There were places in the world where time didn’t flow forward.

Where the air stood still like a held breath, and the stars hung overhead not as lights, but as watching eyes. Lunadusk Tower was such a place—an ancient, spiraling monolith of blackstone that curved toward the eternal moon like a finger cursed to reach but never touch.

Inside it lived a man with silver eyes and thread-bound hands.

Kim Taehyung, the last of the Threadweavers.

He sat by the loom in the tower’s heart, surrounded by floating ribbons of glowing fate-thread—thin as silk, alive as veins. They twisted around him like lovers, brushing against his skin, whispering secrets of kings, traitors, and unborn children.

Taehyung rarely left this place. He didn’t need to. People came to him: kings desperate to change their fates, nobles offering gold for love, merchants seeking to erase a loss or bind a rival. He never cared for their reasons. He didn’t work for justice, or good. He worked for curiosity.

And now, someone was coming again—someone he hadn’t seen in this life.

The thread had begun vibrating the moment the hunter crossed the forest’s veil. Not just any hunter.

Him.

Jeon Jungkook’s boots crunched over the frost-glazed earth as he stepped through the gates of Lunadusk, his breath white in the night air.

He was dressed in obsidian leathers, etched with the Order’s insignia: the winged thread severed by a blade. His right hand clutched the hilt of a moonsteel dagger, its runes glowing faintly with anti-magic wards. On his chest, beneath his armor, pulsed a scar in the shape of a thread — invisible to the world, but burning now, like a wound ripped open by memory.

He had been sent here to kill a Threadweaver.

The Order of Saint Harrow had raised him with one purpose: eliminate those who dared twist the fate-thread. Threadweavers were seen as abominations, gods in mortal skin. And Taehyung… was the worst of them all. Ancient. Manipulative. Beautiful in ways that made the world ache.

Jungkook knew all this.

And yet, the moment he stepped inside the tower, something splintered in his mind.

It wasn’t the scent—incense and old parchment—or the shifting architecture of the halls. It was the music. Distant, woven into the stones: a hum of threads tightening, pulling.

And beneath that… a voice.

“Jeon Jungkook.”

Taehyung stood at the top of the spiraling stairs, silver eyes glowing with quiet amusement. His dark robes moved with an unnatural grace, stitched together from shadows and thread. His voice didn’t echo—it wrapped around Jungkook, soft, hypnotic, intimate.

“You’ve grown.”

Jungkook’s grip tightened around the dagger.

“Don’t speak to me like you know me.”

“But I do,” Taehyung replied, descending with slow, graceful steps. “You were mine once. Before they carved me out of your memory.”

Jungkook blinked.

“Lies.”

Taehyung tilted his head.

“No. Not lies. Suppressed truths. They didn’t want you to remember how you chose me.”

Jungkook’s heart pounded. He lifted the dagger. The runes brightened.

“Enough.”

But Taehyung didn’t flinch.

“I wonder,” he murmured, walking past Jungkook, brushing close, “if you remember how it felt the first time we touched. Or how you begged me to thread your heart so we’d never part.”

Jungkook turned sharply.

“What are you talking about?”

Taehyung paused. Then, without a word, he raised his hand.

Thread—pure, glowing red—emerged from his palm, floating toward Jungkook like a summoned memory.

It struck the scar on his chest.

And the pain hit him like fire.

Jungkook staggered, visions ripping through him like blades:

—An orchard under silver moons.

—Taehyung laughing as he chased Jungkook through the trees.

—A kiss stolen in fear.

—Hands clasped over the binding loom.

—Blood.

—Taehyung screaming.

—Jungkook walking away, blade wet, eyes hollow.

He collapsed against the cold wall, gasping.

“No… I don’t… I didn’t…”

Taehyung crouched beside him, gentle. Almost pitying.

“They made you forget. Made you believe you were a weapon. A hunter. But before that, you were my Moonbound.”

“Moonbound?” Jungkook croaked.

