Capture the flag: one
“𝒟𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂.”
― 𝒮𝓊𝓏𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓈, 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝓊𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈
Warning: Death, Heartbreak, blood, betrayal, MXM, Smut, Hate, Manipulation, Swords, arrows, injuries, murder.
"Father," Y/N bowed her head respectfully as her father sat atop his grand throne, the embodiment of authority and power. A glass of whiskey, his signature drink, rested in his hand. The amber liquid glimmered in the dim light of the throne room as he took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving her.
"Y/N, my daughter," he chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the large, cold room. Slowly, he stood up from his throne, his regal presence filling the space as he approached her. His footsteps were deliberate and slow, each one deliberate and commanding. "Did you like my little present?" he asked, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he circled her, his eyes scanning her kneeling form.
"Yes, Father," Y/N replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within her. "I do. Thank you so much..." Her breath hitched for a moment as she hesitated, then continued, "But... I do not understand why you got it for me."
It was true. She had woken up that morning to find her servants waiting for her with a gift from her father. When she opened the box, she found her mother’s sword—the one-of-a-kind, ceremonial blade that had been gifted to her by the Gods themselves when she became a victor. Y/N's heart twisted with the weight of it. Her mother had wielded it with pride, a symbol of power and legacy. But why was it now in Y/N's hands?
Her father chuckled, his voice low and knowing. "My dear," he began, walking back toward his throne, "you know I’m growing old." He settled back into his seat, the grand chair creaking slightly under his weight. The servants immediately rushed forward to refill his glass, their movements swift and practiced. "I cannot run this Division forever, you know?"
Y/N nodded slowly, her heart sinking. She knew what this meant. It was only a matter of time before her father would relinquish control, and it would be her responsibility to take over. She had prepared for this day in many ways, but nothing had prepared her for the weight of the moment.
"I know, Father," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but the words held the weight of truth. It was common sense that she would be next in line to lead the Division. It was the natural order of things.
Her father’s lips twisted into a grin, though there was something cold in his expression. "Very well," he continued, his tone dripping with pride, "you know you’re next in line." His eyes gleamed with approval, though there was a mocking edge to his words. "But you can’t just... become Empress of my Division," he said, his tone shifting as he leaned forward, a dangerous gleam in his eye. "No, no, no..."
Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine. "I do not understand what you are saying, Father," she said, tilting her head slightly in confusion, trying to piece together the riddle he was presenting her. What was he implying?
"You see..." He took a deep breath, the sound heavy and deliberate, as though weighing his next words. His gaze shifted to the towering windows behind him, the city sprawled out below in the distance, the lights of the bustling metropolis twinkling like stars. "Centuries ago, when your mother was alive... the women had to fight for their thrones." He spoke with a strange reverence, his eyes distant as if lost in the past.
"I know that," Y/N whispered, the mention of her mother still a sharp pain in her chest. She had lost her mother at a young age, and the memories of her were both treasured and painful.
Her father’s gaze remained fixed on the city as he continued, seemingly unaware of the way his words cut through Y/N’s heart. "Now, these people... OUR people don’t think you are capable of sitting on this throne," he said with an almost bitter edge to his voice. He took another sip of his drink, savoring it as if he could taste the frustration in the air. "They doubt you."
Y/N's chest tightened. She could feel the weight of the words pressing down on her, and the more she heard, the more she understood the depth of her father's intentions. Her heart began to race, a cold sweat forming on the back of her neck.
"But I am ready," Y/N said, her voice steady, though she could feel the uncertainty creeping in.
Her father’s expression darkened as he slammed his glass down on the armrest of his throne, the sound echoing through the room. "They don’t know that!" he boomed, his anger suddenly erupting, causing Y/N to flinch. "You will be attending this year’s Capture the Flag," he continued, his voice dangerous and final. "No questions asked."
Y/N’s blood turned to ice in her veins as the meaning of his words sank in. She couldn’t breathe. No... he didn’t just say that.
"You will represent District Nine," he added, turning his eyes back toward her, his smirk returning as he watched her expression crumble.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as the world around her seemed to slow down. The Capture the Flag tournament was a brutal, bloody event—a war fought for dominance, where only the strongest emerged alive. To be forced into it was to be sent to a near-certain death, and her father knew that.
