heaven is out of reach.
Under his King's orders, Phainon and his soldiers capture the bordering kingdom's Princessâyouâfor ransom. A kingdom for a daughter. It should have been a fair trade.
Pairing: Phainon / Reader
Word count: 16k
Contents: alternate universe, knight! Phainon, princess! Reader, first kiss, unprotected sex, hurt/comfort, kidnapping, period-typical sexism, pining, guilt, angst, minor character death, detailed descriptions of blood and violence.
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You were a princess no more.Â
At a glance, you might have been taken for one among a hundred other young women in the villageâpretty, certainly, but unremarkable. Just as you had been ordered to appear.
Your crown had vanished into this Kingdomâs coffers alongside your silks, velvet, torque and jewels. In place of your dynastyâs pilfered finery, you wore a dress of coarse linen, the color of unbleached bone. It sat too large on you, sagging where it should have draped, breaking into creases where it ought to have flowed. Beneath the skirt, you wore trousers borrowed from Cyrene, cuffed awkwardly at the ankle.
Your hair did the most to unmake your identity. What had once fallen in long tressesâcombed, sculpted, and pinned into ornamental stylesâhad been cut to your chin in a single, unsentimental stroke. Thick curls took to wildness, billowing outward, overwhelming your cheeks. You often found yourself touching the new length, trying in vain to smooth it down. Other times, you seemed to do it unconsciously as a means to soothe yourself.
Despite nearly a month spent in foreign land, you still only rode side-saddle. You sat straight-backed like youâd been born to formal postureâwhich, hell, you had. You didnât complain. That, more than anything, made you hard to look at. You bore it well, with only a slight tremor in your chin.
The road narrowed as the forest crowded in like it meant to throttle its travelers. Pine needles slicked the ground. Old roots buckled the dirt and forced the horses to pick up their steps. Phainon walked alongside his steed instead of riding like he always did when the pace was slowed by terrain like this. It kept his hands free and his head clear. When your mare stumbled on a hidden root, you gave a small, startled gasp and fell against the animalâs neck, reins gripped tightly in hand. Without a word, Phainon reached up and steadied the horse with one hand.
The Landâs banner that usually flew above you had been stowed away. The King had departed with a small contingent of his most reliable men, leaving Phainon behind with orders that replayed in his skull with every step he took.
She doesnât leave your sight. Not even for a moment. Until a deal is struck, the Kingâsâher fatherâs men will be searching every village and taking every road.
The words left a bitter taste in Phainonâs mouth. Being left behind wasn't punishment or demotion. It wasnât personal, he had to remind himself. His Lord was negotiating for their future. He was making the bet of a lifetime on what the King would ransom for his precious, only daughter. In truth, Phainon had the most important task of all: Keep the leverage. Protect the leverage.
You passed the first keep by midday. It was too small to be considered for shelter. Nothing left but a stone carcass, roof burned out, banners rotted into colors no one remembered. The men didnât slow. Someone whistled. Someone else jeered. Others laughed.
Phainon watched the menâs hands. Their curling mouths. The way their eyes slid towards the princess like marbles rolling along a slanted table.
Most of them treated their captive gently. Others soured against you. Those who, in a former life, suffered greatly under the thumb of your fatherâs rule. After one too many of the princessâs retellings of her âkidnappingâ and rhapsodizing about how she leapt from her bedroom window and was caught by a Knight on his steed, their resentment rankled into outright hatred and they took every opportunity to be cruel.Â
Phainon moved closer to your mare. When one of his raiders drifted too near, he shifted nearer still, broad shoulders squared, posture settling into the silent warning he used before correcting another manâs stance. No words were needed.
By afternoon the forest thinned, opening onto a long stretch of road. With distance from the capital, the formation loosened. Riders strayed ahead or lagged behind, confidence creeping back into their gait.
âPrincess,â Phainon said, keeping his eyes forward.
âYes?â You turned in the saddle like you were being addressed in a hall, not on a forest road with a bunch of rough knights.
âSome of the men were talking âbout passing you around.â
Your breath caught. âI donât quite know what that means,â you said carefully, âbut I fear Iâm beginning to understand.â
He ground his teeth. âTake it seriously. We might be special but when our King isnât around, weâre just a bunch of men. Some of us, terrible.â
You shook your head, quick and certain, like you were correcting a tutor. âI overheard your commander said itâs a kidnapping only in appearance. He would never let me come to harm.â
Phainon didnât harbor any particular grudge against royalty, nor did he have any fondness for their ilk, but it was only too easy to be harsh with you. Coddling such softness in this world would only open the door for worse cruelties. He snorted. âYeah, well, he isnât here.â
âI know that. He doesnât need to be,â You said. âHis word is enough. The lot of you remind me of loyal muttsâfollowing his orders without another thought.â
Phainon scoffed.
At that, your noble countenance faded and your face scrunched up. âWhy do you laugh?âÂ
Phainon didnât answer.
You frowned at him then. âI know my father is a despot,â you said quietly, as if admitting a flaw in an heirloom. âBut this is a political maneuver. I am not totally ignorant of the world.â
âNever said you were,â Phainon muttered.
âThen why warn me?â you asked petulantly.
âBecause youâll have to learn this part eventually. Men measure things by what they can take. Men are greedy, they take all they can hold in their hands and then when it seems they canât take any more, men start imagining that their hands are bigger. Iâm not just talking about taking treasures. Could be people too.â
You stiffened in your saddle, your knuckles whitening against the reins. âPlease, enough.â
He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he stared ahead. âYou ever once ask yourself what happens after? When our King gets what he wants from your fatherâkingdom handed over all peaceful-like.â
âThen the land will have a just ruler. I suppose.â you say.
"And you?" Phainon pressed.
You put on a brave face.
âNo,â he said flatly. âThat isnât how these things work. Youâd be sent away. Thatâs the deal. Our Lord gets the kingdom and you go back to your father.â
The color drained from your face. Your small hands gripped the reins tighter.
