Chapter Text
Star-crossed lovers and other hazards
🔥
The carriage jolted forward with a groan of wood and iron, its wheels biting into the damp earth of the Eastern road. Horses snorted in the chill air, their breath rising like pale smoke against the dawn. Jisung sat pressed against the worn leather seat, the rhythm of hooves drumming beneath him, steady yet restless, as though even the animals sensed the weight of where they were headed. It felt heavy to Jisung too, he sympathise with the animals that bore the weight of three people shouldering lot of heavier burdens.
The land stretched wide and solemn outside the window - rolling fields silvered with dew, forests crouching in shadow, and the faint shimmer of rivers winding like veins through the kingdoms. Above it all, the sky was vast and unbroken, a canvas waiting for the dragons that would soon descend. Jisung had never seen them with his own eyes , not truly, only heard the stories, scales like molten stars, wings that eclipsed the sun, eyes that burned with a wisdom older than kings. To him, they were nightmares given form, war embodied in flesh and fire.
King Bangchan sat opposite, his hands clasped too tightly, knuckles pale against the dim light. Jisung had never seen his sovereign so unsettled. Bangchan, the fearless, the unyielding, now fidgeting as though the silence itself pressed too heavily upon him. It made Jisung’s stomach twist. If the King faltered, what hope did the rest of them have?
Beside him, Jeongin looked worse still. The young advisor’s eyes were ringed with exhaustion, his posture slumped, his breath shallow. He had not slept, Jisung knew, and the strain of guiding a kingdom through fragile negotiations had carved hollows into his face. His pretty foxy eyes looked exhausted beyond his years and his orange red hair was limp and greasy. For all time Jisung had known Yang Jeongin a greasy haired Jeongin meant a stressed Jeongin.
And Jisung, he was the magician, the healer, the lone bearer of the court’s arcane craft. Outstanding, they called him, though the word felt like a burden now. He was no warrior, no dragon rider, only a man with magic stitched into his veins and the fragile hope that they might be enough.
Ahead lay the peace meeting, the first ever offered by the dragon riders of the Western Kingdom, war-driven people who had never bent to treaties, never spoken of truce. Dragons of West would soar through the skies of East, North, South, and Central giving a reminder of power untamed. Jisung’s heart thudded with dread. He had healed wounds carved by war, but he had never stood before the creatures who made them. And if the wounds were something to go by he was glad he had never been in presence of the beasts.
The carriage rattled on, carrying them toward a destiny that felt heavier than the dawn itself. The carriage swayed as the horses pressed on, their hooves striking sparks against the stone road. Jisung’s mind was restless, circling the truth he wished he could ignore, this treaty was not simply words of peace, but a marriage. King Bangchan was to offer himself to the clan leader of the Western dragon riders, a man whose name remained hidden, a shadow in rumor. Jisung tried to picture him, but all he could summon was a brutal figure with a beard, the kind of hardened warrior face that matched every tale he had read.
The dragon riders were unlike any people of the East. They were astral beings in flesh, their dragons soaring from North, South, East, and Central, filling the skies by day and night. They had never spoken of peace before, only war, and Jisung’s studies had filled his imagination with their beasts, fire dragons, long and merciless, their flames said to devour armies, speed dragons, sleek and swift, darting through the heavens faster than arrows, smoke dragons, cloaked in shadow, their riders were rumoured to be people, who bent the battlefield with illusions.
The new clan leader was said to command a fire dragon, the most brutal of them all. And he was never alone. Two figures always flanked him, a blonde rider astride a speed dragon, his presence as sharp as lightning, and a masked man upon a smoke dragon, a rumoured magician whose face was never seen. Together they were a perfect trio, flame, speed, and shadow , an embodiment of everything Jisung feared.
He glanced at Channie hyung , who shifted uneasily, fingers tapping against his knee. To see his fearless hyung fidget was unsettling, a crack in the armor Jisung had always trusted. Jeongin, pale and hollow-eyed, looked worse still, his youth worn thin by sleepless nights of counsel.