"Father, I cannot..." Her voice trembled as she tried to process what he had just demanded of her. "I can’t participate in those games. It’s a murder scene waiting to happen." She tried to reason with him, but her voice faltered under the weight of her fear.
"I do not care," her father replied coldly, his voice cutting through her protests like a blade. "I will not sit back and allow them to call you weak. You will go, and you will fight. And you will win." He tapped his glass against the armrest, signaling for the servants to come take it from him. "Now, go and prepare. The ceremony is soon."
Y/N’s body went numb. Her mind screamed in defiance, but her father had already dismissed her with a final, dismissive wave of his hand. "You are dismissed," he said, not even bothering to look at her as he sat back down. His voice was filled with finality, a tone that brooked no argument. "You have a ceremony to get ready for."
Her heart shattered. She stood up slowly, her body moving mechanically, as though her legs were no longer her own. The world around her felt distant, foggy, as if she were no longer in control. She had always trusted her father to protect her, to guide her. But now he had signed her death sentence, sending her into the games that had claimed the lives of so many.
Her breathing quickened, the walls closing in as the room felt smaller, suffocating. She needed to leave. She needed air. She needed something to ground her before she lost herself entirely.
With her thoughts racing, Y/N rushed to her chambers, her movements hurried and desperate. Her new sword, wrapped in white cloth, sat neatly on the table—her mother’s sword, a symbol of her legacy. She couldn’t bear to look at it.
With a strangled cry, she collapsed to the ground. Her body shook violently as tears flooded her eyes. Her hands gripped the sword’s cloth, clutching it as if it could somehow anchor her to reality.
How was she going to survive this? How could she survive this brutal, unforgiving game? The thought of facing it, knowing it was practically suicide, made her chest tighten. Yet, there was no choice. No escape.
Her father had set her up for death, and she was powerless to stop it.
The sharp knock on the door broke through the suffocating silence, dragging Y/N out of her spiraling thoughts. She hastily wiped her eyes, trying to hide the tears that had been falling freely since her father’s brutal decree. The last thing she wanted was to face someone while she was falling apart. But before she could compose herself fully, the door creaked open.
Amora stepped inside, her expression instantly softening as she took in Y/N's tear-streaked face. She frowned, a deep concern settling in her eyes.
"I’m so sorry," she said, her voice gentle but full of respect as she bowed her head slightly—a gesture that was second nature to her, one of deep deference.
Y/N gave a weak, forced smile, but it didn’t last. Her face crumpled, the weight of the world pressing down on her chest. She let out a ragged breath before her composure broke entirely. "It’s okay, Amora... I just... have to prove my worth, don’t I?" The words left her mouth bitterly, but the moment they did, her smile shattered and the sobs she’d been trying to suppress burst forth, raw and uncontrollable.
Without hesitation, Amora rushed to her side, pulling her into her arms. She held Y/N tightly, her fingers gently threading through her hair as Y/N cried, her body trembling against her.
"I’m so sorry this has to happen," Amora whispered softly, her voice filled with pain and sorrow, knowing too well the burden Y/N now carried. She ran her fingers through Y/N’s hair, offering a sense of comfort, of solace, even if it couldn’t fix what was broken.
Y/N didn’t answer, her sobs more guttural now, filled with the weight of the decision her father had made for her. The world felt like it was closing in, and all she wanted was to forget it all, to escape this cruel fate. "I promised her I wouldn’t be like her," Y/N murmured between sobs, her voice cracking as she tried to control the torrent of emotions. "I promised... I wouldn’t kill innocent people just for fun."
Amora’s heart ached. She had been there when Y/N’s mother took her last breath, the woman who had once been the pillar of strength. She understood Y/N’s pain more than anyone. "I know, my love," she whispered, her voice soft but steady. "You’re nothing like her. You’re stronger. You’ll find a way through this."
Y/N's chest heaved with silent sobs, her grip on Amora tightening as if holding onto something that might keep her grounded. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps—didn’t want to carry the legacy of bloodshed and violence that had plagued her family for generations. Yet here she was, pushed to the brink of a cruel fate she couldn’t escape. "Why is he doing this to me?" Y/N asked through her tears, her voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air like a bitter cloud.
