actively in the meetings, the uprisings. If he could decide, he’d choose for all of the shifters to lay low, all of them. He doesn’t want to risk anyone in prison for fighting for their rights. He couldn’t deal with it happening under what is supposed to be his watch. He can’t.

“Sehoo,” Seokjin says. “I agree with you, but…”

He exchanges a glance with Namjoon, and Jimin wants to curse the coven for its clearly superb non-verbal communication. Namjoon’s shoulders slump, but then he straightens; draws his shoulders back. His eyes, when they meet Jimin’s, are desperate but hardened.

“Sehoo, I’m about to ask another thing of you,” he says, and Jimin’s hands tighten on the mug he’s still holding. He feels Taehyung’s gaze on him and refuses to meet it. Is scared he’ll show too much if he does. Doesn’t say anything, and simply waits for Namjoon to continue. “If you could… we’re suggesting you could meet with others. Other shifters, not just us. Some of the leaders of the uprising, who organise most of the meetings.”

Jimin breathes in and slowly raises the mug to his lips to take a sip, slow enough so that his hands do not shake.

“You mean some of the people that are more radical than you are,” he concludes, keeping his expression carefully still.

Namjoon’s shoulders lift. “No one that would want to cause you any harm,” he’s quick to say. “We promised we wouldn’t put you in any more danger, and we won’t. It’s simply – there’s no guarantee that anyone will listen to us if we tell them to lay low, because we cannot reveal the source. And while we do organise some of the meetings, we do not lead the movement – there are more influential people. If you told one of them – someone who is at the top, but who holds views that are closer to ours than the radicalised versions that want to abolish the entire system – then they could pass it along to the broader community. They’d be believed. People would lay low.”

Namjoon is still looking at him, and Jimin allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes.

Tell more shifters. Reveal his position to others, to trust the coven enough to tell other people.

It’s soon. Fast.

“I am not entirely opposed,” Jimin admits eventually, when the silence has stretched for too long and the atmosphere has gotten heavy with nerves. “I understand your arguments. From your perspective – from the shifters’ perspectives – it would certainly be beneficial.”

“But you are not sure whether it benefits you,” Yoongi says, when Jimin doesn’t continue. There’s something there, now. Something less than his usual fire, something that is almost curious. “And the risk needs to be worth it.”

Jimin exhales audibly. “My life is entirely made up of calculated risks. Sometimes it does not matter which way my moral compass points if enough other variables drag me another way.”

Yoongi meets his gaze. “And the other times?”

“That’s when I get really lucky.” Jimin shrugs. “When I’m lucky and things are simple. It is not as often as I would like.”

“Then let’s hope this is a time when enough variables point our way,” Namjoon says, and there’s a finality to his tone that effectively puts an end to the conversation. For a moment, they remain seated. Jimin’s hands are still wrapped around the mug, but most of the warmth has disappeared by now.

Jeongguk, a few seats away, moves to stand. “Would you like another cup, Sehoo?”

Jimin blinks, contemplates. Then he smiles softly but shakes his head, once, twice. “Thank you, Sinya. That’s kind of you. But I really need to get back to the palace.”

“I’ll bring you,” Taehyung says quickly as Jeongguk indicates a bow. This time, as Jimin leaves, they remember etiquette; all of them are fast on their feet.

“Get home safe, Sehoo.” Hoseok gives him a smile as he bows; and Jimin finds himself returning it. Namjoon brings him to the door with a gaze that’s heavy with questions perhaps, or maybe understanding. It’s almost too much to bear, after the day Jimin has had. After the days, plural.

He’s not even sure he will be able to bear Taehyung, now.

“Good night,” Namjoon wishes them as they both slip into their coats, after Jimin has pulled his mask back onto his face.

Jimin feels too tired for words. Instead, he nods, and simply bows – not as low as Namjoon’s returning one, before he follows Taehyung out of the door. Namjoon shuts it quietly behind him, and the road in front of them is mostly dark. A glance at his wristwatch tells Jimin that it has just struck twelve, which means he has to be up in six and a half hours. The palace, of course, is a good twenty to thirty minutes away.

“Jimin-ah?” Taehyung’s voice is questioning, soft.

Jimin is suddenly certain he cannot bear it. The kindness. If Taehyung touches him now, if he says another tender word, Jimin is sure to break.

“Let’s just go,” he says instead, already moving. “I’m tired.”

They make it back to Mugeukgung without having spoken more than a few sentences to each other.

“There’s a surprise waiting for you in the Pavilion of Records,” his mother tells him the next morning in the kitchen. It’s early, and Jimin is nursing a big cup of coffee, black. Yewon looks tired, too, but this morning she seems to bear it better; her make-up is already flawless, her white shirt shows not a single wrinkle.

“A surprise?” Jimin echoes, once it has caught up to his sleepy brain what she has just said.

Yewon hums in affirmation, opening the fridge to reach for the milk. “You’ll like it, I’m very sure,” she says with a smile on her perfecty glossed lips, pouring herself her coffee.

Jimin simply shrugs. Whatever the surprise is, he has no energy to get excited, certainly not right now. “I’ll go before the meeting.”

His mother sits down across from him and nods.

“Is Jihye invited?” Jimin probes, tone careful. The atmosphere in their hanok has been strained, and he doesn’t like how the outside cold seems to have creeped inside their walls. How easy it seemed for the winter to penetrate their home.

Yewon doesn’t look at him. “No,” she answers simply, and nothing about her tone invites any further questions.

Jimin slumps, but he’s too tired to insist on more.

Hyunwoo accompanies him to the Pavilion of Records, but they barely talk during the walk over. Jimin is thankful for the silence, for the calm morning air – a quiet moment that is disrupted by a woman’s voice.

“Jimin!”

He whips his head around.

The woman must have been standing just to the left of the pavilion, under one of the trees. She’s coming towards him now with big strides, her blonde hair moving alongside with her.

“Manon?” He asks, blinking, just before she reaches him. She’s just a bit taller than him, always has been, and she bends down to kiss him on both cheeks, then envelopes him in a hug. His hands rise up to return it half on instinct. “Manon?” he repeats, then slips into French. “What… what are you doing here?”

She pulls back. She’s smiling, but it looks sad. “Your mother thought it would be a nice surprise for you,” she explains, also in French, still holding onto his upper arms. Manon has always been touchy with all of her friends pretty quickly – something Jimin had to get used to when he first came to Paris. “Given that we couldn’t really…”

She trails off, but Jimin knows what she means.

After the sanghyeol magic had slammed into him, after he’d gotten the news – Jimin had ransacked his entire apartment putting together his clothes, throwing everything he could find into bags completely without process. Naturally, he had forgotten the meet-up he’d originally said yes to; a casual dinner in the Latin Quarter, and then Manon had stood in his doorway with the key she knew he kept magically hidden underneath one of the flowerpots dangling from her fingers. It had dropped to the floor the moment she’d seen his face.

There hadn’t been much talk, after. She’d taken the two mugs he’d been holding – bought at a flea market on a weekend in Lille – out of his shaking hands and made him to take his time to get back so he wouldn’t break apart entirely.

“Yeah,” Jimin exhales. The tears that rise to his eyes are unbidden. “Thank you. I couldn’t really… when it happened, I couldn’t really say that. And now, that you’re here – thank you.”

Her eyes go soft, but she simply shrugs it away. “Paris isn’t the same without you anyway,” she says and gives him a wink. “But you have to tell me – how is it being back here, with your fancy position?”

She slings an arm around his shoulder. Technically, they’re the same age, but Manon has always treated him a little bit like a little brother, and he has always appreciated it. It made him forget the responsibilities he’d always known he’d one day return to – something that she knew weighed on him and often made light of, to take some of it off him. It usually helped.

Now, though, Jimin barely has enough energy in him to chuckle. He’s sure Manon notices, but she takes it in stride and simply slides a hand into his hair to ruffle it for a second. “Anyway, I’ve never been to Seoul before! You simply have to show me everything!”

Sadly, Jimin has to go to the meeting before he can show Manon anything. It’s taking place in the Arcane Hall once again; and most Council members are present. Manon is at his heels when he enters, and a few gazes are fixed upon her. Jimin returns all of them fiercely, a dare to judge him for bringing someone new into a meeting. It’s not like she’ll be able to hear much once they’re in the deliberating room – there’s a spell in place, almost permanent, or at least permanent enough to have to be renewed only once every few months. Its ritual bases on inmyeonjo voice magic and dokkaebi stealth, and prevents people outside of its parameter of hearing a single word said within.

“It probably won’t take long,” Jimin says to her as he’s in front of the door to the room. He’s still speaking in French, although it adds little mystery to his words here; most of the Council members are fluent in more than just Korean and English, and French has always been a popular language.

Manon shrugs and lets her hand slip from where it had been holding on to his elbow. “Don’t worry,” she replies with a wink. “I know how to entertain myself.” Her gaze shifts, and he follows it to a Sosa boy probably a year or two younger than herself. The boy – Jiho, son of a lower Council member; a gumiho bloodline, if Jimin remembers correctly – is already looking at her, although the tips of his fringe are almost long enough to hide the widening of his eyes. His ears are turning pink as well.

“Mm.” Jimin hums, and pats her arm twice as if to say: Treat him gently.

Manon grins at him. He almost rolls his eyes, but then he just lets her be and steps into the meeting room. The Inner Council is gathered among the table in the middle, and some more people with high status and influence are either seated along the walls or standing, depending on their level of importance. Jimin finds Chaewon’s gaze first, and the softness within. He’s glad to have her here, in this room full of people he is sure he cannot trust. Lee Yejeong, Guardian of Whispers, is looking at him out of narrowed eyes; sharp as always in black eyeliner and a turtleneck that heightens the angle of her jaw. And Jimin might have impressed Ahn Dowon yesterday, but that has certainly not translated into anything resembling liking him. The opposite, if anything; judging by the curtness of the nod he places in Jimin’s direction. He’s also seated directly to Kijung’s right, papers already strewn before him, folders opened, as if he has been here for a while; something that Jimin clocks and carefully files away for later.

At least his mother has waited for him before taking her seat, it seems. Yewon steps to him with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow, and Jimin allows himself a moment of gratefulness. “It’s great, Chongbin,” he says, in reference to her surprise.