âSir Phainon, Iâve already prepared myself for exile. Iâm at peace with it.â
.
Two weeks passed in the abandoned monastery theyâd claimed as their temporary refuge. Stone walls with blank arches where stained glass had once filtered light were patched with canvas and animal hides. The men settled into a restless routine, waiting for word from their King.
Phainon found himself perpetually in your orbit, the task of guarding you fell to him and him alone. You sat quietly in the old dormitory, mending your clothes or reading the tattered books someone had found for you. Ever so often, Phainon caught you staring into the distance. Something about your quiet dignity gnawed at him.
âLook at Phainon, following the princess around like a lovesick hound,â his comrade drawled, leaning against a crumbling column. âRemember how you used to glare at Mydei like he pissed in your porridge? Now itâs her royal highness getting the same treatment.â
The other men nearby snickered. The muscles in Phainonâs jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the treeline beyond the monastery walls, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
âItâs the same old song and dance," he continued, his voice carrying through the drafty hall. âAll contempt on the outside, but we know what that really means, donât we?" He sauntered closer, a crooked smile twisting his features. âFirst the warrior, now a sweet little dove."
Phainon turned slowly. The abbey seemed to darken around him as he fixed the other man with a stare that had made better men cower. âSay another word.â
âWhatâs the matter? Worried our King might not approve of you mooning over the womanâwhoâs the flesh and blood of our enemy?â he pressed, his voice dropping to a stage whisper.
In one swift motion, Phainon seized him by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The impact sent streams of dust cascading down from the crumbling mortar. His feet dangled inches above the ground, his face reddening as Phainonâs forearm pressed against his jaw.
âI told you to shut your mouth.â The main hall had gone silent, every man suddenly finding interest in the floor or the ceilingâanywhere but the confrontation unfolding before them.
The loquacious man struggled against the iron grip, but managed to force a smirk despite his predicament. âHit... a nerve... did I?â he managed to choke out.
Phainon drew his fist back, ready to wipe that smug look from his face. The manâs eyes widened slightly, but the corner of his mouth remained upturned, as if this was exactly what heâd been angling for.
âPhainon, stop!â Cyrene implored as she rushed between them. Her face was flushed with urgency. âBoth of you, come on. Not now! The princess is waking upâshe can hear everything!â
Phainonâs gaze flicked toward the chamber where you had been resting, its tattered curtain stirring in the draft. He released his grip, letting the other slide down the wall until his feet touched stone again.
âLucky for you the princess needs her guard dog,â he wheezed, massaging his throat.
Phainon heard Cyreneâs voice rising behind him. âWhat's wrong with you? Sheâs under our protection! Do you want his highness to hear about this when he returns?â
He pushed past the tattered curtain without caring to hear more. The dormitory was lit only by a single oil lamp that cast long shadows across the stone walls. You sat stock straight on the edge of a makeshift pallet, a worn woolen blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, face flushed with embarrassment.
âIs everything alright?â you asked.
Phainon stood awkwardly, suddenly aware of how he towered over you. âEverythingâs fine,â he muttered, avoiding your gaze. âJust some ugly guy running his mouth again.â
Before you could continue, Phainon nodded toward the small stack beside your pallet. "So, uh, what are you reading?"
The question hung between you. Phainon figured his attempt to shift the conversation had been too obvious. But you looked pleasantly surprised, as if no one had asked about your reading habits in a long time. You reached for the topmost volume, a leather-bound thing with frayed edges and yellowed pages.
âNot much of a selection, Iâm afraid,â you mumble, turning the book over in your hands. âMostly old swordplay manuals. This one describes forms for combating multiple opponents. I've never seen such detailed illustrations for acts of bloodshed.â
Phainon sighed. âA whole lot of good a bookâs gonna do in a fight.â
Your eyes linger on him. âDonât you think there might be something useful here? Even for someone as skilled as you?â
Phainon crouched down to look, his brow furrowing. The manual was open to a page of stiff practitioners with their limbs arranged in perfect angles that bore little resemblance to the chaos of real battle.
âNice pictures,â he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. âBut if youâre about to die, you don't have time to remember what some book told you about where to put your feet.â
You looked puzzled. âThatâs strange. Father once mentioned that he learned a lot from these. Heâs read all the combat treatises.â
Of course your father could learn from books. It was like you were trying to piss him off.
You turned a page, revealing an illustration of a swordsman facing three opponents, his blade positioned to create a wide arc. âWhat about this? The text says this stance can help maintain distance.â
Phainon snorted. âBy the time you got your sword like that, youâd already have the second guy circling around to your back.â
Your fingers traced the lines of the illustration. âI trust you in that of course, but doesnât the theory seem sound? It says here that by positioning yourself thus, you force your opponents to crowd each other, limiting their movements. Is that true?â
Phainon looked at the page again, studying the angles more carefully. The stance wasnât entirely useless, he supposed. He could almost see himself executing the move, his blade carving through the air fast enough to create the defensive arc shown in the illustration. His reach would cut wider arcs than the drawing suggested. Heâd be faster, harder to predict. With his strength and speed, he could make it work. He kept that assessment to himself. No sense in giving book learning more credit than it deserved.
âMaybe,â he said finally, standing back up. âCould try it sometime, I guess.â
Your face brightened, as if his small concession was some kind of victory. âI could mark the pages that seem most practical,â you offered, already leafing through the volume with renewed purpose.
âPlease donât, princess.â
He thought about telling you that he was born with a sword in his hand but thought better of it when he imagined how you might take it literally and how many questions that would spawn.
âForgive me. I havenât been sleeping well and I mightâve grown a bit restless. Iâve been reading these to pass the time,â you admit, closing the book carefully. âAnd perhaps... to better understand you.â
Your eyes fixed on Phainonâs sword with open curiosity.
