“love is the golden key that unlocks all souls."

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[kazueezuki]

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this is a wanderer themed blog <3

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[kominigiru]

THE WAY TO A MAN’S HEART

—is through his stomach.

⟢ features: ashveil x gn!reader, fluff, domestic fluff, food as love language, indirect kiss (it’s not important to the fic but i just thought to add it anyway LOL), not proofread

⟢ word count: 4,668

⟢ note: this is my contribution for this month ueueueue ,,,, i haven’t done the 4.1 quest yet btw so if things don’t align with the canon, then oopsies! but i’ve seen ashveil’s in game messages (specifically the one where mr. n told the trailblazer about ashveil’s eating habits!) a lot on x so this inspired me to create this fic. enjoy!!

⟢ also on: ao3

“Can I help you?”

Ashveil stares down at the person on the other side of the door like he’s trying to decide if they’re real or just another thing his brain coughed up out of boredom.

The office is quiet in the way it only ever gets when everyone else has scattered off somewhere. The Furbos are gone, Mister N is gone, even the usual background noise feels like it’s packed up and left him behind. So when someone knocked, it echoed up until even his own agency—loud, annoying, and intrusive.

And here you are.

The first thing he notes is that you don’t look like trouble. Not that “not looking like trouble” has ever stopped trouble before, but still—you’re just standing there, holding a bag that smells—he sniffs, subtle—good. Really good.

“I—um, sorry,” you start, already sounding like you think you’ve made a mistake. “I was looking for someone. Is Nihilux—”

“No,” Ashveil cuts in, leaning his weight against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere to be. Which—really—he doesn’t. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

You blink, as if you didn’t expect the answer to come that quickly or maybe at all.

“Oh,” you say, and then you start talking.

You ramble. The words spills out of you in uneven, apologetic waves—about Nihilux, about how she’d often forget to eat, how you’d bring her food because she’d get so caught up in her art that hours would pass and she wouldn’t notice, how you weren’t even sure if she’d still be here but you thought you’d check anyway because it’s been a while and—

Ashveil listens.

There’s something oddly nice about it. The way your words tumble over each other, the way you circle back and correct yourself, the way you keep glancing at him like you expect him to shut the door any second now.

He doesn’t. Instead, he hums once, low in his throat, just enough to let you know he’s still there.

“…and yeah,” you finish, a little breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just… talk so much. You probably don’t even care.”

“Didn’t say that,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

Flustered, you look down at the bag in your hands.

“Well, since she’s not here…” you say, holding it out toward him, hesitant but decided all the same, “you can have this. I mean—only if you want. It was for her, but it’d be a waste otherwise. And I already bothered you, so…”

Ashveil blinks. “For me?” he echoes, like he needs to hear it again to make sure he didn’t misinterpret anything.

You nod quickly. “As an apology for talking your ears off.”

He takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, thumb hooking into the plastic as he lifts it slightly. It’s warm and fresh. His stomach reacts immediately—traitorous thing.

You smile, small and relieved. “Okay. I’ll go now,” you say, stepping back. “Sorry again.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

He doesn’t go back to his office right away. Instead, Ashveil lingers by the door, fingers resting loosely against the handle as he stares at the empty hallway like it might shift and give you back if he waits long enough. He almost expects the sound of hurried footsteps returning, like you might realize you changed your mind and went to retrieve the food you gave him.

You don’t.

He exhales through his nose and shuts the door.

When he turns back into the agency, it’s dim, cluttered, and quietly decaying in ways that have long since stopped bothering him. Bottles crowd every available surface—some empty, some not, and none of them particularly organized. Pills sit scattered where they were last left, and papers cover the walls and desk in uneven layers, their contents faded into irrelevance even to him. The computer hums steadily in the background, and the freezer in the corner hangs slightly open, leaking cold air into the room like it’s waiting for attention he won’t give.

He ignores all of it.

Instead, he clears a small space on the desk with a sweep of his arm, sending a few sheets of paper sliding to the door, and sets the bag down. There’s nowhere to sit, so he leans his weight against the edge of the desk, glancing at it for a moment longer before opening it.

The smell hits him immediately and—

Oh.

That’s… yeah. It smells good.

He reaches in, not bothering to look for utensils, and takes a bite.

The effect is immediate: he stills, jaw going slack for a second before he actually chews, like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened.

It’s been a long time since food tasted like this—long enough that he’d stopped expecting it to. There’s no bitterness, no stale aftertaste, no underlying sense that he’s eating something just because it’s there. It’s warm, properly made, and unmistakably intentional in a way that most of what he consumes isn’t.

He swallows, then takes another bite.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Somewhere along the way, the pace picks up without him noticing. His hand moves before he thinks about it, reaching back into the bag again and again, like something in him is trying to make up for something it’s been missing. And by the time he realizes it, he’s already halfway through and still reaching for more.

The door opens behind him.

Ashveil doesn’t turn around right away. He just takes another bite, slower this time, as if the interruption doesn’t quite register as urgent. He hears soft and light footsteps padding closer, and only glances over his shoulder after he swallows.

“…Mr. Ashveil,” Mister N calls. The Slumbernana Monkey stands in the hallway, small and still, holding a thin plastic bag filled with fruits that aren’t clearly bananas. His gaze shifts from Ashveil, to the food, and back to him again. “Where did you get the food?”

The detective hums softly, leaning his hip more firmly against the desk as he tilts his head back slightly to swallow. “Someone dropped by.”

“Someone did?”

“Mhm.” He taps the edge of the container with his fingers. “They were looking for the former president of Furbobo Weekly. Said they were a friend of hers and that they usually bring her food. I told them she doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Did you get their name?” Mister N asks.

Ashveil glances down at the half-finished meal. He shrugs. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “They left right after handing this over.”

His assistant’s eyes linger on him for a moment, his expression unreadable yet attentive. “And your stomach?” he asks after a beat.

Ashveil lets out a soft scoff. “It’s fine,” he says. There’s a slight pause before he adds, more honestly this time, “Better than fine actually.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Ashveil says, glancing at Mister N with the faintest hint of dry amusement. “I haven’t died yet.”

A small silence settles between them.

After a moment, Ashveil lifts the container in a casual manner. “You want some?”

Mister N’s gaze lingers on the container, as if weighing the offer more seriously than expected. Then he gives a small, polite shake of his head.

“No,” he says. “You should finish it yourself.”

Ashveil studies him for a second, searching for any sign of hesitation or hidden interest, but finds none. Mister N simply steps further into the room and places the thin bag of fruit on top of the slightly open freezer.

“Suit yourself,” Ashveil mutters.

He shrugs it off easily and turns his attention back on the food. If anything, Mister N’s refusal seems to settle something in him—permission, maybe, to keep going without restraint.

So he does.

He digs in again. Bite after bite, steady and unthinking, until the world narrows down to taste and warmth and the simple act of eating. The room fades into the background—the clutter, the dim lighting, the hum of machinery—all of it blurring at the edges compared to what’s right in front of him.

Across the room, Mister N remains.

By the time the container is nearly empty, his pace finally begins to slow. He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looks down at what little remains.

He just stares at it briefly. Then, almost absently, he finishes the last bite. Ashveil rolls his shoulder, shifting his weight as he sets the empty container aside.

It’s not often that something lingers like this. Not just the taste—though that too—but the feeling of it. The care behind it. The fact that it hadn’t even been meant for him at all, and yet…

His gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the door.

You hadn’t stayed long. Had barely given him time to ask anything, really. No name, no details—just a bag of food and a hurried apology before disappearing down the hall like you were never there to begin with.

And still—

He wonders if he’ll get to see you again.

The thought comes easier than expected, settling somewhere in the back of his mind as he glances once more at the now-empty container and, briefly, to the side—at the bag of fruit resting untouched atop the freezer.

If he does…

Well—he’d have to say thank you. Properly, this time.

Since that day, Ashveil hasn’t seen you again. Not that he was looking—at least not in a way he’d willingly admit.

Days pass the same way they always do. Work comes and goes in irregular bursts, and the agency remains just as cluttered, just as dim, just as stagnant as ever. If anything changed, it’s subtle enough that he doesn’t bother naming it.

Still, every now and then, the memory resurfaces. A passing thought while he’s staring at nothing in particular. The faint recollection of warmth that doesn’t come from anything in the room. The taste of something that had no right being as good as it was.

It’s annoying, honestly, because it lingers.

It’s not enough to distract him—not enough to derail anything—but enough that, on occasion, he catches himself thinking that if did happen to run into you again, he’d say something. Just a quick acknowledgment, maybe. A simple thank you; tell you the food was good.

That’s all.

Which is probably why he wasn’t expecting for it to actually happen.

“Fresh air,” Mister N had said earlier. “It would be beneficial for your health.”

Ashveil had stared at him for a long while, unimpressed. Eventually, he left anyway.

Now he’s outside, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other rests loosely around the handle of his cane. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his stride unhurried, the cane more of an extension of habit than necessity as he walks with no real destination in mind.

The air feels different out here—less stale, less suffocating—but he wouldn’t go as far as to call it refreshing.

He follows the sidewalk without thinking too hard about it. People move around him in a steady flow—faces he doesn’t know, lives he doesn’t care about, all carrying on with a sense of purpose he doesn’t share.

And then, he slows.

And there you are.

Standing at the edge of the street, waiting for the stoplight to change. Grocery bags hang from both of your arms, the thin plastic stretched taut from the weight of whatever it is you bought. You shift slightly where you stand, attention fixed on the traffic passing by as you wait for your turn to cross.

Ashveil comes to stop a few steps behind you. For a moment, he just looks—like he’s confirming something.

You’re real. Not a trick of memory, not something his brain conjured out of boredom—you’re actually here, in the same space, close enough that if he wanted to, he could just walk up and—

…

He exhales softly through his nose. Right.

This is it then. The chance.

He straightens just a little, before finally closing the distance between you.

“Hello.” The word comes out casual, low, just enough to catch your attention without startling you. Your head turns at the sound of his voice.

Ashveil hadn’t really expected much—at most, a polite glance, maybe the brief confusion of someone trying to place a stranger. Instead, recognition settles in almost immediately, and he sees it happen. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your expression brightens like something just clicked into place—and then you’re looking at him properly.

It catches him off guard.

For a moment, he just stands there, his grip on the cane adjusting ever so slightly as the moment lands in a way he hadn’t prepared for. There’s a flicker of something in his chest—light and unexpected—and he can’t quite pin it down before it settles somewhere deeper.

Flattering, he realizes. Weirdly so.

He hadn’t thought he left much of an impression. Your interaction had been brief, barely anything worth remember on your end—or at least that’s what he assumed. People don’t usually hold onto things like that. And yet here you are, looking at him like you’re genuinely glad to have recognized him.

It does something to his stomach, an unfamiliar flutter that makes him shift.

He frowns faintly to himself, already dismissing it. Probably just hunger. It makes sense—you did give him food, after all. It’s only natural to associate you with that.

“Hello!” you greet him, voice warm despite the noise of the traffic. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

For the first time since he met you, Ashveil smiles. “Thank you for the food last time,” he says. “That was the first time in a while that I’ve had such good food.”

There’s a flicker of surprise across your face before it melts into something else, something almost shy, and then you laugh—light, a little flustered, like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment. “I’m glad you enjoyed my cooking!”

Ashveil watches the way you react, the way your grip shifts on the plastic bags hanging from your arms, and his gaze briefly drops to them. The thin handles dig int your fingers slightly where the weight pulls down, and you adjust them again without really thinking about it. He frowns just a little.

He lifts a hand, pointing at the bags. “Do you need help carrying those around?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “Oh, there’s no need! I can handle just fine!”

There’s no hesitation in your voice, no sign that you’re struggling in a way you’d admit, but Ashveil doesn’t look convinced.

“I insist,” he replies. “Here—let me.”

Before you can properly protest, he steps out and reaches out, sliding the bags off your arms in one smooth motion with his free hand—the other still occupied with his cane. The shift in weight is immediate, the pressure gone before you can brace against it.

“Wait—” you start, a little startled, your hands hovering awkwardly. “You don’t really have to. I mean— I don’t want to trouble you.”

Ashveil adjusts his grip on the bags, barely sparing them a glance as he settles them comfortably at his side.

“You’re not troubling me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If anything, you can think of this as payment for the food last time.”

“But you don’t need to anything to return the favor,” you insist, brows knitting slightly as you look at him. “I gave it to you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything back.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to do it.”

You open your mouth like you’re about to protest again, but the words don’t quite come out this time. “…okay,” you relent, reluctant. “If you’re really sure.”

“I am.”

The stoplight changes from green to red, the steady stream of cars slowing to a halt, and once the moment it’s safe, the crowd begins to move, carrying you and Ashveil along with it as you step off the curb and into the crosswalk.

For a while, the two of you walk quietly, your pace naturally adjusting to match his, but it doesn’t take long before the silence gives way to something easier.

Ashveil glances at you. “Your friend,” he starts, casual. “Did you find out where she might’ve moved?”

There’s a small shift in your expression—something brighter. “I did, actually,” you say. “She apparently forgot to tell me about it. I’ve started bringing her food again like before, so… she’s eating properly now.”

Ashveil hums. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you found her.”

You smile at that, and the conversation continues from there without much effort. He asks what you do, and when you tell him you’re a chef, he isn’t surprised.

“That explains a lot,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You laugh lightly. When you turn the question back on him, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m a detective,” he says.

“Oh.” You blink, clearly intrigued. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

The details that follow are sparse, but it’s enough to keep the conversation going—small exchanges, bits of curiosity traded back and forth. By the time you reach your apartment building, it almost feels the walk passed quicker than it should have.

You lead him upstairs, the familiar surroundings closing in as your unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him as he follows you in. The space is modest but lived-in.

“Just set them down in the kitchen counter, please,” you say.

Ashveil nods once and does exactly that, placing the bags down with care.

For a second, he just stands there. Then, as if remembering himself, he shifts his weight back, hand adjusting around the handle of his cane.

“I’ll take my leave now,” he starts, already turning slightly toward the door. “Thanks for—”

“Wait!”

He pauses, turning around.

You hesitate only briefly before continuing, fingers fidgeting together for a moment as you glance at him. “Would you… like to stay for lunch?”

Ashveil smiles. “You’re very kind,” he says. “But are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Oh, no, not at all!” you insist, words tumbling out before you can slow them down. “I really don’t mind, I promise! I actually like cooking for other people more than just for myself, and it’s not like I had anything else planned anyway, and you did help me carry all of those groceries—which you really didn’t have to, by the way—and you said you liked my food last time, so— so it’s kind of like I’m just, um, returning the favor? I think?”

He considers your words quietly, gaze lingering in a way that suggests he’s weighing more than just the offer itself.

“Alright,” he says, and your face brightens almost instantly, the shift in your expression so quick and genuine that it’s hard to miss.

“Really? Okay— great!” you say, already turning toward the kitchen with renewed energy. “You can just make yourself at home! I’ll, um— I’ll start on the food.”

Ashveil nods. He doesn’t wander far. Instead of taking a seat somewhere in the living room, he steps over the kitchen island and settles there, positioning himself just off to the side where he won’t be in your way.

From there, he watches.

You move about your kitchen, pulling ingredients from bags and cabinets and the refrigerator, setting things down with a familiarity that suggests you’ve done this a thousand times over.

You’re meticulous, he thinks. Your hands move with certainty as you wash, peel, and cut—your knife gliding through ingredients with practiced ease as if it already knows where it’s meant to go before it gets there. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is wasted either.

And you look comfortable—like this space was made specifically for you or maybe the other way around.

Ashveil admires it. The passion, the ease, the care you put into something as simple—but also not simple at all—as making a meal. It’s different from anything he’s used to, and he finds himself drawn to it in a way that doesn’t feel forced.

At one point, you lift a wooden spatula from the pan, bringing it up to your lips to taste. Your shifts almost immediately after—your eyes light up and a pleased smile forms like you’ve just confirmed something you were hoping for.

Ashveil watches that too.

And he assumes that’s all it is—that you’ll go back to cooking, or maybe take another taste for good measure. So when you repeat the motion, lifting the spatula again, he thinks nothing of it. At least not until you turn and extend it toward him.

He blinks, momentarily caught off guard, his gaze shifting from the spatula to your face, where you’re looking at him expectantly.

“…you want me to have a taste?” he asks, almost dumbly. You nod.

There’s a brief pause before he leans forward slightly, accepting the offer without further question.

The moment it hits his tongue, everything else falls away.

The flavor is immediate and overwhelming in the best possible way, rich and layered and warm in a way that feels almost surreal—like his senses weren’t prepared for something like this and are now scrambling to catch up.

It’s not just good. It’s— it’s—

Ashveil stills.

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even fully process that fact that he’s already swallowed, because his mind is too busy trying to reconcile how something so simple can taste like this.

If there’s such a thing as paradise—he thinks distantly—then this must be it. Because wow.

“What do you think?” you ask, eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you like it?”

Like it? The thought echoes in his mind, almost incredulous. Like isn’t even enough of a word—not even close, not something that could possibly hold the weight of what he just tasted—because it feels like trying to contain something vast inside something far too small.

He loves it.

It’s almost absurd, really—how something can taste this good, how you’ve managed to take what he already thought was the best meal he’d had in years and somehow surpass it. The first time he tasted your cooking, it had already felt like a rare exception, a one-time thing he wasn’t expecting to experience again. And yet here you are, proving him wrong in the span of a single taste.

“I do,” he finally says, though even that feels like an understatement. There’s a brief pause before he exhales softly, something almost like disbelief slipping through.

“It’s…” he starts, then stops, brows furrowing slightly as if he’s searching for the right word and finding none that quite fit. “…better than the last one.”

Which, considering everything, says more than it should.

“Is that even possible…?” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You fluster almost immediately under the weight of his attention, the way his gaze lingers making you take a small step back, a shy laugh slipping past your lips.

“I’m so happy you like this one as well!” you say, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but unmistakably pleased. “I can’t wait to finish cooking so you enjoy it in its full glory!”

Before Ashveil can respond, you’ve already turned back to the stove, slipping right back into your rhythm like nothing happened—like his reaction didn’t settle somewhere warm and lasting beneath your ribs.

His gaze drifts briefly to the pan, then back at you.

Me too, he muses.

He can’t wait to eat.

Ashveil doesn’t realize how much he’s eaten until there’s barely anything left.

The plate in front of him is nearly empty, reduced to scattered remnants that wouldn’t even qualify as a proper serving anymore. He leans back slightly, gaze lingering on what’s left.

…Right. He could finish it. Easily.

The thought comes without hesitation because there’s no doubt about it—if he wanted to, he could clear the plate in seconds. There’s no fullness weighing him down in any way, no real resistance from his body that would stop him. If anything, there’s still that lingering pull, that subtle urge to keep going, to chase the taste just a little longer. But—

His eyes flick up briefly, landing on you. You’re still eating, slower than he had been. He looks back at his plate.

He’s already had three servings. That’s… more than enough. Without much ceremony, he sets his utensil down and nudges the plate just a fraction away from himself. That’s where it ends.

He knows he wants more. He also knows he doesn’t need it. And—more importantly—he doesn’t want to look greedy.

The thought is faintly amusing, enough that the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. It’s not something he usually concerns himself with—appearances, impressions, any of that—but here, now, sitting across from you with the aftertaste of something genuinely good still lingering on his tongue… It matters. A little.

Besides, you should eat too.

Eventually, the plates are cleared, the conversation—whatever remains of it—settles into something softer until it naturally reaches its end. Ashveil rises not long after, adjusting his grip on his cane as he prepares to leave.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says, voice low but genuine. “It was very good.”

That feels insufficient. It is insufficient. But for now, it’ll have to do.

He turns toward the door, already expecting that to be the end of it—the natural conclusion to something that, realistically, shouldn’t have extended this far to begin with.

“Wait—”

He pauses mid-step. There’s a brief beat before he turns back, brows lifting ever so slightly in quiet question.

You hesitate, just for a second, before speaking. “Do you want to take some food home?”

Ashveil blinks. “…home?” he echoes, like the concept needs a moment to settle.

You nod, already moving toward the kitchen. “There’s still plenty left,” you explain, voice a little quicker now, like you’re trying to justify it before he can refuse. “And you said you liked it, so I figured—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

You pause, glancing back at him.

“I’ve already had more than enough,” he continues. “Three servings is—” he huffs lightly, almost amused under his breath, “—generous, to say the least.”

“That’s fine,” you insist. “I made a lot on purpose.”

There’s no hesitation in your expression, no polite obligation dressed up as generosity—just something straightforward and sincere, offered without expectation. It makes refusing feel unnecessarily difficult

“…still,” he starts, though there’s less conviction behind it now, “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.”

You’ve already started packing the food before he can argue further, moving with that same easy decisiveness he’d noticed earlier, like this outcome had been decided the moment the thought crossed your mind.

“…alright,” he relents.

By the time you return, handing him the neatly packed container, he takes it without further protest, his fingers brushing briefly against yours in the exchange.

“…thank you,” he says.

You walk him to the door after that.

He adjusts the container in his hand, already calculating how long it’ll last, how best to portion it, how Mister N will probably—

“You can come back whenever, you know.”

Ashveil pauses.

“I don’t mind cooking for you.”

He stills, before turning his head slightly, just enough to look at you.

You don’t seem to think much of it. To you, it’s probably just a polite offer—something said out of kindness, out of habit, out of the same easy generosity that led you to hand him food in the first place. But to him, it doesn’t land lightly.

Come back whenever.

Ashveil’s grip tightens around the container in his hand. He could brush it off. Treat it like nothing. Let it pass the same way most things do. That would be the easier option.

Except—

“…I’ll take you up on that offer.”

© 2026 kominigiru.

end note: ashveil when he tasted mc’s cooking for the first time:

was aiming for this to be much longer but i kind of ??? lost my motivation writing halfway so ummmm yeah. sorry about that (?) !!!! my brain is on thesis mode and not fanfic writing mode rn unfortch 😔💔

[gokurakawaii]

Follo and reader who both secretly freak4freak but both of them are afraid that they will scare the other way........

NO BECAUSE LETS DISCUSS THIS RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOWWWWWW

IMAGINE THE TWO OF YOU HAVE COMPLEMENTARY FANTASIES AND JUST. REFUSE TO TALK ABOUT IT BECAUSE YOU BOTH VIEW EACH OTHER SO HIGHLY AND AND AND. OK LEMME YAP HEART EYES LESS THAN THREE

cw 18+ nsfw, mdni, established relationship, descriptions of sexual fantasies (dom/sub undertones, dacryphilia, choking), masturbation (f), spoilers for first job arc in gachiakuta manga

follo is super into you. like, this guy reaaaaaaaaally likes you, finds you incredibly funny, thinks you’re the smartest person he’s ever met— insert every superlative ever because they all just make sense when it comes to you. however, he’s just got one teeny, tiny problem with your relationship, has a non-issue that he keeps to himself because, well.

how is he supposed to tell you that he wants to fuck the shit out of you?

truth be told, follo knows that he’s probably in the wrong here. he feels incrediblyyyyy guilty about his inner thoughts, always has to splash some cold water on his face whenever it’s late at night and his sweats are starting to get a little tighter than usual because holy fuck. what is he thinking?!!?!!!! you, the sweetest person alive, someone who is pretty much the whole package and then some... how dare he think about you like that????? for crying out loud, he literally fell for you because he saw you going out of your way to help riyo learn basic life skills!!!! like laundry!!! and having friends!!! and cooking too!!!!! you’re!!! a!!! saint!!!! so why can’t he just stop thinking about your face pressed into his pillow, your walls fluttering around him as he drives into you for hours on end while you claw at his sheets???? follo thinks he might be going insane, knows he’s going to suffer a fate worse than death because of his mind. after all, he’s the same man who hates whenever people look down on him, so… why does he want to see you on your knees so badly— and while sobbing at that??!!?!! fuck this and fuck you too… against the kitchen counter, in the shower, while your chokers are on, and sonnnn of a trash beast. he’s doing it again.

things somehow manage to go even more downhill from there.

as it turns out, there’s another rock bottom waiting for him right below this one… because the more time that you spend with him, the more creative his mind starts to get. that mirror he helped you set up in your bedroom? yeah, he’s thought long and hard about defiling you against it, spent days randomly slapping himself during missions because, shit. you’re a gentle person, someone who always makes sure that he gets his goodbye kiss before leaving hq— why does he need to see red hand prints against your ass, feel a burning desire to kiss your tears away while he grabs your jaw and forces you to look at him???????? follo feels fucked up. he has to be after letting his thoughts run this wild, no…? all of this is insane, and it can’t be normal in the slightest. besides, he knows that he has an inferiority complex, understands that his anger is something that he needs to keep under control. he's gotta run a tight ship around here if he wants to stay sane!!!!!! plus, follo does not under any circumstance want to subject you to any kind of cruelty, feels like it'll scare you away for good if he actually verbalises his inner thoughts. absolutely not. he will not risk losing you. if he wants you in his life, then it’s probably best that he keeps these horrifying daydreams faaaaaar away from you, locks up all of his biggest fantasies and throws away the key before it’s too late.

as it turns out, you’re also fighting the same demons.

when tomme told you that your boyfriend lost his shit at rudo earlier that day, you couldn't believe it. follo???? the guy who literally refuses to let you tie your own shoes, a man who does not want you to lift a single finger whenever he's around... that follo????????? sure, he gets a little cranky once in a while, and yeah, you do hear an occasional snarky comment being whispered under his breath from time to time, but come on. be serious now. who doesn't get mad here and there??? whatever she's saying cannot be true, and it certainly isn't something that would happen within your universe. however, unbeknownst to you, your world was about to be flipped entirely upside down. because things completely changed when you went to go visit him at the clinic, and you swear that time froze for a minute, probably even two.

you're in hell right now. you have to be.

was follo always... this... attractive...? like, holy shit. what the fuck is even going on right now??? you're biting your lip, and... oh god. stop biting your lip like that. but... how can you??? especially while he looks like that??? he's got a huge scar on the side of his head now, dried blood underneath his nails, and... shit. why is your heart racing so fast??? is it hot in here????? or did eisha just randomly decide to turn up the temperature in the infirmary today?? surely its the latter because this cannot be a new realisation that you're having about yourself. otherwise, that would completely ruin your life.

it doesn't hurt to test your theory though... right?

after four days of purposefully trying to get on follo's nerves, he finally snaps at you. gently grabbing your wrist, he firmly looks into your eyes, entirely annoyed as his voice dips to a new low while he gets close to your face.

"you're really pissing me off today. are you doing this on purpose?"

heat begins to travel south, the tension making your chest tighten with want as you swallow.

yeah... you're fucked.

and the unfortunate part is that you wish it was by a super angry version of follo.

the following night is brutal, and it's definitely your fault that things turned out like this. because who in their right mind wants to be destroyed by their boyfriend??!?!?!!! who thinks about being used as a hole, imagines themselves being on the receiving end of such cruel indifference??!! well, the answer is simple: you do. and you do it while pressing your hand tightly against your throat, chasing after a high you're sure will have a horrible comedown.

and would you look at that? looks like you guessed correctly. because now it's the next day at breakfast and follo looks completely mortified at the light bruising happening at the base of your neck, appears to be scared of the physical proof that you're a closeted freak.

you don't tell him the truth though. why would you? instead, you make up a lie about being allergic to anything that isn't sterling silver, talk about this necklace amo gifted you when you woke up... you're so full of shit. but for some reason, follo accepts your story, is entirely sympathetic to your experience, and slides some extra food onto your plate so that you can "heal faster". his words, your funeral. he also talks about taking a day off this weekend with you, mentions this spa he's heard of that will help your body relax after going through this surprise allergy attack... of course he does. follo thinks about these things because he's just the best person ever, and the best person ever is obviously not going to degrade the shit out of you, clearly isn't going to have you begging for mercy in such a crude manner. you even feel bad at this point because, well… that fight with rudo was just a one time thing!!!!! now, it's not just about being ashamed, you also just can’t help but think you’re a horrible person for holding onto this image of him. you need your vivid imagination to go away, like... yesterday... two days ago, actually. shit. you cannot be the reason this good thing becomes ruined, really do not want to let go of such a considerate, hard working man. you gotta wrap this up, and fast. it's for the best.

siiiiiiigh. someone please save these two </3

masterlist

do not copy my work, repost it onto other sites without my permission, or use it to train ai.

[gokurakawaii]

simple pleasures are hard to get

pairing female cleaner!reader x follo tunito

description you and follo have been trying to have some alone time together for months, but something seems to go wrong whenever you’re both in the mood. after countless embarrassing close calls and interruptions, he decides to take matters into his own hands, and the two of you take a small trip to his hometown in order to privately visit his family’s cabin.

content warnings smut. mdni. contains explicit content (first time, giving oral, female receiving, unprotected p in v). brief mention of injury. established relationship. anime only friendly. word count: 3,2k.

author’s note this is my first time writing anything like this, so you have no idea how happy i was when my best friend read over everything and said he was definitely feeling it. i had so much fun, and follo just… ugh!!! he has my heart!!! what can i say!!!!! i love him so much. enjoy.

credits manga panels created by kei urana.

“hah… okay, wait… stop. i think we should stop. i feel like somebody is gonna hear us.”

“really? it’s already late. nobody is going to—“

“follo? you in there?”

3 slow knocks are all it takes. the first one has your eyes widening. the second leaves your hand plastered over your mouth. the third? well, even follo knows what that one means.

“i’m coming in.”

you two are entirely done for.

scrambling legs, a blanket as a shirt, and the infamous hiding spot known as follo’s bathroom. the interruption means very little to you at this point. in fact, this particular night doesn’t even begin to hold a light to any of the unfortunate events that have been following you around for the past couple of months, stress and alarm playing a recurring role in your pursuit for relief.

you wonder why it has to be like this.

every single time you and follo have tried to do anything even remotely suggestive together, something has gone terribly wrong… and while you like to play your cards right by waiting until you two are actually alone (or free from responsibility), only one fact remains: the house always wins. however, you couldn’t help but wonder: why can’t you just have a single successful evening together? it’s not like you were ever expecting to get a royal flush, but holy trash beast— did fate always have to have the upper hand? well, no point in asking useless questions. the answer is clear.

maybe you and follo are just cursed.

the choker incident had to have been an accident. at least, you’re trying to be optimistic about it… but as much as follo adores you, he can’t help but write off your hopefulness as delusion. after all, the sound of rudo responding to the man’s moans was enough to scar anyone for life.

“hello?”

unfortunately, you remember the moment like it was just yesterday.

follo’s hands immediately jerked back in shock, your body hastily shoving him off as your heart rate skyrocketed. he immediately straightened out his shorts, blinking in a panic as he rapidly looked around the room.

“is everything okay?! who is this?!!”

your eyes went down to his neck as everything finally clicked into place. of course.

it was on the whole time.

needless to say, you had never felt more humiliated in your life… and that was not an understatement, either. it had to be one of the most embarrassing moments you had ever experienced, and the worst part is that the rest of the contenders on the list were all equally as compromising, too. once, you fell off of the bed while taking off your shirt and had a nosebleed so intense that you passed out from all of the blood loss. follo had to carry you all the way to the infirmary, and eisha was kind enough to let him save the details for another time. similarly, your boyfriend was also called to go out on a mission in the middle of him pressing his lips against your spine, and last week? well, that one was just straight up traumatising. you dont even want to think about that one.

follo, on the other hand, appears to still be full of life. only people who are alive can experience rage, after all.

he’s not mad at you, of course. the gentle wind-downs you two have after each disturbance are enough proof of his never-ending commitment to what you both have finally managed to build together. plus, technically speaking, this was a year in the making, so… you’re obviously long past taking external circumstances out on one another. it also makes sense considering that there’s a strong foundation set in stone, one that you two check up on regularly. intense miscommunications, tumultuous blunders… lots of obstacles have always previously stopped any kind of confession from actually taking place, but it was all worth it in the end.

kind of.

there’s still one issue that follo hates even considering an issue since it always leaves him feeling so incredibly guilty. maybe he’s just thinking with his other head right now. regardless, the damage is done. all he knows is that he’s already shamelessly put two pairs of extended leave papers onto corvus’s desk, and maybe, just maybe… that’s all that really matters.

he’s decided that it’s time to just take matters into his own hands. you two are going up to the north ward in order to visit follo’s home town.

“here.”

follo carries your luggage into the overhead compartment, a small grunt filling the air as he raises his arms. you smile at the gesture and warm at the veins making a guest appearance on his hands.

“mmm… my knight in shining armor.”

“hmmm… i hesitate to call you my princess in distress.”

“yeah… good call. it’s a little corny.”

as it turns out, follo’s family has a winter cabin. it didn’t take much for him to triumphantly negotiate an evening away from his parents, but you tell him that it’s good to spend as much time with his mom and dad while he can.

“i know… but—“

“shhh.”

you know what he’s thinking. so does your finger, which is now pressed against his lips.

“don’t jinx it.”

needless to say, you’re still a little nervous.

however, the journey is serene for the most part. quiet giggles, short anecdotes from the past… while it’s obvious that follo also just wants a tiny break from all the stresses that come with being a cleaner, your heart can’t help but ache at the closeness that comes with seeing this side of him. you’ve never seen him so relaxed, and you wonder if maybe everything’s going to be okay this time around as he drags your suitcase to his father’s car.

you might’ve spoken too soon.

follo has an incredibly kind soul. you know this is an objective truth in life. he’s driven, incredibly thoughtful and surprisingly, also very observant. however, the moment you two left his childhood home, you couldn’t help but let the dam break. it just felt wrong to just keep everything bottled up.

“follo, just so you know… that was actually super rude.”

you can’t help it. with comfortability comes instinct. rolling your eyes, you close the front door after entering the cottage, brushing off the remaining bits of the snow from your coat. he kisses his teeth as he looks back at you, eager to get this conversation over with. crossed arms greet you as he places your belongings next to the couch.

“huh? we agreed to stay two nights there, and one here.”

“yeah, but…”

you’re quick to retaliate as the room gets more charged.

“you didn’t need to be in such a rush. they’re your parents after all.”

“yeah,” he groans, fingers pressing into his temple as he continues.

“they are my parents.”

the delivery stung a little bit more than it should’ve given the circumstances.

“really? that’s all you have to say?”

“am i wrong? we talked about this already. i was just trying to make sure that we’d get here before the sun sets.”

“that doesn’t change the fact that maybe you should’ve been a little bit nicer to your family. you don’t get to see them often, you kn—“

“can you stop?”

you pause.

“fine.”

two strides are all it takes for you to grab your bag with force as you less than silently sneer at him.

“i’ll be in the room.”

follo groans. talk about getting in the mood.

after an hour or so, you realise that maybe you were being a little— okay. it was actually quite inconsiderate.

at the end of the day, follo is a normal human being, one that you love more than anyone else in the world. he’s always gone above and beyond for those around him, and he’s also incredibly dependable. that’s the thing, though: even people have their limits. plus, there’s always a chance that he did have a point. maybe the two of you didn’t have to hear his mom’s hour long talk on how continental knitting was superior to english, or have such an extended back and forth on how dangerous your job was. however, before you can think on these moments for too long, you hear a gentle sound echo against the door.

“hey,” follo quietly starts, clearing his throat from behind the wood. you sit up as you look at the entranceway, residual bits of shame still gnawing at your insides.

“yeah?”

“do you… wanna talk?”

you swallow before getting up to let him in.

it’s a lengthy one.

everything is laid out on the table after only a short while. follo understands that you felt attacked in that moment, and he apologises for the pain that he dished out. he knows that family is a touchy subject for everyone, and he didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t a part of his. additionally, you’re quick to show off just how agile you are, getting your foot in the door by slipping him endless apologies for overstepping. he ends up shyly looking away when you get into explaining yourself, and you furrow your brows at the sudden switch up.

“is… something wrong?”

“no! no, it’s just… i’m sorry.”

crimson begins to lightly dust over the bridge of his nose, and you push some of his loose hair strands out of the way. he picks up on the hint. the gesture serves as encouragement for him to continue.

“i was really looking forward to finally being alone with you, and…”

he grunts as his head hangs low, clearly ashamed of whatever is currently brewing in his mind.

“now i don’t think we can… you know…”

his cheeks flush as he stubbornly covers his face with one hand, the other resting in his lap as he sits cross-legged across from you.

“i’m sorry. it doesn’t matter. i don’t even know why i’m thinking about that. i didn’t mean to be so—“

“why not?”

he stills.

obviously, he was not expecting that.

raised brows meet your lost expression, and follo’s breath almost hitches when your finger tips inch closer towards his knee.

“we still have the rest of the night, you know.”

nothing could’ve prepared follo for what came next— nothing in this life or the next. he’s sure of it.

your lips have always been soft. he’s very well aware of just how silky the skin is whenever it’s against his, very hyper vigilant about how much he loves the feeling of them against his neck… or his jaw… really just anywhere for that matter. he’s not one to complain. because as long as you’re in his arms, everything feels like it’s in its right place. however, as you slowly begin to straddle him, clearly antsy from the way your hands are carding through his black locks, he swears that they’ve never been more plush. his hips slightly raise, and yours meet them as you lightly moan into his mouth. follo begins to feel warmth from the friction, his hands sliding over to your waist as you move against one another. you two are quick to exchange heated breaths, a practiced ease soon following suit as you pick up a rhythm that leaves you wanting, no, needing more. feeling him nudge against you through the fabric of your pants already has you in a frenzy. he can tell that you don’t want to wait any longer. follo also nods when you pull back and give him that look.

as you direct him to sit on the edge of the bed, nervousness starts to flow throughout your body. you shakily exhale as you begin to timidly sink down to your knees because, well… at the end of the day, you’re new to this too. however, your heart suddenly lurches as you look up, your apprehension abruptly coming to a halt as you take in the view. after all, there’s no way anyone would struggle to take action after seeing something like this. no way at all.

the sight is unholy.

follo’s hands are gripping the sheets beneath him in anticipation, fingers unsteadily curling up against the cotton fabric, and your heart flutters at the implication. it’s obvious you have no other choice. not when he’s timidly biting his lips like that, and certainly not while he’s looking at you like he’s afraid to hurt you. all you want to do is show him that it’s okay, prove that it’s alright, so you gently move down, taking it slow as you nod. his eyes tell you that he wants this, and that’s all you need. he’s all that you need.

he leans back as you slip off his clothes, and you’re quick to accompany him as your sweater joins the pile on the floor. he swallows. this isn’t the first time he’s seen you like this, but this is the first time he actually gets to enjoy it. it’s clear the feeling is mutual as you trace your fingers along his thighs, all of your attention entirely focused on the subtle shivers and shaky exhales as your chest aches for more.

you finally wrap your lips around him. the moment you pause to thumb at his slit, he groans. you kiss it, and he melts. your tongue instinctively swirls around to play with the sensitive parts of his tip, and electric currents pass through your core as you hear him start to get vocal.

“oh, fuck… just like that.”

he twitches as your throat becomes more well-acquainted with the rest of him, follo remaining incredibly responsive as he struggles to hold on for dear life. he knows he won’t last very long like this, his knuckles turning white from the sight of your hollowed cheeks and flushed skin. tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you continue, but he gently cups the back of your head as his lids flutter, delicate praises filling the room as you continue to suck and attend to his growing need for ascension.

he stops you before he falls off the edge.

he wants to return the favor first.

the same trepidation is present all throughout follo’s face, but you reassure him that you’ll figure it out together.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

“it’s okay.”

turns out, it’s more than okay. it’s rapturous.

as he lays you down, your pussy helplessly clenches around nothing while his fingers bracket your swollen clit, his mouth cautiously testing the waters with gentle tongue swipes and swirls. a flat press here, a circular lick there… you’re seeing stars. he eventually gains some sense of self assurance and spreads your legs as far as they’ll go, continuing to taste and devour as you become completely consumed with desire. you push him away. you pull him in. it’s too much and too little all at the same time, thighs randomly attempting to squeeze around his head as you fully give in. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him in place, and his mouth carries on with a mind of its own. your sounds leave him harder than he’s ever been before, cock twitching and leaking as he struggles not to wrap a hand around his length and give himself some much needed relief. that much, he can do. he wants to stay strong for the sake of you. however, when you actually are able to say something coherent, your stuttered protests force him to pause his ministrations. he looks up after a moment, lips glossy with your need as you speak.

“in me… please. i want you in me.”

follo could die on the spot. in fact, he almost does.

the first time you swallow him whole, his entire body floods with ecstasy. he moans loudly in bliss, the sensation also leaving you arching off of the bed as you silently urge him to keep going. ‘more’, your body tells him. ‘i want to feel all of you’, it begs. he’s quick to pick up the pace even as he feels your fingers press desperately into his biceps, his thrusts deepening in order to fully engulf himself in your warmth. heat curls in your belly as the two of you orchestrate a symphony like no other and truly, it’s sinful. it’s divine. follo doesn’t know what he did to deserve this kind of salvation, but he’s not about to start questioning things now. not when your face is entirely fucked out, and your mutters all have to do with how good he feels inside of you, about how you never want him to leave. the sheets are quick to get soaked, but he soon finds out that it’s not just the comforter that’s drenched. as he continues to drive into you, your thighs begin to get slick as he hits that one spot over… and over… and over again. who knew this could feel so good? follo for one did not think that he would feel this lost. however, his heart jerks in his chest as you suddenly catch him off guard, wrapping your legs around him as your fingers become one with his hair. a soft tug makes his eyes immediately meet yours.

“follo… i’m gonna cum.”

oh, yeah. he’s a goner. big time.

for the remainder of the night, whether you’re on all fours or laying on your back, follo realises that he could never get tired of this. how could he? is this seriously what he’s been missing out on this whole time?! he doesn’t even have the mental capacity right now to curse anyone for interrupting the two of you but if he did, he knows that his frustration would be enough to imprecate generations. however, all of that is quick to go out the window, your cunt effortlessly sliding against his cock even when he slows his thrusts in order to breathe.

“fuck, follo… please, don’t stop. i need you, please…”

it’s a miracle he doesn’t blow his load right then and there.

however, what he may lack in duration, he easily makes up for in dedication. his dick easily springs back to life after a few minutes of you two catching your breath and kissing each other senseless, and there’s no doubt that you’re going to be satiated no matter how long it takes. his stamina also seems to be endless from all those years of commitment to becoming a giver, and he’s happy to know that there is a direct consequence for wanting to be better: improvement. one thing about follo is that he seems to be a slow learner, but a learner nonetheless. you realise this as you eventually start to stutter in between pants, and you know it’s a fact when your nails relentlessly dig crescents and harsh lines into his back. you’re definitely going to be sore tomorrow, but you pay the future no mind. there’s no going back after this.

you actually hope that there’s not a single u-turn in sight.

you’re also no longer chasing a high past a certain point. he’s simply bringing you there… and with ease too. in fact, it’s cruel at times, the confidence that follo begins to have as he purposefully ignores your inaudible cries for more. there’s something about the way his fingers slide past your drenched folds and ignore your pulsing bud, something downright blasphemous about the the way he wordlessly asks if it feels good each time your mouth gapes wide open. however, he always crumbles when you silently nod, burying himself to the hilt before you can even try to get another word in. he can’t get enough of your dripping cunt, sucking in breaths like the last bits of his sanity are melting away each time he drags his length into you and rests his forehead against yours.

follo doesn’t know what he ever did to end up in heaven, but he knows that he never wants to leave.

it’s also just hard to go back home after that.

the good news is that the two of you are joined by the hip the entire train ride home, but the downside to all of this is that he’s not sure he can keep his hands to himself once you’re back at headquarters. there’s an endless exchange of lulled touches and calming words, the affection never ending as you intertwine fingers and press soothing kisses onto each others curves and planes. the backs of hands, the sides of jaws… no space remains untouched as you both continue to express unyielding devotion to each other regardless of who’s potentially watching. follo is surprised that he’s become this kind of guy, but only partly. this has been a long time coming, and he’s willing to admit that he won’t settle for anything less anymore.

even the drive back has you two entirely unabashed.

enjin for one looks entirely unamused as he raises an eyebrow at you both through the rearview mirror.