She does not reply in words – too many eyes – but she gives him a nod; a slow motion, gentle. He places a hand on her elbow and leads her to her seat before taking his own, opposite from Kijung.

As he sits, the allows himself to quickly let his gaze wander across the other shamans in the room which will participate in tonight’s ritual that are not part of the Inner Circle. Cho Sangjun, current son of one of the only dragon bloodlines. Kim Yangja; the sun bulgae bloodline. Cheong Eunji, who wields haetae magic. She must be in her sixties by now, but she seems strong and alert, bowing to him as his gaze passes her. Yu Harin, a cheollima bloodline shaman, is standing at her side. There are some more dokkaebi and gumiho shamans present, Baek Taejin, for one, who is Jimin’s age and has never particularly liked him.

“We are complete, then,” his uncle proclaims, as good a start to a meeting as any. It’s a preparatory meeting. Really, it’s the preparatory meeting. The one needed before the renewal of the wards, which is scheduled for tonight, once the dark has set in.

Kijung gestures to Ahn Dowon, who clears his throat once. “We will begin by determining whether all the participants have high enough magical reserves,” he announces, “before we will go over the procedure and the ritual itself.”

All in all, the meeting takes about an hour until Dowon is satisfied that everyone participating is sure in their role. By the end of it, Jimin, who has known the schedule by heart since the first time he witnessed the ritual at the age of six – watching his father and the others from a safe distance, encased in his mother’s warm arms – is bored of the logistic repetition, of the distrusting eyes on him from every corner of the room, bored of pretending he’s not bored, he’s not tired, he would not rather be anywhere else right now than here.

The only noteworthy moment is when Jimin asks whether spectators will be allowed at this instantiation of the ritual. He asks it as coyly as he can, and watches the barb hit his uncle like he intended, the question a stinging reminder that his uncle is not the sanghyeol, is not technically or practically needed. That Jimin is.

Kijung pulls his lips in a vaguely upward direction. “To oversee everything, numerous people shall be present that do not directly partake in the ritual,” he answers. Jimin, naturally, already knows whom that entails; his uncle, first and foremost, and then Yang Mansu, who has usually been there for security reasons along with a few of his gunungsin, and Taehyung’s father, to note any disturbances down, or to record the success.

“If there are people allowed who do not serve a direct role surrounding the ritual,” Jimin starts, and this now, can mean only his uncle and no one else, “could my sister attend to watch? I am sure she would enjoy it.”

He smiles, as innocently as he can. Kijung inhales.

“I assure you, everyone in attendance serves a role,” his uncle responds then, tone flat. “As sorry as I am to say it, the Senyeo has no place during the ritual tonight.”

Jimin vehemently disagrees – if only for the comfort to himself of having her there, for the comfort for her seeing he can bear it, bear the sanghyeol – but he has to pick battles he can win, and this is not one of them. He has tested his uncle’s patience enough. In any case, it is not like Jihye and Kijung would necessarily have been in one place, seeing as the ritual has to be conducted from numerous points. However, Jimin is – sadly – rather certain he will have to bear his uncle’s presence tonight.

And so, finally, Dowon nods and Kijung releases them.

Manon is waiting when he steps outside of the Arcane Hall, a smirk on her lips and her hair dishevelled. She’s holding a mirror to reapply her lipstick – burgundy red – through which she spots him, and he’s already rolling his eyes affectionately when she turns.

“Are you ready?” he asks her, in Korean because that’s one of the few phrases he taught her that stuck.

She tucks the mirror back into her handbag. “Always,” she responds in French, and within a second, her arm is once again tucked into his. “Now, where are we going first?”

Jimin smiles. “My family’s house.”

They pick up Jihye, who is delighted to meet someone from Jimin’s life in France and even more delighted when Manon bends down to place a kiss on both sides of her cheeks. His sister erupts into giggles, and then jumps off to shower and wash her hair and change out of the joggers she’s currently sporting. Jimin shows Manon into their kitchen, makes tea and is immensely grateful when she does not utter a single word about his sister’s state.

Instead, Manon is open, full of energy and gentleness whenever it’s needed, switches to accented and still posh-sounding English immediately because Jihye learned Spanish, not French, and foregoes Jimin’s arm for Jihye’s as they walk. She asks questions about buildings or Jihye or Jimin’s embarrassing childhood memories, and Jihye laughs more than Jimin has heard her laugh in all the previous days combined. The relief tugs at his chest so harshly it almost burns.

Jimin can barely convince them to quiet down for the metro, and even then, they put their heads together and whisper continuously. Twice, Jimin apologizes quietly to the enraged ahjussi who looks at his eyes above the mask like he is at fault for everything that’s wrong with the young generation. He doesn’t mind at all.

Upon Jihye’s behest, they start in Ikseondong; her favourite neighbourhood in the human parts of Seoul. Jimin can only trail behind as Manon and his sister sashay from one shop to the next, trying on a cardigan here and a pair of jeans there, holding up earrings and bracelets for him to ooh and aah over. They get salt bread and sit for a good half hour in one of the district’s picturesque cafés – a salt mill is slowly turning above a small artificial stream with water so clear Jimin suspects some spell, and the windows all look out over it and over Ikseondong’s maze-like alleyways. Jihye convinces Manon to try on a modern hanbok skirt in one of her own favourite stores, and squeals in delight when she steps out of the changing room.

“Oh, you have to buy it! You have to!” Jihye says, having sprung up from her seat.

Manon looks down. The skirt she’s wearing is simple but suits her well; the red matching the colour of her lipstick almost perfectly. It emphasizes the curve of her hips, and it looks nice with her light blonde hair. Not Parisian, certainly, but definitely incredibly stylish.

Manon gazes at Jihye, then at Jimin, and with a sigh, Jimin digs into his bag for his wallet.

“You didn’t have to pay,” Manon murmurs to him in French as they’re making their way to Changdeokgung, one of Seoul’s popular palaces, second only to Gyeongbokgung. This one is more charming, in Jimin’s opinion.

“I wanted to,” he responds, and gives his friend a smile. “As a thanks.”

He doesn’t need to say for what, and after a second, Manon catches back up with Jihye and points at another building to ask something.

The day passes like that. They tread through the palace grounds, take pictures, get lunch at one of Myeongdong’s food stalls. Jihye spills tteokbokki sauce down her white sweater, and they all descend into tears about it. Then Manon disappears for five minutes and returns with a brand-new cream-colored pullover that she hands to Jihye, and Jimin has tears in his eyes for an entirely different reason.

After lunch, they catch another subway to Seoul Forest and sit down on a bench Jimin discreetly spells warmer, cups from one of the surrounding cafés in hand, and chat. It’s easy and light conversation, and Jimin feels tired, but brighter. Feels, finally, when he checks his phone and realizes he needs to get going, like he is ready, really ready, for the ritual that is to come.

“Thank you,” he whispers once they’re back at Mugeukgung, standing in front of the hanok Jihye has just gone back into. Manon is looking at him, a hint of a smile still on her lips, and then she hugs him fiercely, a kiss pressed to his cheek. One only.

She responds in French, de rien, which Jimin first learnt in his textbooks means you’re welcome. Literally though, it means of nothing, like it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, and he knows it’s precisely that sentiment that Manon wants to convey.

“It’s everything,” he responds, voice brittle. It’s the truth. Before she can say anything else – or protest, like he knows she’s wont to do – he slips out of her hold. “Go on inside. It’s too cold.”

She’s staying at their hanok at his insistence. They have a guest room, after all, and the hanok is too empty anyways.

“We’ve been outside for hours,” she says, but she heeds his words nonetheless. Jimin watches her go and then turns back. He told Hyunwoo to meet him at the gate with everything that he would need, and it’s time.

The Renewal of the Wards is the most complex ritual Korea’s shamans have ever come up with, to the best of Jimin’s knowledge. Which means it’s extensive, requires numerous shamans with different powers to perform it. The movements are difficult, like a dance, and long; and they need immense amounts of concentration. To top it all off, not many of them are in the same space at once.

Bigyeongdong has five gates, all magical. Four for the cardinal points, and one to mark the point where they once fled into a crevice in what would later become Seoul, and decided to make it theirs and block off human access. They call it Kiwongwanmun, the Gate of Origin. Each one of the gates is an anchor point for the wards, but their centre is somewhere else.

Just behind Mugeukgung there’s a hill around which Bigyeongdong expands. Jimin is making his way up. It’s not a long walk, half an hour at most, but at some points it gets rather steep, and it’s dark. He’s glad Hyunwoo thought to bring flashlights, because Jimin cannot risk using any of his magic right now for something so mundane as light. Eventually, they make it to the plateau at the top. Jimin lets himself have a moment to gather his breath.

Like he predicted, him and Hyunwoo are not the only ones here.

He knows the geography of this ritual by heart.

Seo Chaewon and Cho Sangjun to the Northern Gate: a dragon’s water and wind, made impenetrable through bulgasari strength. The shield spell will expand from there.

Lee Yejeong and Baek Taejin to the South, so that the dokkaebi and gumiho magics can start the invisibility spell that will meet the shield in the middle.

To the West and the East, Ahn Dowon and Kim Yangja, the two bulgae bloodlines; the moon in the west and the sun in the east, for the speed, so that humans can be transported across Bigyeongdong’s borders within factions of a second. There are a gumiho and a dokkaebi each with them, to help and pull the rest of the spells.

At the Gate of Origin, Yu Harin and, of course, his mother. The cheollima for the transport spell, and to remember the speed with which they had to cross miles, with which they had to erect walls so, so many centuries ago. His mother’s bonghuang line. For the wind, to spread the spells, to combine them at the original point.

And lastly, up here at Jungshimdae, the hill’s centre plateau that lies exactly in Bigyeongdong’s middle – in its heart: Jimin, for the samjoko. For the sun and its darkness, to hide and to shed light. To recognize who is magic, and who is not. Cheong Eunji, with the haetae bloodline’s ability see people and know them. They are solely responsible to distinguish who can pass, and who cannot.

When the Wards were originally built, there was an inmyeonjo shaman among them, to help with the song of truth. But the inmyeonjo lines have all disappeared; and Jimin has not seen a trace of their magic in years. Before Seokjin.

But without the inmyeonjo, it’s in the ritual to hold the magic; and the part of the ritual the inmyeonjo powers contributed to is Eunji’s and his part. It’s now on them to carry it, to hold its weight. Jimin has watched his father do this ten, thirteen, maybe fifteen times. He knows it will not be easy.