âSir Phainon,â you started cautiously. âMight I⊠might I see it more closely?â
He glanced down at the blade, then at your hands. âItâs heavy,â he warned. âImagine what Iâd have to tell the others if it landed on you.â
âI know. Iâve seen knights carry swords in processions all my life, but Iâve never actually touched one.â
Phainon drew the blade partway and angled the hilt toward you, keeping one hand firm against the flat side to steady it. You stepped nearer, as if approaching something that could strike you dead if you didnât show the proper respect. You extended your fingers and laid them against the metal. The cold startled you. You traced the length of the blade, staying close to the fuller, avoiding the edges, following the nicks and notches where other weapons had met it in earnest.
âIt is⊠scarred,â you murmured.
âItâs well used,â he corrected.
Sudden agitation crawled up Phainonâs spine as he watched you. âYouâre so damn helpless, you know that? After all this, you have to learn to handle a blade. Even if itâs just a knife. I could show you the basics.â
You looked up at him with alarm. âOh heavens, I could never. Even if I were a man, I donât think I could lift a blade against another person.â
For a moment, Phainon was flooded with all the reasons you were wrong. Mercy canât stop an arrow. High-minded ideals canât break a siege. The world would grind you down for thinking that way. But when he saw the utterly sincere look on your face, any mounting arguments fell apart in his mouth.
He snorted instead. âYouâre weirder than Mydei.â
Your brows knit together, that small frown that made you look younger than you were. âOh?â you said, a touch of wounded pride creeping in. âPray tell, how is Lord Mydei so weird?â
Phainon scratched at his neck, eyes sliding away. He didnât have the words. He never did. These people and their shining convictions, their belief in something beyond survival. He loved that about Mydei, even as it carved a distance between them he could never bridge. You had a bit of that light too, just a softer kind. Maybe you two were truly meant for each other. Waitâwhat? The thought left Phainon feeling small, clumsy, outclassed in a way no battlefield had ever managed.
âItâs not a bad thing,â he said at last. âSome people are just⊠different. He was born special.â
You smiled faintly at that. âSir Phainon⊠may I ask you something? You donât have to answer.â
He paused. âJust ask.â
You folded your hands in your lap, fingers worrying at one another. âDo you think⊠people are born wanting great things?â
He snorted. âProbably not.â
That surprised you enough that you looked up. âYou didnât even think about it.â
âYou're asking me. That's what you get.â
You nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something you had long suspected. âI never wanted to be a queen,â you confessed. âNot once. Not even when I was a child. I find all this terribly frightening but also⊠quite the relief.âÂ
You hesitated, then gave a small, self-conscious laugh. âPlease, donât tell another soul. IâI couldnât bear for them to know.â
Phainon shifted uncomfortably. âI donât... it isnât my business.â
Seeing your distress, he added gently, âI will not.â
Relief washed over your face. You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.
âThank you. Despite that, I want to... be something. I will be a good queen, if Iâm called to be.â
.
Night fell upon the monastery. Somewhere in the dark, a rafter complained with a noisy creak.
Phainonâs hand went to his sword hilt before thought had time to intervene. He turned his head, listening and quickly ruled out timbers settling into their age or the pressing of November gusts. The sound progressed with confidence. A weight placed, then withdrawn, hastening.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chamberâs shadows. The darkness beyond the single oil lamp suddenly seemed alive with possibilities. He stepped toward the wall with a practiced stealth.
Through a gap in the crumbling stone, he caught the faithless gleam of metalâa sword blade reflecting moonlight where no blade should be. Then another. And another.
âShit,â he breathed.
Phainonâs jaw set as he counted the moving shapes. His mind raced through the options. They were already outnumbered, outflanked, and they were scattered throughout the monastery grounds.
A soft rustling behind him made him whirl around. You were stirring on your pallet, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm.
âSir Phainon?â you murmured, voice drifting through the darkness, soft with sleep. âIs something amiss?â
He crossed the chamber in four long strides and clamped a calloused hand over your mouth, his other finger pressed to his lips. Your eyes widened, confusion giving way to alarm.
âShut up,â he whispered, his breath hot in the shell of your ear. âThey're here.â
He released you slowly, watching the terrible understanding settle in your eyes. A sudden crash shattered the nightâs stillnessâthe abbey door exploded inward, wood splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. Shouts erupted from every direction.
A manâs voice rang out from the monasteryâs decrepit bell tower, clear above the chaos. âTheyâve come for the Princess! From the east ridge!â
Phainon drew his sword from its hanger, positioning himself between you and the door.Â
The curtains of your chamber tore away and three soldiers in royal livery burst through, swords drawn.
âThere she is!â One shouted, pointing at you with the tip of his blade. Steel caught the lamplight as they advanced.
Phainon didnât hesitate. He swung his massive sword in a wide arc that caught the first man across the chest, nearly cleaving him in two. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as the body crumpled.
âBehind me! Now!â Phainon barked, already pivoting to meet the next attacker.Â
You scrambled behind. Your breath came in short, terrified gasps. âHow did they find us?â
âDoesn't matter now,â Phainon grunted, driving his blade into the second man's shoulder. The soldier screamed, his sword clattered to the stone floor.
More soldiers rushed in. Phainon met them with a savage swing, his blade connecting with two swords at once, the impact sending sparks flying in the dim light. One tried to circle around, making for the Princess. You ducked under Phainonâs cloak and wrapped your arms around his waist in a noose-like grip, your face pressed against his broad back, trembling.
âHold tight,â he snarled and swung his sword in a wide arc. Blood splattered across the stone floor, slick under his boots as he backed toward the far wall. You whimpered as your naked feet patted wetly through his wake.