And Jisung himself, the sole magician of the Eastern court, healer and helper, he felt the weight of expectation pressing down. He was no warrior, no dragon rider, yet here he was, carried toward a treaty that might bind his king to a man who commanded fire itself.
The horizon seemed to burn with the thought of dragons waiting, and Jisung could not tell if it was dawn’s light or the promise of flame.
....
The carriage rolled to a halt at the clearing, and Jisung felt the air shift, thick with expectation, heavy with the weight of kingdoms gathered. The place had been arranged with deliberate care, a round table at the center, five chairs set for the representatives of the five kingdoms, smaller podiums and benches scattered around for attendants and guards. It was meant to look orderly, diplomatic, but to Jisung it felt like a stage where something dangerous was about to be performed.
The North had sent General Seo Changbin, his presence as solid and immovable as the mountains he hailed from. The South had offered Prince Hyunjin, whose languid grace Jisung despised with a passion, every glance from him seemed sharpened, every word dipped in arrogance. The Central Kingdom had not come at all. Their lands bore the deepest scars from dragon fire, their people unforgiving, and their absence was a wound that throbbed in the silence.
Bangchan, King of the East, was seated as chief of the summit, as he was the one West reached to forge the marriage deal. Jisung watched him take his place at the head of the table, his posture straight but his hands betraying a nervous tremor. Seeing that made Jisung’s own chest tighten.
The chairs filled, the air thickened, and Jisung could not shake the image of what was to come, the fire dragon’s master, the unknown clan leader, stepping into this circle with his two shadows, the blonde speed rider and the masked magician of smoke. A perfect trio, flame and speed and shadow, bound together in power. Jisung’s stomach knotted,.
The treaty was about to begin, and the dragons had yet to arrive. But already, Jisung could feel their presence pressing against the horizon, as if the sky itself was waiting to split open.
Jisung felt it before he saw it, the strange firelike burning sensation threading through his bones, a pulse of light and warmth that was not his own. He had read of the magician’s connection to dragons, the way their presence stirred hidden veins of power, but this was the first time he had truly felt it. It was liberating, as though a door inside him had opened, a breakthrough he had not expected. His fatigue lifted, his body eased, and for a fleeting moment he felt whole, rested and alive.
Then the ground trembled. Guards clutched to their spears in shock, and even other guests stirred. Hyunjin, of course, Hwang Hyunjin, the South’s second prince, the fire magician, irritating as ever, was the first to stand, his eyes gleaming with recognition. Jisung all but screamed when the sky split open and a giant blood red dragon descended, its wings blotting out the sun, its scales like burning molten iron.
The beast landed with a thunderous crash just beyond the circle table, the earth scorched beneath its claws. And from its back, with a swiftness that made Jisung’s breath catch, a rider dropped to the ground. He was no imagined brute with a beard, but something far more commanding, a figure whose presence seemed to bend the air itself. The dragon’s breath steamed around him, curling like smoke, and the summit’s careful order shattered in an instant.
Jisung’s heart hammered. This was the clan leader of the West—the fire dragon’s master, the one Bangchan hyung was meant to marry. And with his arrival, the peace treaty had begun not with words, but with lot of intimidation.
The guards of every kingdom stiffened, hands on hilts and spears, though Jisung knew it would make little difference against the beast that had just landed. The red dragon’s breath rolled across the clearing like smoke from a forge, its claws gouging deep into the earth. The rider moved with unnerving calm, unclasping his cloak and dropping it onto the pouch strapped to the dragon’s leg.
The sound of fabric falling was nothing compared to the gasp that followed. Every representative, every attendant, every guard drew in breath as the rider lifted his head. Jisung’s own lungs seized. He had expected a brute, a scarred warrior with a beard, but what stood before them was a young man, his hair white, threaded with lightish glistening colors that caught the light like fairy fire. His face was youthful, almost delicate, and so strikingly beautiful that Jisung’s mind faltered.
The dragon rider’s black leather armor clung to him like shadow, sleek and severe, marking him unmistakably as one of the West. Yet there was nothing brutish about him. He looked like someone carved from starlight and steel, a contradiction that made Jisung’s heart pound harder than the dragon’s landing ever had.
