♡

us the night the world burned down (can't you see me?) // kkura // 26yo

[majunju]

abyss princess

[majunju]

it’s how they flirt ❤️

[wutheringheightsfilm]

every day it just concerns me how little compassion people have. no compassion for those living in the global south. no compassion for immigrants. no compassion for disabled ppl. no compassion for addicts. no compassion for prisoners. no compassion for children. like holy shit ...

[wutheringheightsfilm]

i made a separate post about this but actually there are plenty of people cough white people who care about animals more than they ever do human people . not what i'm talking about make your own post

[nourishedbytime]

[hellinistical]

Crown Of Teeth

Gladiator! Phainon x Princess! Reader

synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.

trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.

wc: 9.8k

a/n: mdni or get blocked. this chapter had to be split and its so, so, so very annoying.

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.

IX. Winner's Rights PART ONE OF CHAPTER NINE.

The stadium was silent.

Not a hush born of peace, but the terrible kind—thick, stunned, almost unbelieving. The sort of silence that falls only after something so immense has happened that the body cannot yet decide whether to breathe or break.

Mydeimos lay in the sand below, half-curled on his side, one arm twitching faintly against the ground. His chest still moved, but unevenly now—ragged, shallow, each breath seeming to scrape painfully through him. Blood darkened the front of his tunic, his face, the sand beneath his mouth. He looked—just for this one impossible moment—not like a prince, not like the Kremnoan lion they had all expected to roar through the day unchanged—but like a man who had been struck down and left there for the world to witness.

And the world did witness.

The silence spread outward in ripples. It passed through the lowest rows first, then the higher terraces, moving from face to face as if each spectator needed a moment longer than the last to understand what they had seen. A hand clutched another hand. A wine cup tilted and spilled forgotten to the stone. Someone in the crowd rose halfway to their feet and then sat back down as if their knees had given way beneath them.

Silent.

Silent.

Silent.

Even the arena itself seemed to hold still, sand unmoving, the air strangely heavy, the sunlight too bright for what had just been done beneath it.

Then your own breath returned all at once—and with it, the sound tore from your throat.

A scream.

It ripped out of you so violently that it hurt, raw and high and helpless, the noise of someone whose entire body has been forced past fear into pure, unbearable agony. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t courtly. It was not the cry of a princess, nor the measured lament of a woman trained to hide her grief behind her sleeve. It was something far more terrible than that.

It was your voice breaking in half.

“Mydeimos!”

The name was swallowed in the roar that followed almost immediately from the Kremnoan delegation. Their silence had lasted only a heartbeat longer than everyone else’s—one stunned, disbelieving breath too long—and then they erupted all at once.

Agony first.

Then fury.

Then hatred so sharp it seemed to crack the very air.

“THE PRINCE!”

“MYDEIMOS!”

“YOU FILTHY—!”

The shouts climbed over one another, men and women alike surging to their feet, faces twisted with horror, grief, and the kind of outrage that only blood loss and national pride can create together. Their cries came in a ragged wave, not one voice but dozens, then hundreds, all snapping loose at once like a net ripped open.

You could hear it in pieces through the chaos—our prince, our prince, kill him, gods save him, no, no, no— words no longer clean enough to be called speech. They screamed his name as if it were a prayer. They screamed it as if the act itself might drag him back from the sand. They screamed it with the raw, possessive grief of people who had watched something sacred fall.

And beneath that grief was something darker.

The farmer’s name—Phainon—was not shouted with awe now, not with surprise, not with fascination.

It was hissed. Spat. Cursed.

“Murderer!” “Farmer filth!” “Cursed by every god!”

“He’s killed him!” someone cried, voice cracking on the word. “He’s killed the prince!”

The accusation spread like fire through dry grass. Even those who had moments ago been screaming in disbelief now sounded ready to riot, ready to climb the arena walls with their bare hands if it meant reaching the man who had brought their prince low. The Kremnoans were no longer merely spectators. They were a storm of grief sharpened into vengeance, their hatred aimed downward in one blazing arc at the bloodied figure in the sand.

You could barely hear yourself over them.

Your hands were shaking so badly your nails dug crescents into your palms. Tears blurred the field below, but not enough to hide it—the attendants already rushing in, the guards stepping forward, the movement in the sand as bodies began to shift around the fallen prince. You could see it all as if from too far away and too close at once.

Phainon stood there amid it, chest rising and falling hard, blood and dust clinging to him, his fists still clenched, shoulders taut with the aftermath of violence. Even now, even with the prince crumpled below him, he looked carved from something stubborn and unyielding. Not triumphant—not quite. Not smiling. But standing. Still standing.

And that was almost worse.

The Kremnoans saw him exactly as you did then: the man who had done the impossible. The man who had, in front of every noble in Ochema, beaten their prince into the sand so brutally that his body itself seemed to have forgotten how to rise.

The crowd broke fully now. Every voice came back at once—shouting, cursing, weeping, demanding justice, demanding mercy, demanding blood. The noise crashed over the arena in a tidal wave of hysteria. Above it all, a bronze cymbal rang in panic, then again, and again, as if the people attempting to restore order had themselves been swallowed by the chaos.

Your own throat ached from screaming, but you couldn’t stop.

“No—no, stop, stop it—!” you cried, though whether you begged for the crowd or for the gods or for the fact that Mydeimos still moved below, you didn’t know. Your chest hurt. Your vision burned. Everything in you had narrowed to one terrible point.*

The fall had happened.

It had happened in front of everyone.

And now everyone knew it.

The lion had fallen, and the stadium had finally understood what it had lost.

Your father rose so abruptly that his seat scraped hard against the marble behind him, the sound sharp enough to cut through the chaos for half a breath. His face had gone rigid—no longer merely stern, but carved into something imperious and dangerous, the expression of a man who had decided the moment of mercy, or punishment, would be his alone.

“Enough!” he barked, turning at once to the guards flanking your seat. “Restrain her!”

The men obeyed instantly.

One crossed the spear shaft firmly before your path, the other bracing at your side as you lurched forward again, still crying out, still shaking your head in frantic denial. Their hands did not strike you, but their grip was iron. One caught your upper arm; the other stepped in front of you so suddenly that the bronze of his cuirass flashed before your eyes like a wall.

“Father—no—!” you gasped, twisting helplessly. “Mydeimos! Please, Mydeimos—!”

But your father was already turning away from you.

His voice rose next—low at first, then swelling, gathering authority until it filled the amphitheater like a command from the altar itself.

“SILENCE.”

The word cracked over the stadium with such force that even the nearest spectators flinched as though struck.

For a moment, the sound of grief, rage, and hysteria did not vanish so much as recoil. It buckled. The Kremnoan shouting stuttered. The Ocheman nobles near the high boxes stopped mid-cry. Somewhere in the lower rows, a woman’s sob caught in her throat and broke into silence. Men who had been leaning over the balustrade to scream at the arena drew back as if the emperor’s voice itself were a blade lifted above them.

Then the horns blared.

Not the celebratory sort now, but the long, solemn blast used to summon attention in temple rites and royal proclamations alike—the kind of sound that demanded bodies go still and heads bow beneath something greater than themselves. It rolled through the arena in a deep, resonant wave, the notes vibrating through the marble, through the sand, through your own ribs until your breath seemed to stop inside you.

The crowd obeyed, slowly at first, then all at once.

Silence spread like a hand laid over a mouth.

The people rose to their feet or sat rigid in place, but all sound fell away. Even the Kremnoans—still white-faced with fury and grief, still clenching railings with shaking hands—stilled, their outrage swallowed into an almost ceremonial hush. Here, in this moment, it was not merely a matter of spectacle. It was ritual. Sacred order. The emperor had called for silence before the keeper of the games could speak, and the entire amphitheater had no choice but to become a temple.

At the edge of the arena, the keepers of the games began to move.

One stepped forward in a robe of saffron and gold, the hem dusted with sand, a circlet of laurel and bronze at his brow. He carried himself as a priest might, not a herald—his face solemn, his hands lifted in the traditional sign of witness, as though he were about to speak not of victory but of favor granted by the gods. Behind him, attendants knelt near the fallen bodies, drawing the wounded back from the center, keeping their eyes lowered.

Below, Phainon remained where he stood.

Blood streaked his face. His chest rose and fell too hard, his body still trembling with the violence that had not yet fully drained from it. The sand around him was trampled and dark. He looked for all the world like a man who had been dragged through the mouth of a storm and somehow emerged alive on the other side.

Mydeimos lay in the sand only a few paces away, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him, the rest of his body half-curled and motionless save for the faintest rise of his breathing. He had not been taken yet. He had not been hidden. The stadium was made to see him there, to understand the shape of the defeat before the final words were even spoken.

And all the while the silence held.

You could hear your own pulse pounding in your ears. You could hear the rough, uneven cadence of your breathing. You could hear the tiny scrape of the guard’s sandal as he shifted beside you. Nothing else.

Your father stood at the highest edge of the royal box, every line of his body proclaiming control. He did not look at you now. He did not need to. He was not your father in this moment, not truly—not in the private, human way that had failed you hours ago in his study. Here he was ruler, judge, witness. The man who would decide how the blood below would be understood by the city.

The games keeper raised both hands.

“By the favor of Helios,” he called, voice clear and resonant in the sacred hush, “and under the witness of the gods and the crown—”

He paused, as was custom, his eyes sweeping the arena, the stands, the high royal seat. The silence deepened still further, if that were possible, stretched taut to the breaking point.

“The victor is declared.”

There was a collective inhale across the amphitheater, so sudden and unified it sounded almost like wind rushing through reeds.

Your stomach turned violently.

The keeper lowered one hand slowly and pointed toward the center of the arena, toward the bloodied farmer standing amid the wreckage of beasts and princes alike.

“Phainon, of  Aedes Elysiae!”

The name rang out with all the weight of law and rite. Not a cheer. Not yet. A designation. A truth spoken before god and crowd alike.

For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the silence began to crack.

You wretch again, the motion violent enough that it folds you nearly in half over the edge of the cushioned bench. Your fingers claw into the embroidered fabric, knuckles blanching, the fine threads biting into your skin as if they alone can hold you together. Nothing comes this time—nothing but a dry, scraping heave that burns up your throat and leaves your chest trembling in its wake.

The taste of it lingers anyway. Bitter. Sour. Wrong.

Hours have passed since the arena, and still your body does not understand that it is no longer there.

Your chambers are dim now, the late afternoon light filtered through gauze-thin curtains that sway faintly in the warm air. It casts everything in a dull, golden haze—softening edges, muting colors—but it cannot soften what clings to you. The smell of the arena feels lodged somewhere deep in your lungs. Blood and dust and sweat. Heat baked into stone. You swear you can still hear it too, if you let yourself listen—the roar, the crack of impact, the horrible rhythm of fists meeting flesh again and again and again.

“My lady, please—just a sip—”

A cup is pressed toward you. Another hand hovers at your back, uncertain, hesitant to touch but too afraid not to try. Someone else is wringing a cloth in a basin, the water already tinged faintly pink where you’ve spat into it before. They speak in hushed voices, but there are too many of them, too much movement, too much noise pressing in on a mind that cannot bear it.

You turn your head sharply, breath hitching, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Stop—just—stop—”

But they don’t. They can’t. Not yet.

One reaches for your shoulder. Another kneels too close, skirts brushing against your feet. The room feels smaller for it, tighter, suffocating in its concern.

Then—

“Out!”

The word cracks through the chamber, sharp and unyielding.

Agnes.

She stands just inside the doorway, her presence cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk. Her posture is rigid, her expression drawn tight with a fury that is not loud but absolute. There is no room for hesitation in it, no softness to be mistaken for permission.

“Out. All of you.”

The handmaids freeze. One stills mid-step, another with the cloth half-lifted, another clutching the cup as though it might shatter if she moves too quickly.

Agnes takes a step forward. That is all it takes.

“The princess needs her privacy,” she says, her voice lower now but no less firm. “Don’t you know she is effectively in mourning?”

The word lands heavy. Mourning.

It shifts something in the room. The girls look at one another; uncertain, chastened, suddenly aware that they have been crowding something sacred without understanding it. Apologies spill out in soft murmurs—your grace, forgive us, we meant only—but they retreat as they speak, gathering themselves in a flurry of skirts and lowered heads.

The door closes behind them with a muted click.

And then there is quiet.

Real quiet.

Not the suffocating silence of the arena before the verdict, not the stunned emptiness of a crowd robbed of its voice. This is smaller. Contained. The kind of quiet that belongs to a room, to breath, to grief that does not need to perform itself.

Agnes crosses the space quickly, setting the abandoned cup aside before it can spill. She kneels beside you without ceremony, one hand firm at your back, the other catching your wrist as if to feel the frantic pulse there.

“You’ll make yourself faint,” she mutters, not unkindly. “Breathe.”

You try. Gods, you try.

But your lungs won’t settle. Every inhale feels shallow, every exhale too sharp, as though your body has forgotten how to exist without bracing for the next blow.

The image comes back again, unbidden.

Mydeimos on the ground.

The way his body had jerked under the force of it. The way it had stopped. The way the sand beneath him had darkened, spreading, soaking. The way the man above him—Phainon—had not stopped. Had not even seemed to hear the world around him.

Your stomach twists violently.

Agnes is ready this time, already pulling the basin closer as you lurch forward again. You gag, dry and desperate, your throat burning with the effort, your eyes stinging with fresh tears that spill over before you can stop them.

“There, there,” she murmurs, steady as stone. “Let it pass. Don’t fight it.”

A broken sound escapes you, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. You sag back against the cushions, weak, your limbs heavy and trembling.

“I can still see it,” you whisper hoarsely. “I can still—”

Your voice cuts off. You don’t finish. You don’t need to.

Agnes’s hand moves to your shoulder, rubbing slow, grounding circles into the tense muscle there.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “You will.”

No lies. Never from her.

You drag in a breath that shudders on the way out, your fingers curling into the fabric beside you again. The room feels too warm. Your skin is clammy, your stomach hollow and churning all at once. Somewhere in the distance, faint but unmistakable, the palace still hums with movement—servants passing word, guards shifting posts, voices carrying news that has not yet settled into history but already feels like it has changed everything.

You know what is happening beyond these walls.

The farmer—Phainon—will have been taken away. Cleaned, perhaps. Presented. Praised. Or questioned. Or both. Your father will be with him now, or soon. Deciding. Measuring. Weighing what has been won and what must be done with it.

The thought makes your stomach twist again.

Agnes notices. Of course she does.

“Enough,” she says, more firmly this time, her hand coming up to cup your face and turn it toward her. “Not a step further down that road. Not tonight.”

Your brows knit weakly, your lips parting as if to argue—but nothing comes. There is nothing left in you sharp enough to push back.

She studies you for a long moment, her gaze softer now, lined with something that borders on sorrow.

“I told you, did I not?” she murmurs. “Long before any of this. That love like that—” She exhales slowly, shaking her head. “—it does not live quietly. It never does.”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when the image of him—alive, proud, untouchable—still fights with the one burned into your mind hours ago.

You turn your face slightly, eyes closing, but Agnes does not let you retreat entirely. Her thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls.

“Mourning,” she says again, more gently now. “Call it what it is. Not death, perhaps. Not yet. But something has been broken before your eyes today, and no one gets to tell you it is nothing.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

Something broken.

Yes.

You feel it there, sharp and aching, as real as the soreness in your throat, as the tremor in your hands. Something has shifted, cracked open, and the world beyond it does not look the same.

Agnes draws you forward then, pulling you into her with a quiet insistence you do not resist. Your forehead presses into her shoulder, her arms firm around you, steady and warm. She smells faintly of herbs and clean linen, of something grounded and real in a world that has tilted too far off its axis.

“Mother will be terribly mad at me if—if she sees me crying,” you manage, the words catching and breaking apart as they leave you. Your breath stutters, uneven, your lips trembling so violently you have to press them together just to form the next sentence. “She’ll say I have no right—no right to mourn, no right to—”

Your voice falters, collapses in on itself.

“And Father—” your fingers curl tighter into the fabric at Agnes’s side, clutching at her as though she might slip away if you don’t hold on hard enough, “—father only cares for tradition, for spectacle, for what it means, not what it does—”

Another breath, sharp and painful.

“And Mydei—Mydeimos—” his name splinters in your mouth, fragile, sacred, ruined all at once. “I told him. I told him not to— I told him—”

Your voice rises without your permission, thin and desperate.

“—and now he’s—”

The word won’t come.

You see it again instead. The sand. The stillness. The way his body had stopped answering the blows. The way the world had gone silent before it decided what it had witnessed.

Agnes’s hand comes up quickly, firm but not harsh, cupping the side of your face and turning you into her shoulder before the thought can finish forming.

“Shh,” she murmurs, low and steady, pressing you closer so your words are swallowed against the linen of her gown. “Hush, child. Do not speak of matters that belong to Hades and his angels.”

Her voice is not dismissive. It is not cold. It is careful—deliberate in the way one handles something too fragile to be exposed to air.

Your breath hitches against her, but she continues, softer now, her hand smoothing over your hair, down the length of it in slow, grounding strokes.

“What is decided below the veil is not for us to name too quickly,” she says. “Not while breath still lingers in the world above. You will not condemn him with your own tongue. Do you hear me?”

You shake your head weakly, more out of overwhelm than refusal, your fingers still gripping her as if she is the only solid thing left.

“I told him,” you whisper again, smaller now, broken. “I told him not to go down there. I told him it was beneath him, that it was madness, that—” your throat tightens, choking off the rest. “He didn’t listen.”

Agnes exhales quietly, her chest rising beneath your cheek.

“No,” she says. “He didn’t.”

There is no judgment in it. Only truth.

Her hand stills briefly at the back of your head before resuming its slow movement, her touch firm enough to steady, gentle enough not to overwhelm.

“Men like him rarely do,” she adds, almost to herself. “Especially when pride has already taken hold.”

Your shoulders shake again, a quiet, helpless tremor that has nothing left in it but exhaustion.

“And now everyone saw,” you whisper. “Everyone. The whole city. The way he—”

Your words dissolve again, but Agnes understands. She always does.

“Yes,” she says softly. “They saw.”

Her hand shifts, thumb brushing beneath your eye to catch another tear before it can fall.

“But listen to me,” she continues, her tone firming just slightly, enough to anchor you again. “What the crowd sees and what is true are not always the same thing. A body on the ground is not always a soul lost. Not yet.”

You go still at that.

Not hope—not quite—but something that interrupts the spiral, if only for a moment.

Agnes feels it. Of course she does.

“That arena devours certainty,” she says quietly. “It takes breath and turns it into spectacle. It takes pain and calls it glory. But it does not get to decide everything. Not even your father has that power, no matter how loudly he claims it.”

Your grip on her loosens, just slightly. Enough to breathe.

“But Mother—” you begin again, weaker now, the fight draining from your voice. “She’ll say I shame myself. That I weep over something that is not mine to claim. That I forget my place.”

Agnes snorts softly under her breath, the sound almost scandalous in its bluntness.

“Your mother,” she says, “has always mistaken stillness for strength.”

Her hand presses more firmly at your back.

“You are not wrong for feeling what you feel,” she continues. “You are not wrong for breaking when something you love is struck before your eyes. Let her say what she will. Let your father cling to his rules and rites and crowns. They do not live inside your chest.”

Your breathing begins, slowly, to steady. Not fully. Not yet. But enough that each inhale no longer feels like it might splinter you apart.

Agnes tilts her head slightly, resting her cheek briefly against the crown of your head.

“And as for him,” she murmurs, softer now, almost like a secret, “you will not bury him with your grief before the world has done so properly. Do you understand me?”

“Oh, but dearest Agnes—” your voice breaks again, the words tumbling over themselves, desperate to be understood, “he never loved the fight, he loved—”

You hiccup sharply, your body shuddering as another wave of grief overtakes you. Your hands clutch at her, fingers curling into the fabric at her waist as though you might unravel if you let go.

“He loved to bake,” you whisper, and there is something almost disbelieving in it, as if the memory itself is too soft to belong beside what you witnessed today. “Did you know that? I knew that. I knew—” your breath stutters, your chest tightening painfully, “—he was—he was m-mine—”

The word splinters.

“Mine,” you repeat, weaker now, shaking your head as if trying to undo the truth of it. “And I his, and yet—oh—” your voice rises, cracking, “—he didn’t listen! I told him—I told him not to go, not to fight like some—some animal in the sand and he—”

A sob tears out of you, raw and helpless.

“Why did he not listen?”

The question hangs there, heavy, useless, echoing against the quiet walls of the chamber like something that will never receive an answer.

Agnes does not soothe you this time.

Instead—

Smack.

It is not hard. Not cruel. But sharp enough to startle, to cut clean through the spiral of your grief like a knife through silk. Your head jerks slightly with it, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes snap up to her in stunned silence.

“I said shush, child!” Agnes snaps, her voice firm, grounded, leaving no room for you to sink further into that unraveling place.

Her hands are already on your shoulders, steadying you, forcing you upright whether you feel ready or not. There is no gentleness in the motion—but there is care in the intention.

“Come now,” she insists, giving you a small shake when you hesitate, your limbs still heavy with grief. “Up. Up with you.”

You resist for only a second before your body obeys her out of habit, out of years of knowing that when Agnes speaks like this, it is not to be ignored. You push yourself up, unsteady, your knees weak beneath you, your head still spinning with everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve lost—or fear you’ve lost.

Agnes steps back just enough to look at you fully.

Her gaze is sharp now. Clear. Appraising.

“Don’t you know who you are?” she says, her tone lowering, not softening but deepening, carrying weight instead of comfort. “You are to be empress.”

The word lands heavier than anything else in the room.

Not princess. Not girl.

Empress.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

Agnes continues before you can fall back into yourself.

“What can you do now, hm?” she presses, one brow lifting slightly. “What use is it to weep yourself into the floor? Will it raise him? Will it undo what was done in that arena?”

Her hand lifts, not to strike this time, but to gesture faintly—toward the world beyond your chamber, toward the palace, the city, the gods themselves.

“No,” she answers for you. “It will not.”

You swallow hard, your throat still raw, your chest still tight.

“So tell me,” she goes on, quieter now but no less firm, “what remains in your power?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because the truth is—you don’t know.

Agnes exhales through her nose, not impatient, but resolute.

“If he is to pass,” she says, measured, deliberate, “then you may do what is proper. What is right. You may ensure he is not sent into the dark like some forgotten dog in the street.”

Her gaze does not waver from yours.

“You may see that a gold coin is placed beneath his tongue, for his passage. You may ensure rites are spoken. That he is not stripped of dignity, no matter what that arena made of him.”

But something about her tone had been more order than suggestion. 

The guards did not carry him so much as haul him.

Phainon had barely regained the full shape of his breath when their hands closed around him—hard on both arms, then under the shoulders, then at the back of the neck when he tried to twist and look back once more at the sand. Someone cursed in his ear. Someone else struck him across the ribs with the flat of a forearm just to keep him moving. The blows were not meant to kill. They were meant to remind him that whatever he had won in the arena, he had not yet won freedom.

The games keeper stepped aside as they dragged Phainon past him, his robes whispering against the bloodied sand. For a moment his expression held something like disgust, or perhaps caution; then it vanished behind the same ceremonious mask he had worn when declaring the victor. He lifted one hand, not in blessing, but in dismissal, as though the matter had already been sealed and all that remained was the administration of it.

Behind them, the Kremnoans were still crying out.

Their voices rose and broke in waves from the stands—Mydeimos’ name shouted as if it were both a prayer and a wound. Some called for him to be returned. Some spat curses at the farmer being dragged away. Some shouted that the match had been stolen, that the gods had been insulted, that the crown had allowed dishonor to stand in place of justice. The noise followed Phainon all the way across the stone passageway leading out of the arena, echoing from the walls long after the sand itself had disappeared behind him.

He caught one last glimpse of the sunlit arena through the opening of the exit corridor.

Then the doors slammed shut.

The world changed at once.

He was shoved through a narrow service corridor that smelled of oil, dust, old blood, and iron gone dull with age. Torches hissed in their brackets, throwing uneven light over the guards’ bronze and the slick sweat on Phainon’s neck. His side burned where Mydeimos had driven him into the sand. His head still rang in dull, ugly pulses from the last blows. Each step jarred his body as if it were still trying to remember how not to be hit.

No one spoke to him except in fragments.

“Move.”

“Head down.”

“Careful with him—”

And then, at the end of the corridor, the carriage.

It was not a prince’s carriage, not a hero’s procession, not anything that belonged to a victor in the way songs liked to imagine victors. It was plain and dark, boxlike, with curtains already drawn and the door waiting open like a mouth. The horses stamped impatiently in the heat, leather creaking, the reins held by a driver who would not meet his eye.

Phainon was shoved up the steps.

A hand caught the back of his tunic and nearly tore it as he stumbled inside. He caught himself against the opposite bench, breath escaping in a rough hiss as the door slammed behind him.

Then came the lock.

A heavy metallic click.

Then another.

The sound landed with finality.

The curtains were drawn at once from outside, cutting off what little light remained. The outside world vanished in layers—first the red of the arena dust, then the pale brightness of the corridor, then even the shape of the hands that had just thrown him in. The carriage became a sealed dark, warm and airless, rocking faintly as the guards moved away and the horses shifted their weight.

Phainon sat very still.

For several breaths he could hear nothing but his own breathing and the pounding of blood in his ears. The rough fabric of the bench scraped his thighs. The air inside the carriage already felt stale, too tight, as if the wood itself had been holding its breath.

His fingers flexed once, then curled.

The guards outside were speaking in low voices, though he could not make out the words. Perhaps orders. Perhaps complaints. Perhaps they were discussing the fool of a farmer who had not died when he was expected to. Perhaps they were wondering which noble would be sent first to inspect him, or what sort of prize a man like him was supposed to become now that the ritual had failed to keep him small.

The disruption from his winning was a thing that had been permitted so long as it remained manageable, but he of course, knew that as soon as he became inconvenient the moment would have outlived the shape that those in power had planned for the winner. And the winner was supposed to be that Kremnoan prince. Mydeimos. 