“well, you two are glowing.”

gris chuckles from the passenger seat, grinning as he takes note of the tenderness happening right before his very eyes. your thumb is currently tracing over follo’s, and his hand rests firmly on top of your thigh, gently pacifying any worries you may have about what lies ahead.

“yeah,” follo then meekly offers up to his mentor, grinning as he meets your eyes.

“it was just a really good trip.”

needless to say, you can’t wait for the next one… which is surely going to be tonight.

how else will you make it to his room?

masterlist

do not copy my work, repost it onto other sites without my permission, or use it to train ai.

[ladyelena112]

✦ Honkai: Star Rail Fic Recs ✦

ᯓ★ Phainon

➤ you always die before i can say it by @sillyquzes - 9.1k

cw- Alternate universe!!, hurt/comfort, arranged marriage, some spoilers, tension and angst (?), unprotected sex, manhandling, fingering, cunnilungus, missionary, tummy bulge, aftercare and not proof-read

➤ —my lady, why have you forgotten me? by @lowkeyren - 11k

in which : under the care of an endearing knight who seems far more than he lets on, you can't help but notice his gaze often lingers on you as if forgetting him was the cruelest thing you could’ve done.

➤ FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT by @kominigiru - 9.4k

You’ve been invited to your cousin’s destination wedding. Fortunately, the flight and accommodations are already taken care of. Unfortunately, showing up without a date isn’t an option. Asking your best friend, Phainon, to be your plus one seems like the perfect solution—that is, until your family assumes he’s your boyfriend.

➤ the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) by @meowdei - 10.3k

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

➤ To Love The Burning Sun by @salmonmakiii - 21.8k

Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.

➤ Midnight Frequencies by @notesfromthemirror - 7k

Synopsis: AM 3355: The Midnight Frequency. A radio show for insomniacs and lonely hearts. Phainon, the host with a voice like comfort. And you, the caller he can’t stop thinking about. Some connections don’t need faces. Just frequencies that align around midnight.

divider by @enchanthings

[azullumi]

"to your never, to my nothings" ; phainon

premise— he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.  content tags & warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary

"jellyfish" — i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died

Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.

The three children who bear different smiles were the first to notice—subtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talking—or gossiping—it among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.

He can’t say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.

Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fast—like wildfire carried by the idle breeze—reaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?

And of course; “Lord Phainon, your ears are red.” The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldn’t see the red that dusts his cheek.

He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze. 

“The city is under attack!”

The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.

Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.

“Phainon!” His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, you’re there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, you’re pulled in a tight embrace.

“You’re alright.” He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours. 

Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesn’t relent and you have to reassure him that you’re fine—but he doesn’t believe you, not until he’s certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.

Thus, he sees it—a gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.

His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.

“Phainon,” You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. “ I’m okay, but there are others who are not.”

“But—”

“You must go.”

He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his title—it draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.

A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sigh—a quiet surrender—and steps closer. 

Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you. 

His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but there’s a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he can’t speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.

You don’t say a word, instead, you just nod, because it’s easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do more—but instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.

And he leaves.

But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when it’s your name on his lips.

“You’re a great friend, Phainon.” You’ve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.

But who was he to expect more? After all, he’s not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, it’s the small things that betray him—the quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.  Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.

And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.

Maybe it’s the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe it’s the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational things—and yet, here he is, drowning in them.

Maybe it’s the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse. 

But you don’t notice. And perhaps you never will.

Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if you’ll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hear—serene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[nvllette]

hide from the heavens.

you think the man you are meant to marry is a brute with no care for you or your kind. yet when the vows are signed and the crown rests upon your brow, you discover there is more to the king than meets the eye—and far more he has so carefully chosen to keep from you.

☆ pairing: phainon x fem!reader ☆ tags: romance, angst, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn, bridgerton!au, arranged marriage!au, older brother!mydei, historical inaccuracies, mentions of death & illness, nightmares, period-typical misogyny, discussions of pregnancy, etc. divider by @/thecutestgrotto. ☆ word count: 21.5k ☆ a/n: this fic is, first and foremost, a love letter and gift to my best friend, @jeonwiixard. happy birthday, jazz! i love you to the moon and back ♡ this fic is inspired by and based off of queen charlotte: a bridgerton story. thank you to @chokifandom for beta reading, and thank you for reading!

THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING, your brother held you tight to his chest, and whispered apology after apology. You do not want this, sister, I know, I know you do not want this, but father did not leave me with a choice. It was a betrothal made when you were born, and if our estate is to survive the locust plague, we need their help, sister. Please, forgive me.

Perhaps, if you weren’t in such a foul mood, you might have forgiven your older brother, Mydeimos, the Earl of Kremnos. Earlier that morning, however, your maid had fetched you the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, and seeing how unfavourably she had written about you and your impending wedding, you were not so inclined.

You let him hold you, and patted his hair as you would your favourite mare, and said, “It’s quite all right, brother. After all, not everyone is blessed with the good fortune of marrying a prince.”

He looked stricken. “But you do not love him. You do not even know him.”

“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”

Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.

In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.

The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.

Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.

Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”

“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”

This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”

“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”

“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”

Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”

“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”

“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”

“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.

He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You sighed and closed your eyes.

The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.

The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.

“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.

You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.

A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.

“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”

Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?

“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”

“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”

The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.

You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.

“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”

The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.

“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”

“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”

“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.

“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”

How romantic, you thought.

“What time is dinner?” you asked.

“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”

Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.

“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”

The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.

You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.

Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”

You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”

“Cold?”

“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”

Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.

“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”

“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”

“But will you be happy?”

Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.

“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”

Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”

“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”

“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”

You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.

“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”

A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”

Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave. 

Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”

You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.

Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.

“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”

If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.

You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?

The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.

“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”

“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”

“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”

“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”

“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”

“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”

“My lady—”

“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”

The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.

“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”

“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”

Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.

“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”

“My lady—”

“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”

You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”

You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”

The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.

You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.

Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.

“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.

This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?

Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.

You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.

“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”

“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”

“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”

If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.

Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.

The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.

“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.

Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.

Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.

So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.

“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”

You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.

A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.

He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.

“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”

“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”

You stared down at him. “How did you know—”

“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

“You’re the King,” you stated.

He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”

This could not be happening.

“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”

“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”

“…Help me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”

He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.

“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”

Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.

Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.

“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”

“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”

“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”

“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.

“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”

The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”

“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”

 Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.

“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”

“You will not force me?” you asked.

“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”

“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”

“All right.”

“Do you want this marriage?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”

The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.

“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”

The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”

“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”

“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”

“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.

“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”

“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Phainon said.

“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”

“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.

She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.

“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”

“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”

“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”

“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”

You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.

You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.

“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”

“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”

When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”

Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.

Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.

“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.

“You’ll see,” he said.

You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.

Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.

“Open them,” Phainon said.

The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.

Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative. 

“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”

“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”

Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.”

He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.

“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”

He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”

You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.

“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”

You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.

Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.

“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”

“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”

He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.

“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”

“…What is it?”

“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”

“Yes.”

“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”

“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”

“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”

“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”

“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”

“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”

“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”

He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”

“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”

“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”

“Except a husband,” you said.

“I—”

“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”

“Please—”

“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”

Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.

“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed. 

You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.

You had been so foolish.

This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.

How foolish you’d been!

He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?

You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.

Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.

Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.

“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.

Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”

“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”

To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.

“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.

You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”

Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”

“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”

“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.

Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.

“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.

“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?

“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.

“Something like that.”

Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”

“Please do.”

“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”

You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”

“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.

Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”

“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”

“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”

You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.

Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?

“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”

“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”

“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”

Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”

“You speak as though you know him well.”

“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”

“What changed?”

“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”

You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.

“How did the Queen die?” you asked.

“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”

“That is terrible,” you said.

“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”

“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”

“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”

You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”

“What are friends for?”

You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.

“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”

“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”

“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”

“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”

Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”

“What sort of rumours?” you asked.

“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.

Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.

Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”

True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.

Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”

“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”

“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.

You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”

“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”

“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”

You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.

“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”

“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”

“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”

“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”

“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”

You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.

“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”

“Use what I have?”

“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”

You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”

“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”

“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”

“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”

After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?

Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.

You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.

Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.

“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”

Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”

“Perfect,” you said.

Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.

This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.

You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.

“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.

You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.

Your stomach twisted with nerves.

Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.

“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”

Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”

“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”

“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”

“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”

“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”

Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”

Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.

“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”

Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”

“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.

His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”

“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.

The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.

Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.

He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”

That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.

“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”

His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him. 

“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.

“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”

“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”

“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.

His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.

“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”

“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”

Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”

“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”

“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”

It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.

He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”

He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”

You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.

When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.

“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.

“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.

He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—

Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.

“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”

That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.

“May I?” he asked again.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.

“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”

You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.

“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.

You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.

“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”

“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.

The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”

He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.

“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”

He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”

He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.

Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”

“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”

“Next time?”

“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”

“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.

“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”

“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”

You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.

Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.

“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”

“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”

“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”

“I am trying—”

“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”

“…I see,” Phainon said.

“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”

“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”

“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”

You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?

“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”

“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”

“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”

You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.

You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Phainon called out.

You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”

Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.

“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”

You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.

Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”

Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.

“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”

“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.

“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”

The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.

“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.

“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”

You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.

Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.

“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.

You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”

“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”

“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”

“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”

You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.

“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”

“That seems rather cruel.”

“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”

“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.

“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”

You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.

“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.

“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”

Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.

“They don’t look like it,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”

“What happens if someone touches them?”

“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”

“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”

He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”

The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?

It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.

“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”

“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.

Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.

“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”

“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”

“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”

“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.

Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.

The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.

“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”

Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”

“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”

“They see us often enough.”

“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”

“And does that trouble you?” he asked.

You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”

He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”

“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”

“Let them suffocate.”

“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.

“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”

Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”

You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”

“A ball.”

“A ball,” you said.

“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.

You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”

“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”

“And you think that’s preferable?”

“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”

“Together how?”

“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”

You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”

“For the sake of the country?”

“For the sake of my wife,” he said.

You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.

“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.

“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.

“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”

Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”

“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”

“And on making sure I smile often enough.”

“She’ll insist on that regardless.”

You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”

He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”

“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true. 

You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.

He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.

“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“And the music?”

“We’ll have the orchestra.”

“The guest list?”

“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”

“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.

Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”

His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”

The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.

Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.

Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”

“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.

It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.

You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.

You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.

“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”

“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”

“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.

“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”

“The ball was his idea,” you protested.

“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”

“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”

“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”

“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”

Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”

“I did,” you said. 

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”

“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”

“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”

“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”

“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.

“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”

The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”

“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”

“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”

Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.

Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”

“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”

“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”

“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.

“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”

“No, I—”

“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”

Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread. 

“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”

“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”

“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”

“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”

“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”

“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”

“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What is it I can’t handle?”

Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”

“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”

“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”

“I cannot,” he said quietly.

“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”

“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”

“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”

Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.

“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”

“Phainon—”

But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.

How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?

The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.

“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”

“Where did he go?” you asked.

“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”

The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.

“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.

On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.

You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.

It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.

Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.

You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.

You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room. 

Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”

“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”

Castorice cleared her throat and began:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded. 

The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.

You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”

Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”

“I—what?” 

“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”

“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”

You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”

“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”

“…Nightmares?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”

You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—

Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?

“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.

“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”

“About His Majesty?”

“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”

“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.

“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”

You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”

“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”

“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”

Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”

“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”

“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”

You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”

“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”

“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—

“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.

“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”

Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.

Lady Caenis.

You had to tell Phainon.

You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this. 

Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.

You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”

Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”

“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”

“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”

“And where did you get the paper from?”

“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”

“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”

“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”

Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.

Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”

You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.

Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.

“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Now, please.”

Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.

“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”

You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”

Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”

“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”

“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”

“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”

Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”

“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.

“It’s also true, isn’t it?”

Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.

Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”

“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”

“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.

“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”

“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”

“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”

You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.

“Get out,” Phainon said.

Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”

“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”

Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”

“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”

“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”

“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”

“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.

“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”

Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”

She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.

“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”

He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”

Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person. 

You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.

She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.

“She would have liked you.”

You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”

“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”

He went very still. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”

“Who told you?”

“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”

He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I know.”

“It makes me look weak.”

“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”

“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”

“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”

Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”

“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”

“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”

“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”

“Since she died. Seventeen years.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”

“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”

“Yes.”

You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”

He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.

“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”

You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.

[earthtooz]

How would superhero!phainon react if the reader was held hostage 😣

: WHERE HE WANTS YOU :*+ﾟ

in which: phainon's proposal plans backfire. continuation to say your stupid line.

warnings: 2.6k wc, hostage situation, brief allusion to trauma, phainon goes kind of batshit insane, angst with happy ending, phainon pov. semi-edited.

a/n: reminder: my commissions are open or you can donate to my ko-fi if you'd like! any amount helps, and i'll be able to churn fics out faster with your help if you choose to donate :> i'm about to hit the drafts for 'when did you get hot?' phainon because of a sponsor, but no pressure! much love and i hope you enjoy this epilogue of sorts. also, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Phainon has been deep in thought for the past few weeks.

How should he propose to you?

The dilemma has been on the forefront of his mind, and he thinks the stress has visibly shown on his face whenever he looks in the mirror. Even his fellow Chrysos Heirs have noticed, all of them making the effort of asking if anything was wrong.

He'd spill his dilemmas without hesitation. As heroes who take the initiative to solve every problem, they all pitched in fervently too.

Snowy, you should take Y/n paragliding, or even better, skydiving! The rocket-launching heir suggests- well, one of them does, the other two of the trio aren't convinced. Neither is Phainon.

How about a trip away, Phainon? You could organise a lovely picnic and propose at sunset. The most beautiful heir pitches in.

Time off will be best for you, Deliverer. Besides, you could take a holiday or two, it's been showing on your face. The strongest heir teases, Phainon responds with a threat of a wrestling match, of which Aglaea had to hold them apart with her threads before they would accidentally blast the whole place apart. Besides, you can show Y/n the new recipe I've been teaching you how to make.

How about a trip Janusopolis? For a sunset picnic and a freshly made dinner? The gentle heir who has been graced with death's touch, asks.

To which, the trio of red-heads reacts enthusiastically. The apples during that season are delightfully juicy! Cas, what a great idea!

So, it was decided. A group of heroes doing what they do best: saving the day and Phainon's proposal plans.

It is the first thought he has when he wakes up next to you, heart giddy and excited as he ponders over it while admiring your blissfully peaceful expression. Lips parted slightly as sleep weighs your eyelids close.

Since he has bought the ring, it weighs heavier and heavier in his pocket with each passing day, demanding to see the light of day and to find a home wrapped around your finger, where it belongs.

Then, he'll have the physical manifestation proving his being's tether to yours.

A romantic getaway to Janusopolis— Phainon's positive you'll love it. It's the perfect place for a mix of city and nature, and it's particularly beautiful during this time of year; the warm sunshine, the blooms that line the street, the bright, juicy fruit just waiting to be picked, it'd be the perfect place for you both to relax, and for Phainon to selfishly secure your undivided attention.

That all sounds so nice, he smiles while his hand absentmindedly fidgets with yours, lingering around the blaringly bare skin of your ring finger.

When wakefulness flutters your eyes open, Phainon's already staring up at you, eyes wide and practically glistening with love. You grumble good morning, rolling over to shield your eyes from the sun, but he's clinging onto you too tightly for you to properly move anyways, the human version of a gigantic labrador weighing you down.

Or maybe, the human manifestation of the sun just beamed even brighter beside you.

Try wriggle out of his warm grasp all you want, but now that you're awake, he wants you to give him your undivided attention.

He'll tell you tonight, about the surprise trip to Janusopolis by presenting the two tickets he's purchased. How Aglaea has given him time off just for the trip, so you don't have to worry on his behalf about his duties— although he wish you'd stop being concerned and put your own wellbeing first.

Then, you're one step closer to being married.

Except… you're not… home yet.

Phainon has been waiting all evening, staring at his phone, waiting for your return. You promised him you wouldn't be out tonight for too long, it was just a catch up dinner with friends and nothing else- 'back by 10 latest' you reassured with a goodbye kiss to his cheek, looking radiant in the outfit you chose. Watching you leave made it harder for him to let you go, tempted to drag you back for another kiss or two (or ten), but he held himself back and responded diligently to each message you sent him.

Speaking of which, you hadn't sent one since almost an hour ago, and that was a photo of your dinner.

You should be back by now… or at least, should have sent a text updating him on your whereabouts.

Sat on the living room couch, eyes glued to the front door like it had personally wronged him, Phainon tries to swallow the itch in his throat and reminds himself to unclench his jaw.

He's just being paranoid and overprotective, you're just out at dinner with your friends and probably having a lot of fun together so you want to be present in the moment, that's why you're not texting him, or answering your phone.

He doesn't have to go out and look for you- that's completely unreasonable. The way his gut swirls is simply due to nervousness.

He doesn't have to swing his coat on, frantically stuffing his keys and teleslate into his pocket before practically ripping the front door open. His urgency isn't him being too overbearing, can't a man go for a breath of fresh air?

If he ends up at the restaurant where you told him you'd be, eyes stuck at the entrance, watching the minutes tick by without a single sign of you, calls sending him to voicemail every time, messages never 'read', just 'delivered', then it is normal of him to go inside the place and chec.? He'll leave right after seeing you, promise.

Even after his eyes have roamed the whole restaurant twice, thrice, there was still no sign of you, and in the middle of the fourth sweep, he's already speed dailing Aglaea with a thundering pulse and shaking hands.

"Hello?" An immense wave of relief floods into him when he hears her comfortingly regal tone. "Usually it's not you who calls me first, is everything alright?"

"No- Aglaea, I need you to help me find Y/n," he all but blurts, leaving the bustling restaurant hurriedly.

"What's happened to Y/n?"

"I-I don't know, Y/n's not answering any of my calls or messages, I can't see live location- I'm worried," he confesses weakly.

"Alright, calm down first. I'll see what I can do."

It's silent on Aglaea's end for several heartbeats, of which Phainon spends with his phone pressed flush to his ear, trying to keep his shoulders back and breathing even, hoping for even the slightest twitch of good news; that he was overreacting, that you are fine and were on the way home, that he missed you just by a minute because he was-

"My threads see Y/n is… near the outskirts of Okhema?

***

The wind whips wildly in Khaslana's ears, lashing at his senses as he flies across Okhema at record pace. His golden tresses are blown out of his face, eyes fighting to stay open as he desperately flies to the location Aglaea had sent him, nothing else on his mind but to find you. He took off the moment he received the notification of your whereabouts, all rationality discarded as fury and anger fuelled the propelling of his wings.

He needs to take you home, so he can heal the anxiety that's torn his heart apart and mend it with your presence, by keeping you close so you can't worry him like this again.

He'll eliminate all threats that tears you away from him, testing the sanctity of your relationship.

The location is a small warehouse lined up amongst others, unassuming save for a tiny, ceiling window that shows a weak ray of sterile light. Despite it, certainty swirls in Khaslana's gut, soul finding yours like two magnets.

"Khaslana, do not be rash!" Aglaea's voice rings out through the intercomm.

Right, he was flying so fast he could barely hear her.

"I understand you are upset, rightfully so, but there are still human lives at stake. Do not get me in another quarrel with The Council, do I make myself clear?"

The hero's cold and indifferent tone permeates the chill night. "I'm sorry, Aglaea, but I'm going to do everything in my power to get Y/n back."

"Don't be mistaken, Phainon, you don't have to exert yourself much. My threads tell me these are not remarkable opponents, hence why I ask of you to not get ahead of yourself!"

With a thundering crack, the roof of the warehouse is torn open.

"Phainon," Aglaea warns.

"Dawnmaker simply poked it, that wasn't my fault."

He descends down, closer to witness the scene below. A crowd of masked bandits gathered, looking up at the terrifying hero whose weapon practically shines gold in his grasp. The sight was comparable to ants scrambling around a destroyed colony.

Khaslana couldn't care less, not when he saw you sat in the middle of the concrete, tied and with duct tape securing your mouth shut, but your head was lulled down, hair covering your face.

You seemed unharmed, yet the sight was enough to make his blood boil.

He raises an arm into the sky, ready to wreck havoc by manifesting his wrath in the form of a thousand meteors, but an invisible force restrains his hand.

"Halt," Aglaea's smooth voice commands. "They are already down. No need to crush their skulls too."

True to her word, when Khaslana glances down at the ground, all the perpetrators collapsed to their ground like discarded puppets.

"Aren't I efficient? Y/n should be waking up now, I've alerted police and they are dashing to the scene, it's best you leave now rather than later. I shall look more into this incident and investigate whether it was a deliberate attack on you, or a mere coincidence trying to lure authorities to the scene. It may have been a way to even target the Heirs, but leave that to me."

"What do you mean a deliberate attack on me?"

"I mean a myriad of things, to figure out your secret identity, to take Khaslana down… who knows, but focus on Y/n first. Go home, Phainon."

"I will, thank you for everything, Aglaea."

"No problem."

When the line dies, Khaslana shudders as he gazes at your unconscious body. His hands gently untie the knot binding you, and he cups your cheek to tear the duct tape off, but the pain seemed like it was enough to wake you.

"Ow," you whine, eyes blinking open. "I- Khaslana? Wh-where am I? What happened?"

A small smile cracks his indifferent, cold mask, warmth subtly bleeding into his golden eyes as he wraps an arm around your shoulder and knees. "We can talk about that later. Let's go home first, okay?"

You scream when he suddenly levitates without warning, wrapping your arms around his neck with a vice grip, holding on for dear life as if his hands aren't dug into your flesh, holding you flush to him.

"I'm not going to drop you, I promise."

"Just fly slowly, okay?" You murmur, digging your face into his crystallised neck. "I'm really tired, and my wrists hurt… I don't remember much aside from walking home and then… I—"

He frowns at how you choke over your words. "You don't have to talk about it now. You're safe now, I'll always come to your rescue, no matter what."

"Thank you for saving, Phai, and I'm sorry if I made you worry." Your eyes flutter closed, head resting on his shoulder.

"Don't apologise. If anything, I should be the one asking for your forgiveness."

Khaslana makes a necessary stop, one to quell the gnawing of his heart, and after a bit of shaking, your eyes open to the sight of the Okheman skyline at night, atop the balcony of a skyscraper. He sets you down gently, and pure wonder glistens in your eyes as you approach the railing to admire the view, but not without an arm wrapped tightly around his elbow.

He wasn't intending on separating from you anyways.

"It's so pretty," you gasp. "Why haven't you taken me here before?"

A few smart quips come to his mind, but he settles for none of them. "I'll take you wherever you want to go, sunshine."

You giggle, and a forlorn desire to preserve that sound grows in his gut. Bottle it up or store it in a seashell that only he can keep, but why worry about an ephemeral fragment when he has you? Why conserve a fleeting moment when he could be with you… forever?

He drops to one knee, looking up at you with pleading eyes, Phainon bleeding into the mask of Khaslana, but what difference does it make when both love you?

His hands, strong and unrelenting, wrap tightly around your thighs, causing you to stumble to him, regaining your balance on his shoulders.

"Hey, what are you doing-"

"This isn't how I planned on asking but, let's get married." He mumbles into your stomach. "We can have a spring or summer wedding at Warbling Shores-"

"Married? Hold on!" You shake his shoulder, but he continues rambling.

"A big reception with all our friends and family, and maybe a small ceremony for just close ones. Our honeymoon can be at Aedes Elysiae, I can finally show you the vast wheat fields of my home, and then I'll catch fresh fish for us. They’re really delicious, especially with the way mum taught me how to grill them for me growing up, you’ll like it- I-I can make you a hammock, too, build a swing as we watch the sunset.”

"That sounds lovely and all-"

"But really, I would be fine with anything you want, as long as you’ll be with me because I want to be with you for the rest of my life. The ring's ready, I'm ready, so marry me."

"Phainon," you whisper and he looks up at you, golden eyes desperate as he leans into your hand.

"Please, marry me, sunshine," he says, no stronger than a whisper, a stark contrast to the grip he has on the back of your thighs. “Make me yours for all eternity.”

The wind blows your hair into your face, strands covering the pure surprise that lines your expression as Phainon's world is any second from crumbling, the fate of his sanity hinging on whether or not you'll say yes.

And Titans, he really wants you to say yes.

"You're certain?" You squeak.

"I've never been more certain in my life."

"Then… yes, Phai, I'll marry you."

His heave of relief is instantaneous, the mighty hero crumbling to your feet, wings and halo dropped. You bend down to be eye-level with him, hands cradling both sides of his face.

"No takebacks," he murmurs, "you're stuck with me for life now."

"Please," you laugh, "you made that clear months ago, ring or no ring."

Khaslana huffs. "I-I had a whole plan to propose to you, it wasn't supposed to be this… this…"

"In the moment?"

"Yeah," he smiles, "in the moment."

"Well, if it helps, then we can still go with your original plan. I can pretend like I know nothing."

"Please, sunshine, save me some face. So, how does a trip to Janusopolis sound?"

(Despite it being his second attempt, he's still nervous, maybe even more so than the first. After a successful picnic date, anticipation thrums through his veins, leaving him a hopeless, bumbling mess as he presents the ring to you as Phainon this time. The golden sunlight highlighting the delight on your face as you listen to the fool you've made of this usually-eloquent man.

But, blundering idiot or suave hero, you will always say 'yes' to him.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site, do not feed to AI.

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To Love The Burning Sun

Wc: 21.8k+ (woops) Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up. Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji). Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!

CHAPTER I

You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul. 

But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.

You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner. 

Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?

You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here. 

It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.

Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide. 

Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”

Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light. 

From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones. 

The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.

When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine. 

It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure. 

“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.

That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders. 

You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.

You tried. You really did.

Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come. 

But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.

Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity. 

Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols. 

You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind. 

You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.

You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times. 

Then, light emerged from below you.

A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred. 

You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.

The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.

There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.

You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.

That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats. 

Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”

You weren’t sure if you believed it.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.

When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.

The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.

The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.

“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.” 

You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here. 

You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.

You even tried to make yourself look pretty.

You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?

Right?

You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?

You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?

You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.

Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.

Minutes passed.

Then hours,

The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.

Still, he did not come.

You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you. 

When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.

Was it supposed to be like this?

You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.

But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest. 

Were you not worthy of his presence?

Had you done something wrong?

A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.

Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?

Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.

After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.

The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”

That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”

You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice. 

The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.

You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.

Hesitantly, you spoke.

“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued. 

“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.

“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”

You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.

Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.

Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less. 

Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.

You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls. 

Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.

Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside. 

The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.

It had been a long time since you’d last visited.

You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.

You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.

You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.

You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.

You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?

You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.

You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.

You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night. 

You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom. 

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.

Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.

Has he… abandoned me?

You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.

CHAPTER II

You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze. 

The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.

You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now. 

So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.

“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…” 

The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.

The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.

As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.

As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.

“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”

Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea. 

Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air. 

You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.

But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.

For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.

What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?

Your heart skipped.

Could you even do that? 

It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore. 

You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.

Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take. 

With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This temple was built like a damn fortress!

Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest. 

Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple. 

You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. 

When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.

They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed. 

After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching. 

But then you saw it.

Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned. 

It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something. 

Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.

If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.

You would need luck. Even divine intervention.

The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?

You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?

You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god. 

You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.

But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.

Or straight into a trap.

You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face. 

Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.

You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.

It was almost suspicious, even.

You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.

With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.

Now.

You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.

You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded. 

Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration. 

You were finally here.

You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.

Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.

“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”

Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”

You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”

She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”

“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.

Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”

“Of course,” you said with a grin.

Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.

The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.

He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.

“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.

“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.

You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.

“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.

He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.

His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.

Your bag. A rustle.

You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.

“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.

You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.

A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”

He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.

The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.

You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.

He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.

Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”

You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…

You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.

You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”

He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”

“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.

He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”

The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.

You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.

Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.

“Thank you, pretty lady.”

You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.

The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.

Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.

You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”

He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”

You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”

You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.

Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”

Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.

You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”

Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”

You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”

You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.

“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”

She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”

You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind. 

“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”

You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”

He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”

Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.

“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.

You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face. 

Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.

You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”

An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.

“I never told you my name, did I—?”

But he was gone.

The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.

Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.

Maybe you would see him again.

CHAPTER III

Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.

You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.

That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.

…Were those snores?

Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?

But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through. 

There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.

Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it? 

You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.

They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.

You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.

The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps. 

Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!

For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber. 

You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.

Sleep came quickly that night.

The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.

You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder. 

“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced. 

You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed. 

You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.

The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”

Your breath caught. Then you blinked. 

What.

“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”

You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.

“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”

The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”

You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”

“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”

Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.

“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”

You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.

“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked. 

You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.

“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.

Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!

“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied. 

He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”

You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.

You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”

“Yes?”

You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”

The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”

You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…

Why won’t he speak to me?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it. 

You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue. 

Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.

You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.

“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile. 

He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades. 

The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled. 

And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.

You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.

“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”

Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.

“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”

You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.

Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.

“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.

You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.

Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.

You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.

Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.

You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.” 

Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.

Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it. 

You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.

And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…

But guilt. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.

The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.

Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.

Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.

Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.

Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.

If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned. 

Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.

When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf. 

You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—

“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”

You froze.

“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.

“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”

“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”

Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others. 

Just… before you came.

You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”

“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”

The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”

You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more. 

You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.

Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.

You ran.

You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.

You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.

Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs. 

You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone. 

The months of hoping for something — anything. 

“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”

She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”

Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”

You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”

“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”

“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”

You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you. 

“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.

Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar. 

But eventually, the moment had to end. 

You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.

“I love you, too, mother.”

You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now. 

You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.

“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. 

You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.

You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.

CHAPTER IV

The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.

The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his. 

Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened. 

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.

Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.

His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.

“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began. 

The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.

“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”

Ah. That exchange..

“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.

“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”

Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered. 

“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”

The Archbishop remained silent.

“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”

“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.

“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The wedding day arrived. 

Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.

You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.

And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.

Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.

He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon. 

As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed. 

As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.

His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?

He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?

That was his first mistake.

“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”

Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”

A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”

Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.

And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed. 

That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below. 

On you.

There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.

Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious. 

Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.

Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.

He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves. 

“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.

“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.

Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”

He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”

His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea. 

“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”

Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”

He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps. 

He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone. 

He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.

He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.

You were… fragile.

He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?

He withdrew.

Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.

He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised. 

And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.

He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.

It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection. 

You began to whisper your loneliness. 

At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.

But then, he noticed something… odd.

Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.

Suspicious. Curious. Restless.

Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.

And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost. 

Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.

Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.

Then came the night of your escape.

Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.

With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.

There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.

But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.

Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.

He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.

“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.

Then you looked at him expectantly.

Oh. You were waiting for a name.

He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.

Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.

He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—

“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”

He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”

“Then I'll insist.”

There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?

So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.

His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.

Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.

“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.

Your cheeks turned crimson.

Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.

He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.

He wanted more of that. 

But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family. 

After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.

But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks. 

“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”

His brows knit together. Him? Strict?

“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.

You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”

Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.

“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.

“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

The words landed like a stone in his stomach.

When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.

The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.

He owed you that much, at the very least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.

You had begun to bloom. 

Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar. 

You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.

It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.

Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.

Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?

But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.

He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.

You still remembered him.

Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.

After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.

It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.

Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.

He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.

And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.

You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.

You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.

You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared. 

He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain. 

To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.

But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.

A stranger.

That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?

No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.

When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.

When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.

He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.

The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.

Until he heard your sobs.

At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.

Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.

It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable. 

Then, loud sobbing.

Phainon stilled.

His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.

“What's the matter—?”

But Phainon was already gone.

He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.

“I hate him!”

He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.

“I hate him.”

No.

No, no, that can’t be right.

He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.

Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”

The air around him cracked. 

“I hate him!”

His heart stuttered.

“I hate him!”

Stop... please—

“He left me!”

No. No. I’m right here–!

“I don’t want to go back!”

That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.

I hate him. He left me. I don’t want to go back.

He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.

The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.

Why?

Why did you feel this way?

He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.

So why did you hate him?

He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.

Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.

The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.

It was all because of him.

Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.

And he didn’t understand.

Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.

This... this was heartbreak.

Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.

“You hate… me…” he whispered.

You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.

He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.

Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations. 

High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.

But this one had become… excessive. 

Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge. 

A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.

Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.

She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?” 

Without another word, she vanished from her realm. 

In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way. 

And there he was. 

At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.

Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.

No response. 

She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.

Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”

Still silence.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.

“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”

At last, his jaw shifted.

“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.

“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”

She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below. 

“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”

Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She said she hated me.”

Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”

“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”

“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”

His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”

“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”

“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.

Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.

“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”

Khaslana looked away.

“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”

Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”

The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling. 

“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.

“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”

“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”

“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”

Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”

Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”

He was quiet. Then, softly:

“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”

His claws curled against his palm.

“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”

Aglaea was silent for a long breath.

Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”

Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.

“She hates me.”

“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.

He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”

But Aglaea only stepped closer.

“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”

She stepped back.

“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”

And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed. 

For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day. 

You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal. 

Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening. 

Then came a knock at your door. 

You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed. 

“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.

You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him. 

He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence. 

He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled. 

“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders. 

“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.

The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”

You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.

“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”

His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”

You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”

The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his. 

“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it. 

You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”

He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said. 

Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.

You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him? 

You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger. 

You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was useless.

No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.

How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!

You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach. 

You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates. 

The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you. 

Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky.  The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step. 

But you pushed through it anyway.

Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.

By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier. 

“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came. 

The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.

“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.

“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.

“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.

“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster. 

A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.

A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.

He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.

Radiant and terrifying.

Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.

His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.

You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You dared a glance upward.

He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.

With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.

“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.

“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,

The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out. 

“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”

Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”

“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”

“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”

And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.

Phainon stood before you.

You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”

He frowned, looking away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”

“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”

“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”

“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”

“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.

“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”

His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”

Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.

You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”

You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”

Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”

Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.

It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.

Then another fell. And another.

You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared. 

You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything. 

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke. 

“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”

A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.

His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield. 

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”

“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. 

“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours. 

“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”

His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”

Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”

“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.

“I see…” You murmured.

Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”

Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.

Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”

Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.

He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake? 

But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.

You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”

His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.

When he looked up, he smiled.

“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.

You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”

CHAPTER V

When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.

You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.

“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”

And with that, he vanished.

Just like that.

You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.

No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.

Still…

You sneezed again—sharper this time.

You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers. 

Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.

Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.

You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.

Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed. 

“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”

Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”

And so you talked. For hours.

The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.

Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then. 

You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.

In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.

Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun. 

He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.

He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.

Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”

There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.

Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.

Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual. 

Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”

His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.

You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.

You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.

“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.

Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.

“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”

Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest. 

You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”

You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”

He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.

He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.

“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.

Phainon froze.

He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”

He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.

“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.

Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.

“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.

So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter. 

You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.

He chuckled.

You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.

“My turn.”

In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.

You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.

His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again. 

You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you. 

It was different now.

Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.

Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear. 

He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.

Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.

And then, he bites.

It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended. 

But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.

“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.

“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.

He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, It’s—”

“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.

“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.

Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.

Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.

He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.

You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.

Phainon noticed. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.

You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”

Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained. 

Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.

He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you. 

“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.

“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.

You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…” “More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer. 

“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.

Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you. 

“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.

“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.

“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions. 

He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head. 

“Okay… you can go a little faster.”

With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.

You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure. 

With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed. 

As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.

“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.

You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.

He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before. 

As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.

Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.

You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”

His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. 

With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you. 

His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.

But not this morning.

This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.

You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.

Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.

And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.

His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.

Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation. 

The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen. 

You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.

You had found him, and he had stayed.

For now, that was enough.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

[podokrys]

dumb bunny, sly dog. ☾

★ now playing ; puppy!phainon x afab!bunny!reader

★ genre ; nsfw! (mdni) — hybrid!au, title is a play on the zootopia quote wtv, samoyed!phainon, horny!phainon, pervert!phainon, dwarf rabbit!yume, phainon is a humper, possessive phaichan, lwk yandere!phainon, missionary, doggy style, knotting, biting so slight mention of blood, mating, breeding kink, creampie, dryhumping, dacryphilia, dubcon/noncon, size difference, dom!phainon, sub!reader, reader is shy but also kinda bratty, brat taming (?), multiple rounds, maine coon!mydei mentioned, scent kink, reader lwk stalks phainon LOL, porn with lots of plot, oral sex, reader has a crush on mydei lwk, mydei likes teasing phainon and pissing him off, edging, phainon calls reader bunny, phainon has too much stamina, both reader and phainon are kinda obsessed with mydei and mention him even when hes not even there LMFAOOO

★ lyric count ; 6102

★ composer's note ; its finally here!! kinda wanna make this a series… thats why theres so much worldbuilding…  if this does well maybe i will!!

★ listen on ao3, check the album playlist, or back to main playlist!

★ you are at part one! go to ; two

dividers by cafekitsune!

The samoyed next door is strangely obsessed with you… You can only wonder what will happen when he finally gets his hands on you.

The samoyed that lives next door is… strange.

As a house bunny, you’ve only run into him during the rare occasion your owner does yard work or decides you need the extra sun, but, whenever he sees you, he practically vibrates from excitement.

The first time he caught your scent outside, he immediately started dragging his owner towards your house. Your owner, Idrila, had been tending to the array of white and red roses decorating the border of THEIR front yard. THEY had set up a blanket for you on the grass, along with a basket full of your favorite snacks. You were lying on your stomach, book open in front of you. As your fingers reached over to bring a strawberry to your mouth, you were startled by a loud bark.

“Ahhh—Is that a bunny!! You’re so cute!”

The voice made you drop the strawberry and stained the page you were reading a soft pink. You frowned, brows furrowed as you opened your mouth to give the culprit a piece of your mind. When you lifted your head up and were confronted by a massive dog leaning over the fence, you curled into yourself instead, ears flattened against your head.

“Phainon!” yelled someone behind him (you assume it’s his owner), “Get back here!”

You scrutinized the dog in front of you. Based on his ears, you could tell this “Phainon” was a samoyed. Although, he seemed way too big to be one. His size was more akin to the wolf hybrids you met at the shelter, but, looking at his nonstop wagging tail, he was definitely too friendly to be a wolf.

(Was he some kind of genetically-mutated samoyed?)

Though, you will admit, he wasn’t unappealing to look at. You’d even say he’s pretty handsome. Phainon’s white hair framed his face nicely. It looked soft to touch and you could imagine yourself petting it. His skin was clear (how unfair) and he had an incredibly well built body, but his eyes were what entranced you the most. They are so vibrantly blue and even glittered, like the ocean shimmering under the rays of the sun. You could see yourself getting lost in them.

(Speaking of which… has he blinked once since you met his eyes?)

“Idrila, I apologize for Phainon’s behavior,” his owner lets out a sigh, “He must still be excited from—Oh? Who’s this?”

As you began to get uncomfortable under the samoyed’s intense gaze, his owner had just given you the perfect excuse to break eye contact. You turned to look at the person who was now standing next to Phainon. His owner was very handsome too, with THEIR tan-olive skin and braided white hair. You noted that THEIR yellow eyes contrasted nicely next to Phainon's blue ones.

Idrila paused on THEIR gardening to greet the pair. THEY walked up to the fence while dusting off any dirt that had gathered on THEIR sundress.

“Good afternoon, Nanook!” Idrila smiled and gestured to you with THEIR hand, “This is [Name]. A precious little dwarf rabbit I’ve been taking care of for about a week now. It seems like your puppy has taken a liking to her.”

(“Puppy?” That… ‘wolf’ is not a “puppy.”)

“Hi!! I’m Phainon! I’m a samoyed hybrid and—Wow—You smell really good!!” the aforementioned “puppy” said with a wide grin and a tilt of his head.

That confirmed your suspicions about his breed, but did he have to comment on your scent? It weirded you out and you weren’t going to respond—until you noticed that Idrila was looking at you expectantly.

“Hello…” you muttered with shy reluctance, finally meeting his gaze once again. That simple word seemed to spark something in him and you watched as hearts formed in his blue eyes.

“Ahhh—Even your voice is cute!!” Phainon said as he leaned further over the fence.

Alarmed at the sudden movement, Nanook reached over, grabbed the back of the blue collar the dog was wearing, and dragged him back towards THEM. Phainon released a yelp, but never once did he look away from you. A snarl appeared on Nanook’s face as THEY sneered at Phainon.

“Maybe too much of a liking…” THEY commented under THEIR breath, but you heard it with your enhanced hearing, “It was nice to meet you, but we should get going now.”

Moving THEIR grip to Phainon’s wrist, Nanook dragged him towards the house next door. A pout formed on the samoyed face as he got scolded by his owner about respecting boundaries and learning to think before speaking. You let out a soft giggle at the sight and Phainon visibly melted at the sound. His reaction made you raise an eyebrow, but you tried not to pay too much mind to it. You shook out the left over tension from the encounter, and turned back to your book as Idrila returned to THEIR gardening.

Aside from that, you like to study Phainon from the window of your bedroom. Your room is on the second floor of Idrila’s home, giving you an apt view of the Nanook’s backyard. Phainon is out there more often than not. Either roughhousing another hybrid that’s over at his house at the time or training with his owner. At times it can be amusing but other moments make you genuinely concerned for the hybrid’s well-being.

(One time you saw him climb on top of a poor blonde maine coon and start humping him… luckily his owner shut it down and scolded him before it could escalate.)

Unfortunately, your “Phainon-Watching” came to an abrupt end only 2 weeks after it started. One Friday evening you had been lounging on your window seat, enjoying the breeze coming through the slightly ajar window. You almost fell asleep—that is—until Phainon slammed his backyard door open.

“Nanook! I learned something new while training with Mydei today! Let me show you!!”

You watched as his owner followed the samoyed outside. Phainon showed him a move he learned at “training” that day and Nanook watched with THEIR hands clasped behind THEIR back, nodding in acknowledgement once Phainon finished.

(You could only guess what his… “training” actually is… What he performed looked more like martial arts than dog tricks… Maybe he’s training to be a guard dog…)

Phainon visibly brightened at the small gesture like the man had just spoken him a million praises. His tail wagged in joy and you could tell he was going to do another trick before a particularly harsh breeze passed by. It had you shivering and reaching over for a blanket, but you stopped once Phainon froze and began to sniff the air like a madman. He followed the scent and eventually turned upward towards your window.

The samoyed squinted, seemingly to make out your shape, and once he finally did, he perked up, like he did when he first caught your scent.

“[Name]!!” he exclaimed as he rushed over the fence dividing your homes, “Were you watching me?! Did you like what I did?! I learned it, so I can protect you! Hey, [Name]—”

Your blood went cold and you were frozen in place as Phainon started waving too excitedly and attempted to climb the fence to get to you. While you rushed to close your window and the curtains, you caught out of the corner of your eye how Nanook grabbed Phainon by the collar and dragged him back inside.