Around the table, the peace leaders held their ground, though unease rippled through them. The guards were ready to fight at any command, but Jisung knew their blades would be useless against flame. He could feel the burning sensation still humming in his bones, stronger now, as though the dragon’s presence had awakened something inside him. It was terrifying, liberating, and impossible to ignore.
This was the clan leader of the West, the one Bangchan was meant to marry. And with his face revealed, the summit had shifted. The treaty was no longer just politics, it was a collision of fear, beauty, and power.
The fire dragon’s master stood in the clearing, his white hair shimmering faintly with colors that caught the light like fragments of starlight. He was beautiful, impossibly young, and yet the weight of his presence pressed down on the summit like a storm. But Jisung could not shake the sense that he was not alone. Somewhere above, veiled in shadow, the masked magician lingered, unseen but felt, his dragon cloaked in mist.
The guards shifted uneasily, their eyes darting to the sky. Even Hyunjin, arrogant as ever, faltered for a moment, Jisung could feel his fire magic flickering at his fingertips as though he too sensed the unseen presence. Jisung’s own bones hummed with that firefly sensation, stronger now, threaded with unease. It was as if the dragons themselves were weaving into him, pulling at his magic, testing its strength.
The summit table stood firm, the leaders holding their ground, but Jisung knew the balance was fragile. The fire dragon’s master had revealed himself, and the shadow rider was near. The trio was not yet complete, but the air already felt too heavy, too charged, as though the peace they had come to forge might ignite into flame at any moment.
🐺
Bangchan sat rigid at the head of the table, the clearing alive with tension, every guard bristling, every leader holding their ground. He had prepared himself for a brute, a scarred warrior with a beard, the kind of figure who matched the bloody tales of dragon riders. But when the fire dragon’s master dropped his cloak onto the saddle and stepped forward, Bangchan’s breath faltered.
The young man’s hair was white, shimmering with strange glints of color that caught the light. His face was youthful, almost delicate, with a feline grace that unsettled Bangchan more than any scar could have. He was beautiful, too beautiful for the image Bangchan had carried of a ruthless killer, a merciless warrior. And yet, beneath that beauty, Bangchan could feel the sharpness of steel, the quiet danger of someone who commanded death without hesitation.
The dragon loomed behind him, its breath steaming, its claws gouging the earth, but all eyes were fixed on the rider as he took his seat at Bangchan’s right. The leather of his armor gleamed black, severe and elegant, marking him unmistakably as one of the West. Bangchan’s chest tightened, his fingers twitching against the table. This was the man he was meant to marry, the clan leader of the West, the one whose name had been whispered in dread and rumor.
And then, with a voice smooth and certain, the young man spoke.
“Lee Minho of the West.”
The name rang through the clearing, heavy with meaning. Bangchan stared, his fearless façade cracking as he tried to reconcile the contradiction before him, the bloody killer, the merciless dragon rider, and yet a youth with glittering hair and a face that seemed carved from starlight. His to-be husband, his enemy, his fate.
The summit had begun, and Bangchan could not decide if the peace he was meant to forge had already slipped beyond his grasp.
....
Bangchan’s patience was fraying. He had expected difficulty, but Lee Minho was proving impossible. Every proposal laid before him, every clause, every compromise, was met with a flat refusal. No to trade routes, no to shared patrols, no to resource exchanges. It was as if the young clan leader had been given strict rules, never agree, never yield. And Bangchan, seated as chief of the summit, could feel frustration clawing at his composure.
Lee Minho seemed to care for nothing but the marriage. His eyes, sharp and glittering beneath that strange white hair, slid past every other matter as though they were dust. When Bangchan pressed him about the Central Kingdom, about the devastation they had suffered and the need for reconciliation, Minho only flicked his shimmering hair with a sassy grace and said, “As long as they hunt my dragons, I will be at war with them. Stop it, and I will not burn their cities.”