Amora didn’t have an answer. She had no way to explain her father’s cruel manipulation. She could only offer the comfort of her embrace and the warmth of her presence. "I don’t know, my love," she said softly, brushing a lock of hair from Y/N’s tear-streaked face. "But you need to rest now. You’ve been through so much."
Y/N let out a long, exhausted sigh, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. The emotional toll of the day had drained her, her body and mind ready to surrender to the comfort of sleep, even though her heart was still heavy with dread. She yawned softly, the exhaustion finally taking over.
"The ceremony starts tomorrow," Y/N murmured as her eyelids fluttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Amora nodded, her heart breaking for the woman she had cared for, for the daughter of a tyrant who had been forced into this unthinkable situation. She gently guided Y/N back to her bed, tucking the blankets around her like a shield against the world outside. Y/N’s eyes closed slowly, the last remnants of her sobs trailing off into soft, steady breaths.
Amora stayed by her side, watching over her, brushing her fingers through Y/N’s hair until her cries faded into sleep. As she lay there, Y/N’s quiet sobs still echoing in her mind, Amora silently vowed that she would do everything in her power to protect her, even if it meant defying the very blood that ran through Y/N’s veins. Tomorrow would bring darkness, but for tonight, Amora would hold her close and shield her from it—if only for a little while longer.
Y/N finally drifted into a fitful, tear-streaked sleep, and Amora remained beside her, her heart aching for the young woman who had been dealt such a cruel fate.
The morning after the dreaded announcement, Y/N was jolted awake by the sounds of chaos echoing through the tower. The clang of armor, the chatter of soldiers, the bustle of servants—all preparing for the day she had been dreading for as long as she could remember. The Capture the Flag Games. The very thought of it made her stomach churn. She hated waking up to the knowledge that those blood-soaked games were inevitable, that no matter how much she hated them, they would go on, and she would be expected to participate.
"Your Majesty," a voice called softly, but with urgency, from the door. Y/N groaned and buried her face deeper into her pillow, unwilling to face the day.
"You know I hate waking you up like this," the voice teased.
Y/N groaned again, her irritation growing. She couldn’t escape it. "Then don’t," she mumbled, throwing the pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the world.
"Aww, I love you too," her dresser replied, unphased by her annoyance. He was used to it. He carefully pulled the blanket off her body, revealing her still-damp sheets, a clear sign of the restless night she’d had. "But seriously, wake up. Your father will have my head if you don’t. You’ve got a lot to do."
Y/N growled, a low sound of frustration escaping her throat. "You’re lucky I don’t kill you right now," she muttered as she stretched out her arms and yawned.
"Don’t kill me yet, Your Majesty," he said with a wink as he set out a selection of gowns on the nearby racks. "Go take a shower and brush your teeth. You’ve got to look like a queen today, whether you like it or not."
"Ugh," Y/N muttered, still annoyed, but knowing there was no escaping it. She dragged herself out of bed, heading toward the bathroom with slow, reluctant steps. Her reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger. She hated it all—the ceremonial rituals, the traditions, the fact that her father had forced her into this life of violence and competition. But there was no going back.
She glanced at the clock on the bathroom wall: 9:05 AM. The ceremony wouldn’t start until noon, which meant she had a few hours to prepare, but it didn’t make her feel any less nauseous. There was no amount of time that would ease her dread of the games. She scrubbed at her face with cool water, the silence of the bathroom a sharp contrast to the chaos outside.
Once she finished freshening up, she reluctantly left the bathroom. The stylist was already standing by, excitement radiating from him despite the heavy atmosphere.
"Let’s get you dressed, Your Majesty," he said with forced cheerfulness. He gestured to the gown laid out before her. It was white and dark red, the red symbolic of the blood spilled in the Games. She hated it. She hated everything about it. But tradition was tradition, and she had no choice.
With a heavy sigh, Y/N changed quickly. The gown was large and extravagant, the fabric flowing in a way that made her feel like she was floating. At least it was light enough for her to move in, but the weight of it on her shoulders felt unbearable.
"Hurry up, hurry up!" her dresser clapped his hands in exaggerated excitement, trying to distract her from the dark thoughts swirling in her head. "We don’t have all day. I need to do your hair next."
Y/N groaned in response, her mood sinking even further. "Can we please just skip this part?" she muttered under her breath, but she didn’t dare question the ritual. Not today.