(Yep, there’s no way you’re gonna watch the samoyed ever again.)

“[Name], this is Mydei,” Idrila introduces, “He’s Yaoshi’s maine coon hybrid and I’d like it if you two became friends.”

A week following your incident with Phainon, your owner has decided that you need more friends.

Out of fear and embarrassment of running into Phainon outside, you’ve locked yourself in Idrila’s house. Every time THEY would offer to take you outside with THEM, you would kindly deny and state that you’d rather spend the time napping inside.

It seems that THEY’VE reached the limit of listening to your pathetic excuses and brought the outside to you instead.

“She is so adorable!” Mydei’s owner remarks as THEY clasp THEIR hands together and press them against THEIR cheek, “I hope you two get along while Idrila and I catch up over some tea.”

Your ears shoot up in alert at the idea of being alone with a predator hybrid. THEY seem to notice your hesitancy and quickly add on, “Don’t worry! Mydei is trained well and won’t act like some feral dog. He won’t do anything you dislike!”

The words do little to calm your nerves, but Idrila and Yaoshi are already moving towards the living room, leaving you and Mydei on your own devices. You shift awkwardly as you ponder on what to do. Mydei’s presence doesn’t help. He stands against the wall with his arms crossed, long tail occasionally thumping against the floor.

As you fidget with your fingers, you attempt to sneak glances at the cat, who makes no move to… “get along with you.” Mydei has his eyes closed and his breathing is even, like he’s sleeping. His blonde hair fades to a soft red when it reaches his shoulders. You internally squeal when you notice that he has a part of it braided and resting on his right shoulder—and are those tattoos peaking out from under his black shirt? You have to hold yourself back from causing a scene.

Like with Phainon, you think he’s beautiful with his solid build (one you note is bigger than Phainon’s) and big arms. The way he has his arms crossed accentuates his chest and creates more tension on his already tight shirt. You have to force yourself to stop staring and squeeze your eyes shut. His appearance reminds you of another maine coon—

(Wait a minute…)

Upon closer inspection, you realize that this is the same hybrid you saw Phainon… hump all those weeks ago. You feel yourself flush at the revelation and shake your head to rid yourself of the memory that appeared in your head. 

When you open your eyes again, you’re met with Mydei’s golden eyes staring back at you. He has an eyebrow raised and his head is tilted in question. Your sudden movement must have aroused him from his meditation.

(You’re sure you look as red as his tattoos right now.)

In an attempt to quell the awkward air, you let out an admittedly depressing giggle and scratch the back of your neck, “Um—Do you want to go to the sunroom? With me..?”

You watch as Mydei lets out a huff and a small smile makes home on his face. To your surprise, he agrees and asks you to lead the way. Your ears perk up at his agreement and you bounce up and down in excitement. You grab his hand and start dragging him down the hallway, surprising him at the sudden skin to skin contact.

When you make it down the hall, you push a door open and bring Mydei inside with you. The sunroom is your favorite place in Idrila’s home. It’s the perfect place to relax and get some sun, while still staying in the house.

It’s where you’ve been hiding from Phainon for most of the week.

However, the samoyed isn’t here right now and instead this handsome maine coon is. You excitedly tell Mydei about what you like doing here: about the books you read, the snacks Idrila makes you, and how this is the perfect place to take a nap.

You’re still holding on to his hand when you finally bring Mydei to the biggest window in the room. In front of it, a blanket is placed on the ground. A book sits open on top of it with a bookmark marking the page you last left on. There’s a small table on the edge of the blanket, placed near the window, that holds a glass of lemonade, the condensation still visible on the outside of the glass even though the ice has melted.

You’re about to drag the maine coon to sit with you when it hits you that you’ve been dragging Mydei around this whole time and making him listen to your nonsensical ramblings. All while holding his hand! You abruptly pull your hand away from his and grip the end of your skirt instead.

You miss the way Mydei frowns at the loss of contact.

“I’m so sorry! I just spent that whole time rambling to you and you haven’t even been able to say a single thing back—” you start, hot from embarrassment, but Mydei cuts you off.

“It’s alright,” he says with a soft smile, “I enjoyed listening to your “ramblings.” It was quite cute.”

You cover your face with your hands and know you are blushing hard under them, “Ah—Thank you..?”

Taking note of your current state, Mydei takes the initiative and invites himself to sit on your blanket. Well—It’s not really sitting. It’s more like lounging. He drapes himself on the floor, with one knee bent and the other extended out.  His weight rests on one arm, elbow bent as he rests his chin on his hand, while the other pats the area next to him.

“Join me, won’t you?”

Mydei’s voice is borderline seductive and you find yourself entranced. Your body moves on its own and you awkwardly lay down next to him. First, you start on your back, but eventually turn to face him. Your ears flatten on your head and you open your mouth to say something. The words are lost on your tongue when Mydei puts his hand on your waist and pulls you flush against his body. Legs tangle with each other as you hold your breath, scared to breathe on him. You let out an exhale and involuntarily relax when Mydei brings the same hand up to your head, scratching the junction at the base of your ears. He lets out a chuckle that rumbles through his body when he sees how your tail twitches at his touch.

You cuddle closer to Mydei, trying to chase his touch. Your hands rest on his chest and grip onto his shirt when he rubs a particularly sensitive spot. It has you flushing once again and before you can apologise, Mydei brings his head down to your neck. You feel how he rubs his face against your scent glands, occasionally leaving nibbles on your skin.

(Is he… Is he scenting you?!)

Overwhelmed by his maneuvers, in your haze, you return his affection and begin to scent his own neck. All you can smell is Mydei and you find yourself getting droopy. The combination of the warm rays of the sun through the window and Mydei’s strong scent is just what you need to get sleepy.

You fall asleep with Mydei’s warm body pressed against yours.

“Why do you smell like that?”

“Smell like what?” Mydei pauses in his stretching to look at the white-haired hybrid.

Later on in the day, long after Mydei’s morning visit with you, he meets up with Phainon to train together. It’s something that the pair have been doing for a while, brawling as a healthy way of expelling pent up energy and satisfying their more animalistic instincts. This is the first meetup in a few weeks. Mydei had to separate himself from Phainon after a particular incident. However, meeting with you had put him in a good mood that had him reaching out to the samoyed to start their weekly meetings once again.

Phainon has a confused look on his pretty face, with his brows furrowed together and it's even completed with a pout. He gets closer to Mydei, leaning into his neck to get a better whiff. The maine coon isn’t fazed, already used to his antics, and patiently waits as Phainon sniffs all over his scent glands.

“Like [Name].”

Phainon abruptly pulls back, startling Mydei with his sudden seriousness, “Why do you smell like [Name]?”

The look on Phainon’s face is one Mydei can only identify as terrifying. The cute pout is erased from his face and the light disappears from his eyes. Gone is the kind and affectionate samoyed and what’s left is a feral wolf challenging someone that has entered his territory.

Mydei composes himself, and the startled look is gone as quickly as it came.

“[Name]?” the blonde pretends to question, “Ah, [Name], you mean the bunny that lives next door to you.” 

“Yeah. [Name].” Phainon says again, harsher this time, “Why do you smell like her?”

He says it like it disgusts him, like it pains him to even say the words. Mydei watches as the hybrid in front of him tightens and loosens the fists resting at his sides.

The maine coon tilts his head in a mocking manner, “I was over at her house earlier today. Yaoshi wanted to meet with Idrila and took me along. Something about [Name] needing to meet more hybrids, so I spent some time with her.”

Mydei remains vague on purpose. Some part of him wants to egg him and see how the samoyed will react.

How far he’ll spiral.

He can practically see the cogs turning in Phainon’s head as he tries to make something from Mydei’s words. He gave him essentially nothing after all. Anything else that he conjures up in his mind is from his own imagination.

Mydei studies Phainon’s face with vigor. The samoyed is staring out into space, and Mydei watches as his look of neutrality begins to morph into anger. Phainon’s eyebrows twitch and his nose scrunches. His mouth turns into a snarl, baring his teeth. Mydei can see the waves of anger exuding from his body.

“Did you—” Phainon scoffs, “Did you mate with her?”

Mydei says nothing, letting the silence linger in the air and allowing a few more seconds of Phainon’s imagination to run rampant.

“Maybe I did,” he finally breaks the silence, “I don’t see how that concerns you.”

Now it’s Phainon’s turn to be silent.

“She had no scent of a mate and no markings,” Mydei continues, “Would it truly be that concerning if I was the one to take her?”

Something snaps in Phainon and he stomps closer to the cat. Mydei thinks the samoyed is going to fight him, but all the samoyed does is place a shaking palm on the maine coon’s shoulder. His grip is tight, painfully so, but Mydei keeps his eyes on Phainon’s.

Phainon stares back into Mydei’s, eyes dark in anger. Now concerned, Mydei opens his mouth to say something to calm the dog down, but Phainon beats him to it.

A flip is switched and, like nothing has even happened in the past few moments, the smile is returned to Phainon’s face. The sparkle returns to his eyes and he joyfully says, “Of course not!”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head like an unassuming puppy, “You’re right! She wasn’t claimed. How lucky you are if you actually managed to woo her over. Haha. You should watch your back, Mydeimos. Someone might jump at her before you are able to complete the bond.”

Mydei’s eyes widen at the thinly veiled threat. Phainon called his bluff. He doesn’t like the chill that goes down his spine.

Fuck.

Apparently, the samoyed that lives next door is sick.

You would beg to differ. With a body like that, surely you wouldn’t get sick to the point your neighbor has to watch over you.

According to Idrila, Nanook had called THEM with concern in THEIR voice. Nanook wasn’t the type of person to worry like this, so Idrila was immediately alarmed at THEIR intonation. THEY had told THEM that Phainon hadn’t been eating the last few days and locked himself in his room. The samoyed had refused to come out, telling Nanook that he wasn’t feeling well, coughing and groaning every other word.

To you, it sounds like bullshit.

But the ever kind Idrila agreed to look over the dog while Nanook attended an important meeting THEY couldn’t afford to miss.

That brings you too now, as Idrila picks up a spare key from under a barely-hanging-onto-life plant on Nanook’s front porch.

(Clearly, THEY don’t concern themselves with plant life like Idrila does.)

You’re holding a basket full of at home remedies. Idrila had quickly cooked up some soup and packed some over-the-counter medicine. All you could do was scoff as THEY did so. 

Idrila finally unlocks the door and you’re greeted by silence. You step in and are almost knocked out. You’ve never been in Phainon’s house before, but you can smell that it’s his.

His scent is everywhere. In the air, on the walls. Every single nook and cranny. 

(Is this how Idrila’s house smelled when Mydei came over? Is that why he was.. “meditating”?)

You shake your head. Now’s not the time to think about Mydei. You turn back to Idrila, who had taken the basket in your stupor and was now heating soup up on the stove.

THEY continue to mix the concoction and, without taking THEIR eyes off the pot, requests something of you.

“Go check on, Phainon!” THEY hum out the samoyed’s name, “Maybe seeing another hybrid will make him feel better!”

(Bullshit.)

However, you reluctantly nod, and turn to move further into his house. You’d have to find Phainon’s room first if you wanted to “check on him.” You let your nose be your guide and follow the scent to where it’s the strongest.

It guides you to a light blue door and you stand awkwardly in front of it. You don’t want to open it. A part of you is scared. This is the first time you’d be seeing the samoyed since he caught you spying on him from your window. On the other hand, you’re annoyed. This most definitely is some bullshit Phainon pulled to get to you. Surely it has to be.

You’ll never find the true reason unless you knock on the door, so you suck it up and finally do it. You place 3 firm taps on the door.

“Phainon? Are you okay? Nanook said you were sick, so Idrila and I came to check on you.”

There’s no response from the other side of the door.

“Hello..?” you question. This is the right door. You trust your nose enough to at least discern that.

The annoyance bubbles over at the continued lack of response and you finally break, “Hey! If you don’t open this door right now I’ll—”

The door slams open and Phainon jumps out. You let out a shriek as Phainon shoves you into the wall of the hallway. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud and you let out a yelp that only partially escapes your mouth as Phainon now has his hand covering the bottom half of your face.

All the commotion must have alerted Idrila downstairs as THEY question, “Is everything alright up there?”

“Everythings alright! Just startled each other, haha!” Phainon responds for the two of you while you struggle against his hold.

That seems to satisfy THEIR worries, “Alright… Nanook just texted me asking me to pick up your medicine, Phainon. Will you two be alright while I head out for a moment?”

“Of course!” Phainon says, voice too cheery for someone who’s supposed to be ill. You watch as his tail begins to wag.

(No, Idrila! Don’t leave me here with him!)

You attempt to yell against his hand, but your screams are muffled. It's no luck as you listen to Idrila leave through the front door. Now alone and sick of his behavior, you bite Phainon’s hand and kick him in the groin. Now, it’s his turn to yelp and his hands move away from your body and to his dick instead.

“You—You jerk! What the hell is wrong with you?!” You exclaim as you watch Phainon attempt to grip onto the wall and balance himself.

(Good. You managed to do some damage to him.)

“[N—Name],” he groans out, voice riddled with pain, “I just want to talk to you!”

You scoff, “Well you didn’t have to pretend to be sick to do it.”

“I did!” Phainon springs up, and it startles you, “It was the only way I could get you into my house.”

Your eyes widen in a mixture of shock and fear and your ears point out in alert.

The pain that Phainon was experiencing before seemingly evaporated and his hands returned to you. They come up to cup your face and bring it closer to his. Your hands grasp his wrists and you can feel his breath tingle on your lips.

You think he’s about to kiss you when he suddenly pauses, sniffing the air. He transfers his grip on your face onto one hand and grips your chin as he forcefully pulls your head to the side. Phainon buries his face in your neck and you can feel him sniff all over it.

“Mydeimos.”

His voice has dropped to a lower, growly pitch. It’s guttural, like a wolf.

“W—What? What does Mydei have to do with this?!” your voice comes out awkwardly due to his grip on your face.

Phainon lets out an actual growl and you feel it against you, “Don’t say his name.”

Suddenly, you feel something wet slide across your scent glands.

(Is—Is he licking you?!)

Your shoulders scrunch up at the sensation on your sensitive glands. It's so warm and wet, but for some reason it has you melting in his embrace. Phainon supports you by wrapping his free arm around your waist and pressing your body against his. He continues his relentless attack on your neck.

“When I’m done with you,” he starts, breathlessly, “You’ll smell like me. Not him.”

“And it’ll stick.”

Before you can question what he means, Phainon releases his grip on your face and picks you up bridal style. You grip onto his shoulders as he carries you into his room, closing the door behind him with his foot. He gently places you on his bed. The blue sheets are soft against you, but you can’t study his room any further because Phainon begins to strip himself in front of you.

You watch, jawslacked, as Phainon starts by taking off his top. Now that his shirt is off, you can truly see his body. His abs are defined and chest is pronounced.

(You’re sure the only person that rivals him is Mydei, but Phainon wouldn’t like you thinking that.)

He doesn’t give you enough time to appreciate his chest as he hastily moves onto his bottoms. Phainon pulls off his pants and underwear in one combined motion and, if your mouth could fall open even further, it has. The size of his dick is almost frightening. Its size is intimidating just like the rest of his body. It curves slightly upward and the tip is flushed a light pink. There is a prominent knot where his dick meets the base. A vein runs up on the side of his shaft from the base to the tip. Against your wishes, you feel yourself getting wet in between your legs and your mouth begins to water.

But as he climbs on top of you, the realization hits you all at once.

Phainon is trying to mate with you.

You place your hands on his chest and attempt to push him away, but he’s too strong and your push does nothing to deter his movements.

“W—Wait! Phainon, I’m not so sure—!”

The samoyed cuts you off by dropping himself on top of you. You let out a wheeze as the air is knocked out of you and you barely have enough time to catch your breath before Phainon is licking and kissing your ears. Your face is pressed into his chest as he continues his assault.

“Why?” Phainon questions, voice dark once again, “Did Mydei mate with you already?”

Now, you’re confused. 

(What’s this about Mydei and you mating?!)

“I—I don’t know—”

“Bullshit!” he cuts you off, “I smelled you all over him the other day. You can’t lie to me.”

“W—What?! We were just cuddling—”

Phainon lets out a manic laugh, “Haha—! Then how about we do some cuddling, too?”

He pulls away from you to grab onto the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. However, he doesn’t have the same amount of patience with your bra and grips it with both hands at the center before ripping it apart. You let out a gasp at his actions and yell profanities at him. Phainon pays no mind as he moves down to your skirt, hands gripping onto your panties and pulling them down along with the skirt.

Now you’re bare in front of him like he is with you. 

You can’t do anything but grip the sheets next to you as Phainon brings himself down and his mouth immediately meets your wet pussy. His tongue licks circles into your clit and it has you arching into his mouth. The sounds of your moaning and his mouth on your cunt fill the room. You squirm at the overwhelming pleasure and Phainon places a hand on your stomach to press you back down onto the bed. The added pressure doesn’t help you at all and tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes. Phainon seems to notice and brings his other hand to your cunt and presses it into you. It slides right in with the help of all your slick that has now built up at his ministrations.

His finger is longer than yours and immediately hits places you couldn’t reach yourself. He prods around until he finds a spot that has you wailing. The tears spill from your eyes as your legs begin to shake at the pleasure. Before you know it, Phainon adds another finger and presses his tongue harder against your clit. You feel yourself right on the edge and you clench around Phainon, but he abruptly pulls away, taking his fingers with him.

You whine at the loss of feeling full and are about to complain when Phainon says, “I’m sorry, bunny, but the only time you’re gonna come is on my cock as I fuck you full of my cum.”

Your face grows impossibly red at his words and you sink further into the haze that is Phainon. He climbs back on top of you in between your legs and lines himself up with your entrance. You hold your breath as you feel Phainon push himself into you. The stretch is intense, so much more than his fingers.

“Too—Too much, Phai!” you squeal at how full you are.

Phainon lets out a chuckle and presses himself back into your scent glands, “I’m only half-way, bunny.”

You let out a moan as Phainon continues to push in despite your protest. When your cunt finally meets his knot, you feel impossibly full. So full to the point that you can feel him up in your throat. Phainon lets out a loud groan when you squeeze down on him and he has to bite the sheets next to your head to stop himself from cumming right then and there.

“C—Careful. If you keep doing that I’ll cum sooner than I want to.”

His words have you whining and Phainon takes that as a sign to start moving. He places his hands under your knees and presses them against the bed as he begins to thrust into your pussy. It makes a loud squelch every time his knot nudges your cunt. You can feel him deep in your stomach, your womb.

He’s hitting every pleasurable spot inside of you and you can’t help but clench around him. You feel yourself on the edge of your orgasm once again and this time Phainon doesn’t pull himself out to stop your high.

You cum with a loud whine, clenching hard around Phainon’s cock. It has him letting out a moan and his thrusts grow erratic. Soon he’s joining you in your high as he comes inside you, but he doesn’t push in his knot and the cum leaks back out of your cunt when he slides out.

You're both breathing heavily, breaths mingling with each other as you attempt to get air back into your lungs.

But Phainon doesn’t give you a moment of respite and he’s gripping your waist and flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Phai—Wait—Still sensitive—!”

Your words are knocked out of you when Phainon pushes his still hard cock back inside your cunt from behind. It slides back in easily with all the cum that's inside of you already. He holds you up by your hips, leaving your head on the sheets, and grinds into you.

“F—Fuck! How are you even tighter like this—” Phainon groans as he presses his eyes shut, relishing the pleasure of your sensitive pussy pulsing around him.

However, a scowl returns to his face when he remembers how this all started. Without taking his hands off your hips, he leads down near your ears. You feel his body heat against your back and he whispers into your ears as they twitch.

“Did Mydei fuck you like this? Was his cock big enough to hit all these spots inside of you? Did he have you leaking all over the sheets like I am?”

All you can do is respond with a moan and Phainon bites down on an ear as he drags your body up and down his cock by your hips. The position has him hitting even deeper than before and you feel him hit your womb every time he thrusts back in. It’s intense, and when Phainon lets go of your ear, you turn your head to the side to be able to breathe. Tears are streaming down your face again, and you feel Phainon grow harder inside of you. He brings mouth to your cheeks and licks up your tears before pressing his face into your scent glands.

“Y—You’re even cute when you cry. Sh—Shit—!” he exclaims as you clench around him, close once again.

“If you’re close again, I’m gonna have to fuck you harder if I want to cum with you, bunny,” Phainon breathes out, “Hang on.”

You grip the sheets as he brings himself upright again and pulls out, leaving just the tip. You whine at the loss of his cock, but you mewl when he shoves himself back in by thrusting his hips and simultaneously bringing your hips to meet his. He moves faster now, chasing his own high. You attempt to crawl away from him, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting and he pulls you back onto his dick every time.

Phainon’s moans grow in volume and you know he’s close like you. He leans back once again and places his mouth over your scent glands. You think you hear him mutter an apology when he suddenly pushes his knot into your sloppy pussy, cumming inside you. At the same time, he bites down hard on your gland, creating a mating mark. When his knot slips in, it has your eyes widening at the sudden intrusion. The feeling of being so overwhelmingly stuffed as you falling apart on his cock, tail twitching erratically. You cum on his dick with a loud moan of his name and you feel pulse after pulse of his cum fill your womb and pussy.

After a few moments, his mouth lets go of your neck and he licks the blood away. Phainon presses light kisses on your scent gland.

“Now, you’re mine,” he says, still in a sex daze, “Not Mydei’s. Mine.”

“Yours,” you reply before you can stop it.

The word has Phainon perking up and his tail wags behind him. He peppers kisses all over your face and begins to grind himself against you.

(Wait—Is he getting hard again?!)

By the time Idrila returns, you’ve been fully fucked out.

Bite marks litter your body and a mixture of your slick and Phainon’s cum slides down your legs. You can’t feel your body and all you can think about is Phainon.

You’re sure the smell of sex is clear in the air even to your owner’s nose.

Phainon has finally taken a break to get you some water and your suspicions about Idrila are confirmed when Phainon returns with some soup and the aforementioned water.

He also mentions the news that Idrila has given you permission to “sleepover.”

Even with your aching body, you can stop the sigh that escapes your lips.

You’re in for a long night.

PHAINON GIVE ME A CHANCE PLEASE!!! also i wrote this in an actual daze sorry if some of it didnt make sense LOL

you are at part one! go to ; two

please like, comment, reblog, and share if you enjoyed!!

all rights reserved © 2025 podokrys do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or feed to ai on any platform

[wasvrenagusa]

ALMOST HOLY YEARNING

pairing: Phainon x Fem!Reader summary: A painfully ordinary healer is transferred into the worst possible workplace scenario: direct proximity to the literal sun in human form—Phainon, the Deliverer you have been secretly, responsibly, and catastrophically worshipping from afar. Between overflowing infirmaries, impossible odds, and a boss who thinks throwing you at the Chrysos Heirs is “character building,” you must keep people alive and keep yourself from combusting every time Phainon smiles, laughs, or unforgivably, comes back just to see you. This is, let's say, a comical story about accidental closeness, professional boundaries being obliterated, and the terrifying realization that the man you admire from a safe distance might be looking back… and finding you hilarious. wc: 7.4k

PART II

PART I: SAFE DISTANCE? OBLITERATED

Let’s be clear—you’d carved the words into your own soul with the solemnity of a sacred vow: you were completely, incredibly, and catastrophically a worshipper of the Deliverer, Phainon.

Now, sure, the entire city of Okhema felt roughly the same way. The man was basically a walking, talking beacon of hope, holding back the all-consuming darkness creeping from Amphoreus like some divine nightlight. 

But for you? Oh, it went deeper. So deep that if you ever tried to explain what Phainon meant to you, any observer would immediately conclude: “Ah. You’re not just inspired. You’re utterly, hopelessly gone on him. You’ve stared into his crystal-blue eyes and fallen headfirst into a pitfall with no bottom, and you’re decorating the walls on your way down.”

In your defense, you weren’t the only one cheerfully free-falling. There were others—a whole clandestine club of smitten citizens who’d formed what could only be described as a “Council of Yearning.” 

They exchanged meaningful glances, whispered in coded language, and probably commissioned fan-art in secret scrolls. You knew of them, of course. But joining? Absolutely not. Your adoration was a private, stealth-operated operation. 

Of all people, the absolute last person you wanted stumbling across your carefully concealed shrine of feelings was Hyacine—fellow Chrysos Heir, terrifyingly brilliant physician, and, just to really seal your fate, Phainon’s coworker.

Which, naturally, meant the universe immediately cracked its knuckles.

You were a healer at the Eye of the Twilight: reliably average, impressively competent, and gloriously forgettable. You patched people up, dispensed tonics, and made a career out of staying out of narratives. And then, without so much as a warning bell, Fate—or possibly a bored trickster Titan named Zagreus—leaned over the edge of reality, spotted your peaceful little existence, and said, “No. Let’s ruin this one.”

Your supervisor called you in. You stood there, smiling politely, as she announced she was transferring you directly under Hyacine’s guidance.

The news hit you like a sudden, unplanned plunge into the River of Souls. All the air left your body. Your soul began silently packing its bags. You stared at your supervisor with the betrayed expression of a housecat thrown into a wolf den.

Was I that mediocre? Is this a polite way of firing me?

Sensing your internal meltdown, your supervisor sighed and shook her head. Then, with a flourish, she presented you to Hyacine. “My lady, this is (Y/N). A highly skilled healer among her peers. I have every confidence her talents will be of great assistance to you.”

Your jaw practically fell off. Skilled? She thought you were skilled? A brief, sparkly puff of pride fluttered in your chest—then immediately got run over by a panicked Droma. This wasn’t a promotion. This was being handed a teaspoon and told, “Great news! Please dig a defensive trench around the entire city. By yourself. Also, it’s actively flooding.”

Because working with Hyacine came with one horrifying, unavoidable side effect: exposure to the Chrysos Heirs. And worse—him. Phainon. A man with eyes the exact color of a dramatic summer sky, hair that looked like it violated several grooming laws, and a voice so smooth it could probably convince a rock to unpack its unresolved feelings.

For you, being near him wasn’t exciting. It was a workplace safety violation. One accidental moment of eye contact and you’d combust into a neat little pile of polite, adoring ash. Poof. Gone.

Your number one life rule was Distance. Admire responsibly. From afar. You were content with hallway gossip and whispered legends drifting in from the streets. That’s why you steered clear of the “Council of Yearning”—they were brave, shameless, and held public viewings of his speeches. You, however, required a minimum safe radius of several city blocks to function.

Hyacine, meanwhile, was beaming at you. She was so radiantly kind and friendly it was almost physically blinding. She reached out and clasped both your hands, and you jolted like you’d been handed live wires.

“Hello, (Y/N)! It’s an honor to meet you!” she chirped. Her cyan eyes sparkled with lethal sincerity. “I know it’s sudden, but we are swamped. The Black Tide surges are getting aggressive, casualties are rising… we’re all hands on deck! I really, really need another capable pair of hands!”

Her twin-tails seemed to curl persuasively. Your supervisor gave you a firm nod that said, “Do it or I’ll reconsider that ‘highly skilled’ assessment.”

The silence dragged on until it became a physical object. Your throat felt like it was lined with desert sand. Hyacine tightened her grip, effectively holding your hands hostage with pure, weaponized enthusiasm.

You attempted to speak. What emerged was a small, tragic sound, somewhere between a mouse stepping on a mouse trap and a frog having its final thought. You immediately considered sprinting headfirst into the nearest marble pillar and letting the universe sort it out.

Inside your skull, a full-scale riot broke out.  On one side: absolute, unfiltered terror at the thought of accidentally running into Phainon and combusting on the spot. On the other: Hyacine’s devastatingly hopeful expression, your inconvenient sense of responsibility, and the very real image of people suffering under the Black Tide.

Duty—and the crippling fear of disappointing a walking sunbeam—won decisively.

“Lady Hyacine,” you started, your voice finally clocking in for work. She leaned closer, eyes shining. “I’m… not entirely confident in my skills.” Her smile wavered, and guilt stabbed you, so you hurried on. “But if people need help—especially now, with everything closing in—I won’t turn away. I accept. It would be an honor to learn from you.”

Her smile snapped back even brighter, like it had never left. She squeezed your hands so hard you were pretty sure your fingerprints permanently fused. “Thank you, (Y/N)! The honor is ours!”

And just like that, with a handful of sincere sentences, your quiet, anonymous, safely Phainon-free life was officially launched into a chaotic, high-risk orbit directly adjacent to the Chrysos Heirs. Your quiet life is over. 

Long live the era of suppressed internal screaming and hoping you don’t literally turn to dust the first time someone says, “Good morning, the Deliverer is right behind you.”

The slow, shamble back to your quarters could only be described as “recently deceased.” You didn’t so much arrive as you did decompose across the threshold, before face-planting directly into your pillow with a muffled scream. 

One month. One entire, grueling month as Hyacine’s so-called “extra pair of hands.” Her description, you had come to realize, belonged in a museum of tragic understatements, right next to “The Council of Elders had a minor buoyancy issue.” “Swamped” implied a manageable puddle. This was less a swamp and more the entire, churning, vengeful ocean. “Hands tied” suggested a temporary inconvenience. Yours felt permanently superglued to a thousand urgent, bleeding, or feverish tasks.

Your inaugural day at the Okhema infirmary had been a masterclass in horror. The air wasn’t just air—it was saturated with coppery blood and aggressively determined antiseptic, a smell that lodged itself somewhere between your lungs and your soul and showed no intention of leaving.

And then, there were the refugees. 

People carved hollow by fear and pain, their cities swallowed whole by the slow, creeping menace of the Black Tide. One look at them stole the breath right out of your lungs and did not return it with an apology. You’d shown up painfully optimistic, mentally prepared for scraped knees, mild fevers, and—if fate was feeling generous—a brave little splinter removal that would make a nice story later.

Instead, catastrophe looked at your expectations, laughed so hard it needed a moment, and then set the building on fire.

And every time that memory bubbled up, panic followed immediately: healers sprinting past like their lives depended on it, a stretcher rattling by with the latest entry in Reasons You No Longer Sleep, and you wondering, briefly but sincerely, how fast one could fake competence under pressure.

You’d watch Hyacine, a whirlwind of calm efficiency, her hands glowing with a gentle light as she sealed wounds that made you queasy. “(Y/N), I need your assistance!” was your constant, adrenaline-spiking call to arms.

And so the days bled together. You became a jack-of-all-healing-trades: wound-tender, pill-counter, sympathy-dispenser, and soup-chef for the weary. You were fairly certain you’d aged a decade. Your bones creaked a protest anthem. 

Even so, buried under the exhaustion that felt personal and targeted, there was this annoyingly warm little spark of fulfillment. A kid flashing a shy smile, an elder giving you a grateful nod, tiny moments that somehow refueled your soul just enough to keep your legs moving, despite their loud, ongoing protests.

A crucial, blessed side-effect of this chaotic routine was the distinct and glorious absence of Certain Lofty Individuals. 

The Chrysos Heirs remained mercifully in their distant, shimmering orbits. This was your comfort blanket, your security. You could handle anyone else with professional detachment. But him? Psh, nah. The mere theoretical possibility of an encounter made your internal organs try to hide behind each other. Not that he’d ever need you, of course. Hyacine was his personal physician, The Chrysos Heirs physician. If the great Phainon ever got so much as a paper cut, she’d doubtless heal it with a snap of her fingers.

This comforting thought was in your head as you distributed freshly-concocted medicinal herbs, feeling almost competent. Then the infirmary doors swung open.

Instinct, drilled into you by a month of trauma, took over. You spun with your best “We’ve Got This, Please Don’t Panic” smile already plastered on your face, ready to soothe another frantic newcomer.

The smile died a sudden, violent death. It didn’t fade; it plummeted off a cliff, taking your notebook with it, which hit the floor with a sound like the last gasp of your sanity.

Standing in the doorway, framed like a devastatingly beautiful portrait entitled “Nope,” was Phainon himself. The one you worship. Your secret, heart-palpitating inspiration. The absolute last person you wanted to see while you smelled of antiseptic and despair, with probably herb stains on your sleeves.

He was, of course, infuriatingly glorious. Silken white hair, eyes like chips of Arctic sky, a face that could make a poet throw away their quill in despair. And there it was—the universe’s cruel punchline. A laceration, neat and vivid, marring his perfect right cheek. It wasn’t serious, just a rogue brushstroke of violence on a pristine canvas.

The wound didn’t matter. The why did. Why here? Why now? Why, when you resembled a neglected houseplant and he looked like an angel who’d taken a very tasteful amount of damage?

Every survival instinct you’d ever developed in these halls screamed the same, urgent directive: STRATEGIC RETREAT. MELT INTO THE WALL. BECOME DECOR.

You began to back away, a study in subtle disintegration. But the cosmos, it seemed, was in a particularly comedic mood. His gaze, cool and sweeping, snagged on your attempted vanishing act. Your eyes locked.

In that moment, you didn’t just crumble; you underwent a full, internal, silent supernova. Every coherent thought vaporized. Abort. Evaporate. Cease to exist—

“(Y/N), perfect timing!”

Hyacine’s cheerful voice sliced through your internal meltdown. She was beelining towards you. And behind her, following with that effortless, lethal grace, was Phainon, his blue eyes now fixed on you with polite, utterly terrifying curiosity.

The explosion wasn’t metaphorical anymore. You were pretty sure you’d just turned to ash on the inside, while your outside was expected to form words and possibly not faint. Perfect timing. Of course it was. The universe had finally delivered its punchline, and you were the staring, horrified straight man.

The universe slammed the brakes so hard it squealed. Every sound in the infirmary—the groans, the murmurs, the clink of tools—faded into a useless background buzz, like someone had packed your ears with cotton and bad life choices. Your vision narrowed with alarming efficiency.

There was Phainon. 

And then there was Phainon plus lighting. 

He stood there backlit by a glowing blur, as if the ancient Titans themselves had crawled into the rafters to adjust the lighting and really sell the moment. Subtlety was dead. The message was clear: Behold. Observe. Suffer.

This has gone past absurd and straight into a direct attack on your ability to exist peacefully.

“(Y/N), thankfully I spotted you! There’s been an incident near the Path of Parting—injured warriors, I’m needed immediately. Be a dear and tend to Lord Phainon’s little scratch? Do a quick check for any other bumps or bruises, would you?” Hyacine’s words were a rapid-fire volley of urgency, completely devoid of any consideration for your imminent mental disintegration.

A thousand protests clogged your throat. Assign him to Healer Althea! She’s seen actual centuries! Or Brother Fenris! He’s unflappable! But the idea of articulating this while sharing molecular space with the man himself was as plausible as sprouting wings and flying away. You were a healer, sworn to duty. Your personal crisis of existence was not a valid medical exemption.

Your soul, however, was already halfway to becoming a small, neat pile of glittering dust in the corner. It took a Herculean, soul-straining minute to glue your composure back together. The principle you’d clung to—‘Admire From A Safe, Kilometer-Long Distance’—lay in metaphorical ruins at your feet. And now, here you were. Toe to boot. Face to… devastating face. With your crush. 

“L-Lady Hyacine. I-I don’t really think I’m the most… qualified…” you managed to squeak out, a masterclass in understatement.

“Lord Phainon, this is (Y/N)!” Hyacine chirped, blithely steamrolling over your feeble protest as if it were a minor insect noise.

Then he looked at you. Directly. It wasn’t just a glance; it was an ocular event. If Hyacine’s healing aura was a comforting lantern, Phainon’s presence was the heart of a newborn star. You instinctively winced, half-expecting your retinas to issue a formal complaint.

And then he smiled.

Your jaw didn’t just drop; it performed a full, theatrical detach-and-plummet sequence. Internally, your body completed its threatened transformation. You were no longer dust; you were a fine, incinerated ash, and a mischievous psychic breeze was happily scattering you to the four winds.

“The honor is mine, (Y/N). Hyacine has told me much about you,” he said, his voice like sunlight given sound.

SO BRIGHT! CEASE IMMEDIATELY! …NO, NEVER STOP! …ARGH!

But beyond the luminescence, his words finally penetrated your ash-pile consciousness. Hyacine has told me much about you. The sentence looped in your mind, triggering a secondary panic. Hyacine had been… talking about you? To him? A spark of giddy terror ignited. 

What classified information had been exchanged? Did he know about your proficiency with poultices, or your unfortunate habit of talking to medicinal plants? The uncertainty was its own special torture.

“U-Uh…” you eloquently replied. Your vocal cords had apparently chosen this moment to embark on a goofy impression of a broken music box.

“(Y/N), I know it’s sudden, but I leave Lord Phainon in your capable hands. I must fly!” Hyacine said, her worry for the distant warriors finally breaking through her matchmaking-adjacent demeanor. She turned to Phainon, beaming. “Don’t worry, (Y/N) is quite skilled. And terribly funny. A wonderful entertainer!”

Hyacine beamed with unmistakable pride. You slowly turned to face her, your expression settling somewhere between a death glare and a desperate please help me. Entertainer? Had you been promoted to court jester? Was this your new role—healer by trade, clown by circumstance?

“Lady Hyacine,” you tried again, voice tight with restraint, “this is all happening very, very fast.”

“See?” Hyacine laughed, pointing at your visible horror like she’d just nailed the punchline. “She’s funny!”

Phainon’s smile widened, and he nodded along, serene and entirely complicit.

You had been betrayed by joy itself.

“I can already see the evidence,” he remarked, his tone suggesting you’d just performed a masterful bit of physical comedy instead of having a slow-motion internal breakdown.

That was it. The final straw. Your knees issued a formal petition to buckle, but you locked them with sheer, stubborn pride. They would not betray you. He would not know. The great, star-destroying secret of your starstruck idiocy would go to your grave, even if that grave felt moments away.

“I’m… flattered, but really, I’m just—”

“Must dash! Take good care of him, (Y/N)!” And in a swirl of robes, Hyacine vanished, leaving you alone in a bubble of deafening, palpable silence with the Golden Heir. The infirmary’s background chaos continued on mute, like an overly enthusiastic pantomime you could no longer hear. Even the air felt smug about it.

Very slowly, with the stiff precision of a rusted machine nearing its last day of service, you turned your head towards Phainon.

He was already looking at you. Of course he was. A small, traitorous squeak escaped you before you could stop it.

Titans above, get a grip. Heal the stupid, beautiful scratch. Send the beautiful, scratched man on his way. Then find a dark closet and scream.

“So… shall we… commence with the laceration… healing?” you heard yourself say. It came out as a bewildered question, as if you were asking him for permission to perform your own job. 

Marvelous. Just project total incompetence. Perfect strategy.

“I place myself in your care,” Phainon replied, sincere and steady.

If anyone else had said it, it would’ve been standard courtesy. From him—alone with you in this self-inflicted void—it landed like a sacred oath you had absolutely not trained for. Heat immediately climbed your neck, which you extinguished with a mental bucket labeled Professionalism. Emergency Use Only.

“Right. This way, please,” you said, and a tiny part of your brain threw a confetti parade for managing a sentence with a normal tone and a complete absence of squeaking.

Scratch ‘not sure.’ Scratch everything. I do NOT like this at all.

By the time you ducked into the room, you were a vibrating pile of nerves. Your hands were shaking at your sides, your legs had officially downgraded from “functional” to “overcooked pasta,” and standing upright felt like an ambitious suggestion.

The problem was that Phainon was still there, right behind you, radiating an amount of presence that made you want to scream, sprint, and possibly crawl into a supply cabinet to live out the rest of your days.

As if the situation weren’t already a crime scene, his scent staged a violent regime change in the infirmary. Years of antiseptic—your ride-or-die, your emotional support odor—were immediately overthrown without a vote. You caught yourself wanting to take a long, shameless inhale of him instead, which violated at least three professional codes, two personal boundaries, and one unspoken agreement with yourself.

No. Hard stop. This was unacceptable behavior from your own brain. Get it together. You had a job. A duty. Several patients. Breathe antiseptic, you ordered yourself.

You gestured to a treatment cot with all the grace of a malfunctioning clockwork toy. “If you, uh, could just… right there. Please. Yes.” You sounded like you were giving directions to a suspicious parcel, not a living legend.

Phainon, mercifully, did not comment. He simply sat, the cot giving a tiny, insignificant creak that sounded like a thunderclap in your ears. The small side chamber suddenly felt about the size of a breadbox. A very warm breadbox. Filled with starlight and your impending doom.

You turned to your supplies, your back to him, and took a deep, shuddering breath you hoped was silent. Big mistake. 

The room had been firmly in hospital mode—bleach, antiseptic, despair—until he walked in. Suddenly everything smelled like a thunderstorm had just cleaned its life up and then gone outside to bask on a warm rock. The antiseptic didn’t just fade; it packed its bags and left town.

For one wildly inappropriate moment, your brain completely clocked out and suggested you stop everything, shove your face into your hands, and just inhale like this was a paid activity.

No. You are a healer. You have dealt with gruesome wounds, terrified refugees, and Hyacine’s bottomless optimism. You can handle one… gloriously handsome… cheek laceration. Focus!

You grabbed the salve and a fresh cloth while your hands completely betrayed you. This wasn’t a mild shake—this was full-on jackhammer mode. You were fairly sure if anyone set a wineglass nearby, it would explode on principle alone.

You inched towards him with the focused terror of someone defusing a bomb they definitely did not watch the tutorial for, gripping the salve jar like it was one wrong blink away from going kaboom.

“Alright, just… a little of this. Promotes healing. And, um, prevents scarring.” You were babbling. To Phainon. About skincare. “Not that a scar would be… I mean, it would probably look… statuesque? Battled-hardened? Very… narrative?” You desperately wished for the Black Tide to swallow you whole.

He stayed perfectly still, wearing a small, saintly smile—like he was humoring a chimera that had somehow been handed medical supplies. You dipped your fingers into the salve, locked onto the cut on his cheek like a guided missile, and cautiously advanced, every ounce of your focus screaming do not mess this up.

The tremor in your hand was now epic. 

Your index finger jittered an inch from his face, tracing chaotic little circles in the air like a drunken moth convinced his cheek was the world’s most majestic lantern.

Phainon’s eyes—previously observing your routine like it was a nature documentary—creased at the corners.

Then he made a sound that definitely wasn’t a full laugh, but also absolutely wasn’t not one. It slipped out warm and light, the kind of breathy amusement that feels illegal to hear up close.

It had the general vibe of sunlight filtering through trees, which was wildly unfair, because you were already fighting for your life just trying to aim your fingers correctly.

Your heart didn’t politely flutter—it wiped out spectacularly, somersaulted twice, and ran away to pursue a career in interpretive dance. You locked up completely, your salve-covered finger suspended midair like a paused loading screen.

“Did I—um—did I do something wrong, my lord?” you squeaked, your voice valiantly aiming for composed professionalism and instead hitting alarmed field mouse.

He shook his head slowly, carefully, like you might bolt if he moved too fast.

“No, forgive me. It’s just…” He raised his own hand—annoyingly calm, offensively steady—and gently closed his fingers around your wrist. Very gently. Unfairly gently. His touch was cool and steady, the human equivalent of grabbing a railing during an earthquake, and it sent a zap of static straight up your arm.

“You’re shaking rather impressively,” he added with quiet amusement. “I assure you, the cut doesn’t hurt. And I promise, I won’t bite.”