The narrow doorway worked to Phainonâs advantage, forcing his attackers to come at him one by one. He backed up steadily, keeping you sheltered underwing. The weight of you dragging down his waist was nothing compared to the burden of protecting your life.Â
A crossbow bolt whistled past, embedding itself in the wooden beam above. Splinters rained down as he sidestepped, yanking you along with him as more soldiers poured through the doorway. The room was becoming a death trap. Through the cacophony, Phainon could make out Mydeiâs voice calling for a retreat. Good. They knew what to do. Take to the fields, where their victory was assured.
His sword swept wide arcs that kept the soldiers at bay, but they were pressing closer, coordinating now, trying to flank him. Behind him, moonlight spilled through a low window. It faced an old storehouse they had converted to makeshift stables. He could hear a frenzy of untethering horses. If he could get you to them...
âWhen I say go,â he muttered over his shoulder, âyou climb through that window and run straight for your horse. Don't look back.â
A soldier lunged at his left. Phainon pivoted, cleaving through the manâs shoulder. Another came from the right. He kicked that one back.
âGo!â Phainon ordered, wresting your arms away and thrusting you through the window frame in one violent motion. You tumbled through with a startled cry.
Pain ripped along his left side as a blade slashed through leather and found purchase in his flesh. Liquid fire sheets down his ribs. His tunic clung, sticky to his skin. The man who landed the blow grinned as he wrenched his sword free, red glistening along its edge.Â
âBleed the bastard!â Someone shouted.
Pain gathered at the core of him the way a storm focuses the sky. Heat flooded his skull as his vision tunneled, the edges dimming to shadow until only the men before him remained. His mouth peeled back from his teeth as he set both hands on the hilt. The soldiers hesitated. Without conscious thought, his body shifted, sword positioned like a scythe before the harvest.
âCome on, then,â he mumbled.
The yard had dissolved into chaos. His men rallied with superior horsemanship, hooves thundering against the packed earth. Swords flashed in the moonlight as they cut down the royal soldiers like wolves falling on routed sheep.
âPrincess!â The cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate. Panic clawed at his chestâa foreign sensation he hadnât felt sinceâ
A soldier rushed him from the side. Without breaking stride, Phainon swung his blade in a low arc that severed the manâs legs at the knees. The man collapsed with a shriek, but Phainon had already moved past him, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of the Princess.
Then Phainon saw you.
Your slight form bounced atop your white mare. Your face shone pale beneath the moon, hair wild as a leaf eddy in the autumn sky. You were seated properly astride the horse, not perched side-saddle as youâd always insisted before. Two of his comrades rode close at either side, swords drawn.
Relief surged through Phainon with such force that his knees nearly buckled. Even from this distance, he could see your face twist with concern as you scanned the field. The mare wheeled beneath you, restless and wide-eyed, hooves pawing at the churned earth while you tugged at the reins, trying to steady her.
Then your eyes met across the battle-strewn lawn, and your features transformed. Your arm shot up, finger extended toward him as you shouted something. The men nearest you turned sharply in their saddles, following your line of sight.
âHeâs hurt,â you insisted in a litany the whole way over.
âLater,â Phainon managed, forcing the word out between breaths.
Another group of men moved to meet you. One opened his mouth, caught the look on Phainonâs face, and thought better of it. Another reached for the reins. Phainon waved him off with a short motion.
âGet a fire ready,â he said. âAnd hot water. Clean cloth.â
The man nodded and ran.
You slid from the saddle. Your feet struck the ground unevenly; you swayed and caught yourself against Phainonâs arm before you could stop. He went rigid at the touchâmore reflex than discomfort. What little energy he possessed he used to resist the urge to shove you off.
âI can walk,â you said, flustered.
âWhatever, just follow me,â he replied, already scanning across the flurry of action at camp. Every sound scraped at himâthe hammering of tent stakes, the rasp of flint, the low murmur of voices. His pulse beat loud in his ears.
You reached the open storehouse together. Phainon ducked inside first, eyes sweeping the dim interior before he gestured you in. He set his sword in the corner, angled just so, where his hand would find it even if he slumped. Only then did he allow himself to lean heavily against a wooden beam.
You hovered at the entrance, then stepped fully inside, clutching your cloak closed in a fist at your throat. Light from the hanging oil lamp illuminated Phainon and made him squint. You sucked in a sharp breath. He looked down and saw a red smear spreading along his side.
âOh, Sir, Phainon. Please sit down,â you said in a trembling voice.
âYou sit down first. You look like youâre going to pass out.â
You fell to your knees by a low stool, looking at him with huge, anxious eyes.
He obeyed then, not particularly compelled by the weight of one little princessâs expectations, but because the world tilted unpleasantly when he tried to stay standing. He lowered himself halfway down to the stool and fell heavily the rest of the way onto the seat. With some effort, he pulled off his blood stiffened armour and tunic. You averted your eyes. Stripped to the waist, Phainon shivered at the way his skin cooled in the night air even as his muscles started to ache. He looked over the damage. Blood had gone tacky and dark along his ribs. The cut was shallow but long. Another welt bruised his shoulder from where he bashed against the window frame.
Someone arrived at the doorway with water and rags which you leapt up to collect. When the canvas flap fell back and the sounds of the camp dulled Phainon let his shoulders sag, his gaze lifting to the slivers of moonlit sky that peeked through gaps in the roof. He exhaled noisily through his nose to slow the laboring of his breath.
You flitted around him like a nervous little bird unsure of where to land. Your sleeves were already rolled, forearms as pale as swans greeting the dawn. You had washed your hands; he could smell the sharp bite of vinegar beneath the steam rising from the linen cloth you carried.
âMay I?â you asked, though your hands were already moving, hovering just shy of his skin.
Phainon braced himself. âDo whatever you want.â
You dabbed first. The cloth came away red, then pink. You swallowed but did not stop. The amber light caught the scars that mapped him. Old slashes that healed into crooked, pale lines seemed to startle you more than the fresh wounds.Â
âI think this will sting,â you said apologetically, and pressed the soaked cloth along the cut.
He hissed through his teeth. His muscles jumped beneath your fingers.