Once fully dressed, she was escorted to the arena. The journey was brief, but the closer she got, the heavier the atmosphere became. The sound of the crowd grew louder, a mix of excitement and anticipation. It felt like a nightmare unfolding, and yet it was reality.
When she arrived, she was led to a balcony where her father stood, waiting for her. The sight of him made her blood boil, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. This was her father. She had no choice but to play the role.
"Father," she said through gritted teeth, bowing her head in respect. The anger boiled just beneath the surface, but she kept it in check. She would not show weakness.
"My darling, you look absolutely stunning," he said with a grin, as if he were admiring a priceless gem. He took her hand in his, raising it to his lips and kissing it gently. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, but she couldn’t show any signs of disgust.
"Thank you, Father. So do you," Y/N replied, forcing a smile. Her stomach twisted, but she held her stance, standing tall as she took her place beside him.
The crowd gathered below was immense, stretching as far as the eye could see. People from every district, all eager for the bloodshed that would soon unfold. Y/N’s stomach turned violently at the sight. These were her people—her subjects—and they were gathered here, cheering for the violence that would soon be unleashed.
She could feel the weight of thousands of eyes on her, all expecting her to participate in the carnage. It made her sick to her core. She had to push the disgust down. She had to.
The trumpets suddenly blared, their sharp notes cutting through the air. The noise of the crowd quieted instantly. The arena fell into a heavy silence, as all eyes turned to the royal balcony, waiting for the beginning of the ceremony.
Her father gave her a small, satisfied smirk as he prepared to address the crowd. Y/N felt like she was choking on her own anxiety. The ceremony had begun. She was trapped. And no matter how much she wanted to resist, the games would go on, and she would have to face them.
"My people!" The voice of her father boomed across the arena, so loud it almost made Y/N cringe. The crowd erupted in cheers, whistles, and applause, their enthusiasm deafening. "We are gathered here today to celebrate and begin one of our greatest traditions—Capture the flag!"
The roar of the crowd intensified, the energy electric. Y/N could feel it in the pit of her stomach, the anticipation of bloodshed, the thrill of the people. It sickened her.
"Capture the Flag is a game of not only loss, but of victory! Today, we will see these young people fight for our Division, to bring honor and glory home!" Her father continued, his eyes scanning the crowd before resting on her with a smile. "And this year," he paused dramatically, savoring the moment, "I have decided to give you all a gift, an offering!"
The crowd quieted, hanging on his every word, and Y/N’s heart skipped a beat.
"My daughter, Y/N," he announced with a flourish, his arm sweeping toward her, "will be participating in this year's games!"
The gasps were immediate. The crowd murmured in shock and disbelief, and Y/N’s blood ran cold. She wanted to run, to scream, to tell them all that this was a mistake, but she couldn’t. She was trapped in her father’s plans, a pawn in his sick game.
She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. The world felt like it was crashing around her, the weight of her father’s decision suffocating her.
Her father chuckled, a gleam in his eyes. "I know, I know! You all think I’m crazy, but I must show you that she is strong enough to be your next empress!" His voice rang with pride, as if this were some kind of triumph.
The crowd cheered, buying into his manipulative words, and Y/N felt the bile rise in her throat. She could see their faces, eager, hungry for the spectacle of violence, oblivious to the toll it took on her.
"I won’t speak any longer," her father continued, "but I ask you all to take your seats and enjoy the show!" The crowd erupted in cheers even louder than before, and Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest as she stepped back, trying to hide the storm raging inside her.
The District Escort, a woman with a sickeningly bright smile, stepped up to the microphone, clearly more excited than Y/N had ever seen anyone.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" she shouted, her voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "These are the chosen ones! The youth who will represent us in this year’s Capture the Flag!"
Y/N watched as the escort’s hands trembled slightly as she took the glass bowl from one of the servants. She cleared her throat, her voice sharp as she began reading from the scroll inside.
Y/N’s palms were sweating. She clenched her fists, praying that no one too young, no one under 18, would be chosen. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. Not like this. Not today.
"From District One, we have…" The escort’s voice boomed. "Hwang Hyunjin!" she cheered, and the crowd erupted in applause as a tall, elegant boy stepped forward. His long brown hair fluttered around his face, his features almost angelic. He didn’t belong in this. He was too soft for this. Y/N could already see the fear in his eyes.