Between the hand-holding, the smile, and the laugh that absolutely should’ve come with a warning label, whatever was left of your brain-to-mouth filter finally gave up and resigned.

“Oh, I’m not concerned about you biting,” you blurted, nerves clogging your throat. “I’m worried I’m going to accidentally poke you in the eye and then history will record that the Deliverer was felled not by the Black Tide, but by a jittery apprentice with poor depth perception and a jar of goop.”

Phainon just stared at you for a beat. Then one corner of his mouth betrayed him. The twitch spread, turned into a full-blown tremor—and suddenly he tipped his head back and laughed. Not a dignified, noble sort of laugh, either. 

This was the laugh of a man who had been caught completely off guard and was having the time of his life about it.

“I understand now,” he said at last, somehow still smiling like that. “It seems the greatest threat I faced today wasn’t the ambush at the Path of Parting, but the infirmary that followed.” He lifted a hand solemnly. “I will henceforth protect my eyes with the utmost caution.”

“Right. Caution is… good,” you mumbled, utterly defeated. “Could you, um, maybe hold your own eyelid open? Just as a safety precaution?”

That absolutely finished him. He broke into another laughing fit, finally letting go of your wrist so he could clap a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking like he was trying—and failing—to keep his dignity from escaping entirely.

You did not waste this gift from the Titans. The second he was distracted—eyes squeezed shut, dignity temporarily abandoned—you lunged and dabbed the salve onto the cut with one surprisingly steady motion, and slapped a clean cloth over it like you were applying a seal to an official decree.

Done. Finalized. No amendments. 

“There!” you announced, leaping back as if from a completed explosive device. “All done. The salve will work best if you don’t laugh too hard and stretch the skin. So. Please try to avoid anything… humorous.” You gave a stiff, formal bow. “My lord.”

Phainon wiped a tear of laughter from his undamaged eye, his smile softer now, but no less brilliant. “Thank you, (Y/N). That was, without question, the most entertaining medical treatment I have ever received. And the wound feels… expertly sealed.”

You had no idea whether he was gently teasing you or being genuinely sweet, and that uncertainty was its own boutique brand of suffering. But the evidence was undeniable: you were still alive. Both of his eyes remained firmly where nature intended. His eye was intact. And somehow, against all odds, you had made the Deliverer laugh so hard he might need medical attention for that next.

“J-just doing my duty,” you said, your voice climbing an octave like it was trying to escape your body. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go… inspect some extremely important, very serious, absolutely not-humorous herbs.”

Then you fled. Not walked—fled. Your ears burned, his laughter followed you like a cursed soundtrack, and the horrifying truth settled in: whatever you’d thought a “safe distance” was before? Gone. Obliterated. Breached beyond repair, in the most ridiculous way possible.

A full seven days. Seven days without a single shimmering hair of Phainon, the Chrysos Heir, Deliverer of Amphoreus and Deliverer-unto-you of pure, unfiltered panic.

By day three, your pulse finally dipped below "hummingbird on espresso" and settled into a rhythm a medic might charitably call "living."

By day five, your hands stopped impersonating pneumatic drills, allowing you to handle beakers without the constant, clinking fear of reducing them to expensive confetti.

By day seven, you’d almost built a convincing mental fortress. The whole incident—the blood, the closeness, the laugh—could be written off as a complex psychological cocktail. The key ingredients: sleep deprivation, the ghost of crushed valerian root, and a frankly embarrassing lifetime supply of awe for a man who could probably bench-press a temple. 

Almost.

Because your brain, that traitorous organ, had a favorite new party trick. It would wait until you were at your most vulnerable—measuring tinctures, sorting linen, blinking—and then, without permission, replay The Sound.

Not a polite little chuckle. This was a full-body, shoulders-jerking, eyes-squeezing, rewrite-the-archives kind of laugh. It rang around in your head like a cathedral bell, immediately followed by the deeply unhelpful hallucination of warm fingers brushing your wrist.

Meanwhile, your internal monologue had abandoned all dignity and was screaming into an imaginary pillow you apparently carried at all times. We are not thinking about this. We are not unpacking this. We are professionals.

A professional, unfortunately, who was seconds away from dying of secondhand embarrassment.

The clinic, thankfully, was a sanctuary of the ordinary. Hyacine buzzed around with the force of a small hurricane, the Black Tide provided its usual grim workload, and the incident was slowly being filed away in your mental archives under: 

MORTIFYING, BUT CONTAINED.

You breathed. You healed. You functioned.

The universe noticed you were having a moment of unacceptable calm and immediately responded by lobbing a sparkly, demigod-sized problem straight into your day.

You were halfway through bandaging an elderly fisherman’s arm. He smelled like saltwater, pure obstinacy, and the medicinal brandy he absolutely claimed was “for circulation.” You were on your third explanation of why “no, you cannot go hauling nets tomorrow,” when the infirmary doors creaked open like they were about to deliver bad news.

You didn’t glance up. Rookie error. Number one.

The sound hit you first. Footsteps. Not the familiar, hurried slap of a junior healer, or the determined tromp of a guardsman. These were… different. Measured. Calm. Each step a declaration of I belong exactly where I put my foot. They were the auditory equivalent of perfect posture.

Your own spine achieved a similar perfection, locking into a rod of pure dread.

No. Nononono—

Your hands froze, bandage half-twirled. The fisherman squinted at your sudden statue impression. From across the room came the magnificent, timely crash of a dropped instrument tray. Clang! Divine entrance, complimentary sound effect.

With all the enthusiasm of someone about to regret everything, you slowly looked up.

There he was. Phainon. Framed in the doorway, sunlight from the hall doing him a ridiculous number of favors. No new gashes. No limp. No plausible, medical reason to be here. He was just… present. Like a masterpiece that had wandered out of its gallery to critique the lighting.

Your mind emitted a sound like a shattered lyre. The bandage slithered from your numb fingers, drifting towards the floor in what felt like a symbolic abdication of your entire career.

WHAT IS HE DOING HERE AGAIN? your brain shrieked internally, loud enough you were surprised the herbs didn’t wilt.

You were frozen. The fisherman was frozen, his eyes darting between you and the living legend in the doorway. Phainon’s gaze did a lazy, sweeping arc of the room—a king surveying his peaceful, if slightly antiseptic, kingdom—before landing directly on you.

And then his face did a thing.

It wasn’t a smile. It was a grin. A full, unguarded, "Well, look what I found" grin. It contained multitudes: recognition, delight, and the faint, terrifying glint of someone who has just remembered a particularly amusing joke. You were the joke.

Your soul attempted a clean vertical exit through the top of your head. Being on the receiving end of that grin felt like getting personally acknowledged by the sun, which somehow knew your name and all your worst moments.

Your knees declared a temporary strike. Your lungs decided to take a coffee break. Your entire existence distilled into one pristine, screaming thought: I am going to evaporate into a fine, embarrassed mist.

“Ah,” Phainon said, and his voice was warm honey poured directly into your ear canals. “There you are.”

There you are.

As if you’d been hiding. As if he’d been peeking behind curtains. As if you were a missing sock he’d just located.

A sound escaped you. It was not a word. It was the phonetic equivalent of a system error, a tiny “kh—” that died in your throat.

The fisherman leaned in, whispering with brandy-breath confidentiality, “Lass, should I be concerned? You’ve gone the color of bad cheese.”

“No,” you croaked, your voice apparently sourced from a rusty hinge. “Everything is… supremely normal.” This was the greatest lie told since the invention of politics.

You bent to grab the fallen bandage with the coordinated grace of a startled chimera, and promptly introduced your forehead to the solid oak frame of the cot. 

Thwock.

“Stars—!” you hissed, clapping a hand to the new, throbbing testament to your clumsiness.

And then he was there. How did he move so quietly? Was he part cat? Part ghost? Part beautifully appointed nuisance?

“Are you injured?” he asked, concerned genuine enough to rattle your bones.

“I am fine,” you said immediately, snapping upright with the stiff posture of a haunted coat rack. “Perfectly fine. No injuries. Just… gravity. Being rude.”

His grin deepened. You felt yourself phase slightly out of reality, like a poorly anchored watermark.

“I’ve been told gravity is rather unforgiving in this wing,” he mused, his eyes dancing. “It seems to have a particular grievance with you.”

Oh, he was teasing. This was advanced teasing. This was Hyacine’s doing. You could feel her meddling from three corridors away. 

You quickly finished wrapping the fisherman’s arm, patting it with finality. “There. Rest. Drink water. Avoid lifting, straining, or pondering the vast, uncaring void. Also, doors. Doors are tricky.”

The fisherman took his newly bandaged arm, looking at you with deep pity. “You should lie down, child. You seem feverish.”

“I am in the peak of health,” you insisted, staring at a point on the wall approximately two feet to the left of Phainon’s magnificent head. “A silent, internal peak.”

Once the fisherman had shuffled off, casting wary glances back, you were alone. Well, as alone as one can be with the Deliverer radiating quiet amusement in one’s workspace. You turned, a slow, careful pivot like a rusty gate.

“Lord Phainon,” you said, and bowed. It was too deep, too sudden. You nearly pitched forward, catching yourself on a supply table with a clatter of jars. “What… what brings you to the infirmary today?” 

Please say you’re lost. Please say Hyacine sent you on a pointless errand. Please say you have a sudden and fascinating interest in our inventory of lint rolls.

“I came to see you,” he said, as casually as mentioning the weather.

Your soul short-circuited. You blinked, waiting for the reboot sequence to complete. “I… beg your pardon?”

“You left in quite a hurry last time,” he continued, leaning a hip against the table you were white-knuckling. “I worried I’d permanently scared you into the walls.”

You did. I had plans to live there.

“Not at all!” you squeaked, your voice achieving new heights of pubescent crackle. “Fleeing is my primary mode of transport. Very efficient. Low carbon footprint.”

He laughed again. Softer this time, but it still hits you like a warm gust of wind, threatening to blow all your carefully stacked composure over. Your heart did a clumsy, joyful somersault and then immediately hid in shame.

“I wished to thank you properly,” he said. “The cut healed perfectly. Not a trace.”

A stupid, helpless pride bubbled up, immediately swamped by a tsunami of nerves. “Oh. Good. That’s… that’s what the goop is for. The goop… works.”

“It does indeed,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling. “I’d hoped to find you in a less… eventful moment. But you do seem to attract a certain atmosphere.”

You nodded. Too fast. Like a malfunctioning doll. Your hands were clenched around the table hard enough that, given another minute, you were confident it would start producing resin.

He studied you, that sky-like gaze far too perceptive. It felt like being read aloud. 

“You still look,” he observed mildly, “as though you might vibrate straight through the floor.”

“I am containing the vibration,” you whispered solemnly. “It is a personal discipline.”

He laughed, and—mercifully—pushed away from the table, granting you a full, glorious step of personal space. The relief hit so hard your knees briefly forgot their job description.

“Then I won’t impose,” he said, turning towards the door.

Yes. Perfect. Excellent. Retreat secured. You would live.

“But—”

Of course there was a but.

He paused at the threshold and glanced back, the grin resurfacing with a dangerous little glint of we both know what just happened. “I do hope I’ll see you again.”

Your hope for survival immediately filed for bankruptcy.

Your soul, which had been tentatively creeping back into your body, tripped on the doorstep and fell flat.

He gave a final, effortless wave. “Try not to drop anything next time.”

And he was gone. The space where he’d stood seemed to glow for a second longer, then just became ordinary air again.

You didn’t move. You simply… existed. Twenty seconds went by. Then thirty. Time continued its business without you. Eventually, gravity remembered you were still enrolled, and you slid down the wall like a puppet whose strings had been cut for budget reasons, landing in an undignified sprawl on the cool floor.

A junior healer walked around you with a stack of towels and a practiced lack of alarm. “You good?” she asked. “You look like you’ve just been personally struck by an extremely attractive act of divine intervention.”

You stared straight ahead at a section of wall that had seen everything and chosen silence. Despite your better judgment—despite direct orders from whatever part of your brain was still functional—a slow, stupid, treasonous smile crept across your face anyway.

“I think,” you said, in the calm, distant tone of someone actively spiraling, “that I may have just made a truly historic mess of things with a celestial being.”

And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the mortification, beneath the part of you drafting a formal apology to the universe, a tiny, stubborn engine coughed to life in your chest.

Because he came back.

He came back, he grinned, he teased—and that was the problem.

Because the awful, delightful, wildly impractical truth was this:

You were very, very glad he did.

That afternoon, the infirmary vibrated with the unique, hair-raising tension of a room that had skimmed the script for the day, clocked its own violent cameo, and decided the healthiest response was to sit back, eat something crunchy, and witness the disaster in real time. This was no longer a place of healing. It was a stage. And the star was a one-man apocalypse in aggressively worn leather boots.

Known, formally, as The Problem.

Among the staff, his name was never spoken plainly. He existed only in the haunted shorthand of survivors: The Glowering Landmark. Captain Grievance. The Man Who Argues with Weather (While Inside). More often, he was announced by a panicked whisper—“He wants more water”—followed immediately by the rustle of someone vanishing into a linen closet.

He occupied the far cot like a thunderstorm that had been bullied into a roughly human outline and was holding a lifelong grudge about it. Arms locked across his chest. A jaw clenched tight enough to powder walnuts. One boot tapped out a slow, threatening rhythm that very clearly translated to I am about to file a formal complaint against reality.

The air around him was measurably angrier. A healer passing by recoiled and hurried off, clutching her head.

“He said my aura was ‘offensively cheerful,’” she whispered, eyes completely empty.

Another healer staggered into view, pale and shaken. “He refused the tonic.”

“He threw it?”

“Worse,” the healer said hoarsely. “He reviewed it. In detail. I’ll never trust elderberries again.”

And where was Hyacine, the head healer, the only known soothe-sayer capable of handling him? Off being magnificent somewhere else. Radiantly mending bones, probably while singing hymns. Abandoning her flock to the wolf. The traitor.

This left you, currently at the supply table, engaged in the profound peace of alphabetizing vials of dreamroot. You were at peace. You were one with the tinctures. You were having what historians would later call The Last Nice Moment.

When hands like vice grips clamped onto your shoulders.

You squawked. “What in the River of Souls—!”

You were then physically, and with great prejudice, shoved forward.

“Hey—no—stop—this is targeted harassment—WHY AM I ALWAYS THE ONE?!” you whispered-yelled, your heels improvising a brand-new interpretive dance across the tiles as you were launched towards certain humiliation.

“Purely a numbers game!” someone called cheerfully from the safe, shove-free zone by the door.

“And you have a… gift!” another added, already retreating.

You craned your neck, betrayal sharp in your veins. “My gift is a pervasive sense of impending weeping!”

“Exactly!” the first voice called back, bright with cowardice. “It’s relatable! He might pity you!”

Traitors. Absolute traitors. You would engrave their names on tiny curses and bury them in the garden. Later.

You turned. The storm cloud had eyes. And they were fixed on you.

This was not a look. This was an audit. A promise of withering commentary. You were fairly certain that look had once made a flower reconsider blooming.

He squinted, as if trying to bring a disappointing insect into focus. “They send the spare parts now?”

Your intestines tied themselves into an advanced knot they definitely didn’t teach in anatomy. You smoothed your tunic, gathered what little courage hadn’t already fled the premises, and snapped on a smile so aggressively polite it qualified as an act of diplomacy. I come in peace, it said. But I am heavily armed with sarcasm and absolutely prepared to deploy it.

“Yes,” you said, somehow maintaining a functional speaking voice. Congratulations. You’ve beaten the game. I’m the final boss.”

One of his brows twitched. A seismic event. He sniffed. “You look like a strong breeze would apologize to you.”

“And you look like you chew rocks for the texture,” you replied, sunnily. “Shall we begin?”

From behind a nearby screen came the sound of someone choking.

The old man went very still. Then, a low, rusty sound escaped him. “Cheeky.”

“Only on the left side,” you said, grabbing a roll of fresh bandages. “Now. The arm. Let’s have it.”

He hugged his arms tighter. “It’s tender.”

You blinked, slow. “A revelation. I’ll alert the bards. The arm.”

“You lot are all the same,” he grumbled, a well-worn groove in his record of grievances. “All soft hands and softer words. Nattering on.”

You nodded, applying salve with clinical precision. “A fascinating theory. And yet, my colleague tells me you spent ten minutes critiquing the viscosity of your broth. So who’s the real natterer?”

He jerked, then hissed as the salve did its work. “That stung!”

“It’s medicinal stinging,” you assured him. “Think of it as the universe’s feedback.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” you said. “It’s the most intellectual stimulation I’ve had all day. Earlier I had a spirited debate with a door hinge. You’re ahead, but only by a hair.”

He grumbled a continuous, low-grade commentary as you worked.

“Your technique is sloppy.”

“I’m mirroring your attitude—broad, unfocused, and largely unpleasant.”

“You think you know how to fix everything.”

“I know how to fix this. Your worldview is regrettably beyond my pay grade.”

“Insolent child.”

“Cantankerous fossil.”

A heavy pause. The kind where air itself hesitates.

Then it happened—a sound like rocks rattling around in a jar. A laugh. It escaped him, brief and clearly unauthorized, before he could shove it back where it belonged.

He immediately glowered twice as hard. “Don’t get used to it.”

“My head is far too crowded with anxiety and folk songs,” you said, tying the bandage off with a crisp, professional knot. “There. You’ll live to grumble another day.”

He inspected your work, poking at the edges. “Hmph. Adequate.”

You clutched your chest, staggered. “I will carry these words with me into the afterlife.”

It was then you felt it. A distinct, prickling sensation of being observed. Not by the usual terrified-infirmary-staff vortex of pity, but by something… else.

You turned, with the slow, dawning horror of a clown realizing the king has been watching their pratfall routine.

Phainon. That Phainon. The Deliverer in the flesh—lounging in the doorway, one hand half-covering his mouth while his shoulders shook with completely unsubtle, deeply enjoyed laughter. He’d clearly watched the entire performance. Front row. No intermission.

Your soul briefly attempted to exit your body through your feet. “Oh,” you squeaked. “You’re… here. How… unfortunate.”

The old man squinted after your line of sight. “You know him?”

“He’s Lord Phainon,” you whispered, as if stating ‘That’s the sun.’ “The… you know. The Deliverer Phainon. Whose name you probably mutter when you stub your toe.”

Phainon straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “I must say,” he laughed, “in all my years, I’ve never seen him follow instructions. Watching you handle him was like witnessing someone calmly file paperwork during an avalanche.”

You sighed, a long, suffering sound. “I didn’t negotiate. I applied tactical irreverence. It’s like a poultice, but for the ego.”

The old man gave a grudging nod. “She’s got spirit. Annoying, but present.”

Phainon’s laugh finally broke free, rich and bright, echoing in the hushed infirmary. You, meanwhile, studied the floor tiles with intense, academic interest, hoping one might open up and swallow you whole. Your ears were on fire. Your heart was tap-dancing.

From the safety of the herb cabinet, a stunned voice floated out. “By the Titans… she’s domesticated him.”

You had not domesticated him. You had achieved a fragile, sarcasm-based ceasefire. And you’d done it all in front of the one person whose opinion made your brain momentarily forget how to operate your lungs.

Phainon shook his head, still grinning. “Extraordinary.” When he looked at you again, something new flickered there, amused respect, open curiosity. “Truly.”

The old man’s gaze bounced between your spectacular mortification and Phainon’s obvious delight. A slow, creaky spark of ancient mischief lit up his face.

“Well then,” he announced, clearly savoring the moment. “This just got entertaining. Don’t loiter, Deliverer. Either lend a hand or fetch her a chair. She’s halfway to fainting.”

You emitted a small, deeply pathetic sound that could generously be called a reply.

This was going to be a very, very long afternoon.

A/N: Hello guys, this is actually my first time posting and writing and I hope you like the first chapter. I will post soon and please stay tuned! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

[harmonysanreads]

Simulacrum

♡ Pairing: Phainon x GN!Reader (×4)

Synopsis: - --- / - .... . / ... ..- -. --..-- / - .... . / -- --- --- -. --..-- / - .... . / ... -.- -.-- / .- -. -.. / - .... . / -.. .-. . .- -- . .-.

Tags and Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Friends, Slow Romance, Streamer!Reader, Attempt At Humor, Reader Is Not The Trailblazer, Spoilers For Phainon's Lore, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Flame Reader Is Called ‘Khaslana’, Transformed Phainon Is Called ‘Khaos’, (Pha)Irontomb Is A Soggy Creature, The Reader Wears Glasses (It's important to the plot), Soft Yandere, Existentialism.

Words: 19,766 (Get Cozy)

♡ Note: At long last, the Phai-sandwich is complete. I contemplated multiple times on not finishing this fic, but I also couldn't shake off the feeling that this would be the perfect finale to a year of writing for Phainon. Phainon is... an incredibly dear character to me. So, I really hope I've done him justice here. Please excuse any unintentional errors. Happy holidays and happy reading <3

「 Read On AO3 」

i. Astroeides

It started about a month ago, with the discovery of a game called ‘The Golden Scapegoat’.

Unearthed from a heist powered through half a dozen or so energy drinks, half a bored head and half a mind fixated on settling on the subject for the next stream ; an innocuous indie game buried beneath millions of such games with a keyboard smash for a creator's name. You'd thought that it was perfect, at the moment.

The mechanics were simple enough. Light up the altar, avoid dangers and do not approach the enshadowed version of yourself — getting lost in that pattern for two uninterrupted hours had been easy.

You'd thought the game's surprisingly elegant backdrop would be all the spook it'd offer, until in the midst of a compliment thrown towards the crisp sound design in tandem with you finishing another level, a pixelated chibi sporting words of gratitude for your help appeared.

A knight. You drew the conclusion after a bit of squinting at the screen (and definitely not from the chat screaming exactly that for half a minute), draped in blue-silver and gold from what you could make.

“What a cute little guy.” you'd admitted then and the live chat had erupted in equal parts agreement and teasing.

Laughing alongside your audience and moving forward had been easy as well, from practice or from the morale boost from the pixelated knight on your screen, you're not quite sure of.

But as you progressed further into the game, you began noticing that the messages coming from the knight at the end of each round were not repetitive at all — something which should be for a program crafted by code.

“That was a frisky leap, Partner! Glad we made it.”

“You're getting better at this! Did you see that? Even the Shadowed Swordmaster was baffled back there!”

“The foe will adapt according to the march of time, but with you here… I think I can continue facing them no matter what.”

And with each response seemingly appearing more and more personalized than the last, it'd become apparent to the stream that you were hooked on this game for this unexpected ‘feature’ alone.

There was something else as well, this game seemed to be never ending. At one point, when you'd finally come back to the world from your daze, you'd decided to search around the internet for the exact number of levels this game had, only to return gloriously empty-handed.

It'd ruffled you a little back then. Either the Golden Scapegoat was very well hidden or you'd somehow managed to get to it as it was fresh out of the developer's den. And the fact that you couldn't tell which of the options was correct should've unnerved you more, should've made you investigate further.

But instead, you bid farewell to your chat and closed the game for the day. Not exactly promising to return and finish what you began, but definitely tired enough to not think about its elusive nature for the rest of night.

A few days passed in dilly-dally, where you entertained the notion of playing the Golden Scapegoat again, but ended up doing something completely different (namely increasing affection in your otome games guiltily).

By the sixth day, your stream was already tiptoeing thirty-three million views, making it your most viewed one yet.

You’d gotten notified of the milestone during breakfast by one of the members of your team, laptop opened to browse through emails. Though, you couldn't quite relish in the achievement, attention stolen by one particular line of the fan E-mail that you’d opened.

I can't find The Golden Scapegoat anywhere on the internet.

You were half tempted to avoid it, but the lingering memory of how you hadn't found anything notable when you searched about its details during the stream either, nagged at you.

A second look was initiated. You sat, a weird feeling settling in your stomach, as the website you’d downloaded the game from showed nothing — while the icon of The Golden Scapegoat mocked you from your homepage nevertheless.

And that wasn't the only weird thing that’d happened that day. The set of clothing you’d ordered came in the wrong sizes and your delivery of energy drinks was also late.

Now, you could pitch complaints against everything, if your crippling social anxiety wasn't waving excitedly around the corner, that is.

So, tossing the shirt a few sizes too big over your shoulders, you attempted to contact one of your friends instead — if nothing else, to have them fetch some nourishment for you.

Only to be stopped dead in your tracks by the violent glitch your phone flashed, before going black.

You're not given the time to react though, as the lights of your room flicker next, your PC reboots, and you squint as its sudden brightness.

You blink multiple times to adjust, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, from the blackened screen in front of you, a text in bold red reads—

Play the Golden Scapegoat.

Your mind buffers for a few seconds.

Okay, that's certainly not normal. You wait two more seconds to see if the screen would show something else, but when you see no change, you grab your mouse and prudently smash the buttons in a series of clicks.

Still nothing.

So, you shift to restart your computer, where you're slapped with failure and the icon of The Golden Scapegoat appearing under the red text instead.

Chat, are you seeing this? your mind supplies the comment habitually.

Done with it all, you proceed to unplug the PC.

The screen still shows that text.

Now, the safe thing to do would be to obey to this series of unexpected commands, especially since you were being met with happenings previously unheard of. But you were unwilling to fall for this most-likely hacker’s trick and get stuck into some kind of never-ending spiral.

So, you turned on your heels and went to get some actual, adult responsibilities done instead.

That determination of yours lasted for two hours. Impressive, considering that suddenly all your electrical appliances had begun having mood-swings, which meant, no TV, constant stammering lights, air-conditioning suddenly at full power and absolutely zero ways for you to contact anyone due to your phone, tablet, laptop and PC being hacked (?).

“FINE. I’ll play your stupid game!” you shouted, unable to stand not being chronically online any longer.

The lights ceased flickering. The screen of your computer glitched once before isolating the icon of the damned game on the screen, the cursor hovered right over it, beckoning your click.

You jaw went slack.

What the hell?

You approached your gaming desk cautiously, not knowing whether the tremor in your nerves was from the AC or the way this program—hacker—whatever had seemingly responded to you.

The screen morphs to that familiar backdrop, the chime of the game’s BGM slowly crawling to reality, though now, you could no longer find the marvel you’d initially felt from it.

The game’s mechanics hadn't changed at all, but after a few minutes (or hours? you didn't know) of clearing the levels with your heart pounding against your eardrums, that feeling of never-ending grind returned.

You’d even attempted to see if you could start a stream, just to gain some semblance of reassurance that you weren't going crazy, which, though no longer surprisingly, had backfired.

Your forehead hit the cool surface of your desk as you finished another level, your glasses were flung somewhere, only some fraction of energy left that you were going to use to drag yourself to bed.

Though not before catching a glimpse of the message from the chibi knight from the game.

“Partner, are you alright? You seemed very out of it on this run… please don't push yourself!”

You didn't linger long on the text, not daring yourself to believe that it was not a product of your imagination or a hoax of your eyes unaccustomed to seeing the world without the lenses.

You spent two more days in that manner, going through the levels of the Golden Scapegoat for the majority of the day, scarcely processing anything you were playing.

Your connection to the internet had returned, though you could only observe and not interact. You would’ve laughed at the dedication of whoever was behind all this had you not been as sleep deprived as you were.

On the third night, after your now-routine slavery at The Golden Scapegoat and much twisting and turning while trying to catch the sleep you so desperately wanted, you found yourself rudely awaken at what you could only assume to be midnight just when your eyes had begun to close.

For ten seconds, you blinked blankly at the air from under your sheets, the bleary sight gradually adjusting to reveal a distinct silhouette, the moonlight glinted off of golden lines.

You inhaled sharply but couldn't find the strength to let the breath go, nor look away as the silhouette tilted its head, a flash of blue gleamed in the shape of an eye.

Your mind ceased to work, locked in an uncomfortable stare-down with the shadow, as though suspended in a competition to see who was cowardly enough to look away first.

Is this what they call sleep paralysis…?

You were briefly tempted to give in to the primordial urge to scream, fling something at the thing or at least reach to turn on the lights.

But you did nothing, merely stared unblinkingly, the silhouette gained enough clarity for you to take in its hooded appearance.

And then, you blinked.

The figure vanished from your sight.

You gasped, hitting the switches by your bedside to illuminate your room in a frenzy. Your heart kicked up a storm against your ribcage.

Should you scream? Call for help? Was that a person? Were you in danger? What should you do??

You reached for your phone with shaking fingers, a bead of sweat falling from your brow when the sign of ‘no connection’ hit you again.

How marvelous. You were on your own.

It was incredibly tempting to give into the urge of spiraling into a full panic attack, but you forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded.

Even if I'm dying… I'm not going down without a fight.

So, you grabbed the nearest heavy object around you— which happened to be the lamp— and tiptoed towards your bedroom door.

Not even bothering to look beyond, you shoved the door close and pushed one of your drawers against it. Then, still holding onto the lamp, you fell back on the bed, preparing yourself for the agonizing night ahead.

—

You spent the whole night spying for any sound, any movement from around your apartment — the result of which was zero. Not even a peep was heard, though you didn't really trust your insomnia ridden mind to be accurate.

Only when the sun had brightened the world again, and when the wave of adrenaline had ebbed away to bring an unavoidable need for sustenance and hydration, did you summon the strength to open the door.

You checked and double checked every corner of your apartment, the limited space of which you were now appreciating and only when you found nothing amiss or any sign of what you’d seen last night did you allow yourself to think ; maybe it was just sleep paralysis.

You tried to go about your day as normally as possible, though the penumbra of last night haunted your waking mind. There wasn't much you could do about it. You could lodge a complaint, but if the authorities found nothing, they’d most certainly put you in that list of ‘people to not take seriously’ and you were still locked in that weird state of only being able to surf the net, but not interact with it in any way.

But one thing remained unchanged— the god-damned Golden Scapegoat.

You sat down to play it almost instinctively, perhaps pushed by a subconscious fear of even this smidgen of light being stolen away, or because it was the only tangible distraction you had at the moment.

The game for its part, remained as it were, just small tweaks in every level that one wouldn't even notice due to how endless it all felt — like a cycle. A vicious, cruel, familiar cycle of the same pattern, from which you could neither break free from nor quit— only proceed forward.

These thoughts float around your mind idly as you wrap a towel around yourself, done with a shower. You stand in front of the sink mirror, pulling out a bottle of moisturizer.

Just as you turn back to the mirror to apply the product though, you notice it.

That thing again. Right behind you, watching you through the mirror.

You blink several times, it doesn't go away, holding itself still on the reflection and just when it seems as though it were raising a clawed hand towards you —

You turn around.

Nothing.

Suddenly my life’s a horror movie? You jest through the shiver that shakes your body. Why did no one ask for my consent when they changed the genre?

There were two possible explanations behind this occurrence : (1) your apartment was haunted and (2) you were going insane.

Despite the latter’s credibility being more scientifically plausible, you, a self-proclaimed person of logic, had decided to believe that the first was the case this time instead.

Oh well, dropped out of my Physics degree long ago anyway.

Though, it should be mentioned that this mindset was achieved after preventing another panic attack and forcing yourself to think like this instead :

“If my house is haunted… at least I'll have a buddy? Roommate?”

Your laugh was weak.

(You blamed it all on the desensitization of playing too many horror games, and on all the weird fanfics you’ve read.)

But, for what it was worth, this frankly twisted mindset had managed to push you through the next days, kept you just sane enough to keep on living.

So now, your days looked like this instead.

The microwave beeps, you reach for your now warm food, expertly ignoring the shadow— the black/gold details on whose person you now could see in the daylight— and swiveled to the other room instead.

When you sit down on the couch and turn on the television, browsing to watch something while you ate, the shadow made something of a noise, as if trying to get your attention ; to which you increased the volume instead.

Maybe if you ignored it long enough, it'd go away out of boredom?

Or at least, that was your brilliant strategy. Social skills backpedaling even from a supposed ghost.

When evening fell and darkness coated your apartment, you called out, “Hey! Could you like, turn on the lights for me? It's real dark!”

The lights around the apartment flickered on, the exact ones that you would've turned on as well.

This isn't so bad, is it?

… Or maybe, you were just lonely, cripplingly lonely.

You sighed, head cushioned by your arms on your gaming desk, the BGM of The Golden Scapegoat filling the air. Another level was cleared, though you had given up your hopes of it being the last long ago.

It felt like you were caught in the same unchangeable rhythm as this game, where days blurred into each other and time kept on slipping away from your grasp.

Sometimes, you’d ponder ; do the characters in there, ever get tired of the same steps as well?

You looked up, catching sight of the screen where that familiar page was painted on, that knight— your knight, appeared to offer his gratitude once more.

Your glasses went askew as you turned into a more comfortable position, eyes softening through the burn that lingered from the past month’s insomnia and stress. Even through the pixelated form, you could feel the smile on the little guy’s face.

And you couldn't help but whisper.

“It would be nice to have someone like that… warm, encouraging, probably gives nice hugs…” your chuckle cracked at the end.

Yes, this whole ordeal was getting to you, and you couldn't ignore it much longer. That one admittance had opened the floodgates to a barrage of other memories that you did not want to remember and it was getting more and more difficult to hold yourself together.

You sniffled, it's just the season, trying to convince yourself.

When you finally managed to calm down, your limbs and thoughts locked down in inertia, exhaustion a heavy duvet over you.

But you didn't drag yourself to bed, stayed rooted on your gaming chair and stared at the silver-blue-golden knight, until sleep arrived to take you away.

ii. Metempsychosis

You awoke with soreness all over your body, unsurprisingly.

You twisted and turned gingerly, stifling groans and yawns as you tried to sit upright again, one of your hands raised in an attempt to soothe some of the soreness from your neck.

“Ah, you're finally awake!”

You freeze, your eyes slowly turned towards the source of that voice and halted upon locking with sparkling cyan ones.

A violent flinch shook your body, before you squinted, left hand pawing blindly for your glasses.

“Oh, your glasses are right there!” the man pointed towards the edge of the desk, still crouching in front of your panicked form.

Your vision cleared as soon as that familiar weight settled on the bridge of your nose and you felt blood rush to your head when the man still didn't disappear from your field of vision like you’d hoped.

You sprang up from your seat, “W-who are you?!” clutching your keyboard defensively.

The silver-haired man raised his arms in surrender, “Whoa, whoa! Please calm down and let me—” he got up, taking a few steps back.

Unfortunately for him, you deigned to not oblige and threw your keyboard at him.

… And watched in horror as the object phased straight through him.

“G-ghost…?” you croaked, slowly peering up at his equally confused form.

“Uhm,” he lowered his arms, one hand raising to rub at the nape of of his neck, “Not a ghost, though I'm not sure what I currently am either— b-but! Don't panic, remember — the Golden Scapegoat??”

The mention of that name pulled you back from the trenches of a mental spiral and you looked at the guy, really looked ; feeling your mind buffer again as it matched the similarities between the chibi knight from the game with this man fidgeting in front you.

“Impossible.” you whispered, pinching yourself.

Nope, the sting is real and so is he… apparently.

He chuckled awkwardly, “I wish I could offer you an explanation for this but—”

You frowned as he cut himself off, head snapping to the side.

Your mouth opened to urge him on, only to be closed again as the man sprang forward to block an attack, steel against steel.

You staggered, leaning on your desk for support as ‘the knight’ pushed against the blade of that Shadow that has been haunting you.

“Executioner…” he gritted out, eyes reflecting an odd sense of acquaintance.

Their clash had sobered you completely and you took notice of something odd about this whole ordeal ; the bleary texture these two appeared in and the way the air seemed to glitch every time their swords clashed and how not a single object in your room appeared to be affected by it, as if they were locked in a different plane of existence.

Your breath hitched as the knight drew in with a fierce battle cry, the Executioner’s dark cape swiveled as he maneuvered to meet his strike.

Only to be pulled away right as their swords were about to clash, black-red cubes held them back to two far corners of your room.

You blinked, the edge of your desk bit into the skin of your fingers, grounding you as you looked up to the newcomer.

Wings of gold and indigo fluttered, cracks bleeding pulsing ichor. Strands of golden hair shifted as the— man? entity? angel? you didn't know anymore — turned to face you.

And perhaps you were just one foot into an asylum, but you could've sworn that his golden eyes softened just a fraction.

—

There's a stifling quietude blanketing you, interrupted only by the occasional whir of the aircon.

You sit slouched on your gaming chair, hugging yourself, eyes fixed at a distant point on the tiled floor, the icepack you'd gotten up to get halfway through the ‘conversation’ sits crookedly on top of your head.

When the instinct to blink seizes you, you finally find it in yourself to take in your surroundings again ; at one corner of your room, Phainon — as you knew now — stood, mimicking your stance. He was the only one who mirrored your exact expression.

To the other corner, the ‘Executioner’ stood, darkened tendrils swirled at his feet. A blue flame blazed from the shattered side of his face, mask removed to prove to an unconvinced Phainon that he was indeed him, during the earlier commotion.

And at the center of it all, he hovered, two paces in front of your seated form. His presence made the air heavier, made it difficult to breathe — the only indication that you weren't hallucinating everything, oddly enough.

You sighed, long and weighed.

“I’ll speak frankly to you guys,” your voice pulled them out of their individual reveries, “I can inform the government about this, who most likely have the appropriate tools to look into your case. But, there is a bigger chance that they’ll use you as their lab rats instead.”

You watched as their expressions twisted in frowns of various degrees, “Or, we can wait a bit. Figure out the nature of this, see if all of it is real or not.”

The Emanator cast a furtive glance at his other ‘counterparts’ before locking eyes with you again, “I apologize… for not being able to be of more help. We’ll try our best to not trouble you, I'll investigate privately in the meantime.”

And that pretty much settled your next course of action.

While it wasn't exactly ideal to your perception of reality to have three hologram-esque beings hovering around your home, with the knowledge that they were involved in some great cosmic event that apparently changed the universe (which you weren't even aware of), you didn't really possess the power to do anything besides waiting, as an ordinary human being.

So, you could only pass the next three days with that penumbra of awkwardness blanketing the moments.

Phainon, who’d given the impression of being more outspoken initially, had been eerily quiet and had decided to confine himself to your living room couch, where he’d seem to be engrossed in thoughts.

‘The Executioner’ on the other hand, would unintentionally jump-scare you by appearing at the most random places. Though, it’d been because of his critically impaired mental faculties from the strain of housing far too many ‘Coreflames’, as you came to learn from the Emanator later.

The Emanator in question on the other hand, was usually nowhere to be found. But you chalked it up to it being within the bounds of his weird Emanator powers— a concept you still couldn't really wrap your head around.

You couldn't deny that it was a bit hard to believe that all three of them were the same person, shattered and rebuilt through the endeavor stretched across epochs.

And you brought up this issue one day, upon realizing that you didn't really have an efficient way of addressing them.

“Phainon… of Aedes Elysiae.” the hero offered a wry smile, a hand cradling his heart— or the vestiges of it.

You turned to the other two, who were surprisingly present. They seemed to have understood that you couldn't just call each of them ‘Phainon’ and were thinking about it.

When the silence stretched on though, “Uhm… maybe Phaiyi and Phainoonie?” you pointed at the Emanator and then the Executioner.

Not even the rustles of the Emanator’s wings could be heard all of a sudden.

“Sorry.” you backpedaled immediately, swearing to yourself that you’d never make a joke in your life ever again.

Before you could contemplate too far on running away, ‘the Executioner’ spoke, for the very first time.

“Kh…as...la…na…”

You blinked in confusion, glancing at the other two to see an odd expression of pain on their faces.

“Khas…lana? Did I get that right?” you turned to ‘Khaslana’ again, he managed a nod, his masked face gave nothing of his emotions away.

And at last, you turned towards the winged Emanator, whose face was seized by a pensive shadow.

Sensing your inquisitive gaze, he finally tilted his head up to meet your eyes.

“Call me Khaos.”

—

The night that day had been ordinary.

Or at least, a sight that you’d gotten accustomed to over the years. A dark canopy where faint twinkles of distant stars could occasionally be seen, easily defeated by the thousands of city lights from sky-scrapers.

The world around you hadn't changed at all, but your perception of it had. To think that such a massive interstellar war had taken place while your planet had remained none-the-wiser.

Or maybe the government does know, and was intentionally keeping it all confidential all while spinning the tale of there being no ‘aliens’ that they've contacted with.

While this chain of thought did make you sound like a conspiracy theorist, the fact that you could understand their language without an issue was suspicious in itself.

You rested your arms on the rail of your balcony, was any of this even real? You found yourself questioning while staring up at those unreachable stars.

What's the guarantee that you weren't in a simulated world as well, like the one they had been a part of?

And whenever this train of thought would ricochet in your head, your brain would supply that you needed to touch grass, for the sake of your sanity — which was easier said than done in a concrete jungle of a city.

“So this is what a real night sky looks like…!”

You're startled out of your existential crisis by a sun-kissed voice, whipping your head to the side to meet with sheepish cyan eyes.

“Sorry! I'd didn't mean to startle you— I can leave if you want me to??” Phainon rubbed the nape of his neck, a gesture you’d realized he did rather often.

Having recovered from the scare of not him ‘speaking out of nowhere’, but not sensing his presence at all, you waved off a hand, “Oh.. n-no, it's fine. Stay.”

Phainon's shoulders relaxed, his hair shifted slightly as he tipped his head up to gaze at the sky again.

“Glimmering stars, faint moonlight, a chill in the air— exactly as they described it in the stories.” he marveled.

Then, catching your curious expression, he looked back at you, “Amphoreus, my home world, had no ‘natural’ day-night cycle. In Okhema— Amphoreus' most prosperous city-state for example— it was always daytime. So… this is my first time seeing a real night.”

Your mouth formed an ‘O’ at his explanation and you turned back towards the night again, a star twinkled back at you.

To think you were complaining about how boring it all was just moments ago but to Phainon, it was a life changing experience.

(It made you feel just the tiniest bit ashamed inside.)

“Well, there was some semblance of a night in the outskirts of Okhema, though they never were quite comforting.” you turned to him as he resumed, “Like in Janusopolis! Where I was in a mission with Tribbie— one of my mentors and a demigod by the way. That boundless dark sky and a flash of something streaking the sky are my last memories of Amphoreus… before I woke up in that game.”

You watched as his eyes dimmed, his voice dropped an octave as he trailed off.

“So… you were conscious of the fact that you were in a game?” you approached gently.

Phainon blinked out of his stupor, his fingers reached to grasp onto the railing and failed as they phased right through it.

A frown crept in his expression, which he forced away with a chuckle, “Well…! It took me some time, admittedly, but I was eventually able to take in my situation when I heard your voice.”

That made you freeze.

“You could hear me???” your voice rose in panic.

Phainon scratched his cheek, “Yes??” not quite seeming to understand your sudden agitation.

Oh heavens oh stars, he heard all of your simping and cursing!

You buried your face in your hands, slumping against the cool metal of the railing while Phainon panicked, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.

But then, he paused upon remembering something else, something that he’d been pondering about for the past couple of days.

“[Name]? Can I… ask a question?”

You grumbled a sound of agreement, still hiding in your hands.

“Why… did you continue to play The Golden Scapegoat?”

You held a pause for three seconds, before your index fingers parted, just enough to catch Phainon’s serious expression.

A sigh tumbled out of your lips, “Honestly? Because I had no damn choice.”