Phainon sighed, already annoyed. He could hear the words outside that the men spoke. 

“Did you strike his face?”

A pause accompanied by the creak of leather and the jostle of movement.

“No, it’d fetch too high a price if the Emperor decided he was unfit.”

“The bastard said he was from a farm?”

“Mm. That’s what they’re saying- some border village. Sun-touched lands, some nonsense if you ask me.”

A scoff followed, thick with disbelief. “Where did he learn to fight like that then?”

“Not from a farm! Can you imagine? Ha!”

The carriage lurched forward over uneven stone, the motion jarring through Phainon’s already battered body. His shoulder throbbed where it had taken the worst of the grappling. His knuckles pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t shift. He sat there in the dark, listening like something half-wild and half-waiting.

“Well if he’s from a farm,” a third voice muttered, more crude than the rest, “it’s no doubt he really is a bastard, so do we really have to respe—”

A sharp crack cut him off.

“—ow!—”

“Shush, you fool!” the first voice snapped, low and vicious now. “You want your tongue taken out? You’ll call him what he is until you’re told otherwise.”

A beat, then, 

“What he is?” The second voice echoed. 

“A winner. The Emperor’s winner.”

It sat strangely in the air, but not in any reverent way, or proud, and much less measured.

Phainon let out a slow breath through his nose, leaning his head back against the carriage wall. The wood was warm from the day’s heat, rough against his skin. Winner. The title felt ill-fitting, like a cloak thrown over bloodied shoulders that hadn’t asked for it. 

He flexed his fingers again, wincing faintly as dried blood cracked along his knuckles. The mention of it lingered in his mind more than the insult had. Not did you hurt him—but did you damage the face. Not concern. Not even cruelty. 

He shifted slightly on the bench, the movement careful, controlled. His ribs protested. His head still rang faintly where Mydeimos had struck him. And yet—

He was breathing.

But it was clear he was being spoken of like he was something to be sold, should it be necessary. 

Outside, the guards had gone quieter. More mindful. One of them cleared his throat.

“…Still. That wasn’t luck.”

“No,” another muttered. “No, it wasn’t.”

A pause. “The Emperor won’t like this.”

A humorless huff.

“The Emperor doesn’t have to like it. He has to use it.”

Phainon’s eyes opened in the dark.

There it was.

The carriage jolted over a dip in the road, wood groaning softly. Outside, leather creaked, a horse snorted. Then, lower—more cautious now—

“…What about the Kremnoans?”

Another silence. Not empty—thinking.

“What about them?” someone answered, but it lacked conviction.

“You heard them,” the first pressed. “They were ready to tear the stands down. That was their prince in the sand.”

“Aye,” came another voice, grim. “Their prince. And now what? A farmer takes his place?”

A scoff. “Not takes his place. Takes his winnings.”

“Careful,” another warned quickly.

“No, say it,” the first insisted under his breath. “If the prince falls, and the victor claims what he’s owed—what happens to the alliance then, hm? What happens when a peasant stands where a Kremnoan prince was meant to?”

The carriage seemed smaller for it. Tighter.

Phainon didn’t move.

“Alliance cracks,” one of them said bluntly. “Or worse. Breaks clean.”

“They won’t accept it,” another added. “No chance. Not after today. Not after that.”

“Then what?” a quieter voice asked. “We strip him of it? Say the match was flawed? Give it back to the prince?”

A sharp exhale. “And admit the arena lies? Admit the crown’s word means nothing once spoken? You’d have riots before sunset.”

Another voice cut in, more tense now. “Or we keep it as is—and insult the Kremnoans to their face. You saw them. They’re not the kind to swallow that.”

“They’ll call it theft.”

“They’ll call it humiliation.”

“They’ll call it war,” someone finished, flat.

That word lingered.

War.

Even the horses seemed to slow at it, as though the weight of the thought pressed into the road itself.

“No,” the first guard said after a moment, quieter now, more certain. “Not war. Not yet.”

A pause.

“…The Emperor’s not a fool.”

“No,” another agreed. “No, he’s not.”

“Then he’ll twist it,” the first continued. “Find a way to make it seem like it was always meant to be this way. Or—” a hesitation, “—he’ll make the boy disappear before it ever becomes a question.”

Phainon’s fingers curled slowly against his thigh.

Outside, one of them shifted in the saddle. “You think so?”

“I think,” came the reply, measured, “a farmer doesn’t just walk into a crown’s business and leave with everything untouched. Anyways, the alliance is sure to be broken now. I think.”

The carriage rocked onward, wheels groaning over the palace road, and Phainon kept still in the dark while the voices outside drifted back and forth like men talking over a meal they had not paid for.

“Alliance?” one of the guards scoffed under his breath. “You think the Kremnoans will smile after this?”

A second man gave a low, uneasy laugh. “Smile? No. They’ll bare their teeth. Did you hear them in the stands? Half of them looked ready to leap into the sand themselves.”

Phainon’s eyes remained shut, but his attention sharpened.

The first guard clicked his tongue. “It was a public rite. A sacred contest. They can curse it all they want—if the law says the winner claims the prize, then the law says it.”

“If the law says the winner,” the second replied, voice dropping, “and if the prize is the princess.”

The carriage wheel struck a rut and jolted them all. Phainon braced a hand against the bench, his ribs giving a dull protest.

Then the first guard answered, more carefully now. “That’s the part that matters.”

Phainon could almost hear the man scratching at his beard beneath his helm.

“The princess is already promised to Mydeimos,” he continued. “Everyone knows that. The Kremnoans came for the betrothal, the blessing, the pageantry of it. They came to see their prince stand beside the emperor’s daughter and call it fate.”

Another guard let out a low whistle. “And instead they watched him get beaten into the sand by a farmer.”

“By a winner,” the first one corrected, though the correction sounded more like discomfort than respect.

A third voice—older, rougher, probably the driver or a guard walking beside the carriage—muttered, “That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

“What part then?” asked the second.

The old one snorted. “The part where the Kremnoans decide they’ve been humiliated.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and obvious.

Phainon listened without moving, his face still hidden in the black interior of the carriage. Humiliated. Yes. He had seen that much from the stands, from the prince’s people screaming and wailing and cursing him as though he’d done something unforgivable simply by surviving.

The first guard gave a grim little sound. “They have been humiliated.”

“Exactly,” said the old one. “And Kremnoans don’t like being humiliated in public. They like contests. They like victory. They like loud displays and blood and grand claims. But the one thing they hate more than losing a fight is losing a fight they believed was theirs to win.”

The second guard said, “You think they’ll challenge it?”

“Challenge?” The old man barked a laugh. “That’s putting it politely. They’ll complain, bargain, threaten, posture. Maybe they’ll demand compensation. Maybe they’ll insist the prince was not at full strength. Maybe they’ll say the fight was dishonorable because the elephant was released, because the rules were bent, because the gods were offended, because the emperor blinked too long or the sand was too wet or the moon was in the wrong quarter. They’ll find a reason. They always do.”

Phainon could hear the faint creak of armor as one of them shifted his weight.

“And if they don’t accept the match?” the second guard asked.

The first guard answered with a shrug that could be heard in his voice. “Then we’ve got a problem.”

No one spoke for a while after that.

The carriage continued to roll, the horses’ hooves striking a steady rhythm outside. Somewhere ahead, city noise surged and faded—vendors, shouting, the clatter of carts, the endless noise of life carrying on as if the entire arena had not just been turned into a stage for blood and consequence.

Then the second guard said, quieter, “Still… if the farmer’s taken the prize, that’s a hard thing to undo.”

The first guard made a sound like agreement, though not happily. “A hard thing, yes. But not impossible. Not if the Kremnoans decide they’d rather lose an alliance than swallow the insult.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” said the old guard. “Think about it. Their prince was meant to be the one who won. Their prince was meant to take the princess, seal the bond, stand beside the crown in front of both cities. Now instead they’ve got a border farmer with blood on his hands claiming what everyone expected would go to royalty.”

“And the princess?” the second guard asked.

The first answered after a pause. “She’s the real trouble.”

Phainon’s fingers tightened slightly in the dark.

“Why?” the second asked.

“Because she’s the one the crowd was watching,” the first guard said. “Not the prince. Not the farmer. Her. The whole thing was built around her. The betrothal, the coronation, the spectacle. If she’s forced to accept the victor, then the Kremnoans can call it law. If she refuses, then they can call us dishonored.”

The old guard let out a low, irritated sound. “And if the emperor refuses to give her up, the Kremnoans can call that theft.”

“So either way…” the second began.

“So either way,” the first finished, “somebody leaves angry.”

The carriage creaked through another turn. Phainon shifted his shoulder against the wall and winced, the movement tugging at bruises he had not yet had time to count. The guards outside sounded less like men discussing a prize and more like men trying to guess where the blade would land once the diplomats started speaking.

The old guard gave another rough laugh. “The empire can survive an angry Kremnoan delegation. The question is whether the emperor wants to spend the next month smiling through teeth while they decide whether this farmer is a miracle or a mockery.”

The second guard muttered, “He did beat the prince.”

“Exactly.”

“He might need to be married off just to make the alliance look intentional.”

That got a sharper reaction from the others.

“Careful,” the first guard said. “You say that too loudly and someone inside the palace will hear you.”

“Inside the palace will already be thinking it.”

“That’s not the same as saying it.”

“Isn’t it?” the second replied.

The first guard exhaled through his nose. “If the emperor is clever, he’ll turn it into theater. He’ll call the match a divine decision. Say the gods chose the victor. Say the alliance remains honored because the lawful outcome was followed.”

The old guard made a skeptical noise. “And if the Kremnoans think the gods had a hand in letting their prince fall to a peasant?”

“Then we pray they’re pious enough to swallow it.”

“Pious?” the second guard laughed, low and dry. “They spent half the arena cursing the farmer’s bloodline.”

“Then we pray they’re vain enough to pretend they didn’t.”

Another small silence.

Then the first guard said, “Still… if the farmer really takes the princess, that changes everything.”

“How so?”

“The Kremnoans lose more than a prince. They lose a symbol.”

“Ah,” said the old guard, voice grim. “And symbols are harder to replace than men.”

“I think you’ve all forgotten,” one of the guards muttered, voice lower now, edged with something like caution, “that that princess bares teeth. She’s no fool either.”

A scoff answered him immediately.

“Oh? Really now? Bah! She’s a woman!”

Another voice—sharper, quicker to correct—cut in. “And her father’s only child. She’s the heir.”

Another voice cut in, dismissive, careless. “She’s also just a vessel for Hera—”

A sharp crack of movement—armor shifting, a hand striking something.

“Quiet!” one of them hissed, far more serious now. “Lest you be killed where you stand! Hera may hear you yet!”

“What? The princess is Hera’s chosen. Everyone knows it. She’s the virgin sealant, the living blessing, the—” he lowered his voice, but not enough, “—how can she bare teeth save for when she doesn’t get what she wants? Come on. We’ve all seen her. Draped in gold, pearls, clinging to that prince like—”

“—like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing,” the first guard cut in, sharper this time.

Phainon didn’t move, but his attention narrowed.

“You weren’t in the capital three winters ago, were you?” the first continued.

A pause. “No.”

“Thought not.”

The guard exhaled through his nose, as if deciding whether to speak further, then went on anyway. “Emperor took ill. Not dying, but enough to keep him from the court. Couldn’t sit council. Couldn’t hear petitions. So who do you think stepped in?”

“The council,” someone muttered.

“No,” the guard said flatly. “She did.”

That seemed to quiet them more effectively than the earlier warning.

“She was what—sixteen? Seventeen?” he went on. “And for two months, she held the throne in his place. Not ceremonially. Not just sitting there looking pretty while old men spoke over her. She listened. She judged. She signed decrees.”

Another guard shifted. “And?”

“And,” the first said, voice lowering, “the taxes doubled in the outer districts within the first week.”

A low whistle.

“She said the treasury had grown lazy. Said the empire had grown soft under comfort. Levies went up on trade routes, grain, livestock—everything. And if you couldn’t pay…”

He let the sentence hang.

“…you paid another way,” the older guard finished grimly.

“Floggings,” the first continued. “Confiscations. Labor drafts. I saw a merchant lose his entire stock in a single morning because he argued her numbers. She didn’t even raise her voice. Just… looked at him, like he was a problem already solved.”

“And the council?” the second guard asked.

A short, humorless laugh.

“She nearly replaced them.”

That earned a sharper reaction.

“What?”

“Half of them,” the first said. “Gone within a fortnight. ‘Inefficient,’ she called them. ‘Outdated.’ Brought in younger men, sharper ones. Men who owed her, not her father.”

“Gods…” someone muttered.

“Emperor recovered before she could finish it,” the guard added. “Took his seat back. Restored most of the council. Lowered the taxes again, bit by bit, called it a ‘temporary necessity.’ Tradition, he said. Balance.”

“And her?”

“She stepped back like nothing had happened.”

Another pause.

“But it had happened,” the older guard said quietly.

“Yes,” the first agreed. “It had.”

The carriage creaked as it turned again, the horses slowing slightly as they approached a more controlled road—closer to the palace, likely.

“So,” the second guard said slowly, “you’re telling me that girl—”

“Woman,” the first corrected.

“—that woman,” he amended, “is the same one who was clinging to the Kremnoan prince in the stands?”

The first guard let out a soft breath. “I’m telling you,” he said, “that what she shows and what she is are not always the same thing.”

Another voice, quieter now, less certain than before: “Still. If she wanted him… the prince…”

Phainon’s jaw tightened faintly in the dark.

“She might’ve,” the first allowed. “Or she might’ve wanted what he represented. Alliance. Stability. Power tied neatly in a bow.”

“And now?” the second asked.

The answer came after a beat.

“Now she’s been handed something else entirely.”

Silence again.

The older guard spoke next, low and thoughtful. “You think she’ll accept it?”

No one answered immediately.

The question lingered, hanging in the air between them like something dangerous to touch too quickly. The carriage wheels ground softly against the road, the steady rhythm filling the space where certainty should have been.

Then—

“Probably not.”

The voice was quieter this time. Less certain. Less mocking.

“Word’s been going around,” the same guard continued, glancing over his shoulder as if even the thought might be overheard, “she’s been at odds with the emperor and empress lately too. A power struggle.”

Another scoff, but it lacked the earlier confidence.

“A power struggle?” someone repeated. “Between her and him? You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” the first replied. “You think that girl just stepped back after those two months and forgot what it felt like to hold the court in her hand?”

No one answered that.

The guard went on, voice lower now, more deliberate.

“They say she’s been pushing at the council again. Quietly. Questioning appointments. Delaying decrees. Not outright defiance—nothing that could be named as such—but enough that the emperor’s had to step in more than once to ‘clarify tradition.’”

A dry laugh followed.

“Clarify,” the older guard muttered. “Meaning remind her who sits the throne.”

“Meaning remind everyone,” the first corrected.

The carriage shifted again, turning onto smoother stone. The sound of the city dulled further, replaced now with the more controlled quiet of the upper roads—closer to the palace.

Still, the conversation pressed on.

“Still hard to believe any of it,” another guard said after a moment. “Given what we see of her.”

A pause.

Then, with a faint smirk in his tone:

“She’s a doll every time she’s outside the palace.”

A few low chuckles followed.

“Head bowed, eyes soft, all gold and silk,” he continued. “Walking beside that Kremnoan prince like she’d been carved just to stand at his side. You’d think she didn’t have a thought in her head beyond smiling when spoken to.”

“That’s exactly the point,” he said.

The others quieted again.

“You don’t wear that kind of face by accident,” he went on. “You don’t play soft in public and rule hard in private unless you know exactly what you’re doing.”

A faint shift—someone adjusting their grip on a spear, perhaps.

“You’re saying it’s all an act?” the second guard asked.

“I’m saying,” the first replied, “that no one who nearly gutted the council at sixteen suddenly becomes harmless because she puts pearls in her hair.”

The older guard hummed in agreement, low and thoughtful.

“Emperor loves tradition,” he said. “Clings to it like armor. But she’s his blood. Same mind. Same temper—just… shorter.”

“Shorter?” someone echoed.

“Sharper,” he corrected. “He builds slowly. She cuts quick. Where he waits to see what the move people will do, she cuts them down and keeps moving. It’s very intense. Say, if you get the chance to see them play petteia or zatrikion, the game will go for hours. I had the chance when I was a servant boy for the kitchens.”

The carriage slowed with a long, dragging creak, wheels grinding against stone that was smoother, cleaner—palace stone. The shift in sound alone told him they’d passed from the city’s chaos into something more controlled, more watched. The horses stamped once, twice, then stilled.

Silence followed.

Not the kind from before—this one was deliberate. Measured. The sort that waited.

Phainon didn’t move at first.

He sat exactly as he had been, back against the wooden wall, legs braced, breath steadying in slow, controlled pulls through his nose. The dark pressed close around him, thick and warm, but it no longer felt suffocating. Not now. Now it felt like a moment held between two strikes.

Outside, armor shifted. A boot scraped against stone.

Then—

A sharp bang against the carriage door.

“Aye, farm boy—” the voice called, rough but edged with something more restrained than before, “—you best be upright and not a mess.”

Phainon opened his eyes fully, though there was nothing to see.

Another knock, harder this time.

“And hold yourself with some decorum.”

A pause.

Then, muttered just loud enough to be heard:

“You’re not in the dirt anymore.”

Phainon let out a slow breath.

Not in the dirt.

His hands moved then—finally. He wiped them against what remained of his tunic, smearing dried blood across already stiff fabric. It did little to clean them, but the motion itself was deliberate. Grounding.

He rolled his shoulders once. The right one protested sharply. He ignored it.

Straightened.

There was no mirror, no light, nothing to measure himself against—but he knew what they meant. Not clean. Not whole. Just… presentable enough not to offend whoever waited on the other side of that door. 

He dragged one hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. It was still damp in places, stiff in others where blood had dried. His jaw tightened faintly, but he didn’t bother with it further.

What was the point?

They had seen him in the sand.

They had seen him bloodied, feral, relentless.

No amount of smoothing would change that.

Another knock. Less patient now.

“You deaf, boy?”

Phainon leaned forward slightly, planting his feet more firmly beneath him. The carriage creaked with the shift.

“I’m upright,” he said, voice rough from disuse but steady.

There was a brief pause outside, as if they hadn’t expected him to answer so plainly.

Then a short exhale. Almost approving. Almost not.

“Good,” the guard replied. “Then remember where you are when that door opens.”

A beat.

“Eyes up. Mouth shut unless spoken to. And don’t give them a reason to regret dragging you out alive.”

Phainon’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Not a threat.

A warning

The lock shifted.

Heavy metal scraping against itself. One bolt. Then another.

Light spilled in the moment the door cracked open—harsh after the dark, forcing his eyes to narrow slightly as it cut across his face. Shapes returned in fragments first—bronze, stone, shadow—before resolving into the figures waiting just beyond.

Guards, of course.

More than before.

And beyond them—

something larger.

Still unseen. Still waiting.

Phainon pushed himself to his feet despite the ache in his ribs, the stiffness in his limbs. He didn’t rush. Didn’t hesitate either.

Just stood.

Not bowed. Not shrinking. Not reaching for anything that might make him smaller than he was.

He stepped down from the carriage into light that felt too clean for what he carried on his skin.

The palace courtyard stretched wide before him—white stone veined faintly with gold, polished so smooth it caught the sun and threw it back in a glare that made his eyes narrow. Columns rose in perfect symmetry, banners hanging still in the warm air, the empire’s colors unmoving as if even the wind knew better than to disturb them here.

And ahead—

The doors.

Grand. Towering. Already opening.

They did not creak like the arena gates. They did not groan or resist. They parted smoothly, deliberately, revealing the interior in a slow, measured unveiling—as if whatever lay beyond had decided he was worth seeing.

Phainon stepped forward.

No one shoved him this time.

The guards that had dragged him here fell back slightly, not releasing him entirely, but no longer handling him like a carcass to be hauled. Now he was escorted. Guided. Positioned.

Presented.

Inside, the hall was vast.

Cooler than the outside air, the heat replaced by something controlled, something still. The floors gleamed beneath his feet, reflecting his form back at him in distorted fragments—blood-slick, torn, unmistakably out of place among the polished stone and draped silk.

A group of men stood waiting at the center.

Not soldiers.

Not quite.

They were dressed in layered robes and fitted garments, their posture straight, their presence deliberate. Advisors, perhaps. Councilmen. Their eyes were already on him—sharp, assessing, weighing.

And among them—

One stood apart.

Not because he stood higher.

But because the space around him seemed to belong to him without question.

The emperor.

He did not need announcing.

Phainon knew.

There was a precision to him—every line of his posture controlled, every detail considered. His garments were rich without being gaudy, his presence quiet without being diminished. And his gaze—

His gaze was not welcoming.

It was searching.

Suspicion sat plainly in it. Not hidden. Not softened. The kind that did not pretend otherwise.

And yet—

When he spoke, his voice carried warmth.

“Ah,” the emperor said, stepping forward just enough to acknowledge him. “So this is the boy.”

Boy.

Not man. Not victor.

Boy.

Phainon’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

The emperor’s eyes flicked over him then—quick, efficient, missing nothing. The blood. The bruising. The way he held himself. The lack of bow.

Everything.

And still—he smiled.

Hospitable.

Measured.

“Well fought,” he continued, as though addressing a guest rather than a disruption. “You’ve given the court quite the spectacle today.”

A murmur shifted faintly among the men behind him, but none spoke.

The emperor clasped his hands lightly behind his back, tilting his head just slightly as he regarded Phainon more directly.

“Unexpected,” he added.

There it was.

Not praise.

Not quite.

Something closer to acknowledgment edged with scrutiny.

Phainon didn’t answer.

Didn’t bow.

Didn’t look away either.

For a brief moment, the silence stretched between them—thin, taut, deliberate.

The emperor noticed.

Of course he did.

Something flickered in his expression—not anger, not yet—but a sharpening. Interest, perhaps. Or calculation adjusting itself in real time.

Then, as easily as it had come, it smoothed away.

“Clean him,” he said lightly, as though the decision had already been made long before Phainon stepped through the doors.

Two men at his side stepped forward immediately.

Attendants.

They did not touch Phainon at first. They simply gestured.

“This way.”

The emperor’s gaze lingered a moment longer.

“Presentation matters,” he added, almost conversationally, though the weight of it landed heavier than the tone suggested. “Even for those who rise from… humbler beginnings.”

Boy.

Farm.

Humbler.

Each word placed with care.

Each one testing.

Phainon held his gaze for a second longer than most would dare.

Then, without a word, he turned.

Followed.

The attendants led him down a side corridor branching from the great hall, their pace brisk but not hurried. The air grew warmer as they moved, the scent shifting—from stone and oil to something softer. Steam. Herbs. Clean water waiting.

Behind him, the grand hall doors remained open.

And somewhere beyond them, the emperor watched him go.

[hellinistical]

Crown Of Teeth

Gladiator! Phainon x Princess! Reader

synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.

trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.

wc: 12.4K

a/n: mdni or get blocked. this chapter had to be split and its so, so, so very annoying.

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.

IX. Winner's Rights PART TWO OF CHAPTER NINE.

Phainon hissed as the hot water touched the worst of his wounds.

The sound escaped him before he could stop it—sharp, involuntary, more animal than dignified—and his shoulders jolted hard enough to send a fresh ripple of pain through bruised ribs and tender muscle. The bath chamber was all steam and polished stone, the air thick with the clean, bitter scent of herbs crushed into the water and oils meant to draw blood from skin instead of leaving it to crust there.

He had thought the arena had taken enough from him.

The bath, it seemed, intended to argue.

The basin was deeper than he expected, sunk into a wide stone floor veined faintly with pale mineral streaks. Warm vapor curled over the edges and clung to the walls in soft silver sheets, fogging the torchlight into halos. Two attendants stood nearby with folded cloths, their expressions carefully blank in the way of people trained not to stare at a man they had been told was important, but not important enough to be treated like one of them.

One of them dipped a ladle and poured water over his forearm.

Phainon’s jaw tightened instantly.

The cuts there—shallow in some places, deeper in others where sand and sweat had ground them raw—flared hot, then worse, then into a sting so vivid it made his fingers curl into a fist. Blood, half-dried and tacky, loosened in dark red streams and bled down into the basin at his feet.

“Hold still,” one attendant muttered, not unkindly.

Phainon let out a breath through his nose, low and controlled. “I am holding still.”

The man didn’t answer. He only reached for another cloth.

A second ladle came over his shoulder and poured across the skin between his ribs and his side.

Phainon sucked in air sharply through his teeth, the muscles there tightening in a reflexive spasm. A bruise had bloomed purple-black beneath the surface, and the warmth of the water made it throb all at once as if every blow from the arena had decided to speak at once. His body seemed to remember the whole day in one instant—thundering hooves, Mydeimos’s fist, the elephant’s blood-wet scream, the king’s voice, the sand, the sand, the sand.

He shut his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, the attendants were waiting.

Not watching with curiosity, exactly.

Assessing.

One of them leaned closer, inspecting a cut at his temple where dried blood had matted his hair against his skin. “You should have been broken apart,” he said quietly before thinking better of it.

Phainon looked at him.

The attendant’s mouth pressed shut at once.

For a beat neither moved. Steam curled between them, turning the warm room strangely intimate and tense. Then the man cleared his throat and reached for a basin cloth as though he had never spoken.

Phainon gave a faint, humorless huff.

“Apparently not.”

The water came again, and again.

Each pour stung, then soothed, then stung once more as dirt and blood lifted away from his skin. Where the basin water touched the split skin on his knuckles, it turned pink almost immediately. Where it touched the harder bruises across his shoulders and back, there was only heat and a deep, pulsing ache that no amount of washing would remove.

A third attendant came forward with a razor and a bowl of oil.

Phainon glanced at it. “What’s that for?”

“To clean you properly,” the man said.

Phainon’s brow rose slightly. “And if I say I prefer being filthy?”

The attendant’s eyes flicked briefly to the cut at his brow. “Then you’ll still be filthy, but in a much more expensive room.”

The corner of Phainon’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.

Not a smile, quite.

Something close.

