The morning of the Celestial Ascension arrived with a heaviness that settled in Jungkook's chest like wet sand. These imperial functions were prisons of politeness—endless cycles of nodding at powdered faces and laughing at jokes that tasted like ash. Skipping wasn't an option, not when absence meant whispers of disloyalty that could stain his family name. He dragged the silk gloves up his arms, each button at his wrist clicking into place like a tiny lock securing him into this role. The garment hanging on his wardrobe door seemed less like clothing and more like armor forged from starlight and shadows.

The outfit he had chosen for today was beautiful. The skirt rippled like ink dropped into water, asymmetrical layers floating just above his left knee before plunging into a waterfall of silver-stitched tulle on the right. The bodice hugged his ribs like a second skin, boning pressing faint bruises into his sides that he'd find later. Translucent overlays shifted from oyster-white to glacial blue as he moved, catching the light like cellophane. Someone had sewn a constellation of seed pearls along the neckline—he kept picking at them, only to stop when a thread snapped under his nail. The butterfly pinned to his shoulder was real, its wings preserved in resin. Its thorax glowed faintly, some alchemical trick that made the creature look suspended mid-flight.

The carriage smelled of mothballs and jasmine oil. Jungkook sat rigidly as it lurched forward, watching the city blur into streaks of lantern-glow through warped glass. By the time they reached the palace gates, his palms had sweated through the silk gloves. The entrance loomed—a monstrous archway of black marble veined with gold, flanked by guards whose gilded masks hid everything but their distrustful eyes.

Taehyung materialized like smoke, his brocade coat swallowing what little light the courtyard torches offered. His usual smirk dissolved when Jungkook stepped down from the carriage. For three heartbeats, the Emperor said nothing, just stared like he'd been handed a puzzle missing half its pieces. His gaze snagged on the butterfly's glowing body, the way the corset strings dug into Jungkook's back, the trembling hem of the skirt.

"Fuck," Taehyung finally muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "You're going to ruin everyone's night, you know that? No one's going to remember the damn Ascension."

Inside, the ballroom throbbed with heat and perfume. Chandeliers dripped crystal teardrops over nobles whose jewels winked like predator eyes in the gloom. Jungkook's heels sank into the carpet with every step, the plush pile threatening to swallow him whole.

Taehyung's hand stayed welded to his waist, fingers splayed wide enough to nearly touch both hip bones. When the Chancellor's wife complimented Jungkook's "whimsical little costume," Taehyung's thumb dug into his side, a silent don't that stopped him from rolling his eyes.

They escaped to the gardens when the champagne started tasting metallic. Gravel bit through Jungkook's thin slippers as they followed a path choked with night-blooming jasmine. The lake ahead mirrored the sky—not the romantic mirror from poems, but a murky void where the moon floated like a drowned coin.

Taehyung didn't kiss him so much as collide. His mouth was warm and slightly sticky from stolen desserts, his collar starch-stiff against Jungkook's cheek. When he bit down on Jungkook's lower lip, it hurt in a way that bloomed into warmth low in his gut.

Jungkook grabbed fistfuls of that stupid expensive coat, dragging him closer until Taehyung stumbled against him. They'd done this before, but never like this—never with Taehyung's breath hitching as Jungkook's nails scraped his neck, never with the lake wind turning their skin to gooseflesh.

"You're such a disaster," Taehyung mumbled against his throat, teeth finding the jump of his pulse.

Their mouths finally unstuck, Taehyung's collar was smeared with Jungkook's lip stain—a blurry crimson Rorschach test. Taehyung's shoulder dug into his temple, the gold embroidery on his coat leaving a lattice imprint on Jungkook's skin.

He didn't move.

Neither did the emperor, though his breathing hadn't steadied—still ragged, as if he'd sprinted through the palace halls.

The garden smelled of turned soil and the metallic tang of the lake. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a servant dropped a tray. Silverware clattered. Taehyung's pinky twitched against Jungkook's thigh.

The box emerged without warning. Taehyung yanked it from his inner pocket. Jungkook's neck prickled. He knew that box. In the webtoon, it had glinted in a chapter titled The Oath of Hwayoung. Now it sat between them.

"Hold still," Taehyung muttered. He pried Jungkook's hand open—the left one, still faintly ink-stained from his pens—and pressed his mouth to the center of his palm. The kiss burned. Not metaphorically. Literally burned. Jungkook hissed, yanking back. A sigil glowed red where Taehyung's lips had been.

"What the hell?"

"Precaution." Taehyung flipped the box open. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a ring. Not dainty. Not romantic. It looked like something a blacksmith had forged during a bender—squat iron band, a jagged blue stone that pulsed like a lazy heartbeat. Jungkook's gut twisted. In the story, this thing had electrocuted three assassins.

Taehyung jammed it onto Jungkook's finger before he could protest. The metal bit into his knuckle, cold as a subway pole in winter. "It's tuned to my blood," he said, avoiding Jungkook's eyes. "If your pulse spikes—fear, rage, whatever—it'll heat up. Twist it clockwise, and I'll find you. Counter-clockwise, and it'll fry anything touching you. Tested it on a boar last week. Crispy."

Jungkook flexed his hand. The stone flickered. He wondered if Taehyung could feel it too—that phantom thrum, like a phone vibrating in a pocket.

"Why?" The question came out brittle.

Taehyung scrubbed a hand over his face. "You're my fiance. Makes you a target."

Jungkook's throat tightened. Last week, he'd forgotten his apartment number from the real world. Yesterday, he'd forgotten his Mingyu's face. Not faded—gone, like someone had snipped the memory loose. He'd panicked, drawn his nose wrong three times before tearing the page. The gaps were widening, cracks swallowing chunks of himself.

Taehyung leaned in, forehead knocking against his. His breath smelled of bitter coffee and the anise candies he sucked during council meetings. "Just let me keep you safe. Okay?"

Safe. The word curdled. Safety here meant forgetting. Meant waking up with fewer real-world moles on his skin, his Seoul accent smoothing into their courtly lilt. But Taehyung's thumb was rubbing the hinge of his jaw, and Jungkook's traitorous ribs softened.

He kissed him instead of answering. Let the ring's cold weight press between their palms. When Taehyung groaned, low and relieved, Jungkook pretended not to notice the tremor in his own hands.