As he steps onto the plateau now, there are more people here than he cares for. He partly understands; this is not only the place where the recognition spell is started, but it is also the place to anchor the wards in the end. It’s the centre, in all senses of the word. Nonetheless. Jimin wishes there were less spectators, less people he does not care for, and wishes desperately for his sister. For Taehyung, despite what happened yesterday.

Instead, there’s Taehyung’s father, because he will be able to tell from here and only here whether everything worked correctly. Several gunungsin, for protection, although he does not currently spot Commander Yang Mansu. His uncle, of course.

The person he does not see is Cheong Eunji.

Jimin allows himself a moment. Checks one, checks twice, his eyes roaming the parameter of the plateau. The surrounding trees, just in case. But no.

Hyunwoo at his side came to a stop at the same time that Jimin did, and when he turns now, Hyunwoo’s forehead bears a worried crease.

“Do you see her?” Jimin asks quietly.

Hyunwoo shakes his head. “No, Sehoo.”

Jimin clenches his fists and then forces himself to relax as much as he can. He gives Hyunwoo a brief and jerky nod in response, then braces himself and makes his way over to where his uncle is standing.

Park Kijung is donned in a traditional hanbok; white with grey accents. The samjoko pin is displayed right on top of his heart. Jimin pushes his shoulders back at the sight. His father wore hanbok. Liked to, for ceremonies and rituals; moments in which he deemed it important to remember where they came from. Their traditions, their culture. It felt respectful to him, is what he once told Jimin. To the people who came before; the shamans that created this ritual, to the ones that held it up, time and time again.

Jimin cannot remember his uncle saying he liked wearing hanbok even once.

“Sehoo,” Kijung greets when he sees him approaching. He bows, his gaze on Jimin even during.

Jimin bows back. “Jageunabeoji.” He scans their surroundings once more: the trees at the edges, reaching toward a black sky; the stone lanterns marking the circular ceremonial ground on the plateau. He can see ritualistic symbols drawn into the earth already in preparation. “Do you happen to have any information on why Cheong Eunji seems to be delayed?” he asks then, once he’s sure she still hasn’t arrived.

His uncle’s eyebrows rise ever so slowly. “She is?” he asks.

Jimin breathes out, counts to six in his head. “It appears so. I have not seen her, and neither has my bodyguard. If you or anyone else has seen her or can otherwise assure me she will be here on time, it would be a great relief.”

It would. The magical recognition part of the ritual, the anchoring. It is not a one-person job.

Kijung is looking around, but Jimin takes note that he does not ask anyone else to search for Cheong Eunji. “I think you’re correct, Sehoo,” he drawls then, when his gaze has returned to his nephew. “I will inform you once she has arrived.”

Jimin nods. A part of him – the part that remembers being held in his mother’s arms as his father fell to his knees, magic swirling around him like a typhoon – wants to ask what’s going to happen if she doesn’t come.

But he knows the question is futile.

A good twenty-five minutes later, Jimin is sitting, legs crossed, in the middle of the ceremonial courtyard, finishing up his centring exercises. His magic is close to his skin, but it feels calm; oceans-deep.

When he opens his eyes to Hyunwoo’s worried face, the waves of powers waiting in his bones begin to move as if under an increasingly harsh wind.

“She’s not here?” he asks and does not let the words waver.

“She’s not here,” Hyunwoo confirms. It looks like he’s going to say something else, but then Kijung is coming over in long strides that make his hanbok flutter around his ankles. Jimin is reminded of another hanbok, seams floating above the ground. A different ground. Jimin shakes the thought away.

With Yang Mansu and Taehyung’s father in tow, Kijung comes to a halt.

“We do not know why, but it appears Cheong Eunji is indisposed,” Kijung says, eyes fixed on Jimin, who still has not moved from his position on the ground.

Cannot now. If he stands now, the fear will make his knees weak, and that is something he will not show his uncle.

Instead, he eyes Kim Dohyun. Taehyung’s father has always been kind to him, if somewhat distant; their relationship rendered somewhat awkward by the fact that Jimin, while much younger, has always held a higher standing, a higher power. But still. His eyes are tight now, at the corners, and his lips are pale. When he meets Jimin’s gaze, he takes a breath; deep.

“Sehoo, I apologize,” Taehyung’s father announces, voice taunt. “You will inevitably have to conduct this part of the ritual on your own.”

Jimin closes his eyes. The darkness behind his lids seems to be expanding, the echoes of light flickering in canon to the nerves that he feels like a second heartbeat - a third, really; his magic, too, is thrumming underneath his veins in a rhythm that was supposed to be slower than this.

“What exactly does that entail, Busa?” he asks, voice toneless, as he opens his eyes.

Kim Dohyun extends the scroll Jimin only notices now he has been holding. “There are a few additional movements. Normally, Cheong Eunji would execute some that are different from those that you do, as the samjoko and haetae powers correspond to some different aspects of the ritual and of the magic. We expect it to take a bit longer than usual.”

Longer. Jimin wants to scoff, if he weren’t so scared. The ritual taking longer than intended feels like the least of his problems, right now.

Still, he takes the scroll that’s offered to him with a hand that’s shaking so minutely Jimin still hopes his uncle doesn’t notice. Concentrates on studying the words and instructions on the page, instead of Kijung, or everyone else, or what now lays before him.

It’s methodical. A few more movements, a bit more magic. That’s all. He’s watched his father do it, watched his father do it with Eunji. His magic storages are full. He cannot even feel the tiredness that seemed to be his constant companion in the last few days. Surely the adrenaline will carry him through.

He has just enough time to memorise it all, before Kim Dohyun reappears. “Sehoo,” he says, and it almost sounds like Jimin’s name. “It is time.” When Jimin meets his gaze, he sees Taehyung’s eyes in his father’s; the way his brows crease when worried, the sharp line of his jaw, held tight with anticipation.

Hyunwoo, who has walked up behind Dohyun, is paler than Jimin has ever seen him, paler than when he first picked Jimin up from the airport. He does not hold out a hand, but he is close as Jimin pulls himself up to stand. His knees, for now, are steady. At least he doesn’t have to move, he’s already in the middle of the courtyard.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo says, softly. Says nothing else. Underneath his eyes, the skin seems almost translucent.

Jimin gives a smile. “Thank you, Hyunwoo-ssi,” he says, means: for being here, for being close right now, for remembering the flashlights on the way up to Jungshimdae. For keeping the secret of his father. “Stay close by, please.”

His bodyguard bows his head. “Of course, Sehoo,” he responds, and Jimin dismisses him with a gentle nod and does not acknowledge the distinct tremble in Hyunwoo’s voice.

And then he is alone, as much as he can be. Behind the stone lanterns, people are gathered, watching; but here, within the ceremonial courtyard, he’s alone. Above him is an endlessly black sky, only sparsely speckled with stars fading against Seoul’s bright lights.

Jimin, too, feels like one of them. A star, far away from all others, the night growing between them. Feels lonely. Flickering.

He closes his eyes.

When the ritual is started in the north, he feels it like a spark of a candle in a pitch-black room, and he knows it is time.

The first thing he does is raise his arms, outstretched, to the sky; opening up. His fingers, shaped holding invisible strings.

The words of the ritual are old enough now that no one in Korea would understand them; not even anyone in Bigyeongdong, if there weren’t meticulous records. It’s a chant; not needing to be complex because it is additive to the movements, and the words come to Jimin easily.

He sings, hears his own voice ringing out loud and clear across the plateau. Sings about magic, and seeing one another for what one is, about safety. About hiding, and in hiding, finding a home. Building it.

Sometimes, when Jihye and Jimin were very tired, his father would sit with them, on the edge of one of their beds - whichever one they had chosen that day - and sing this song. For the ritual, the melody doesn’t matter, it’s a chant, really; about the words, about how they correspond, in timing, to movement. But his father has always sung the same melody, and Jimin remembers it with the vibrancy of something that happened time and time again, often enough and loud enough that it is embedded deeply in his brain. Less memory and more foundation of his being.

Jimin sings, and moves, and the power comes.

His own, spilling from his fingertips, his skin. The magic of the wards rises to meet it, and he can sense it distinctly: the fur of a fox caressing his calf, smooth scales sliding along his waist, hears hooves on earth and wings like wind, like thunder. The wards taste like rain and night.

His hands are forming shapes, tracing eyes into the darkness, drawing hanja and hangeul for sight and vision. He moves to the floor, makes his spine round and rises like the sun, like the light, stretching and stretching for the brightness until he’s on the aching tips of his toes, until his fingertips burn with it.

For the haetae, for Cheong Eunji, his right arm extends from his head to make a horn, his left draws shapes like a mane. Moves slow, makes himself bigger than he is, his shoulders tight. For a second, the earth appears to sink beneath his hands, but then he pushes all his fingers like claws into the soil.

Keeps singing. More power. He feels his mother’s somewhere around him; can taste metal on his tongue, knows it’s Chaewon’s magic. Feels Lee Yejeong’s, too; like a snap close to his bones. Feels as if the cheollima speed is making everything spin around him, the trees, the lanterns, the people who have turned to faceless blurs in the darkness. Tastes bile, too, and sweat. Something smells like it’s burning.

He’s not alone with so much magic all around him, so many powers of other people that he can sense so clearly. And yet he is. The courtyard is endless, the sky too far. The dome of the renewed wards rises slowly, so slowly, and his hands are shaking.

Bile in his throat, then blood from where he has bitten his lip. His voice is breaking now, from singing for too long.

But there are wings in his periphery, black wings, blacker than the night, with light in between. Between their flaps, the spell for recognition flares and grows, and Jimin continues, jumps like he’s flying for the samjoko and comes back to the earth for the haetae.

He can hear water roaring and winds whipping past, the signs of the transportation spell and the shields sliding into place. He hears, too, the rushing of his blood in his ears and the thumping of his heartbeat, the too-fast rhythm of his powers, flowing and flowing without stopping.

His fingers start cramping, again shaped like claws, but he has to hold it - the weight of the wards, anchored somewhere on the edges of his fingertips, and he’s slipping, slipping -

His father is standing on the edge of the circle, between two stone lanterns, his hanbok unmoving through the magical winds. His father is there, pale and translucent and more real than anything has felt for minutes or maybe hours, and Jimin’s chest caves with a breath or maybe a sob.