âSorry,â you whispered.
âDonât be,â he said. âHurts less than it looks.â
You didnât seem to believe him. After cleaning, you reached for the small bowl of thick salve. Honey to keep rot away, followed by grease to protect the wound. You frowned, concentrating. Phainon almost admired the effort; he doubted youâd even made your own breakfast before. You reached for the linen bandages and pressed the first length gently against his side to hold the salve in place. Your fingers were warm. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and stared hard at the wall.
Then you began to wrap.Â
Phainon held himself rigid, afraid that if he moved at all heâd knock you off balance. Every turn of the bandage seemed to pull you nearer. Your body pressed against him apologetically, slim shoulder brushing his chest, bushy hair tickling his cheek. He was acutely aware of how small the Princess was, and yet how carefully you tried not to rest your weight on him.
You reached around him again, fingers grazing his spine as you searched for the end of the wrap. His jaw clenched. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, unsure where they were supposed to go.
âYou should sleep soon,â you said. âYouâve lost a lot of blood.â
You also clearly had no conception of what âa lot of bloodâ was. Heâd lost more blood when he first joined the knights.
âCanât,â he answered. âIâm taking the first watch.â
Your hands paused. âYou canât be up all night like this.â
âNever bothered me before,â he replied.Â
You touched his bruised shoulder, then hesitated. âMay I at least say a prayer for you?â
He shrugged, too exhausted to say otherwise.
You bowed your head, lips moving soundlessly. It was not as courtly and refined as Phainon wouldâve expected, but something halting and earnest. Your fingers rested on his arm as if to press pure, unadulterated, divine love inside of him. You thanked God for him.
When you finished, you looked up, eyes wet, bright in the lamplight. âAnd thank you for protecting me, Sir Phainon,â you said.
He shifted, uncomfortable. âSure.â
Your movements were steadier when you gathered the rags, rinsed them, folded them again.
âTry to sleep,â you said softly. âAt least a little.â
He watched you step back, the lamplight catching the rough linen of your dress, the wild curve of your hair.
âIâll rest,â he said. It was easier than arguing.
You nodded, satisfied, and sat back down on the ground. You looked like a pilgrim at his feet. Phainon sat there a moment longer, listening to the camp breathe, the bandage warm against his skin where your hands had been.
âYouâre a nice woman,â he said abruptly.Â
You tilted your head.
âYouâre a decent person. I hope youâre queen somedayââ He paused, scowling faintly. âI mean, if it means marrying someone who will treat you okay. Otherwise⊠I hope youâre not queen at all. On account of not wanting to be.â
You blinked, surprised, then smiled. âThank you. I only hope I might be made a friend of yours after all this.â You glanced down at your borrowed clothes. âI may not look like it, but I think Iâm much like you. I would lay down my life for my dream.â
Phainon huffed. âNo. Better than me. I wouldnât go this far for no dream.â
He didnât say the rest aloud. I would die for my brotheren. For them only. There is a difference.
âOf course you would say that,â you replied gently. âYou protect people, Sir Phainon.â
âFor the coin,â he shot back. âIt has nothing to do with chivalry.â
You tilted your head, studying him. âWhy do you argue every time I try to praise you?â
âBecause Iâm nothing like you. Iâm not a good person⊠at all.â
You seemed to consider that. âYou are your Lordâs most trusted knight. There must be good in you. Only someone who cares about goodness worries so much over whether they have it.â
Before he could answer, you spoke again, quieter now, as if to yourself. âAll of the people who fight beside you believes in you, so I will as well.â
The words struck Phainon, more jarring than the wound in his side.
You studied him, your head still tilted, those eyes far too perceptive for someone whoâd spent her life behind palace walls. âDo you doubt his judgment of you?â
âNo,â Phainon answered softly. âI believe I donât deserve it. Either wayâI donât want to be a knight. It is of little importance.â The words escaped before he could stop them, rougher than he intended.
Your eyes widened slightly.
To be remembered when absentâit was a strange kind of existence Phainon had often experienced.
âYet you truly believe in his dream.â
âYeah,â Phainon said.
Your gaze dropped to his cloak, to where the badge was pinned, frayed and bloodied. âI want a badge of my own.â
A short bark of a laugh escaped him. âYouâre not as spoiled as I thought, Iâll give you that. One day, Iâll get you your badge.â
Your eyes lit. âYou promise?â
âNo,â Phainon said. âI donât make those.â
Your mouth fell into a small, wounded pout.
He looked away.Â
âBut I will, Princess,â he added. âI will.â
.
Phainon startled awake from a deep sleep he couldnât remember entering. His body hardened at once, his hand already closing on the sword hilt before his eyes had fully opened. Darkness pressed around him, the night still deep. Something was wrong.Â
âPrincess?â he called, keeping his voice low.
You didnât answer. He didnât see you anywhere.
A coldness took hold. He rose without sound and searched the small interior. Your cloak was missing. Your roughshod boots stood where youâd left them, side by side near the hay.
âDamn it,â he muttered, gathering his shirt and cloak.
Then he heard the soft sounds of weeping.
He chased it out to the ruined doorway and found you at once, huddled just outside with your legs drawn tight, forehead resting on your knees. You were wrapped in your cloak like it was the last thing left to you.
âPrincess! Fucking hell, scared me half to death,â he admonished even as relief flooded him.
You looked up with a face full of shame, like a child discovered awake after hours. Then the look fell apart, and what you had been holding back gave way.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered. âI didnât mean to wake you. It was only a nightmare.â
âGet back inside,â he said brusquely. âYou can tell me about it there.â
You rose, reached for his arm, and didnât release it as you returned to your blankets over the unbaled hay.
Phainon leaned back against a beam. You stared down at your feet curled in the straw.
âPlease donât do that again.â Phainon said gruffly. âIt freaks me out.â
You wiped your eyes.