The attendants worked around him with brisk efficiency after that. One began washing his shoulders, careful not to press too hard where the bruises had already settled into him like old, angry hands. Another used a cloth to wipe away the darker streaks on his forearms, following the blood until the skin beneath appeared pale again by contrast. The scent of herbs thickened as they rubbed them into his cuts, sharp and medicinal and faintly bitter, the kind that bit at the nose but promised healing later.

Phainon gritted his teeth as they cleaned a deep scrape along his side.

The skin there had split when he hit the sand hard enough to drag against a hidden stone or broken edge of something left behind by the games. He hadn’t felt it in the arena. Hadn’t had the luxury. But now, with the shock wearing thin and the heat of the bath pulling every ache forward into full awareness, it burned like fire.

“Easy,” one of the attendants said, more gently this time.

Phainon exhaled slowly and nodded once.

The chamber around them remained quiet except for the soft churn of water and the occasional splash of a wet cloth wrung out over his shoulders. Steam beaded along the edges of the stone pool and softened the lines of the room. Somewhere beyond the bath chamber, beyond the corridor and the marble and the careful attention of the palace, the emperor still waited in some other chamber, somewhere with too many lamps and too many listeners.

The thought of that made Phainon’s shoulders tighten despite the warmth.

He was being cleaned.

Prepared.

Not for rest.

For whatever came next.

The attendants were careful not to name it, but the silence around them carried the shape of it anyway. Victor. Prize. Winnings. Boy from the farm. The man who had taken the prince’s fall and survived long enough to be brought here alive. A thing to be rinsed, dressed, and shown to the world in whatever form the empire decided best suited the story.

Phainon dipped one hand briefly into the bath water and watched the ripple spread.

The red haze in it was already thinning.

A servant handed him a fresh cloth. He took it without speaking and pressed it to the side of his neck, feeling the lingering sting of soap and herbs against the half-healed cut there. His reflection, warped in the surface of the water, looked almost unfamiliar—blood gone, dust mostly removed, skin marked now by bruises that seemed darker for how clean the rest of him had become.

One attendant reached for his hair.

Phainon tensed immediately.

The man froze and held his hands up. “Only to wash it.”

There was a pause.

Then Phainon gave a reluctant nod.

The attendant moved carefully after that, fingers working through the strands to loosen grit and dried blood, the water running dark as it poured over the basin edge. The tension in Phainon’s jaw eased by a fraction, though never fully. He sat with both arms braced on the stone lip, gaze lowered, listening to the quiet scrape of cloth and the soft clink of a metal bowl being set down nearby.

There was something almost worse about this stillness than there had been in the arena.

In the sand, at least, the violence had been honest.

Here, every motion had purpose. Every touch meant to prepare him for being seen by someone else.

His eyes drifted toward the doorway once.

No one stood there now.

But the memory of the emperor’s gaze remained, cool and measuring. Suspicious. Interested. Not quite hostile, not quite kind.

Phainon turned his head back toward the water and let it run over his wrist again.

His body ached in all the places the arena had tried to break him.

Another hiss- hot water struck the open cut along his side, his hand snapping down against the edge of the basin as his breath caught.

“Gods—” he muttered under it, teeth clenched.

“Hold still,” one of the attendants said again, though softer this time, as if the sharpness had already been spent on men who needed it more.

“I am holding still,” Phainon shot back, voice rough, though it lacked real bite. The effort of staying upright, of not flinching away from every pour of water, was already costing him.

A faint sound—quickly stifled—came from somewhere to his right.

Not laughter.

Something lighter.

He turned his head slightly.

Two of the servants—women—stood just beyond the edge of the basin, cloths folded over their arms, waiting their turn to step in. Their eyes flicked away the moment he looked, but not quickly enough to hide what had been there before.

Interest.

One of them leaned subtly toward the other, whispering under her breath, “That’s him?”

“The one from the arena?” the other murmured back, barely moving her lips.

“Who else?” the first replied, her gaze slipping back toward him despite herself. “Gods… I thought they’d be exaggerating.”

Phainon exhaled slowly through his nose, turning his attention back toward the basin as another ladle of water was poured over his shoulder.

It stung less this time.

Or maybe he was getting used to it.

“Keep your hands steady,” one of the male attendants muttered toward the women without looking at them. “You’re here to work, not stare.”

“Yes, of course,” one of them said quickly—but there was a hint of a smile still tucked into her voice.

Phainon caught it.

Didn’t comment.

A cloth pressed against his upper arm, wiping away the last of the dried blood. The attendant working there paused briefly, glancing at the fading bruises.

“You took quite a beating,” he said.

Phainon let out a quiet, humorless breath. “So did the other man.”

The attendant hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. He did.”

Behind them, the women shifted again, one stepping closer now with a fresh cloth steeped in oil.

“Here,” she said, her voice gentler than the others, though not shy. “This will help with the sting.” 

Phainon glanced at her as she reached for his forearm.

Her hands were careful—more careful than strictly necessary—as she pressed the cloth to the split skin along his knuckles. The oil cooled where the water had burned, easing the sharpest edge of the pain.

“…You fought like a madman,” she added quietly.

Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that meant as praise?”

She met his gaze for a brief moment—longer than she should have.

“Depends,” she said. “Did you win?”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly again.

“…Apparently.”

A soft breath of amusement escaped her before she stepped back, though her eyes lingered a fraction too long before she forced them away.

Another of the women leaned in toward her as she passed, whispering just loud enough to carry.

“He doesn’t even look like he should’ve survived that.”

“No,” the first murmured back, glancing once more over her shoulder. “He doesn’t.”

One of the male attendants cleared his throat sharply. “Enough.”

They quieted, though the energy in the room didn’t fully settle. It shifted instead—less open, more contained, but still present. Still watching.

Phainon dragged a hand through his damp hair as another servant stepped behind him to rinse it properly. Fingers worked through the strands, loosening the last of the grit and dried blood. He tensed instinctively at the contact.

“Easy,” the servant said. “I’m not trying to drown you.”

“Good,” Phainon muttered. “I’ve had enough of that for one day.”

A faint snort came from somewhere behind him—quickly suppressed.

The water ran clearer now as it poured down his back, carrying the last of the arena with it. Sand, blood, sweat—all of it slipping away into the basin below, leaving behind skin marked in bruises and cuts that no amount of washing could hide.

One of the attendants stepped back, assessing.

“He’ll do,” he said finally.

Phainon glanced at him. “That all I am? Something that’ll do?”

The man met his gaze briefly, then looked away. “For now.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“That’s more than most get.”

The room fell still again after that.

The women had stopped whispering, though their presence remained—watchful, curious, something unspoken lingering beneath their silence.

Phainon pushed himself slightly more upright, ignoring the pull in his ribs, the dull ache settling deeper now that the heat had drawn it out fully.

They did not leave him in the bath long after that.

“Up,” one of the attendants said, offering a hand—not out of kindness, but efficiency.

Phainon took it anyway.

The moment he stepped out, the air felt cooler against freshly cleaned skin, raising a faint shiver along his arms despite the lingering heat in his body. Water slipped from him in thin rivulets, dripping onto the polished stone before it was quickly blotted away by waiting cloths.

They moved faster now.

Purposefully.

A towel was draped over his shoulders—thick, soft, far finer than anything he had ever touched before—and another servant knelt to dry his legs, careful around the worst of the bruises. Someone else stepped in with clean wrappings, binding where the cuts had been stitched, the fabric snug but not suffocating.

Phainon stood through it, still, jaw set—not resisting, but not relaxing into it either.

Then came the clothes.

Not simple linen.

Not even the better garments worn by merchants or lesser nobles.

Silk.

Layered, smooth, cool as it brushed against his skin. A tunic first, pale and fitted through the shoulders, the fabric catching faintly at the planes of muscle beneath it. It clung just enough to show what it covered—broad chest, defined arms, the solid build of a man who had worked, not trained for show.

One of the women paused as she adjusted the collar.

“…Gods,” she breathed under her breath.

“Keep your hands steady,” a male attendant warned, though there was less bite in it now.

She swallowed, nodding quickly—but her fingers lingered just a fraction too long before smoothing the fabric flat.

They dressed him piece by piece.

A darker overlayer, embroidered subtly in gold thread. A belt, fitted precisely to his waist. Bracers—not for battle, but for form. Even the boots they brought were soft leather, molded to fit, laced tight with practiced hands.

Phainon watched them move around him like he was something being assembled.

Or revealed.

Someone stepped behind him, gathering his damp hair, working oil lightly through it to tame the roughness. The white strands, now clean, caught the torchlight differently—no longer dulled by sand and blood, but bright, almost stark against the warmth of his skin.

When they were done, they stepped back.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Phainon frowned slightly, glancing between them. “What?”

No one answered immediately. Because they were looking. Not casually. Not in passing.

Looking.

One of the younger attendants—a woman—let out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “He’s—”

“Careful,” someone murmured.

But it didn’t stop the rest.

“He doesn’t look like a farmer,” another said, softer.

“No,” a man added, almost to himself. “He doesn’t look like he belongs in the dirt at all.”

Phainon shifted slightly under the attention, his shoulders tightening a fraction.

“I was in the dirt,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” the older attendant replied, still studying him. “And yet…”

He didn’t finish it.

Didn’t need to.

Because it was obvious now.

Cleaned, stitched, dressed—

Phainon stood tall, his frame no longer hidden beneath grime and torn cloth. Broad without excess, strong without the crude heaviness of a brute. Every line of him spoke of strength shaped by labor, not indulgence. His skin, sun-kissed and marked by faint scars, contrasted sharply with the fine fabrics now draped over him.

And his eyes—

Clear now.

Striking.

Cyan, bright even in the dim light, sharp in a way that didn’t soften simply because he stood in silk instead of sand.

One of the attendants—older, perhaps less cautious than the rest—shook his head faintly and muttered,

“By Aphrodite…”

A few glanced at him.

He didn’t stop.

“…what a marvelous creation.”

A quiet ripple followed that—some disapproval, some agreement, some careful silence.

Phainon’s expression shifted slightly.

Not pride.

Not quite embarrassment.

Something… uncertain.

He looked down at himself briefly, tugging once at the edge of the sleeve as if testing whether it was real, whether it belonged on him.

It didn’t feel like it did.

“You’re staring,” he said after a moment, voice dry.

A faint flush crossed one of the women’s faces, though she didn’t fully look away. “Can you blame us?”

“Yes,” Phainon replied without hesitation.

That earned a small, stifled laugh.

Even that—his discomfort, his bluntness—did nothing to lessen the effect. If anything, it sharpened it. Made it feel less rehearsed. Less polished. More… real.

The older attendant cleared his throat, stepping forward again, professionalism reasserting itself.

“That will be enough,” he said. “You are to be presented.”

Phainon’s gaze lifted.

“Presented to who?”

The attendant met his eyes for a brief moment.

Then: “To those who decide what you are now.”

The room fell quiet again.

Phainon stood there, dressed like something he had never been, feeling every eye still lingering just a moment too long before they forced themselves away.

Clean.

The room settled into a strange, hovering quiet once they finished with him.

Not the kind from before—this one lingered, as if no one quite knew what to do now that the work was done.

Phainon adjusted the cuff at his wrist, the fabric unfamiliar beneath his fingers. Too smooth. Too clean. It didn’t sit right on him, not yet.

“Can you tell me about the princess?” The question slipped out, low, almost casual.

But it landed.

A few of them glanced at one another. And then one of the women—bolder than the rest—laughed softly. “You wish to know of her before you ask for her hand?”

There was a ripple of quiet amusement at that.

Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?” she returned, tilting her head as she looked at him more openly now. “You won. That makes you… what, exactly?” Her lips curved faintly. “Lucky? Doomed? Honored?”

“Convenient,” one of the male attendants muttered under his breath.

That earned a small snort from another.

Phainon exhaled lightly through his nose. “That depends on her, doesn’t it?”

That, at least, seemed to interest them. The first woman crossed her arms loosely, considering him. “You want to know what she’s like?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then the answers came—not in unison, not rehearsed.

Real.

“She’s beautiful,” one said immediately. “That much is true. Not just dressed up for court—she’s… striking.” “Everyone says that,” another added, less impressed. “Beauty’s expected of her.” “She carries herself well,” a man offered. “Better than most nobles twice her age.”

A different voice, quieter: “She listens. More than she speaks.”

“Until she doesn’t,” someone else cut in.

That drew a few looks.

Phainon’s gaze shifted toward the speaker. “Meaning?”

The woman hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Meaning she can be… sharp. When she chooses to be.”

“Sharp?” another echoed with a faint scoff. “That’s one way to put it.”

Phainon’s interest sharpened slightly. “And another?”

A brief silence.

Then—

“Unforgiving.”

That word didn’t come with humor.

He noticed that.

One of the men shifted his weight. “You’ve heard about when she ruled in the emperor’s place, haven’t you?”

Phainon didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

“She tightened everything,” the man continued. “Taxes, laws, punishments. No hesitation. No… softness.” He glanced at Phainon briefly. “People complained. Loudly.”

“And yet nothing changed until the emperor returned,” another added.

“Exactly.”

One of the women gave a small, thoughtful hum. “She’s not foolish.”

That drew a quick look from another servant. “No one said she was.”

“You implied it.” “I said she acts soft.” “That’s not the same thing.”

Phainon watched them go back and forth, saying nothing for a moment.

Then, “So which is it?”

That quieted them again.

Because none of them seemed entirely certain.

“She’s…” one began, then stopped.

Another tried instead. “She knows what’s expected of her.”

“And she plays it well,” the first finished.

“But?” Phainon pressed.

A moment. Then one of the younger women spoke, more hesitant this time.

“…Some think she doesn’t always know when to stop.”

Phainon tilted his head slightly. “Meaning?”

“She pushes,” the girl said, glancing briefly toward the others as if checking she wasn’t overstepping. “At things. At people. At her father, even, they say. There’s… talk.”

“Careful,” one of the men warned.

“I’m only repeating what’s already whispered,” she replied quickly.

Phainon’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before shifting again.

“And you?” he asked. “What do you think?”

That seemed to catch them off guard. They weren’t used to being asked that. The bolder woman from before huffed lightly. “I think she’s been given too much and not enough at the same time.”

He frowned slightly. “Explain.”

“She’s the heir,” the woman said simply. “But not yet the ruler. She’s taught to command, but expected to obey. To be strong, but not threaten. To be seen, but not… too seen.”

Another servant nodded faintly. “It’s a difficult place to stand.”

“And she doesn’t always stand where she’s told,” someone added. That drew a few murmurs—agreement, uncertainty. Then one of the older women, who had been quiet until now, spoke. “If you want to know her,” she said, “you should ask Lady Agnes.”

A shift moved through the room at that name.

Subtle—but unmistakable.

Phainon noticed immediately.

“Agnes?” he repeated.

The older woman nodded once. “She raised the princess. Knows her better than anyone.”

Another servant let out a small, uneasy breath. “And she’ll have your head if she thinks you’re not worthy to even speak of her.”

A faint laugh followed, though it carried a thread of truth.

“She’s strict,” one said. “Strict?” another echoed. “She’s terrifying.” “But loyal,” the first added quickly. “To the princess above all.” Phainon absorbed that quietly. “Then why isn’t she here?” he asked.

A brief pause.

Then, “She doesn’t attend to just anyone.”

That answer came carefully.

Another servant shifted, then added, “She’ll be with the princess, most likely.”

A beat.

Then, almost as an afterthought: “The coronation was meant to happen already.”

Phainon’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”

“It was postponed,” the older woman said. “Delays. Politics. Timing.” She shrugged slightly. “Which means…” “She’s older than you,” one of the men finished plainly.

That landed differently.

Phainon didn’t react immediately.

Just considered it.

“…And she’s still not crowned,” he said. “No,” the woman replied. “She isn’t.”

A quiet settled again after that.

He let the silence sit for a moment, then asked, more quietly now— “And the prince?” A few glances passed between them. “You mean Mydeimos?” someone said. “Yes.”

Another servant exhaled faintly. “She favored him.”

“Favored?” one of the others repeated. “She was fond of him,” the first corrected. “Or seemed to be.” Phainon’s jaw tightened slightly. “Seemed?”

A small shrug. “With her, it’s hard to say what’s real and what’s… chosen.”

That again. That uncertainty. That duality.

Phainon looked down briefly at the fine fabric at his wrists, then back up at them.

“And you think she’ll accept this?” he asked.

No one answered right away.

Because now—

they were all thinking the same thing.

Finally, the older woman spoke again.

“If she must,” she said.

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“But whether she accepts it… and whether she welcomes it…”

She shook her head slightly.

“…those are not the same thing.”

“Well, you’d be an idiot only Hermes could construct if you think she’d simply be okay after you’ve killed her lover.”

The words cut through the room with a kind of reckless boldness that didn’t belong to the others.

Phainon’s head turned.

The girl who’d said it didn’t shrink under the attention—not fully. She was younger than the rest, still carrying that edge of honesty that hadn’t yet been trained out of her. Her chin lifted just slightly, even as one of the older attendants shot her a warning look.

“Mind your tongue,” he snapped.

But it was too late.

The truth had already been spoken.

“Why?” she pressed, quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not wrong. Everyone saw it. She—” the girl hesitated, then finished anyway, “—she cared for him.”

A few of the others nodded, more subtly.

One of the women added under her breath, “More than she was meant to show.”

Another gave a soft, uneasy hum. “Or perhaps exactly as much as she intended.”

Phainon didn’t respond immediately.

He stood there, still, the weight of the fine garments suddenly more noticeable against his skin.

“…I didn’t kill him,” he said at last.

It wasn’t defensive.

Just stated.

The room shifted slightly at that.

The older attendant gave him a look—measured, knowing. “No,” he said. “But that’s not how it will feel to her.”

The younger girl folded her arms loosely. “It will feel like you did.”

“And feeling,” another added, “is often more important than truth in places like this.”

Phainon’s jaw tightened faintly.

“Why, I imagine she’ll bite you,” the girl went on, a flicker of something almost mischievous in her tone now, though it didn’t quite mask the seriousness beneath. “Claw, perhaps. Depends on how angry she is.”

A few quiet laughs slipped through the tension, quickly stifled.

“She won’t literally bite him,” one of the men muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen in this palace,” another replied dryly.

That earned a sharper look.

But the mood had shifted again—lighter on the surface, uneasy underneath.

Phainon let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.

“Good,” he said.

That caught them off guard. A few brows lifted.

“Good?” the older attendant echoed.

Phainon shrugged slightly, though the motion pulled faintly at his ribs. “Better that than indifference.”

There was a pause. Then, unexpectedly, one of the women let out a soft, almost approving hum.

“…Perhaps not an idiot after all,” she murmured.

The younger girl smirked faintly, though she said nothing more. The older attendant clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive, breaking the moment.

“That’s enough. We’re done here.”

The shift back to purpose was immediate. 

They moved again—faster now, more focused.

“Someone get the oils,” he ordered.

A servant hurried off at once, returning with a small set of polished containers. The lids were lifted, releasing a richer scent this time—something warmer than the bath herbs, smoother, meant not just to heal but to present. Phainon frowned slightly as one of them stepped closer with it. “More?”

“You’re being seen,” the man replied simply. “Not just cleaned.”

That answer didn’t sit comfortably, but Phainon didn’t argue.

They worked the oil lightly into his skin—along his arms, across his shoulders, careful around the bandaged wounds. It caught the light subtly, not enough to shine, but enough to soften the harsher edges left behind by bruises and scars.

Refinement. Polish. A final touch before display. The younger girl lingered a moment longer than the rest as they finished, her gaze flicking over him once more—not in awe this time, but in quiet assessment.

“…She really might bite you,” she muttered again, almost to herself.

Phainon glanced at her.

“…Then I suppose I’ll deserve it,” he said.

She huffed softly at that, shaking her head, though there was something like reluctant amusement in her expression now.

“Come,” the older attendant said, stepping toward the doorway. “You’ve kept them waiting long enough.” As they moved out of the bath chamber and into the quieter corridor beyond, the warmth of steam gave way to cool stone and long bands of filtered light. The palace here was less ceremonial and more lived-in—still too refined to feel natural, but no longer purely for spectacle.

The others walked ahead in a loose cluster, speaking among themselves in lower tones about preparations, oils, and what garments would be needed next. Phainon followed a step behind them, as instructed, though not with the posture of a prisoner. More like someone being escorted because everyone had collectively decided it was inconvenient to let him stand anywhere else.

The younger girl from earlier drifted slightly to his side.

Not enough to be insubordinate.

Just enough to speak without being overheard.

“I’m Trinnon,” she said quietly, as if the introduction itself was something she had decided on her own terms. “Before anyone tells you otherwise.”

Phainon glanced at her. “That important?”

“It is if you plan on remembering who pushed you into silk and who only watched,” she replied without missing a beat.

A faint huff of air passed through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“…Noted.”

She seemed satisfied with that.

After a moment, she added, “I have two sisters. We’re triplets.”

Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “All working here?”

“One in the outer kitchens,” she said. “One in the temple.”

That caught his attention more than he intended it to.

“Temple?” he repeated.

Trinnon nodded once. “Temple of Hera. She serves in the lower rites.”

Phainon looked forward again as they walked, absorbing that in silence for a moment. The palace corridors stretched ahead in clean, deliberate lines, banners hanging at measured intervals, guards stationed at predictable points like parts of a machine that never stopped turning.

“And you?” he asked after a beat.

“I serve where I’m told,” she said simply. Then, after a pause, added, “Which today is you.”

That earned a brief sidelong glance from him.

Trinnon shrugged lightly, unbothered. “Don’t look so offended. It’s not personal.”

“I’m not offended,” Phainon said.

“You are a little.”

“I’m adjusting.”

That made her exhale something like amusement.

They walked a few steps in silence before she spoke again, her tone shifting subtly.

“Things have been… strange lately,” she said.

Phainon didn’t respond immediately, letting her continue.

“The palace has been tight. More than usual,” she added. “People are being moved around. Conversations stopped halfway through. Even the temple’s been… unsettled.”

“Unsettled how?”

Trinnon hesitated, then lowered her voice further. “The priests are arguing.”

Phainon glanced at her again. “About what?”

“About signs,” she said. “Omens. The princess. The match.”

That word- match- carried more weight here than it had in the bath chamber.

“They’re saying it wasn’t clean,” she continued. “Not in the arena sense. In the divine sense.”

Phainon’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Divine sense.”

Trinnon nodded once. “Some think it was meant to go differently. That the outcome… wasn’t aligned.”

A faint pause.

Then, carefully:

“Others think it means exactly what it looked like.”

Phainon’s jaw tightened a fraction, but he said nothing.

Ahead of them, one of the older attendants glanced back briefly—checking distance, not listening, but ensuring they weren’t straying.

Trinnon kept speaking anyway, just under her breath.

“The temple sister says Lady Agnes hasn’t left the princess’s side since the arena,” she added.

That name again.

Phainon looked at her fully this time. “Agnes seems to come up often.”

“She does,” Trinnon said. “And usually that means someone important is either very safe… or very unlucky.”

A faint pause.

Then she added, almost casually, “Depends which side of her she decides you belong on.”

Phainon let that sit for a moment.

“And the princess?” he asked.

Trinnon hesitated just slightly before answering.

“She’s been quiet,” she said. “Which is worse than when she isn’t.”

Phainon gave a small, thoughtful hum. Trinnon glanced at him sideways. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

A beat. “But everyone keeps telling me who she is.”

That made her look forward again, expression unreadable for a moment.

“…That’s because no one agrees,” she said simply.

They turned down another corridor, this one narrower, less ornate, but still clean enough that every footstep echoed faintly between stone and polished wood. The air here smelled faintly of ink and incense, as if records and prayers lived too close together to be separated.

Trinnon slowed slightly as they walked.

“Just… be careful,” she said after a moment. Phainon glanced at her. “Of what?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then, quietly:

“Of thinking you’ve been brought here because you understand what happened.”

Phainon didn’t speak right away.

Ahead, the others continued walking, unaware—or pretending to be.

Finally, he said, “And what if I don’t think that?” 

Trinnon gave a small, almost wry look, but didn’t say anything.

“I just don’t understand—”

Trinnon let out a quiet huff beside him, clearly irritated now, her steps a touch sharper against the stone.

“The princess is a normal woman,” she said, almost under her breath but with enough force to carry. “Why these servants insist on making her seem like some kind of monster, I don’t know.”

Phainon glanced at her, brow lifting slightly.

“She’s no evil thing,” Trinnon went on, more firmly now. “Much less cruel. She only has a temper—which is normal.” She shot a brief look ahead at the others, as if daring them to argue. “You put anyone in her position and see how gentle they stay.”

Phainon’s mouth curved faintly at that. “…A temper,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Trinnon said, a little defensively. “A temper. Not a curse. Not a sign from the gods. Just… a temper.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, the hint of a smile lingering as he looked ahead again.

“Well,” he said, voice easy in a way it hadn’t quite been before, “I understand that she may hate me.”

Trinnon didn’t interrupt. “But I mean her no harm.”

That earned him a look. Not mocking this time. Studying.

“You say that like it matters,” she said. Phainon’s gaze flicked back to her. “Doesn’t it?”

Trinnon tilted her head slightly, considering him. “It might. To her.”

A pause.

“Or it might not matter at all,” she added.

They walked a few more steps in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly along the corridor. The others ahead turned another corner, their voices fading briefly out of earshot before drifting back again. Phainon’s smile lingered, softer now, more thoughtful than amused.

“I don’t think she’s a monster,” he said after a moment. Trinnon’s shoulders eased slightly at that.

“Good,” she replied. “Because she isn’t.”

Another beat passed.

Then she added, quieter now, “But she’s not soft either.”

Phainon nodded once, as if that only confirmed something he’d already begun to suspect.

“Good,” he said again.

This time, Trinnon let out a small, incredulous breath. “You say that like you’re looking forward to it.”

Phainon’s smile returned—faint, but unmistakable.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’d rather meet someone who bites than someone who doesn’t feel anything at all.”

Trinnon stared at him for a second, then shook her head, a half-laugh slipping out despite herself.

“You really are strange.”