You can do it, Jimin-ah, his father’s ghost says, and the voice is soft in his ears and so cold it’s warm. You are not alone.

He raises his hands another inch.

My son, Park Kimun says with starless eyes. His arms, like an echo, are extended towards the sky. My heir. You hold the samjoko. You can hold it.

And then, when the dragon winds get so loud Jimin can barely hear him: I believe in you.

Jimin stretches another inch, his fingers tying invisible knots, and the wards slip back into place with a quietness that’s deafening. In their wake, when the magics subside, everything is in suspense: the taste of the air like the aftermaths of a lightning strike, the soil underneath his feet steady for a single moment. His father’s ghost, unmoving, for another eternity, hands sinking down, forever too far to reach.

Then the pale figure of Park Kimun disappears, and Jimin’s vision whites out entirely.

Remember.

He can’t have been out for more than a few seconds. When he opens his eyes again, his vision is hazy and the ground that he’s kneeling on seems to sink underneath his limbs in an attempt to drag him down, deeper and deeper.

“Sehoo!” Hyunwoo sounds out of breath, and Jimin registers the closeness of his body the very moment Hyunwoo touches him, because the skin of his arm is so sensitive even underneath his coat that even the ghostly touch of the gunungsin is sharp as a knife. He flinches, and hears Hyunwoo scrambling back. “Apologies, Sehoo, but – are you alright?”

Jimin blinks.

Alright, is he – alright.

He digs his fingers deeper into the soil and inhales. The air tastes like bile and blood and ozone. “Tired,” is what he eventually squeezes out. His lungs feel too small.

Hyunwoo crouched down next to where Jimin is still kneeling. “Can I touch you, Sehoo?” he asks, voice gentle. “Just to help you to your feet? People are watching,” he adds when Jimin doesn’t reply for a long moment.

Of course, people are watching. Even in his state, Jimin feels their gazes on him like little pinpricks all over his back. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

“Yes,” he answers finally.

“Take my hand, Sehoo,” Hyunwoo instructs, and Jimin blinks to the face of his bodyguard before him, pale and blurred. There is a hand outstretched to him, and Jimin is infinitely grateful that Hyunwoo knows him so well, knows the game of the Council so well. It will look much better if he grabs onto Hyunwoo’s arm than if Hyunwoo just went and hoisted him up like a ragdoll, even if that is precisely what Jimin presently feels like.

So he takes the offered hand and pushes himself to his feet. Hyunwoo’s touch, as always, is only half-there and yet surprisingly steadying. What is different is how much Jimin wants to fall into it. How much his entire body begs him to just give in, let Hyunwoo carry him. But there are gazes on his back, and people waiting at the edges of the plateau.

Jimin lets go of Hyunwoo as soon as he feels like his knees won’t fail him anymore and promptly clamps his mouth shut against the rapidly rising nausea that threatens to overwhelm him when he starts to walk, away from the ceremonial ground and towards where he knows his uncle will be standing.

Kijung’s face, once it comes into view, is a blur of sharp lines; his mouth thin, his eyes narrow. Thankfully, everyone else is keeping a distance. “Sehoo,” Kijung greets, and his voice alone grates at Jimin’s ears. “You demonstrated a successful renewal of the wards. That must have been immensely difficult, are you feeling alright?”

Jimin straightens his hurting back, vertebrae by vertebrae. “Thank you for your concern, Jageunabeoji,” he responds. It’s not exactly sounding as nonchalant as he would normally like it to, and he’s out of breath; but he keeps is voice steady. “But I can assure you, I’m only as tired as can be expected after such a ritual. With a night of rest, I will be feeling normal by morning.”

Kijung hums. “I am so glad to hear it.” He smiles. “If that is the case, I will release you for tonight. After all, there is an Inner Council meeting tomorrow at one that you are cordially invited to. Or should I not expect you there?”

“No, please don’t worry,” Jimin says; through gritted teeth. He can’t help it. “I will definitely be present.”

With the same smile widening to proportions that look grotesque and farce-like through Jimin’s still hazy vision, Kijung pats him on the shoulder twice, hard. Jimin digs his heels into the earth and swallows the bile rising in the back of his throat. “Well, Sehoo, please don’t hesitate to rest for longer, if you need to. The meeting will be quite important, but we can surely catch you up on anything vital to you afterwards. Are you certain you are feeling alright?”

“Absolutely.” Jimin keeps it at that and forces a smile; nothing more than a stretch of his lips. The air is so cold it hurts his teeth.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo calls, with an offered arm to his right. Jimin takes it with a deliberate delay, keeps his grip on Hyunwoo light.

“Until tomorrow then, Sehoo,” his uncle says, and Jimin only nods. Lets Hyunwoo lead him away, focuses on his breathing until they have reached the edge of the plateau, until they have disappeared behind a line of trees. Then, finally, he allows his knees to buckle. Allows his breaths to come sharp and quick, desperate attempts to fill his too-small lungs with much-needed air. Closes his eyes against the swimming picture of the night-sky and the hill, the shrill lights of Bigyeongdong down below.

Hyunwoo says nothing while Jimin fights not to empty his stomach onto the ground, lets him grasp his arm so tightly it must hurt. Says nothing when Jimin is finally ready to start walking again, only makes sure Jimin’s jacket is closed. It doesn’t help the shiver that seems to have overtaken his entire body. At some point, about halfway down the hill, his teeth start chattering, and Hyunwoo still doesn’t say anything, only sends him a long glance, eyebrows furrowed, mouth an increasingly thin line. He says nothing when Jimin stumbles so bad he nearly drags Hyunwoo down with him, and steps closer wordlessly to wrap an arm around Jimin’s waist. Takes more of his weight, then almost all of it. Jimin feels heavy and light as a feather all at once. He still can’t stop shivering.

They reach the grounds of Mugeukgung, and Hyunwoo loosens his hold without so much as a word. Jimin is glad. There are always people on the grounds of the palace, and no one can see. Everyone could report back to Kijung. He narrows his eyes to slits until the world stops spinning and places one foot in front of the other. Counts the cracks in the pavement against the pounding in his head. At least he’s stopped shivering. Actually, he’s feeling quite warm.

Soundlessly, Hyunwoo slides open the doors to Jimin’s hanok. Jihye’s favourite pair of shoes isn’t there, which means she’s out – a fact Jimin is suddenly glad for, despite the mounting worry where his sister could be at that time of night. When he bends down to unlace his own shoes, the dizziness is stark enough that he has to brace both hands against the ground for a full minute. Stays crouched and breathes. Hyunwoo still says nothing, and eventually, Jimin manages to untie his shoes. People could still be watching, but then, finally, he steps into the hanok, and Hyunwoo closes the door behind them.

It’s like between the trees, but worse. Jimin’s legs give out underneath him, and his fingers are trembling when he hastens to unfasten his jacket. He’s too hot, and the world is spinning. The hanok is too big and still expanding and then shrinking again in front of his eyes.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo is saying. His voice is brittle. “Can I touch you? Please. You need to get to a bed.”

Jimin hums in affirmation. He’s so nauseous he doesn’t dare open his mouth. When Hyunwoo’s arm slides under his armpits to hoist him up and then around his waist, Jimin leans into it and hopes it conveys what he cannot say right now: That he’s grateful, that he doesn’t mind Hyunwoo’s touch, even if it is the touch of a spirit, even if he flinched away earlier. That was because his skin hurt. It still hurts, but it’s soothing at the same time; and at this point, Jimin’s entire body is hurting, so he figures he needs to choose his battles.

He blinks and suddenly he’s on his bed. The sheets, normally so soft, seem to be peeling at him, but he’s off his feet and the world is spinning a little less. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He does remember waking up. Everything is hot. Kirin fire, or Western dragons. Like Jihye’s plush one.

“Water,” he mumbles, but it comes out slurred. There’s rustling, and then a glass, cool water against his lips and a hand against his forehead.

Someone curses. Hyunwoo’s voice, Jimin registers belatedly. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, so he can’t check.

More water. “You definitely have a fever, Sehoo.” Jimin hums in response. A fever. Yeah. That would explain why he’s so warm, why all his limbs are burning from within.

“Too hot,” he murmurs, to affirm.

“I know,” Hyunwoo answers, and then there’s something that Jimin identifies as a thermometer with some delay. Another curse. “Sehoo, you’re sick. The fever is too high, you need a healer. Otherwise you will not be able to attend that meeting tomorrow.”

“Have to – be there,” Jimin says through gritted teeth. His body hurts. He forces his eyes to open, and then stares and stares until the blur of Hyunwoo’s face has morphed into a definitely worried expression.

“I know.” Hyunwoo frowns. “I’m sorry, Sehoo, but I’m unsure who to take you to. The healer shamans on the grounds might not be trustworthy.”

Jimin starts shaking his head at the word shaman, but the motion makes his head pound. “N-no, not the palace,” he instructs. Blinks. “There’s – behind Sinryeong-ro. Taehyung-ie… Taehyung-sosa knows.”

“Taehyung-sosa?” Hyunwoo repeats, and Jimin nods. While Hyunwoo fumbles for his phone and furiously types something on it, Jimin closes his eyes again – a second only, he’s sure; against the fire eating away at him from the inside, and the fire that’s clawing its way up through his airway.

“Sehoo.” Hyunwoo’s voice again. When Jimin forces his eyes open, his bodyguard’s face is hazy again; a vague painting of drawn eyebrows and pale skin. There’s a screen held in front of Jimin’s face. The lights are so bright he can barely see. His eyes must be swollen, they feel too big for his head. “Sehoo, is this the address? Is this the address you want me to take you to?”

Jimin blinks. The lights must be stars. Or the sun. Maybe samjoko magic, maybe he’s lost control of his powers.

But actually – no, his powers feel shoved so far down when he checks that he thinks he couldn’t do any magic right now at all.

“Sehoo,” Hyunwoo says again. “Please. I know you don’t feel well, but you need to tell me if this is the address you want me to take you to.”

Address. Jimin can do that, surely he can do that. He blinks. Okay. The screen is bright, but if he narrows his eyes enough he can make out the letters. There’s more than one message, but he hones in on the last one.

“Y-yes,” he manages eventually, after the words have swum apart and back together twice. He fixes his gaze on Hyunwoo, as much as he can. “The Council can’t… can’t know. There’s… a – probably…,” he loses his track of thought. “Moon hare,” he says then, and hopes it makes enough sense.

