Chapter Text
The kitchen smelled of citrus, sweat, and salt.
Minho exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose before typing another number in his tablet. His vision suddenly blurred, and his head throbbed. He blinked hard to get them clear again. Another crate of carrots counted. Another deep breath.
"...ung. Hyung!"
Minho startled, tablet almost slipping from his fingers. He turned to find Felix approaching with concern etched across his freckled face.
“Yeah, Lixie?”
Felix didn’t answer immediately. He just wrapped his arms tightly around Minho with a sound somewhere between a grunt and a pleased sigh. Minho set the tablet down onto a nearby crate and let himself sink into the embrace, pressing his face into the curve of Felix’s neck.
“Feeling better now?” Felix’s voice was barely above a whisper, muffled against Minho’s shoulder.
Minho hummed, pressing a soft kiss to Felix’s neck.
The familiar scent of peach lingered faintly, filtered through the standard scent patch Felix wore for work. Minho wished he weren’t wearing it. Wished he could breathe in Felix, not the lab-safe artificial approximation. But for now, this was enough.
“You didn’t respond to me calling you the first two times. And you’re walking around like a zombie.” Felix continued, rubbing his cheek on the fabric of Minho's shoulder.
Minho exhaled through his nose, a soft, evasive sound. “Long day. That’s all.”
Felix hummed and tucked himself in closer, the crown of his head resting beneath Minho’s chin. His blond hair, loose from the braid Hyunjin had done that morning, tickled Minho's cheek.
They had barely sat down all day. The weariness hung between them like steam rising off a kettle, felt but unspoken.
Felix didn’t press the point. He didn’t need to.
The Grand Duke’s kitchen, grand as it was, had become a battlefield tonight. A last-minute visit from mysterious VIP guests had thrown the entire household into chaos. Twelve nobles, including five unfamiliar ones who arrived unannounced, expecting a gourmet feast fit for deities within two hours.
It was absurd.
Minho had made it work, of course. Because that’s what he did. But even generals grow weary.
He looked around the now-pristine kitchen. His chefs had cleaned up admirably before he dismissed them to rest. All except Felix, a more stubborn man than Minho, who insisted he helped Minho with closing duties before clocking out.
"I fucking hate nobles," Felix grumbled.
Minho chuckled bewilderedly. "Oh?"
Felix tightened his hug. "They didn’t even give Namjoon-nim a day’s notice! It’s like they expect miracles."
"It’s what we do best."
Felix huffed. "That’s not the point. Nobles just suck."
Minho smiled faintly, placing a fond, fond kiss on Felix’s hairline.
Knock, knock.
They both turned. Minhyuk, the Grand Duke’s butler, stood at the kitchen entrance.
"Pardon the intrusion," he said with a bow. "Chef Lee, your presence is requested in the dining hall."
Felix and Minho blinked at him in unison. Still hugging.
"Oh, I meant the Head Chef Lee."
Minho groaned immediately, dramatically throwing his head back. "Really? Now?"
Felix laughed. "Have fun, Head Chef." He poked at Minho’s cheek.
Minho smacked his omega on the ass before letting go. Felix yelped, scandalised.
"We’re on the clock," Minhyuk scolded, though his eyes sparkled.
"Loosen up, hyung. You act like you were born with a stick up your a-"
"Yah. Respect your elders, brat."
Felix snorted.
Minho reached for his tablet. Felix snatched it.
"I’ll finish the inventory. You go."
"Lix-"
Felix kissed him. Firm. Sure. Then he smiled. "I got this. Go play nice with the fancy nobles."
Minho stared at him a moment, eyes full of pride. Then he kissed him back, just as firm.
"Thank you."
---
Minho followed Minhyuk up the marbled stairs, still brushing invisible specks from his shirt.
"My uniform is stained, and my hair looks like birds fucked in it.” Minho fussed with his hair, powdery flour falling from it as he brushed it with his hand. “Why now?"
"Because one of the guests was especially insistent on meeting the culinary genius behind the Beef Wellington."
Minho winced. “Please tell me it’s not some food critic.”
Minhyuk snorted. “No, it’s not. I'd never do that to you.”
Minho shot him a glare.