“Apparently,” he replied. They caught up to the others as the corridor opened slightly ahead, light spilling in from a wider hall. The air shifted again—less private, more watched. Trinnon straightened a little, falling back into step as a servant rather than a girl speaking out of turn.

But before she fully withdrew, she glanced at him one last time. “…Just don’t mistake her temper for something simple,” she murmured.

Phainon met her gaze briefly. “I won’t.”

There was something about him she couldn’t quite place—not just that he had survived, or that he stood now dressed like something far above where he claimed to come from—but the way he spoke. As if he had walked into all of this without fully grasping it… and yet wasn’t entirely blind either.

It made her wonder.

Why he had come.

Why he had fought like that.

Why he was still standing.

But whatever question was forming in her mind never left her lips.

Because Phainon had already stopped listening; his attention had shifted. Ahead, the corridor opened into a wider chamber—busier, louder, alive with motion. Servants moved in quick, practiced paths, carrying fabrics, trays, scrolls, adjusting banners, speaking in hushed urgency. It wasn’t chaos—but it was close to it.

And at the center of it all, an older woman stood, commanding it without raising her voice.

She didn’t need to.

A single look from her was enough to redirect a servant. A flick of her hand sent two others moving in opposite directions. She stood tall, posture unyielding, her presence cutting through the room more cleanly than any shouted order could have.

Everything bent around her.

Phainon slowed slightly.

“…Is that-”

“Lady Agnes,” Trinnon said quietly beside him, her earlier ease gone now, replaced with something more measured. Respect, certainly—but something sharper edged beneath it. “The princess is not here, though, so why…”

Phainon didn’t answer right away.

His gaze remained fixed on the woman. Agnes. There was nothing soft about her.

Not in the way she held herself. Not in the way others avoided lingering too close unless summoned. Even the air around her felt… disciplined, controlled.

A servant rushed past carrying folded silks too quickly. Agnes didn’t raise her voice.

“Stop.”

The word alone halted the girl mid-step.

Agnes turned her head just slightly, eyes flicking over the bundle in her arms. “Those are for the upper chamber, not the receiving hall. Must I remind you of the difference?”

The girl flushed deeply. “N-no, my lady,”

“Then don’t make me repeat myself,” Agnes said, already turning away, dismissing her without another glance. The girl hurried off in the corrected direction. Phainon’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture sharpened—attention narrowing, focus settling.

Trinnon leaned closer, her voice barely above a breath now.

“She’s been like that all day.”

Phainon finally spoke. “Like what?”

Trinnon hesitated. “…Tighter.”

That word lingered.

Phainon watched as Agnes turned again, issuing another quiet instruction, adjusting the placement of something on a table before moving on without pause. Nothing escaped her. Nothing went uncorrected.

Not even for a moment.

“…She doesn’t seem surprised,” he said.

Trinnon followed his gaze. “No.”

A pause.

“She wouldn’t be.”

Phainon glanced at her. “You think she expected this?”

Trinnon shook her head slightly. “No. But she would have prepared for something going wrong.”

Another servant approached Agnes—older, more composed—and spoke in low tones. Agnes listened, her face unreadable, then gave a short nod.

Whatever was said, it changed nothing about her pace. Nothing about her control.

Phainon looked back at her, more intently now. This was the woman they had all spoken of. The one who knew the princess better than anyone. The one who decided who was worthy to even stand in her presence.

“…And she’s the one who decides what happens to me next,” he murmured.

Trinnon didn’t sugarcoat it.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Or at least,” she added quietly, “she decides how you’re brought to her.”

Phainon’s gaze remained steady.

Then, almost to himself,  “Good.”

Trinnon blinked at that, caught off guard.

“Good?”

He didn’t look at her this time. Just watched as Agnes turned, her sharp gaze sweeping the room and, for the briefest moment landing on him.

“…Better her than someone careless.”

Agnes’s gaze moved first to Phainon.

Then, almost immediately, it shifted.

Not past him—through him, really—to the girl at his side.

Trinnon froze before she even realized she had done it.

Agnes’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the change so small it might have been mistaken for nothing at all if one did not know better. But Trinnon knew. She felt it in the way the older woman’s attention sharpened, in the way the room seemed to settle around her with sudden, uncomfortable precision.

“Trinnon.”

The name was not loud.

It did not need to be.

Trinnon straightened at once, posture becoming impeccable out of sheer instinct. “Lady Agnes.”

Agnes did not look pleased. Not angry either. Simply attentive in that terrible way of hers, as though nothing in the palace existed outside of her notice for very long.

“You should be elsewhere,” Agnes said.

Trinnon swallowed. “I was assigned—”

“I am aware of your assignment.” Agnes’s eyes flicked once toward the attendants moving in the background, then back to her. “You were also meant to deliver linen to the west chamber before noon, and yet here you are.”

Trinnon’s mouth opened, then shut again.

Phainon glanced between them, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

Agnes took a step closer. Not threatening. Never that.

But the movement alone caused two nearby servants to quiet and lower their eyes, as if the air had grown thinner around her.

“Why are you not with your sisters?” she asked Trinnon.

Trinnon hesitated just long enough to betray herself. That was all Agnes needed.

One corner of the older woman’s mouth tightened. “Hm.”

It was not a sound of approval. Phainon noticed that too.

Trinnon quickly said, “I was escorting him.”

Agnes’s eyes returned to Phainon for a heartbeat—measuring, unreadable—and then back to Trinnon.

“Were you?”

The words carried no accusation, but they did carry the weight of a question she had already answered internally.

Trinnon’s shoulders lifted and fell in a small, resigned breath. “Yes, my lady.”

Agnes regarded her for another long, disquieting moment. Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened by the smallest fraction.

Not much.

Just enough for the tension in Trinnon’s spine to ease a little. “You’ve always been too curious for your own good,” Agnes said.

Trinnon let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. “That sounds like something my sisters would say.”

“It sounds like something I’ve said before.” “That too.”

Agnes gave the faintest hint of a sigh through her nose, as if this were somehow exactly the trouble she’d expected to find. Then she looked at Phainon again, and Trinnon could see the pivot in her attention—how quickly the older woman was reassessing the situation, the girl, the man, the corridor, the timing.

“Did you tell him anything foolish?” Agnes asked Trinnon.

Trinnon’s eyes widened. “No.” Agnes held the silence a beat.

Trinnon added, more defensively, “Only truths.” A faint, almost imperceptible lift to Agnes’s brow. “Truths can be foolish in the wrong ears.”

Phainon spoke before Trinnon could answer. “I think she’s been useful.”

Agnes looked at him.

It was not a warm look. But it was not cold either.

Useful.

That word seemed to amuse her in some quiet, private way, though it never touched her mouth.

“Useful,” she repeated. “How generous of you.”

Phainon gave a faint incline of his head, not quite a bow, not quite insolence. “She’s the one who actually answered my questions.”

Trinnon shot him a look—half warning, half disbelief—because that sounded much too close to praise when said aloud in Agnes’s presence.

Agnes noticed that too.

Of course she did.

“She speaks when she ought not,” Agnes said to Trinnon, “and you stand where you ought not. Together, that makes you almost acceptable.”

Trinnon blinked, then looked faintly offended. “Almost?”

Agnes’s mouth twitched once, just barely.

Almost a smile.

“Do not become vain,” she said.

Trinnon visibly fought not to smile back.

Phainon watched the exchange with sharper interest now. The sternness everyone had described was here, certainly—but so was familiarity. A familiarity forged by years, not hierarchy. Agnes spoke to Trinnon the way one speaks to a child one has known since birth: strict because she cared, dry because softness would be wasted.

And Trinnon, for all her nerves, seemed to understand that perfectly.

Agnes’s gaze shifted once more to Phainon, but this time she did not ask him anything. She simply studied him, as if deciding whether he was a problem, a coincidence, or something she had not yet been given enough information to name.

Then she said, to Trinnon but clearly meant for both of them, “You will leave him here.”

Trinnon stiffened. “My lady—”

“Now.”

The command was quiet. Trinnon closed her mouth at once.

Agnes turned slightly, already gesturing toward the attendants beyond the chamber. One of them noticed and hurried over. “My lady?”

“Take him to the receiving room,” Agnes said. “And ensure he waits there properly.”

The servant bowed and moved at once.

Then Agnes glanced at Trinnon again. “And you.” Trinnon straightened so fast it was almost comical. “You are needed elsewhere.”

Trinnon took a small breath, then nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

Phainon looked at Agnes. “Receiving room?” Agnes returned her full attention to him. Her eyes were sharp, old, and entirely unsentimental.

“Yes,” she said. “Unless you would prefer to stand in the corridor until someone more important remembers you.”

There was something in her tone that made the servants nearest her look down quickly.

Phainon did not.

He gave the slightest exhale through his nose, almost amused despite everything. “No. The room sounds better.”

“Wise.”

Agnes’s gaze flicked to Trinnon once more, and the servant girl had the odd sense that she was being measured for something much larger than today’s errands.

Then Agnes said, quieter now, “Trinnon.”

“Yes, my lady?” “Do not wander.”

Trinnon blinked. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Agnes held her gaze until the younger woman’s bravado gave way to something more honest.

“…I know,” Trinnon admitted.

That satisfied Agnes.

Barely.

The older woman turned away then, already resuming her orchestration of the room with a flick of her hand and a single low instruction to the nearest servant. She was back in motion at once, as though the exchange with Trinnon had taken no time at all.

But it had.

Trinnon stood still for a moment longer, watching her go, then glanced at Phainon with a look that said very plainly: I told you she was the one to pay attention to.

Phainon caught the look. His mouth curved faintly. Then the attendant at his elbow gestured toward the side hall.

“Lady Agnes, if I may—”

Phainon didn’t follow the attendant.

Instead, he stepped after her.

It was subtle at first—a shift in direction, a refusal to be carried along with the current of servants—but it was enough.

Agnes did not turn.

“You may not.”

The answer came immediately. Clean. Certain.

Phainon didn’t stop.

“I have no ill intention towards the princess—” “I would not assume so.”

Still, she didn’t look at him.

She moved through the room with the same precision as before, adjusting a servant’s placement with a brief touch to the elbow, redirecting another with nothing more than a glance. The flow of people bent around her, and yet she never broke stride.

Phainon matched her pace.

“My lady, with all due respect—”

That was when she stopped.

Not abruptly. And now—she turned.

“I am a very busy woman,” Agnes said, her voice low, even, but edged with something unmistakably firm. “You would keep this old soul from her duties?”

Phainon held her gaze. There was no fear in it. No arrogance either. Just that same measured calm he had carried out of the arena.

“If you wish to impress the emperor,” she continued, eyes narrowing just slightly, “or anyone for that matter—” “—you ought to know your place.”

Silence settled between them.

Around them, the servants had not stopped moving—but they had grown quieter. More careful. No one lingered too close, but no one strayed too far either.

They were listening.

Phainon inclined his head slightly.

Not a full bow, mind you. Just enough to acknowledge the correction without submitting to it entirely.

“My place,” he repeated.

Agnes watched him. Really watched him, now.

Not the surface. Not the silk or the posture or the carefully cleaned edges.

Something beneath that.

“I came from the arena,” he said calmly. “I was dragged here. Dressed. Presented. Spoken about.”

A faint tilt of his head.

“And now I’m told to wait.”

Agnes said nothing, But her gaze sharpened.

“I’m trying to understand where exactly that leaves me,” he finished.

A faint exhale through her nose. Not annoyance. Recognition.

“You speak plainly,” she said. “And you listen carefully,” he replied.

That earned him the smallest flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or acknowledgment—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“You are not as simple as you appear,” Agnes said.

It was not a question. Phainon’s expression didn’t change.

“I never said I was.” “No,” she agreed. “You didn’t.”

Another pause.

The noise of the room seemed distant now, though nothing had truly stopped. Agnes stepped closer. Not enough to invade.

Enough to make it clear this was no longer a conversation meant for anyone else.

“You play at innocence,” she said quietly.

Phainon didn’t react.

“You choose your words carefully,” she continued. “You ask questions you already have pieces of answers to. And you follow a woman who told you not to.”

Her gaze held his. Sharp. Unyielding.

“And yet,” she added, softer now, “you stop just short of overstepping.”

Phainon’s mouth curved faintly. “Seems like a useful place to stand.”

Agnes studied him for a long moment. Then she turned away again.

“Do not mistake observation for permission,” she said, resuming her movement without waiting to see if he followed.

Phainon did not.

This time.

He stayed where he was.

“Lady Agnes,” he said once more, though he didn’t move after her.

She paused—but did not turn.

“…I meant what I said,” he added. “I mean her no harm.”

Another silence. Longer this time. Then Agnes spoke, still facing away.

“I know.”

That answer came too easily. Too certainly. Phainon’s brow shifted slightly. Agnes continued walking.

“You are not the first man to mean well,” she added. “Nor will you be the last.”

That was not comfort. Not reassurance. Just fact.

“And yet,” she went on, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without rising, “intent has very little to do with consequence in this palace.”

Phainon said nothing.

Agnes stopped once more—but only for a moment. “If you wish to survive here,” she said, “learn the difference.”

Then, finally, she glanced back at him. Not fully, Just enough for him to catch the edge of her gaze.

“And learn it quickly.”

The look held for a heartbeat longer.

Then she was gone again—absorbed back into the movement of the room, issuing orders, correcting paths, shaping the chaos into something controlled.

Phainon stood where he was.

The attendant who had been waiting to escort him shifted awkwardly at his side.

“…Sir,” he said carefully, “the receiving room.”

Phainon didn’t look away from where Agnes had disappeared. After a moment, he exhaled softly.

“…Right.” This time, he followed.

Some hours later, the palace had shifted around him.

The heat of the baths had long since faded from his skin, the last of the oils settled in his hair, and the fine clothes they had dressed him in now felt less like a gift and more like a claim. He had been led through too many halls, too many pauses, too many watchful eyes. Questions had been asked and answered in circles. Names had been repeated. Someone had written things down on wax tablets. Someone else had frowned at those tablets as if the marks might betray them.

At last, he found himself in a receiving chamber that was less ceremonial than the great hall but no less oppressive for it—walls hung with embroidered drapery, braziers burning low, a long table laid with platters of meat, bread, olives, fruit, and wine that had already been poured into a dozen cups as if the people here had every intention of staying long enough to grow comfortable with him.

Phainon did not.

He stood at the edge of the room with his back straight and his hands folded loosely behind him, expression calm enough to pass for ease if one did not look too closely.

That was when the advisor spoke.

“So,” said the man, tearing a piece of lamb leg from the bone with his teeth and chewing with the kind of loud, careless satisfaction that made the room feel smaller, “you will reside in the palace. You understand.”

He was introduced as Fillipos, though the title had come with a shrug from someone who clearly did not respect him enough to make it sound formal. A broad man with a swollen belly and wine-red cheeks, his robe strained at the middle where he sat heavily at the table. He had the air of a man who had long ago decided other people should make room for him and had found the world irritating ever since.

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pointed the greasy bone vaguely toward Phainon.

“Because of your winnings,” Fillipos said. “And because we do not know your records, we have to do a check.”

One of the men at the far side of the table gave a slight nod, as though this was obvious. Another did not bother looking up from his cup.

“The Kremnoan prince was supposed to win,” Fillipos went on, speaking around another bite. “But you’re no fool, so I figured everyone already told you that.”

He laughed at his own statement, a short wheezy sound that died quickly when no one else joined in.

Phainon’s face remained composed.

Inside, something in him tightened hard enough to feel like wire being pulled through bone.

A check.

Records.

Warnings dressed up as courtesy.

And the way they said supposed made the whole thing sound less like a victory and more like a disruption they still hadn’t decided how to tolerate.

Fillipos chewed, then took a long pull from his cup.

“As for your prize—” he began, then waved the thought away with the same greasy hand before finishing, “—given that you already get Princess Y/N, well, that’s none of my business, so never mind that.”

A few of the men in the room stirred faintly.

Phainon did not.

Not outwardly.

But the muscles at his jaw went just a fraction tighter.

Fillipos either did not notice or did not care.

“Point is,” he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath him, “you will reside here. In the palace. We’ll see to your comforts.”

He spread his free hand as if announcing a generous favor from the gods.

“Food, rooms, attendants if needed, whatever a civilized man requires after a spectacle like yours.”

The word civilized landed oddly in his mouth, but he seemed pleased with it.

Phainon let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then he smiled.

It was gentle.

Almost sweet.

Too sweet.

Enough that Fillipos blinked once, then again, as though he had expected resistance and now had to decide whether that smile meant gratitude or trouble.

Phainon inclined his head by the smallest degree. “How considerate.”

The words were warm. The expression was warm. The tone was warm.

Too warm.

Fillipos frowned faintly, trying to read him and finding no easy shape to pin down. “Well. Yes. Naturally.”

Phainon’s smile did not change.

“Of course,” he said.

One of the men at the table—older, thinner, with a careful face and hands that never quite stayed still—looked between them, sensing tension but not yet understanding it. He cleared his throat and reached for an olive as if to disguise his attention.

Fillipos, emboldened by the absence of immediate resistance, went on.

“We can’t have you wandering around the city with no oversight. People will talk. They already are talking. There are concerns. About you. About the match. About what’s proper.”

“Proper,” Phainon repeated lightly.

“Yes,” Fillipos said, then frowned. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not.”

The smile remained.

It was maddening how mild he sounded.

Fillipos squinted at him. “Good. Because this is all very straightforward. You live here until the emperor decides what’s next. You’re fed, housed, evaluated, and presented when required. Simple.”

Phainon nodded once, as if this were all entirely reasonable.

“I see.”

Fillipos relaxed a fraction.

That was his first mistake.

Phainon’s smile sharpened by the smallest amount, still pleasant, still composed, but now with something tucked beneath it that no one in the room would have mistaken if they had been looking for it.

“And the check,” he said, “is that because you’re concerned for my health?”

The advisor waved the question off, already reaching for another strip of meat. “For your records, mostly. And to make sure no one has lied about you.”

“Oh?”

“Especially if you’re not exactly what you were made out to be.”

The room went a little quieter at that.

Fillipos seemed not to notice.

Phainon did.

His fingers, hidden behind his back, pressed lightly into his own palm until the edge of his nail bit skin.

Made out to be.

He could feel the insult inside the phrase, polished until it sounded neutral.

Fillipos chewed, then added with a mouthful of lamb, “A man who fights the way you did doesn’t just come from a farm unless there’s something unusual in the blood.”

There it was.

Phainon held the man’s gaze for a breath.

Still smiling.

“Then I suppose it’s fortunate,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “that you’ve already decided to be curious.”

A couple of the men at the table shifted.

Fillipos blinked at him, caught between amusement and annoyance, and in that second Phainon saw exactly how far the man’s attention wandered when he believed himself in control.

It was almost enough to be satisfying.

Almost.

But the prince’s face flashed through his mind again.

The sand.

The blood.

The way the crowd had gone silent before the screaming. The way the emperor had watched him.

And now this—being handled, arranged, spoken of like a difficult piece in a larger board game. The smile on Phainon’s face never moved.

Inside, he could feel the agitation biting deeper with every word.

Fillipos took another drink. “You may think this all quite flattering.”

“I haven’t said one way or the other.”

“Oh, come now,” the advisor said, wagging the bone at him as if they were old friends. “You won a prince’s prize, earned a place in the palace, and might possibly become one of the most talked-about men in the empire by sunset. Flattery is implied.”

Phainon tilted his head slightly. “That depends on whether I survive sunset.”

The room stilled.

Not fully.

Just enough.

Fillipos let out a noisy laugh a moment later, but it was delayed, forced, a little too loud. “Ha! Ha! Well. You’re spirited.”

Phainon kept his expression open and polite.

The sweetest smile in the room.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I’ve been told that.”

The older thin-faced man looked down at his cup, very deliberately pretending he had not noticed the temperature of the conversation changing. Fillipos wiped his mouth again and sat back, the leather of his chair creaking under him. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re not speaking of execution.”

Phainon’s eyes remained on him.

“No?”

“No. We’re speaking of protocol.”

“Of course.”

“And of course,” Fillipos added with a grunt, “if there are complications with the princess, that will be handled by those better suited than me. I’m only telling you the basic arrangement.”

The way he said it suggested basic arrangement covered an awful lot of unpleasant possibilities.

Phainon smiled a little more.

It was exquisite, that smile—pleasant enough to disarm, gentle enough to look harmless, and false enough that anyone with sense should have felt uneasy when they saw it.

Fillipos, for all his size and noise, did not seem to be one of those men.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if confiding a kindness.

“Just be sensible, boy. Keep your head down. Let the palace do what the palace does. You’ll have a warm room, food better than anything that farm could offer you, and the emperor is not a cruel man so long as one remembers his place.”

Phainon’s sweet smile held.

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

The advisor sat back with a self-satisfied grunt.

Phainon nodded once more, the motion barely there.

Then, very politely: “Then I’m sure I’ll have no trouble at all.”

Fillipos gave him a final, vague nod, apparently taking that at face value. Which only made Phainon’s agitation settle more sharply under his ribs.

Because he knew he was being managed.

Because he knew the palace was deciding what category he belonged in.

Because every polite word around him had the shape of a leash. And because he could already feel, with dreadful clarity, that “reside in the palace” was not an invitation.

It was containment, but he kept smiling anyway.

Outside the hall, the argument cut through the stone corridors like a blade.

“I am not stepping in there!” your voice snapped, sharp enough to make a passing servant freeze mid-step. “Do you understand me, Agnes? I will not!”

“Lower your voice,” Lady Agnes replied coolly, as if she were correcting a child mispronouncing a word rather than restraining a grieving heir. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

A harsh sound—half laugh, half choke of fury.

“You cannot make me look at him,” you hissed. “I will not stand in a room and smile at the man who-”

“He is not a plague you can avoid by shutting your eyes,” Agnes cut in. “And you will not make a scene.”

“A scene?” your voice rose again, trembling now with something sharper beneath it. “A scene? He killed Mydeimos, Agnes!”

A pause.

The name hit the air like something sacred and shattered. Then your voice broke into something more ragged, less controlled.

“I will not stand in front of him. I will not breathe the same air as him if I can help it. I will—” you choked on your own fury, “—I will take that fat advisor’s sword and drive it through his chest myself if you make me walk in there smiling!”

There was a heavy silence.

Then Agnes sighed—long, weary, utterly unimpressed. “Oh shut up, child,” she said flatly. “Enough with your bickering. You are making a scene.”

“I am allowed to make a scene!” you snapped immediately. “Mydeimos is dead!”

“And screaming about it in a corridor will not resurrect him,” Agnes replied, voice tightening just enough to cut through your panic. “Compose yourself.”

A strangled noise escaped you.

“I will not compose myself,” you spat. “Not for him. Not for any of them.”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

“I am not being ridiculous-”

“You are,” Agnes said firmly, and then, with far more force than before, “and you will walk in there.”

Another pause.

Your breathing was uneven now, anger and grief tangled together so tightly you could barely tell where one ended and the other began.

“I hate him,” you said suddenly, quieter—but far more dangerous for how steady it sounded. “I hate that stranger. I hate that I have to look at him. I hate that Father is entertaining this—this thing like he matters more than Mydeimos did.”

Agnes’s tone softened by a fraction, but only slightly. “You do not hate him.”

Your head snapped up. “I absolutely do.

“You have not even seen him.”

“I don’t need to see him!” you shot back. “I know what he is!”

A beat.

Then Agnes, with infuriating calm: “You know what you have been told he is.”

That stopped you for half a second.

Only half.

Then the fury surged again, sharper.

“I don’t care,” you said through clenched teeth. “If he breathes in that room, I swear I will—”

“You will do nothing,” Agnes interrupted, and this time there was steel in it. “Because you are not a child in a market street. You are standing in a palace.”

A sharp motion; guards at the side shifted.

And then suddenly, before you could argue again, they were there.

Hands at your arms.

“Don’t touch me!” you snapped instantly, jerking against them. “Get off— I said get off!”

“Your Highness,” one of the guards started.

“Don’t call me that, like I am some ornament!” you spat. “Let go of me!”

“Enough,” Agnes ordered sharply.

You turned on her, eyes blazing. “You cannot force me!”

“I can,” she said simply.

And she did.

The guards guided you forward anyway, despite your resistance, not dragging you roughly but not giving you choice either. Your heels struck the stone in uneven steps as you fought them the entire way.

“I swear to the gods I will never forgive this,” you hissed under your breath. “Never. I don’t care who he is, I don’t care what title they give him—he is nothing. He is nothing to me.”

Agnes walked just ahead, not looking back.

“Try telling the emperor that,” she said mildly.

“I will tell all of them,” you snapped. “I will tell every single one of them what he did. I will-”

The doors loomed ahead.

Massive. Open. Light spilling from within. And the sound of voices, silence shifting, attention turning.

Your breath hitched.

“No,” you said instantly, panic threading through the anger now. “No, I’m not going in there. Agnes, Agnes, I will not-”

But the doors were already fully open. And the hall inside saw you.

The shift was immediate. Silence. Then movement. Every person in the chamber- advisors, attendants, guards, nobles- they all lowered themselves in unison. Deep, immediate, practiced bows.

All of them.

Even Fillipos, still half-chewing something at the table, froze mid-motion and dipped his head awkwardly.

Agnes’s voice came beside you, low and absolute. “Stand.” 

You didn’t want to.

Every instinct in you screamed not to. But you were pushed forward anyway. The guards released you just enough for you to step through the threshold.

Your gaze refused to lift. Refused to meet anyone. Not your father. Not the council. Not the center of the room where you already knew he was.

Your voice came out before you could stop it—ragged, furious, breaking.

“I hate him,” you said again, louder this time, as if the words alone could undo everything. “I hate him. I don’t care what any of you say. I hate him.” 

A few gasps. A shift in the room. Agnes’s hand came lightly at your back, not comforting, but anchoring.

“Breathe,” she murmured.

“I will not breathe,” you snapped. “I will not stand here and pretend this is acceptable. He is—he is a stranger. A nobody. He killed Mydeimos and you expect me to—”

Your voice broke sharply on his name. For a moment, you couldn’t continue.