Phainon considered being a little softer. âSo, a⊠nightmare?â
âIt was about Danae. I keep thinking I hear her voice,â you said at last, wavering. âShe was more than my handmaid. She was my closest friend and I miss her⊠so much.â
âHuh⊠Iâm sure youâll see her again one day, at that country house of yours.â
You shook your head. âSheâs dead, Sir Phainon.â
Phainon stared at you, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Dead. Heâd assumed maids went forgotten in the chaos of the abduction. No one had said anything to him about casualties.
âI didnât know,â Phainon said quietly.
Phainon lowered himself to one knee, bringing his face level with yours. The bandages pulled at his wound, but he ignored the pain.
Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your dress. âMy father discovered the deception I had doneâand that she had helped me with it. He had her hanged before the court like a traitor. Theyâthey said he was in a rage unlike any theyâd seen before. He wouldn't even allow her a proper burial. So, Iâm sure you can understand, Iâve come to hate my father.â
Phainon placed a heavy hand on your shoulder. It was all he could think to do.
You didnât look up at his touch. âEveryone who comes near me dies.â
It was as if the ground had dropped away beneath him.
âDeath has followed me since I was a child. My mother died when I was so small I can barely remember her face. Last year, my great uncle and dear cousin, murdered in their own chambers. And then my instructor, taken by that terrible fire!â You looked up at him, tears streaming down your face. âIâve brought a terrible curse upon my house! Iâm trulyââ
âStop it,â he interjected, his voice coming out rougher than intended. âYou are not cursed.â
The taste of guilt on his tongue, Phainon pulled away from you, unable to bear the touch. His hands felt stained. The final moments of your family flashed behind his eyes. He saw the terror in their face, meeting death in those darkened chambers. How many losses had he inflicted on this girl who now looked to him for comfort?
âHow can you be so sure?â you asked, your eyes wide and desperate for reassurance.
Phainon gave a bitter laugh. âBecause it's my fault. I'm the bad omen. Always have been. Whatever curse is on your house started when we first came to your kingdom, because I was with em.â
Outside, ravens cawed and croaked in the night fog. He stood abruptly and paced the small space like a caged animal. The wound at his side pulled with each step, but he welcomed the pain. It felt deserved.
âIâm sorry,â Phainon said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. âI got too close⊠to my men, to you... to everyone. And you think youâre the one at fault? You arenât.â
You rose from your place in the straw, the cloak falling away from your shoulders. You reached out, catching his arm as he turned to pace back. The touch was light, but it stopped him as surely as if youâd thrown a rope around him.
Phainon looked down at your small hand on his forearm, at the delicate fingers that had no business touching someone like him. He wanted to pull away but found he couldnât.
âIâve misjudged you terribly,â you whispered, your eyes searching his face. Dampness still clung to your lashes, your lips quivered.Â
Your hand slid to his wrist. âPhainonâŠâ
Phainon heard the exhaustion in your voice and realized too late that he shouldâve put distance between you.Â
You reached up, your lips brushed his cheek, then pressed again, trembling, like you were waiting for something to happen to you.
Phainon froze.
Some highly man would still bed this woman one day, wouldnât he? Phainon never dared to imagine it before: the thoughts made an ugly impulse rise up. He almost jerked away from it, but it had already made its home in his blood. He kissed you as hard as he could.
Your gasp was suffocated as Phainon pressed forward like this was proof that he could stand within anotherâs dominion and not vanish.
Too long had Phainon stood upon the scales, awaiting the measure of his worth. In the ancient days, souls were weighed against feathers. You probably belonged to that bygone era. Nowadays, souls are weighed against iron, and every other hellbound defiler skirts their own devouring. His heart would always be a profane thing, no matter what was set against it.
You moaned against his mouth, a sound so unintentionally arousing that Phainon felt himself falling deeper into his haze. Your fingers clutched at his arms, as if youâd been waiting for thisâfor someone, anyone, to show you that passion existed beyond courtly words and distant promises.
No. That wasnât quite right. Your strength mightâve been feeble, but you were⊠pushing him away.
He jerked back, a rush of air filled his lungs like heâd been drowning. You echoed him with your own starving gasp. Your eyes fluttered open, wide and stunned. A flush spread across your cheeks, turning your skin the heated color of dawn. You touched your parted mouth with trembling fingers.Â
âPrincess,â he started, his voice rough as gravel. The word hung between you, incomplete. What could he possibly say? That heâd kissed you in defiance of a man who wasnât even here?
Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your flushed face. âIâm at fault here.â
He turned away. Shame moved through him, slow and venomous. The kiss lingered on his lips and he wished he could spit it out. This treason against all kings. Worse, this mundane betrayal of a good and gentle woman.
At that, your cheeks colored. âNoâno, I... I need certainty,â you breathe moments after, looking down and away from him.
A soft hand is placed on your cheek, making you look towards him.
âI want to touch you,â Phainon admits, with no amount of shame present in his voice. He likes the way you tremble at the timbre in his tone, so he plants a soft kiss on your shoulder, âI want to do a lot of things, to you.â
You look down at him, elevated as his hands find themselves beneath you.Â
âA lot?â
Phainon nuzzles his nose beneath your chest, nodding as he looks up at you.Â
âA lot.â
You look at him like some sort of apparition. And that is no good. No good at all. Because then it will lead to Phainon overthinking everything about you: your delicate fingers scratching at the skin on the back of his neck, the way your chest rises up and down, the haze in your eyes telling him you want him too.Â
âOkay,â said Phainon. He took a deep breath to steady himself. âUndress for me. As far as you want.â
He watched with ardent interest as you unlaced the side of your kirtle and stepped out of it, a pool of deep navy settling by your feet. And thenâto Phainonâs surpriseâyou reached for the bottom of your chemise and lifted it up. âPlease treat me gently.â
Obeying your request comes just as easily.Â
Phainon meets your mouth in a clash of teeth. Soft lips melt into his, and he explores every crevice of your mouth with adept dexterity. His hands bunch at your thighs, and you whimperâresting your chin on his broad shoulder when you pull away for air.