Minhyuk only grinned. “Relax. No critic. Just someone very important who was apparently moved to tears by your Beef Wellington. Or maybe they just bit into a peppercorn too hard. Who can say?”
Minho groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“You should be flattered,” Minhyuk said, stepping lightly up the next stair, “They insisted on meeting you.”
Minho muttered, “I’m ten seconds away from throwing myself down these stairs.”
“Do that after.”
They stopped in front of the massive dining hall doors.
Minho’s eyes flicked to the intricate carvings: one door bore the Dragon, the other the Wolf, both encased in a single large circle, symbolising unity. Two great shapeshifters of legend, the founders of Levanter.
A familiar ache stirred in Minho’s chest.
"So, who are the guests?" he asked.
“Guests of importance,” Minhyuk replied smoothly. “The Grand Duke would like to present them himself.”
Minhyuk stepped aside as the guards opened the doors. With a low grunt of effort, the heavy oak doors creaked open, a slow, resonant sound like a warning bell dragged across stone.
Minho gave him a sideways glance.
But Minhyuk, irritatingly, just smiled and offered a shallow bow as Minho stepped forward.
The doors parted.
And the world shifted.
The Grand Duke’s dining hall was nothing short of breathtaking. A cavernous chamber bathed in soft golden light, refracted through stained glass skylights that stretched high into the vaulted ceiling. At its heart stood a long obsidian table, inlaid with curling dragon and wolf motifs rendered in mother-of-pearl. A chandelier hung in staggered tiers overhead, flickering like stars on a windless night.
But Minho saw none of it.
Because, across the banquet table, a cluster of painfully familiar faces turned toward him.
Han Jisung, Kim Seungmin, Seo Changbin and Yang Jeongin. And they all looked as shocked as he felt.
They had been his brothers once. His only family after his dam passed.
Until they decided not to be.
The pain of what they’d done lurked just beneath the surface. But this wasn’t the time. Not yet.
"Minho," said the Grand Duke, his deep voice warm, "allow me to introduce you to Levanter’s King, Bang Christopher Chan and his Royal pack."
Minho didn’t hear Namjoon’s continued introduction, nor Hoseok’s delighted praise of the food. The soft chorus of greetings from the Grand Duke’s pack, even the clink of silver on porcelain, all of it dulled to a low roar beneath the blood in his ears.
Levanter's King, Bang Christopher Chan.
Minho’s gaze stilled.
The King was seated at the head of the table.
Regal in his tailored black and gold, lapel catching candlelight.
A king before twenty-six. A sovereign, a ruler, an alpha to a nation.
Minho felt the world tilt.
Of course it would be him.
Of course he was here.
The universe really didn’t know how to quit while it was ahead. Drag him back, shove him in front of the boy who’d broken him like it was a hobby, and then top it all off with a crown because Minho was their favourite throw toy.
And yes, naturally, the golden heir was now a king.
Minho had always known Chan would end up on the throne. He just didn’t expect to be summoned back into his orbit like some tragic punchline. Meanwhile, he, a cook’s son with nothing but calluses and spite, had clawed his way up with grit, grease, and sheer fucking nerve.
Chan didn’t speak, and Minho hated him.
He just looked at Minho like he didn’t dare blink. Minho didn’t move either. The breath he took burned all the way down.
He felt twelve kinds of stupid for reacting at all.
Thank the stars for scent patches. Without them, the room would already reek of everything he was trying not to feel.
He’d rehearsed this moment for years. The cool nod, the blank face, the perfect professionalism. He’d planned for every outcome, every reaction.
Except the one where Chan still looked at him like that.
His eyes, his lips, his hands. Minho wondered if they were the same. Minho wanted to touch him. Kiss him. Maybe shout and scream and cry and murder him. But he remained still. Detached. Like polished marble, because Minho had learned to survive in the wreckage.
And if Chan saw even a flicker of the pain he’d caused, then seven years of clawing himself whole would’ve meant nothing.
He could still hear Namjoon talking faintly in the background, introducing the Royal Pack to Minho, like the cruel irony it was. He let his eyes skim past Chan like he was nothing more than a warm body in a cold room.
He straightened his posture, tilted his chin upward just enough to look composed, untouchable, imperial in his stillness as Namjoon finished talking.
Then, he bowed because he was always supposed to.