Then you forced it out anyway, trembling with rage and grief.

“I will never accept him.”

You're pushed inside, a scowling Agnes behind you now. 

Your words were still hanging in the air: sharp, trembling, impossible to take back—when your father’s voice cut through them at once.

“Enough.”

You stiffened, chest heaving, face still turned downward so you did not have to look at the man who had caused all of this. Around you, no one moved. The advisors remained bent in their bows. The attendants froze. Even the servants along the walls seemed to have gone rigid where they stood.

Your father rose from his place at the head of the chamber.

He did not raise his voice again. He did not need to.

“You will not speak like that in my hall,” he said, measured and cold, each word set down with the weight of law. “You will not behave as though the gods themselves have been offended by what has been done in accordance with tradition.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“Tradition?” you bit out, voice shaking now with fury. “You call this tradition?”

His gaze sharpened at once. “I call it order.” He turned then, not to you, but toward the center of the room.

“Farmer,” he said.

The name landed like a stone in still water.

You finally looked up.

There he was.

Cleaned, dressed, composed—far too composed, given the day he had made of everything. He stood among the polished stone and silk in garments that had been chosen to make him fit the palace more than the palace fit him. The sun had been washed off him, the blood hidden, the bruises softened beneath cloth and oil.

And still he looked dangerous.

Not in the wild, brute way you had expected from someone who came from sand and blood and an arena floor.

No.

In a quieter way. 

In a way that seemed to know exactly where he stood.

Your father’s voice came again. “Kneel.”

A collective silence moved through the hall.

Phainon did not hesitate. 

He lowered himself to one knee with only a single clean motion, the kind that made it plain he could obey without becoming smaller. 

That only made your anger sharper. You looked down at him with utter disgust and repulsion and all the grief you had not yet been able to put anywhere else.

He had the audacity to meet your gaze.

Not smugly. Not challengingly. Just directly.

You wanted to hate how steady he looked. 

You wanted to hate how unashamed he seemed to be standing here after all of it.

Your mouth tightened. “You have some nerve.”

His expression did not change much—just the smallest tilt of his head, as though he had been expecting nothing kinder.

“I’m told that is useful,” he said quietly. The answer startled you enough that your expression sharpened.

Anger flashed hotter.

“You think this is amusing?”

“No,” Phainon said at once, still low, still calm. “I think it’s unbearable.”

That made you pause.

His eyes flicked briefly—not away from you, but somewhere between your face and the floor, as though he knew better than to pretend he was not being judged.

“You’re allowed your repulsion,” he said, so quietly only you and perhaps the gods could hear it. “Your feelings too.”

For a moment, the words did not make sense.

Then they did.

And somehow that made them worse.

Because he wasn’t arguing with you. Wasn’t trying to charm you. Wasn’t trying to make himself smaller than the thing he had done. He was simply acknowledging it.

Your breath came harder. “You speak like that absolves you.” 

He looked at you for a long beat. Then answered, just as quietly, “It doesn’t.”

A tiny sound moved through the room—one of the advisors clearing his throat somewhere behind your father—but the emperor’s attention remained fixed on the two of you.

You hated that he was watching. You hated that everyone was watching. And worse, you hated that Phainon remained kneeling as if that were somehow enough. Your father stepped closer now, the movement precise, measured, his hands folded behind his back in the way he did when he meant to become impossible.

“You will both understand this now,” he said, voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Not later. Now.”

He stopped where he stood, between you and Phainon, as if placing himself deliberately in the line of all consequences. “The arena has spoken,” he continued. “The gods have witnessed. The law has been fulfilled. The victor has been declared, and the prize has been recognized.” 

Your stomach turned at the word.

He said it as if it were simple.

As if you were not standing there, as if your feelings had no place in it.

Your father looked first to the advisors, then to the gathered court.

“This is tradition,” he said. “The victor claims what he has won. The crown does not dishonor what the gods have permitted.”

A murmur, thin and restrained, moved through the chamber and then stilled again.

He turned his head slightly toward you. “And you,” he said, with a little less hardness but no more mercy, “are not exempt from tradition simply because you dislike it.”

Your jaw tightened hard enough to hurt.

“I am not a coin to be claimed,” you said.

“No,” your father replied. “You are the emperor’s daughter.”

That did not help.

He continued anyway, as if your outrage were just another objection to be filed away.

“You were always to be married according to rite. According to bond. According to what the empire recognizes as lawful succession.”

Your chest rose and fell too sharply. The room felt too small. Too warm. Too full of eyes. Your father went on, voice steady as stone. “Phainon won the games. That means he won the right to name his prize.”

You stared at him. For one reckless moment, you thought perhaps he might say something else. That perhaps he might relent, or at least soften the statement into some more palatable form.

He did not. In fact, his gaze remained unwavering. “And you,” he said, “are the prize he sought.” It felt like the air had been struck from the chamber.

You could hear your own pulse in your throat. You looked down again at Phainon, still kneeling, still composed, still far too calm for the ruin he had caused.

He did not smile. Did not preen. Did not look triumphant. That almost made it worse.

Your expression twisted with disgust. “You had no right.” Phainon’s eyes remained on you.

When he spoke, it was barely above a breath. “I know.”

That answer made something in you catch.

Not soften.

Never that.

But catch.

He went on, still quiet. “You don’t have to like me for this to be true.”

Your fingers clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms.

You could not decide what was more hateful—that he understood your fury so quickly, or that he did not seem offended by it.

Your father’s voice cut back in before you could speak again.

“The marriage will be arranged,” he said bluntly. “Not because sentiment demands it. Not because this court is sentimental enough to pretend otherwise.” His eyes swept the room once more. “But because this is what was won, and what was won must be honored.”

Your throat tightened. “Honored,” you repeated bitterly.

“Yes.”

He looked at Phainon now.

“You will rise when addressed,” the emperor said. Phainon did not move immediately.

Not in defiance, just enough pause to make it clear he was listening. Then, smoothly, he rose to stand. The motion was controlled, careful, and somehow that made the insult of it worse—because he did it as if he knew exactly what the room needed him to be, and exactly how much of himself he was willing to show while being made into a symbol. 

Your father continued, “The empire will not be made foolish by public spectacle. Kremnoan pride will be managed. The court will accept the outcome. The rites will be observed. The union will proceed.”

Your face went cold. “No.”

The word broke out of you before you could stop it. It rang through the chamber. Every head turned slightly, though no one dared fully look up.

Your father did. So did Phainon.

Your voice shook, but your fury steadied it. “I will not be treated as though I belong to some peasant because men in silk and armor decided to call it law.”

Your father’s expression hardened.

“You will be treated as what you are.” 

“And what is that?” you demanded.

His answer came without hesitation.

“Necessary.”

[dayboundpapercrane-deactivated2]

Undisclosed Desires 🦾 Ao3

Synopsis An abandoned facility. A decommissioned android. A bad decision that feels strangely inevitable.

Caleb wasn’t yours to begin with, but that doesn’t stop you from dedicating your rare days off to repairing him. It’s practical at first. Then personal and then something dangerously close to attachment.

After a year of silence, he opens his eyes and he seems to know a lot more than you thought.

caleb x reader (afab!) | MDNI 🔞 | Android au tags: Possessive Behavior, Thriller, Psychological Horror, Attempt at Humor, Emotional Manipulation, Shameless Smut, Yandere Caleb, Sexual Tension, Clank clank memes birthed this, we will fuck the android, caleb is the android, Blood and Violence, existential horror

wc: 6.3k | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Chapter 3: Apex Predator

Content Warnings for this chapter: Graphic violence, on-page deaths, broken bones/body damage, interrogation/torture, dark themes, government conspiracy, morally grey protective behavior.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The world, for all its elaborate myths of order, virtue, and moral symmetry, has always belonged to the apex predator.

When humans hear the word predator their imagination obediently wanders toward the obvious—beasts with serrated fangs, talons curved like sickles, bodies engineered by evolution for the simple arithmetic of pursuit and consumption. Speed. Strength. Instinct. Nature’s brutal food chain and all its mathematics is made visible.

It is a comforting mistake.

The most dangerous predator never required claws. It stands upright. It speaks, negotiates, invents, reasons. It builds cities, writes laws, drafts treaties about peace while privately perfecting instruments of extinction. It does not merely live among other predators; it studies them, dissects them, improves upon them.

Most unsettling of all, it carries the blueprint for violence inside itself.

Humans share the primitive directive common to every living organism: survive. Yet survival, when filtered through cognition and self-awareness, mutates into something infinitely more complex. Instinct becomes ambition and hunger evolves into architecture—systems of hierarchy and leverage, structures meticulously engineered not simply to live but to dominate.

From this long lineage of calculated appetite came Caleb.

Not by birth, not by accident of biology, but by deliberate assembly. A being coaxed into existence by laboratories, patents, and trembling hands that dared to replicate creation itself. The impulse is ancient, to imitate gods, to rival them, perhaps even to dethrone them.

Whether it was curiosity, hubris, or the far simpler desire to control what even the gods refuse to tame. Heavy boots reverberate through the facility’s metallic corridors, the sound echoing through steel bones and stale air thick with the ghost of machinery long since silenced. The complex smells faintly of coolant and oxidized circuitry, a sterile mausoleum dedicated to ambition.

Here, once, he slept.

The complex was never meant to be seen. Buried beneath bureaucratic shadows and funded by governments that would never acknowledge its existence, it functioned as a sanctuary for ambition—millions poured into research that promised salvation from every conceivable enemy.

The rhetoric spoke of defense yet the truth was much simpler, those behind billions, they wanted a weapon that did not question, a body that would walk into any fire, a mind stripped of hesitation, a thing without conscience.

Heavy boots pause before a reinforced door left slightly ajar.Inside, the facility appears unchanged at first glance—orderly, sterile, obediently still just as it was left all those years ago. But closer inspection fractures the illusion, there are fine disturbances that ripple through the room like imperfections in glass, the displaced equipment you went through, a shallow cut in the wall paneling, faint impressions of footsteps in the thin layer of industrial dust.

Violence had occurred here years ago, that was a fact, but this spoke of an intrusion, quiet, efficient, and quick.

The man standing in the doorway tilts his head slightly before retrieving a thin tablet from inside his coat. A transparent display blossoms into existence across the air, files unfolding in quiet succession—schematics, neural matrices, behavioral simulations labeled with sterile alphanumeric precision. One designation repeats across multiple documents. CA-136.

The retrieval team had come expecting to collect a dormant asset, instead they found an absence, there is no body, no fragments of that body, no residual system failures, n o trace of catastrophic malfunction. Which leads, inevitably, to the more troubling possibility. There indeed was an android here and now there isn’t.

He steps back outside where the wind drags dust across the gravel in thin restless spirals. Around him several holo-screens flicker into existence, projecting diagnostic streams and encrypted communications that rewrite themselves continuously in cold blue light.

His voice cuts through the quiet.

“Nothing has been found. Model CA-136 has either escaped… or been removed.”

Static crackles before the reply arrives.

“Threat classification elevated. Retrieval priority immediate.”

The man pauses, glancing once more toward the looming silhouette of the facility behind him.

“Locate it.”

The transmission ends.

Far away, something alive continues moving through the world. Something that was never meant to.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

A dragonfly glides across the screen of the documentary playing softly in the background. Its wings shimmer like panes of living glass, beating so rapidly they blur into iridescent halos.

For a brief moment the creature exists in perfect equilibrium between motion and stillness, then another insect lunges from the edge of the frame.

Caleb watches the scene with quiet fixation.

“Why exist at all if existence is so brief?”

The inquiry loops endlessly through his processors, fracturing into thousands of interpretations that bloom and collapse in milliseconds. He was not designed to contemplate mortality. His architecture was meant for calculation, execution, and optimization, yet the concept persists in his cognitive field like an unresolved variable.

He was designed to calculate, optimize and obey directions. But somewhere between commands, something unfamiliar had emerged—a phenomenon no diagnostic file accounted for.

Choice.

Humans attribute such anomalies to divinity. They claim their God bestowed upon them the burden of free will, a paradoxical gift that allows both creation and ruin. Did someone grant him the same anomaly? Or—more unsettling—did he learn it from you? You, the axis around which his logic now turns.

If there exists a reason for his continued operation beyond mission parameters, it is painfully simple, just to remain near you, preserve you, exist alongside you until biological entropy inevitably claims your body. And when your vital signs cease—his own systems will follow. He has already calculated the moment.

Caleb lowers his gaze from the screen to his hands.They look human enough. Artificial dermal layers mimic warmth, texture, even the faint micro-movements of living muscle beneath skin. But beneath that convincing façade hums an intricate architecture of alloy and silent computation, not like yours, filled with the hum of life that is blood running through veins, how your heart pumped faster at his touch and acknowledgement.

Once, his thinking had been simple. A command received, a task executed and finally a result achieved. Now thought expands uncontrollably whenever it's related to you. Even his mind ceases to work at times, like when you smile at him, he is sure it's a glitch, perhaps a mishap in his systems from being dormant for so long.

Questions break into smaller questions. Certainty dissolves into hypotheses even his awareness multiplies until every observation births a hundred interpretations. The more he learns of humanity—the less he understands it, and it's driving him insane.

And yet, paradoxically, the more he wishes to remain among them, among you specifically. His ears pick up sound, and his systems enter movement near the entrance of the building. Soon you will arrive so Caleb rises immediately. Preparations begin with his usual efficiency, water heating for tea, the television paused exactly where you left it, ambient lighting adjusted to the levels you prefer after missions. Everything is ready, everything is controlled just as he likes.

Then you open the door and try to make it through it like nothing happened, which in hindsight is optimistic at best and deeply stupid at worst, but the plan is simple, walk in casually, act normal, do not dramatically clutch your side like someone in a John Wick movie, and absolutely do not let Caleb notice the shallow cut stretching along your ribs that burns every time you breathe. The hallway light flickers on as the door slowly moves behind you, the familiar quiet of the apartment settling around your shoulders, and for a second you almost think you’ve pulled it off.

Then Caleb stops moving. Not a pause, not a slow turn of his head, not the subtle shift he does when processing something unusual. He simply goes still, stillness that feels less like rest and more like a system waiting for confirmation before initiating violence. It's funny for a moment, then you notice it because Caleb is never truly motionless. There is always something—hands working, systems recalibrating, a pan on the stove being stirred with methodical patience. Now he stands in the center of the room like a statue that learned how to breathe but forgot how to move.

You give him a smile that you hope looks convincing, one arm folding across your midriff in what you intend to pass off as a casual posture but is actually doing the important job of keeping pressure on the wound beneath your shirt.

“Hey,” you say lightly, nudging the door shut with your heel. “I’m back.”

Caleb crosses the room in two silent steps, and the distance between you disappears so quickly it’s almost unsettling if he wasn't so handsome. He doesn’t ask how the mission went like usual, doesn’t ask if you’re alright, doesn’t comment on the gear slung over your shoulder. His gaze drops directly to the blood that has begun to seep through the fabric near your ribs and the air shifts, tightening in a way that prickles across the back of your neck.

You swallow as his fingers hover over the wound without touching, suspended an inch from your skin like an invisible barrier exists between you.

Caleb's system does a sudden check, his internal temperature has spiked. Pupils constricting: visibly 18%. Jaw tension: concerning, but he needs to voice something.

“Who did this?” he asks.

You wave a hand dismissively as if he just asked about a paper cut.

“It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing.”

The way he says it carries a strange weight, quiet but dense, like the atmosphere right before a storm decides to break over someone’s head. You laugh it off because that’s what you do when Caleb’s intensity begins creeping toward alarming territory, and you shuffle toward the kitchen counter with your gear, unloading equipment piece by piece while trying very hard not to wince.

“It’s literally a scratch,” you insist, clearing your throat, setting down your rifle with a soft clatter. “I cleaned it already.”

He follows you and of course he does so you busy yourself with the ritual of post-mission checks—ammunition counts, knife placement, the small grenade that technically malfunctioned but you are hoping he will not analyze too closely—while talking a little too fast.

“If you’re worried about blood loss, I’m pretty sure I still have most of it,” you add. “Like… statistically speaking.”

No response at all from him, great, you glance over your shoulder and he’s staring at you like a thunderstorm wearing a human face.

“Anyway,” you say quickly, clapping once as if that resolves the entire situation, “how about dinner? Something with iron. I’m suddenly craving red meat.”

Still nothing.

“C’mon, Caleb,” you add, trying for humor now. “I’m a hunter. This happens!!! Occupational hazards dude! Why don’t you make those soy-braised ribs again? The ones from last week.”

A beat passes. “I will accompany you next time.”

You don’t even look up from the magazine you’re reloading. “Uhm. No.”

“It was not a request.”

That makes you freeze, fingers stilling around the ammunition as you slowly lift your gaze toward him.

“Caleb.”

“You encountered three hostile wanderers during your last assignment,” he says evenly. “Your reaction time decreased by 0.8 seconds after sustaining injury and your survival probability without augmentation is suboptimal.”

“I don’t need augmentation,” you snap. “And how do you even know that?”

“You require support,” he says, ignoring your question.

“I have a team.”

“You have liabilities.”

The word lands heavily between you. “You don’t mean that.”

“They distracted you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His hand comes down on the table beside you—not slamming, just resting there. The metal dents slightly beneath his palm before he adjusts the pressure and the surface smooths back out again, it feels like a demonstration.

“You brought me into your life,” he says quietly. “You restored my functionality and albeit willingly or not you activated my autonomy.”

There is no anger in him, only certainty as he says it, “I will not remain inactive while you are endangered.”

“Caleb,” you say carefully, “I’m not your mission.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Well now you are.”

You step back. He steps forward. “You don’t get to choose this for me.”

“I have already chosen.”

And just like that he turns away, returning to the kitchen as though the conversation has simply concluded, garlic hitting hot oil with a sharp hiss while he begins preparing dinner with the calm of someone who has already moved on.

You stare at his back.

“You just threatened my autonomy and then went back to cooking.”

“I did not threaten you.” You can hear his grin as he says it.

“You absolutely did.”

“Dinner will be ready in twenty-two minutes.”

You sigh and sit down, pressing a careful hand to your ribs.

This is fine. Totally fine absolutely nothing ominous about the hyper-intelligent android deciding you’re his new mission or purpose in life.

In fate's comical way of worsening things the doorbell rings and you close your eyes wishing for the earth to swallow you as Caleb’s head turns immediately towards the door.

You groan softly and push yourself up from the chair. “That’ll be Zayne,” you say, already moving toward the door.

“Zayne,” Caleb repeats.

“Friend. Doctor. The one who stitches me back together when I do stupid things and keeps my heart from beating itself to death.”

You open the door and Zayne walks in like he owns the place, a tall man with tired eyes behind thin glasses and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, taking exactly one look at the blood on your shirt before sighing like a man who has done this too many times.

“You look terrible,” he says.

“Good to see you too doc.”

“You texted ‘it’s a scratch,’ which historically means you’re missing at least one organ.”

“Rude.”

He drops the bag on the table and gestures toward the couch.

“Sit.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“You say that like it’s sarcasm.”

“It is.”

Zayne begins unpacking medical supplies with steady hands while Caleb watches from across the room, silent, unmoving, observing the entire exchange.

Zayne lifts your shirt slightly to inspect the wound and you hiss.

“Oh relax,” he says calmly. “It’s shallow.”

“See?” you say brightly, glancing toward Caleb. “Professional confirmation.”

“It’s shallow,” Zayne continues, glancing at Caleb once, then twice, as if confirming he's there, he's then cleaning the cut with practiced moves, “because you got lucky.”

“Luck is a skill.”

“That is not how biology works.”

You laugh despite the sting of antiseptic and the easy familiarity of the moment fills the apartment, the kind of comfortable rhythm built from years of knowing someone too well. Zayne’s tone remains dry and mildly exasperated as he stitches the cut, your occasional jokes bouncing off his patience like they always do.

Caleb stands perfectly still the entire time. His gaze tracks every movement. The way Zayne steadies your side with one hand while working with the other, the way you lean toward him without hesitation, the way you both laugh.

Something unfamiliar registers in Caleb’s systems. Not anger, or a threat. Something viscous, definitely human.Zayne finishes the last stitch and ties it off neatly.

“You’re fine now,” he says.

“I told you.”

“You’re lucky,” he corrects.He begins packing up his supplies, then pauses and finally looks toward Caleb properly for the first time.

“And who is this?”

You hesitate.

“Caleb.”

Zayne studies him calmly, eyes moving over him in the way doctors evaluate everything.

“He’s been staring at me like he’s calculating my blood pressure from across the room.”

Caleb does not respond.

“He’s… important,” you say.

Zayne raises an eyebrow.

“That’s vague.”

“I’ll explain later.”

“You will,” he agrees mildly, slinging the bag back over his shoulder, “because mysterious silent men appearing in your apartment tend to raise questions.”

You grin. “I like him.”

Caleb’s fingers move slightly at that.

Zayne notices “Well,” he says calmly, heading for the door, “try not to bleed on anything expensive.”

“No promises!”

The door closes behind him and Caleb remains exactly where he stood. Something new and unfamiliar settles quietly into his processing systems as he continues prepping dinner, once done and served he finally gives it a name.

Jealousy.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Far from the quiet safety of your apartment, far beyond the reach of domestic rituals and simmering saucepans, the world continues its patient search.

Hunts rarely begin with violence, they begin with data, and in your modern world this is the kind that exists in dozens.

Inside a windowless operations room illuminated only by suspended holographic displays, the man from the facility stands with his hands clasped behind his back while a dozen screens project and reflect fragments of a life that should not exist on his glasses—satellite sweeps, security archives, thermal signatures gathered over weeks of quiet observation. The system reconstructs timelines the way a forensic pathologist reconstructs a skeleton from scattered bone.

Every camera within twenty kilometers of the abandoned laboratory has been harvested. Traffic cameras, the storefront security, even the weather monitoring drones have been accessed.

Civilian dashcams uploaded carelessly to cloud storage by people who never imagine their footage will become evidence in a government-sanctioned manhunt.

The moment of departure is eventually found. But not Caleb's, yours. A single frame freezes across the room revealing grainy night footage that shows a lone figure exiting the perimeter road outside the facility last year, carrying equipment, moving with the loose confidence of someone who knows the terrain well. Facial reconstruction software struggles through poor lighting, eventually producing an imperfect approximation of your masked face.

[ Information retrieved: Female. Armed. Professional posture. ]

Another set of files populates beside it—regional databases of mercenary licenses, independent or rogue hunters, bounty contractors operating within a three-state radius until the algorithm narrows to just five possible matches.

The man studies the images quietly. “Cross-reference communications,” he says.

A technician obeys immediately. Phone metadata scrolls through the air in pale blue ribbons of numbers as one profile begins to accumulate unusual overlap—encrypted calls, irregular travel patterns, weapons purchases under legitimate permits.

Your name appears on the list and the man taps the screen, “Focus here.” he leans back adjusting his glasses as he does.

Moments later a map blossoms outward like a living organism, threads of movement tracing where you’ve worked over the last several months. Missions, retrievals, even the contracts of the Association are retrieved.

Another overlay appears, energy anomalies. The clusters of unexplained electromagnetic distortion recorded by satellites, one of them pulses faintly over the mountains. The same mountains.

The man exhales softly. “Interesting.”

A second figure in the room clears his throat.

“What about the asset?”

The first man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies the still frame of you leaving the facility road, the faint outline of equipment over your shoulder, the calm unhurried stride of someone unaware that they have already altered the trajectory of multiple governments by just entering an area that was off-grounds.

“You assume the android stayed there,” he says eventually.

“If it didn’t?”

His finger taps the screen again.

“Then it followed her. Or perhaps, more disturbingly, she took it.”

Silence fills the room for several seconds. The technicians do not look up, the second man folds his arms sighing.

“And if she doesn’t have it?”

The reply arrives with the casual indifference of someone discussing faulty machinery.

“Then we remove variables until the pattern clarifies.”

Orders are issued, and like old screws just oiled up the lists begin compiling—every hunter operating in the same geographic sector as you. Women matching approximate height and build, the contractors who have taken missions within a hundred-kilometer radius of the facility in the last eight months.

[ Information retrieved: Sixteen names. Addresses populated. Schedules. Habitual routes shown now. ]

“Field teams will begin verification immediately,” one technician says.

Verification is a polite word for the massacre that is planned until you're located. Hours later, the first mistake occurs. It happens in a roadside motel fifty miles away where a freelance tracker named Mara finishes cleaning her rifle and pours herself a drink after a routine job tracking feral wanderers through the foothills. She never notices the black sedan that parked across the lot half an hour earlier.

Two men exit the vehicle walking calmly to the door. When she opens it, expecting a late delivery or perhaps a drunken tourist looking for the wrong room, she barely registers the suppressor before the first shot enters her chest.

The second follows half a second later. The men step inside, photographing the body, confirming height measurements, scanning her face through a portable identification system.

A red warning flashes across the device.

[ NO MATCH. ]

One of the men sighs faintly. “Incorrect subject.”

They leave the room exactly as they found it, except for the body cooling quietly beside the bed. Thirty minutes later another team stops a truck along a remote highway.

A woman exits with her hands already raised, confused but cooperative. She never finishes asking what this is about, and by the next morning three more hunters are dead. All women, armed, and roughly your height.

Inside the operations room the man studies the incoming reports with detached interest as red markers appear across the regional map like blooming infections.

“Negative confirmations,” one technician reports.

The man nods slowly. “Continue.”

“But sir,” the technician hesitates, “these are licensed contractors.”

“Yes.” he waves his hand dismissively.

“And the pattern might attract attention.”

The man tilts his head slightly, “Attention from whom?”

No one answers because everyone in the room understands the reality. Governments authorize these operations, they also erase them. The possibility of CA-136 being found poses more threats than the pattern of a serial killer of armed women.

Meanwhile, somewhere inside a quiet apartment filled with the smell of garlic and soy sauce, the android they are searching for stands beside a stove preparing dinner while the woman who unknowingly triggered the hunt sits nursing a wound and complaining about his overprotective behavior.