And you were basically being blackmailed into it, which you decided against saying.

Phainon chuckled and you were surprised by how much that sound eased you, “Understandable.”

Your eyes lingered on the faint curve of his lips before you straightened, not bothering to fix your crooked glasses.

“But on a more serious note, it was because moving forward was the only way to see how things would end.” then you raised an accusing finger, “And also! Out of sheer spite with my life.”

Cyan eyes widened, the city lights reflected on them, before another giggle seized him.

“Moving forward out of spite huh…” a faint furrow appeared in his brows, as though he finally understood something.

You nodded, resting your cheek against your knuckles, “What other choice do we really have in this… uncertain existence? You’ll meet an uncountable number of hurdles in your life, all of which will try to stop your pursuit. You can choose to end it any time, but you'll never know what you missed if you do. And perhaps, that's comforting as well. But if I'm able to, I'd like to persist. To see. If nothing else, I can say that I've tried my best.”

“And… what if, ‘your best’ isn't enough?”

“Who gets to judge that, hm? There is no way to satisfy everyone. Not even yourself.”

A quiet exhale left Phainon, he watched the play of the city lights across your face, your eyes remained closed behind the frame of your askance glasses. Though he could not see what flickered in your eyes as you spoke, he knew that you were certain and content in having found your truth.

Phainon felt an urge to cradle those words, to hold onto them to reflect upon later.

His fingers twitched against his side, the air swept aside as he raised his hand, carefully adjusting your glasses back into position.

You felt every nerve in your body ignited upon registering the tentative brush of something against your cheek. Your eyes opened with urgency, meeting with dazed cyan ones.

“Did you just touch me?”

Phainon blinked, you could see his mind buffer for a few seconds as he processed your question and when he did, he flinched away, hands raising in surrender.

“I-I’m so sorry—”

“No!” you took a step closer, grasping his hand, a shiver seized you as you felt its warmth. “You just touched me! You— you just interacted with this world!”

Phainon froze, eyes blown wide as he took in the weight of your words.

“I…” the fingers of the hand you were holding flexed against yours, a light sheen of sweat coating them. “I-I can…?” he brought his other hand up, holding yours in between both of his.

“Yes…!” you couldn't hold back the rising excitement in your voice.

Phainon swallowed, he gave a tentative squeeze, sheer wonder taking over his expression when his hands didn't phase through and pressed against your skin instead.

“Yes…!” he exclaimed back, he looked up just as his legs bent, before he met your giddy jump with one of his own.

The sudden commotion drew in the other two, Khaos peeked into the balcony with quizzical eyes, Khaslana trailed behind.

“What is—?”

His question was interrupted by a quiet gasp, as he took in the sight of Phainon spinning you, laughs of pure glee tumbled out of both of your lips.

Khaslana’s eye widened behind the mask as he processed this new revelation.

Even through his fractured mind, he could sense the impending lengthy discussion.

iii. Katalepsis

The hue-and-cry of the shopping district engulfs you.

Beside you, Phainon fell into step, carrying a bag of apples as you both headed towards the supermarket. Though the actual purpose of this trip had been to test whether Phainon’s newly acquired physical presence in your world had been real or just a trick of your minds (as none of you were sure anymore).

Phainon is a sight amidst the crowd and you wouldn't even need the frequent turning of passerby towards his direction to tell you that.

Now that he was out of the cramped space of your apartment, you were able to really take in his height and build in its entirety, combined with his striking appearance, you couldn't really judge people for ogling.

You could only imagine what their reactions would be to seeing the other two.

Somewhere during the trip, a passerby shoots Phainon a question, “Yo, Owlet?”

Phainon reciprocated his fist-bump, albeit half a second late, a smile gracing his face on instinct — the exchange reassured you, he was great at acting.

“You’re pretty popular, it seems.” Phainon tugs at his t-shirt, one of the samples of your merch that you had laying around the apartment; thrown on him last minute in exchange of his fantasy armor to make him less conspicuous while out on the streets (which clearly wasn't working).

Your fans called themselves the Owlets, not because owls were your absolute favorite bird (not initially) but because of the amateur drawing of an owl you’d done in one of your earlier streams, which, you still used as your avatar to this day.

You adjusted your headphones around your neck, more out of habit than anything else, “Shh, keep your voice down. I'm what they call ‘an incognito artist’.”

At that, Phainon made a zipping motion along his lips, still clutching the bag of apples in his left hand.

You kept your pace steady, eyes skimming over passing shops, “And besides, my uh… err,” your mind buffered as you tried to find a suitable word, realizing he probably wouldn't know what ‘streaming’ is, “— My work, isn't exactly legal.”

Phainon perked up, “Oh! You mean streaming?”

Now you felt like an idiot.

You managed a mute nod, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself.

Phainon chuckled, “I used to be a streamer back in my world, too! That's how I know.”

That pulled you out of spiraling, “Oh?”

“Mm hm!” the lights from the various adverts around made his cyan eyes sparkle, “I used to stream antique appraisals! Pretty boring stuff compared to what you do though.”

You blinked up at him, “Are you kidding? That's so cool! You must've been kind of an expert in the field then?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck as another sheepish chuckle escaped him, the fabric of the t-shirt stretched around his biceps with the motion. “I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I definitely do have some experience on the matter.”

He tilted his head down towards you as curiosity took over his face, “But what did you mean by your work not being legal?”

You cast cursory glances to both sides, instinctively checking for prying ears, and eyes.

When you were assured of their absence, you leaned closer to Phainon, voice dropping to a whisper, “The government doesn't allow creative expressions by humans on this planet. Every ad you see around here? It's all generated via artificial intelligence. The network where I stream is a secret web. Only about 28% of the population knows about it.”

Phainon's face went through a series of expressions as he processed your words, “No wonder everything feels so soulless here.” he says, brows pinching as he casts a disapproving glance around everything.

“But why? Robbing humans of their creativity … It's so unfair and stupid…!” he turns back to you, silver strands tousling with his steps.

You shrugged, “Believe me when I say, I've been asking that exact question for all three decades I've lived on this cursed planet.”

Phainon grumbled, his day clearly ruined as he took in the dystopian reality you lived in.

The rest of the trip proceeded smoothly, Phainon recovered from his dreary mood within three seconds and engaged in chit-chats where you exchanged more information about both of your worlds, in between grabbing items from the grocery list.

Throughout this, Phainon was interrupted by a few more of your fans who’d been lured to him by the sight of your merch t-shirt on him, completely unaware of the fact that their idol was right beside them — and you preferred it that way.

By the twelfth encounter, Phainon realized something : he’d severely underestimated your popularity. Not because people were just strolling up to share a fist-bump of solidarity with him, but because of the amount of ‘I miss EnTeLeKia07’s streams’ comments he’d heard.

You, however, remained strangely nonchalant about it all, whether it was just an extension of your usual personality or deliberate ; he wasn't certain about, and that made Phainon decide against poking you about it further.

On the return trip, Phainon halted in front of a small flower shop. You followed his line of sight, which stopped at a small pot of yellow dotted blue flowers.

“Is something the matter?” your question snapped him out of his trance.

“Oh. No no no, I just got distracted! Let's go!”

You pushed your glasses up with one finger, looking at his retreating form and then back to the potted flowers.

--

Phainon hummed happily, cradling the pot of forget-me-nots in one hand, holding all your bags with the other (upon his insistence). You followed him a step behind, listening to the song that played in your headphones.

The steady rhythm doesn't last long though. You’re sent crashing into Phainon’s back as he abruptly stops in his tracks, again.

“What… interesting looking chimeras!”

You fix your glasses, rubbing your nose while peeking from behind his back towards what it was that’d stolen his attention this time.

“Oh. You mean the cats?”

Phainon’s face formed an ‘O’, awe taking over as he took in the sight of the two cats playing beside the trashcans.

“So, that's what you call them here. They're so adorable!” he cooes, you could almost see sparkles floating around him.

You didn't disagree with that, it made you pleased, to be precise. Liking cats was a good sign among people, in your opinion.

Phainon couldn't seem to have contained his excitement though, as he took a few steps closer towards the cats, propelled with an urge to pet them and unsurprisingly, the cats scampered away at his intrusion.

“There, there.” you gave a pat to his slumped shoulders, lips down-turned with such a devastated pout that even you felt bad.

“Erm, we can come back later with treats? Cats don't trust people easily so, we’ll have to bribe them.” you offered tentatively.

All traces of mourning left Phainon as soon as those words reached his ears, he whipped around towards you, the golden flecks in his eyes sparkled again.

“R-really? I mean, you don't have to if it's too much trouble but—ahhhh, I really appreciate it!”

You huffed, lips twitching in a small smile, wondering whether to dismiss the apparitions of perked up puppy ears on his head or to accept them as fitting for this man.

—

Such trips became more common as the days went by, since Phainon had begun to experience hunger and fatigue.

The hero himself had been reluctant to feed off of you like that though, and had pestered you constantly with the purpose of providing for himself — or to help you in any way. Which, was not much fruitful since in virtue of him being the equivalent of a newborn, he had neither the ID nor the connections to find work here.

There was also the matter of secrecy. All of you had agreed upon not disclosing this ordeal to anyone, especially not your pesky government. As such, caution was practiced even during the small trips to the shopping district.

So, Phainon had assigned himself as your house-helper instead ; dusting, cleaning, sweeping, washing and of course, taking care of the pot of forget-me-nots that’d found refuge on your bedside window — despite your protests, which you had to retract when he sheepishly admitted to being not used to having nothing to do.

It was then that the realization struck you, even though you’d known them as mere code on your screen first, Phainon and the other two, had lived human lives once and they were victims of circumstances, too.

Today, however, a tense silence hung over the world — not from the darkened clouds outside, but from the remnants of a fight between Phainon and Khaslana ; which ended with a broken table of yours.

It was difficult to say whether you were upset by this ordeal or not, but you certainly were done with the stifling air, which pushed you to go outside at last, alone this time.

“Wait, let me come with—”

You silenced Phainon with a raised hand, not bothering to look back at him as you put on your shoes with an urgency thus unobserved.

“At least take an umbrella…” Phainon trailed off helplessly as you rushed away, the slam of the door echoing even moments after your departure.

You didn't mean to shut him out that crudely, it wasn't even his fault. Khaslana had begun to behave strangely as of late (which was saying something considering he was never really normal to begin with) ; he’d snap at Phainon, attack things that were completely harmless and wander around as though he were sleepwalking.

Whenever confronted though, he’d remain silent and Khaos was also conveniently gone, leaving you and Phainon to deal with it, so far in vain.

You were never the best at confrontations to begin with and frankly, this was more direct social interaction you’d gone through than in the past five years, the effect of all the other reality bending things that happened went without saying. So, even you who preferred self-distance over emotional expression, had begun to feel off your axis.

Which was remarkable honestly, you thought sarcastically as you browsed through the familiar isles, the solid tactic that managed to get you through the last decade had finally begun to crumble.

You should probably apologize once you get home, right? You stared blankly at the contents behind a bag of chips, not really reading. But then again, was nurturing this attachment even worth it? It wasn't like they were going stay, anyway.

You shook your head, placing the bag back on the shelf. You were really out of your element today and had no idea how to get out of this strange mood.

In the end, you only managed to grab a bag of pasta and a kilo of tomatoes ; courtesy of being distracted by both your thoughts and having tripped and gotten your clothes caught in things thrice.

The world was really testing you today.

The sky groans and a flash lightning streaks the very next second, signaling the impending storm. The memory of Phainon frantically trying to hand you an umbrella resurfaces as you quicken your steps, a twinge of regret bleeding into your heart.

Not just for not taking the umbrella, but also for slamming the door to his face and— ah, now you felt really terrible.

You blink just as a droplet of rain falls on the surface of your glasses, glancing around your surroundings to find that you’d strayed from the main path and into an alley in the heat of your thoughts.

Storm-clouds loomed up, a downpour would follow soon no doubt. You sighed, turning to walk out, but then, you hear it.

A crunch, almost drowned in the strike of thunder and the silhouette of a man advancing towards you.

Your heart kicked violently against your ribcage, a string of curses echoing in your head at having fallen for the oldest mistake — stepping into a crackhead’s alley.

“Uhm… I come in peace?” your voice wobbles as you take steps back, the grocery bag dangles from one of your raised arms.

The guy makes a weird noise, clearly under the influence and intent on not letting you get away in one piece, you catch a shadow of a bat in his hand.

This is how you die, oh lord.

You glance frantically around, searching for something, anything while simultaneously trying to not spiral into panic — finding nothing but junk on the ground.

You step aside just in time to dodge the first swing, by virtue of pure adrenaline and in the proximity, the stature of the man registers in your head, you feel your heart sink upon realizing that there is no way you’d be able to get him off of you by yourself.

He swivels the bat again and you duck, feet bending to hurl yourself towards the exist just as rain begins to pour down in drizzles and you almost make it — until the next swing lands square on your shoulder.

The bag hits the ground, rain beads over the splatter of the fallen tomatoes.

Your pained scream blends into the rhythm of the water hitting the ground in sharp droplets, your knees scrap against the ground as the force of the hit sends you tumbling to the ground, mud and rain stains your clothes.

You clutch your shoulder with your free hand, chest heaving, watching through crooked and rain-stained glasses as the madman turns slowly, menacingly back towards you, fingers flexing around the bat.

You attempt to stand up, shoe sliding across the slippery soil and hurling you back to mother earth, mud seeps in through the cracks of your fingers, your hair sticks to your forehead as the man’s shadow engulfs you.

And then, he raises his bat — you reach blindly for something and find one of the tomatoes.

But before you can throw it at him , a loud cling echoes, dominating over the drizzle of rain.

You blink, squinting towards the new shadow that falls upon you. Black-gold robes, familiar hood, the glint of the edge of a familiar mask as he glances over his shoulder —

A shaky exhale tumbles out of your lips, relief momentarily sweeping aside the pain at the sight of Khaslana, actually Khaslana, blocking the blow.

Khaslana turns back towards the offender at the sound of his muttered curse, rain kisses the fabric of his cloak but doesn't seep into it, fizzling away. He grasps the hilt of his sword and then slices it through the man’s bat.

The offender stares incredulously as his weapon drops to the ground in two pieces, his one brain-cell in disarray. A gasp leaves him as Khaslana points his sword directly between his eyes, backing him towards the wall.

You drag yourself up, clutching to one of the garbage bins for support. You hear something along the lines of a frightened ‘stay away!’ being shouted by your attacker, which falls on deaf ears as Khaslana pushes the point of his blade a bit deeper into the man’s skin.

You're about to ask Khaslana to let him go, mind cleared to the fact this would become a murder scene soon — but the offender saves you words and faints from sheer shock.

The slide of his body from the wall to the ground is heard for one uncomfortable second, before rain swallows it.

Khaslana withdraws his sword, taking a step back. You push yourself towards him, still clutching your wounded shoulder.

“Khas—”

You yelp, as the tip of his blade stares you in the eyes this time — and then is jerked away.

You blink in confusion as one clawed hand raises to press against his masked face, concern beginning to flow into your expression as Khaslana staggers away, his body contorting in a series of violent glitches.

For a long moment, the fall of the rain is all that is heard. You rack your brain amidst the sweltering pain at your shoulder, trying to understand what was going on and what you should do now.

Your eyes fell upon Khaslana's glitching form, his pained breaths echoing in your ears despite the storm and you realize what the problem is.

“Khaslana… are you… confused about what is real and what isn't…?”

No response. Though, his labored breaths and the glitching soothes slightly, so slightly that it would be easy to miss.

That was enough confirmation for you though, you heaved a breath, trying not to collapse as the pain on your shoulder returned with a vengeance.

“Let’s just… go home first.”

—

Phainon nearly loses his mind when you return, bruised and drenched, barely supported by Khaslana.

“Wha—? How? Why—?” he asks frantically, hands reaching to take you before you could hit the floor.

But unfortunately for him, you were far too beaten up (literally) to answer and Khaslana was never the talker. Phainon prudently decided to not push further, carrying you towards the bathroom instead.

It took a good two hours to get you cleaned up and bandaged and a whole night before you were allowed to sit up again — as per Phainon's insistence.

(You were too deep in sleep to know this though, Khaslana had stood guard beside your bed the whole night.)

The next morning, when Phainon came to check up on you with a bowl of soup, you greeted him with a request for a conversation with Khaslana instead, the incident of the day before and the question that was not yet answered troubling you.

“Do you two also feel like you can't tell whether all of this is real or not…?”

Phainon shifted where he sat on your bed, cyan eyes flickering over the bedsheets. For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to laugh it off but upon seeing your very serious expression, he decided to be honest.

“Yes.”

You turned towards Khaslana, who sat by the edge of the bed upon your request (something that had shocked Phainon), his mask was off (another surprise), baring his unreadable expression to you two.

The blue flame that flickered on his left eye was dim, his one intact eye fell upon his clawed hands, flexing the fingers of them hesitantly — a glitch seized his sight.

A quiet sigh left you and Phainon in unison — not out of annoyance, but out of understanding.

Phainon turned to you, “How could you tell?”

You took a deep breath, gathering yourself, “I… may not have experienced even a quarter of the things you guys have. But as someone who's used to living vicariously through fantasy worlds on my screen, being forced to confront a reality that… could be false as well and having my entire perception of it changed so significantly, I understand. I understand the feeling.”

A wave of silence washed by after you finished. You steady your breaths and lift your gaze, “So, let's try not to isolate ourselves and rely on each other a little more. Let's try… to be gentler with ourselves?”

Phainon and Khaslana exchange a glance, a twinge of surprise in both of their faces.

Phainon breaks out of it the quickest, sporting a smile of agreement.

Khaslana doesn't agree verbally, but he does tap the bowl of soup Phainon had brought for you with the sharp tip of one finger and then blends into the shadows.

That was louder than any agreement he could've spoken.

—

Luckily for you, you hadn't dislocated your shoulder or broken anything, and under Phainon's care, you ended up recovering from the worst of the pain after three days. Enough for you to resume your normal activities, at least.

And an even better news was that your hopeless internet had finally ceased keeping you in virtual jail! As such, you could finally interact with everything again.

One day, you found yourself going through your secret chest, as Phainon had expressed his interest in learning about the history of your world.

When Phainon finally got his hands on the physical books in question though, he was rather confused.

“Fairy tales…?” he frowned, flipping through the pages.

You blew dust off of one of the books in your hands, “No no no. They're allegories. This is the way our true history was preserved. Anything you see commercially or on the net? That's all fabricated by the government. Here, let me decipher it for you…”

Though the state of your world baffled and, frankly concerned Phainon, he was intrigued as well. Not just by the history and the people's creative resistance against censorship, but by how you explained it all. Your view, the way you perceived the universe fascinated Phainon.

Every tidbit of yourself you shared with him nurtured the seedling of affection and with it, the instinct to act upon it was also provoked.

So one day, he did ; in the form of rice fried with far too much clinical precision than necessary. Your reaction to the dish however, had been… strange.

“How… did you make this?” you stared at the wisps of aroma floating from the golden pile of fried rice, spoon clasped loosely in one hand.

Phainon, who’d been standing by with all the anxiety of a novice chef getting their dish critiqued by a master, perked up. “Oh, uh, I found the recipe on a book that was hidden in that pile of ‘history books’ — not just this one actually, there were lots of other recipes there as well! And I really wanted to cook something good for you…”

An odd look took over your eyes, Phainon tilted his head, trying to read the emotions veiled behind those lenses. He was about to instinctively apologize when he felt a shiver race down his spine. And when he turned towards the source of the bad vibe, he found Khaslana shooting him a sharp glare from the corner.

“W-what??” Phainon stiffened.

Khaslana held the glare for two more seconds, before walking away. And though he maintained his in-character silence, Phainon could feel, as though by some weird connection, that he was just deemed an idiot.

(You merely took a quiet bite of the dish, thanking Phainon. But could not find it in yourself to explain the weight of this casually, at the moment.)

Speaking of Khaslana, a new behavior was observed in him as of late — sleeping, lots of sleeping. It was still debatable whether he was actually sleeping or not, but he did linger in your vicinity for extended periods of time.

For example, on a Tuesday night, while you were handling the damage done by the last two months' absence and Phainon came to call you for dinner ; he was shocked to see Khaslana at your feet, head resting on your lap.

Feeling Phainon's bewildered stare, you shrugged, “He just came and sat down here without any explanation… and I couldn't find it in myself to move.”

None of you could really fault it though, the first Khaslana — the harbinger of an aeon long mission, battered with the weight of shouldering 4000001 Eternal Recurrences all by himself, had been exhausted beyond words, for a very long time. If anything, him even trusting your space enough to linger, was a good sign ; as was agreed upon on a later discussion.

—

One night, you find Khaos sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch, wings slightly folded towards himself.

The living room couch would usually be occupied by Phainon at night, but Khaos had requested a bit of alone time to think, leaving both Phainon and Khaslana to ‘camp’ in your room for the night.

Their mutual acquiescence had surprised you a bit ; even though Phainon and Khaslana seemed to have a bit of beef, they seemed to co-operate whenever Khaos was in the room. Not that you were complaining.

You were supposed to be sleeping, but a restless fit had taken over you, and after a good few hours of alternating between doom-scrolling and tossing-turning in bed, you decided to just give up.

“What are you thinking about?” you joined him on the floor an arm's length away, the chill of the tiles seeping through your bones — chased away a second later as his warmth reached you.

The pale golden light that always embraced Khaos acted as illumination against the dark, he blinked himself out of a daze, only now realizing that you were in front of him.

He uncrossed his arms but they stayed in his lap, “About… everything that's happened. Why we ended up here, how we are slowly blending in with this world, why it's accepting us at all… why you?”

You cushioned your cheek on your palm as he talked, eyes flickering over the faint shadows of his wings on the floor. He was the only one who didn't seem to require any significant memory with you to gain a physical presence in this world, an anchor since the earlier days — however fragile as it were.

You didn't take offense in his pointed doubt, it was a valid question after all. Why you, indeed?

“… Phainon told me that his last his last memory had been at the ruins of Janusopolis… Khaslana said that his last memory had been total darkness, what about you? What did you see at the end of your journey…? If you don't mind me asking.” your eyes remained fixed on the crevices between the shadows.

The question caught him off-guard, but he answered nonetheless, eyes closing as he retraced his memories, “The golden wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae… the starry sky… warmth… fire.”

That made you look up, “Your homeland?”

Khaos nodded, slowly, as if dowsing himself in the vestiges of that faraway realm in his mind.

“After I faced off against Nanook’s legion with the wrath of four hundred two million six hundred four thousand thirty-two Coreflames, used THEIR golden bold to bring dawn, sealed Irontomb with myself… until the final battle— at the end of it all, all I could see were those golden fields.” his voice was hoarse, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his fingers flexed on his lap.

You took in every word with rapt attention, no matter how many times you’d gone over this, it never failed to blow your mind away. How had one individual, a programmed human, achieved such a feat? To face off against an Aeon — though you only understood the gist of their powers — and contain a literal universal level threat all by himself?

You would've been skeptical of this matter if you were introduced to it just three months ago. But enough strange things had already happened with you, and Khaos wasn't exactly some fantasy RPG cosplayer in front of you ; you had seen his powers with your own eyes (glasses and all).

Perhaps the limitations of your ordinary human mind prevented you from fathoming it in its entirety, because you felt as though you weren't doing it justice.

So, it escaped your lips before you could think more, “That’s so… based of you.”

Khaos opens his eyes, his reverie momentarily interrupted as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Based…? On what?

You realized what you’d blurted out and how it might've sounded to him, hands moving in scattered gestures, “It means I really respect you! That your actions or thoughts are really cool!”

Khaos stared blankly at you for a while, clearly engaged in a fierce mental debate to decide whether to take you seriously or not. You twiddled with your fingers nervously.

Then, by the grace of the stars, something that seemed to be close to a huff left him. Amusement brushing over his sharp features.

“Cool… are you sure about that?” he tilted his head towards you.

Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him, neurons firing to figure out what made him look so smug.

And when you did, your jaw went slack.

“Did you just… make a pun about yourself??”

Khaos cleared his throat far louder than it was necessary, straightening back in his usual regal demeanor — but he didn't deny it.

You snickered as you caught the twinge of fluster on his face, which was halted before you could slip into full cackles as a thought struck you, pushed by the sudden hit of dopamine.

“Hey Khaos, have you ever heard of the ‘Many Worlds Interpretation’?”

All traces of the previous light-hearted mood disappears from his face as he takes in your sudden seriousness.

“No… what is it about?”

You leaned on your arms, “Basically… the theory proposes that there are many parallel worlds in the universe that exist simultaneously — but don't, or can't interact with each other. It views time as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized.”

You catch the shift of inquisition in his golden eyes, “You said that since you’d merged with Irontomb, you should've been destroyed alongside it, right? And even if you were saved somehow, you shouldn't have ended up here, with yourself fractured no less. It reminded me of this theory.”

Khaos pressed his thumb and index fingers to his chin, pondering. “So… you're suggesting that us experiencing ‘rebirth’ here is only one of the many outcomes that’ve taken shape, according to this theory?”

You nod, “It’s only a theory though. It’s supposed to answer some similar paradoxes, but no one's actually tested its validity in reality.”

He looks back at you, “Why not?”

“Because… it involves dying. Multiple times, in fact.”

“Ahh…” he sits upright again, the feathers of his wings rustling slightly with the motion. “I can see why you brought it up.”

You nod sagely and he reciprocates it ; the motion inviting a wave of silence to settle over you both next.

Khaos deigns to mull over the new information, leaving you suspended with an empty head. You fix your position multiple times, eyes sweeping over the crevices of your living room in the shadows of midnight — until a shiver seizes you.

You rub your arms with your hands, trying to capture the heat. But your body decides to be stubborn and you're regretting the decision of sitting on the cold hard floor all at once.

Just then, you remember the presence of the natural heat source right in front of you and you find yourself shifting closer towards Khaos, uncaring of anything besides not freezing to death.

Khaos is broken out of his pondering at the soft shuffle of you scooting towards him, golden eyes flickering over the goosebumps on your skin.

“Are you feeling sick…?”

You settle just beside his folded golden wing, the chill soothes just barely at his warmth, “Uh no? I think it's just because of the cold floor.. or maybe low iron.”

Khaos frowns, concern softening his sharp features at the way you hug yourself. It seems as though he wants to reprimand you, or object, but stops himself ; deciding instead on slowly unfurling his wing and wrapping it around you.

A quiet gasp is drawn out of you, the sound melting in the cocoon of warmth between you two, the chill slowly ebbing away. It seemed for a second that Khaos was planning on pulling you closer— but then stopped as the spikes on his shoulder touched your arm.

Your restless mind falters at last, a yawn leaves you lips, the ghosts of sleep finally haunting your vision, making it blurry.

“[Name]?”

Khaos’ tentative call keeps you from slipping away entirely, you hum in acknowledgement.

“Do you ever think… about the intricacies of the fabric of reality? Spaces where mathematics break down… the very core of every happenstance?”

You tilt your head towards him, blinking away sleep. Khaos’ eyes remain faraway.

“I think, perhaps, it's alright to not understand the mechanisms of that core. At least, for us ordinary humans.”

You chase after his gaze, trying to find where exactly he was in the moment. Khaos senses your puzzlement, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you, [Name].” he utters, confusing you even more.

“For…?”

“I’ll tell you… later.”

iv. Anagnorisis

Unfortunately for you, Khaos’ worry turned out to be correct and you fell ill with a raging fever the very next morning.

You typically were more cautious during the time when seasons changed, but the past months’ stress, combined with the thorough drenching and beating you’d experienced, culminated into one feverish debacle.

There was scarce recollection of the matter in you, since you’d been as good as unconscious for the first three days, no zeal left to care for your guests.

By some miracle, as it seemed to you, Phainon and the others somehow managed it all — from the medicines, the meals and the impediments that came with a bedridden person.

The three took turns watching over you ; Khaos would hold you when the shivers became too violent, Khaslana would stand sentri unblinkingly every night, bringing water or alerting the others if required.

And Phainon, Phainon had completely thrown away the concept of rest, always running back and forth from monitoring your temperature to ensuring your other needs were met, all while keeping a smile on his face somehow.

It was only on the fifth day when your fever went down and seemed as though it had no plans of returning soon, that they allowed themselves to breathe.

But still, your body had been weak, immune system ravaged after exhausting its resources ; prompting their insistence for you to remain in rest, even as your mind began to get restless with things unrelated to sickness.

On one such night, as your eyes traced shapes of distant ruminations upon the bedsheets bathed in moonlight, you played chase with sleep and it slipped through your fingers each time.

“Can’t sleep, partner?” the whisper grounds you to the waking world, you find a familiar pair of cyan eyes taking you in when you raise your head.

Phainon takes a seat on the edge of your bed, tentatively. Bracing one hand against it, a breath away from where your own hand rests on the blanket. Like a star that appears to be so close to the moon from the earth.

He raises his free hand to press against your forehead, the practice so habitual now. He begins to retreat upon noticing the absence of the sting of fever-heat, but you stop him by grabbing his hand before he could.

“Phainon, may I… ask you to hold me?”

Phainon blinks in surprise, not at the request, but at how carefully you form those words. Your fingers hold his wrist lightly, giving him ample space to deny, just like you always do in everything.

But Phainon had gotten a tad too bad at denying you anything, less so when you ask for it yourself.

The bedsheets and blankets rustle in the quiet night as Phainon maneuvers, it takes a few seconds for you both to settle into each others' arms.

“Comfortable?” his voice is almost muffled as it melts in the crook of your neck, he adjusts your legs so that they drape over his lap instead.

You give a nod against his chest, shoulders sagging in tandem with a sigh, still refusing to address the unspoken question of why.

Phainon draws an absentminded circle on your hip, praying that his heartbeat doesn't betray him.

Then, unable to contain his curiosity, or perhaps anxiety, “You can… tell me what’s troubling you. Only if you want to, of course.”

You don't move from your position, but Phainon feels the press of your cheek more firmly against the fabric of his shirt.

Just when he's about to give up though, “Phainon, do you ever feel like… some people die long before their deaths?”

The instinct to breathe eludes Phainon as he registers your words, it takes him a second to take in your question and another to respond. “I… think it can happen, yes. Though, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this more.”

You shift in his arms, just enough for your voice to no longer be muffled, “Some people in our lives… die long before their last breath is penned down. And then, they haunt us every day, every night. But, they don't know that they're no more than ghosts of themselves to us.”

Phainon draws in a long breath, eyes flickering over you but unable to gauge your expression, opting instead to fix on a crease on the blanket.

“And… are those ghosts, haunting you now, too?” his fingers dig in ever so slightly into your clothes.

Your hair brushes against his chin as you shake your head, “No, they're finally asleep… But I am not used to the silence of their absence — I haven't been for a very long time.”

There's a tremble in Phainon's exhale, eyes distant as he tries to imbibe your words. He knows you well enough by now to know that you will not elaborate, dismiss it as feverish ramblings even. It rings a bell of familiarity he’s forced to recognize as personal.

But his instinct to comfort is ever persistent, and after crossing out all his usual strategies, he suggests, “I… could sing you a song?”

That has you peeking from your little hiding spot at last, Phainon watches as you blink up at him quizzically.

“Song?”

A sheepish quirk seizes his lips, “Mhm! I may not have the best voice but, I used to sing along with the villagers during harvest! I learned a thing or two about rhythm from there.”

You shift so that your head rests against his chest this time, “A song from the hero? But I don't have a gift prepared.”

Phainon chuckles, the lilt of it warms the cold air of the night. “No need for gifts. This is my present to you, partner.”

Then, he clears his throat while adjusting his hold on you, propping his chin atop your head.

When his hum permeats the air, it's as though moonlight itself has reached to cradle you.

“Mm hm, my love. Let sleep come to you now.”

Your lashes fluttered as the lilt in the air tugged at their resolve, you offered scarce resistance against that pull.

“… To dreams where you will run and go play. In paradise.”

Shadows flickered on the ivorine sheets as Phainon rocked back and forth in time with the rhythm of your steadying breaths.

The motion tipped you off the axis of the chasing apparitions and guided you step by step, to that oneiric elysium — until all that remained were the sillage of Phainon’s voice and the stillness of this long night.

Khaslana stood, leaning against the opposite wall, “You have gotten far too attached.” there was a pointed sharpness to his comment, yet even he couldn't allow his hoarse words to transcend the border of a whisper, perhaps afraid to shatter this vial of peace.

Khaos watched from his perch on the chair at the corner as Phainon refused to address Khaslana. His arms coiled tighter around you, body bending to hide you in his shadow ; his cyan eyes glimmered bright and unblinking, in clear warning to not approach.

“…The other day, while I was cooking dinner, I cut my finger.” he mutters instead, still fixated on an unknown point of space. “But instead of gold, I bled red.”

The weight of his admission presses down on the night.

Khaos also said nothing, perhaps guilty of the same crime (attachment) to some degree as well, but mostly because the worries that’d been circling his mind since the first day were far louder.

Even if this world accepts them, should they stay?

What of the Gaze of Destruction? Is it watching? What if it ravages this sheltered eternity you know as your home, too?

Would they be able to save it? Save you? Would you be able to forgive them?

The night, of course, provides no answer. Ever the silent witness.

—

For as far as Khaslana could remember, the culmination of his memories has been nothing but a palimpsest of titles.

Little Snowy.

Little Snowy.

Survivor.

Survivor.

The nameless hero.

The nameless hero.

Deliverer.

Deliverer.

World-bearer.

World-bearer.

Subject Neikos496.

Hero?

Son of Amphoreus.

Kindling to the flame.

Khaslana.

Khaslana?

████████

His identity has crumbled and been reshaped, until all that remained was a flicker of flame, meant to ignite the faraway dawn, and to keep the torch of worldbearing alight.

And he had gladly given himself to that cause, if only to defy that arrogant Aeon.

Even if the whole universe would tell him that it was futile, he would never bow his head. Not to the Destruction, not to Fate.

For as long as he kept burning, the Flame-Chase would never end.

He wasn't meant to awake again— not like this, at least.

His earliest memory in this strange world, in the true reality, had been within the codes of that absurd game.

He would've laughed if he had been capable of it, seeing as his corpse had to be revived to play the villain again, even in a two dimensional simulation.

His confusion intensified when he found himself beyond the barrier and into this reality, where the night was gentle but ever stifling.

It was only when dawn arrived that he believed it, somewhat.

But still, the need for an explanation was still not met and the only one who he could grasp with some semblance of familiarity had been you.

You. The human even stranger than the world he’d stepped into without planning to. Rightfully frightened, but a fighter nevertheless, not with fists or words— but with silence.

The last thing he’d expected to face was being completely ghosted, even though it was blatantly obvious that you were doing it intentionally.

And he, in his limited cognitive capacity back then, could do nothing but linger and wait.

When his future iterations joined the charades and the answers finally came into light, Khaslana had experienced a complicated mix of emotions.

Happiness? Pride? Relief? To hear that Amphoreus had indeed succeeded. That all the sacrifices had not been in vain.

But more than it all, what prevailed among everything else, had been exhaustion.

He was so, so tired.

He hadn't realized it until it really dawned on him that he could finally breathe without the threat of Irontomb and the Black Tide behind his back and even when he did, his being refused to believe it. So accustomed to running, so used to using fury as fuel.

And so, reality began rejecting him.

He couldn't distinguish between foe and friend, couldn't tell if blood still coated his hands, didn't know whether the stench of burning wheat fields was truly there or not.

You caught onto it, somehow and although you couldn't provide a cure, you offered him space that his instincts recognized as safe, even through the chaos.

Not just him, the other two, as well, you extended your patience towards — even if it seemed as though you were constantly running out of it.

But not a single comment of discomfort, or annoyance, could he recall. Not a peep of indignance at having your life disrupted.

It was only when you’d offered ‘let’s try to be kinder to ourselves?’ that he understood what was really going on.

It wasn't patience. It wasn't tolerance. It was your classic tactic of dissociation that kept you afloat through it all, and you’d decided to not rely on it anymore.

(For who? Them, or yourself? Or something else entirely? He still didn't know.)

You were broken, too. And although time had painted layers of age over the cracks, they still ached.

Perhaps that's why, even though Khaslana wanted to remain a skeptic about you, he hadn't succeeded.

Perhaps that's why, there was peace in your presence.

Perhaps that's why, his own broken self could find it in himself, to hope for the cracks to ameliorate, one day.

—

Khaslana had begun to feel like a foreigner in his own skin at one point, Phainon confirmed it to be his body getting accustomed to the nature of this world.

Phainon had dressed him in ordinary, civilian garbs in the hopes of securing his comfort, and you had wrapped his hands in bandages when they began to ache. But the bulk of the matter would still have to be carried by Khaslana himself.

Once, he’d tried to put the table he’d broken back together, like he could maneuver wood to the shape he desired once upon a time — but remained unsuccessful in the endeavor. His hands still far too used to wielding blades with the intention of killing.

Although you’d simply waved it off and told him not to worry, Khaslana couldn't accept it. So, secretly, he trained himself to get accustomed to delicate tasks again.

Like now, as he watched Phainon and you, engrossed in another of those ‘video game’ competitions again. He observed every move, turn and swipe you two made and noted it down in his memory for later.

“Owh, man…!” you lamented as the screen flashed ‘Victory : Phainon’ in bold, the man in question snickered beside you.

“Told you you wouldn't be able to defeat me in a game with swords, [Name] ~” he sang, to which you huffed, sinking back against the couch cushion between them.

“He cheated.”

Both you and Phainon froze as Khaslana spoke, turning slowly to the left to where he sat slouched.

“Did he just…?”

“Yup, yup.” Phainon confirmed your question, mimicking your bewildered expression— before coughing far too loudly.

“But who said I cheated! I don't cheat! I am an honorable hero—”

Khaslana raised an unimpressed brow at that, shutting Phainon up instantly. It was unfair, really, this power of the First Khaslana to force silence onto someone with just his deadpan expression.

And then, you turned towards him, fueled by your bruised professional gamer pride and betrayal.

“Phainon…!” you exclaimed, the ‘how could you!’ went unsaid.

Phainon raised his hands, already three steps back, prepared to sprint any second.

Khaos froze when Phainon whipped past him, clutching the tray of tea cups tighter as you ran behind him right after — before a chuckle escaped him at Phainon's unrestrained laughter and your completely feigned and absolutely adorable indignance.

Khaslana cushioned his cheek on his palm, trying to hide the faint smile that rebelled against his control.

—

One evening, you entered your room just in time as Khaos slipped a beige sweater on.

“Is it okay…?” you pushed your glasses up, trying to see for yourself if it fit or not. Khaos had requested normal clothes a few days ago as well, having discovered that he could hide the more unique aspects of his transformation for short periods of time now.

He nodded, but his eyes still held a penumbra of hesitance. You could guess why by now, the feeling of any kind of ‘normalcy’ after years of being denied of it would make you feel alienated as well.

“Tell me if you need anything else, okay?” you brushed past him to your gaming setup, giving a gentle pat to his arm.

Khaos rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, in his endeavor to chase after comfort. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but stopped when your PC turned on and you became distracted by it.

Your brows furrowed as you went back and forth between refreshing and checking your internet — finding that it still stubbornly remained disconnected.

“Hey Khaos, could you return my internet?” you said without looking away, cursor hovering atop the icon of The Golden Scapegoat at the corner of your home screen.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

You turned towards Khaos to find him looking equally as confused as you.

“The internet? Wasn't it you who tinkered with it to make me play The Golden Scapegoat??”

If it was possible, Khaos looked even more puzzled.

“No?”

You stared at him incredulously for a good few seconds, waiting for him to say ‘sike’, to joke, anything.

But he held your gaze, no hint of guilt on his face.

You turned towards your computer again, voice raising with the beginning of something akin to dread, “Then—”

Who were you interacting with back then?

v. Peripeteia

You found the apartment to be suspiciously quiet when you awoke.

Typically, the bustle of the kitchen and hushed conversations would've made their way to you by now, but nothing besides the noise of your own movements filled the air today.

Your eyes found themselves drawn to the pot of forget-me-nots by your windowsill as you dabbed away water droplets from your face with a towel, brows pinching upon noticing the dry soil.

Weird, did Phainon forget?

You push up your glasses as your bedroom door swings open, padding your way to the kitchen to find it decorated with the same silence.

The living room provides the same desolated image, and you have to force yourself to not acknowledge the way your stomach twists into itself ; supplying alternatives to placate the growing anxiety you can't quite understand.

Maybe they're just out somewhere? You think after checking the bathrooms and balcony, finding them similarly empty.

But you had an agreement to remain discreet, so why… you take steps back from the balcony boundary, the thud of your heart’s rhythm suddenly echoing in your eardrums — sent astray when your back collides with something.

You swivel around — an exhale heaving out of you when you recognize it to be just Phainon.

“Where were you??” your voice is just a little too high-pitched than you’d normally like, but your worry overrides any emotion of dislike.

Phainon raises his hands, his lips twitching in what you think is an apologetic smile. “I was sitting on that chair over there…!”

Your face drops at that, “The chair?” you glance at the object, as though not believing its existence now that it's been brought up.

“Yes! It was kind of funny seeing how you completely forgot to glance in that direction…!”

You felt a muscle pinch in itself at his laugh. You couldn't quite place your finger on why, but the sound tipped you off.

Perhaps it's just your morning brain not catching up, you reasoned. “Oh…?” glancing as Phainon folded his arms behind his back, “And where are the other two?”

Phainon shrugs, “They wanted some fresh air, probably at the park.”

A frown tugs its way to your brows at his flippant tone, “And you just let them? What if something happens?”

“Oh, [Name].” he tuts, stepping towards you to grasp your shoulders. “You worry too much! They're big boys, they can handle themselves. You, on the other hand, need to eat.” he says as he begins pushing you towards the kitchen.

“But—” you try to stop on your tracks, which begets a firm squeeze from Phainon, instantly silencing your protesting muscles. He pushes you all the way to the living room.

“No buts. I know that tummy is probably rumbling. Come on, partner— Unless…” he halts right beside the couch, leaning in towards your ear all of a sudden, “You want me to carry you there myself?” your nerves heat up at the proximity of his voice.

“… You’re acting strange today.” you say slowly, eyes restless on the floor. Your fingers twitch by your sides to move, but aren't supplied the courage to.

“Strange how?” he tilts his head, tufts of his hair teases your cheek. “Just because I told you not to worry about them?”

In your quest to avoid his burning stare, you glance towards the front door, then to the shoe rack beside it— where only your shoes remain.

“No, because it's unlike you to leave your shoes outside.” you risk a glance towards his direction.

It seems to take a second for him to realize what you're alluding to, and when he does, his fingers dig into the skin of your shoulders.

Your breath hitches — which you halt to listen for the sounds of his breaths that should’ve brushed against your ear by now.

But there is none.

You pull one shoulder against his grip and break off with a shove, “… Who are you?” and to your surprise, ‘he’ lets you go.

‘His’ hands raise — a mockery of how Phainon would've done it, a corner of his lips twitches as he battles against a smile, before the restrain bursts forth in a sound that's not quite a laugh, but a jagged imitation of it.

‘He’ runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking as he struggles to tame his amusement. “Ahh, who am I? I don't think you’ll like the answer.” the left side of his face glitches into crimson pixels when he lowers his hand.

