@amilocket - Tumblr Blog

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.”

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.”

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart.

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him.

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way.

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you.

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position.

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries.

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically.

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before.

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest.

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister?

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.”

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step.

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

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