When he rose, his voice came smooth and clean like a blade:
“Your Majesties. The Grand Duke's kitchen is honoured to serve you.”
A slight flicker in Chan’s gaze. Like he'd hoped for something more — or less.
The alpha smiled that practised royal smile anyway, like he was trying to outmatch Minho in his indifference.
“It was exquisite,” he said, ever so proper. The first words addressed to Minho in seven years. “You have an extraordinary gift.”
Minho returned the smile. “Thank you.”
“Exquisite is right,” Hoseok chimed in from down the table, grinning. “I nearly cried into my wine. You’re spoiling us, Minho.”
“Oh, please,” said Taehyung, leaning lazily on one elbow. “He spoils us every night." He turned to Changbin, who was seated next to him. "You should try his seafood stew. Life-changing.” Changbin only twitched his mouth into a smile in response.
“Is it the one we had last Tuesday?” Jin added, eyes lighting up. “Gods, I still dream about that broth.”
Chan's expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tension at the corner of his mouth. No one but Minho noticed.
“I’ve been thinking about the palace banquet in two months,” Chan said suddenly, voice light but precise. “My birthday approaches, and tradition insists on a celebration.”
The room quieted down as the King spoke.
Chan’s tone dipped slightly, the smile on his lips steady. “For this year’s celebration, I’m looking for something more intimate. Something that reflects not just grandeur, but memory. And after tonight, it’s clear your cuisine offers a depth I haven’t found elsewhere.”
Minho dipped his head again, polite but distant. “That’s kind of you to say, Your Majesty.”
Another beat.
“Therefore,” Chan continued, “I would like to invite Chef Lee to the palace to oversee the preparations.”
The room stilled.
Minho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides. His face stayed smooth, impassive. But something flickered, too fast for most to catch. Heat rose to his neck.
This was a game, and Minho’d be damned if he fucking lost. If he moved now, even an inch, the whole dam would crack.
“Oh,” Jimin said lightly, too quickly, breaking the hush. “That’s... generous.” while Jungkook said, "That's a bit sudden." at the same time. Someone hissed Jungkook's name in warning.
"With respect, your Majesty, our Minho has been serving this kitchen for the last five years." Yoongi began. "Perhaps-"
Before Chan could respond, Namjoon placed a calming hand on the table. “Perhaps,” he said gently, “Minho may take the evening to consider. The final decision is his, after all. He may wish to consult with his pack.”
"Pack?" Jisung blurted so suddenly that Minho flinched a bit. Jisung clapped his hand over his mouth, earning him a few confused stares from the Grand Duke's pack.
Minho caught Chan’s faint twitch.
Good.
Seungmin and Changbin stiffened in their seats.
And Jeongin.
Jeongin didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes shimmered, glass-bright with something unspoken, his lips parted like a question caught in his throat.
Minho’s gaze softened, just slightly, when it met his.
Jeongin looked away.
And for a moment, Minho’s satisfaction dimmed. But only a bit.
Still, Minho didn’t offer them an explanation.
He didn’t need to. The word had done its job.
He adjusted his sleeves, stepped back, and bowed coldly to the table.
"My thanks, Your Grace. Your Majesty. I’ll speak with my pack and send word.” Then, he turned to the doors. As he walked out, he felt it. The weight of their gazes following him.
He was no longer theirs.
And they had no idea who he’d become.
---
Minho’s heart was beating like a war drum.
He barely heard the cackling before he even touched the doorknob of his quarters.
The door creaked open to reveal Felix, sprawled sideways on his bed in just his oversized t-shirt, kicking his legs and laughing like a maniac, while Hyunjin, in Minho’s pyjamas, was buried under a growing pile of UNO cards, his face flushed with indignation.
Technically, they all had their own rooms. But most nights, one bed was enough. And tonight, it looked like it was Minho’s.
“You little shit!” Hyunjin shrieked, grabbing yet another card. “You’re cheating! Plus-four me again, and I'll melt your conditioners into your fucking soup!”
“Don’t you dare!” Felix gasped, clutching his hair.
Minho’s shoulders relaxed just a little. For a fleeting moment, the chaos was a balm.
But the second he stepped inside, both heads turned toward him. Laughter faded. Felix sat up immediately. Hyunjin’s brow furrowed.