“Okay,” Hyunwoo replies. Jimin closes his eyes again. The lights are too bright, even after the phone screen has disappeared. And his head is heavy.

“Sehoo, I’m going to help you up.”

“Mm.”

Hyunwoo slides an arm around Jimin’s waist, takes his weight. When he pulls them both up to stand and Jimin’s knees barely support his weight, Hyunwoo curses again. Jimin doesn’t think he’s ever heard him curse before tonight. Somehow, they make it into the hallway and Hyunwoo gets Jimin’s coat on him, makes sure it’s properly closed. Slings a scarf around his neck and pulls a beanie over his ears. Jimin sits down to put on his shoes, and it takes ages, but eventually his laces are tied and Hyunwoo pulls him back up.

“Sehoo, you’ll need to walk mostly on your own through the grounds if you don’t want people to know,” he warns, once again supporting Jimin’s weight.

Jimin only nods, too tired for anything else.

When they step outside, Hyunwoo offers his arm like he did earlier. It takes all of Jimin’s willpower and concentration to make it seem like he isn’t leaning on Hyunwoo as much as he is, to support even some of his own weight. It feels like all of his muscles are protesting, like every limb in his body is screaming at him. His breaths are coming out in short little puffs that he hopes can be attributed to the cold, in case anyone is watching. Hopefully no one is. He has no idea what time it is.

The steps swim into each other. As does the night around him; the pavilions, the trees. The sound of the gravel underneath his feet and the rushing of blood in his ears. Every time he inhales, he thinks he can still taste the ozone in the air. Remnants of a storm, even if the storm was mostly in his head. Or his body. Maybe both.

Remember.

“Hyunwoo,” Jimin whispers, somewhere between Mugeukgung’s gate and the Street of the Spirits. “D-did you see him? M-my father?”

A momentary pause. The night, as they make their way into Bigyeongdong, gets louder, more vibrant. Jimin’s headache increases with the noise.

“No,” Hyunwoo says eventually, and something in Jimin’s chest drops. “No, Sehoo. I did not see the apparition again. But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t there.”

The hollowness beneath his sternum is so vast Jimin feels like he can barely breathe around it, so he doesn’t respond. Concentrates, once again, on his steps.

They make their way into an alley, and it’s dark enough that Jimin allows Hyunwoo to take more of his weight. He closes his eyes. He’s cold again, he notices suddenly. Cold enough to be shivering.

Hyunwoo squeezes his wrist. “We’re here, Sehoo,” and Jimin blinks, because surely they had more way to go still than that, and he just closed his eyes a second ago?

But no, Hyunwoo’s right. The house is just there, in front of him. Pedestal lanterns to his right, their golden hue bleeding into the indigo of the alleyway around them. A white band, almost still. No wind now. Like unmoved hanbok seams.

Jimin wants to float like that, too.

The weight around him shifts, and then a hand reaches forward to press the bell. Maybe there are steps before the door opens, Jimin doesn’t know. The rush in his ears is too loud. But it does open, and Taehyung is standing in it. His face is washed away by shadow and the light behind and dots of colour, but Jimin would recognise him blind.

“Sehoo?” Taehyung asks, and there’s something in his tone. Something reaching, like Taehyung’s hand that’s suddenly outstretched.

His touch, too. If only Taehyung would already be touching him. It’s a good touch, it’s always been. A touch Jimin would recognise blind.

“The ritual,” Hyunwoo says, and Namjoon steps up behind Taehyung. Jimin thinks his eyes are kind of wide. There’s a talisman on his chest, on top of his sweater; details Jimin can’t make out. “He had to do it alone.”

“What?”

Taehyung does touch him now, and it’s glorious. Cool against the fire of his bones.

Jeongguk’s face appears then, first behind Namjoon’s shoulders, and then just in front of Jimin. Silver and a crescent on his cheek. Jimin’s legs fail him, and even with his eyes closed, he knows it’s Taehyung who catches him.

“Moon,” Jimin whispers, and passes out.

Chapter Text

Jimin isn’t out for very long this time around, either.

When he comes to, he’s on something incredibly soft, looking up at a swirl of pastel-coloured clouds, intercepted by golden stars and a silver moon; a kirin, jumping through the sky; the twisting body of a dragon; a rabbit with big brown eyes.

Eyes that are suddenly directly in front of him. The face that belongs to them fills his entire field of vision, and Jimin realises – it’s a painted ceiling. Jeongguk is in front of him; or, more accurately, above him. Since he’s laying down on what must be the coven’s living room couch.

“Sehoo?” Jeongguk asks. There is a line, directly in the middle of his brows. He looks different, Jimin thinks distantly. Not shy at all, not the tiniest bit timid. He looks focused. It’s a good look on him. Not that Jimin thought before that any of his looks have been bad looks. On the contrary.

“Mm,” he hums in confirmation when it registers that Jeongguk asked him a question. “’m awake.” His tongue feels like cotton candy in his mouth, if it didn’t melt. If it was heavier, not so cloudy.

“You have a fever,” Jeongguk says. “I’m preparing something for you that’ll help, but it’s going to take a little while. While we’re waiting, could you tell me how you are feeling?”

 Jimin hums again. He blinks. His vision isn’t as fuzzy anymore, but Jeongguk still looks like someone has drawn him with a paint brush – Monet, maybe. Yeah. “’m… I know I have a fever, Hyunwoo… Hyunwoo-ssi said.” He pauses to take a breath, and to clear his mind. “Sinya, I’m… I’m sorry for barging in like this. Hyunwoo-ssi said I… said I needed a healer. I… I’ve seen my father do it. The ritual. It’s not… it’s not meant to be easy, wasn’t… easy for him. But I was alone.”

“I know.” Jeongguk’s words are quiet. Jimin can see some of the ceiling behind him. It looks like Monet drew it, too. “Hyunwoo-ssi said that you were alone at Jungshimdae, and that the shaman who was supposed to do the recognition ritual with you didn’t come. He said that it took longer than normal, because you had to modify some of the ritual. Can you tell me how you felt, during that?”

Jimin nods. It sends a throb through his skull. “I was… it felt long. I… I could sense the magic of the others, but I felt – it felt heavy. The… I can feel the wards, you know? I could feel the wards. It was… it felt like I was holding them alone. At points.”

“You can feel the wards?” Jeongguk echoes. The line between his brows has deepened, perhaps. “Can you still feel them now?”

“It’s…,” Jimin pauses. He’s not sure how to explain, and he’s so tired. He thinks his eyes are only half open, at all times. “It’s… the district. Because it was… because the wards, the hidden binding. Because it’s shaman – samjoko – magic. So… so much of it is samjoko magic. It’s – it feels like an… like a sixth sense? Like if I close my eyes, there’s… like a map that I’m always aware of. That I can always feel. Like it’s… in my body, a little. It’s been… it’s been – more, since I got the sanghyeol. Sorry, Sinya. I can’t… explain it well right now.”

“You’re doing well, Sehoo,” Jeongguk rebuttals, immediately. His voice is still quiet. “You’re doing really well. How does it feel now? The district?”

Jimin has to think about that. He concentrates, tries to get a feel beyond the headache and the queasy stomach and the fatigue. “It feels,” he starts after what might have been minutes, “brimming. Like… there’s a pulse to it. To the wards. It’s – regular, and steady.”

“It wasn’t before?”

Jimin twists his head to one side. “Not… not entirely. It’s… whenever the wards need renewal, I – you – we can tell because the pulse is weaker. Quiet.”

“Okay,” Jeongguk says, and Jimin opens his eyes, lets the pulse of the district fade. “Thank you. I also need you to tell me what your physical – and magical – symptoms were like, earlier. Directly after the ritual. And how they’ve changed to now.”

Jimin takes a breath. Lets it out, slow and controlled. “I was nauseous, earlier… right after. I don’t know about… ‘bout now, ‘cause I’m laying down. But I felt… felt like I was going to – like, sink into the earth. Like… vertigo, or just… my legs were shaking, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever… used that much at once.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Jeongguk is looking at him, more than Jimin thinks he has looked at him at any of their meetings before. The brown of his eyes is so rich. Jeongguk doesn’t even have to say anything. Jimin knows he’s waiting for more symptoms anyway.

“I was… out of breath, worse than – worse than I am now,” he murmurs eventually. “It was – I had to talk to… my uncle, right after – I couldn’t hide it. I tried my best to… to play it down to normal – like, whatever is normal after using a lot of magic, and not… show just how… - I was really unsteady. Really – out of it, at some parts. Like… you know when you use powers, and for a while during it it’s like all your… all your senses are heightened? It’s – it was like that, but worse. My ears were ringing, and… and touch… touch hurt. My vision was… fuzzy, too. That’s – all that’s why Hyunwoo-ssi had to… bring me here. Because my uncle can’t… can’t know, and there’s a meeting tomorrow. At one.”

“Yeah, Hyunwoo-ssi said.” Jeongguk looks away and then back at Jimin, the line between his brows pronounced. “I know you just want to keep laying here, and you can soon, I promise. But I need you to stand up for me, Sehoo. Please.”

“Okay.” Jimin tries to brace himself, but when he props himself up on his arms to a sitting position, everything starts swaying. “Sinya, you… you’re going to have to help me up,” he says through gritted teeth.

Jeongguk reacts immediately. His hands find their place at Jimin’s elbows, on the fabric of his sweater. No direct skin contact, and Jimin exhales shakily. They stay like that for a moment, then Jeongguk asks: “Ready?”

Jimin only hums to confirm, to keep the nausea at bay, and then they move, and he has to close his eyes too. The room is still tilting, even with his eyes closed. He’s standing on waves. Instinctually, he reaches out, and his fingers grab onto Jeongguk’s forearm, where his sleeves must have ridden up. The skin there is warm, and it’s nice, even with all the warmth of the fever coursing through Jimin’s body.

“Sehoo?” Jeongguk asks, softly.

Jimin tries, but there are dots painted on his eyelids, even from within. He has to swallow three times before he can open his mouth. “I – can’t, Sinya,” he says, mostly breath, as whatever they’re standing on starts to tremble.

“Okay,” Jeongguk whispers immediately. “Okay.”