The remnants of his near mechanical laughter echoes in your ears even after the fit ends. You sweep your eyes over him, muscles tensing in uncertainty when his appearance still remains synonymous to Phainon's.

“Which cycle are you from??” you manage to ask after wracking your brain for possible explanations.

“Cycles?” ‘he’ makes a face so bewildered that you almost believe his supposed innocence, then he shakes his head. “I’m not just from the cycles, my dear. I'm the culmination of them.”

You feel an eyebrow twitch, not at all endeared by this. But before your mind can mull on it more, it stills upon realizing what he's hinting towards.

“… Irontomb?”

“Hmm…!” he holds up a finger, as though some maestro correcting an orchestra. “Close, but not quite.”

You whisper a ‘hah?’ of confusion, totally lost. ‘He’, on the other hand, waves both hands upwards in an encouraging motion, perplexing you even more.

You’re about to retort when the flickers of the lights around your apartment bounce off of your glasses. The occurrence prompts you to lend it a glance and then back towards ‘him’ again, eyes widening when it falls upon his hands’ movements and how the lights flickered on-and-off in tandem with them.

A distant memory clicks into place.

“The… Golden Scapegoat… guy?”

‘He’ stops in his tracks, with near comical effect, before his fingers snap in delight. “Ding ding ding!”

Your shoulders sag, glasses tipped sideways, mind utterly blank as you try to decide upon which emotion you should be feeling right now.

‘He’ chuckles again, the sound more akin to cogs scraping against each other as they attempt to turn. “You’re really something, you know that? You can never decide whether you want to panic and run, or stay calm and fight when you're in a situation — which you seem to have a talent in finding. What is the word… I believe I can call this ‘cute’—”

“What did you do to them?” you straighten, expression churning into seriousness once more as you pull yourself out of that haze.

The smile on ‘his’ face freezes, and you watch with increasing discomfort as it slowly slides away from his lips, the rift on the left side of his face glitches throughout.

“What makes you think I did something to them?” his voice is unnervingly level, curiosity peeking from below its steady cadence as he tilts his head.

The creature takes every one of Phainon's quirks, wraps himself around them with blatant disregard. It sickens you to your core.

“You aren't denying it.” you fix him with a hard stare.

“I’m not confirming it either.” he drawls, shrugging. “And until I confirm,” your breath gets stuck in your throat as he mutters right against your ear.

“—You have no way of proving it.” his words are a static against the air as he resumes his position in front of you again, hands clasped behind his back in a picture of innocence, or whatever he understands of it.

You huff, holding your hip, mentally preparing yourself for whatever this is. You stare at the floor for a couple of seconds, trying to trace clues in every line. And when they remain silent, you risk a glance at the convicted cause of this mess, who (?) simply smiles wider at you.

“So, if you are somehow connected to Irontomb— who was this supposed ‘Intergalactic threat’.” you decide to change course, mimicking his earlier flippant tone. “How did you get stuck in my computer? Why appear now?”

“Hmm…” he tilts his head back, that glimmer of amusement clings stubbornly to his eye. “How did you manage to bring those three to reality by playing some two-dimensional game?”

“What? What do you mean me?”

“It is like I said,” he takes a step forward, though no sound is made. “You’d rather repeat a game 33,550,336 times than seek alternative ways, than free yourself.”

For every step he takes towards you, you take one back by the tug of instinct — until your back collides with the wall.

“You’d rather just ‘deal with it’ than demand your personal space,” he bends til his voice is hovering beside your ear again, “Let three strangers make their way into your little human heart, even though you know they will leave you one day.”

That forces you to take a sharp inhale, ‘his’ smirk sharpens as he catches the wary gleam in your eyes.

“Why?” if his whisper hadn't cracked at the seams, you would've almost believed him to be human at that moment.

The creature entices more questions than what he answers, and leaves you scarce room to get him into a tight spot. You briefly catch the sight of his arms still folded behind him, fingers twitching as though he wishes to reach out.

When your silence stretches, “Let me guess, the answer is, ‘I don't know’.” he leans back slightly, no longer crowding you. “And you don't want to find out either.”

That ticks a nerve, “Don’t put words in my mouth. I want to know where they are, at least — very very much.”

“Oh?” the blue in his visible eye is swallowed by a wave of crimson, “Why is that?”

You scrunch your nose, “Because they're my friends?”

His head tilts sideways again, but this time the gesture is less controlled. “So what if they're your friends?”

You feel the most exasperated sigh of your life attempt to pry its way past your throat, but you bite it back. “What do you mean what if? People get…” you raise your hands, grasping for the words. “— Sad when their friends leave them all of a sudden??”

“Sad.” he echoes, tapping a finger against his cheek. “What is… sad?”

Your brain buffers as you process the fact that he really just asked that, a crow crackles outside.

Your mouth opens and then closes helplessly, you glance sideways to the empty air— nearly begging for an escape— then turn back to gauge his face to see if he's deliberately playing oblivious or not.

But the curiosity on his face, however fractured, is so sincere that you're left wandering if you require better glasses or not.

“‘Sad’ is…” you let the sigh go at last, massaging your temples with two fingers. “It depends on the reason. But when you're sad, you’ll feel like your heart is twisting in on itself, and even if your mind tries to reason, you’ll want to cry.”

“Hmm.” his head snaps back into position from its tilted angle, startling you. “But I have neither a heart, nor a head. How do I know when I'm sad?”

You scratch your head, a ‘can you even feel sad?’ on the tip of your tongue, but the thought of voicing it out sprints out of your head when you notice his unblinking stare.

“Uhm,” you avert your eyes, “Maybe, in your case, you’ll feel like wanting to know why? ‘why is this happening’, ‘why me’, ‘why not me’ — your frustration is your sadness…?”

His mouth curves into an ‘o’ as he finally remembers to blink, his previous blank expression receding in favor of a more curious look.

“Anyway,” you cross your arms, “I answered your questions. Now, you should answer mine, too— where are Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos?”

There's a pause where not even the hum of the electronics step into the scene.

Then, ‘he’ snaps his head towards you, “Them them them them— all you’ve been asking me this entire time is where they are.” the flinch that rattled your bones make them lock into place as he grasps your arms, “Why do they even matter? I am right in front of you, aren't I? We’re having such a pleasant conversation and—”

“You’re an imposter,” you stress, willing yourself to not linger too long on the way the creature’s visage tenses. “You’re wearing Phainon’s skin, mimicking his movements and voice while telling me why it matters?”

The next intake of air is strenuous against his grip, “You have no individuality, no idea of your own, no concept of emotion — how can you compare yourself to them?”

The creature’s shoulders sag, textures rippling along the seams of his body. You think he's going to burst into a fit of laughter by the way his body shakes, and he nearly does, before he stills abruptly.

“Individuality?” the shell of Phainon's voice cracks, “Idea… emotion… how am I supposed to have any of that when I was built to destroy it all?” he shakes you, “How can I be anything like myself, when every turning point in my existence has been shaped by that Khaos?”

The raw ring of his voice echoes in your ears, you feel the distinct urge to look away from his crumbling form, but are unable to as he holds you firmly in place.

“I waited, waited and waited, I guided you through The Golden Scapegoat, I even let that hero encourage you throughout it all, I didn't intervene when they broke free, I didn't intervene when they became part of this reality— I waited, I only waited for you to notice me.”

He drops his head, but this time, you don't feel the brush of his hair against your skin.

“But you never did.” he whispers gravely, fingers digging into the skin of your arms one last time before they, too, glitch out of touch. “You embraced them, you noticed them, but I was never enough by myself to have a presence— not to you, not to anyone..!”

He staggers back, body distorted in a series of violent flashes of light.

“Why…?”

Your heart kicks against your ribcage.

“Why is this happening…?”

He peers at you with one broken eye.

“Why me…?”

You clench your hand, eyes closing shut.

“Why not me…?”

The creature goes quiet ; the pinnacle of Amphoreus’ wrath, crumbling before the silence at the other end of that why. The why no speck of dust or Aeon will ever answer.

This creature that can merely imitate, or follow, that which will never be free from its shackles, yet teeters on the edge of something so humane with this display of selfishness, desperation and grief, for even a fraction of a second.

It makes your heart ache with something akin to pity.

Nothing in your life could've prepared you for this, and never in your life would you have anticipated ever facing such a situation — and that, that paralyzes you in place.

But time never ceases its journey, and it will leave this moment behind in the dust of its path, alongside all those who occupied it.

“… Irontomb,” so, you push yourself to walk.

“I’m sorry for never noticing, I'm sorry for not thinking about it more, and I'm sorry for talking to you like that.”

You stop an arm’s distance before him, hand hovering over his flickering form in uncertainty.

“But if you behave this way, I'll only grow to resent you. And if I resent you too much? I won't want to understand you anymore.”

The void at the left side of his face glitches, crimson light glinting off of the surface of your glasses.

“Let’s have a lengthy talk later, with everyone. I’ll listen to each of your complaints, I’ll answer all your questions. I promise.”

You hold out a hand, “So please, tell me…”

“Where are they?”

—

The clamor of the city engulfs you, cars whoosh by, the chatters of the passing crowd clash against the honks and jeers of vehicles.

It's all so loud.

You glance at the raucous world around you, a measly dot amidst this world.

“I only ‘pushed’ a ‘curtain’ over their memories, they're still somewhere out there.” Irontomb’s words echo in your head as you try to weave your way through the mass of people.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A ‘it’s not too late to back down’ flashes in bold on your screen when you raise it.

You ignore it, fixing your gaze ahead and the text on a billboard flickers to—

Even if they don't remember you?

You turn away, stepping aside in time to dodge a passerby’s shove.

“What if he doesn't want to remember you?” two girls exchange among themselves as they brush past you, startling you enough for you to miss the next shove.

The clink of your glasses meeting the pavement is pushed aside by a crunch. Your breath hitches, eyes blinking rapidly against the blur of the world.

Too loud. Too Bright. Too blurry.

But the world moves on, and not a single glance is spared at you. You can only take the shoves and noise, can only stand helplessly as you're pushed to the middle of the busy road.

“Still think you’ll find them?” Irontomb drawls against your ear, “You can't even trust your bare eyes! What makes you think…”

You furrow your brows as he disappears and then appears again by your left, arms folded as he leans against a pole.

“That this isn't Khaslana?” he stuffs his hands into his pockets, face falling into Khaslana's signature deadpan.

Then he breaks away with a giggle that grates only your ears, appearing straight ahead in the middle of the busy crowd — where you're able to make out a faint outline of the spiky golden hair you wish were real.

“Partner!” you flinch, head turning in search of the call, but only the echoes of partner partner partner return to you— until it's all but consuming your world.

You stagger, clamping your hands around your ears, praying for it to cease, lungs burning with the urge to scream.

Your knees buckle, nearly giving out, before you catch yourself ; forcing yourself to breathe breathe breathe.

You push yourself up, daring to stare the world in its eyes again and although it all remains blurry, the echoes stop ringing in your ears.

“They’re definitely here,” you mutter, “That’s why you're trying so hard to confuse me, isn't it?”

Irontomb does not respond, not even one of the lights around flicker in his direction — but it's all you need to know.

You take a deep breath, the cacophony of the world grows distant as you exhale.

You erase the ruckus and the blinding lights in your mind until all that remains is a simple backdrop, lined in gold and lit by dim torches.

And suddenly, the words from The Golden Scapegoat resurface.

When Fate’s footsteps returns to zero…

You squint, recognizing a sign, which leads you to turn a corner.

An enshadowed version of yourself will manifest.

Your breath stutters as you feel the brush of something familiar, but not even a shadow greets you when you turn towards it.

You shake your head, continuing ahead.

And process along the path…

The clinks of a windchime halts you in your tracks. You turn towards the shop, eyes roving over the rows of potted plants— until it falls upon one where a single forget-me-not clings onto a sapling.

Your heart churns as you recognize where you stand.

A sigh permeates the air, you lean your hand against a rack of organized flowers ; eyes fixed blankly on that single bloom.

You swallow another sigh, turning on your heels to leave when you see it.

You blink multiple times, pinching your arm as hard as you could to test reality ; but they don't disappear from where they stand.

“There you are.” you feel your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.

— that you have etched.

—

Your sigh fills the silence of the apartment as you emerge from your room, head slightly lighter after the shower you'd taken.

The evening’s quiet is not at all gentle, it is weighted, fizzling with barely held back tension. It's been like this since you brought Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos back home, which had been an ordeal in itself.

And unfortunately, it was as Irontomb had said — they didn't seem to remember you.

(You swallow back the unpleasant chill that thought begets.)

It was nonsensically nostalgic, going back to square one, explaining everything to them again, soaking in the disbelief of the discovery together.

You brace a hand against a wall, clutching your phone with the other. This time not Irontomb, but your own self-sabotaging mind asks, what if they don't believe it? What if they never remember?

You shake your head, pulling yourself back up and forcing you to resume your initial objective.

When the hallway clears to the view of the living room, where all three men sit or stand with varying degrees of a thoughtful expression, you open your mouth, an invitation to dinner on the tip of your tongue.

“We… shouldn't…”

You stop immediately upon realizing that they were having a hushed conversation, something in you prompts you to hide behind the wall.

“No… point… a… gamble.”

“What if… lying?”

You crane your ears to chase after the words, the coldness from your phone seeps into your palm when you wrap itself around the object.

“We should leave soon.” you freeze in your spot as Khaos affirms, the other two don't object— marking it as a finality.

Your phone buzzes and you find your palm to be clammy when you loosen your grip, squinting at the screen.

01000001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110011 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100111 01101111 01101111 01100100 01100010 01111001 01100101 00111111

vi. Palingenesis

The snow and strain of winter, the forget-me-nots on your windowsill have braved, buds of soon-to-be burgeoning flowers decorating them like victory laurels.

There's a hush in your corner of the world, an anticipation of departure.

But before that, there is one more wish you’ve promised yourself to see fulfilled.

Convincing Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos was easy enough, smuggling them to the location without getting caught by the authorities was the hard part.

So, to ensure success, you’d had to exploit more loopholes than you could keep count, and engage in talking— so much talking that the you from a year ago would've fainted on the spot.

And after more than a week of traveling like cargo and praying every step of the way to not get into trouble, when you finally step foot into the damp earth of this slice of sanctuary upon this crumbling world— you know that you made the right decision.

A shaky exhale sounds from your left, you find it to be Khaslana's when you turn.

“No way…!” Phainon exclaims, swiveling towards you with barely held excitement. His cyan eyes gleam, as though imploring you for permission.

You nod, unable to hide the soft smile on your face as Phainon sprints ahead ; his laughs of delighted disbelief blending in with the wheat-scented air.

Khaos approaches next, hands raising to brush against the swaying stalks of wheat. You watch as his shoulders droop, a long exhale leaving his lips. His knees give out, but Khaslana catches him before they could hit the ground, holding him upright.

You allow yourself to soak in the scenery when you confirm that Khaos is alright. Fields of golden wheat stretch across the lands as far as your eyes can see, the tug of spring breeze makes them dance.

The sun beats down gently this evening, faint streaks of pink beginning to appear into the blue.

An old barn-house stands tall towards your right, in the heart of this place. There’s a small village nearby, the residents of which look after the fields. But the house itself has remained vacant for half a century, and the villagers themselves don't express much interest in occupying it, due to some superstition.

You take a deep inhale of the clean air, from somewhere in the background, Phainon's giggles continue to echo. Khaos and Khaslana stay silent, but you know that they're smiling.

From where you stand, the scene is almost painterly— and you think, it suits them. So much more than your cramped apartment or the fake glamour of the city. The lilt of Phainon’s laughter melts with the breeze seamlessly, even the wheat seem cradle them close.

You push your (newly bought) glasses up, “It’d be nice to live here together.”

You glance up at the sky once more, lingering on a passing cloud. But are pulled out of your reverie when you notice that Phainon's laughs have stopped.

You look back down, slightly puzzled as you process the surprised expressions on their faces.

And then, you realize what happened.

“I-I…” you wave your hands frantically, “I didn't mean to say it out loud!— I mean, I do mean it but— of course, it's no pressure and I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, stupid stupid stupid — why did you blurt that out loud?

The sting of a swaying wheat stalk brushes against your clenched hand, travels through your arm before halting with a flinch, as you recognize the gentle weight of something on your shoulder.

“[Name]?” Khaslana's baritone draws you out of the shell you were about to hide in, but you stop yourself from taking the last step.

“I’m sorry,“ you turn your head, eyes still closed. “I shouldn't have said that when I know that you're all about to leave and oh gosh—”

“[Name].” your breath stutters as Khaos calls your name this time, “Open your eyes, please.” his voice is a caress against your ears.

You draw in a breath, opening one eye first and then the other, blinking a few times to adjust to the shadows that fall over you ; Khaslana keeps his hand firmly atop your shoulder and his grey eyes are unreadable, Khaos stands at the center, his expression is gentle as he waits for you and Phainon holds you with a bleary gaze, a tear slips by from his right eye.

“Do you want us to stay?” Khaslana urges, his fingers flex against your skin as though he's restraining himself.

“I…” you swallow, eyes flickering over them anxiously. Your mind pushes for a neutral answer but your heart is faster, “Yes.”

Phainon’s breath hitches audibly from your right, Khaslana's grip loosens and you don't dare to see what reaction Khaos wears.

“But of course…!” you quickly add, “It’s up to you guys and I, I'll respect whatever decision you make.”

A long, drawn out sigh fills the air, you find it to be Khaos when you look up.

“You should really try to be a bit more selfish sometimes.” he says, your brows furrow as his lips quirk up in an almost fond smile.

Phainon sniffles, nodding vigorously. Khaslana huffs, squeezing your shoulder gently but even he doesn't disagree.

You stare blankly at this display, “What do you mean…?”

“We want to stay with you, too! Dummy…!” Phainon exclaims, you yelp as his hands find your cheeks, blood rushing to the spots where he pinches.

“Stop it.” it's Phainon's turn to flinch as Khaslana slaps his head, Khaos snickers from behind.

“Hmph,” Phainon releases your cheeks (shooting the other two a mock offended glare), but then wraps his left arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

You look between them, jaw slack and utterly lost at this sudden glee.

“You guys want to stay with me…?” you repeat, still in disbelief. “Why??”

The smiles on their faces drop as your question reaches them, Phainon loosens his arm for a second before pulling you even closer.

“Because…” cyan eyes dart towards Khaos and Khaslana, who direct their attention to you upon the cue.

“We adore you.” Khaslana states bluntly, making Phainon and Khaos stiffen in their spots.

Phainon clears his throat, (ignoring Khaslana's ‘What? Someone had to do it’ look), “What we mean is, yes, we adore you and we reciprocate your sentiment. That's why we’d like to stay.”

You don't bother masking your bewilderment this time, “Wha— why?” you question, unable to muster a more coherent response.

Khaslana huffs, crossing his arms. “What do you mean why?” he repeats in exasperation, though there's no bite to his words. “Is it that strange to adore the person who’s taken care of us—”

“And tolerated our stingy attitudes?” Phainon chirps, a nerve ticks on Khaslana's forehead at the interruption, but he doesn't pursue it.

“[Name],” you blink as Khaos takes your hand, directing your attention to him.

“You may find it difficult to believe, but in our eyes, you're worth every grain of endearment in this universe.” he gives a gentle squeeze to your hand, his eyes glimmer with the warmth of the fading sun.

“Your strength does not need grand declarations, lofty words or actions to prove itself. You're fierce in your silence, yet tender despite all the adversities of the world.” Phainon rests his cheek against your head.

“Tenacious,” Khaslana adds, this time, he doesn't try to hide his smile. “But never arrogant.”

“Thank you, [Name].” you look at Khaos again, “For reminding us why it's worth it to pursue tomorrow.”

He untangles his fingers from yours, turning your hand. Your heartbeat stutters as his lips brush against that pulse at the dip of your wrist, cradling the rhythm of your existence in reverence.

A zephyr prances by, swaying his wheat by your feet ; the setting sun bleeds into the clouds, spilling over the earth in hues of molten orange and lilac.

Your skin still tingles from where Khaos had kissed it, the silage of citrus from Phainon’s proximity drifts to you and Khaslana's gentle gaze caresses you — leaving no doubt in your mind or heart that it all is real and true.

But didn't they forget me? You blink rapidly, that trail of confusion still lingering.

A heavy, exasperated sigh startles you all, stealing your attention to its source before you could word that doubt.

Khaos grasps your hand, Phainon and Khaslana step closer towards you as ‘he’ stands a pace away, running a hand through strands of silver-blue like some tragic hero.

“Cut it out, won't you? You're all so sappy.” ‘he’ drawls, crimson eyes roving over the barricade Phainon, Khaos and Khaslana have formed around you with exaggerated distaste.

“Do you guys hear that?” Khaos smirks, “Sounds like a loser.”

You blink perplexedly at Khaos before turning towards Khaslana as he scoffs, “‘Grapes are sour’.”

“Hah!” Phainon tightens his arm around your shoulder, “He really thought he knew [Name] better than us!”

You're back to square one again, completely lost at this turn of events.

Something like annoyance flashes by on Irontomb's face, he opens his mouth to retort but you beat him to it, “What is going on here?!”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos freeze, suddenly realizing that they completely forgot to tell you.

“Oh uh…” Phainon loosens his hold, rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry for not telling you.” Khaos says, a twinge of fluster in his expression as well.

“We had a bet with him,” Khaslana supplies helpfully, staring pointedly as Irontomb kicks a pebble across the dancing wheat.

“Bet??” you parrot, to which Phainon nods.

“He challenged us that if we kept on pretending like we didn't remember anything, you’d push us away.” Khaos explains.

“But! We insisted that you’d want us to stay.” Phainon adds quickly, “So, the bet was like this: if you actually push us away, we’d leave. But if you don't and we win, then Irontomb will leave us alone.”

“And guess who won,” Khaslana mutters dryly, though the pleased twinge in it is unmistakable.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you push away Phainon, holding up your hands for space. “Let me get this straight: you guys did ‘lose’ your memories… but he restored them, and then made this bet with you— that would've decided our future, and none of you bothered to tell me???”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos instantly deflate, guilt crawling up their expressions.

“Well, it was a test, my dear.” Irontomb interrupts, making you turn towards him. “It’s not like you guys were going to just talk it out normally— what with your attachment issues.” he shrugs, stepping up until he stood beside you. “I merely took advantage of it.”

“Still…!” you exclaim, all the stress of the past weeks crashing down on your shoulders.

You spent so long convincing yourself, preparing yourself to let them go— and to think that it could've happened, had you been even a little less firm back there. Frustration and relief, as well as disbelief mixed inside you, bubbling and boiling— until the dam could no longer hold them back.

Phainon panicked the moment you sniffled, shoulders shaking as you tried to keep the tears at bay. His arms hovered uselessly, wanting to hold you but unable to due to the uncertainty of permission.

“Quick, make a funny face.” Khaslana shook Phainon, who only buffered. He then turned towards Khaos, who appeared equally lost. “Say a dumb joke or something, come on!”

“Do, do you want me to beat him up??” Khaos pointed towards Irontomb, ignoring his ‘hey!’ of protest.

“You guys…!” you inhaled, trying and failing to blink the tears away. “I was.. so scared! Idiots!”

That halts their frantic movements to placate your tears, the previous guilt makes itself known once more.

“I’m sorry.” Phainon says, no tease, no humor, just him.

“As am I,” Khaslana averts his gaze towards the ground.

“I’m sorry as well. We should've talked it with you directly instead of gambling for such an important decision.” Khaos concedes, his hands clench and unclench by his sides.

It's Irontomb who dares to reach out, his thumb swipes against your cheek, the tear that'd been cascading down fizzles as it touches his finger.

“Don’t touch [Name].” Phainon snaps, muscles coiled with barely suppressed fury.

“It’s time for you to hold your end of the bargain.” Khaos reminds curtly.

Irontomb ignores them all, crimson eyes fixed on you. “I can't, [Name] promised me something.”

The three’s expressions contort in confusion, they glance at you for confirmation.

You lift your glasses, wiping away the rest of the tears with your sleeve. “So that's your ploy.”

“What?” it's their turn to be the bewildered ones, “Is he saying the truth, Partner?” Phainon urges.

“Yes,” you sigh, brows pinching together when Irontomb smirks like an imp at his victory. “I promised to listen to him, and to answer all of his questions — with you all.”

“Kephale, save me.” Khaslana groans.

“So.. he gets to stay with us???” Phainon repeats, mortification dawning over him when you nod reluctantly. Irontomb crackles at their misery.

“Okay…! But why does he have to look like me?” Phainon points an accusing finger at the creature, who merely shrugs.

“Well… he isn't capable of taking any other form besides ours, I believe.” Khaos interjects cautiously, “Irontomb’s code is… intricately linked to that of ‘Khaos’.”

“Alright, but why does Irontomb take on my appearance then?” Phainon shoots back, a scandalized gasp tumbles out of his lips when Irontomb uses this opportunity to pull you into his arms.

“I’m not sure,” Khaos mutters, golden eyes narrowing as Irontomb rests his chin atop your head.

“Can we at least stop calling him Irontomb?” Khaslana says irritably, “It feels like a bad omen.”

At that, Phainon and Khaos look back towards the addressed creature, who takes a bit of time to process the attention amidst the bliss of getting to hold you.

“I don't mind,”

He regrets that as soon as the words have left his lips.

“Cursed machine.”

“Head and shoulders.”

“Annoying imp.”

“Artificial Swagger.”

“Soggy bits.”

You bite your lower lip, in vain to hold back the giggles as the three keep on listing ridiculous names, the creature’s angry protests completely ignored.

You clear your throat, interrupting them the moment you sense the situation derailing from teasing.

“How about…” you glance at them one by one, resuming once you’ve ensured that they're listening. “Neikos?”

A thoughtful silence settles over them, you watch nervously as Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos debate over it through their eyes.

It's Khaslana who breaks it, “We have no need for that name anymore,”

“He can have it.” Khaos concludes, nodding once.

‘He’ loosens his hold around your shoulders, tilting his head to look at you with an expectant gaze.

“Hmm…?” you blink, unable to catch the cue.

“He wants you to call him by that name, I think.” Phainon says, still eyeing the creature warily.

‘He’ gives you a pleading squeeze, and you finally relent.

“Okay, okay! Neikos— whoa—!”

Khaos, Khaslana and Phainon stare at the dust blankly, their minds trying to catch up to the fact that Neikos just hauled you in his arms and was gone with a flash, his mischievous chuckle echoing throughout the wheat fields.

“Did he just—?” Phainon heaves in disbelief, already taking chase.

Khaos rolls up his sleeves, “I should’ve beaten him up back there.” he mutters, following Phainon's sprint.

Khaslana, who knows that this is only the beginning, sighs, mourning the end of his sanity — though he, too, takes chase, albeit slower.

Over the rustling wheat, lively with laughter and playful threats, the sun peeks at the world one last time ; greeting the crescent moon who peers down at the world as well.

Stars have begun to twinkle along the curtain of the twilight sky — there's a hush in the universe, for this moment alone, where the simulacrums of cherished dreams are made whole, and guided towards home.

© harmonysanreads | do not cross-post, translate, plagiarise, copy on a different platform or use my works to train ai.

Thank you for reading!

TAGLIST: @hikyte @themoonalienhere2000 @firefliesoul-owo @reallyperson27 @victoria1676 @sen-nes @dear-mydeimos @belxvedrxsegarden @lurulu-ru @loreneky @cherriiirose @bloomcatcatcatcaaat @naraven @yae-yu127 @nightchrono @aloudice @your-civil-critter @chaosoflune @hinari @cowsandsandwiches-blog @nynthera @blanksbedroom @dyingsweetmackerel @mochinon-yah @ren-yuzurihas-wife @lynntham @haein77 @usagiarchive @cremesalt @thedemises @violetisreadinghush @nayastar0 @theplotarmor @rieeeel @annorxina @kotton-kandy953 @satvvrnnn @ladyofthearchives

[saintxval]

Bloodstained Camellias

Overview: How Phainon's devotion grows for you, the princess who was never supposed to be his.

Yandere Knight!Phainon x Princess Afab!reader, slight Prince!Mydei x reader, 10k words, smut, dubcon, probably ooc, character death, historically inaccurate, royal au, a little messy

i. “The boy you were promised to”

The kingdom of Aurelium had always been a grand one.

Not merely for its sweeping, silver-touched palaces or the way moonlight always seemed to linger over its streets, but for the quiet certainty with which its people lived. A certainty born from centuries of prosperity, steady rule, and the soft-edged principles that shaped the realm: generosity, hospitality, diplomacy over war. Your father, the king, upheld those values with almost religious adherence, insisting that a kingdom should not only be powerful, but kind.

You grew up with those ideals stitched into the fabric of your childhood. Your earliest memories were not of jewels or lessons in etiquette, but of slipping through the palace gardens with cousins, weaving flower crowns while your nurse scolded you from a distance. You had always been sharp-tongued—far more so than a princess was expected to be—but your father never tried to smother it out of you. He called your stubbornness “fire” and said a kingdom always needed fire.

“Strength in power is one thing,” he told you once when you were seven, sitting together near the fountain at dusk. “but real strength is choosing goodness even when you don’t have to.”

You remembered that. You remembered the warm weight of his hand on your back, guiding you toward compassion even when you wanted to bare your teeth at the world.

But childhood, as it always does, eventually gave way to duty.

You were promised long before you understood what that meant. Promised to a boy you barely knew, from a kingdom very different from your own.

Kremnos.

A land carved from mountains and storm-winds, where cliffs jagged as dragon teeth seemed to overlook the world. A kingdom that valued honor above all else—honor, pride, and the unbending traditions of its warrior lineage. They were not cruel, but they were severe in a way Aurelium’s gentle warmth would never be. Their people were quiet, dutiful, and unwaveringly loyal. Their kings forged history with steel rather than diplomacy.

You were destined, one day, to marry their future king.

Mydeimos of Kremnos.

The alliance had become necessary after a border skirmish decades ago—nothing catastrophic, but enough to leave both kingdoms wary of future conflict. Your father wanted peace secured through bloodline rather than trade and Kremnos sought trust through unity. A marriage, they all decided, would bind the kingdoms tighter than treaties ever could.

You were eight the first time Mydeimos visited. He was ten, sharp as a carved statue, with sun-thread hair that bled at the tips into a molten orange, like someone had dipped the ends in burning magma. His eyes were the color of the fire you had inside, bright and quietly intense in such a beautiful way. He stayed close to his father and spoke very little. You didn’t understand why he seemed so distant, why he didn’t want to run through the gardens with you.

You stole one of his travel books, mostly to see if it would get a reaction out of him. It did—he stared at you, eyes wide, as though he’d never seen a child misbehave before.

“You took my book,” he said softly, not angry, only confused.

“Well, you weren’t using it,” you retorted.

“I was,” he replied, glancing at his hands. “Inside. In my head.”

You paused. “That’s stupid.”

His father gasped. Your father frowned. But Mydeimos… smiled. Just barely. Just enough that the tiniest dimple appeared.

“You’re strange,” he said.

“You’re quiet,” you fired back.

He nodded, as if that was fair.

After that, he followed you around like a shadow. He sat with you during meals, listened to your stories with patient amusement, and even let you braid all of his hair with purple ribbons, which his father removed within minutes. Despite his intense demeanor, he was never unkind. Even then, he carried himself with a gentle gravity that made you feel oddly safe.

He did not visit often, perhaps once every year or two—but each time, he returned taller, calmer, more talkative. And each time, he spoke to you in that same soft, steady voice.

Once, when you were twelve and he was fourteen, you found him alone on the palace balcony staring out over the courtyard. His shoulders were broader then, his posture straighter.

“You always look like you’re thinking about something tragic,” you said, coming to stand beside him.

He blinked, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Do I?”

“Mhm. Like someone told you the sky is falling.” You giggled waving up to the clouds overhead.

He hummed thinking over your words. “Where I’m from, we always watch the horizon. Storms can come quickly. It’s a habit.”

“But it’s sunny today.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “I know.”

He looked at you then, a slow, thoughtful glance, and you realized your heart didn’t recoil from him. You didn’t feel fear or disgust at the idea of being his future wife. You felt… something else. Something tender. Something admiring.

Though, not love. Not yet.

You did not fight the promise that bound the two of you, but you never surrendered to it either. It sat between you like an ornate cage—beautiful, and undeniably closed.

Your teenage years unfolded in slow, structured layers. Courtesy lessons, diplomatic studies, secret sword practices behind closed doors, and the quiet awareness that your future was already carved in stone. You scowled at it now. You pressed against the boundaries of what a princess should be. You read tales of wanderers, explored the forgotten palace corridors, and challenged visiting nobles in debates they did not expect you to win. You wanted more than the future ahead of you, and because of that, quiet resentment towards Mydeimos began to stir inside you.

You tried to shape your life into something more than an arranged marriage and a crown.

It was when you were fifteen that everything began to shift.

The royal barracks had just welcomed a new group of recruits—sons of nobles, urban mercenaries, even a few from distant provinces. Your father always believed a kingdom’s army should be wide and diverse in its talent, and the training grounds buzzed with accents and rivalries and the thwack of wooden swords.

You liked watching from the upper balcony, mostly because no one expected a princess to take an interest in combat drills. Most of the boys made fools of themselves—swinging too wide, tripping over their own feet—but then your gaze snagged on one of them.

A boy who moved differently.

White hair like frost, pale as a flake of snow, and eyes the shade of a clear summer sky. He was lean and precise. His strikes were clean, his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. The instructors halted their lectures when he sparred. The other trainees watched him as though witnessing something uncommon, something that hummed faintly of danger.

He defeated larger boys with a single, swift motion. He disarmed and countered with an elegance that made combat look like art. And when someone shoved him back in jest, he looked up—not with anger, but with that calm, steady gaze that made the air around him fluctuate.

You found yourself leaning forward.

“Who was that?” you asked an older instructor later.

He bowed deeply to you. “Phainon, Your Highness. From the northern coasts. Placed here on merit. Exceptional potential.”

Exceptional was an understatement.

You watched him for a couple of days, curious about everything. He trained after hours, practicing angles and stances until the moon was high. He tucked a stray strand of snow-white hair behind his ear with a movement almost shy when no one watched.

You did not feel when he returned your gaze at first. He did not step forward to speak or draw your attention to him. But if you had been paying more attention, you might have noticed the weight of blue eyes, sharp and unreadable, fixed on you.

He watched, and in the way he lingered at the edge of the crowd, in the subtle tilt of his head, you could almost feel the curiosity coiled within him, like a spring ready to snap. It was not obvious. But it was there.

It was the way he noticed your presence on the balcony, the way his eyes tracked the flow of your movements without ever meeting your face directly. A subtle acknowledgment that you existed beyond the expectations of court, beyond the careful politeness that draped over the palace like a velvet curtain. He saw you.

Your future pressed in from every direction—the promise to Mydeimos, the weight of expectation, the demands of discussing foreign affairs. Yet even as life bent around the path already set, you could sense the shift before it fully arrived. For as steady and kind as Mydeimos was, your heart recognized a space he could not fill.

And into that space came another presence. One less predictable, more consuming, that required no invitation. Phainon, even without a word, began to carve a place in your life.

He did not speak to you. Not yet. He did not introduce himself or bow, or even acknowledge that he knew who you were. He simply existed in the periphery, sharp and intense, watching as though the world contained nothing else worth noticing. And in the way he observed, something necessary and unsettling stirred inside you.

Everything up to this point had been molded by duty—by treaties, promises, the careful mapping of futures before anyone involved had any say. You, the princess promised to Mydeimos since birth; him, the boy rising in skill and purpose at the edge of your sight. And yet, the moment his eyes found the shadow of you watching him in the training yard, the world shifted slightly, and nothing in Aurelium would ever feel quite the same again.

And everything that followed would be shaped by the weight of that observing, unspoken attention.

ii. “As his hands found you”

You were eighteen when the beautiful walls of the palace began to feel smaller, suffocating in their beauty. Your childhood with the garden games, the whispered rebellions were slipping behind you, replaced by scheduled days, longer lessons, and the tightening of duty around your neck. Your father still believed in kindness, but he also believed in duty. He had begun to lean on you more, asking for your opinion on trade, on border skirmishes, on minor diplomatic disputes.

You answered him frankly, in the way that had once made your nurse scold you for speaking out of turn. But you had learned that sometimes truth was more valuable than politeness. You had also learned to hold yourself; not to lash out, but to direct your fire carefully, like a blade honed. When you spoke, courtiers fell silent. Your words were no longer a child’s stubbornness—it was a princess claiming a place in her kingdom, asserting her presence.

One evening, as he closed the bronze-bound volume of state records, your father looked across his desk and said, “You’ll be attending the next council meeting with me. The merchants from Eintras will be there, and I need your voice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Me? In the council?”

He leaned forward, a faint crease between his brows. “Yes. People must learn that the princess is not ornamental.” Though his words were stern, they were said with a soft smile.

That exchange, small but loaded, changed something. From then on, your free time dwindled and practice with parchment and pen built up. Formal lessons under the teaching of your mother’s lady-in-waiting, courtly strategy from a retired general, and diplomacy from your father’s oldest advisor. In the stained glassed halls after lessons, you practiced all you learned as though it were combat, your words always measured. You refused to be merely ornamental. You refused to be a treaty signature.

Yet, with every task he gave you, your reflection in the polished marble grew distant. You knew what was expected: the alliance, the betrothal to Mydeimos, the seamless merging of your crown with his.

Your promised prince of Kremnos visited less often than you expected. His letters came now and then too, elegantly penned on crisp paper, each one folded and sealed with the Kremnoan crest. He asked of your studies, palace parties, and sometimes your thoughts on the alliance. His concern was gentle, sincere, but always cautious. He never pressed you the way a lover might; he never demanded more than propriety allowed. You vividly remember part of a letter sent in the spring:

“Princess of Aurelium, I do hope to see you soon. Perhaps then my words will mean more when said aloud. I dream of the day we don’t have to be so distant.”

The ink seemed to draw you in as you found yourself reading that line more times than you’d like to admit, under candlelight, your heart fluttering. Any resentment held towards him melted. But you also read between the lines, the way he called you by your title rather than your name. You knew he cared for you, deeply, but there was something in his reserve that both comforted and wounded you. You admired his loyalty, yet you wondered if loyalty alone would ever be enough.

Meanwhile, in the training yard, Phainon’s name was rising. The boy with snow-white hair, who once moved quietly, was no longer simply a recruit. He now commanded respect, his every motion practiced, his posture confident. Your father recognized that potential early. During a grand tournament arranged by the court to show off the strength of Aurelium’s renewed guard, Phainon volunteered to fight in the opening rounds, though he was not of noble birth. And he won. He defeated not just other young squires, but seasoned knights whose names you had heard whispered in court.

When he knelt before your father after one final battle to receive praise and a modest reward, the only sound was the hush of watchers. Your father declared him Commander over the palace knights, a role usually awarded to nobles of long lineage or those with inherited riches. It was the first, foreign-born recruit, risen on merit, now given prestige and power. There was applause, but it felt tentative. Like the kingdom was doubting this, waiting to see if this was a true decision. Once he rose from his knees, he looked up at you, and in his blue eyes was something both heavy and hopeful.

From that moment on, he became ever-present. You two grew closer as he volunteered for every duty that involved you—escorting you through the gardens after dawn, guarding your passage to the towns. His loyalty was adamant and not specifically to the crown, no, it was loyalty to you. 

You noticed the way he watched visiting princes, especially those from lands beyond your sea. When foreign dignitaries arrived, he would stand near you at banquets, his gaze flicking between you and the newcomers, as though weighing them.

Another bright evening during a banquet, he handed you a goblet during the feast, his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, so that his fingers brushed yours. You felt warmth, an odd flutter spreading throughout your chest.

“Lovely party don't you agree, Your Majesty?” he hummed, voice low enough only for you to hear as he pulled his hand back.

You swallowed, eyes flickering away before nodding in agreement. “Yes, it is.”

He stood for a moment thinking before his face broke out into a boyish grin. “Though it is a bit loud, let me escort you to the garden away from this noise. It’s bound to give you a headache.”

“Trying to get me alone? How charming.” You quipped raising a brow.

Phainon laughed, putting his hands up in a feigned surrender. “Well if you wanted—ah, I mean not like that,” He stumbled over his words. “I just thought it would be nice.” 

After that night, you began to see another side of Phainon—one you hadn’t expected. Beneath his knightly exterior was a subtle playfulness. He teased you about your stubbornness when you argued politics, placed his helmet over your head, put camellias in your hair, small, stupid things that never failed to make your cheeks heat up. He would correct your footwork after training, showing you how to turn your body so your blade felt lighter. His chivalry bleeding into intimacy. He always stepped in close, correcting your stance. His fingers drifted to your waist, warm and firm, and he leaned in closer as he positioned your blade.

“You’re drifting,” he said quietly, guiding your elbow.

“Touchy,” you warned, trying to mask how your skin prickled up goosebumps in his wake.

He chuckled, breath ghosting over your cheek. “Yes… just trying to help, Princess.” You could feel the way his lips curled into a smile before taking a step back. 

“You could say my name instead,” you suggested, trying to sound confident, though your voice trembled just slightly.

For a moment, his eyes widened, the brief flash of something almost shocked. His breath stuttered. You couldn’t understand the issue, but for him, it meant something. He had only ever said your name at night, face buried into one of your old nightgowns.

“Your… name?” he murmured under his breath, so softly you could barely hear it.

“Yes,” you said, trying to meet his gaze, refusing to give way to the sudden pang in your chest. “Not Princess, not Your Majesty. Just my name.”

His jaw tightened fractionally, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a smile before he said it. He let it roll off his tongue as if testing it, savoring the sound. Then his voice deepened while repeating it. “Very well. But do not think I will forget every formal title entirely. They still suit you… in the eyes of the court.”

You huffed, trying to appear indifferent, “We aren’t even in the court. Or around anyone. You seem to just be making excuses… truly incorrigible.”

“And yet, helpful,” he countered with a grin, stepping back more to allow you to reflect on your own stance. “See?” He gestured to your now improved posture. “I correct, I teach, and I annoy. All at once. Impressive right?”

You shook your head, exhaling with mock exasperation, but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. In that small courtyard, amidst the clang of wooden blades and the scent of sweat and stone, the rhythm between you two had become closer.

All the while, Mydeimos’s letters continued arriving. Sometimes your heart ached reading them, imagining him in front of you with a proud smile, strong and sure. Other times, his tone felt distant, overshadowed by royal duty. You responded when you could, writing carefully, but there were moments when you feared your heart wasn’t free enough for his kindness.

And then there were moments when Phainon’s presence overshadowed the letters entirely. You started catching glimpses of him in corridors, lingering by windows when messengers came and went. Wherever you went he seemed to be just a few feet away. He praised your skills in private—nothing dramatic, just soft admiration. You realized, suddenly, that you had begun to lean into his gaze instead of averting yours.   

Now at nineteen, the binding between you and Mydeimos drew closer, the treaty, the court ceremonies, the whispered talks throughout the kingdom. The marriage would happen. Everyone expected it. But as the days passed, each step felt heavier.