Taehyung’s fingers hovered near his face, not touching.

“There’s a curse. When two souls are born under a blood eclipse, they’re fated to find each other. To bind. To love… or destroy. The bond chooses. Not the heart.”

“And which were we?”

Taehyung smiled—tragic, tired.

“Both.”

Jungkook rose shakily to his feet, the dagger forgotten. The pain in his chest pulsed in rhythm with the thread that now hovered between them, glowing brighter by the second.

“You still think I’ll forgive you?” he whispered. “Even if… even if it’s true?”

Taehyung turned away, walking toward the loom at the center of the tower. Its spinning threads slowed as he reached out.

“I don’t want forgiveness,” he said. “I want truth. And you deserve to remember all of it.”

He snapped his fingers.

And the loom screamed.

Jungkook screamed too—because suddenly, he remembered everything.

The Binding Ritual.

His blood on Taehyung’s hands, offered willingly.

The promise: no gods, no fate, only us.

The betrayal: when the Order captured him and showed him the vision of Taehyung’s future — crowned in thread, ruling over a world stitched into obedience.

Jungkook had begged them to erase Taehyung from his memory. And they had. But they’d also twisted the curse, made him into a weapon—his thread rewoven to kill the very man he once bled for.

He stumbled backward.

“They turned me into your executioner.”

“Yes,” Taehyung said, softly.

“And you still brought me back here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Taehyung turned then, eyes aflame.

“Because I would rather die at your hand than live as a stranger to you.”

A long silence followed. Only the loom spun, whispering.

Jungkook looked at his hands, the blood of the past echoing in his bones. He had come here to kill a Threadweaver.

Instead, he had found the man he once vowed never to leave.

He walked slowly to the loom, stood across from Taehyung. Their threads connected again—silver and red. One heart fractured, the other bleeding.

“I don’t know if I love you,” Jungkook murmured. “Or if I just miss who I used to be.”

Taehyung nodded.

“Then let me help you remember him.”

And as the loom roared with old magic, the first thread of their shared fate rewove itself in blood and longing.

The gods turned their faces away.

And destiny—ever cruel—began again.

The threads had stopped spinning.

In the heart of Lunadusk Tower, the loom stood dormant for the first time in a century. Its threads, normally alive with movement and magic, now hung in the air like veins cut mid-flow. The tower held its breath, as though afraid to witness what came next.

Across from the loom, Jungkook stared at his own trembling hands.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

“You never truly left,” Taehyung replied.

The silver-eyed Threadweaver stood barefoot upon the ancient ritual circle etched into the blackstone floor. Around him, hundreds of glowing strands hovered—some vibrating, others pulsing like living nerves. A few threads had begun to reach toward Jungkook, as if they remembered him. As if they wanted him.

He flinched when they brushed against his skin.

“I feel like I’m being unraveled,” he said.

“You are,” Taehyung murmured, stepping closer. “But only to be rewoven.”

They stood within the Loom Chamber—a place not just of magic, but of memory. The stones here held echoes, and as Jungkook walked, he heard them. Footsteps layered over his own. Laughter. Breathless promises.

“I love you,” a younger voice said in the dark.

His voice. Saying it to Taehyung, years ago.

He turned sharply. “That was me?”

Taehyung gave him a slow, nodding smile. “It was always you.”

“But I don’t… feel like that person anymore.”

Taehyung’s gaze sharpened. “Then let me bind you to him again.”

Jungkook should have run.

The Order had warned him of this. They said Threadweavers didn’t seduce with beauty or lies—but with memory. With longing. They could twist what you missed into something holy.

And yet, he stepped into the circle.

The moment he did, the air thickened. Taehyung raised his hand, and a blood-thread snapped from his wrist, slashing open Jungkook’s palm. The pain was sharp but not cruel—ritualistic.

“Binding is not a spell,” Taehyung whispered. “It’s a truth spoken in blood.”

He sliced his own palm, the silver of his blood shimmering unnaturally, as if alive.