One hand kept at Jimin’s elbow, the other on his back, he eases Jimin back down. It’s less Jimin moving, more Jeongguk manoeuvring him while Jimin tries desperately not to throw up, or pass out. But they make it, and he’s back down on the sofa, which is so steady and soft, and he can sink into it without the earth attempting to swallow him whole. Jeongguk’s hands disappear, and Jimin takes a breath. It’s a little sharp, hitches somewhere in his throat.

“Sehoo,” Jeongguk says, and Jimin notices he still hasn’t opened his eyes. When he does, the wonderful painted ceiling and Jeongguk’s face swim into each other, and for a second, Jeongguk’s eyes have hints of pastel-coloured clouds in it and there are silver moons glistening among his lash line. Jimin blinks through heavy lids. “Sehoo, I really – I’d advise that you not go to the Chongsa’s meeting. You’ve used so much of your magic that it depleted your body’s physical reserves, not only the magical ones. You’re sick. My magic can and will help, but it can’t fix everything. You need to rest and let your body and your magic recover.”

“Mm.” Jimin looks at Jeongguk, at the deep brown eyes and the Monet ceiling stars caught within. Smiles, for a second. “Thank you, Sinya. I’m sorry I won’t… won’t be able to heed to your advice, and still… still take what you’re preparing. I don’t – there’s no choice here, for me.”

“Yeah. I figured.” Jeongguk’s voice has gotten really quiet. There’s a hint of warmth along Jimin’s elbow, on top of the sweater. “You can sleep, Sehoo. I’ll wake you when the spell’s ready.”

Jimin hums, blinks. “Okay,” he whispers, and falls asleep the moment his eyes have closed.

“Sehoo?” Jeongguk’s voice is soft when he wakes Jimin. One of his hands is on Jimin’s shoulder, just a touch, not even shaking it. The pressure of it is slight, but it feels grounding; and Jimin opens his eyes.

For once, the ceiling and Jeongguk’s face aren’t melting into each other. With a clear vision, Jimin sees the bowl that Jeongguk is holding almost immediately. It’s small, one of those that the side dishes come in in restaurants, and there’s an almost clear liquid inside. Where the light hits it, it reflects iridescently; and underneath the surface, Jimin can see a drawing of two black and white koi carps at the bottom of the bowl.

“What is it?” he asks as Jeongguk sets the bowl aside to help him to a seated position. The movement increases the headache, and the room is swaying, but the sleep must have helped somewhat. It’s bearable at least, while he’s sitting.

“An elixir. Kind of like an extract from my magic, concentrated on healing.” Jeongguk draws his hands back from Jimin’s shoulders once they have both realized he will remain steady. “I’d be happy to explain more, if you want, Sehoo, but another time. Once I’m certain you have the energy for it.”

Jimin almost smiles, but all of his muscles are tired. “I’ll take you… up on that,” he replies. “Thank you, Sinya.”

Jeongguk only turns in response, picks up the bowl with the elixir. When he crouches down in front of Jimin and holds it out, a gentle scent rises up from the liquid; something citrusy, but a little dark, like tangerines smell in winter months. For a moment, Jimin wants to be embarrassed as Jeongguk raises the bowl to Jimin’s lips, but his arms weren’t even enough to prop himself up earlier, and he is too tired for lasting embarrassment.

Jeongguk tilts the bowl, and the elixir touching Jimin’s lips in surprisingly cold. Soothing. It also tastes like tangerines, tastes like when he bought some for Jihye and himself in a roadside stall on Jeju Island in February of the year he turned seventeen and the peel stuck to his fingers, green and orange and yellow.

“’s good,” Jimin murmurs, once the bowl is empty. Jeongguk watched him drink it, his eyes focused, the line between his brows still deep. Now it finally softens, and there is a hint of smile on his lips.

“Thank you, Sehoo.” He puts the bowl away and turns back to Jimin. “Now, while I’d technically prefer it if you just slept and let my magic work without interference, Taehyung-sosa has been asking to see you. If you feel up for it, he can come in for a few minutes, I think. And then we’ll let you sleep, for at least six hours until Hyunwoo-ssi will bring you back to the palace.”

Jimin’s eyes flick up to the clock on the wall he hadn’t noticed before, when his vision was hazy. It’s twenty past four in the morning. Six hours – that’ll make it basically half past ten in the morning. That leaves him two and a half hours to get back to the palace and prepare a little for the meeting.

“Maybe six hours is… a bit much?” he asks. “I’m not sure that’ll – be enough time. To be… well-prepared. And I can’t… be late.”

“Six hours is the minimum, Sehoo,” Jeongguk says. He’s looking at Jimin, and his eyes are big and dark. “It won’t be enough to recuperate you entirely. Magic can’t heal everything. Like I said earlier, I wish you didn’t have to go to the meeting at all. Six hours are… yeah. I wish it was more, but any less than that and I’d not willingly let you leave.”

Jimin casts his eyes down. “Alright,” he murmurs. Six hours are the maximum; any later than that, and he definitely won’t make the meeting in time.

Jeongguk hums. “Should I tell Taehyung to come in, then, Sehoo?”

“Yeah. Thank you, again, Sinya. I know it was… sudden, and a lot to ask… of you on such a short notice.”

Jeongguk shakes his head, once, twice. “It really wasn’t,” he says simply before he slips out the door. When it opens again, Taehyung comes through; his hair dishevelled in the way that means he went through it one too many times, and not in the cool, artsy way. He’s across the room and by Jimin’s side in less than a second.

“Jimin-ah,” he whispers, so quietly that the name won’t carry past the walls. “Jimin, are you okay?”

Not Sehoo, just Jimin. His shoulders lose tension he wasn’t aware of carrying, and he wants to slump forward and forget the vertigo with his head buried in the front of Taehyung’s sweater. It’s white, of course, and the sleeves hold little bears, stitched in with light brown yarn. It must be new, Jimin can’t remember having seen it before.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung whispers again.

“I’m… I’ll be okay,” Jimin responds. Remembers Taehyung catching him when he arrived, remembers the moments right before he passed out, when Taehyung was reaching out to him, when his touch was everything Jimin wanted even if it hurt. Remembers how it didn’t, not even a little bit, despite all the sting in his skin. “Sorry for… showing up like that.”

“N-no, I’m glad you did.” Taehyung’s hand finds Jimin’s knee. “I… I was just scared, when – when Hyunwoo-ssi said you did the ritual alone, I knew it must have been draining, and you – you were so tired, even before.” He sniffs. “I’m really sorry, Jimin-ah.”

“For what?” Jimin blinks, wishes he could blink away the wetness in Taehyung’s eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m just sorry, I wish it was – simpler,” Taehyung says. “I wish you just had it simpler.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out with the word. “I wish that, too.”

Their voices, still so hushed. Their names and the way they say them, a secret held alongside Taehyung’s hand on Jimin’s knee under the blanket, in this room with the painted ceiling and smell of winter citrus. The quietness of it, too. How this secret is something they must keep and keep quiet. But in that – how light, to get to keep it. How peaceful it is, because no one else gets a say. How it’s theirs, and theirs alone; Taehyung’s and Jimin’s when they’re Taehyung and Jimin.

“You should sleep,” Taehyung whispers. His fingers migrate from Jimin’s knee to his arm, then to his face; barely brushing skin, fluttering over Jimin’s jaw, cheek, temples; Taehyung’s hands a starling murmuration. He chuckles. “Otherwise Jeongguk-sinya might just yell at us both.”

Jimin smiles. “Don’t think he’d… yell at me.”

“No.” Taehyung’s reply is soft. “No, I don’t think he would, either.”

Before Jimin can respond, Taehyung leans forward until their foreheads are touching, a welcome pressure. The warmth of Taehyung’s breath, ghosting over Jimin’s lips and his skin. Still so sensitive he thinks he’s sporting goosebumps.

“Sleep, Jimin-ah,” Taehyung says when he leans back. Jimin stays where he is for a moment, still sitting, his eyes unfocused, fixed on another starling murmuration: the one of Taehyung’s lashes, every time he blinks, their shadows. Eventually, he hums in agreement, and Taehyung helps him to lay back down.

“Will you… come back with me?” Jimin asks, vision again filled with pastel swirls.

Taehyung leans again, to press his lips to Jimin’s temple. “Of course.”

“Hm.” Jimin’s eyes have already closed. “G’night, Tae-yah.”

A stuttering breath, another soft chuckle. “Goodnight.”

Taehyung starts to say something else, but Jimin falls asleep so quickly he doesn’t hear it.

Jeongguk wakes him at half past ten in the morning, as promised, although he doesn’t look happy about it. Jimin, on the other hand, feels remarkably high in spirit – his limbs no longer hurt, the fever has disappeared, and when he stands, the vertigo only lasts for a second or two before it lets him go; the world once again steady underneath his feet. There’s a headache, but it’s slight, and he hasn’t slept that long in days.

“Are you sure you want to go to that meeting?” Jeongguk asks, even though Jimin can tell by his tone that they both know the question is futile.

Jimin gives half a shrug, half a smile. “Not a question of want,” he answers.

As if on cue, Taehyung and Hyunwoo enter the room together, the coven hot on their heels. Jimin wonders for a moment whether he should be embarrassed about the state he arrived here in, but he finds he doesn’t have the energy. Maybe doesn’t want to, either, a little bit.

That doesn’t mean their gazes aren’t a little uncomfortable, though. They’re all looking at him, and Jimin remembers how wide Namjoon’s eyes had been, last night, how he’d noticed that even in his daze. Now, Namjoon looks calm, settled.

“Sehoo,” he greets, bows. Jimin nods back, and in doing so, sees the talisman, resting on top of Namjoon’s cream sweater. Remembers that fleetingly, too; understands it in a completely different light, now. The chain is silver, the talisman itself is wooden; the engravings on it handmade. They’re intricate. Winding and sloping, only merging into a dragon’s form upon closer inspection. There’s a hanja sign, too; one that Jimin knows stands for the house, his dragon lineage. His family, in human terms, although it’s both less and more than that.

Jimin takes a breath, meets Namjoon’s eyes. “Sinya,” he says. “Thank you for the hospitality you showed me last night, and that you allowed me the privilege of benefiting from your coven mate’s magic. I do not take it for granted.” He holds Namjoon’s gaze, lets the words sink in, before he turns to Jeongguk. “I know I said it last night as well, but thank you, especially. I arrived without warning, and I cannot even heed all your medical advice. Please know you’ve helped me immensely nonetheless.”