Still in his clothes, Phainon manages to tug his chausses down along with his boxers to his mid thighs, revealing his sturdy manhood. You moan into his mouth when the hot skin presses against your inner thigh.Â
âPhaiâPhainon, please,â you mewl so sweetly, gazing down at him with stars in your eyes.Â
The very sight of you, held by him like this, would probably send him to purgatory. Itâs debauched in every sense of the word.Â
Phainon sighs, rubbing the head of his manhood over your slick folds that twitch and cream over it.
He rests his head on your collar, as you wrap your arms around him and bury yourself in the crook of his neckâa pliant and soft mess for him.Â
âPhainon, Phainonâ You cry, small tears escaping your eyes as he pushes you further down his cock, âFeelsâFeels good.â
Sweat runs down his forehead, and your moist body presses against his. He kisses at your chest, which only makes you arch your back and press him further into you. Phainonâs thrusts grow more intense, wanting to take you awayâwanting to have you all for himself. A warm hand goes down to tease your clit and when you tighten around him, he sees stars. When the familiar band of pleasure reaches him, something he had not felt in years, his thrusts grow more rapidâwith a strong want.
âPhainonâlâm going toâ,â You mewl, and he grips tighter onto your hips.
âI have you, I have you,â He grunts, driving further to make you reach your high. You hiccup, and Phainon can feel a few tears fall down and touch his skin when you pull away from his neck to meet his lips as you come around you. He comes shortly after, clutching onto your malleable frame tightly, afraid that if he were to blink you would disappear.
When he comes back down, you lay next to him. You collapse into his chest, and he hums, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. He still feels a bit high, especially as you coddle him. The moonlight paints the room in a soft glowâpainting over your skin.
You prop yourself on his chest, and Phainon lets himself pet your cheek.Â
âI am really glad you were born into this world,â you murmur, lids droopingâthreatening to close. He rubs your cheekbone with the knuckle of his finger, pushing your cheekâurging you to rest.
.
Dawn broke over the camp in a wash of pale gold. When the scouts reported their Kingâs approach, relief washed through the camp like a fever breaking. Men straightened their postures, checked their weapons, brushed dirt from their cloaks.
Phainon stood apart from the others, arms crossed over his chest. The wound at his side had begun to itch, a sign of healing that irritated him more than the original pain. He scratched at it absently, watching the tree line.
His Highness rode at the head of his contingent, regal with the crown that costed a fortune. Behind him, the rest of the soldiers spread out in formationâMydeiâs dark silhouette recognizable among them, Chartonusâ massive form unmistakable.
Men called out greetings, some rushing forward to hear the news. You took a half-step backward, then stopped, composing yourself with visible effort.
Phainon stayed where he was, watching as his Liege dismounted in one fluid motion, handing his reins to a waiting servant. His eyes scanned the camp, taking in everything at onceâthe defensive positions, the state of the men, the provisions. When his gaze landed on the captive Princess from the other lands, his face hardened in a way Phainon had seen only rarely, a genuine hatred that made something twist inside him.
The men took their cue, backing away to give their commander a wide berth. Yet their eyes darted toward their commander and the Princess when they thought no one was looking. Phainon didnât pretend. He watched openly.
You approached the other with small, hesitant steps. The distance between you closed like a wound healed. When you met, he took your hands in his, bending slightly to speak to you in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
Your face fell.
Phainon leaned against a tree, arms still crossed, the bark rough against his shoulder blades. He felt the weight of his own presence, heavy and intrusive. He should turn away. He knew he should. But his eyes refused.
You parted. His King said something and you responded with a nod, then walked to where the others waited. You excused yourself with a small curtsyâa gesture that seemed absurd in your peasant clothesâbefore turning away, walking with newfound hurt toward the returning soldiers.
Something cold and leaden settled in Phainonâs stomach. He looked away, then forced himself to look back. This was the dream made flesh and then lead to the block. He had no right to flinch from it.
One thing was clear. His commander returned victorious. The deal had been struck.
.
As Phainon turned from the last of his junior comrades, you caught him by the arm with a firmness that brooked no evasion. You walked him back several paces from the others, set your heel, and pivoted you so his back was to the campfire. Your shadows stretched long across the frost-hardened earth, reaching past the tethered horses, which stamped and breathed pale steam into the morning air.
Close up, in the slanting light, you finally saw how different Phainon looked.
The planes of his face seemed sharper, casting shadows that weren't there before. A darkness pooled beneath his eyes, lending his gaze a bright, fevered clarity. His charm remained, but it had taken on the austere cast of a carven bust.
You had meant to greet him properâas you should have, and then press your concern privately as a loyal confidant. Instead, the words broke from you unbidden.
âIâll carry that promise with me into the grave.â
Peals of laughter erupted in the distance, followed by the clang of a kettle overturned and a chorus of friendly shouts. The noise rolled through the camp like a cleansing surf. You stepped closer, until he could smell the road dust on Phainonâs cloak, narrowing the space between you so your words wouldnât carry.
Phainon looked affronted at first but then his eyes gathered into a winter storm. âNow is the time you choose to question the worth of his highnessâ word?â
You released his arm, and broke down. âYou feed me promises like Iâm some invalid.â
âHeâs won his kingdom,â Phainon said, authority settling into his voice. âHe preserves his Knights. And one day, I swear he shall restore you to your rightful place. Which of these charges would you have me answer for?â
âSo you really are sending me back to a murderer," you frowned, stepping closer until he could see the fine lines of exhaustion etched around your eyes. âRight back to the man who had the girl dressed as his own daughter hanged.â
âA king would not harm his only heir."