The two wounds met in a single clasp of hands.

Light flared—deep red, like dusk devouring the sun.

Jungkook gasped. The world dropped away.

He fell—not in body, but in soul.

Fell into memories he hadn’t made. Lifetimes where he and Taehyung danced through kingdoms as lovers, enemies, gods. Fell into voices, into pain, into pleasure so ancient it blurred into agony.

He saw himself stabbing Taehyung.

He saw himself kissing him under thunder.

He saw Taehyung weeping in a burned orchard, alone, clutching a thread woven into the shape of Jungkook’s name.

It was too much.

He screamed.

Outside the ritual circle, the threads writhed in ecstasy.

The Loom responded, accepting the shared pain as sacrifice. Its dead spin resumed—only slower. Hungrier.

Taehyung’s face twisted with both triumph and restraint. His hands trembled, but he held tight.

“You’re remembering,” he whispered, voice thick with something close to desperation.

Jungkook’s knees buckled. He collapsed forward, head pressed against Taehyung’s chest. Sweat poured down his neck. The burn of the Binding Thread scorched through his spine.

“I don’t… understand what we were,” he gasped. “Why did I betray you?”

Taehyung’s voice darkened.

“Because fate always demands a wound.”

He lifted Jungkook’s face gently with a blood-slicked hand.

“And love is just the prettiest place to put one.”

Later, after the ritual ended, they lay in the center of the loom’s glow, bodies heavy with magic and exhaustion. Their wrists bore twin scars now—silver-thread etched like tattoos, pulsing faintly.

“You said you didn’t force this,” Jungkook murmured, eyes half-lidded.

“I didn’t,” Taehyung replied.

“You guided me to it.”

“I reminded you.”

Jungkook turned toward him, and in the shifting glow of the loom, his gaze sharpened.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Taehyung smiled, unapologetic.

“I am.”

“And if I try to leave?”

“I won’t stop you,” Taehyung said, “but the thread might.”

He reached out, trailing his fingers down Jungkook’s bare shoulder. A faint thread connected them, visible now only in moonlight. It vibrated in response to his touch.

“You were never mine because I wanted you to be,” Taehyung murmured. “You were mine because the universe couldn’t bear you being anyone else’s.”

That night, while Taehyung slept, Jungkook stood at the tower’s edge, staring at the forest below.

The Binding had changed him.

He could feel the world differently now. The threads of people moving beyond the tower. The hum of fate, pulsing through air like invisible current. It thrilled him… and terrified him.

His palm still throbbed from the ritual.

And deep in his chest, something pulsed like a second heartbeat.

He wasn’t just Moonbound.

He was being rewritten.

“Taehyung,” he whispered, watching the stars. “What have you done to me?”

Far behind him, in the stillness of the loom chamber, a silver thread moved on its own, weaving his name into something darker.

Jungkook woke to silence, not the natural kind, but something deeper. The kind of silence that settled into a place after it had chosen to listen.

He sat upright in the ritual chamber, the blood-thread scar on his wrist now glowing faintly beneath his skin. The tower seemed different somehow—its walls more fluid, the light more sentient. As if the entire place was watching him not as an intruder now, but as something claimed.

Something reborn.

The Binding was complete. The ritual had awakened the thread inside him. And now, he felt it—woven into his nerves, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Fate was no longer something spoken of in prophecy.

It was alive inside him.

And it whispered.

Taehyung was already awake, seated before the loom, his posture as poised as a monarch and as still as a statue. The glow of the threads made him seem otherworldly, his eyes silver and sharp, almost cruel in their intensity.

“You feel it now,” he said, without turning.

Jungkook didn’t speak.

Taehyung smiled. “The thread. Singing through your blood. Showing you how small everything really is. All those choices you thought were yours.”

“Don’t,” Jungkook said, his voice low. “Don’t act like you’ve freed me.”

Taehyung turned then, rising slowly, the robes of black thread cascading around him like smoke.