Jeongguk nods, then smiles at the floor. He’s a little more timid, now, that his work is done; and Jimin finds himself – endeared.

“Sehoo.” Yoongi takes a step forward. Jimin has no recollection of seeing him, Hoseok or Seokjin last night, but right now, Yoongi seems settled, as well. The fire has gentled, in his eyes. He’s holding a stack of clothing, all varying shades of white, and Jimin blinks, once, twice. “These are for you. The two of us are roughly the same size, and we thought you might like to change out of your clothes from last night.”

Jimin had barely noticed, in truth. But now that he takes a moment to think about it, he realizes Yoongi’s right. His clothes bear mud and soil in various places from when he kneeled or fell or where he must have wiped his hands; and he feels dirty with remnants of sweat and sickness, feels as if the nausea, too, is sticking somewhere to the fabric. “That’s very kind of you, Sinya,” he says, quietly.

“You can also take a quick shower, if you want,” Hoseok intercepts, speaking fast. Maybe he senses that Jimin might need a moment to accept such an offer, which he does. He gazes at the clock. If he stays to shower and change, he doesn’t have to do it at the palace; and it would certainly be less conspicuous this way than if he walked across campus in the same dirty clothes he wore last night.

Jimin swallows. “I would. Thank you,” he replies, voice steady, and bows to each one of them in quick succession. Jeongguk’s blushing, a little.

“Follow me, Sehoo.” Hoseok, already holding the clothing Yoongi had apparently picked out for him, gestures toward a door opposite the one that leads to the hallway and the front door. He smiles when Jimin follows him; a smile bigger than any Jimin has seen so far. The door opens to a hallway, and the bathroom is the first room on the right. Its tiles are dark grey, decorated with lighter swirls, and the light that comes in from the window is bright and golden-hued.

“Here.” Hoseok opens the cabinet door for Jimin and gets out a towel, points to the bottles of shampoo and body soap. “Feel free to use anything you like. The hairdryer is in the bottom drawer. We’re in the living room, if you need anything else.”

Jimin thanks him, and Hoseok smiles again before he draws back. He pulls the door closed behind him. The room is quiet, now, and Jimin focuses on his breathing and the way that he can hear some birds chirping outside. He feels almost fine, now. When he steps into the shower, the water is warm and relaxing for his muscles, for the body he has forced too much power through last night. He breathes, big and slow and intentional, and lets the spray wash the dirt off him, the one that’s there and the one that’s only felt.

When he steps back into the living room some twenty minutes or so later, he’s clad in Yoongi’s clothes: A white shirt, buttoned up; covered by a comfy sweater vest, and the cream-coloured slacks he’s wearing are a little tight around his thighs but sit snugly on his waist. His hair, dried but not styled, is fluffier than normal, but it feels very soft, and all in all he feels clean and awake and grateful.

“Thank you, Sinya,” he says, the moment he steps back into the living room where everyone is gathered. Eyes land on him. He meets Yoongi’s and bows his head. “They fit well. Thank you, I’ll bring them back at my earliest convenience.”

“It’s okay,” Yoongi replies, a little belayed. “Take your time.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk intercepts, in a voice that Jimin recognises as his healer-voice. “I’d rather you rested every minute you got instead of coming here again just to return some clothes.”

“Sehoo, you can give me those,” Seokjin continues before Jimin can respond. He steps up, hand outstretched. The golden light from the window seems to flutter and travel through his skin, and it takes Jimin a moment to understand what Seokjin means. He’s still holding on to the dirty clothes he was wearing last night, and Seokjin nods. “We’ll wash those. It’s no bother, really, and it’d be better if you didn’t have to worry about those, am I right?”

Jimin doesn’t know what to say for a moment or two, and then, to his astonishment, Seokjin blinks. Grins. “It’s really no big deal, Sehoo,” he says, and Jimin wonders, distantly, as he finds himself handing the bundle of clothes over to the inmyeonjo shifter, whether Seokjin always has this mischievous glint in his eyes and Jimin has simply not been around enough to notice before now.

“Thank you,” he says again, feeling a little like a broken record. When he turns his head, there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corners of Taehyung’s lips; a smile he’d think he’d know if he took the time to interpret it. Instead, he takes a breath and straightens his back all the way through. The meeting hour is steadily approaching, and he wants to get a bite to eat before and he definitely needs some minutes to prepare. He doesn’t even know what the meeting is supposed to be about; doesn’t think Kijung has told him. Even so, there are topics that Jimin wants to bring up himself, mostly Cheong Eunji and why no one heard from her. “If you’re ready, Hyunwoo-ssi, Taehyung-sosa, then we can get going.”

“Of course, Sehoo.” Hyunwoo, somehow, has already gotten Jimin’s jacket and is now holding it open for him. The action is reminiscent of last night, when Hyunwoo made sure Jimin’s jacket was closed as they made their way down Jungshimdae. For a moment, Jimin feels protected and cared for, by Hyunwoo and by the people in this room, who made time for him when they didn’t have to. Feels like more than just the Sehoo, feels more like he is a person and not a position.

“Sehoo,” Namjoon says. “You probably have not thought much about it, and I don’t want you to think about it much now. You can give us your decision through Taehyung-sosa whenever you wish. But there is another meeting scheduled, for the shifters. Thursday night. If you agree to meeting one of the shifters, it would probably be good if we did it before that meeting.”

Thursday – that’s three days from now. “I am thinking about it, Sinya,” Jimin affirms. When they’re in the door, he turns back once more. “Thank you, again. I will not forget this night.”

They’re all gathered in the hallway, which is a little crammed with so many people. Namjoon is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, the talisman proudly displayed. He nods, ever calm. Jimin gets the feeling that just as much as he will not forget this night, neither will they.

When he gets back to the hanok at Mugeukgung, both Manon and his sister are there. They’re in the kitchen, and Jihye is hunched over what appears to be a large cup of coffee, head in her hands. Only some of her hair is held up by a ponytail, the rest must have fallen out during the night, and she evidently has not yet bothered to fix it. Manon is next to her, eating cereal, another mug in front of her.

“Good morning?” Jimin asks tentatively, when neither one of them respond to the opening of the door.

Jihye makes a sound in response that can only properly be defined as whining.

“Um,” Jimin says, intelligently, and slides into another chair when none of them start to explain. He has an idea what happened, naturally. But he hopes either one of them fesses up to it – sooner rather than later. “What’s going on? Did you go out last night? You weren’t here when I got home,” he prompts.

Jihye’s head sinks lower between her hands. With the loose strands of hair everywhere, he can barely see her face.

Eventually, he turns to Manon and quirks up an eyebrow. She’s clearly in a better state than his sister – her hair is wet, so she must have showered, and her face looks scrubbed and clean. The blueish tint underneath her eyes is the only evidence of where they must have been last night, and in any case, it’s so faint it’s barely there. Manon doesn’t really get eyebags, a fact that Jimin heard numerous of their friends complain about after many a night in Paris. He sees the signs, thus, that might be less obvious to anyone else.

She sighs. “Yeah. I took her out to Itaewon, because she said she’d never been, and I really wanted to see it. She hadn’t been out in ages, apparently.”

Jimin hums. “And why is she like this?”

At that, Jihye raises her head. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she says defiantly, as if she’d shown much interest in his inquisitions beforehand. Jimin bites his tongue, only looks at her. “I’m like this because we went clubbing, and we got some shots.” There’s something in her eyes, though, something that he can’t quite place, and doesn’t know how to ask about.

Jimin takes a moment. “Were you safe?” he inquires then, quietly. “Look, Jihye-yah, I know you’re old enough. I’ve just – I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what? Hungover?” She blinks, draws up a shoulder. “You’ve never seen me like this because you weren’t here, Oppa.”

The words aren’t even meant to hurt. It’s just the truth, just her experience, and yet the reality of it hits Jimin square in the chest. He averts his eyes, takes a breath.

“Were you safe?” he asks again, even more quietly. He knows what it’s like to drown sorrows in alcohol, and it’s not exactly an experience he would recommend. Or explicitly take someone who is grieving to have.

Jihye softens, and the tension in her shoulders loosen. “Yeah, we were. We were always together. Everything’s fine, I promise. Once this headache goes away, I’ll be completely fine.”

Something trembles in her voice. Jimin knows what she means, and a part of him still wants to say that they both know that’s not true. Neither one of them will be completely fine for a long while yet. But he doesn’t want to have that conversation in front of someone else, not even if that person is a friend.

A friend he’s currently not too happy with.

“Manon, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks. By Jihye’s sharp gaze, she must know some of his feelings, but he doesn’t drop his eyes. What he wants to say to his friend now is between him and her, no matter what Jihye thinks of it.

“Sure,” Manon replies, and Jihye looks from one of them to the other once, twice more. Eventually, she sighs and drops her head back between her hands.

Jimin stands and waits for Manon to do the same before he leads them to his room. Closes the door swiftly behind them.

The next words are in French. “I’m not mad, but I’m not happy,” he says first. “I just don’t get why you’d take my sister, who is grieving our father, to a club for drinking. It’s not that you should’ve asked for my permission. Jihye can do whatever she wants. But you know that I don’t think alcohol solves any problems.”

Manon bites down on her lip. “She was really happy last night, Jimin,” she replies. “You should’ve seen her. She looked so free, just dancing. I think if drinking could give her that, then it’s worth it.”

“Do you remember that night in La Machine?” he asks then. “When I still hadn’t been in Paris long?”

He does. He remembers it vividly. He remembers how homesick he was, how sad that he had left Seoul behind, had left his family behind and everyone and everything that mattered to him. How he knew it was necessary, and good for him, would be good for everyone in the end, to have that distance – and how he was still heartbroken, for so long. How alienated he felt, those first weeks in Paris, and how he'd met Manon and some more of their friends, and how they’d convinced him to come clubbing on a night he had been feeling low already.

He sees in Manon’s face that she remembers, too.

“I was really happy, too, while we were dancing,” he continues, toneless. “I was happy while I was drinking. While it was still in my blood, while I was still getting more and more drunk. I was happy and carefree.” He swallows. “And then I stopped drinking, and then I crashed. I felt like everything that had been hurting before was – amplified and numbed, both at the same time. It was worse, because I felt like I was adrift in this huge ocean of general sadness. Where nothing in particular pricked, but everything was… too much. I was just hurting all over, and it only got worse and worse while I was sobering up.”