Minho didn’t say a word. He walked across the room, reached for Felix, and crushed him into a tight, silent hug. Without hesitation, Felix melted into him, arms looping around Minho’s waist like muscle memory. Then, gently, he pressed Minho’s face to his exposed scent gland. And with that first breath, his mind finally began to quiet. The pressure behind his temples softened as he began to scent Felix.
“I’m okay,” Felix whispered. Minho didn't respond and just breathed Felix in deeply. After a moment, Felix loosened his hold, giving Minho room to move.
Minho turned next to Hyunjin.
The other omega was already shifting closer, quietly sliding the scattered UNO cards aside. He said nothing as Minho leaned in and began scenting him too, brushing his nose gently over the curve of Hyunjin’s neck. The scent of wisteria unfurled immediately; soft, elegant, grounding. It wrapped around Minho’s senses like the hush of twilight.
Hyunjin smiled faintly and raised a hand to comb through Minho’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp in soothing, unhurried circles.
“I got confirmation today,” he said, shuffling closer. A distraction, something Hyunjin always did when he sensed that his packmates had too much on their plate. “They approved the final blueprints. The Temple’s getting converted into a national museum.” Minho’s head lifted slightly, lulled by the scent of wisteria and peach wrapped around him. He hadn’t noticed until now that his own scent, lemon sharp with stress, had begun to mellow, sweetening into something soft and citrus bright. “I’ve got full design autonomy,” Hyunjin added. Minho could hear the grin in the omega’s voice. “The main hall’s going to be my jade mosaic design. It’s already in the press.”
Minho swallowed.
Sanctum Caelora, or better known to Levantians as the Sacred Temple.
It was more than just a building. It had once been a graveyard of old gods and broken traditions. And now Hyunjin, his packmate, his omega, had the honour to help rebirth it into something alive.
A whisper of pride flickered in Minho’s eyes as he turned to face him. “You’ve come far,” he murmured.
“I had help,” Hyunjin said. No need to elaborate.
—
Later that evening, after Minho had freshened up, they shared a quiet meal in his room.
Minho finally bit the bullet. “The King asked me to plan his birthday banquet.”
Felix’s eyebrows shot up, choking on his soup. Hyunjin patted his back as Felix wheezed. “Wait, the King himself?” Felix asked when the broth finally escaped his windpipe. “Those fancy nobles were the King and his pack?”
Minho nodded.
“That’s insane,” Hyunjin said, eyes widening, hand still on Felix’s back. “Do they even know how lucky they are?”
“… Wow.” Felix blinked. “That’s...that's a huge honour.”
Hyunjin whistled. “It’s probably the biggest assignment you’ve ever gotten.”
Minho didn’t respond. Just stared down at the empty tea cup in his hands.
They didn’t know. Not the real weight of it. It wasn’t their fault. He never told them. They thought he was just overwhelmed by the size of the task, not the ghost who had offered it.
“You’ll kill it,” Felix said brightly. “I mean, come on, it’s you. If they think royal means hard, they haven’t seen you handle Chef Kim during last year’s audit.”
“And we’ve got your back,” Hyunjin added. “Whatever you need. We’ll taste-test every dish, pretend to be rude nobles, even throw UNO cards at your head for stress relief.”
Minho smiled faintly. Their faith in him never wavered. And that was the cruellest, most beautiful thing about them.
A knock came at the door.
The chair dragged against the wooden floor as Felix stood, padding over to open it. He blinked in surprise. Standing at the threshold was Kim Namjoon, poised in his evening attire, one hand folded behind his back.
“Felix,” he greeted warmly, eyes crinkling. “Hyunjin. It’s good to see you both again.”
Hyunjin stood and bowed slightly, his smile respectful. “Always an honour, Your Grace."
“You both look well,” Namjoon said with genuine fondness. His gaze flicked briefly to the UNO cards scattered across the bed and the dinners halfway eaten, the corners of his lips quirking in amusement. “I see Minho keeps you properly occupied.”
Felix snorted. “Only when he’s not brooding.”
That earned him a soft elbow to the ribs from Hyunjin. “Shut up.”
Namjoon chuckled. Then, his tone shifted ever so slightly, polite but pointed. “Minho. Would you take a walk with me?”