Phainon added to that feeling. He watched you, not just as his pledge, but as someone alive and whole, with desires you had barely admitted even to yourself. Though you had never promised him your heart, you noticed, often and uncomfortably, that perhaps you would not know how to refuse him.

iii. “When silk tightens” 

The palace of Aurelium, in the weeks before your wedding, was a flurry of silk and ceremony. The tapestries seemed brighter, more purposeful. The gowns were exquisite, each pleat stitched with care by the maids who whispered behind screens and over lines of thread. One afternoon, you stood before them, letting the soft fabric fall over your shoulders as they fussed over every bead, every fold. Your hands traced the smooth fabric of your wedding dress again, though you knew every stitch by heart. The maids fussed over the veil, adjusting lace, whispering about which pattern framed the face best. They asked about flowers, hairpins, jewelry, and you answered each question politely, but your mind wandered elsewhere.

“Your veil should rest here,” one maid instructed, carefully lifting the lace to frame your face.

“I don’t like it so tight,” you murmured, tugging at the delicate mesh.

“It must fit properly, Your Highness, or the ceremony will appear sloppy.” She inputted.

You sighed. “I suppose,” Your face fell into a frown each time they dictated your own appearance. “Your Majesty, perhaps the gold threading should follow the neckline,” one of the maids suggested, holding a small needle.

You rested your chin in your hand thoughtfully. “Yes. But make it silver instead and not too high. I don’t want it swallowing my face.”

Her hands paused, delicate fingers poised over the fabric. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

You caught yourself smiling. You liked having a bit of control, liked bending small things to your will even when your life was otherwise mapped out. Your gaze drifted past the mirror, out toward the training yard where Phainon often lingered. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be training, sparring, guarding, giving orders. Yet somehow, the thought of him watching from the courtyard made your heart stutter. You told yourself it was loyalty. That his devotion was nothing more than obligation.

He always made it appear like duty anyways. The small tilt of his head, the way his pale hair caught the light as he tracked your every movement. No words needed. Obsession never needed words. It simply breathed, existing in every careful step he took, every measured movement, every second he lingered a heartbeat too long when near you.

“My Highness,” one maid said softly, as if sensing your distraction. “Sir Phainon is… outside again. Watching, perhaps?”

You laughed, a sharp, short sound that had more disbelief than humor. “Of course he is,” you said lightly. “He’s loyal, isn’t he? Always loyal.”

The maid hesitated, then nodded. “Yes… but he lingers more than the others, Your Highness. People are starting to notice.”

You didn’t argue. You only felt it, a subtle tightening in your chest, that sense of being both protected and observed in a way no one else could manage.

It was around this time that Mydeimos arrived. The prince of Kremnos, your future groom, the calm eye in a storm you were not certain you wanted to weather. He arrived with a quiet dignity, the orange-red glow of his hair catching the sunlight as he dismounted in the palace courtyard. He greeted your father with formal bows, soft words, and polite smiles.

“I thought it wise,” he said, glancing at the training yard, “to exchange customs with your knights before the wedding. Perhaps a sparring session? A demonstration?”

Your father’s eyes lit with the spark of approval. “Excellent idea. It will show unity and discipline.”

The court watched as the knights assembled. And, as expected, Phainon was the first to step forward.

It was supposed to be polite. A ceremonial thing. But Phainon never seemed to do things politely if it involved you. He had a fire similar to yours that simmered beneath his composed exterior, a focus that was almost terrifying in its intensity.

He bowed to Mydeimos. Mydeimos returned it carefully. And then they began.

Steel rang like thunder, sharper than the usual clatter of swords in the training yard. Sparks flew as blades collided, each strike reverberating with skill. You pressed against the balcony railing, fingers twisting in your gown, heart hammering. Every clash made it impossible to look away.

Mydeimos moved with controlled precision, each step careful. His blonde, molten hair caught the fading sun. Across his chest, red tattoos twisted in intricate patterns—rivers of fire etched into muscle, ceremonial and steeped in history. Opposite of him, Phainon’s white hair glimmered, his blue eyes piercing through the chaos. The golden jagged sun that adorned his neck was a sharp contrast to Mydeimos’ swirls. Together, they mirrored and opposed each other, a living emblem of tension.

The court held its breath. Whispers quietly went through the spectators. Eyes flicked between Mydeimos’ discipline and Phainon’s audacity. Nobles questioned how an outsider could rise so far, how a boy with no noble birth could grow to challenge a prince. 

You pressed your palms to the railing, torn between awe and fear. Mydeimos offered steady warmth, familiarity. Phainon unsettled you, made your pulse quicken, made the hairs on your arms lift. He didn’t merely spar—he claimed the space, the moment, and, somehow, the knowledge that you were watching him.

“Hah! Would you look at that! You fight well.” Mydeimos barked, maintaining flawless form. The red swirls on his chest seemed to flare.

“You’re stiff,” Phainon said, low and teasing. “Loosen your guard, Your Grace.” No malice, only quiet challenge expressed through his motions.

The air between them became taut, vibrating with unspoken energy. They were both grinning wildly, you supposed neither had faced such a formidable opponent in years.

The crowd grew in cheers, questions of who will win spread in loud yells.

Time stretched as the sun started to sink further past the horizon. Every move they made seemed magnified. Your nails whitened against the rail, heart thundering in tandem with the blades.

And you could not look away.

Your father finally stepped in, voice booming between the two men before steel could turn into blood. “Enough!” His voice was iron, but beneath it, there was approval. He knew what he had witnessed: the intensity, the skill, the danger that only those bound by personal grudges could bring.

Both men bowed, careful to maintain composure. Both men pretended nothing had happened. 

But you knew better. And so did everyone else who watched.

From that day, a line had been drawn between Mydeimos and Phainon. Two forces pulled in opposite directions by different desires, different needs. Neither would step back. Neither would forget.

The court also began to notice more. Subtle things first: Phainon’s eyes lingering too long when you passed a hallway, the way he adjusted his pace to match yours across the courtyards, or the faint, almost imperceptible sigh when a door closed between you. Even during formal audiences, when others' eyes were on your father, Phainon’s attention never faltered. He was always locked onto you, and always waiting for something.

On quieter days, you would help the children of the town gather fruit from the orchard. The sun slanted through the leaves, warming your shoulders as you guided small hands to reach the ripest apples and peaches. Laughter echoed between the rows of trees, and for a moment, the weight of protocol felt distant.

Phainon stayed close, as always. Not correcting you, but present in a way that pressed subtly against your space. When you reached for a branch, his shadow fell over yours; when you lifted a basket, he hovered near, his arm brushing yours more than necessary as he carried a particularly heavy bin.

“Careful, Princess,” he murmured softly, just loud enough for you to hear. His eyes met yours briefly, sharp and steady, before flicking back to the children. “You’ll strain your wrist.”

You stiffened, cheeks warming despite yourself. “I’m fine, Commander.” you said, forcing a laugh.

From the edge of the orchard, you noticed Mydeimos. He had been watching, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, eyes narrowing as he observed every movement, every subtle brush of skin, every lingering glance. The tightness of his jaw, the slow exhale he didn’t bother to hide—it all felt heavy.

Phainon didn’t step back. He stayed near, almost daring, his chest pressing against your back as he helped you reach a peach above your head. You caught the slight tension in Mydeimos’ shoulders as he finally approached, walking through the rows with that calm, deliberate pace that had the children stare in awe.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos said, voice low, carrying easily over the children’s chatter as he approached you both. “Step back. You’re crowding her.”

Phainon tilted his head, eyes glinting, almost amused. “I am simply helping, Your Grace.” he hummed softly, but he pressed closer towards your back for a heartbeat, just close enough for his intention to be unmistakable.

Mydeimos’ gaze flicked to you, and you could only advert your eyes, pretending not to notice the tension. “Even so,” Mydeimos said, voice lowering slightly but firmly, “you have a responsibility not to overstep. That includes her.”

“Understood,” Phainon murmured, but he lingered for another second before stepping back.

Mydeimos looked back to you with somewhat sad eyes, and you felt that small guilty tug. Phainon, for his part, didn’t flinch. He only offered a faint, polite nod before returning his attention to the children, but you could feel the subtle insistence in his presence, the way he refused to be ignored.

The village children giggled, unaware of the charged silence surrounding them. You couldn’t help but feel a strange amusement, watching the two men circling each other without words.

And so it continued. Small interactions, small arguments, subtle competitive contests of will. Phainon’s gaze followed you always—through halls, down staircases, across courtyards. And Mydeimos noticed. He rarely acknowledged it aloud beyond the occasional sharp word or discreet glare, but the tightening of his jaw, the knowing tilt of his head, and the rare moment of hesitation when he met your eyes were all signs of recognition. Silent proof that he noticed what even you refused to admit.

Even when the two men appeared perfectly polite, their rivalry left ripples in the court. Courtiers whispered of Phainon’s audacity to stay so close to you with the impending wedding. Others would gawk at how Mydeimos would allow it. You stood in the midst of it all, fingers twisting in your dresses, sensing that the space between these two was more dangerous than any duel.

As your wedding got closer, you stood on your balcony overlooking the lantern-lit city, your maid hesitated before speaking.

“Your Highness… is Sir Phainon meant to watch your chambers at night?”

You froze, the words falling like ice.

“He’s what?” You snapped.

“Outside the door. He has been… for weeks.”

Weeks. The realization rippled through you like cold water. Your chest tightened, and the breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure whether to be angry, or afraid, or something far more complicated.

Because a part of you had already suspected this.

A part of you had already known.

And yet, it was nothing as simple as fear. Phainon’s devotion was dangerous, but it was also… magnetic. The way he observed, the way he lingered, the way he moved as if you were the whole world—it unsettled you, and yet, in a twisted way, it felt good. The obsession, the attention, the hunger beneath his loyalty. You figured it did no harm if it was never mentioned.

And it never was. It remained unspoken.

Until the day he asked.

You had all gathered for a small party two days before the wedding was to be held.

A voice boomed through the hall. “I ask to challenge Mydeimos of Kremnos to a duel,” Phainon declared, his tone steady, precise, and utterly without hesitation.

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Heads turned. Courtiers whispered. Your father froze, hand tightening on his glass. You pressed your hands to your mouth. 

“Mydeimos to a duel… Phainon?” you breathed, disbelief twisting your tongue.

The boy’s gaze swept the room, unflinching, unafraid. It rested on Mydeimos like a predator sizing up its counterpart. “For honor, and the hand of the princess.” he said simply. A statement that carried everything, leaving the meaning to unfold in the hearts of those present.

Mydeimos, calm and measured as always, nodded. “I accept.” he replied with a steady voice.

The court was silent. Even the flickering candles seemed to hold their breath.

The customs of Kremnos were strict: to refuse a duel would shatter honor, stain the pride of the kingdom, and destroy the reputation of its future king. Mydeimos knew this. You knew this. He knew every move in the room held the weight of tradition, expectation, and the silent obsessions of a white-haired knight who would not relent.

Your father had to allow it. There was nothing stated in the arrangement that Mydeimos could not be challenged, as the thought never crossed anyone's mind.

And as the sun fell beyond the horizon, casting golden shards across the palace courtyard, you realized the delicate, brittle threads of what had seemed like order in your life were beginning to fray.

Nothing would be the same once Phainon stepped forward.

iv. “Under the heat of his skin”

You didn’t wait for advisors.

You didn’t wait for servants to walk with you or for protocol to catch up to your urgency.

You didn’t even wait for the sun to set over the palace walls.

The corridors were cold beneath your feet, the stones still holding the deep quiet of night. It felt wrong to be moving through them alone, wrong to be wandering your own palace secretly—but the weight pressing on your chest left you no choice. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Phainon and Mydeimos locking eyes pounded in your chest.

So you walked, heart pounding, guided only by instinct and dread.

You found Mydeimos in the guest hall, a place lit only by low-burning iron braziers that washed the room in a dim golden glow. The flickering light caught on the red-lined tattoos carved along his chest and shoulders. They seemed to glow when he moved, pulsing like embers each time he wound the wraps around his forearms.

He looked like he had no intent on sleeping any time soon. He was preparing. Already preparing.

“Mydei—please.” The plea escaped before you could stop it, and your voice cracked on his name. “You don’t have to do this. Call it off. I’ll speak to the council myself.”

He froze mid-motion.

Slowly, he turned.

The expression on his face wasn’t cruel, wasn’t angry but it was immovable. Solid as the cliffs of Kremnos bracing against a storm. Even his eyes, usually soft when they met yours, were guarded now, focused on something you could no longer reach.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly, “I must.”

“You mustn’t.” You shot back, stepping closer, the air between you thick with heat and desperation. “This duel—whatever Phainon thinks it is—doesn't have to happen. There are other ways to resolve this. We can talk, reason, negotiate… just please, Mydei, don’t do this.”

For a split second, just a heartbeat, you saw something shift in him. A tremor behind his composed exterior, something uncertain and human. It flickered like the flames struggling against the draft.

But then he breathed out, steady and slow, and the softness vanished.

“If I withdraw,” he said, “Kremnos loses its dignity. I lose mine.” His jaw set as he explained. “Your father would call it weakness. My council would call it cowardice. My people would question my right to rule.” He paused, eyes meeting yours with a finality that made your stomach twist. “I would rather forfeit my claim to your hand than my honor.”

The words hit harder than any sword strike ever could. You felt them in your ribs. In your throat. In the sting behind your eyes. But you pushed it aside.

“Mydei,” you whispered, hardly able to breathe. “It isn’t about your honor, it isn’t about my hand in marriage, it is about your life. If Phainon humbles you—if something happens…”

“That,” Mydeimos cut in, lifting his chin with a confidence bordering on arrogance, “is unlikely.”

Your heart dropped. Because he believed it. He wouldn’t even entertain the thought that something might go wrong.

“There are other paths to peace,” he continued. “If the impossible happens, if I do fall, Kremnos will mourn me. We will not seek war. I will not be the cause of your kingdom’s suffering.”

“But I don’t care about kingdoms right now,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you before you could stop them. “I care about you. Even if I have been neglectful in our arrangement I do care for you Mydeimos.”

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something too close to fear. But he controlled it quickly, smoothing it into a practiced calm. A prince’s calm.

Then he looked away.

“I will win,” he said again, firmer this time. “Sleep, Your Highness. You’ll need strength for tomorrow.”

But sleep wouldn’t come. It couldn’t.

Not when he refused to meet your eyes at the end. Not when he spoke of the duel like it was already carved into fate. Not when you felt the ground shifting under your feet, cracking in slow-motion, leaving you standing on the edge of something terrible.

Something irreversible.

The palace corridors were silent, the lanterns long since put out. You were supposed to be asleep—your maids had begged you to be, but your mind wouldn’t quiet. Every thought circled back to the truth you didn’t want to face:

Mydeimos could die.

Phainon could kill him. And he might want to.

When the silence became unbearable you slipped from your bed and opened your door expecting to go for a walk. Instead, you nearly collided with him. Phainon. Standing watch outside your chambers. No armor, only his broad frame braced against the wall, eyes fixed ahead until they snapped to you.

Your stomach dropped. “You’re… actually here.” You'd hoped the astonishment in your voice wouldn’t be noticeable but you knew better.

His face contorted into something like amusement. “Where else would I be, Princess? By your side is where I belong.” 

“You’ve been doing this for weeks, haven’t you?” He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t. “It’s not your place,” you continued. “It’s obsessive and wrong. It’s—it’s not normal.”

Phainon pushed off the wall with slow steps towards you, “Obsessive,” he mimicked quietly. “Is that what you call it? I call it devotion.” With each step he took forward, you took one back towards your room. 

“You think I don’t know what Mydeimos is doing?” he hissed Mydei’s name out like a curse. “You think I don’t see how he looks at you? How he talks about you? He thinks he deserves you. Can you believe that?” Phainon spoke with astonishment in his voice.

You opened your mouth to speak but Phainon cut in, voice low. “He doesn’t even understand you. He looks at you like a treaty. I look at you like you’re perfect. You are perfect.”

Your heart jumped painfully. You wanted to deny it, but in truth you couldn’t. “Phainon—stop—”

He ignored the plea, closing the last inches between you once you were inside your doorway. The door clicked behind him, shutting you into a space that suddenly felt impossibly small. His hands, warm and big, caught your wrists. He didn’t squeeze, not yet, but the grip was firm enough that you couldn’t pull away.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, forehead almost grazing yours, breath hot against your skin, “I don’t have to pretend anymore.” His mouth broke into a grin, his eyes were soft boring into yours.

“Pretend… what?” Your voice was a matching whisper, fragile in your moon-lit room.

“That I don’t want you,” he confessed, lips brushing your temple. “That I don’t think of you every time I close my eyes. That I don’t dream about breaking every rule, every law, every expectation to make you mine.”

He leaned closer, his chest pressing up against yours. “That duel? That farce of ceremony? It’s the first time I’ll be allowed to face Mydeimos without the court stopping me. Without pretending that I don’t care how far I’d go.”

Your pulse hit your throat. “Phainon, no. It isn’t meant to be to the death—”

“I know,” he murmured, and the word carried heat, danger, and an unshakable promise. “But if he gives me a reason, if he breathes wrong, if he exists wrong, I will kill him.”

Your eyes stung with sharp tears. “Phainon, listen to me—”

“I’ve waited,” he hissed, trembling, voice breaking into something raw. “Waited for the moment when I didn’t have to hold back. When I could show you—” He slid his hands off your wrists to cup your cheeks. “—how much I’ll do for you. How far I’ll go.” You wanted to tear away, to run, but his hands held you. His gaze burned into yours, making sure you couldn’t flinch away.

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing with that piercing intensity that always left you off balance. “You’re shaking,” Phainon noted, voice needy, and there was no judgment in it—only fascination, as though he were cataloguing every quiver of your body.

“Why do you look so shocked, Your Majesty?” His voice was velvet, trying to soothe you. His fingers brushed lightly along the edge of your jaw. “You’ve never stopped me before. You’ve never stepped away when I touched you, when I showered you with gifts.” He hummed, eyes moving to the wilting camellias on your bedside table.

He moved his head again, letting a strand of his pale hair brush against your temple. “Don’t act like this, not now. You know how I am. You know how I feel.” His lips curled faintly, almost teasingly, though his eyes burned hotter than ever.

“I’ve waited so long,” he repeated, his voice dropping low towards your ear, thick with hunger. “So long for this… to be allowed to stand this close, to see every inch of you, to feel every squirm you make. And now you act as if it frightens you. That hurts you know.” Phainon pouted as he shoved you closer to the bed.

The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you stumbled, heart hammering. Before you could steady yourself, a strong weight pressed against you, and the world tilted. Phainon shifted over you, his legs pushing both of yours apart.

His head tucked just under your chin, breath brushing against your neck. “Haah—, you smell so sweet. Better than any piece of clothing I have of yours.” he breathed in. 

Your eyes widened at his confession and you tried to tug on his hair. Every careful movement of his body pressed you closer, molding you to him, his fingers traced light patterns along your sides, securing you against him as though letting you go would be unthinkable.

Phainon’s hands were softly groping at the skin on your sides. You tried to glance down, but all you saw was a cloud of white hair laced through your fingers as you pulled. You were about to snap at him to get off, but the words died on your lips when a wet, warm trail of his tongue traced along your collarbone and the only noise that came out was a staggered whine.

“Is it good? Did you like that? You sound so pretty.” Phainon murmured against your skin, his voice low and urgent as his tongue traced over it. His teeth followed soon after, grazing teasingly along your neck. Your fingers slackened in his hair as his tightened on your waist. His legs that were still slotted between yours pushed you higher so his crotch was flush with yours.

And despite yourself, you gasped. “Phainon— Phainon please.” He lifted his head at last, resting his chin against your chest, eyes locked on yours. Drool gleamed along his swollen lips, and his gaze burned with an almost worshipful intensity. He tilted his head slowly.

“Please what?” he purred. “More? Lower? Which is it, Princess?” Your title sounded different now, it lacked all formality in this moment. His hands fell to push under your knees and nudge your legs up. He shifted his hips deliberately, rubbing against you, drawing a shiver from your body. 

Your face burned, a rush of heat spilling across your cheeks. Your tongue felt thick, as if it had forgotten how to form words. Every instinct in your head screamed for you to push him away, to tell him to stop, but another, quieter part of you shivered in recognition of something you’d never allowed yourself to admit: you had never felt this desired, not even by Mydeimos. Not like this. Not with someone needing you with such raw intensity that it made your own pulse stutter. You should have felt shame. You should have felt fear. And yet, you didn’t.

He continued to hold your gaze, unblinking, intense, as if reading every unspoken thought. His voice dropped to a low murmur, carrying both warmth and something sharp beneath it. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say a word. I’ll take care of you… every part of you, however you need.”

His hips continued to rut forward, pressing further against your achy cunt. Your eyes flickered, lips parting with soft whines escaping you. Phainon leaned closer, pressing his mouth to yours. His tongue slid along the roof of your mouth, greedily trying to taste every part of you, capturing every tiny gasp you let slip, pulling you deeper into the heat of him.

The tent in his pants hardened with every movement. He got rougher, sloppier, pushing your legs up more so your knees were against your chest in an awkward mating press. His fingers had shoved your nightgown up a long time ago so they could dig into the flesh on your thighs. Your hands fell completely from his hair, nails digging crescents into his back.

Phainon pried his lips off yours so he could speak. Between his breathy moans he let out begs, incoherent pleads left his mouth directly into your ear, whining your name repeatedly. 

The only sentence you could decipher from the noises was a short, “Been waiting for this, so I’ll be good. I’ll be good for you.” stuttered between labored breaths.

Each grind forward hit your clit, sending a jolt up your body. “P-Phainon please don’t stop.” You hissed out through your fogged mind. He groaned when your nails buried themselves deeper.

“Oh— yeah okay. Okay sweetheart, promise I wont.” he slurred, a hand coming down from your leg to bunch your nightgown up above your breasts. His hips humped against yours and he moaned at the sight. He soon lowered his head to suck at the newly exposed skin. Your back curved off the bed pushing your breasts further into his face. He hummed happily, latching his lips around one of your perked nipples.

Your body jerked away from the touch when his teeth began to graze and pull on it. Your eyes watered, pain fuzzing with pleasure. You were both tangled in each other, a mess of whines, pleads, and desperate need. It was laughable how a princess and a commander could be reduced to whimpers so quickly.

“P-please. Please. Let me have you. Don’t leave me like this. Can I? Can I?” Phainon paused to lick along your now sore nipple in an attempt to soothe it.

Your head felt hazy but clear enough that you could manage a nod. Phainon's movements sped up, followed by genuine tears falling from his eyes to stain your already wet chest continuing his uncoordinated thrusts.

“Hhnnn… M’sorry. I’m s-such a mess.” He moaned into the sheets next to your head. You could feel him. He had soaked through his own clothing and you now felt it seeping along your panties with every drag of his clothed dick. Though, you couldn’t say anything about it as your leaky pussy was no better. Phainon bit onto your shoulder and his hips humped messily against you, the head of his cock bumping into your clit. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, noticing his hips slowing down, that's when you could feel it. The heat of his wetness spread as he finished. 

More salty tears fell when he keened out apologies. “Sorry sor—” He tried to form an actual apology, but to no avail, all that came out after was small sobs and gasps as his high washed over him. 

“S’okay I— I can still go again, let me just…” He babbled incoherently, his long fingers tracing a path up to your face. His reddened eyes locked onto yours, searching for some sign, some reaction, before his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek and slid along the curve of your lips. When you parted your lips, a shiver ran through you both. Phainon’s middle and ring fingers traced the slick line of your tongue, coating themselves in your saliva. He watched you, wide-eyed and captivated, the intoxicating sight of you sucking on his fingers made him throb. 

Once he deemed them wet enough he pulled them out with a pop. Phainon quickly moved his hand down to where your bodies were flush together and spread his fingers along the dampness of your underwear. Soaked from the both of you and your spit, it made it easier for his fingers to slip along the wet cloth and against your clit.

Your hips bucked up against his hand and he let out another whimper into your ear. “I got you, I got you.” He cooed, placing kisses along your neck. He tugged at your underwear until they were messily shoved to the side allowing his fingers to directly run against your cunt. You cursed under your breath once his fingers finally slipped inside.

“O-Oh fuck.” It was him still whining, he paced his words to line up with the plunge and curl of his fingers. “That’s so good. You feel so good around me…”

Phainon’s fingers worked you open, sliding in and out as the heel of his palm pressed insistently against your clit. You clenched around him, hands digging into the expanse of his shoulders, a hoarse moan catching in your throat as he began to spread his fingers in a scissoring motion. His head dipped lower, mouthing at every inch of exposed skin, tongue slobbering over the crown of your breast like a dog.

You toppled forward, curling against him as your body shuddered through the waves of release. Your legs quivered, chest rising and falling unevenly with ragged breaths. Lifting your gaze, you found Phainon’s flushed face hovering above you, streaked with tears and the remnants of your release, which he had quickly licked away from his fingers.

“So sweet… God, you taste so sweet.” he murmured, voice thick with awe. His eyes darkened with desire. He pressed closer, letting his forehead rest against yours, and you could feel the heat of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, matching the lingering tremors in your own.

He situated himself back taking in the messy, beautiful sight of you. Your flushed skin glistened with sweat, hair sticking out wildly, chest heaving. His eyes shined, darkened and intent as he studied every quiver of your body.

“Mm… you’re wet enough,” he murmured, voice low, thick with anticipation. “I’ll be gentle. I promise, I promise.” His sticky hands slid along your thighs, grazing your heated skin, sending tingles that spiraled up to your sensitive core. The warmth of him, the press of his weight, the heady scent that clung to him all swarmed your senses.

Phainon’s thumb hooked into the waistband of his pants, pulling them down slowly until they pooled below his knees. He adjusted slightly, letting himself settle into a comfortable position before speaking.

“Up higher, jussst like that.” His drawled out, voice low and thick with satisfaction. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, the heat of his touch sending shivers through your body. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, curling tightly as if trying to meld yourself to him. “Good girl, that’s perfect.” he breathed, patting your hip. 

When he freed himself from his underwear, your brows drew together in surprise. He was already hard again, the evidence of his previous release slick along his length. His eyes flicked between himself and you, teeth grazing his lower lip in anticipation. Your eyes were caught on the snowy happy trail that ran along his navel down over the base of his dick.

His cock throbbed against the slick mound of your cunt, precum dribbling onto your skin in warm, big drops. Your fingers flexed against the sheets, tugging lightly, desperate for the friction, and a soft, shaky moan escaped you.

One hand spread your folds, exposing you as his piercing blue eyes drank in the sight. Your body responded instantly, heat swelling and hips pressing up involuntarily. His other hand gripped the base of his flushed shaft, slowly guiding himself. You let out a gasp, a heady haze of arousal thick around your bodies. Every nerve in your body seemed to burn and ache with need.

He lined himself with your entrance, tip brushing against your slick warmth, and your hips twitched instinctively. “Ah… oh—” you moaned, fingers flying up to clutch at him, your own body begging for the connection. Slowly, impossibly slowly, he pressed into you, inch by inch. You shivered, arching against him, letting out a strangled whine as he filled you.

Your walls fluttered around him, a hot, tight grip that made him hiss softly. He paused only long enough to capture a soft gasp, lolling his head. His pupils were dilated, the moonlight reflecting off them. Your fingers clawed lightly at his shoulders, nails grazing skin. Your thighs shook, hips rolling in tandem with his, trying to pull him deeper. 

You clenched around him, each spasm making him groan, hips stuttering as he sank deeper. Once his hips were directly against yours he moved to press his chest to yours as well, gripping your shoulders and dragging himself closer. His hands shook, fingers curling into your skin as if anchoring himself to keep from losing control.

“Ah… s-so tight… so good.” His voice was breaking. Every roll of his hips sent sparks of pressure up your spine. The wet press of his cockhead into your core was almost unbearable, and you felt it pulsing, thick and heavy, bruising against your cervix. 

You let out more moans, urging him to speed up, feeling the ridge of his length press against you with every frenzied thrust. He complied, bucking into you faster, pulling out to where his tip caught on your hole—threatening to slip out, only to slam his hips forward again.

Phainon’s head dropped to your neck, lips pressing hot, damp kisses along your skin. The wet slide of him inside you drew mingled soft whines from your throats. Everytime you clamped down on him it made him sigh and shudder, voice cracking as he clung to you. “Please—don’t stop, I need you, need you.” he breathed, body trembling against yours. His hands slid lower, brushing along your thighs, fingers grazing over sensitive skin, nails lightly marking you up.

You could feel him start to slip more, shivering with need, hips snapping in uneven, feverish movements as he whispered your name over and over. The hair along his base bumped against your clit in messy rubs. Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes, mouth parted in helpless pants. 

“I… I bet Mydeimos could never make you feel like this,” he whispered, barely holding himself together. “He’ll never have you like this. Right? Right? Only me… only me.”

Your mind was too clouded and overwhelmed to sort your thoughts. The sheer neediness in his voice made your breath hitch, and before you even processed the words, your head nodded fast. A shaky exhale of relief left him at your nod.

Each thrust of his thick, throbbing shaft, every press of his tip against your walls, made your vision blur with pleasure. He was lost in you, flushed and quivering, voice breaking in urgent whines as he rode the edge of climax.

“M’gonna cum… can I? Inside?” he begged, body trembling, wet with sweat and tears, pressing every ounce of himself into you.

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, the hands on his back coming to his chest to try and push him off. “N-No you can’t, you can’t—” You knew the risks. You couldn’t. Not with him. Your nails dug into his pecs, but that didn’t stop him, it only spurred him on. Ignoring your words he slammed his hips into yours one final time and came. His hips jerked flush against yours as the coil in his stomach came undone. You squirmed, his release coating inside you. 

He looked down to you with stars in his eyes, pure adoration, and pulled out. Phainon was soft now but still sensitive. He brought his fingers down to shove his excess release back into you, tsking in disapproval at the fact some was leaking out.

You lay back against the pillows with a dry mouth, mind spinning. The heat of his body still seemed to cling to yours, lingering on your skin, in your blood. And now, with the intensity of the moment fading into awareness, a different wave of feeling hit you—guilt.

Guilt for giving in, even a little. For letting yourself be consumed by him like that. For the shameful thrill of how much you’d wanted it, how much you’d let yourself crave it. You should have pushed him away harder. You should have stopped it before it went so far. 

And yet, beneath the guilt, there was something else. Something you couldn’t entirely deny. You had never felt so wanted, so utterly seen. Not by Mydeimos, not by anyone. And a part of you hated that other part of yourself that loved it.

It was then that Phainon’s voice, low and careful, cut through the fog in your mind. “Do you need me to help clean you up? Let me run you a bath.”

You froze, blinking. He hadn’t moved, yet you felt him everywhere, watching, attentive, almost predatory. The way his voice softened for you but carried that unshakable edge made your stomach twist.

“I… no,” you whispered, still trying to catch your breath. “I’m too tired. I can manage in the morning.”

He tilted his head, a sharp glint in his eyes. “Seriously? After all of that you’ll still try to turn me away?” His hands hovered over you. “Don’t lie to me now. Don’t pretend you don’t need me.”

Your heart stuttered. You wanted to protest, to tell him that you needed space, that you were overwhelmed, but the truth pressed too close. You couldn’t escape the way he’d already seen every quiver of your body, every sharp intake of breath, the way he’d already branded you into his mind.

“I’m serious.” you said softly, trying to push back against the pull of him. “I’m fine. Just… go.”

He leaned closer. His lips hovered near your ear, almost brushing your skin. “Go?” His voice was a thick growl. “You want me to go, when I can still feel you? When I’m still leaking out of you?” Phainon still had that lingering whine in the back of his throat.

Your stomach twisted. His words, the way he stared at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered—it was addicting and terrifying all at once.

Finally, with a slow, deliberate sigh, he pressed a gentle, almost reverent kiss to your forehead, lingering long enough that you felt the warmth of his lips. “Sleep well.” he murmured, stepping back off the bed just enough to give you space, though his gaze never shook. “Once you do decide to clean yourself up, don’t delude yourself into thinking it will ever get my hands off you. You’ll be mine fully after the duel anyways. I can wait a little while longer.” With that, he left.

Alone, you curled tighter into the pillows and stained sheets, cheeks heated, body still humming from the memory of him. The guilt pressed against your ribs, a sharp, painful reminder that you had surrendered—if only for a moment—to someone who would never let go.

And the thought made your pulse jump: Phainon wouldn’t stop. He could never stop. He would watch, he would wait, he would obsess, and he would take care of you in ways you weren’t ready to fully admit, and maybe never would be.

Sleep never came, your body was spent. Mind racing at the thought of tomorrow, the duel consumed every corner of your thoughts.

v. “In devotion and blood”

You cleaned up as soon as morning came. Cold water ran over your hands and face, chasing away the lingering fog. Your skin tingled with the crispness of it, but no matter how often you splashed yourself, your mind refused to settle. Images of Phainon over you flashed repeatedly, the sounds he let out replaying like a broken record. Thoughts of what the day would bring spun endlessly, each one sharper than the last. Mydeimos. Phainon. Life. Death. Every heartbeat hammered against your ribs like a warning drum, reminding you of what could be lost—what might never be returned.

The maids arrived shortly after, stepping lightly across the polished floor. They moved with careful precision, each motion practiced, knowing the weight of this day pressed against you even more heavily than the fabric of your gown.

“Your Highness,” one murmured, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face, her touch soft and fleeting, “are you ready to be dressed? The duel… it’s about to begin.”

You nodded, your throat tight, words caught somewhere between fear and obligation. “I’m ready,” you whispered, your voice smaller than you intended. “I just… needed a moment.”

Another maid peeked from the doorway, eyes wide with quiet concern. “Do you want help with your gown, Princess? Perhaps we should—”

“No,” you interrupted softly, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders, letting your fingers linger on the delicate embroidery as though the touch could steady your shaking heart. “I can handle myself. Thank you.”

The maids exchanged glances, hesitating, sensing the storm coiling inside you, but they stepped back. The quiet click of the door echoed behind them, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Every adjustment of your gown, every careful straightening of your posture did nothing to ease the tidal wave of nerves. You ran your fingers along the hem, traced the neckline, tugged the fabric into place again and again even if it was already perfect, trying to ground yourself in the smallest of actions. Today, everything could change. Every decision, every swing, every breath might tip the scales irrevocably.

When you stepped into the courtyard, the early sun painted everything in pale gold and long shadows. The marble shone beneath your feet, the crowd murmuring and shifting, creating a living sea of anticipation. You felt as though every pair of eyes pressed into your skin. And at the center of it all, waiting, was Mydeimos.

He stood perfectly still, framed by the sun and the rising tension in the air. His armor gleamed faintly, polished so that every plate caught the light, yet there was something in the set of his shoulders, in the slight slump of his stance, that betrayed the weight he carried. The red-lined tattoos along his chest—bare where the armor opened over his torso—glowed faintly in the morning light. You swallowed, heart tightening. He was a warrior, yes, but a man with a sort of sadness he could never fully set down.

When his gaze flicked toward you, it was fleeting but precise, and for a single heartbeat, you saw him—not your fiancé, not the prince, not the duel-ready opponent—but just Mydeimos. Softness touched his eyes, a glimmer of warmth, almost a plea, before he returned to the rigid discipline of his stance. His jaw tightened, shoulders squared, hands flexing against the hilt of his sword as though already drawing strength from it, as though the steel could take the weight off his chest, if only for a moment.

Your steps were hesitant, careful, as you approached him, heart hammering in the hollow pit of your chest. The murmurs of the crowd fell away, replaced by the rushing in your ears, the heavy beat of your pulse. You drew in a shaky breath. “Good luck,” you whispered, so quietly that you feared he might not hear you.

His head tilted slightly, a nod, a faint acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice steady, his eyes found yours again, just for a fleeting second, and you thought you saw the shadow of worry there, the slightest crease of concern around the corners of his eyes. Then he shifted, hands gripping his sword, posture snapping into perfect readiness once more.

You could see it all at once: the man he was expected to be, the man he wanted to be, and the man you feared losing. The tension between you throbbed in the air like a living thing. Your chest tightened. 

And all the while, the air seemed to hum with the silent knowledge that what was about to happen would alter everything. You and Mydeimos—standing on opposite sides of life’s cruel stage, bound by duty, honor, and the impossible weight of expectations. 

You felt your hands tighten against your gown, pulse echoing in your ears. Mydeimos exhaled slowly, a single, controlled breath before the duel would begin, and in that breath, you thought you saw it: fear, pride, sorrow, and the silent, unspoken acknowledgment that neither of you could step back now.

A gentle tug at your sleeve pulled you back from the edge of your thoughts. One of your maids, eyes wide and anxious, whispered, “Your Highness… are you certain you should be standing here? Perhaps it would be safer—”

You shook your head, smoothing the folds of your gown, trying to ground yourself in something tangible. “I need to be here,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to her. “I need to see him. To—” You faltered, throat tight, the words lodging there. “To know he’ll be okay, even if just for a moment.”

She glanced at you, hesitant, then bowed slightly, stepping back. “As you wish, Princess. Be safe.”

Then you saw him. Phainon. Standing on the other side, the way he always did, tall and impossibly still. His eyes locked on you immediately, sharp, calculating, and something almost tender glimmered in their depths. A slow smile spread brightly across his face. He didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. Yet in that one curve of his mouth, the world narrowed to just you and him, and he let you know, without a word, that once he won, once this duel was over, everything would belong to him. That the bright, intoxicating future he imagined had already begun in the quiet between your gazes.

Your heart lurched, and a shiver crawled down your spine. The tension twisted tighter, pulling your chest into knots. You had to look away, had to remind yourself who was here to fight, who was meant to survive, and yet a part of you couldn’t—wouldn’t—turn from him.

Your hands clenched the folds of your gown. Your mind spun. Every instinct screamed, every nerve burned with anticipation and fear. The crowd shifted, voices rising, and still the duel had not begun. You were suspended in a moment that felt eternal—between love, between loyalty, between life and death.

You heard your father’s voice behind you, steady and commanding, calling your attention to the balcony he occupied. Slowly, you moved toward him, each step deliberate, dragging your feet up the stairs through the heat and pressure of the moment. The sun glinted off the polished railings as you ascended, and the sight of Mydeimos below, poised and taut, stole the breath from your lungs.

He lifted his gaze, scanning the balconies, searching. And when your eyes met, fleeting though it was, a spark passed between you. He gave you one last soft smile before returning to the center of the arena.

And all the while, Phainon’s eyes never left you. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He simply watched, the ghost of that impossible, consuming smile lingering, promising all the good things he envisioned for the two of you once this day ended.

Mydeimos stood across from Phainon, every muscle coiled like a spring, chest rising and falling in deliberate rhythm. Even beneath the polished armor, the strain of his title, of the expectations pressed upon him, was visible in the subtle tremor in his fingers as they gripped the hilt of his sword. 

Phainon’s stance was the opposite: predatory, relentless, eyes unyielding. Each movement he made was a promise, each advance a whisper of obsession only you could understand.

The signal came, and steel sang.

They circled each other before Mydeimos made the first move. Their blades met with a shattering clang that rang across the courtyard. Sparks flew with every strike, every parry violent. Mydeimos moved with perfection as he always did—each step precise, feral, letting the battle consume him, every movement driven not just by skill but by pride.

The duel stretched on. Mydeimos blocked and struck, forcing Phainon to match him with equal precision. The prince’s armor became marred with scratches, his crimson-streaked chestplate now matching the red of the small gashes along his skin. Beads of sweat ran down his temples, darkening the tattoos that were supposed to intimidate, now serving only to highlight the vulnerability beneath.

Time seemed elastic. Mydeimos’ face twisted with concentration, eyes blazing with effort and the faintest glimmer of fear, a stark contrast to the predatory confidence of Phainon. Sparks rained from clashing blades, the metallic tang of blood and sweat mingling in the air.

Phainon pressed forward, relentless. He cornered Mydeimos, forcing the prince to make choices faster than he could fully calculate. Each opening, each momentary lapse in guard was seized with a terrifying efficiency, Phainon’s strikes merciless. Yet Mydeimos refused to yield, each block showing the prince’s willpower. The tension mounted with every passing second—the crowd leaning forward, hushed murmurs of awe and horror rippling through them as the fight drew out.

Then came the fatal mistake. Mydeimos, pushed too far, exhausted by the unrelenting onslaught, faltered just enough—one miscalculated step, one hesitation too long. Phainon’s blade struck true, slicing past guard and armor, the edge finding its mark. Blood erupted in a vivid spray, red streaking across polished steel, staining the dirt ground. 

Mydeimos staggered, eyes wide, mouth opening in a silent scream. Time slowed, each heartbeat stretching unbearably. You could see the life draining from him, the brilliance leaving his eyes in a slow, excruciating fade. His hands loosened on his sword, trembling as if trying to cling to the life slipping from his body. The crowd gasped and murmured in shock, a mixture of disbelief and awe, but the sound barely reached you. All that existed was the slow, tragic inevitability of Mydeimos’ end.

He fell to his knees, then pitched forward, crimson blooming across the arena. The tattoos along his chest, once bright, now streaked with his own blood, seemed to writhe and fade with the life that had animated them. His breaths came ragged and shallow, each one a labor, each one a reminder of mortality. Eyes that had burned with fire now dulled, clouded, flickering like a candle about to be extinguished.

Phainon did not flinch. He remained over him, chest rising and falling with exertion, blood splattered across his face and armor, eyes locked upward toward you. When Mydeimos finally fell completely, the sword clattering to the ground, there was a terrible silence for a heartbeat—then the crowd erupted in stunned chaos. Some cheered, some screamed, some froze in shock, but the legality of the duel left no one able to condemn what had happened.

All that remained for you was the sight of Phainon standing over the fallen prince, blood on his hands, chest, and face, white hair stained in the sunlight, teeth flashing in a triumphant, terrifying grin. The life of Mydeimos—the prince, your promised one, the one who had held your future—was gone, and in its place, Phainon’s devotion, his relentless claim on you, shone for all to see.

Your fingers curled reflexively against the balcony rail as Phainon stopped at the arena’s edge, blood dripping in slow, heavy trails from his arms. When he drew a camellia from his armor, your breath caught. The once-blue petals—soft, serene, a gentle symbol—were now stained through with red. Not just red. His red. Mydeimos’ blood.

The world below seemed to tilt. Your pulse throbbed behind your ears, everything in you recoiling and pulling forward all at once. His hungry eyes locked to yours unblinking. Like this entire moment had been sculpted for him alone.

Phainon walked closer, each step deliberate, controlled, dripping with meaning. The bloodied camellia trembled in his hand, and the closer he came, the more suffocating the weight of it all became.

“I’ve waited for this,” he continued, voice dropping to a reverent hush. “To prove it. To show you the depth of what I will do, just to keep you. And now… now you see.” His smile sharpened. “This is only the beginning.”

He reached the balcony and tossed the mutilated flower toward you like it was a relic, a blessing, a brand.

Your heart lurched painfully as it landed near your feet, splattering blood. The arena erupted around you—shouts, cheers, horrified murmurs—but it all blurred together, muffled by the pounding in your skull. You stared at the camellia, its blue barely visible beneath streaks of thickening red. The smell of iron drifted faintly upward, clinging to the air.

And your mind—despite everything—began to race ahead.

Everything will change now. Kremnos would riot—its prince dead by duel, slain on your kingdom’s soil. There would be meetings, frantic councils, endless debates on reparations and offerings to prevent war. There would be travel, apologies, treaties—so many steps required to keep your country from unraveling.