He meets Manon’s gaze. Her eyes are shiny, and a part of him almost doesn’t want to continue. “And I wasn’t grieving. I wasn’t grieving my father then.” He shakes his head. “It’s evident that Jihye doesn’t feel as bad right now as I felt then, or didn’t crash as hard, or maybe just didn’t drink as much. All of that is a good thing. I just – it could’ve gone that way, too, okay? You could’ve taken her out, and while the high might have been glorious, the low would’ve been just as intense. Worse than mine, then. Okay? I never want her to have to experience that. I’d rather she can work through it slowly, in her own pace, without having alcohol change or amplify or numb what it is she’s feeling. I’d rather she feels it.”

He has to swallow again, around the ball of his own grief that he can feel lodged in his throat. He’d rather feel it, too. Entirely. Rather do that than whatever this is.

“Okay,” Manon says, voice hoarse. She blinks, and her lash line is wet. “I didn’t think about it like that. I’m sorry, Jimin.” Her hand finds his, squeezes, hard.

He squeezes back, lets his shoulders deflate. “It’s alright.”

She looks at him. “Is it really?”

He gets the feeling she’s not only asking about her night out with Jihye, but there is only one answer he will currently allow himself. “It’s alright, and if it’s not, it will be,” he responds with half a shrug. Before she can say anything else, he points at the bathroom behind him. “I have to get ready for a meeting. Can you stay with Jihye until the hangover’s better, please?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, hesitantly. “Good luck with the meeting.”

He hums, and she closes the door behind her.

When he opens the sliding door to the meeting room in the Arcane Hall, Cheong Eunji is standing between a few council members, looking unusually old and tired. Her skin is pale, carrying an almost green tint, and Jimin doesn’t think he has ever seen her hair pulled together so hastily. She looks up and spots him where he’s instinctively come to a halt, and her eyes immediately get wide.

“Sehoo,” she says, already making her way over to him. Jimin sees the way she’s swaying a little on her feet, and meets her halfway, hands already extended. She places trembling palms on his arms and holds on, fingers gripping the fabric of Yoongi’s sweater. “Sehoo, I’m so sorry.”

She appears ready to say something else, but Jimin is already shaking his head. His gaze is still on her, razing over the purple smudges underneath her eyes and the blue of her fingernails, the way he can feel her shaking slightly, even while holding onto him. “Sosa, are you alright?” he asks, alarmed. He has never seen her look her age so much as now, look so frail and weak.

“I’m – Sehoo, I’m really so sorry, I…,” she pauses to collect herself, and Jimin grips her tighter, in hopes to steady her. “In truth, I’m not entirely sure what happened. I was at home one minute, getting ready to make my way to Jungshimdae, and the next I know, I woke up lying on the floor, staring up into a dark room. I tried – I tried to still join you, but I was so sick I could barely get to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see it coming.”

I didn’t even see it coming.

There is something there, in the way she says it. The information, the image of this woman he has always liked waking alone and sick in a dark room out of the blue, the way she’s telling it, the way he can feel her trembling – it sends shivers down his spine, makes him all the more aware how many people there are in this room who are watching. Her, him.

He finds her eyes. “It’s alright, you can’t help that you got sick,” he says gently, hopes it will soothe the despair in her expression.

She looks at him, for a few long moments. He knows there are things she is searching for in his face, things she would like to find out but doesn’t dare ask. They know how hard their part of the ritual is when there are two people. Cheong Eunji is probably the only person who will truly know – truly understand – what it cost him, to perform it alone last night.

He gives her a nod, squeezes her arm. So many people watching. Eventually, she lowers her head, a gesture of apology, of respect for the Sehoo; a gesture he wishes she didn’t have to do.

“I’m really sorry,” she says again, voice quiet and wet.

Jimin, instead of responding, slowly guides her to one of the chairs that line the back of the room. Once she’s sitting, he slides his hands down and grasps her fingers, feels the chill in them. Holds them enveloped in his own, wishes he could kneel in front of this woman who has helped his father so many times, who has endured so much, who does not need to apologize to him for something that was not her fault.

“There is nothing to forgive, Sosa,” he says, finally, giving her hand one last squeeze.

The meeting starts after that, and outside of a discussion of the ritual and how the wards are back in place – a report that Chaewon makes with a few glances in Jimin’s direction that let him know she’s worried and probably wants to talk to him, there is nothing noteworthy at all. It slowly occurs to Jimin that the only important part of this meeting was Cheong Eunji, and that his uncle had told him the meeting was going to be important last night, directly after the ritual, before anyone had known what had happened to her.

Someone had known something, then.

His uncle had known something.

Perhaps, Jimin allows himself to think, carefully keeping the mask of the Sehoo in place – perhaps someone has done something to make the ritual happen as it did. Perhaps his uncle has done something.

As he exits the Arcane Hall, Chaewon and Eunji are waiting for him outside next to Hyunwoo, who is apparently insisting on accompanying him even more than he normally does. Jimin meets his gaze and hopes Hyunwoo can see in his face that he’s alright, at least physically.

“Sehoo.” Chaewon gives a bow, and Eunji follows suit although Jimin wishes she didn’t. “I would like to discuss the modifications of the ritual you performed last night with you and Cheong Eunji-busa, as she is the one that would have traditionally performed it with you. So far, it seems the Wards are holding up as normal, but as Guardian of Wards, I find it impertinent I make sure.”

Jimin hums. “Of course, Busa.” There are still other Council Members around, and he gestures towards the Pavilion of Records. “Should we reconvene in my father’s office, then?”

The Pavilion of Records holds only one office outside of its bigger meeting rooms, and given that today’s meeting took place in the Arcane Hall and not there, it is bound to be as empty as it can. As such, it is probably the safest place to talk under less prying eyes, although even there, they can never be entirely unguarded and honest. It is also, technically, Jimin’s as the Sehoo, although those things are murky given Kijung’s official status as Chongsa, and in reality, the office has been mostly left alone. Bar Jihye, of course; whom Jimin can only hope is still recovering from her night out in their hanok.

Chaewon and Eunji both nod, and Hyunwoo offers his elbow to Eunji, undoubtedly having noticed her state just like Jimin had. She’s still pale, although the sunlight shining down from the brilliantly blue sky seems to do her some good. For a moment, Jimin regrets having to get her inside again into his father’s office, but at least there, it’s warm and cozy. The office is indeed empty when they step inside it, and Hyunwoo stops inside the door frame.

“I will wait outside, Sehoo,” he announces, and Jimin gives a short nod as Hyunwoo draws the door closed. It’s not that he would mind Hyunwoo listening in, or that he wouldn’t be allowed to – it’s that this way, he can warn them in case someone else comes close enough to overhear.

“Sehoo,” Eunji says. She sat down immediately once they entered, and now, finally, Jimin can crouch down in front of her. Grasps her hands in both of his and finds her eyes, which are wide and worried. “How are you feeling?”

Jimin cracks a smile at the clearly troubled note in her voice. Chaewon, too, is watching him like a hawk. “It was tiring,” he admits, which is as much as he allows himself to say. “But I got some rest, and I promise I am feeling perfectly fine.” It’s true, almost.

Eunji shakes her head. “You should have never conducted that ritual alone,” she whispers. “It could have – it is not meant for one person, and it was always taxing enough for two when your father and I did it. To do it alone…”, she trails off, but they all know what lies behind her words.

“I am fine, Sosa,” Jimin only says, again, and means: There was no choice. I had no choice.

Chaewon clears her throat. “So are the Wards, Sehoo. I did the standard ritual to check this morning. There was no indicator that whatever you altered had a negative impact on the Wards.”

Jimin closes his eyes for a brief moment. “I’m glad to hear it.” He fixes his gaze back on Eunji. “Sosa, have you seen a healer yet?”

“There was no time.” She blinks at him, clearly still not satisfied. “When I woke up and was feeling well enough to move, I knew I had to inform someone. Had to see you.”

“Busa, will you take her to one after this?” Jimin bids Chaewon, and knows his tone allows no protest.

She gives an incline of her head. “Of course.”

“There is something else I have to tell you, Sehoo.” Eunji’s voice, when she speaks again, is hoarse. She has never been shy to meet his eyes, and her gaze is equally steady now, but Jimin is shocked to find her eyes glassy, tears threatening along her lash line. “I am – I am feeling better, but… whatever illness came over me weakened both my body – and my magic.” She pauses to take a breath, and Jimin’s own seems to freeze halfway down his throat. “I hope it will have recovered by the time the next Wards Renewal Ceremony is atop us, but… I cannot be sure, currently.”

Eunji closes her eyes, and a tear escapes and slips down her cheek. She is still so pale, and the wrinkles that always made her look wise and experienced now seem to speak of an anguish deeper than any Jimin could ever know to carry. Her magic. He wonders just how affected she is, how unsteady her powers must be feeling for her to even be telling him this. He knows for certain that he will never ask.

Wonders, too, which illness could have happened upon her so suddenly, disappeared again by morning and thereby rendering her useless for the exact duration of the ceremony. Which illness might leave remnants, would attack her magic to the extent that it might affect the next ceremony, too.

Across the room, he meets Chaewon’s gaze. Her jawline is hardened, her eyes wide. All blood seems to have vanished from her lips; but when their eyes meet, she nods, slow and determined and undoubtable.

“Sosa.” His throat is horribly dry, but he squeezes the hands he is still holding. “It was not your fault, and I will never hold you accountable.” He lowers his voice; speaks so quietly Chaewon, too, must be straining to hear him. “But I promise I will find who is.”

Eunji’s eyes fly open at the acknowledgement. None of them have dared say it; neither she nor Chaewon would ever have.

But Jimin – Jimin needs to, for this woman, this woman, who has stood by his father’s side for decades, who has been there for as long as he can remember, who has always been wise and full of good advice, who always had a smile for him. Who is sitting before him now, weakened and shaking, suffering for something that was not meant for her. Not really, anyway.

“Thank you, Sehoo,” Eunji whispers with tear-filled eyes, and as she does, Jimin finally allows himself to think what he has pushed away all morning, what his consciousness only now has the power to consider.

What happened last night was sabotage aimed at him at best, and at worst?

It was an attempt on his life.