âYes, except he isnât a fucking king anymore, is he?â you pressed. âPlease, just tell me it weighs on you. Tell me your conscience is tearing you apart. Please.â
If there was agony toiling within Phainon, it had submerged beyond sight, but his voice rang hollow like bones without marrow. âI canât do that.â
You nearly cry. âBut you can kiss me like that? Let me believe? Thatâs just cruel. I love you, you know?â
Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your face. What could he say to you when court decorum was immaterial?
âPlease, Sir Phainon. Do I still have my honor?â
âOf course you have. You did nothingâwithout our King to lead us, weâre just a bunch of men, remember? Me included.â
âI regret that this outcome causes you pain, truly. But itâs settled now,â Phainon said as though heâd already lost his knightly stature before the reign had even begun.
âPhainon, Iâm exhausted,â you confessed at last. âAfter all this, Iâll have an even greater need ofââ
He cut you off with a flustered sound halfway between a curse and a sigh and turned away. He was tired too. He felt empty.
âFor what itâs worth, Princessââ
âYouâve done well.â You cut him off.
Phainon didnât feel the swell of pride that usually came with your praise.
.
The men had drunk themselves into contentment, reassured by their leaderâs presence as dogs are reassured by the return of a master long absent. Fires guttered low. Horses were sent to pasture to graze in peace. Men shuffled to their tents in a haze of dreamlike bliss.
Phainon was awake. He turned onto his back and stared at the canvas above him, where firelight breathed faintly through the weave.
He knew where you had retired for the night. A separate tent had been given over to you. A place no one would disturb.
Phainon shut his eyes.
Phainon imagined the lamplight dimmed to amber, shadows sliding along canvas walls. Pale bodies unburdened in private.
The thought came unbidden and would not be dislodged. Phainon pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes until sparks flared behind them. He felt like a stray in a strangerâs camp.
Your hands were soft. You would lift them to his brow, smoothing the line of strain there without fully knowing the gift you gave. You would rest your palm on his chest as if to reassure yourself his heart still beat. When you spoke his name, it would carry the same hush you used for prayer.
Would he draw you close? Offer you consolation before exile? You would not refuse him if he did.
In the far distance, a lone wolfâs howl carried thin and hungry over the plain.
Phainon listened to it with a dull ache in his chest. He hoped for the wolf to find him. Lead the whole pack into his tent. Finish what their distant kin had failed to do. Their teeth in his throat would be cleaner than the slow agony of rotting away in this yearning. This awful regret.
.
You had spoken of your summer residence more than once, describing a place half-remembered from childhood. It lay beyond the low hills, in a state of disuse, given how few were left now to occupy it. Laid down by your forefather, before the wars, built of pale gray stone veiled in ivy, its slate roof pitched steep against the weather. Cypress trees stood in dark rows along the garden walls, and winter grass had gone wild between the flagstones. The road to it was narrow and seldom used. The kind of place meant for comfortable retirements. The former King would be sitting there alone, amongst the dust-coated furniture. Awaiting your arrival.
Phainon accompanied you to the edge of camp. You stood in mutual silence, your cloak drawn tight and hair pinned plainly at your neck. You looked like someone who had stepped out of a storybook and found the world terribly unfamiliar.
With the old manâs abdication, the deal was all but sealed. You were to be moved like a piece cleared from the board. Secreted away like a pawn to join her disgraced king.
âYouâre a nice woman,â Phainon said lamely.
âSir Phainon,â you whispered.
He placed a hand over yours. âPlease, take heart. The countryside will suit you. There will be gardens. Peace and quiet. Time enough for your needle arts.â
You nodded, clinging to every word. âWill youâwhen will you come?â
âI am sworn to never again entreat the former king. But I will come as before⊠as soon as possible.â
Phainonâs hand lingered a moment longer over yours. Then, with surprising reluctance, he released you.Â
âIâll be departing soon,â you said, bowing your head to him. âThank you⊠for all youâve done, Phainon. And Iâm sorry. For the times when I was a burden.â
Phainon frowned, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. âYou of all people donât need to apologize. Iâm sorry, for everything I put you through.â
He hesitated, then reached up and tugged at his cloak. The pin came loose with a soft snap of metal. He pulled free the badge.
âHere,â he said, pressing it into your hand. âDonât let your Pa see it. He probably knows what it means.â
Your eyes widened. âOhâbut this is yours,â you said quickly. âWhat will you do without it?â
âJust take it.â He waved it off.
You held the metal like it might vanish if you loosened your grip. For a moment you only stared, lips parted, as though youâd been given something sacred. Looking at your joy, it was easy to imagine himself in his boyhood, picking wheat stalks from the ground, turning them over in his fingers as if they were signs left just for him. Like heâd found breadcrumbs to heaven before ever looking up.
You slipped the badge into the bodice of your dress, close to you heart, and wrapped your arms around yourself. A small, involuntary sound escaped you, almost a coo, full of comfort and ache in equal measure.
Handing you a piece of your hero, extracted from his own cloak was a strange feeling. Something twisted in Phainonâs chest and suddenly, the gift felt like a reckless mistake, as though heâd given away a precious resource without knowing its true worth.
When it was time, Phainon helped you into the carriage. You looked back once, hope pressed to your heart like debris packed into a wound.
Phainon tried to smile at you. You equally failed in the attempt. You started to cry, softly, no longer able to keep anything hidden.Â
The horses rallied, the wheels turned and the road pulled you away. Phainon watched until the carriage vanished beyond the hills into obscurity.Â
âSo long,â he says your name, just to feel its sound inside his head.
Then he mounted his horse and rode in the opposite direction to rejoin the others, toward the future.
The wind rattled the empty clasp on his cloak and Phainon wondered how many things could be lost without ever being claimed in the first place.
.
P. S. The âbestâ ending isnât the one where they run off into the sunsetâbecause Phainonâs character is built on the iron-clad tragedy of his loyalty. If he betrays his King, he loses the very thing that shapes him into who he is: his unshakable core.