"District Two!" The escort’s voice rang out again. "Han Jisung!" The boy who stepped forward looked terrified, his wide eyes glistening with unshed tears. His cheeks were puffy, his posture stiff with fear. Y/N’s heart clenched in her chest—he didn’t want this. He didn’t deserve this.
"District Three! Seo Changbin!" Another cheer from the crowd, and the boy who stepped up was proud, walking with confidence, his chest puffed out in a way that made Y/N realize he might actually want this. He had the hunger for victory, the desire to survive.
"District Four! Lee Aeri!" The gasp from the crowd was immediate. A tiny girl was pulled from the crowd, her face streaked with tears. She looked no older than fourteen. Y/N's breath caught in her throat. No, not her. She wanted to shout out, to beg for her to be spared, but her father’s grip on her arm tightened, pulling her back.
"Don’t interfere," he whispered coldly in her ear.
Before Y/N could say anything, a voice called out loud and clear, stopping the ceremony in its tracks.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
Everyone froze, staring at the boy who had just raised his hand. Long blonde hair, a nervous yet determined look in his eyes. Y/N’s breath hitched. She knew exactly what this meant. He was sacrificing himself.
"Wow! The first volunteer in 16 years!" The district escort gasped, glancing at Y/N's father, who was nodding approvingly.
"What’s your name, boy?" her father asked, stepping forward, his voice deceptively soft.
"Lee Felix, Your Majesty," the boy said, his voice shaking. Y/N’s stomach sank—he wasn’t doing this for glory. He was doing this for someone he loved. His sister, she realized, feeling her heart break for him.
"Well," her father said, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "may the gods be with you. You did well, son." He turned to Y/N, not even acknowledging Felix’s sacrifice further.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Felix said, his voice barely above a whisper. He walked to stand with the other boys, his face a mask of fear.
"From District Five, we have Seungmin!" The escort announced, her voice still carrying that excited, almost manic tone as Seungmin stepped forward confidently, ready to face whatever was coming his way.
"From District Six, Yang Jeogin!" She called out next, and Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. The boy looked barely older than a child, trembling with fear. He looked so young—16—and Y/N felt a sickening pit open in her stomach. No one volunteered for him. No one cared enough to save him.
"How old is he?" Y/N whispered to the escort, her eyes narrowing as she watched the boy’s shaking form.
The escort quickly glanced at the scroll and whispered back, "16, Your Majesty."
Y/N gagged, her hand instinctively flying to her mouth. Sixteen—he was just a kid. And there was no one here brave enough to take his place. It was a slaughter waiting to happen.
"District Seven!" The escort’s voice rang out again.
"I volunteer as tribute!" A deep voice interrupted her, and all eyes turned to a man with the build of a fighter, his face sharp and feline. He was older than Y/N, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made her uneasy.
"Okay?! Wow! Two volunteers in one day!" the escort exclaimed, flustered by the sudden change in the air.
The man stepped forward, bowing deeply before Y/N’s father.
"What is your name son?" her father asked, intrigued.
"Lee Know, Your Majesty," the man said, keeping his head low. His voice was firm, though there was a nervousness there, a fear Y/N recognized all too well.
"May the gods be with you. You did well, son," her father said dismissively before stepping back to stand beside Y/N.
Y/N studied the boys now, trying to steady herself. She was going to be the only girl this year, and she had no idea how she was going to get through this. She could only hope that these boys would work together, that they would have the one goal she had: survive and win. They had no choice.
"Lastly!" The escort shouted, her voice crackling with excitement. "For the Capture the Flag games... We have District Eight! The one and only... Bang Chan!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, some standing, some shouting his name. Y/N could feel it too—the thrill, the energy. Bang Chan was a legend. He was built for this life, for war, for bloodshed.
He stepped forward with a confident smirk, his posture commanding, and made his way to join the others. He had never been picked before—this was his time, and the crowd loved him for it.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" The escort said, practically giddy. "These are your warriors for the 64th annual Capture the flag!"
The crowd roared in approval, the sound deafening. "May you capture the flag and make us proud! And may the gods be with you!" she shouted, as the ceremony ended with the wild cheer of the masses.
Y/N stood frozen, her heart heavy with dread. This was only the beginning.