The words were delivered with casual cruelty, as if the fate of thousands were no more than a game. Bangchan’s jaw tightened. He knew the West’s attitude toward dragons, pets, companions, symbols of pride. But to the rest of the kingdoms, dragon blood was a commodity, coveted for its rare properties, its allure, its power to heal the on going plague that was worsening as they speak. And dragon blood could not be gained easily in abundance without killing the creatures. That truth had fuelled wars, greed, and devastation.
Bangchan’s frustration deepened. He had come here to forge peace, to bind his kingdom to the West through marriage, but Minho’s indifference to everything else gnawed at him. The young man was beautiful, yes, with his glittering hair and feline grace, but beneath that face was a killer, a leader who valued dragons above all else, even human lives.
The summit table trembled with tension, guards shifting and bristling, and Bangchan sat at its center, staring at the man who was both his enemy and his future. Peace was meant to be born here, but all he could feel was the heat of fire and the weight of blood.
The peace meeting dragged on, the air thick with tension and fatigue. Suggestions circled the table, Hwang Hyunjin’s voice cutting through with his polished tone as he spoke of the South. They had been the least scarred by dragon raids, yet their reliance on Central’s dragon blood was undeniable, blood that had become medicine, a cure for spreading plague , a lifeline for their people.
Lee Minho’s eyes, sharply bore into Hyunjin. The long strands of the prince’s hair, his golden earrings catching the light, seemed to amuse him. “You’re a magician,” Minho said, his voice laced with disdain. “Such a lame thing. A fire elemental, yet you cling to dragon killers. You have no love for your own roots.”
Bangchan sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. It was clear Minho believed in a world of nonsense, fantasies about magicians being descendants of dragons, about bloodlines tied to flame and sky. Bangchan knew better. Magicians were anomalies, rare sparks in the world, tolerated in some kingdoms only because of their eternal service to royals. In most lands, they were hunted, feared, erased. The world was cruel to dragons and magicians alike, and Bangchan had long accepted that truth.
But Minho… Minho was different. He spoke as though he believed in something greater, a world where dragons were not slaughtered for their blood, where magicians were not hunted for their gifts. To Bangchan, it was naïve, a fantasy lover’s dream of an ideal world. Yet the conviction in his voice, the fire in his eyes, made it impossible to dismiss him entirely.
The summit dragged on, words clashing like blades, but Bangchan could not shake the thought that Lee Minho was not here to negotiate peace. He was here to secure his marriage, to bind the East to the West, and to protect his dragons at any cost. And Bangchan, caught between duty and disbelief, felt the weight of that truth pressing harder with every breath.
Bangchan’s eyes had just flicked to Jeongin, watching the boy’s tired hand scratch notes across parchment, when the sharp hiss of an arrow split the air. It landed with a thud beside Minho’s hand, so close the wood splintered against the table. Bangchan leapt to his feet, the entire circle of peace leaders rising with him, guards bristling, blades half-drawn.
Lee Minho did not flinch. He plucked the arrow free, holding up the small scrap of green cloth tied to its shaft. The sight made Bangchan’s stomach drop. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, “the Central Kingdom is attacking.”
But Minho only gave the table a long, disappointed stare, his expression unreadable. “So it was just some trick to kill me, hah,” he murmured, almost amused. His dragon swept him up in a rush of wings, and before Bangchan could shout, the air was filled with the shriek of arrows. They rained down, slicing through the sky, and then suddenly the mist descended, in thick, suffocating waves that swallowed the clearing whole.
Bangchan’s heart pounded as the world vanished. He could hear the heavy breathing of dragons, the rush of wings, but he could see nothing. The mist pressed in, cold and blinding, until the sound of the beasts faded. And then, suddenly, it was gone.
He stood alone in the clearing, the circle of leaders scattered, the table stripped of its order. Around him lay piles of ice laden arrows, glittering shards that had pierced the ground. His breath caught as his eyes darted to where Jisung had been standing only moments ago. The space was empty.
Han Jisung was gone.
