The soldier and the silk Cage

“You do not belong to me… yet why does my heart kneel?”

The wind carried the scent of blood and burning myrrh through the eastern gates of Elarion — a kingdom draped in gold, decaying beneath its throne. The war had ended weeks ago, but its ghosts still roamed the palace walls, where even silence seemed to bleed.

And into this silence marched Taehyung.

His armor was blackened steel, edges dulled from a hundred battles, his face half-lit beneath the shadow of his war-helm. His jaw was set, eyes unreadable — the kind of man forged from duty, not desire.

He was called The King’s Hound, a soldier so fiercely loyal he had buried men twice his size and begged for no reward.

But he did not expect him.

Prince Jungkook.

The boy who sat on the edge of the throne like it offended him. Draped in violet silk, loose over his sculpted shoulders, he had the kind of beauty that kingdoms waged war to possess — but his eyes told another story. They did not shimmer like jewels. They stared like weapons.

Taehyung was brought before him as a reward — a decorated knight returned to the capital. Yet when his eyes met the Prince’s, there was no ceremony. No bow. Only the sudden, unbearable silence of two men who saw too much in each other.

“You do not kneel?” Jungkook asked, voice honeyed but sharp.

Taehyung’s tone was low. “I do not kneel to silk.”

Jungkook tilted his head, a small, amused scoff leaving his lips. “Careful. That silk is spun from royal blood.”

“Then I’ll stain it red,” Taehyung said. Not as a threat — but as a promise laced with something dangerous. Something electric.

The courtiers gasped, but Jungkook’s lips curved.

He liked it.

That night, Jungkook summoned him again.

In private.

The prince’s chambers were nothing like the war tents Taehyung had known. Pillars of ivory. Sheets of crushed velvet. A mirror that reached the ceiling, where moonlight painted silver across the prince’s bare chest as he leaned lazily on the edge of his bed.

“You were bold today,” Jungkook said, wine in hand, ringed fingers tracing the rim of the goblet. “Are all soldiers raised without shame?”

Taehyung’s eyes didn’t flinch from the prince’s body. “Shame is a luxury for men with no scars.”

“And do you have many?”

Taehyung stepped forward. “Would you like to count them?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Jungkook set the goblet down with a clink.

“Take your armor off.”

Taehyung’s lips twitched. “Is that an order, your highness?”

Jungkook stood, closing the space between them — close enough for Taehyung to see the way his pupils dilated.

“No,” Jungkook murmured, his voice lowering. “It’s a question.”

And Taehyung’s fingers unbuckled the metal, piece by piece, as if offering parts of himself to a man who was both sovereign and supplicant.

When his chest was bare, Jungkook’s hand rose — fingers brushing over a long scar that carved beneath his ribs. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just pressed his palm flat, feeling the warmth.

“You’re not what I expected,” he whispered.

“And what did you expect?”

“Something easier to ruin.”

Their mouths were closer now. Tension drawn tight like a bowstring. Taehyung cupped Jungkook’s jaw, thumb grazing the edge of his lips — lips that trembled even as his posture screamed dominance.

“Do you want to be ruined?” Taehyung asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

Jungkook swallowed.

“Yes.”

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