Minho looked up, tense. Hyunjin gave a gentle nod, and Felix gave him a small smile. A quiet kind of solidarity that needed no explanation.
Minho rose.
They walked in silence for a while, down the quiet halls of the estate. The marble beneath their feet muffled each step, the night settling over them like a calm veil.
Minho had always admired the way Namjoon moved through space. Unhurried, sure of himself, as though he carried the world but didn’t need to show it. He didn’t speak to fill silences. He didn’t command respect. He earned it, just by being who he was.
Grand Duke Kim Namjoon of the House of Soulis, Warden of the Indigo Coast and Alpha Regent of the Dionysian Pact, had extended a job offer to Minho five years ago without hesitation. He had seen Minho, a common omega with two omegan packmates, and hadn’t batted an eye.
Not once did he question Minho’s leadership or suggest someone else should take charge.
To Namjoon, Minho was a leader. A Luna. Period. Minho had never forgotten that.
“I imagine,” Namjoon said at last, his voice low and even, “you are feeling a great deal of pressure over the King’s request.”
“I’m not-” Minho began, voice tightening.
“There’s no need to deny it, Minho-yah.” Namjoon’s chuckle was soft, not mocking, just knowing. “I can see it plainly on your face.”
Minho gulped, trying to mask the knot twisting inside his chest.
Namjoon stopped walking and turned to face him.
“I meant what I said during dinner tonight.”
Minho blinked. “Your Grace?”
“That the final decision is yours,” Namjoon said gently. “I extended you a place in my home because I respected your heart, your discipline, and your vision. Those haven’t changed.”
Minho hesitated before asking, “But what about you? If I go to the palace, even just for the banquet, you’d lose your head chef. I’d be leaving a gap.”
Namjoon smiled. “Then I’ll find someone temporary. Or step into the kitchen myself, though that may scare off the staff.”
Minho let out a small huff of breath, something close to a laugh.
“I’m serious,” Namjoon added, his gaze steady. “This house will survive a few weeks without you. But you-” he paused, “you shouldn’t turn away from something important just because you’re afraid of where it might take you.”
Minho didn’t respond right away. His thoughts were racing: Chan’s invitation, Felix’s worried eyes, Hyunjin’s quiet pride, the palace, the past.
The future.
Minho didn’t answer right away. His mind was racing.
His choices:
He could decline. Stay safe. Stay hidden.
Returning to the palace meant dredging up memories he had buried deep. All of it.
He could protect his pack from the risk of entanglement. From politics. From resurfaced pain.
But...
Accepting meant reclaiming something, didn’t it?
He had built a life here. One of stability, dignity, and family. And now, he was strong enough to walk back into the lion’s den, on his own terms.
He thought of Hyunjin’s latest news for the restoration of the Sacred Temple. Of Felix’s brilliant fusion pastry concepts. Of how far they had all come from nothing.
No.
From worse than nothing
He was not the same boy he had been seven years ago.
“You are a highly valued member of this household, Minho,” Namjoon said. “If Chan-ssi tries anything... you’ll have my pack and me. Just say the word.” He winked.
Minho let out a soft, surprised laugh this time. Bless this man and his enormous, stupidly kind heart. Minho hoped he would live a long, happy, healthy life and die a peaceful, natural death in a bed surrounded by too many grandchildren.
Namjoon smiled wider, clearly pleased to see Minho relax even slightly.
That night, Minho returned to his quarters.
His pack was asleep in a tangle of blankets and fallen cards on the floor. Felix had a card stuck to his forehead. Hyunjin was mumbling in his sleep.
Minho watched them for a long moment.
He hadn't gone looking for them. But when he’d found them, raw and half-drowned by lives they never chose, he couldn’t look away.
Something in them had called to something in him. And maybe he hadn’t saved them so much as answered them.
Now they laughed. They dreamed. And they stayed.
He wasn’t just doing this for himself.
He was doing it for them.
“I’ll do it,” he said softly into the night, more to himself than anyone.
He would answer the King’s invitation.
But he would do so as Luna. Not as the one who had been left behind.
But as Lee Minho, leader of his own pack and Head Chef of the Grand Duke’s estate.
He’d show them all exactly what that meant.
And the war drum in his chest... slowed, just a little.