Chapter Text
The sounds of merriment were heard throughout the capital. People were drinking and dancing to lively music, even those with little coin. And why not? King Sukuna had just married the young lord Megumi Fushiguro, securing the royal Ryoumen line.
In contrast to the noise outside, Yuuji Itadori sat in silence on the edge of his bed, hands folded neatly on his lap, as they had been in the wedding ceremony he was forced to endure.
The wedding had been beautiful.
Sukuna, resplendent in black robes, had stood with that same arrogant poise Yuuji used to adore (and perhaps still does?). And Megumi—Yuuji had barely looked at him. Couldn’t. Not when Yuuji was meant to be the one standing beside the king.
Not even a fortnight ago, Yuuji was bethroted to Sukuna, as he had been since birth. He trained to become an omega consort for years, long before he knew what those words meant. And now...
Yuuji’s eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. He had ran out of tears.
The door slid open without warning. A breeze of cold air entered first, followed by Uraume, face stern and eyes sharp as icicles.
“You should pack,” Uraume said, voice as cold as always. “You’re leaving tonight.”
Yuuji looked up, slow and blank. “Where?”
“The Gojo estate,” they answered. “The king has decided that it is best if you leave court for a while for your...enrichment. Lord Gojo has agreed to take you in as an honoured guest.” An unwanted visitor at best. At worst, a political hostage.
The words landed without ceremony, without apology. As if this were some routine matter. As if his entire world hadn’t just been shattered.
He could feel the bile crawl up the back of his throat. “Gojo? I don't know anyone from that clan,” Yuuji said, voice remarkably steady. What he knew, he learned from his tutors. The Gojo line was old, possibly older than the kingdom. The current clan head, Lord Satoru Gojo, was rumoured to be as cunning as he is cruel, and can rival the king in cursed energy levels and skill in battle.
"Does it matter? You are a ward of the crown. You go where the King says."
Yuuji turned his head to the window, watching the sky. “When?”
“An escort will arrive in one hour.”
An hour. That was generous.
Yuuji stood. His movements were calm, but his fingers trembled when they reached for the lacquered box on the shelf—his few belongings were already half-packed days ago.
He didn't have much - his late mother's necklace, his late father's ceremonial dagger, and letters written by his grandfather before his death. The Itadoris were noble, yes, and General Wasuke Itadori, the Tiger of the West, was favoured by the former king above all, but it is well known that the Itadori estate had no money. Ever since Yuuji's grandfather died three years ago and he started living in the palace as (ex-)consort-to-be, his food, clothes, and education had been paid by the royal treasury.
“Will I be allowed to say goodbye?” he asked, as he held the box that holds his greatest treasures.
Uraume tilted their head, as if the idea was amusing. “What for?"
Yuuji’s jaw clenched. He bowed his head slightly, not out of respect but as a shield. “Of course.”
Uraume lingered in the doorway a moment longer, watching him as if trying to gauge whether he would break or burn. When he didn’t, they turned away.
“Do not be late,” they said before sliding the door shut behind them.
And then Yuuji was alone again.
He moved without thinking, finishing the packing he had once delayed. Each folded garment, each worn scroll, was tucked into his case with quiet purpose. The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t cruel. It was armor.
He would not stay where he was not wanted.
And if the Gojo clan thought they were taking in a broken, discarded omega—they would soon learn that the fire in Yuuji Itadori did not die just because it had been abandoned.