🔥
Jisung had been half-listening to Bangchan’s voice, steady but strained as he spoke with the Western clan leader, when the world shifted. It began with a pulse, magic filling the space, thick and alive, pressing against his skin like a tide. He barely had time to register the sensation before the clearing was swallowed in mist, heavy and suffocating, blinding every eye.
Then an arm swept him up. It was sudden, fierce, and before he could even cry out, his body went light, fuzzy, as though the ground had vanished beneath him. He blinked, and in that haze he met a pair of dark, black eyes—eyes that held him for a heartbeat too long, before the sensation of flowing air embraced him, carrying him away.
The mist churned, arrows hissed through the air, and Jisung saw soldiers fall through the mist . They dropped from the trees surrounding the clearing, bows still clutched in their hands, their bodies crumpling as if struck by invisible force. The sound of arrows was replaced by the thud of bodies, the clash of steel against earth, and then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
The mist lifted. The clearing returned. But Jisung was no longer where he had been. He was somewhere else, held by that shadowy presence, the memory of those black eyes burning in his mind. And where he had stood seconds ago, there was nothing but empty ground, littered with arrows, weighed down by ice.
Bangchan’s voice was lost to him now. The summit, the table, the leaders, all blurred into distance. Jisung’s world had narrowed to the echo of dragons’ breath, the fall of soldiers, and the mystery of who had taken him.
...
Jisung’s senses returned in fragments, he felt the rush of wind, the sting of cold air, the hard press of leather beneath him. He blinked, realizing he was strapped tight against a dragon rider’s back, a belt fastened across his waist and crisscross his shoulders to keep him bound. The saddle rocked beneath them, the dragon’s muscles shifting with each beat of its wings, and the sky stretched endless above and below.
“Don’t move too much,” the rider’s voice came, soft and nasally, vibrating through the leather of his armour. “You don’t want to go down the hard way.”
Jisung swallowed, his breath catching as he steadied his eyes. Ahead, the massive silhouette of the red dragon cut through the clouds, its scales glinting like molten stone. The sound of wings thundered in his ears, but beneath it, softer, quicker, came another rhythm, the whispering rush of air that could only belong to the speed dragon. Somewhere nearby, darting through the mist, its rider kept pace.
Jisung’s heart pounder, helpless. He had been swept from the summit in an instant, carried into the sky by someone whose dark eyes still burned in his memory. Now, bound and helpless, he was caught between beasts of fire and speed, the world below vanishing into mist and distance.
The rider’s presence was steady, unyielding, and Jisung could feel the pulse of magic humming through the air, stronger than ever. He was no longer just a spectator at a peace table, he was in the hands of the dragon riders themselves.
The world below had vanished, and the sky had claimed him.
Jisung didn’t dare move. The ground was gone beneath him, swallowed by clouds, and the air was so cold it bit into his skin, freezing him to the bone. His breath came out in sharp bursts, trembling, and he almost screamed when the rider, who he now suspected was one of the clan leader’s minions, the magician, shifted.
The man let go of the reins with unnerving ease, as though the dragon needed no guidance, and moved forward, carrying Jisung with him since they were bound together. Jisung felt every vibration through the rider’s leather armor, the steady rhythm of his breath, the calmness that seemed to seep into him despite the terror clawing at his chest.
Then, gently, almost tenderly, the rider dropped a heavy cloak over Jisung’s shoulders. The fabric was warm, thick, and it wrapped around him like a shield against the biting cold. Jisung’s heart stuttered. He lifted his eyes again, steadying them against the dizzying height.
Jisung’s body was bound, his fate uncertain, but for the first time since the chaos began, he felt something strange, a fragile thread of safety, woven by the cloak, the rider’s voice, and the steady beat of wings carrying him higher into the cold sky.
....
Jisung gasped so loudly his throat burned. They had arrived in the West Kingdom, somewhere no outsider had ever seen, because only dragons could carry you up here. There were no roads, no paths, no mortal way to reach it. The sight stole his breath.