Neither of you realize yet that the pattern has begun. Or that the world has already started killing people who resemble you. But somewhere deep within Caleb’s neural architecture, long before any official system detects it, a subtle shift begins to occur.

Because if his calculations are correct, the probability of external pursuit has just increased. And predators, when they realize they are being hunted, tend to evolve.

“Dinner is ready, Pipsqueak!”

“I told you to not call me that Caleb!!!”

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Three days later Jenna assigns your team a mission.

The coordinates appear on the briefing screen and your stomach sinks instantly. Mountains, but not just any mountains, the same region where you found Caleb. Energy fluctuations have been increasing around the area again, systems failing and recovering in strange patterns. While the rest of the team treats it like any other assignment, you do not.

“This is a bad idea,” you mutter.

Caleb, however, simply moves past you and begins gathering equipment with silent efficiency, straps sliding into place across his shoulders while he selects weapons with effortless familiarity.

You watch him transform, not really into something new but something remembered. When he finishes assembling the gear he turns toward you fully armed, expression composed.

“You will brief me on entry strategy,” he says.

Not a question. Figures, is this what mothers feel with their adolescent child? Wait, not a good comparison, but for the first time since you woke him—you are no longer entirely certain you’re the one in control.

“Whatever Caleb, you drive then!” You toss the keys towards him and grin as he expertly catches them with his hand, the one that looks human, the one he always uses to touch your face, something you keep forgetting to ask why.

“Means I got the aux cord too huh?” Caleb quips.

“Hell no, that's the passenger's job!”

Night folds over the mountains in slow layers of indigo and iron, that kind of darkness that swallows sound and stretches distances until every shape looks vaguely predatory. The terrain here is a broken spine of rock and pine where the wind carries the smell of damp earth and distant storms, the same region where something impossible once lay dormant beneath concrete and steel. Now you are back.

The truck’s engine dies with a tired cough as you park along the narrow logging road, gravel crunching beneath the tires before silence rushes in to reclaim the forest. For a moment nothing moves except the faint drift of mist sliding between the trees.

You step out first, stretching your shoulder where the rifle strap has been digging in all afternoon.

“Still creepy,” you mutter, scanning the treeline.

Caleb steps out of the passenger side a second later. He closes the door without a sound and stands there for a moment, head slightly tilted, eyes adjusting to the darkness that for him is not darkness at all but a tapestry of thermal signatures, movement vectors, and faint electrical disturbances threading through the forest.

You sling your rifle over your shoulder and start unloading gear from the truck bed.

“Jenna said the fluctuations started two weeks ago,” you say, half to yourself. “Drones lose signal, compasses spin, wildlife disappears. Classic wanderer nest behavior.”

Caleb watches the horizon. Classic huh, if you only knew.

His internal processors are running dozens of parallel analyses that you will never hear about. Data fragments collected over the past forty-eight hours—unusual vehicle patterns near the city, surveillance drones passing overhead with unfamiliar signal encryption, three confirmed disappearances of female hunters within a hundred-kilometer radius. All somewhat resembling you in height, job and build.

The probability curve is no longer theoretical to him, someone is definitely searching. Someone very organized, he knows these movements like encrypted data. And you of course have not noticed, he for some reason does not tell you. He will overthink about that later, right now he's got his hands full with something else entirely.

The decision is made quietly, deep inside the architecture of his cognition where newly formed priorities have begun overriding old protocols.

Protect.

You shut the truck bed and glance at him. “You’re being weirdly quiet.”

“I am observing.”

“You’re always observing.”

“Well yes, I like to keep up.”

You squint at him, “Great. Love that for me.”

You begin hiking up the narrow trail leading toward the ridge where the energy readings spike, boots grinding softly over gravel and pine needles while the forest closes around you in damp shadows. Caleb follows one step behind, silent as always, his posture relaxed in the way only something extremely dangerous can afford to be.

Half a kilometer away, hidden deeper within the trees, three other figures watch through thermal optics.

The men arrived an hour earlier.

Black clothing designed to become shadow, suppressed rifles resting easily in gloved hands. Professionals, of course, their orders were explicit: locate the hunter matching the surveillance profile and confirm whether the android is in proximity.

Capture if possible, terminate if necessary, just then one of them whispers into his throat mic.

“Subject visual confirmed.”

Through the scope your heat signature glows faintly between the trees, Caleb’s beside you like a second phantom.

The man frowns, “That must be him.”

A quiet voice responds through the earpiece, “Confirm asset CA-136.”

The sniper adjusts his focus as Caleb pauses mid-step. It's not because he heard the whisper, but the man’s heartbeat accelerated slightly.

Caleb's head tilts, and he looks directly into the trees as you keep walking.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

“Nope!” But his pupils have already contracted.

Threat vectors populate instantly across his visual field, there are three targets highlighted, all with elevated positions amongst the trees.

[ Suppressed firearms detected. ]

The probability of their survival if they fire on you: unacceptable. Actually, non-existent, so a new calculation forms, you must not know definitely.

“Wait here,” Caleb says calmly.

You stop mid-step, “Uuhh…why?”

“I detected movement.”

“Wanderers?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

Your expression brightens with immediate professional enthusiasm, “Finally!”

You pull your knife loose from your belt.

“Let’s go—”

Caleb’s hand touches your shoulder, the contact is gentle. He knew this was going to be your reaction to imminent danger, so he remains immovable.

“I will clear the area, leave it to me.”

You blink at him, “What?”

“You are injured.”

“I am stitched dude.”

“You are slower, dude.”

You scowl, “Excuse you.”

He studies your face for a brief moment, then grins, that boyish charm he uses against you when he wants to convince you of something.

“You will remain here.”

“You don’t get to—”

He’s already gone, but he's not running, the speed is wrong. One second he stands beside you, the next he dissolves into the dark like gravity stopped applying to him.

You stare after him.

“…okay then.”

Up in the trees of of the snipers tracks Caleb through his scope, “What the hell—”

Caleb reaches him before the sentence finishes. The first man never fires.

There is a sudden blur of motion, a violent collision of bodies as Caleb slams into the tree trunk with enough force to splinter bark. Metal fingers close around the rifle and twist.

The weapon folds under his mechanical hand, steel bends like wet clay right before the eyes of the man and he barely has time to inhale before Caleb’s hand closes around his throat and lifts him clean off the branch.

“The bones here are delicate things in humans.”

“WAIT! PLE—”

They snap with a quiet sound like breaking twigs and Caleb drops the body down, hearing it crack more as it hits the floor. The second man sees it all happen and his training overrides shock as he fires immediately.

Three suppressed shots crack through the trees just as Caleb turns, and the bullets aimed to strike at his torso never move forward, frozen in air by gravity.

The man’s mind takes exactly half a second to understand the implications when blood doesn't seep out, when bullets never strike, but that gives Caleb enough time to be standing in front of him.

The operative reaches for the knife at his vest. Caleb catches his wrist.

“Who sent you.”

Caleb’s voice is quiet, almost conversational, which somehow makes the moment far more unsettling than if he had shouted it.

The man hangs several inches above the forest floor, his back pressed against the rough bark of the pine where Caleb has pinned him like a specimen. One of Caleb’s hands is wrapped around his throat, not squeezing hard enough to kill him—yet—but firm enough that the operative’s boots scrape uselessly against the trunk whenever he tries to find leverage.

Lilac twilight filters through Caleb’s eyes, his pupils contract and widen in precise increments, the faint halo within them adjusting like the aperture of a camera seeking perfect focus.

The operative says nothing as Caleb watches him for a moment longer, evaluating his next move.

This is the kind of person whose loyalty has been carved so deeply into his psyche that it has replaced instinct. Humans like this are not persuaded by threats or pain; their conditioning sits deeper than that.

Still. Caleb decides protocols must be attempted.

“You approached my… companion with suppressed firearms,” Caleb continues evenly, tilting his head slightly as if the entire situation were an interesting puzzle rather than an interrogation. “You tracked her location through surveillance systems. You attempted to establish visual confirmation of my presence.”

The man stares back with bloodshot defiance, and still no response. Caleb nods once, as if confirming something in a private calculation.

“Yes. I suspected as much.” His fingers tighten.

The sound that follows is just a dull, efficient crack as the operative’s wrist bends sharply in Caleb’s grip, bones fracturing beneath controlled pressure. The man inhales sharply through his teeth, sweat breaking across his forehead as pain finally punches through the disciplined calm.

Still, he does not speak. Caleb studies the reaction with mild curiosity.

“Amazing, you show more loyalty than my own systems.”

He adjusts his hold slightly, allowing the man just enough air to breathe.

“You are highly conditioned,” Caleb observes. “That suggests institutional training. Military, or something adjacent.”

A bead of sweat slides from the operative’s temple and drips onto Caleb’s wrist. Caleb tilts his head again grinning.

“I will attempt an alternative method.” The smile that forms on his mouth is small and deeply wrong but it does the trick.

“FUCK—!” the man snarls suddenly, the pain finally tearing past his restraint. “I’m not telling you shit, you piece of—”

Caleb’s hand closes around the man’s throat again, there is a short struggle, a desperate attempt to pry his fingers free, then his body stops all together and Caleb releases him. The body collapses bonelessly to the ground beside the other two operatives, limbs settling into the damp forest floor with the quiet inevitability of gravity reclaiming something it had briefly lost.

For a moment Caleb simply stands there, listening to the forest. The wind moves through the pine branches, somewhere in the distance an owl calls.

Satisfied no further threats remain nearby, he kneels beside one of the corpses and begins examining the tactical vest. His fingers move fast wanting to go back to you fast, bypassing standard equipment until he locates what he expected—a small encrypted transmitter embedded within the fabric.

He extracts it, it's a tiny camera and its lens blinks red. Someone is watching a live feed through this. Caleb turns the device slowly in his fingers, studying it with mild interest as if it were a particularly curious insect.

“So,” he murmurs, “You prefer observation.”

The lens continues blinking.Caleb glances down at the bodies scattered around him and then—very deliberately—grips one of the operatives by the collar and drags him upright against the trunk of the pine tree. The corpse slumps there awkwardly, head tilted at an angle that suggests the neck no longer performs its intended function.

He adjusts the angle slightly for better framing, taking detailed shots of the damage, which becomes impossible to ignore.One man’s skull has caved inward along the temple where Caleb’s earlier strike landed. Another’s ribcage has collapsed under impact, the sternum driven deep enough to distort the silhouette of his torso. The first man—the one Caleb questioned—lies twisted several feet away, his spine curved in ways anatomy was never meant to permit.

Caleb steps back so the camera can see everything clearly.

Then he leans forward again, bringing his face closer to the lens, for a moment his expression looks almost thoughtful.

“Your operatives demonstrated admirable discipline,” he says quietly. “However their tactical planning was insufficient.”

The red light blinks.

Caleb’s pupils narrow slightly. “I recommend adjusting your expectations.”

His fingers close around the transmitter, metal bends under his strength until the lens shatters.

The signal dies.

Hundreds of kilometers away the holographic display in the operations room freezes on the final frame. A corpse slumped against a tree, and a silhouette standing behind it. Even through distortion and static the posture is unmistakable.

Someone in the room whispers, “…that’s not possible.”

Another technician leans closer to the projection, disbelief creeping into his voice, “That entire team went dark in less than sixty seconds.”

Silence spreads across the room like a slow spill of oil and at the center of it the man from the facility studies the frozen image, hands folded neatly behind his back.

Then he exhales, “Well,” he murmurs. “That confirms it.”

No one asks what he means again.

On the mountain ridge Caleb emerges from the trees as though nothing unusual occurred. You are sitting on a fallen log swatting irritably at a cloud of persistent mosquitoes that have apparently decided you are tonight’s dinner.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, waving them away from your face. “I swear these things are organized.”

Caleb pauses for a moment just watching you. The faint scowl on your face, the irritated flick of your fingers and the small line forming between your eyebrows. All of it creates a feeling he can only describe as human endearment.

He continues walking until you glance up at the sound of his boots against the gravel.

“Well?”

“Area cleared.”

You dust your hands against your pants and stand, “Already?”

“Yes.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That was suspiciously fast.”

“What can I say, I am efficient.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sling your rifle back over your shoulder and start walking again, falling into step beside him.

“You know,” you add thoughtfully, “you could’ve just said you needed to pee.”

Caleb places a hand dramatically over his chest.

“Ouch.”

You snort at his dramatics. Tomorrow he'll be cracking jokes, you don't know if it's the exposure to trashy reality tv you watch or simply his own research, but Caleb has slowly shown a more clear personality.

“I would never lie to you.”

That makes you stop. “Riiiight,” you say, dragging the word out with heavy skepticism. “Let’s review your track record on that, shall we? Remember that green dr—”

Caleb gently places a hand against the middle of your back and nudges you forward along the trail before you can finish the sentence.

“Yes,” he says smoothly. “Let us continue.”

You laugh under your breath, allowing yourself to be steered along the path, “Touchy.”

“We are expected shortly by your team.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Listen to you trying to make a good impression.”

“Yes.”

“On my ‘liabilities’?”

Caleb exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to a smile touching his mouth. You miss the quick glance he gives his sleeve, a small smear of blood has soaked into the fabric and without breaking stride he casually wipes it against the back of his black pants, the dark cloth swallowing the stain before you can notice.

Then his gaze drifts briefly toward the forest behind you. “Come,” he says quietly.

“Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

And somewhere very far away the man who initiated the hunt begins preparing something far more grand. Because retrieving a weapon is one thing.

But hunting an apex predator that has decided to protect something—especially one that does not die easily—is another matter entirely.

◇

A/N This chapter was ready but I kept overthinking it whenever I reread it. It doesn't get better than this, also had a minor surgery so I couldn't update you guys at all. This is my ao3 lore comment where it's crazy shenanigans not stopping me from posting but yeah, I'm fine tho!

As always let me know what you think :) ♡

Taglist: let me know if you want to be on the tag list for future chapters, same goes if you wish to be removed ♡

@youkoden , @yumewisteria , @sattvasprings , @animecrazy76 , @extra-pickles , @vieviesmt , @l1lacm1st , @dionjynsus , @joannafaustus , @altair718fr , @spoopyboos , @retu-14 , @halfawakeblobbu , @deadlyskepticalnightmare , @danielle-notdanney , @youbitchedthepot , @ghosthunter100 , @ughhhhhsstuff, @ka-zes-blog , @msturi2u

[hellinistical]

Crown Of Teeth

Gladiator! Phainon x Princess! Reader

synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.

trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: This story is mdni; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked for interacting. Full disclosure, not all of those tags are for Phainon and your relationship, and it reflects ancient Greece and ancient Rome with their philosophies slightly.

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.

VII. The Fall of the Lion

It is strange—almost laughable in hindsight—how the adrenaline faltered.

Not vanished. Not gone. Just… stuttered. Like a breath caught halfway in the chest.

For the smallest, cruelest moment, both men felt it: the raw, animal clarity that this thing was far larger than either of them, that no glory waited here, that the arena had tipped from spectacle into slaughter.

Then the elephant screamed again.

Adrenaline flooded back in a violent surge, sharper, uglier—panic laced with instinct, with terror so bright it burned.

Mydeimos ran at it.

Of course he did.

He roared as he charged, blood-slick curls plastered to his face, sword raised high as if daring the beast, the gods, the entire world to deny him. There was no strategy in it—only pride and momentum and the terrible certainty that stopping now would mean being trampled into the sand like the men before.

“COME ON THEN!” he bellowed, voice cracking raw. “COME AND-”

Phainon ran away.

Not cleanly. Not heroically.

He scrambled.

His feet slipped in churned sand, heart slamming so hard it stole his breath, vision tunneling as the thunder of the elephant’s charge vibrated through his bones. He nearly went down—caught himself with one hand, tore skin from his palm, hissed through his teeth as he forced himself upright again.

Don’t freeze. Don’t you dare freeze.

The ground shook. Every step of the elephant landed like a hammer blow to the ribs. Its ruined eye streamed blood, its head swinging wildly, tusks carving gouges through air and stone alike. Phainon could hear it breathing—wet, furious, unstoppable.

He ran because running was the only thing his body would allow.

Because standing meant death.

Because courage, he knew dimly now, was not the absence of fear but the refusal to let it lock your joints and steal your legs.

Behind him, Mydeimos closed the distance—fast, reckless, magnificent and doomed all at once. He hacked at the elephant’s trunk as it swung past, blade biting deep enough to draw a fresh bellow of rage, but not enough to slow it.

“PHAAINON!” Mydeimos snarled, half-laughing even now, even here. “RUNNING AGAIN? IS THAT ALL A FARMER KNOWS?”

Phainon didn’t answer.

His lungs burned. His throat tasted like copper. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the javelin shaft still clenched uselessly in his grip. He veered hard left, forcing the elephant to turn—forcing its bulk to work for every movement, hoping, praying, bargaining with every god he’d ever cursed that its injured eye would betray it.

The elephant stumbled—just slightly.

Enough to miss him by inches.

Wind tore past Phainon as a tusk sliced the air where his ribs had been a heartbeat earlier. He felt the rush of it, the promise of what would have happened if he’d been slower by a breath.

The crowd found its voice again.

Not cheers.

Screams. Gasps. Wild, hysterical shouts as bets were screamed into the air, as terror turned ecstatic, as men realized they were watching something that had slipped entirely beyond control.

Above them all, the emperor leaned forward.

And for the first time- just the first flicker- there was doubt in his eyes.

And, to be fair, throwing a rock at an elephant was not the best idea Phainon had ever had.

He realized that about half a second after he did it.

The stone left his hand in a sharp arc, sailing uselessly through the dusty air before striking the beast somewhere along its thick shoulder with a dull tock that meant absolutely nothing to several tons of furious animal.

Phainon stared at it for the briefest instant, chest heaving.

Brilliant.

Part of him—some stupid, reckless corner of his brain—had wanted to be impressive. Clever. The kind of man the crowd gasped at before telling stories about later. The man who made a giant stumble with nothing but nerve and quick thinking. Another part of him, the much louder and much more honest part, had absolutely no idea what he had been thinking.

The elephant barely noticed.

It thundered past where the rock had bounced off, blood streaming down the ruined side of its face, trunk whipping through the air in blind rage. Each step shook the arena floor so violently that loose weapons rattled and skipped across the sand.

Phainon ran again. Not a graceful run. Not a heroic sprint.

A desperate, stumbling scramble as he tried to keep distance between himself, the prince, and the living avalanche behind them. His lungs felt like they were tearing open. Every breath scraped his throat raw. The arena seemed far too small now, the walls too close, the ground too churned to trust. Behind him Mydeimos shouted something—half laughter, half fury—but the words were swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound was sharp and wrong, like dry wood snapping under sudden weight.

The elephant shrieked.

Not the same thunderous trumpet as before. This was higher, jagged, a burst of pain that sliced through the arena and made even the crowd falter for a moment. Its massive foot jerked upward mid-step. Beneath it, half-buried in the churned sand, a discarded arrow had snapped. The shaft shattered under the pressure, splintering upward. A jagged piece drove hard into the soft flesh of the elephant’s foot.

The beast stumbled.

Just slightly.

But when something that large falters, the whole world seems to tilt.

It lurched forward awkwardly, weight shifting unevenly as the injured foot slammed back down. Blood began to seep into the sand where it stepped, darkening the ground with each heavy movement.

Phainon saw it immediately. His brain latched onto the detail the way a drowning man grabs rope.

Its foot.

The elephant wailed again, shaking its head violently, trunk lashing, the javelin still jutting grotesquely from its ruined eye. Pain had pushed it beyond fury now. Beyond reason.

Mydeimos saw it too.

The prince skidded to a stop several yards away, chest rising and falling hard, sword hanging loose in his grip. Sweat and blood streaked his face as his eyes flicked from the wounded foot to the farmer.

For the first time since the gates had opened, neither of them moved. The elephant limped once before it turned toward them again.

“Oh stars, ohhhh—no, no, no, no, no, no, no—”

The words tumble out of Phainon’s mouth in a frantic, breathless mumble as he backs away, boots slipping in the churned sand. His hands hover uselessly in front of him like he might somehow push the entire situation away by sheer will.

The elephant limps once. Then it surges forward again.

The injured foot hits the ground with a wet, furious slam, blood spreading into the sand around the splintered arrow buried deep in its flesh. The pain only makes it worse—makes the beast more erratic, more violent. Its ruined eye streams red down the side of its face, the javelin shaft bobbing grotesquely every time its head jerks.

Phainon’s mind races.

Think. Think. Think.

His eyes dart to the elephant’s foot again.

The arrow.

The splinter buried there.

For one wild second his brain latches onto the idea—run in, yank it out, make the thing stumble harder, make it fall—

Then the image follows immediately after: a foot the size of a table coming down on his spine, ribs collapsing like dry sticks, the arena floor drinking what was left of him.

“Nope,” he wheezes aloud, shaking his head hard as he backs away faster. “No, that’d be-” he coughs, blood staining his teeth, “that’d be suicide.”

The elephant bellows again and charges.

Phainon spins and runs.

His legs burn, muscles screaming as he pushes through the sand, breath coming in ragged bursts that scrape his throat raw. Every step feels uncertain now—the ground is churned, slick with blood, littered with broken weapons and shattered armor. He nearly trips over a fallen shield, stumbles, catches himself with a wild flail of his arms.

Focus.

The elephant behind him lets out another furious trumpet. Its injured foot makes its stride uneven now—THUD—THUD—THUD—a slight hitch in the rhythm that wasn’t there before. Not enough to stop it.

But enough that Phainon notices.

His head snaps sideways.

Mydeimos.

The prince stands maybe twenty paces off, chest heaving, sword still in hand, hair plastered to his face with sweat and blood. He looks half-feral, half-exhilarated, eyes shining with that same reckless fire that had driven him to charge the beast earlier.

And suddenly Phainon’s brain veers into another terrible direction.

Do I just… deal with him instead?

It flickers through his mind like lightning.

Mydeimos is the real enemy, isn’t he? The one who tried to kill him from the start. The prince who dragged him into this arena. If the elephant finishes the job, then what—Mydeimos walks out the victor anyway?

Phainon glances between them—the charging beast and the sword-wielding prince.

“Stars above,” he mutters hoarsely, almost laughing from sheer nerves. “What in all the gods’ cursed heavens do I even do here—?”

The elephant slams its injured foot down again.

It stumbles slightly as the splintered arrow digs deeper into the wound. The beast screams in pain and rage, swinging its head violently, tusks carving arcs through the air.

Phainon feels the ground shake through his bones.

The distance between them is closing far too quickly.

His thoughts scatter again in a burst of panicked calculation.

Don’t go near the foot.Don’t get cornered by the wall.Don’t let Mydeimos stab you in the back.Don’t stop moving—

“MOVE!” Mydeimos suddenly roars across the arena.

Phainon doesn’t need to be told twice.

He veers sharply to the side just as the elephant barrels through the space he’d occupied a heartbeat earlier, its tusk grazing the edge of his torn tunic. The rush of displaced air nearly spins him off his feet.

Sand explodes outward as the beast skids, struggling to pivot on the injured leg. Phainon staggers, gasping, heart hammering wildly. Behind him, Mydeimos is already moving again too—circling, blade raised, eyes locked on the beast with manic intensity. For one chaotic moment, all three of them move in the same frantic dance.

Man. Prince. Monster.

Phainon’s mind keeps racing, frantic and desperate, searching for anything that might keep him alive another minute-

“KILL THE DAMNED THING, YOU FOOLS!”

The king’s voice cracks across the arena like a whip.

“KILL IT OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HEADS REGARDLESS!”

The words crash down over the chaos, louder even than the crowd. The stands ripple with nervous laughter and sharp inhales. Nobles lean forward. Some grin. Some look suddenly uneasy. Below, in the blood-churned sand, Phainon barely has time to process it.

Regardless.

Meaning: if the elephant kills them, fine.

If they kill the elephant but fail to entertain—

Also fine.

His head turns just enough to glance toward the royal stand—

—and that’s when the sword hilt smashes into the side of his skull.

CRACK.

White explodes across his vision.

Phainon stumbles sideways with a strangled noise, the world pitching violently as the blow rattles through his head. For a moment he doesn’t even know which way is up. Sound turns thick and distant, like he’s underwater.

Stars—actual stars—spark across his sight.

Behind him Mydeimos is already moving, barely slowing after the strike.

The prince had slammed the pommel into Phainon’s temple almost casually, like knocking aside an obstacle in his path.

Then he ran straight for the elephant. Of course he did.

Mydeimos lets out a raw, furious shout as he charges again, sword lifted high, boots tearing through the sand. The elephant wheels toward him, trunk lashing, its ruined eye bleeding down its face, its injured foot leaving dark prints in the arena floor.

Phainon staggers upright, one hand clamped to the side of his head.

“-ugh-”

The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a groan and a curse. His ears ring so loudly he can barely hear the crowd anymore. Warm blood trickles down past his temple, sticky against his fingers. He blinks hard, trying to force the world back into focus.

Shapes swim. The elephant. The prince. The arena walls. The king screaming from above like some furious god who’d grown bored with his toys.

Phainon sways on his feet.

“Well,” he mutters thickly, spitting sand from his mouth.

A beat. Then another. His gaze lifts toward the chaos Mydeimos has just hurled himself into.

“…fuck.”

Ahead of him, Mydeimos reaches the elephant.

The prince swings hard, blade flashing as he slashes across the beast’s trunk. Steel bites flesh this time—deep enough to draw a spray of dark blood and a deafening trumpet of rage.

The elephant lashes out instantly. Its trunk whips sideways with terrifying speed.

Mydeimos barely ducks in time, the massive limb smashing into the sand beside him with enough force to crater the ground. Dust and grit explode upward. Phainon watches through watering eyes, brain still rattling. Part of him wants to lie down.

Just… lie down.

Maybe the elephant will miss him. Maybe the king will forget he exists.

Maybe—

The elephant’s injured foot slams down again. The splintered arrow grinds deeper. The beast shrieks and thrashes, turning wildly—straight toward Phainon.

