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Shota had been pacing for hours.
Long enough for the moss beneath his boots to flatten into darkened tracks, long enough for the torches along the corridor to burn low and be replaced twice over.
The hallway outside of the ritual chamber echoed with the sounds of his boots dragging across the moss floor. The ancient stones were damp with the breath of the underground, cool air clinging to the skin and humming faintly with restrained magic. His robe trailed behind him in a flurry of ink stains and half-folded notes, crumpled pages spilling from his sleeves like he’d shoved a library under his arms. Loose threads snagged on the uneven rock, and he barely even noticed when a page slipped free and fluttered to the ground behind him. He muttered to himself as he walked, voice low, half-spoken equations and incantations tumbling over one another. Numbers bled into old dialects, theory into prayer, logic into desperation.
Jongseob watched from his usual spot against the wall, arms crossed, back straight. He had chosen a place where he could see both Shota and the sealed doors of the chamber, a silent sentinel in tailored black. His eyes never left Shota, not even when the duke nearly walked into a support pillar for the third time. Jongseob simply shifted a fraction closer each time, ready to intervene without making it obvious. It was just how Shota worked. Consumed, chaotic, brilliant, and utterly unbothered by the physical world when his mind was elsewhere. The world could crumble at his feet and he would only notice if it disrupted his calculations.
“Two sigils for containment… but the anchor runes won’t stabilize unless I-- unless I reverse the fourth… no, that’d collapse the whole--” Shota hissed through his teeth, tugging at his hair as he stopped mid-stride, fingers twitching. Strands slipped loose from their tie and fell into his eyes, wild and unkempt.
Jongseob finally pushed off the wall. The movement was quiet but deliberate, boots whispering against moss as he crossed the corridor in a few measured steps. “You need to breathe.”
“I’m fine,” Shota snapped automatically, eyes darting to the glowing lines on the parchment he clutched. Silver ink shimmered faintly against cream paper, reacting to the magic saturating the air. “The ritual starts in twenty minutes. If the timing is even a breath off--”
“You’ll collapse from exhaustion before the ritual even begins,” Jongseob said evenly. There was no sharpness in it, only fact.
Shota scowled but didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his lips were chapped from hours of absentminded biting. His hands trembled slightly as he looked down at the spellwork etched in delicate silver ink across his notes. He’d spent weeks on this, months even, and now it all came down to one chance. One alignment of stars. One window where the veil would thin just enough to listen.
They moved into the ritual chamber in silence, the air heavy with ancient magic and the faint smell of burning herbs. The doors groaned shut behind them, sealing with a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through bone. Runes shimmered around the edges of the stone floor. Candles floated in place. Their flames burned blue at the base and gold at the tips, wax never melting as if time had agreed to pause inside this room. Shota took his position at the center, the parchment spread before him. His hands hovered above the spell, fingers twitching with nerves.
And then they began to shake.
Not wildly. Just a tremble, barely there, but enough to blur the gesture of a circle, enough to ruin everything. Enough to warp a sigil, to misdraw a line, to invite disaster instead of design.
“I can’t--” Shota muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched tight. “Why now--?”
He didn’t finish.
Jongseob stepped forward without hesitation, reached out, and gently took hold of Shota’s wrist. His touch was firm but careful, calloused palm warm against ink-stained skin. His hand wrapped around the back of Shota’s trembling hand, grounding it in place.
In an instant, their skin burned with light.
A flare, bright, warm, and unmistakable, erupted across Shota’s hand where Jongseob’s fingers touched. The once-black mark, shaped like a palm, glowed in soft rainbow colors, light curling up his fingers like delicate fire. The glow pulsed once, twice, synchronized like a heartbeat finding its rhythm.
Shota froze.
His eyes darted to Jongseob’s, wide and disbelieving. All calculation vanished from them, replaced with something raw and startled. Jongseob didn’t move, he only tightened his hold, just slightly, steady and sure.
Shota opened his mouth, but no words came. For the first time in what felt like days, his thoughts stopped racing. Everything stilled, his hands, his breath, the storm of nerves inside his chest. The relentless hum of theory and doubt went quiet, replaced by a warmth that spread from his wrist to his ribs.
Their first touch had been unintentional, almost unthinking, but it was intimate in the way it quieted everything. Jongseob’s grip wasn’t commanding, just present, real, and solid. An anchor, not a chain.
“You’re alright,” Jongseob said quietly, his voice low and steady, barely above a whisper. “I’ve got you.”
Shota’s throat tightened. Emotion rose sharp and sudden, unfamiliar in its steadiness. He looked down at their joined hands, their marks still glowing beneath Jongseob’s touch, and felt something settle deep in his chest. The world didn’t feel like it was spinning anymore. The chamber no longer felt cavernous and suffocating, but contained, manageable, possible.
“Okay,” Shota whispered back. “I’m ready.”
Jongseob nodded once and let go, though his presence remained close. Close enough that Shota could still feel the warmth of his touch long after they parted. Close enough that if Shota faltered again, he would be there before the tremor fully formed.
The ritual began. The candles flared. The runes pulsed in time with Shota’s heartbeat. Silver light traced the paths he carved through the air, weaving sigils into something luminous and whole.
And this time, his hands did not tremble.