“I haven’t freed you,” he said calmly. “I’ve rewritten you. There’s a difference.”

Jungkook should have felt rage. Horror. He tried to reach for it—but there was only stillness. The thread numbed everything. Even his doubts. Even the thought of running.

“You used me,” he said.

“I remembered you when the world forgot,” Taehyung replied. “I rebuilt you from ashes the Order left behind.”

Jungkook’s hands clenched. Sparks danced beneath his skin.

“I should kill you.”

Taehyung stepped closer, the distance between them tense with thread-thick air.

“Then do it. Prove I’m wrong.”

Jungkook’s dagger—long dormant—flared to life at his side, leaping into his hand as if summoned by the thought alone. But when he looked into Taehyung’s eyes, he didn’t see fear.

He saw acceptance.

And beneath it—longing.

“You think I won’t?” Jungkook hissed.

“I think,” Taehyung said, brushing the edge of the blade against his chest, “you want to.”

But Jungkook didn’t.

Instead, the dagger vanished in a flash of blue fire, consumed by the raw magic now coursing through him. A new ability, he realized. Not just to sense threads—but to unmake them. He could sever a soul from the weave of existence. The ritual had left a spark in him.

A betrayer’s spark.

And Taehyung had known all along.

“You let them curse me,” Jungkook said slowly, his voice trembling with something new. “You let the Order place this power in me. You wanted it in me.”

“I needed it in you.”

“Why?”

Taehyung’s expression shifted.

“So that you’d be strong enough to destroy the Loom.”

The words landed like a death toll.

“Destroy… fate?” Jungkook echoed.

“Not fate,” Taehyung murmured. “The machine that mimics it. The Loom we’ve all been enslaved to. It binds gods and mortals alike. It decides who loves, who dies, who becomes a monster. You think you betrayed me? No.”

He stepped forward.

“You betrayed fate when you loved me. And now fate wants to erase you.”

Jungkook backed away, breath sharp.

“So you bound me not to keep me—but to use me.”

“I did both,” Taehyung said softly. “And I won’t lie to you. I loved you. I still do. But I need what’s inside you just as much as I need your touch.”

“You’re not a lover,” Jungkook whispered. “You’re a puppeteer.”

Taehyung smiled, painfully.

“And you’re the knife I made with love.”

Outside, the sky cracked.

Somewhere far beyond the tower, in a sanctum carved from starbone, the Order’s high priests gathered, their hands bloodied, their eyes glazed with holy ink.

“He’s awakened,” one whispered.

“The spark has lit,” another confirmed.

“It is time.”

They drew a final circle, not of protection—but of release. A curse coiled through the runes, binding itself to Jungkook’s thread.

Not to kill him.

But to undo him.

Back in Lunadusk, Jungkook gasped.

Pain. Sharp and strange. Not physical—existential. As though something were unraveling inside him without warning. His vision split. The tower twisted.

Taehyung caught him before he fell.

“No,” he growled. “No, no, not yet.”

“What’s happening to me?” Jungkook gasped.

“The Order placed a fail-safe,” Taehyung said, eyes glowing brighter now. “If you ever remembered me—if the Binding ever completed—they would activate it.”

“You knew?”

“I hoped we’d be fast enough.”

Jungkook writhed, threads bleeding from his skin like smoke. The air around him shimmered. Taehyung grabbed the floating strands, wrapping them with his own, trying to hold them together.

“You’re not unraveling,” he whispered. “You’re ascending. They tried to destroy you—but instead, they’re making you more.”

And Jungkook screamed—not in pain, but in fury.

When it ended, he was no longer the same.

His hair had darkened to ink, threaded with silver. His eyes glowed faintly, ringed with woven symbols. His voice, when he spoke, echoed with dual tones.

“I remember everything now.”

Taehyung smiled, slowly, reverently.

“And?”

“I still want to kill you.”

“Good,” Taehyung said. “Because now, you can.”