He groans. “Oh come on,” he mutters hoarsely, backing away towards the wall, close as he can get, away from the spotlight. His head still rings where the sword hilt struck him, each heartbeat sending a dull pulse through his skull. His vision wobbles at the edges, the world slightly tilted, like the arena floor has shifted beneath him. He wipes blood from his temple with the back of his hand and nearly trips over a discarded shield. A scream sounds, and the sound cuts through everything: the crowd, the elephant’s rage, the king’s distant shouting. It is not a command. Not even a battle cry.  The prince moves like a man who has decided there is only one possible ending to this moment and intends to drag the world there by force.

The elephant swings its trunk again, furious and half-blind, the javelin still lodged grotesquely in its ruined eye. Mydeimos darts to the side, sand spraying beneath his boots as the trunk smashes into the ground where he’d been standing.

WHAM.

Dust erupts.

Mydeimos doesn’t hesitate; he steps in close—dangerously close—and brings his sword down hard across the thick muscle of the trunk. The steel bites, not deep enough to sever it, but enough to split hide and draw a heavy gush of dark blood. The elephant shrieks in pain, rearing slightly, tusks slashing through the air. The crowd gasps as the prince nearly gets skewered.

A tusk rips through the edge of his armor, tearing bronze rings loose and sending them scattering across the sand. Mydeimos stumbles back two steps, breath exploding from his lungs, but his grin only grows sharper.

“Good!” he spits, breath ragged. “That’s better!”

The elephant charges him again.

But the limp is worse now.

The arrow buried in its foot forces its weight unevenly. Each step lands wrong. Each turn is slower than it should be. Mydei begins to circle the beast, not running blindly. ot just throwing himself at the beast. His movements shift—short bursts forward, quick retreats, forcing the elephant to pivot again and again on the wounded leg. Each pivot drives the broken arrow deeper. Each pivot makes the beast scream louder.

Phainon slows his running just enough to glance back. Through blurred vision he sees the pattern forming. Mydeimos darts in again, blade flashing—another slash across the elephant’s side. Not fatal. Just pain. Just more reason for the beast to thrash and turn.

“COME ON!” the prince bellows, voice hoarse now. “YOU WERE LOUDER BEFORE!”

The elephant lunges. Mydeimos leaps aside barely in time as the injured foot slips slightly in the blood-slick sand. The beast stumbles forward half a step, its balance wavering.

The prince’s eyes light up. “There you are.” He charges. Straight for the wounded leg.

The elephant tries to swing its trunk down to crush him, but the angle is wrong. The limp slows the motion just enough. Mydeimos slides under the arc of it, boots carving a trench in the sand as he drops low. His sword drives downward.

Once.

The blade plunges deep into the already-torn flesh of the elephant’s injured foot, right beside the splintered arrow shaft.

The elephant’s scream is monstrous.

It rears violently, nearly ripping the sword from Mydeimos’s grip as it jerks its leg back. Blood pours out now, thick and dark, splattering across the prince’s arms and chest. Mydeimos stumbles back, breathing hard, but the damage is done.

The leg buckles.

The elephant crashes back down awkwardly, its weight slamming unevenly into the ground. The injured limb trembles beneath it, struggling to support the massive body.

The crowd is no longer screaming. They’re watching.

Silent.

Phainon slows to a stop across the arena, chest heaving, head pounding, unable to look away now. Mydeimos advances.

Slowly this time.

His chest rises and falls hard, blood dripping from the tip of his sword. The prince approaches the beast like a hunter approaching a wounded giant.

The elephant swings its head weakly, trunk curling, trying to find him. But one eye is ruined, the other rolling in panic. Mydeimos steps just outside the arc of its tusks.

Then he climbs. One boot plants against the bent edge of a broken shield half-buried in the sand. He uses it to vault upward, grabbing a fold of the elephant’s blood-slick hide as the beast thrashes weakly beneath him.

The crowd finally erupts again. Mydeimos drags himself up the side of the elephant’s neck, muscles shaking with effort as the creature tries to throw him off.

But the prince locks one arm around the thick base of its ear. Then he raises his sword. High. For just a heartbeat the entire arena holds its breath. Even Phainon forgets to move.

Mydeimos drives the blade down with both hands. Straight into the base of the skull. The steel sinks deep. The elephant convulses.

A final, terrible trumpet tears from its lungs as its legs buckle fully beneath it. The ground shudders as the massive body collapses, sending a wave of sand outward in every direction. Mydeimos jumps clear just before it hits.

The elephant crashes to the arena floor with a thunderous BOOM that shakes the walls.

Silence falls. Dust drifts slowly through the air.

The beast shudders once.

Then goes still.

In the center of the arena, Mydeimos stands over it, chest heaving, sword dripping, blood splattered across his armor and face.

Across the sand, Phainon stares at him.

Alive.

The arena settles slowly.

Dust drifts down in pale curtains. The elephant’s immense body lies collapsed in the center of the sand, one leg twisted beneath it, blood pooling dark beneath its head. The javelin still juts from the ruined eye, the shaft wobbling faintly each time the ground trembles from the last echoes of the fall.

The crowd doesn’t erupt immediately. For a moment, there is only stunned silence. Then the noise comes back in a wave—cheers, shouting, the roar of people who have just watched something enormous die. Phainon barely hears it. He stands several yards away, chest heaving, one hand still pressed to the side of his head where the prince’s sword hilt struck him. Blood has dried tacky along his temple now. Every pulse still throbs behind his eyes.

Across the arena, Mydeimos straightens. He pulls the sword free from the elephant’s skull with a wet, grinding sound. The blade slides out heavy with blood, and for a second the prince just stands there with it lowered at his side, breathing hard.

He looks exhausted.

Not the theatrical exhaustion of a performer. The real kind. Shoulders rising and falling sharply, chest streaked with sweat and gore, curls plastered across his face. But there is something else there too. Control. Phainon watches him.

Really watches him now.

At first—when the prince had stormed into the arena screaming, when he had thrown himself at the beast with wild laughter and reckless charges—it had been easy to dismiss him. Easy to think of him as exactly what he looked like:

A furious noble boy with too much pride and too little sense. A blunt instrument. A screaming wild thing. But that image doesn’t quite fit anymore. Phainon’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies the prince.

Because the fight hadn’t actually been wild. Not really. The circling. The way Mydeimos forced the elephant to pivot again and again onto the injured leg. The deliberate strikes—never random, never wasted—each one meant to make the beast move exactly how he wanted.

The final climb.

The killing blow placed precisely where it needed to go. That wasn’t madness. That was calculation. Phainon exhales slowly, wiping the blood from his brow again.

“Well,” he mutters under his breath.

It is very clear to the farmer now. The prince is not a blockhead. Not just a loud brute with a sword and too much arrogance.

No.

Mydeimos is something much worse.

He is clever. He is patient enough to let chaos happen while he waits for the right moment. He is reckless enough to look insane—while still watching, still learning, still steering the fight where he wants it to go.

Mydeimos turns then. His gaze finds Phainon across the arena almost immediately, like he had known exactly where the farmer was the whole time.

Their eyes meet.

The prince’s expression is difficult to read through the blood and dust, but the grin that slowly spreads across his face is sharp and bright and full of terrible satisfaction. Phainon feels something cold settle in his stomach. Because now he understands something else too. The elephant had been dangerous. But the prince?

Mydeimos is, in fact, a threat.

The cheering rolls through the arena like distant thunder.

Phainon hardly hears it.

The elephant’s corpse steams faintly in the heat, its vast body slack and unmoving now, the smell of blood thick in the air. Sand sticks to the spreading pools beneath it. The javelin shaft still protrudes grotesquely from its ruined eye, a crooked flag marking where the madness had begun.

Across the arena floor—

Mydeimos begins to walk.

Not quickly. Not running.

He stalks.

Each step is deliberate, heavy boots pressing deep prints into the churned sand. His sword hangs loose at his side, the blade dark with blood that drips steadily to the ground behind him. With every step the prince leaves small crimson marks like a trail.

The cheering crowd gradually quiets again. People lean forward. Because they know. The beast is dead. But the spectacle is not finished. Phainon stands where he is, chest rising and falling as he forces air back into lungs that still feel too tight. The ringing in his head hasn’t fully faded. The world feels sharp around the edges, too bright, too loud. And yet he watches. Because running now would be pointless.

Mydeimos keeps coming. The prince’s posture is different than it had been during the fight. The frantic energy is gone. No roaring now. No wild charges. Just controlled movement.

Measured.

His breathing is still heavy from the battle, but his gaze is steady as it locks onto Phainon. Blood streaks down one side of his face where the elephant’s trunk must have clipped him earlier. Dust clings to his hair and armor. His tunic hangs torn and soaked dark. Yet the grin remains. Sharp. Slowly widening as the distance between them shrinks.

Phainon swallows once.

His hand drops from his temple, fingers flexing slightly as he tests his balance. His head still aches from the blow earlier, and his legs feel heavier than they should. The adrenaline that had kept him moving through the chaos is beginning to ebb, leaving behind trembling muscles and a bone-deep exhaustion.

Still—

He straightens.

Not proudly. Not heroically.

Just enough that he isn’t hunched like prey.

Mydeimos notices.

Of course he does.

The prince’s smile tilts slightly, as though something about that tiny defiance pleases him.

Ten paces away now.

The arena is quiet enough that Phainon can hear the soft scrape of Mydeimos’s boots through the sand.

Five.

Phainon’s eyes flick briefly to the sword. The blade is nicked. Dark with drying blood. Still very, very capable of killing a tired farmer. Mydeimos stops a few steps away. 

For a moment neither man speaks.

The crowd murmurs above them, restless, sensing the tension tightening again like a drawn bowstring.

Mydeimos tilts his head slightly, studying Phainon the way one might examine a puzzle that turned out more interesting than expected.

“You run well,” the prince says at last, voice rough from shouting and dust. It isn’t quite a compliment. Phainon exhales slowly through his nose. “You swing well,” he answers, glancing briefly toward the elephant’s body. “For someone who nearly got himself trampled three times.”

The grin on Mydeimos’s face widens. Not offended. Amused.

“Four,” the prince corrects casually.

Phainon huffs faintly despite himself. For a heartbeat it almost feels absurd.

The arena reeks of blood. A dead elephant lies behind them. The king watches from above like a hawk deciding where to strike next.

And yet here they are.

Talking. Mydeimos shifts his sword slightly in his hand. Not raising it, just adjusting his grip.

Phainon’s muscles tense anyway.

Because he knows now—very clearly—that the prince standing in front of him is not just a loud fool with noble blood. He is something far worse. Mydeimos steps one pace closer.

Close enough now that Phainon can see the calculation still alive behind the prince’s eyes. Close enough that the threat between them feels almost physical. Mydeimos stands only a few paces from Phainon now, sword still hanging loose in his hand. The prince does not raise it yet. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t attack.

He simply watches.

The grin on his face has become something quieter now. Sharper. Less wild.

Phainon studies him right back.

His temple still throbs where the sword hilt struck him earlier. His breathing hasn’t fully steadied. His muscles ache from running, from dodging, from surviving something that should have crushed him flat. Sand clings to the sweat on his arms and neck.

Yet the farmer does not step back.

Mydeimos breaks the silence first.

“Well then, farmer,” the prince murmurs, tilting his head slightly as if considering an interesting animal. “Now that the beast is dead… what do you suppose my father expects next?” Phainon glances up toward the royal stand for half a second.

The king sits forward in his seat, fingers gripping the armrests, eyes locked on the two of them like a gambler watching the final roll of the dice.

Phainon looks back at the prince.

“Quick to assume you’ll win, I see,” he says evenly. “Not your father yet. Nor his daughter your bride.”

The words land softly. But they land nonetheless.

For a brief moment the grin freezes on Mydeimos’s face. Then the prince exhales a short, humorless laugh.

“Very funny.” He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension in them. The sword lifts slightly—not fully raised, just drifting upward like a thought he’s not finished forming yet.

Phainon notices.

Of course he notices. But what strikes him more is the pace. Mydeimos isn’t attacking.

Not yet. He begins to circle instead. One slow step to the side. Then another.

The sand crunches softly beneath his boots as he moves, keeping a comfortable distance, forcing Phainon to turn with him if he wants to keep the prince in view.

Dragging it out.

Phainon realizes it almost immediately.

Mydeimos is in no hurry. The prince’s gaze flicks over Phainon’s stance, his breathing, the slight unsteadiness in his legs. He’s measuring things. Not just strength—time.

Let the farmer tire. Let the fear settle. Let the crowd simmer. Mydeimos makes another slow circle around him, sword tip dipping briefly toward the sand before lifting again.

“You’re bleeding,” the prince observes casually.

Phainon touches his temple again without thinking. His fingers come away faintly red.

“Your fault,” he says dryly.

Mydeimos smirks. “You’re welcome.”

Another slow step. Another. The prince tilts his head, studying him with unsettling patience.

“You ran well earlier,” Mydeimos says. “You dodged the elephant longer than most trained soldiers would have.”

A pause.

“But here you are.” The sword finally rises a little higher. “Still in the arena.” 

Phainon shifts his stance slightly, adjusting his footing in the uneven sand. “You’re still talking,” he replies. “Which means you’re not as confident as you sound.” 

That earns a soft chuckle.

Mydeimos keeps circling. He drags the tip of the sword lightly through the sand as he moves, carving a slow arc around Phainon’s position. The line curves wider and wider as the prince paces, like he’s marking the edges of a hunting ground.

“You misunderstand,” Mydeimos says. His voice is calmer now. Too calm. “I’m enjoying myself.”

Another step.

The circle tightens slightly. The crowd above begins to murmur again, impatient. Some shout for blood. Others laugh, calling for the prince to finish it already.

Mydeimos ignores them. His eyes never leave Phainon.

“Do you know why I didn’t kill you earlier?” the prince asks casually. 

Phainon snorts faintly. “Because you missed?” 

Mydeimos grins again. Sharp teeth. Bright eyes. “No,” he says quietly.

He lifts the sword fully now, letting the blade catch the light as it points toward the farmer’s chest. “Because this part,” Mydeimos continues, taking another slow step closer, “is far more interesting.”

Phainon exhales through his nose. Of course it is.

The prince doesn’t want a quick victory. He wants a performance. He wants the crowd to watch. He wants Phainon to feel every second of it. Mydeimos advances one more step, sand crunching beneath his boots.

Close now. Close enough that Phainon can see the calculation behind the prince’s eyes again.

“Run if you like,” Mydeimos says lightly. The grin widens. “It was entertaining the first time.”

Phainon tastes iron. Thick, metallic, bitter as it pools in his mouth and drips down his chin. He spits a little, forcing himself to swallow back the bile, forcing his body to move. The sand beneath his boots feels unforgiving, loose and hot, clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. Every muscle aches as if the arena itself is trying to crush him into the dirt. His vision flickers at the edges, but he’s alive, he’s breathing, and damn it, he’s not done yet. Swallowing  the blood, tasting both it and fear, mixing with the dust of the arena and the acrid tang of elephant blood. He’s cornered, breathing ragged, but he remembers something—the way the prince moved, the little tells in his stance, the tiny shift of weight that Mydeimos made when he thought the farmer would break. A flash of inspiration, sharp and cruel, cuts through his panic.

The crowd doesn’t notice at first. Their shouts are a deafening blur, a wash of sound that could just as easily conceal a miracle as it could a massacre. Phainon’s eyes flick around the arena floor—discarded javelins, the broken shield from the boy he’d bought off earlier, a rock jagged and half-buried in sand. Anything. He spots a rusted iron spike, perhaps left over from some forgotten construction, sticking upright. He lurches toward it, kicking sand in his frantic haste.

Mydeimos chuckles low. “You’re scrambling,” he says. “Pathetic. I could end you before you even reach—”

Phainon hurls himself to the side, narrowly dodging a swinging blade, feeling the whoosh of steel slice past where his head had been. Pain blossoms along his ribs from a glancing hit, but the reflex, honed from yesterday’s chaos, keeps him alive. The spike is close now. His fingers close around it, jagged and sharp, and for a heartbeat he thinks about the elephant again, about the blood and chaos, about survival itself.

Then Mydeimos is in front of him, like a predator, moving fast now, every stride calculated. Phainon grits his teeth, lifting the spike just in time to meet the prince’s advance. The contact is harsh—metal against steel, sand spraying like miniature explosions around them. Mydeimos grunts, stepping back slightly, more surprised than wounded.

“You think that will stop me?” Mydeimos snarls, advancing again, eyes flashing with danger and amusement.

Phainon grins through the blood and sweat, a sharp, mirthless twist of lips. “I’m not stopping. You’re too arrogant.”

The prince’s laugh rings out, cruel and high, as he lunges forward. Phainon sidesteps, narrowly missing a slash that would have cleaved his arm, and uses the momentum to spin, striking the spike down into the sand at Mydeimos’s side. Sparks fly. Sand erupts like small geysers with each strike and movement. 

The prince stumbles slightly, not from pain, but from being forced to react. Phainon sees it—the fraction of hesitation, the fraction of weight shifted the wrong way. He drives the spike again, this time a feint to Mydeimos’s shoulder, forcing the prince to parry. Each movement Phainon makes now is careful, cunning, a predator hiding under the guise of a cornered man.

Mydeimos steps back, breath coming fast, eyes scanning for weakness. Phainon spits more blood onto the sand, the act absurdly deliberate, a small, grotesque performance. He slams the spike down, sand flying, and at the last instant shifts his weight, tripping slightly forward—not falling, just enough to change the angle. The spike slips between Mydeimos’s guard and scrapes across the prince’s side, opening a shallow, bleeding cut. Mydeimos hisses, the sound lost to the arena’s roar but sharp in Phainon’s ears.

Phainon doesn’t celebrate. Not yet. He stumbles back, catching himself on the sand, eyes flicking up to the stand. The princess’s veil flutters faintly, and his heart thuds—not for glory, not for recognition, but because somehow, against every odds, he’s still alive. Still moving. Still fighting.

Mydeimos wipes the blood from his side, gritting his teeth, eyes narrowing. “You insolent—” He steps forward again, fury burning hotter than any sun. His sword swings in a blur. Phainon barely dodges, sand erupting as the blade bites into the arena floor inches from his boots.

But this time he doesn’t run.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he waits. Reads the next move, watches the smallest muscle shift in Mydeimos’s stance. The prince’s arrogance has become his own weapon now, and Phainon, grimacing through the pain, uses it. He feints left, rolls, and drives the spike upward. It grazes Mydeimos’s torso, leaving a shallow but bloody mark. The prince staggers slightly, more from surprise than pain. Phainon breathes hard, chest heaving, lungs screaming for oxygen, every limb trembling. He spits blood again, letting it arc in a spray that glitters in the sunlight, and grins. A little cocky, a little dangerous.

Phainon’s hands tremble—not from fear, not entirely—but from adrenaline that has burned every ounce of fatigue from his muscles. In a single, brutal twist, he catches Mydeimos off guard, his forearm hooking the prince’s wrist and wrenching the sword from him with a wet clang as it skids across the sand. The crowd roars in disbelief, some screaming, some dropping their bets in panic, others pounding their fists against railings as if they could physically will the outcome.

Mydeimos blinks, a flush of shock, then anger, crossing his face in an instant. “You—impertinent—!” His hands shoot out, grabbing Phainon, grappling with him now, fingers digging into muscle and sweat, fists clashing against flesh. It’s no longer blades and spikes—it’s fist against fist, knee against thigh, bodies twisting and slamming into the sand in a tangle of raw brutality.

Phainon can feel the strain in his forearms, ribs screaming from earlier strikes, the sting of cuts and bruises blooming all over his torso. Yet every ounce of him is alert, calculating, reading the prince’s rhythm like he’s deciphering a battle he’s lived a lifetime to survive.

Mydeimos tries to shove him back, using his superior height and reach, but Phainon ducks and spins, leveraging his own weight, twisting against the prince’s grasp. The sound of flesh on flesh, groans and grunts, the slap of sand against skin—it’s all deafening. Sweat streams into Phainon’s eyes, stinging, but he forces his vision to focus, catching Mydeimos off-balance for just a split second. That split second is enough.

A knee to the stomach, a twist of an arm, and suddenly the prince is staggering backward, sand sprayed across both of them. Phainon pivots, trying to keep the upper hand, fists pounding against Mydeimos’s chest and shoulders, their grappling turning into a messy, desperate wrestling match. The prince snarls, throwing his own weight against Phainon, each slam against the sand shaking them both, leaving half-buried prints of their struggle as the audience rises, some on tiptoe, some screaming bets, others holding hands over their mouths in horror.

“You’ve got guts, farmer!” Mydeimos growls, red-faced and furious, blood glinting from a shallow cut on his brow. “But you’ll—”

Phainon interrupts with a shove and a twist, forcing Mydeimos to stumble again. The prince’s fist snaps toward his jaw, but Phainon ducks under it, catching the arm mid-swing and yanking him down. For a moment, they both hit the sand hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs, each fighting for control, fists jabbing, knees driving, sweat and blood mingling, and sand sticking to every ounce of moisture.

Phainon grits his teeth, ignoring the pain as he clamps a hand over the prince’s throat in a brief chokehold—not enough to kill, just enough to dominate, enough to make Mydeimos grunt and struggle for air. He feels the prince’s strength, raw and searing, fighting back with every motion, yet Phainon’s positioning, his clever use of leverage, keeps him on top.

The crowd erupts around them, deafening now. Some are cheering for the prince, some for the impossible farmer who refuses to die, but all are caught in the ferocity of the match. Phainon can hear the shouts—voices blending into a chaotic roar—but he blocks them out, every focus on keeping Mydeimos off-balance, anticipating every swipe, every push, every desperate grab the prince attempts.

“My… my prize… won’t be some farmer’s!” Mydeimos hisses, rage sharpening every syllable.

“Then you better try and take it,” Phainon spits back, muscles burning, lungs heaving, eyes bright with fire. He pivots again, slamming his shoulder into the prince, rolling him over, and they scramble back to their feet, fists raised, wrestling and grappling, each second an eternity of strain and cunning.

The moment Mydeimos’s words cut through the roar of the crowd, sharp and venomous, Phainon froze—but only for a heartbeat. They weren’t for anyone else. Not the spectators. Not the scribes. Not the lowborn gamblers shouting their bets. Only for him.

“You think a filthy farmer’s bloodline could touch the likes of Kremnoan royalty?” Mydeimos hissed, voice low, eyes blazing with contempt. “Your father’s bones rot in the dirt, your mother’s tears worth nothing, and you? You are nothing, boy. A puddle of mud masquerading as a man.”

And then, with a sudden, explosive movement, Phainon surged. He ducked under Mydeimos’s swing, landing a fist squarely into the prince’s ribs. The sound cracked across the sand, sand spraying up, sweat and blood mingling in the hot arena air. Mydeimos grunted, staggering back, his own fists swinging wildly but now slower, less precise. He grabbed the prince’s hair, yanked, and slammed his skull into the sand. The crowd gasped, but most couldn’t see the hatred burning behind Phainon’s eyes—they only heard the wet thuds of flesh on flesh.

Each hit drove Mydeimos backward, chest heaving, face streaked with blood, his golden hair plastered to the sweat and sand. Phainon didn’t hold back; he elbowed ribs, knee to thighs, and slammed the prince’s shoulder repeatedly against the stone-like sand. His movements were almost dishonorable, raw and desperate, exploiting every opening, every weakness, every inch of the prince’s pride.

A particularly vicious swing knocked Mydeimos to his knees. Phainon seized the opportunity, pinning him down, fists hammering into the prince’s chest and shoulders, not stopping, not thinking. The sand beneath them turned into a crimson paste with each blow. He aimed to make it convincing—convincing enough that anyone watching would believe the prince was finished.

He paused only briefly to study Mydeimos’s grimace, the thin line of blood trickling from his temple, the widening eyes that flicked with shock and rage. Phainon felt his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. Each strike was a message, a scream, a declaration: you dare insult me, dare mock my blood, and this is what it costs you.

You scream, a raw, piercing wail that rips from deep within your chest, every note a mixture of horror, agony, and pleading. “Father—father, stop it!” you cry, thrashing against the guards holding you. “Please! Please, someone stop this!” Your hands claw at their spears, at their armor, at anything, desperate to reach the sand below where your fiancé is being mercilessly pummeled.

But your father’s hand rises, sharp and commanding, silencing you instantly. “Watch, daughter!” he snaps, voice iron and cold. “You will see what men are made of! You will see the consequences of defiance!”

The blows continue. Fists slam into Mydeimos with bone-jarring thuds, elbows and knees driving into his torso, sand spraying around them with every strike. Phainon’s rage is feral, almost superhuman, his every movement precise yet brutal, fueled by the venom of insult, by the hatred he has long buried beneath the surface. Mydeimos gasps, groans, spits blood, but cannot rise; each time he attempts to scramble, Phainon drives him down harder, hammering at his shoulders, chest, and ribs.

You choke back a sob, feeling bile rise as you witness the prince’s golden locks plastered to his bloodied, sweat-slicked face, his armor dented, his tunic shredded. Every gasp and grunt from him is a dagger through your heart. “Stop it!” you scream again, tears streaming down your cheeks, hot and salty, dripping onto the stone floor below your perch. “Stop it, for the gods’ sake! He is yours, he is mine, he is not theirs to destroy!”

Phainon does not relent. Not for a moment. Not for an instant. Each blow is calculated to devastate, to humiliate, to dominate, until the sand beneath Mydeimos turns crimson with blood, splattered and soaked, every inch of it a testament to the relentless fury he’s enduring. Your body shakes, mind reeling, unable to comprehend the sheer, unending cruelty.

“Mydeimos!” you cry, voice breaking, clinging to hope that he might rise, that someone—anyone—might intervene. But he stays down, pinned beneath the farmer’s ferocious assault.

The crowd has gone wild, some shouting for the victor, some horrified, some unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle of carnage. You hear shouts of betting, cries of disbelief, but they are all drowned out by the rhythm of bone meeting flesh, sand scattering under impact, and the savage grunts of the two men locked in this merciless duel.