The kingdom was not vast like the East or South, nor sprawling like the North. It was more like a single city, a fortified village carved of stone and frozen in snow. Towers rose like jagged teeth, walls glistened with frost, and everywhere, literally everywhere, dragons moved. Perched on rooftops, circling the skies, resting in courtyards. It was not small by any means, but it was not a grand empire either. It was a kingdom built around dragons, and nothing else.
They descended too fast. Jisung screamed as the dragon nearly clipped a tall tower in the middle of the fort, the stone spire rushing past so close he thought they would crash. But the rider did not falter. They kept going, banking hard, speeding toward a corner of the fortress that looked more like a castle than a village. The wind tore at Jisung’s face, his cloak whipping around him, and then, suddenly, they landed.
The dragon’s claws struck a wide stone field atop one of the fortress buildings. The impact rattled Jisung’s bones, but the rider held him steady, the belt binding them tight. Ahead, the red dragon was already there, its massive body curling into the courtyard, smoke rising from its nostrils as it settled.
Jisung’s heart thundered. He had been swept from the summit, carried through mist and sky, and now he was here, in the heart of the West, surrounded by dragons, bound to a rider whose face he had not yet seen. Jisung blinked hard, the cold air still biting at his cheeks, and when his vision cleared he nearly lost his breath.
Right in front of him, close enough that he could see the shimmer of his strange hair, was the clan leader himself, Lee Minho. His face was impossibly pretty, sharp yet youthful, and Jisung felt his stomach twist at the realization that he was staring directly at him. Unblinking.
“Why did you take him, Seungmin? What is this thing?” Lee Minho’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.
Jisung’s throat tightened. Not a thing, he wanted to protest, the words burning at the back of his tongue. But he kept his mouth shut. He was in the West Kingdom now, surrounded by dragons, standing before their leader. Arguing here would be suicide.
Seungmin, the rider who had carried him through the mist, huffed. His mask hid most of his face, but Jisung could feel the weight of his presence, the calm steadiness that had soothed him even in the chaos. “He’s a magician,” Seungmin said simply, his voice low but firm. “I want him.”
The red dragon shifted behind Minho, its massive body curling protectively, smoke rings keep rising from its nostrils. The fortress stones trembled under its weight, and Jisung’s heart hammered. He was caught between the clan leader’s piercing gaze and Seungmin’s quiet claim, bound in a place no outsider had ever reached.
Lee Minho’s eyes narrowed, glittering with disappointment and curiosity all at once. Jisung felt the air grow heavier, as though the dragons themselves were listening.
The whisper of wings cut through the cold air as the speed dragon darted past, its rider dropping lightly beside the lowered smoke dragon. Jisung’s heart lurched, another figure, blonde, graceful, with a face so angelic it seemed almost elven, had joined them.
“Lixie,” Lee Minho muttered, his tone sharp, yet almost whining, “see your annoying friend has gotten us a guest.”
Jisung nearly thought he was already dead, the way the clan leader’s words hung in the air. But Seungmin, his kidnapper, for the loss of a better word, only huffed, still loosening the straps that had bound Jisung to him. The magician’s calm was unshaken, his presence steady even under Minho’s piercing gaze.
The blonde rider—Lixie—stepped closer, his expression soft, almost playful, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “If Seungminnie wants, he gets it,” he said, voice lilting with amusement. He leaned in, close enough that Jisung could feel the weight of his attention. “Who are you, sweetie?”
Jisung’s breath caught, his throat tight with the urge to protest, to declare he was not some prize to be claimed. But the words stuck, frozen by fear and awe. Seungmin’s hands stopped fumbling with the buckles as he worked on the straps that had bound Jisung tight. With a sharp tug, the belt loosened, and Jisung stumbled free, his body still trembling from the flight.
Lee Minho huffed back, flicking his glittering hair with feline grace. “Whatever. Just don’t kill him.”
Jisung’s mind reeled. He couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t believe the casual way they spoke of him, as if he were nothing more than a guest, a possession, a curiosity. Bound in the heart of the West, surrounded by dragons and riders, he felt the weight of their world pressing down on him, and for the first time, he wondered if he would ever see his own kingdom again.
...