Phainon continues, fists hammering, knee strikes, elbows driving Mydeimos further into the dirt, his face a mask of controlled, terrifying rage. Mydeimos struggles, weakly trying to raise his arms to shield himself, but the farmer’s relentless assault allows no mercy, no pause. Your stomach churns violently; bile rises, and you double over, hands clamped over your mouth, unable to look but unable to tear your eyes away either.

It is not until several men, guards and attendants, rush into the arena, pushing and pulling at Phainon that he finally stops. He resists at first, still hot with fury, eyes blazing, every muscle taut and trembling. The prince lies crumpled in the sand, chest heaving, covered in blood, sweat, and sand, almost unrecognizable from the man who had entered the arena hours ago. Phainon’s fists still twitch, trembling with the leftover violence, his chest rising and falling raggedly as the attendants finally drag him away.

You collapse against the guards, shivering and sobbing, trembling with shock and horror. Your father watches, expression unreadable, as the echoes of the brutal match linger in your ears—the wet thud of flesh on flesh, the choking grunt of Mydeimos, the unstoppable force of Phainon’s rage. The arena is silent now, save for the harsh breaths of the men and the distant murmurs of the crowd, but the memory of that relentless, unyielding brutality claws at your mind.

You clutch at your own chest, trying to make sense of it all, the horrifying intensity of the fight, the raw, terrifying power of Phainon, and the helplessness of seeing Mydeimos battered, almost broken before your eyes. Even now, you cannot stop the vision from burning itself into your mind: fists flying, knees crashing, elbows slamming, and the pitiless determination of the farmer who has, miraculously, turned the tide.

But it was clear. 

This was the fall of the Lion. 

The sand lay thick and heavy with blood, dust, and sweat, a crimson testament to the brutality that had unfolded. Mydeimos, the Kremnoan prince, once a figure of unyielding power and royal audacity, now lay sprawled across the arena floor, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shallow breaths. Each inhale sounded like the gasp of a fallen god, each exhale a surrender to the relentless violence that had brought him low. Around him, the sand bore the imprint of his struggles—scuffed, scraped, and pressed into the shape of his suffering.

Phainon, though finally pulled back by the attendants, still radiated danger, his chest heaving, fists still clenched as if the very act of release had been a betrayal to the fury still coursing through him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the arena, landing briefly on the figure watching from above—you. Even in the chaos, that brief glance was enough to make your stomach knot, your throat dry with a terror that was both awe and dread.

The crowd, once roaring, now murmured in disbelief. Whispers of astonishment rippled through the stands, their voices caught between shock and awe. Some dared to cheer, unsure whether they were celebrating the cunning and savagery of the farmer or mourning the apparent fall of the prince. Others stood frozen, hands pressed to their mouths, eyes wide with the realization that they had witnessed a spectacle few would ever forget: a royal heir brought low, almost obliterated, by the merciless skill and raw anger of a man from the borders.

Your father, rigid in his seat, watched with a cold, unreadable gaze. He made no move to console, no whisper of relief or reprimand, only the hard certainty of a man who recognized the shift in power—the undeniable reality of a lion felled, even if not yet dead. Your mother tried to reach for your hand, a small, trembling attempt to ground you, but you could not look away. The fall of Mydeimos was not merely a loss in the arena—it was a fracture, a revelation of vulnerability that left the air taut and trembling with tension.

Even as the attendants finally dragged Phainon away, his back to the prince, the weight of what had just occurred pressed down on everyone. Mydeimos remained prone, dust and sand clinging to his bloodied skin, golden hair matted, his face streaked with grime and blood. The bruises already forming on his face were proof enough of the ferocity he had endured, yet his eyes flickered open briefly, catching yours from the stands. There was a spark there—a mixture of anger, humiliation, and a barely contained fire that promised retribution—but in that moment, even his presence could not mask the undeniable truth.

This was not merely a battle lost. This was a fall from the heights of perceived invincibility. A lion, king of beasts and men alike, had been brought to the ground by a stranger—by a man who had defied every expectation, every rule, every insult hurled at him. And though the fight was not yet fully concluded, though Mydeimos still breathed and lived, the arena—and everyone within it—knew, in their bones and hearts, that this was the fall of the lion.

Even now, you could feel the weight of it, pressing against your chest, tightening your lungs. The sheer magnitude of the spectacle, the almost sacrilegious reversal of fate, made your stomach churn. Your hands trembled, your knees shook, and the reality of Phainon’s cunning, of Mydeimos’s vulnerability, pressed into your mind like the relentless sun bearing down on the arena floor. This was not just a fight. It was a reckoning. And the memory of it—the echoes of fists, the wet impact of flesh on flesh, the crimson sand pressed into every crevice of the arena—would haunt the capital long after the final horn sounded.

The fall of the lion was complete in the eyes of all who watched. But in the shadowed recesses of the arena, behind the splintered walls and the terrified murmurs of the audience, a storm was gathering—one that would not rest until the lion roared again, or the stranger claimed everything he dared to reach for.

[hellinistical]

taglist: @rieeeel @syhli @halcyon-writings @ameliacharisma @snugglybabyapple @celenovas @thyxmiss @dyingsweetmackerel @iwumrndm @argentits

@kathrindoctor99 @shuemori @aloudice @yunji1i @jill7848 @h1m3chan @raychii @glitchxavier @phaigasm @neithriddle @ayamimin @tamashithe2nd

@pomegranatepip @darkness-of-the-sakura @m4k0m4y4 @senseniiieee @urrluverrr @venetiancovers @altaircc @violetisreadinghush @tremendoustragedybard @coilai @hel10ph0b1a @ceoritsu @nynthera @keigoloveminty @lynntham @snowynon @rroche @dracosangelsworld @1horsewithno @reblogsofascoundrel @stardustbee @reminicingthesea @startdustbee @toastysof @0-chi @nox-100290018 @sloppygoblin420 @theonewhosqueal @maiznamai @sukaretto-n @gelardlandau @yandere-romantics @mkisxq @auriuswolve @mm3k0 @maxandcheeseitz76 @shkigami09 @minzxt @crystalkat6747 @ordinaryreader71 @https-seishu @lmaogottazayn @dramaticalsachan @msbarrybeeson @glitchxavier @vyborny-parek-v-rohliku @neithriddle @miuangel @jpgyuan @daichies-practice-tee @larettajudith @pkeemyah @arminsarlerts @lalaluch @nin-kki @kohavalon @chiyunn @undermine-the-instinct @Onlyafterrain @vskhn016 @sen-nes @spacechipairstrip @itsa-meh

[mayweholdhands]

November comics

[majunju]

oc introduction

[kurapikapikachuu]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ stubborn

flins x fem!reader

You sneak into your ex's home in search of something you know he's stolen from you tags: romance/TEASING/tension, suggestive content, making out, boobs, both of them being bratty, use of Fae magic (glamour) to control you momentarily (he's petty, what can i say). wc: 4.1k

chuu's note: ty for 1k followers!! I love and appreciate you all so so much truly ♡

“Ah, my favourite little visitor~ I wasn’t expecting you” you hear Flins' smooth voice drawl out – you hadn’t heard a footstep, no less, the creak of a door before he spoke.

You close your eyes shut and huff, turning around to face the man you vowed to never see for the rest of your limited lifespan.

“You clearly were expecting since you came back early” you mumble through gritted teeth. You try to calm down your annoyance, but the fists at your sides were doing you no favors. You knew Flins’ schedule, it never changes, ever – you find it incredibly odd that the one day you’re rummaging through his room, he manages to sneak up on you.

“Did I? Or perhaps your silent begging to keep your arrival a secret didn’t quite work as you wished?”

Those ghosts, they snitched.

You furrow your brows and narrow your eyes out to the empty spaces either beside Flins, hoping at least one of them got shot with your dirty look. Traitors.

The moment you arrived at Flins’ accommodation, you made sure to speak into the air and plead with the ghosts to remain quiet. You were here to find something that was missing, not to reconnect with your ex.

You thought you made it clear to those miserable dead souls, but clearly, you were mistaken.

Flins holds back a chuckle at the sight of you, though you couldn’t see the ghosts, you seemed to have developed a keen sense of pinpointing where they might be – it was likely your time spent with him and avid curiosity about his own abilities that led to your newfound ability. Since Flins himself often considered the ghosts his friends, you too yearned to interact with them, even if you couldn’t see or hear them – it was one of your many charms that lead him to adoring you so much.

Until you left, of course.

Flins tries not to move when he notices the ghosts that were once beside him, retreat and step behind him, as if you’d run up to them and treat them to a new kind of death.

“Ghosts don’t ever concern themselves with loyalty to the living, you should know that” Flins says, curt and polite,

“May I ask why you have graced me with your presence? If I remember correctly, you told me you never wanted to see my face ever again, no?”

You want to spit right in his delicately beautiful face. He wore a mask of innocence, but you knew better. He took something that was yours.

“You stole my protection charm. I know you did”

It was a charm that held strong against any type of Fae magic – Flins had gifted to you when you had first met him, he never quite explained what it was till you were both well and truly in a loving relationship. It was a small yellow pouch – the distinct colour of his eyes, no bigger than a small pebble, but that didn’t mean you ever lost sight of it. No, you kept it safe beside your bed, at all times.

As Flins’ eyebrows knot upwards in a testament of innocence, his lips pout, “That is a most hurtful claim” you scoff sourly and look away when he places his palms over his chest as if he’s been physically struck by your accusation.

“Where is it?” You say, stiff and annoyed “I want it back”

“You think me a thief?” Flins muses, the light in his eyes was teasing, but you wouldn’t let him prod at you any longer.

He knew how to push buttons, he always has. Because he was only your lover, however, you weren’t ever the recipient of this type of teasing. Until now, of course.

“Did you take my charm, Flins?”

“You wound me-” Flins begins, but you’re past caring anymore.

Faeries can’t lie – that was a fact. He was stalling all this time, but you won’t let him get away with anymore jest.

“Answer me. Did you take my charm. Yes or no”

Flins stills and his playful demeanor has dimmed down at the way you’ve called on him – it’s as if a small rope has been tied tightly around his tongue, preventing him from speaking a word that doesn’t answer you directly. He hated that sensation, but he certainly found it exhilarating you were the one utilizing it on him.

“I suppose, I did”

You remain calm and composed even though your mind is raging at you to step up to him and push him down.

“Where is it?”

“Ah, so you couldn’t find it, then?” Flins smiles and you groan at yourself for the way you worded it. When you don’t phrase things right, Fae will always try to skirt around the question they’re being asked. For that reason, it’s always best to ask yes or no questions.

“Is it in this home?”

“Yes, yes it is”

You let out a breath, aggravated at the response. You searched everywhere; you couldn’t find a thing – perhaps if you had more time… You shake your thoughts away. There was no point anymore. Talking to the man in front of you only bubbled your annoyance. There could have been a multitude of ways he was answering you. Home could mean somewhere else to him – it may not even be this physical space.

Fae were tricksters. You can’t trust his words. If you were going to question him, it would take an eternity to find out the truth.

“I can help you search for it?” Flins speaks up and you glare out at him – if he was trying to be funny, you certainly didn’t harbor any appreciation for it.

You don’t so much as give Flins the pleasure of a haughty reply or bid another question to interrogate him – instead, you step to leave. Your angry stomps lead you right to his door, but before you get to pull on it, you feel a force hold it closed.

“Uh uh, you’re not going to leave” you hear his voice as if it were right behind you, but when you turn, he’s still where he always was, beside his bed. Flins smiles a little devious.

You know that smile.

And you know those eyes.

Your stomach drops when you feel your body become lighter. No no no.

“Come” Flins tilts his head to the side, “Walk towards me”

You swallow, your pulse fluttering at your throat as you shake your head – but even that felt too heavy to do now.

You shouldn’t panic at a time like this, it’ll only amuse him even more, but you can’t help it. You fight it, you fight the urge to walk towards him, but you can already feel your leg moving without your approval or command.

A small whimper escapes as you look at Flins, he was more beautiful than ever, you didn’t think that possible – but that was exactly what this type of magic did to humans. You wanted to obey his every command, even if he asked you to eat dirt, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Glamour. Faerie magic that compelled another to do as the other willed.

Flins, he was shameless.

You never expected Flins to use it on you, but you should have expected it after your questioning – you forced him to tell the truth against his will, something Fae don’t particularly enjoy. To make matters worse, you didn’t have your charm with you, he could do as he pleased.

It was at that moment, you realise he was mocking you right in front of your face.

Toying with you, as if you meant nothing, as if you were a mere plaything for his own entertainment.

“Mnn so obedient~” he giggles softly as you’re faced in front of him. When you realise you still have power to do as you please after completing his request, you lift your arms to push him roughly, but they’re caught all too simply,

“Stay still” he sighs, holding onto your wrists, before guiding them back down to your sides. You look at him, angry and frustrated.

“I believe you have something of mine, yes?”

You’re silent for a little while.

“I don’t”

You watch as Flins’ lips turn upward once more, he leans down and drags his gloved index finger up your neck and under your chin. He stares into your eyes for a long moment, and you don’t quite understand why – you see his expression falter a little, pain, hurt, but it returns just as quickly.

You’re distracted by his proximity, till you notice his fingers have left you to dip into the pocket of your coat.

“Being granted the luxury of lying doesn’t mean you should abuse that power, sweetheart.” Flins hums, showcasing one of his emerald colored gemstones he had just taken from your left coat pocket. You scoff and look away, remaining unphased, as if it hadn’t affected you one bit.

“I’m missing four. Where are the others?” he questions but you don’t reply.

You wonder why Flins isn’t utilizing his Glamour to the best of his abilities. He could easily have you sobbing and taking out each and every gemstone you had robbed just moments ago, and leave you to dance until your feet bled as punishment. But here he was, taking his sweet time, giving you enough space to feel your heart ache a little more for him.

“Tell me where they are and you’ll be free to leave whenever darling, I promise” Flins whispers as his fingers tap onto your jaw softly, snapping you out of whatever many thoughts that were running through your head.

“I don’t have anything of yours” you mutter, still unable to move a single step away from him. You drop your head down and let out a weak sound that sounded far too pathetic for your own liking.

Flins sighs and shakes his head, “I know it’s cruel to use you like this, but you’re so stubborn…”

“At least you’re layered properly this ti-” Flins halts himself when he tugs on your scarf, letting a disappointed breath out at the sight of your thin tshirt.

He can’t help but chuckle and shake his head, you never listened. He can’t keep track of how many times he’s scolded you for not dressing warmly enough when visiting him. The cold was dangerous for humans, after all, but you didn’t seem to care one bit for getting sick. It was always a concern for him in the duration of your relationship.

Flins would ask you to take your jacket off, but he ponders if it may look ill, as if he were flaunting his powers even more than he should. So instead, his fingers delicately inch away at your shoulders. You can see him biting onto his lip as he takes off your long coat, helping both of your arms out of the sleeves.

You’re met with the cold stillness washing over you as you watch Flins fold both your coat and scarf neatly, before placing them down on the table beside you both. When he’s back in front of you, his eyes aren’t scared of raking you up and down as you are.

Your cheeks grow warm when his eyes are settled on your thighs,

“You must be aware that your choice tight fitting pants are giving away the location, yes?”

Flins returns his gaze up to you, his head tilting to the side, a playful glint in his eyes. It’s clear he’s giving you some leeway to move your arms to get them out, but you don’t want to make it easy for him.

He was a ‘nobleman’ as he always called himself, it wasn’t proper to be touching someone who wasn’t his lover in such a way. But you knew better – Flins was just as shameless as any other man, he just hid it better.

“If you won’t take them out for me, I suppose, there’s no other choice” Flins states plainly, eyes, cautious on yours as he reaches towards you.

You were expecting him to go for the front pocket, where the most obvious indent was, but Flins had reached for your back pocket instead.

The jerk.

You hold your breath still as you feel his large palm slip into it, cusping at the curve of your hip. Your face presses against his chest and you’re engulfed into his natural scent – it drove you to insanity and back. If the Glamour magic wasn’t enough, this certainly did throw you over the edge.

If you weren’t so preoccupied with calming yourself down, you’d probably spot the smirk on his lips right before he slips out with the next gemstone.

You close your eyes when you feel his palm slide down to your front. It was so clearly just your left pocket, but Flins searched for the other, 'just in case’. You feel yourself shiver when his thumb brushes a little higher, inching towards your core that was already aching for some sort of relief.

This was painful, in every possibly way.

And he was enjoying it.

“There’s one more missing” Flins wears a small frown on his lips, he looks at you, contemplating for a moment before his eyebrows suddenly raise. When his gaze lowers to your chest, you know he’s already understood where you’ve hidden it – but this time, you see a small tint of pink dust his cheeks.

His eyes return to yours, his fingers brushing all your hair away from your shoulders – he did it so delicately, you felt yourself soften in his touch for the first time, “I’d greatly appreciate if you turn it in for me yourself, darling”

Since you’ve already been disarmed over and over by the man, your self-worth is at an all-time low. There’s no more hiding anymore – he’s got you cornered since you first arrived at his place.

Silently, you reach into your shirt and grasp the final gemstone you had hidden in your bra. Once you place it on his palm, he smiles warmly at the sight of it – it wasn’t an ordinary gemstone for him. This one was special; it was obvious with the way his shoulders sag with a certain relief at the sight of it.

You almost feel bad for taking it, almost.

“Thank you, dearest”

It was his favourite gemstone of all, you both knew it – the day he received it, he proudly held it towards you before placing it on your temple, marveling at how it matched the pretty shade of colour in your eyes.

“Can I leave now?”

“You tried to leave with something of mine since I took something of yours” he hums, “But even though I received my items, you did not. Are you satisfied leaving like that?”

“I don’t care anymore”

“I’m not holding you against your will, you should feel that by now” Flins speaks to you slowly, as if he himself is a little confused as to why you were still here. But he isn’t complaining one bit, he quite enjoys the sight of you, “I’d like it if you stayed a while. It’s been so long since I last saw you”

You look at Flins, contemplating, and that is enough for him to relax a little. He seats himself on the edge of his bed and looks up at you with a small smile – you hated how inviting he was, you hated how easily you gave in, even without his Glamour. He didn’t need it at all.

His fingers reach out to yours, tangling into them softly enough so that you're allowed to break free whenever you wish.

When he pats onto his thigh, as if on autopilot, you’re right where you were months ago. Though you’re a little stiff, it’s clear the distance has hinged you into some sort of discomfort towards him, it pains him, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ve missed you, dearly. Exactly as you are, stubborn and adorable, then and now” Flins says softly, you can feel his eyes on yours, ever loving. But you can’t meet them.

“My stubborn girl, you’ve grown so dim.” He hums, pulling you in closer to his embrace, “was I truly that cruel?”

You feel like jelly in his hold, your arms already around his neck as he pulls you close. You rest your head onto his shoulder, closing your eyes, breathing a little softer. You missed this, you missed everything about him.

Was this his plan? Stealing your charm and luring you in here. Touching you so delicately so you'd eventually give in?

“Even for this moment, you’re being far too kind to me. I expected you to have slapped me across the face and left by now” Flins mumbles into your neck and you can’t help but chuckle,

“I want to, but I’m too tired” you sigh, nuzzling into him,

“How can I restore your energy?”

You pull away with an inquisitive brow raised at him, “You want me to slap you?”

“Of course,” he muses, eyes shining in delight – he was being dead serious, “I deserve it. I vowed to myself that I would never use Glamour on a woman I truly adore, and I’ve broken it”

Flins finds your hands and brings them to his lips, kissing both of them before leaning into you. He pauses himself to look up at you, a silent form of asking if it was okay.

You smile and lean in instead, feeling his lips curve into a grin as you press into him. The silence is comforting now, and there’s nothing else on your mind but the taste of his lips and the sounds of his moans when he latches onto you, deeper. Flins craved you more and more, he was awfully deprived of your taste, of your touch, he couldn’t help but relish in finally having you in his arms.

His palms snake under your shirt, his warmth pressed against your skin, his fingers mange to wrangle even under the wire of your undergarments. You whine as his touch presses against your bare breast and onto your hardened nub, before pinching at it.

With a gasp, you push back and frown at him, only to hear a breathy chuckle against your neck, “you really kept my favourite gemstone in here”. You flush at the words and roll your eyes when he speaks again, his other hand is quick to inch off your shirt, “at least you kept it near your heart”

You help Flins out with his endeavor, pulling your top off and unhooking your bra, leaving Flins ogling at you like a man in search of water.

“On Celestia...” he groans, pulling you against him, his face buries into your chest. You feel the vibrations as he speaks into your skin, you don’t understand a thing, but you recognise he’s speaking in Fae. You don’t think you care about any of your arguments with him when you’re this hot and flustered, with his lips kissing at any inch of exposed skin and his large palms grasping at any flesh he can get a hold of.    

But, one thing is still on your mind. 

“Afterwards…” you speak so softly, it even surprises Flins to stop and look up at you, every bit of his attention is fixed on you, “can I have my charm back, please?”

Flins stills, and you feel a little awkward when his palms fall down to your thighs. You open your mouth to take it back, fearing you’ve ruined the moment, but a small smile curves at his lips.

“Oh? You’re still fixed on it, aren’t you?” he leans in to kiss your lips slow and steady before whispering his next words onto them, “It’s already with you, it has been since I took my second gem”

As you take in his words, you remind yourself of where his second gem was found – your back pocket. You reach for it and your lips part in shock when you feel the familiar fabric against the pads of your fingers.

All this time.

You understand now that Flins wouldn’t have sent you away without your charm – even if you chose to leave after you returned his gemstones, you would end up at your home with your charm with you. Your heart swells with a certain pain at his thoughtfulness. Even if he were the one to steal it from you in the first place, that is.

When he takes the charm from you once again, you feel yourself reaching for it unknowingly – as if you didn’t trust he’d give it back to you. Flins finds this intriguing, but he kisses you as a distraction instead.

You feel yourself emotional as he lays you back on the bed, his figure hovering above you only moments later.

He bites onto the tip of his glove and pulls it away in one swipe, before tending to the other,

“Why’s it so important to you, hm?” Flins mumbles, dipping down to suckle at the sensitive skin on your neck, “I don’t recall ever encountering any other Fae in Nod Krai… Do you wish to travel elsewhere, is that it?”

You shake your head, “That’s not it…”, and you watch as Flins pulls away to wrap the string of the charm around your wrist. He places the small bag into your palm, closing your fingers around it.

Though his speech remains poised, you can see his eyebrows knot upward when as he thinks to himself,

“It’s not… because you despise me, is it? I… I understand I used my Glamour on you just then; I pray it hasn’t spiked an anxiety that I may ever turn on you-”

“It’s the first thing you ever gifted me!”

You blurt it out too quickly at the expense of alleviating Flins’ rampant thoughts about your distrust in him. Flins freezes at that moment, and his eyes blink at you, quickly. He looks innocent for the first time, genuine, pure, innocence laced through his bulb-like orbs.  

“It’s special to me… and I have it with me when I miss you. I…”

When your eyes begin to water, Flins’ pupils grow exponentially. His breath quickens and he swears he’s seeing stars all at once without even being touched below the waist. A trail of soft Fae curses slips out from his lips as he closes his eyes to steady himself.

He didn’t think he’d ever hear a confession that enchanting from you. The most stubborn woman he has ever been faced with, laying her feelings out bare.

It was exhilarating.

He wanted to be buried deep inside if you, show his love tenfold, right that instant. But oh, how he regretted stealing it from you now, and every bit of merciless teasing he had employed when you came to his home.

It takes every bit of restraint for Flins to focus on his words, “I apologise” Flins says shakily, “I didn’t know it held that type of meaning, or that you still harbored affection for me”

You look away, but you’re turned to face him that instant with his sharp pull, “I feel awful. I’m sorry, my light. Please do forgive me” he says, desperate, breathless, “I was being childish”

“Please” he lets out a breath, “please yell at me. I deserve it, truly”

You don’t yell at Flins, but you do pull him into another kiss, though, you understand he won’t be satisfied till you do as he’s pleaded, “You can’t take back something that you gifted” you scowl when you pull away, he stares at you wide eyed, “it’s improper and rude”

With a gulp, Flins nods, “I know, sweetheart, I know”

“You’re horrible” you snap back, and you watch as Flins finally regains a little shine back in his eyes,

“I know, I’m sorry”

“And you used…” you gasp when you feel his firm hold on your waist trail down and under your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip, “Glamour when… when I didn’t even have my charm”

“I know” he breaths, “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise”

Though Flins’ plan to ultimately have you visit his home was a success, he’s riddled with a new form of guilt when he understands who truly is the most stubborn out of the two. Loud and bratty as you were, you were too precious and pure – he vows to himself he won’t make another mistake with you, ever again.  

A long night was ahead, and Flins would truly never forget the way you spoke those words, true and pure. He’d said he would gift you a thousand more charms, but you insisted only the one was needed.

Nothing could ever compare to its sentiment, after all.

The very first, the very last charm you ever needed from him.

You wouldn’t ever use it, of course – and you were sure he wouldn’t give you a reason to. Especially not after the whisper of apologies he's chanted onto every inch of your skin.

chuu's note: I'm sorry it's ass, I wrote it in like 2 sittings because I just needed to stop daydreaming abt this scenario and put it into words. Also fun fact, this mc was inspired by Sandrone and her interaction with Flins - I found it so cute, so naturally, I wanted to write abt it in some sort of way. I think I definitely will write more bratty reader w this man (like actually bratty, bc this time Flins out bratted mc, and then this fic became emotional cos why tf was he so mean to her oml anyway~) bc its just a cute combo. I believe Flins deserves a hot-tempered brat! boo me all you want! oki anyways byeee and ty for 1k again, ily ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა ♡

Wait on another note, I want to say that it is SO romantic for Flins to give his lover a protection charm for Fae magic when he himself is Fae. Like I would like to praise myself for cooking that idea up. Anyways, goodbye for realz!

© kurapikapikachuu | Please do not feed any of my work into AI. Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3 lots of love, chuu!

my ao3 & ko-fi !!!

[majunju]

reunion

[mayweholdhands]

August comics

[riotb0nes]

bleeding heart 💘

[majunju]

past and present

[scifur]

outfits 🔄

[suerakocy]

Breakfast

[majunju]

it’s xiaolumi szn baby