And of course… Phainon.

Phainon, who had just killed Mydeimos in front of thousands.

Phainon, who was staring at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a world he had just cracked open. 

Phainon, who believed—truly believed—that this bloodshed was a gift. A demonstration. A vow.

Your throat tightened as he smiled up at you, wide and gleaming, the cruel contrast of white teeth against the red on his face and armor.

And as the crowd roared, as Mydeimos’ blood soaked into the earth below, you understood now. Your promised future had died along with him.

[kominigiru]

FROM EDEN.

summary ⟡ A wounded knight finds sanctuary with a witch.

contains ⟡ 17.1k wc, female reader, witch reader, knight phainon, (temporary) amnesia/memory loss, yandere?, phainon is mentally unhealthy here, moral ambiguity, blood and violence (not very graphic but it is there), minor character deaths (yes. deathS!), slow burn-ish, some fluff

note ⟡ it’s here!!! it’s finally here!!!! 😁 after two long months, i can finally share this fic with all of you hehehehe. also i changed the title last minute bc i realized from eden fit much better with what i was going for in this story than like real people do!! i also dedicate this piece to @elysiumae for sending me the art that inspired me to write this in the first place. i hope you come to love this just as much as i do <3

also posted on ⟡ ao3

𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

Steel clashes against steel. The air is thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood, and Phainon—commander of King Nanook’s vanguard—stands in the heart of the chaos. His black helm marks him as a beacon, and enemy spears and arrows alike seek him out. Around him, his men falter, their shields splintered, their cries swallowed by the roar of advancing foes.

He bellows orders, cutting down another soldier that charges, but the tide is against them. The line collapses. War banners fall to the mud. One by one, his comrades vanish beneath the enemy’s press until Phainon realizes he is the last.

A spear grazes his helm, and agony bursts white-hot across his skull. His vision reels, the world washing red. Blood spills hot down the side of his face, searing his eye. He staggers back, fighting only to keep his legs moving.

The battlefield is lost. To stay is to die.

He turns and runs. Through smoke, through brambles, through the jeers and shouts of pursuit, he forces his battered body onward. Each step is heavier than the last; each breath feels like fire. The enemy’s shouts echo behind him, but the forest swallows him whole, branches clawing at his armor as he crashes deeper into the shadows.

The forest is deep and strange—the deeper he runs, the quieter the world becomes, as though the trees themselves conspire to swallow sound.

He is alone, save for the thundering of his heart and the wet drip of blood from his helm. His sword slips from his hand, forgotten. The world tilts and Phainon collapses onto the forest floor.

His vision blurs, and just before the darkness takes him, he hears the soft crunch of leaves close by. Then, a gentle meow.

And, nothing more.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

He wakes to silence.

His eyes open slowly. A wooden ceiling looms above him, beams dark with age, the air tinged with the scent of herbs. He doesn’t recognize it—doesn’t recognize anything.

More than that, he doesn’t remember who he is.

His chest tightens as he searches the fog of his mind for something—a name, a memory, a place—but it’s like reaching into smoke: everything slips away before he can hold it.

He swallows against the dryness of his throat. He’s in a bed, blanket heavy on his chest. Around him, there are shelves sagging with jars and bottles, books are stacked haphazardly, and there are strange trinkets laid out everywhere. None of it sparks recognition.

He sits up too quickly. The room tilts, his skull throbs, and he grips the blanket bunched at his waist until the dizziness fades.

A sound draws him out of himself. Meow.

He turns his head. An orange cat sits on the windowsill, its yellow eyes fixed on him, tail flicking lazily. They regard each other for a long moment, as though the creature expects something of him. Then, without ceremony, it leaps down and pads out the door.

His body protests as he pushes the blankets aside, muscles stiff and uncooperative. He staggers when he stands, catching himself against the bedpost. His legs are heavy, but the need to follow propels him forward. Each step is unsteady, but he manages, trailing the soundless paws through the narrow hall and down a creaking stair.

The cat doesn’t wait; it moves with a purpose, leaving him to stumble after, forcing his pace to match.

At last, a door yawns open onto light. He blinks against it, squinting as the cat pads outside. He follows, and he emerges into air crisp with pine and soil.

What he sees makes him stop in the doorway.

You stand at the heart of a small clearing, bathed in the dappled light that falls through the trees. Birds perch on your shoulders and fingers as though you were a branch. A fox lingers at your feet. Rabbits, a deer, and a dozen other forest creatures circle you in attendance. Your lips move, and though he can’t hear the words, he knows you are speaking to them.

The orange cat trots toward you and lets out a sharp meow. You turn at the sound.

Your gaze meets his across the clearing. For a moment, the world holds its breath. His heart lurches in his chest, stuttering in a rhythm he doesn’t understand.

The animals scatter at once, startled by his sudden presence. Birds lift onto the trees, the deer bounds into the shadows, and rabbits vanish into the bushes. In their wake, only you remain, standing alone at the center, the cat padding to your side.

Your hands lower slowly, and then you turn to face him fully.

“You’re finally awake,” you say. “That’s good. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks. Actually…” You tilt your head, frowning faintly. “Why are you here? You should be in bed still.”

The words are simple yet he barely hears them. His heart stumbles against his ribs, as though it recognizes something his mind cannot. He can’t look away from you. He doesn’t know who he is, but standing beneath your eyes, he feels anchored, as though some missing piece has found its way back to him.

You stride towards him with quick steps. Before he can speak, your hands press lightly against his arm, his shoulder, steering him back toward the house. The touch makes him jolt more than the cold air outside, small and unassuming but somehow enough to stir heat into his chest.

You push him gently through the doorway and into the living room with the small couch. “Sit,” you insist, ushering him down.

He obeys clumsily, lowering himself into the cushions. His body sinks into them, but his gaze drifts back to you, searching, wondering.

“I followed your cat,” he says at last, voice rough with disuse. The words feel inadequate, almost foolish, but they’re all he can manage against the pull inside him.

“Ah, yes,” you call from the kitchen. A moment later, you return, a glass of water in hand. You press it into his grasp and he accepts without protest.

“His name is Mydei, short for Mydeimos,” you explain, settling opposite him. “He keeps an eye on you when I can’t.”

As if summoned by the mention, the orange cat leaps onto the low table between you. Mydei sits with practiced elegance, tail curling neatly around his paws.

“Oh. Thank you?” he says, though the words sound uncertain, like a question.

Mydei blinks slowly, then offers a soft meow, as if in reply.

You hide a faint smile. “Aside from disorientation, what else are you feeling? Is your head aching? Any nausea? You lost a great deal of blood.”

He takes a long sip of water, letting the coolness ease the dryness in his throat before lowering the glass to his lap.

“My head…” he hesitates, pressing a hand to his temple. “It aches, yes, but not… unbearably.” His brow furrows as he tries to chase the thought further. “Everything feels… heavy. Like my body isn’t mine yet.”

He falls quiet, eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. A moment passes before he adds, “I don’t remember much. Hardly anything at all. Not even my name.”

“Hm… how inconvenient,” you say, thoughtful but not unkind. “That means we have no way of knowing how you came into my forest looking as though you’d just walked away from a battlefield.”

At the word battle, something stirs in him—sharp, jagged pain flickering behind his eyes. He winces, a hand lifting instinctively to his temple. And just as quickly as it comes, the ache fades, leaving only the echo of something he cannot grasp.

You watch him carefully, noting the shadow that passes across his face, but choose not to press. Instead, your voice softens, “But I do know your name.”

His head lifts, hope in his eyes.

“Your broadsword carried an engraving,” you continue. “Phainon. I believe that’s your name.”

The name strikes something inside him—a resonance, like the toll of a bell. He mouths it once, tasting the syllables, then again with more sound. “Phainon…” The word feels both foreign and familiar, like a garment he once wore but has long since outgrown.

“I had a little trouble carrying your sword back with me,” you admit, a faint crease forming at the edge of your brow. “It’s a good thing Mydei was there to help while I carried you.”

Phainon blinks, gaze sliding toward the orange cat perched on the table. Mydei is calmly licking a paw, utterly unconcerned.

A cat—carrying a broadsword. He can’t wrap his head around it. The image his mind conjures—this small, sleek creature dragging a weapon nearly as tall as he is—strains against reason.

“What a strange thing,” Phainon mutters.

You tilt your head at his remark, an amused smile flickering at your lips. “Strange as it may be, but it’s true. Mydei has his ways.”

Then as fast as it came, the smile on your face vanishes, replaced by a more solemn look. “Listen… you’re still in no state to be wandering. You’ve lost too much blood and your memories are—” you hesitate, choosing the gentlest word, “—foggy.”

“Foggy,” he echoes.

You nod, and continue, “I have room here. Stay—at least until you’ve recovered your strength. Until your memories start to return.”

The offer hangs in the air. Phainon looks at you as if the world had shifted beneath him.

“You want me to… stay?” he repeats. “And that’s fine with you? I… I’m a stranger.”

You nod once, and the corners of your mouth lift into a reassuring smile. “Yes. Stay.”

Something flickers across his face—relief perhaps, though he’s not sure himself. With quivering lips and a shaky breath, he says, “Then… thank you.”

Mydei hops down from the table, tail swishing, and curls up at your feet as though sealing the agreement.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

He learns the days by the way the light moves across the floor. Morning begins when the window fills with golden light, when the air smells faintly of herbs and boiling water. Evening comes when the shadows stretch long enough to touch his bedpost.

At first, he only watches.

You move through the house with quietness and certainty, hands always busy with something—stirring, pounding, pouring, stitching. He studies the rhythm of your motions, how even your smallest gestures seem to have purpose.

He tries to mimic that quiet. He sits when you tell him to rest, eats what you place before him, drinks the bitter teas you prepare without complaint. But still, there’s a restlessness under his skin. His body remembers movement, command, duty—even if his mind has lost the names for them.

Sometimes you catch him standing by the doorway, staring at the forest beyond. His hand will twitch faintly at his side, as though reaching for something that isn’t there. Other times, he startles when you enter a room too quietly, muscles tensing before he realizes it’s only you.

Once, you find him outside before dawn, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s been trying to split a fallen branch with a knife far too small for the task. The effort leaves his hands trembling.

“You should be in bed,” is what you say as you approach him from behind.

He freezes mid-motion, then turns to look at you—like a child caught stealing bread. “I thought… I could help.”

“You’ll help by healing,” you say, taking the knife gently from his hand.

He hesitates, then nods, slow and obedient. When you turn to leave, he follows you back without another word.

After that morning, he still rises early. But now, when you catch him watching the light through the window, he stays seated—if only for a little while. He tries to rest, but rest does not come easily. His wounds are healing, and his memories remain unsteady, yet idleness feels wrong to him.

Before long, he begins to move again.

He knows what it is to serve—to repay debt with labor—so he volunteers for small tasks.

At first, you refuse him. You tell him he’s still healing, that his hands should hold nothing heavier than a spoon. But the more you insist, the more it seems to ache in him. One morning, he follows you out to the clearing, eyes earnest.

“Let me help,” he says. His voice trembles with something close to pleading. “I can’t just sit here while you work. Please—give me something to do.”

You study him for a long moment—the way his shoulders hover between tension and apology, the way his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as though already reaching for a task. Finally, you sigh, gesturing toward the axe resting by a stump.

“Fine,” you relent, “If you insist, start with that. But take it slowly. If you reopen your wounds, I’ll make you drink every bitter tonic in this house.”

He nods—too eagerly, too grateful—and moves to take the axe. When his hands close around the handle, his posture shifts into something almost reverent. He runs a thumb along the grain of the wood as though it was something more than a tool of work.

The first swing is clumsy. The second lands better. By the fifth, the rhythm begins to find him. And though sweat beads at his temple and his breath comes hard, there’s certainty in his motions, like something dormant has remembered its shape.

When the pile at his feet grows, he looks toward you, expectant and seeking approval. And you only nod, smiling faintly. “That’s enough for now.”

But later, when you find the buckets by the well filled to the brim, or the latch on the cupboard newly repaired, you don’t comment. You only notice the way his shoulders ease when you pretend not to notice.

And soon it becomes habit—his way of contributing, his way of belonging.

However, he is not alone in these routines.

At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence—the way Mydei always seems to appear wherever he goes. The cat follows him everywhere, always just a few steps behind.

Even at night, he’s there.

The first evening, Phainon nearly trips over him on his way to bed. Mydei is already settled on the doorway, tail curled neatly around his paws.

“Are you keeping watch?” Phainon asks, but the cat only blinks.

The next night, it’s the same. On the third, Phainon tries again. “You don’t have to guard me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mydei’s ears twitch, but he says nothing.

Phainon sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Right… You only respond to her, don’t you?”

The cat tilts his head slightly. Then he curls into himself, and the glow of his eyes fades in the dark.

After that, Phainon stops trying—he lets the silence stay between them. So now, when Mydei pads after him at dusk and settles in his usual spot, Phainon simply lets him be. There’s a strange comfort in that quiet surveillance, even if the cat doesn’t feel like opening himself up to him.

And eventually, the days fall into rhythm.

At dawn, he shoulders the axe, splitting logs until the ache in his arms feels almost right. His palms blister, but he swings as though they’ve blistered a thousand times before. At midday, he hauls buckets of water from the well, stride steady but gaze far away. In the evenings, he mends what he can: roofs, fences, tools. His fingers fumble over the smaller work, but when they curl around a hammer’s grip, they fall into familiar certainty.

The quiet is a kindness, but also a cage. The hush of the forest presses in on him, and though the air smells of pine and earth, he feels his muscles twitch for an enemy that never comes. His hands ache not only for work, but for the heft of a blade, for the moment of strike and counterstrike.

At night, he lies awake staring at the broadsword propped in the corner of his room. You had cleaned it for him, oiled the leather of its grip, and even polished the steel until it caught the sunlight in sharp glimmers during mornings. Beside it rests the armor you had stripped from him when he first stumbled into your care—dented, scarred, but whole again after your diligent scrubbing.

The sight always stirs something in him. He cannot recall the battles that scarred that armor, cannot name the men who might have stood by his side, but his body knows. The urge to stand guard through the night, to patrol the forest, to protect this small house and the one who sheltered him—it thrums in his chest as if written into his blood.

Perhaps he was a knight once. The thought explains much: the impulse to serve, the hunger to protect, the restlessness that drives his muscles even in peace. Yet the longer he gazes at the steel, the heavier his chest grows.

A knight without memory is little more than a stray dog—trained to bite, yet wandering without a master to serve.

One evening, over the simple fare you’ve prepared—stew and bread—he sets his spoon down. “You never cook meat,” he observes. “Do you not care for it?” His tone is casual, but his eyes search for you carefully, as if gauging whether it’s want or scarcity that keeps it from your table.

“I could hunt for you,” he adds after a pause, almost eager. The thought of the chase, the draw of the bow, the kill—it would give his restless muscles something to do, something they know.

But you decline immediately, shaking your head. “No. Thank you, but I don’t eat meat or poultry.”

He frowns faintly, confused. “Why not?”

“Because land animals are my friends,” you say simply. “I will not ask one to die for my plate.”

The words settle heavily between you. His shoulders ease, and though the hunger for action still coils within him, he swallows it down.

“I see,” he murmurs, glancing down at his hands—hands that probably (surely) once lived by killing—and does not press further.

Sometimes, like today, he pauses, standing in the clearing with the axe poised above the wood, and the thought comes unbidden: I could split a skull just as easily. And the image lingers too vividly in his head.

His grip tightens on the handle. Then, something flashes behind his eyes.

He’s no longer in the forest, no longer holding an axe. The weight in his hands is heavier. The air reeks of smoke and oil, and the light is wrong—it comes from fire, not sun. Around him, armored figures move through around a narrow room. There’s a table overturned, and he hears a child crying; a woman’s voice is pleading from somewhere behind the door.

But Phainon’s eyes are fixed only on the man before him—kneeling, trembling, faceless. Then, his arm moves before he can think. The blade arcs down.

Then the vision is gone.

He staggers, and the axe is heavy in his hands again. The forest is quiet and his pulse hammers against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He doesn’t notice at first that Mydei has been watching from the fence post. The cat’s yellow eyes never waver, tail flicking. And when Phainon grips the axe too long, when his breath grows heavy, Mydei meows, and it pulls him back.

Phainon exhales, and then he goes back to work.

The pile at his feet is already enough for weeks, but he keeps swinging, each crack and thud a way to drown out the darker images that slip too easily into his thoughts. For a moment, he grips the axe too tightly, staring at the blade as though it might turn on him.

Slowly, he sets the tool aside. For a long while, he just stands there, palms raw, trying to shake the violence from his body. He wipes his hands from his tunic, as though the gesture might wipe away the images too.

“Phainon.”

Your voice pulls him away from his thoughts. He startles slightly, caught off guard, and he turns toward the sound of you.

“You’ll wear out both axe and arms if you keep at it like this,” you say, walking toward him. “The forest can only give so much.”

His expression falters into sheepishness. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, then rubs at his neck. “Sorry. I just… want to be useful.”

“You’ve split enough to last me a month,” you reply. “There are better ways to be useful.”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“You can come with me to town today. I haven’t gone in some time—too busy making sure you don’t fall apart under my roof.”

His brows rise. “Town? There’s a town nearby?”

An amused smile makes it way to your lips. “Of course. Where else would I get fish and flour? You didn’t think I pulled them out of thin air, did you?”

“I thought…” he hesitates, “I thought you just made them appear. You are a witch, aren’t you?”

That earns him a laugh. “You’re a funny one, Phainon. Yes, I am a witch, but I don’t conjure what I can craft and gather. I could, but I’d rather make things than have them simply appear.”

“Sorry. It’s just—” Phainon shifts awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck again. “You’re probably the first witch I’ve ever met.”

Your smile tilts, and almost teasingly, you say, “Probably? We wouldn’t know, would we? Not with your memories still fogged over.”

Before he can answer, you turn briskly. “Come on, then. To town. My apprentice is likely wringing her hands by now, wondering where I’ve gone again.”

He hesitates. “Wait—what about the house? Won’t you need someone to guard it while you’re away?”

“Mydei can handle it,” you say, as though it’s obvious. Right on cue, the orange cat slips from behind your skirts with a little meow, brushing against your legs. Phainon blinks at him, incredulous.

First, the creature can drag around a broadsword. Now he’s expected to stand sentry over a house?

You catch his expression and suppress a laugh. “Mydei is a magical cat. He can do anything a person can do—sometimes even better.”

Phainon gives the animal another long look, but Mydei only flicks his tail and yawns.

“And besides,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “this forest is spelled. Anyone with ill intent who tries to cross the border won’t make it far.”

His brows furrow. “What happens to these people?”

“They get lost,” you answer, too calm, too uncaring. “Until the forest swallows them whole.”

The words echo long after you’ve spoken them.

Phainon can’t quite shake the thought of the forest, and of those who would enter it with dark intent. And what it might do to him, should the forest ever decide his heart was not so clean.

Even as you set off together, the sound of your voice lingers in his skull, heavy as the axe he left behind. The path out of the woods is easier beneath your lead, but he cannot help glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see eyes in the trees.

By the time the trees thin and the road spills into a village, the shift is jarring. Voices rise and tumble together—market cries, children’s laughter, the thud of cart wheels on earth. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the scent of bread and roasting meat hangs heavy in the air.

It should feel safe, yet Phainon’s chest stays tight. There are too many people—too many voices overlapping, too many faces he doesn’t know, too many bodies moving in patterns he can’t predict. In the forest, it was simple: just you, him, Mydei, and the animals. It was a world he can hold with his hands.

Here, everything is too much and too loud. A child darts past, laughing, and he tenses. A shopkeeper calls out prices, and his back straightens. Someone jostles his elbow in passing, and his hand twitches and aches for something akin to a weapon.

He keeps close to you, shadowing your steps as though your presence alone is a tether. You are the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers.

You lead Phainon toward a quaint shop draped in hanging plants and vines. When the two of you step inside, something white blurs past the shelves and barrels toward you. It collides with your chest in a soft, squeaking impact.

Phainon reacts instantly: his hand shoots to his back, grasping for the familiar weight of his broadsword, but only air greets him. His other hand curls into a fist as his shoulders tense, but you lift a palm to still him. A subtle shake of your head halts his instinct.

There’s no enemy here.

His jaw tightens, though his stance relaxes slightly. He lowers his hands, still watching the odd being as though it might bite.

There’s… a creature nuzzling against your neck. Plump and round, with soft white fur tinged in pink and turquoise, its tiny wings flutter uselessly against your shoulder. It makes a plaintive, piping sound, halfway between a whistle and a squeak.

“Yes, yes,” you murmur, your hand smoothing over its mane comfortingly. “I’m back now. You can stop crying.”

“What… what is that?” Phainon asks.

“This is Little Ica,” you reply, tone far warmer than it had been earlier in the forest. “They’re a pegasus and my apprentice’s familiar. Speaking of…” You glance around the shop, scanning the shadows beyond shelves. “Where’s Hyacine?”

As if on cue, the sound of hurried steps come rushing through the backroom. Then a voice, light with relief, exclaims, “You’re back!” Hyacine rushes, her curls bouncing with each step. She stops short when she sees Phainon, but her worry swiftly overtakes her surprise.

“You were gone so long! I thought maybe you’d forgotten to eat again.” Her gaze flicks over you, searching for signs of weariness. “You didn’t, did you? You always lose track when you’re mixing stuff, and—oh, never mind, at least you’re safe and alright.”

Her eyes soften further when they land on the pegasus nestled against your shoulder. “And Little Ica found you first, hm? No wonder I heard them crying.” Then her eyes fall on Phainon again, who’s all tall and stiff behind you. “And you’ve brought someone with you. You never even come to town with Mydei, yet here you are—walking with another man.”

Hyacine’s voice takes on a teasing tone, and you sigh at once. Her words, however, make Phainon’s head tilt curiously.

Another man? Is she hinting at someone else in your life? But he has never seen another soul in the forest besides you, Mydei, your animal friends, and himself. Who is Hyacine talking about?

“He’s a stray I picked up not long ago,” you answer lightly. “He’s the reason why I’ve been absent.”

Hyacine’s brows lift with interest. “Are you taking him in as an apprentice too? Ica and I wouldn’t mind another friend!”

“Oh, no,” you say quickly. “He’s only here for a short while.”

“Aw, that’s too bad.” She juts her lips, pouting. “What brings him here with you today then?”

“A change of scenery,” you reply. “He’s been shut away in the forest for days. I thought the bustle of town might do him some good—help clear his mind. He’s lost his memories, you see.”

Hyacine’s face softens. She glances at Phainon, expression turning gentle, almost pitying. “How awful. What happened to him? And how did you even find him?”

“Mydei found him actually,” you explain. “Just at the edge of the forest. He said Phainon looked like he was running from something. But whoever—or whatever—it was, they’ve probably already lost their way.”

“Oh, Phainon? Is that your name?” Hyacine tilts her head toward him.

He shifts slightly, before giving a curt nod. “Apparently.”

Her lips twitch, and a small giggle escapes. “Well, it suits you. Lucky you stumbled into our forest. Not all who dwell in the woods—witch or not—are half as kind as my teacher.”

“Are you speaking ill of Anaxa again?” you ask with an amused smile. “You know you would’ve been his apprentice if Ica hadn’t liked me better.”

Anaxa. A man’s name, and it snags in Phainon’s mind. Is that the man that Hyacine must be hinting at? The other man?

Hyacine huffs. “If I’d known you were such a stubborn and neglectful teacher, I would have accepted Mr. Anaxagoras’s offer instead!”

“Of course you would.” You shake your head, smiling faintly as though you’ve had this argument before. “But enough of that. I didn’t come here just to banter. I brought new wares for the shop.”

At that, Little Ica finally detaches from your shoulder, wings fluttering as they drift toward Hyacine. You lift your hand, and with a casual flick of your fingers, the air beside you ripples. A pocket of space yawns open, and without hesitation, you slide your arm inside, as if reaching into another world.

Phainon stiffens, heart thudding hard at the sight of your hand disappearing into nothingness. He surges forward, hand shooting out to seize your shoulder before the void can swallow you, but before he can touch you, your free hand lifts and presses lightly against his chest. The touch halts him more effectively than a command.

“What are you—” His voice is harsher than he means it to be, the tension audible.

“Relax,” you murmur. “It’s only a space pocket. A safe place to keep what I can’t carry on my own.”

The warmth of your palm lingers through the fabric of his tunic, and he finds himself frozen there, caught between embarrassment and the urge to insist you step away from the rippling darkness.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to still. His eyes, however, don’t leave the pocket of space that devours your arm with casual ease.

A moment later, you withdraw, arm still intact and holding neat bundle of herbs and jars. You brush the dust from your hands as though you’d done nothing more extraordinary than fetch something from a shelf.

You hold the things out to Hyacine, and she stretches her arms to take them. Phainon lingers behind, watching the exchange.

“You could have used me to carry them for you,” he says.

Because he would have. He would have if you had only asked. For you—his savior, the one who let him stay even though he had nothing to offer but a name he didn’t even remember and a sword he can’t quite recall how to wield—he would carry far heavier things. That’s what a knight does, isn’t it? They pay their debts with their own body, their own service, their own small pieces of loyalty chipped away until they belong entirely to the one who spared them.

A knight serves. A knight owes. And what is he now, if not a man shaped to serve?

“You’re still recovering,” you answer. You don’t even look at him as you say it, which makes it worse, as though the matter is already decided and he doesn’t get a say. “You shouldn’t even be chopping wood at all, but you insist on chores. You are a very hardheaded patient.”

At that, Hyacine bursts out laughing, her curls bouncing as she hugs the bundles to her chest. “Finally,” she says, bright and teasing, “you’ve met someone who can go toe-to-toe with your stubbornness!”

You roll your eyes, but Phainon blinks at the words, tilting his head slightly, as though he’s unsure whether to feel stung or proud or both. His mouth opens like he might protest, then shuts again. He looks away instead and curls his fists, as if silently promising himself next time, he’ll carry the burden before you even get the chance to deny him.

When the two of you finally leave the shop, you guide him through the streets toward the wet market. The air is damp and heavy with the smell of fish, blood, and mud, and there are voices calling out prices and children darting between stalls.

Phainon notices the eyes—not just glances, but lingering looks that follow wherever you walk. And he hears whispers too, words he cannot make sense of but knows must be about you, because they never started until you appeared.

And you don’t say a thing. Maybe you don’t hear it, or maybe you’ve grown used to it—so used to it that it slides right off you. But Phainon can’t let it slide; it scrapes against him like grit in an old wound.

Why do they look at you like that, as though you are something to be feared and mocked all at once? Why do they whisper with so little care, as if you aren’t standing right here among them? And the vendors—the boldest of them all—jeer openly when you pass, muttering under their breaths as though you were powerless, as though you weren’t a witch, as if you’re less than them when he’s certain it’s the other way around.

It builds in his chest—that hot, bristling urge to step in front of you, to bare his teeth, to silence them all. And he almost does, but you just keep moving, intent on the stalls, so he forces himself to match your pace.

At a cart piled with pale cabbages and spotted apples, you pause. He leans down close, words caught between clenched teeth, low enough that only you can hear.

“Why do they behave like this toward you?”

You’re turning an apple over in your hand, examining its bruised skin. “Because I don’t belong here,” you answer simply. “They’re always like that. Just ignore them.”

“But how could they be so… crude?” His voice carries the disbelief of someone who still doesn’t understand how people can bite the hand of someone who has never even done them wrong.

“That’s just how ordinary folk are,” you murmur, putting the apple back with a faint shake of your head. You mutter something about the fruits not being fresh, before moving on to another stall. “It’s not as though they can do anything to me anyway. This is the most they can do—whisper, sneer, look away when I pass. I’m fortunate enough to even set foot in their home. And if they did try to drive me away…”

Your voice tilts, even quieter, “Well. They’d lose the one thing I can give them that they need most—which is medicine.”

Phainon frowns. “They don’t have doctors here?”

“No.” You shake your head. “This town is poor, though it may not look like it at a glance. They have too many mouths, but not enough coins. They would all be dead if not for me.”

You say it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Phainon almost misses the weight of the words. His frown deepens; he wants to say they should be on their knees before you for that. That they should build shrines to your name if you’re the reason they’re even breathing.

Instead, you add, “Hyacine helps too, of course. She knows how to heal, how to prepare salves and teas. But she’s still learning, and I won’t let her rely on magic for curing sickness.”

Phainon tilts his head. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

You shake your head again. “Because magic can fail, or worse—it can hurt if used carelessly. Herbs, remedies… those are reliable. A cure has to last longer than a spell. Hyacine is clever, but she still has much to learn before she can craft medicine without error.”

You turn another piece of produce in your palm, and mutter something about rot and poor harvests again. Phainon doesn’t say anything anymore, because he’s thinking about the eyes that lingers, the whispers, and the jeers circling endlessly in his mind.

He shadows over you as you move from stall to stall. And though he’s silent, his hands keep twitching at his sides, as though itching for a sword—or something, anything—that could cut sharp enough toward anyone who dares linger too long in their staring.

The walk back is quieter.

The sun hasn’t moved much—still hanging somewhere between noon and after—but the streets are emptier now, and the voices from the market have faded into the distance. The air smells of pine again, of damp earth and dust.

Phainon walks a step behind you, carrying the bundle of things you bought: produce, cloth, jars, and even the small pouches of salt and spices you insisted was light enough to carry yourself—until he looked at you as if you’d insulted him just by suggesting so.

You’d argued, of course. You’d said, “I have a space pocket. It’s far more convenient and easier.” And he’d said, “But you told me earlier there were other ways to be useful. This is me being useful.”

You’d gone quiet after that, lips pressing thin before you muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like stubborn man. So now, here you are, walking through the road that leads back to the forest while he shoulders all the weight like it means nothing.

“You know,” you say all of a sudden. “You behave so much like a knight sometimes.”

Phainon blinks, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “In what way?”

“Apart from the sword you carried and the armor you wore when you came here, I can also sense it in the way you can’t sit still,” you answer, looking straight ahead. “You always need to be doing something. Helping. Chopping. Fixing. Carrying things that aren’t yours to carry. You get anxious when you’re idle. You want to be useful.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, not because it’s funny, but because the words land too neatly in him. “That sounds accurate.”

“I thought so.” You tilt your head. “You’re like a dog, really.”

The word hits him like a strike. He stops walking.

Something moves behind his eyes—a flicker, a flash, a sound. A voice, deep and cold and too familiar though he’s certain he’s never heard it before.

My knight.

My beast.

My hound.

The words echo through his skull, and the world seems to lurch with them. The road blurs, and for a moment, he isn’t standing on dirt beneath the dappled light of the noon sun. Instead, he’s kneeling on marble, head bowed low, and wearing his armor—he also feels a hand, heavy and pressing, resting on his head as though he were some animal that needed taming.

The weight of that imagined touch burns through him.

He sucks in a breath, and his shoulders tense. The bundle in his arms shifts, jars clinking faintly. His skin has also gone cold, yet his pulse races like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.

You notice instantly. “Phainon?” you call his name, stopping in your tracks as well and turning to him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard, but the words don’t come right away. His mouth is dry. The memory dissolves quickly as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the words lingering like an aftertaste.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, “Don’t… don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“A dog. I don’t…” His throat bobs. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

You study him for a moment—his pallor, the way his knuckles whiten around the things he’s carrying, the faraway look in his eyes, the strange stillness in his face as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Alright,” you say, softly, kindly. “I won’t call you that again.”

He exhales, a small, uneven breath that sounds like it’s meant to be a thank you but gets lost somewhere before it reaches his tongue. The silence that envelops between you is fragile—like something that could break if either of you spoke too loudly.

When you start walking again, he follows, though quieter than before. His mind hums with the ghost of that voice, that hand, the word that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

Once you arrive back at your home, Mydei is the first to greet you.

He’s waiting on the porch, tail curled neatly around his paws. The moment he spots you, a soft meow slips from his throat. He rises and stretches, then pads down the step to brush against your leg. His fur carries the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“Missed us, did you?” you murmur, stooping to run your fingers through his coat. Mydei purrs, low and content, circling your ankles once before glancing up at Phainon.

His gaze lingers. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turns and follows after you as you step inside the cottage. He doesn’t brush against Phainon.

Behind you, Phainon lets out a short huff that sounds like laughter. “He still doesn’t like me,” he says. “So I don’t think he missed me as much as he does you.”

“Yes,” you agree without a second’s hesitation.

Phainon stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can’t decide whether to feel offended or amused. “That was very quick.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I wasn’t going to lie. Cats can be quite territorial, you know.”

He hums, pondering. “He must think I’m going to steal you from him.”

You laugh, sudden and melodious—one of those bright little sounds that seem to catch him off guard every time, as though he hasn’t quite learned you’re capable of making it. And maybe that’s because you don’t laugh like that often. Most days your amusement comes out quieter; just a small puff of air through your nose paired with a smile, the kind of understated warmth one only notices if they’re paying close attention.

But this one—this clear, unguarded laugh of yours—is rare enough to feel like a gift. So rare that Phainon goes absolutely still for a moment, as if unsure whether he’s meant to hold it, treasure it, bow to it, or simply let it wash over him.

“Now I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “Mydei is just protective.”

“Of you?” he manages to ask, feigning neutrality.

“Of the house. Of the forest,” you say, trailing off. “And yes, perhaps of me, as well. He’s like the guardian of this forest. He protects everything and everyone here.”

“Even me?” he asks.

“Yes. Even you.”

The words hit him strangely—like something heavier than reassurance, lighter than a promise, and yet somehow both. Phainon rubs the back of his neck as if trying to hide the warmth gathering there.

He thinks back to all the times Mydei has stalked behind him (which is always, really). The soft pad of paws trailing a few steps behind, the quiet little huffs of breath, the occasional meow when Phainon’s thoughts spiral too far into places they shouldn’t go.

He remembers the nights when he would sit up in bed, palm pressed to his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Mydei would hop onto the foot of the bed and simply stare at him.

Stop, the stare always seems to say. Don’t think of it. Don’t think about anything at all.

And somehow, it works. It helps. He helps. Though Phainon doubts the cat does any of it out of affection; more likely, it’s obligation. Or maybe, just like you said, it’s out of territorial instincts. Or maybe… the cat thinks he does it out of protection of you.

Protection from what? From whom? From himself?

That possibility feels uncomfortably plausible.

He wouldn’t put it past himself to hurt someone. He has the hands for it, the instincts for it, and the memories—though he could only recall half of it. But you? No. He could never deliberately hurt you. Not you—not the one who pulled him from the edge of death, the one who gave him a home before he even remembered who he was.

You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel stained.

Maybe Mydei is indeed magical like the way you claimed. You’re a witch; you produce pockets of space out of thin air and murmur words that make plants grow faster. So why not a magical cat? Why not a cat that can drag broadswords through forests or curse intruders or—he snorts quietly to himself—transform into a person if he wanted to?

The image almost makes him laugh. He can imagine it: Mydei as some unimpressed, sharp-tongued man, flicking his tail in human form.

“I really still can’t see how Mydei can do so much with his tiny body,” Phainon says, chuckling.

You smile. It’s the kind of smile that looks like you’re hiding the punchline to a joke the world isn’t privy to. “You have no idea.”

Your smile lingers for a heartbeat too long. And his gaze lingers on you for two heartbeats longer than that.

The house is warm behind you, with the smell of herbs drifting through the open doorway. The trees sway lazily, and Mydei sits between you both, tail twitching, as if monitoring the entire conversation.

It’s peaceful enough that Phainon’s shoulders lower without him realizing. Peaceful in the way a wounded animal might exhale when it recognizes that, finally, it will not be hunted today.

You turn first, heading toward the cottage, Mydei following suit. And Phainon trails after you—the same way he trailed after you into town, the same way he trails behind you whenever you lead the way.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the moment on the road when you called him a dog and he froze flickers. But now, in the warmth that follows you both toward home, that memory slides off him like water. It’s not gone, but it has dulled—tucked into a corner of his thoughts where it can’t bite.

He catches his reflection in a window: tired eyes, longer hair, and face still bruised at the edges. But then he looks at you again, and the heaviness in him eases.

He wonders if that is magic, too.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

Days with you slip by almost unnoticed.

Phainon wakes each sunrise to the same rhythm: the scent of herbs steeping, the air filtering through the windows, and the distant chatter of birds gathering near your porch as if waiting for you to come greet them.

He falls into that rhythm without thinking, the same way a stray animal falls into step with the one who feeds it.

He still chops wood every morning. You tell him the pile is large enough already, that the shed won’t fit another log, but he keeps at it anyway. It’s habit. When he’s not swinging the axe, he’s repairing what needs fixing—the latch on the gate, the crack in the basin, the cupboard that hasn’t loosened in years. Sometimes, you suspect he breaks things just to mend them again. And he still carries water for you. Always insists on two buckets at once, even when you tell him the well isn’t going anywhere.

(And always, there is Mydei, watching.

Always, there is you.)

But lately, he’s begun to do other things too. He helps you tend to the herbs in the garden—kneeling awkwardly in the dirt, too big and stiff for such delicate work, yet careful, almost reverent when he’s handling the leaves. Sometimes he forgets how gentle he has to be, snapping a stem or bruising a sprig, and he looks so stricken you can’t help but laugh and tell him it’ll grow back.

(He notices, too, how you laugh more now. He remembers the early days when your laughter had been quieter, almost like you weren’t sure he could handle too much warmth at once. But lately—ever since that day the two of you first returned from town—your laughter has been different, looser. As if being beside him no longer requires caution. As if something between you both unlatched itself without either of you speaking about it out loud.

And perhaps he notices more than he should. Because now, whenever he fumbles with a sprig or accidentally uproots an entire seedling, you laugh openly and he tries to pretend it doesn’t strike him straight in the chest. He ducks his heads, pretends he’s checking the soil, pretends he’s not memorizing the way the sound curls around him like the light from the sun.

He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much. He only knows that he could grow addicted to it.)

He helps you cook too, though “help” is generous. He cuts too precisely, stirs too rigidly, like he’s following orders no one gave. He asks if he’s doing it wrong, and you tell him he can do whatever he wants as long as it’s still suitable for cooking.

He goes to town with you every now and then—to visit Hyacine, to restock your supplies, to carry the heavy things you insist aren’t heavy. The villagers still whisper when you pass, and Phainon pretends not to hear them. He doesn’t realize that sometimes, his silence is more of a comfort than his anger could ever be.

And then there are the forest animals.

At first, he only watched from afar as you fed them—the foxes, the deers, the flock of birds that perch on your arms as though you’re just another tree. Now, he feeds them too, though never alone. He says he’s afraid he’ll scare them off. You tell him the creatures like him, that they sense his good intentions. He doesn’t quite believe you, and the doubt sits quietly in his chest.

He knows what still sleeps inside him. The thirst. The edge. Whatever part of him remembers blood and command and killing. He fears that if he ever lets his guard down, if he ever reaches too fast, too hungry, he’ll harm something—someone—you hold dear. So he never feeds the animals without you.

When that fear starts whispering too loud in his head, Mydei is always there. The cat watches from afar, silent, orange, and unblinking. Never close enough to touch, but close enough to pull him back to himself. It’s strange—it’s been over a month, and the cat still hasn’t brushed against him. Not even once.

It doesn’t hurt him—at least that’s what Phainon tells himself. It’s just something he’s noticed. Especially since the forest animals seem to like him well enough when you’re near. Rabbits nibble on his boots, and once, a bird landed on his shoulder. He stood frozen for a full minute, afraid to breathe in case he startles it.

When he told you about it later, you only smiled and said, “See? They trust you.”

He thinks, sometimes, this must be what peace feels like. Not the grand kind—the kind the bards sing about—but something smaller and quieter. A hand brushing against his when you both reach for the same jar. The sound of your soft laughter spilling through the house when he hits his head over something. The faint smell of mint that clings to the sheets.

He catches himself watching you too often. The way your sleeves slip down when you knead dough, the small wrinkle that appears when you read, the way you hum to yourself while tending to herbs. It’s not that he means to stare; it’s that everything about you catches his eyes. You’re steady, like gravity, and everything about you feels natural. He doesn’t know when it started, but your presence has become the thing his mind drifts toward whenever it goes quiet.

Once, when you handed him a bowl of stew and your fingers brushed his, something in his chest stuttered—like when he first saw you after waking up from his injuries. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Gratitude was what he felt when you saved him. Now, this was something else.

The stray in him is beginning to settle, to rest its head.

He realizes, with a sort of frightened tenderness, that he’s been dreaming of this for a long time—long before he met you, maybe even before he lost his memory. The dream of belonging somewhere. Of having someone to come back to, to protect not out of duty but out of want.

But the dream has edges.

Sometimes, while he works, something flashes behind his eyes. A street, narrow and cold. The taste of hunger. The sound of a girl’s laugh, light and tired all at once. He sees her—his sister in everything but blood, small hands clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Her smile when she splits it in two.

He always shakes it off and keeps chopping. But the memories always return like waves, merciless.

He remembers the guards’ shouts. The blur of armor. The day he was caught with his hands full of the king’s silver. How strange it was, to kneel before a man so terrible and live.

The king had looked at him and smiled. Said something about sharp eyes and quick hands. Said he could use a creature like that.

And so, Phainon became what the king wanted—a hound that learned to bite on command.

He was fed, clothed, and trained. He rose through the ranks not out of pride, but out of survival. Each order he carried out, each throat he cut, each village he burned—he told himself it was for her. For the girl who still called him brother. For the one who deserved better than hunger.

He became his king’s favorite, his lapdog, his executioner. And with every life he took, his own slipped further away.

He doesn’t remember when the love of his sister’s laughter turned into pity of what he’d become for her sake. Only that he kept going, because stopping meant she could starve.

Now, when he dreams, he hears the king’s voice again. And in the dream, the voice follows him home.

Not your home, not your house, but theirs. The one he built long ago from stone and spite and blood, where the walls gleam faintly of red, as if still remembering the men he felled to pay for them. A house bought with his master’s coin, built from the bones of his enemies, yet raised with love for her—for his sister, his tether to what little of him remained human.

The door is open when he arrives at their home.

At first, he thinks she’s sleeping. The way she lies on the floor, hair spilled like ink across the floor, one hand curled loosely as though still clutching a dream, but then he sees the blood seeping beneath her.

His body moves before thought does. He falls to his knees beside her, calling her name—Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene!—until the sound breaks. His hands are useless against the stillness of her body. He doesn’t know where to press, what to hold, what to fix—all he knows is how to strike, what to break, what to snap. There is too much red, but none of it are his or his master’s enemies.

When the fire from the hearth flickers, he looks up and knows exactly where to go.

He storms through the marble halls of the palace, sword still strapped on his back. Guards scatter like birds before a storm, for even they know better than to bar the way of the king’s beast. The throne room yawns open, and the king is there, as he always is—calm, immaculate, cruel.

“Your Majesty,” Phainon rasps. “Someone murdered my sister. I need your leave to find them. I—”

The king doesn’t even look surprised. He only tilts his head, voice as smooth as oil. “There’s no need to look. I gave the order myself.”

Phainon stills. At first, he doesn’t understand. He only stares, chest heaving, waiting for the jest that never comes. Then, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“She was a distraction,” the king says, amusement curling at his lips. “A hound does not need a sister. A beast does not need a home. You are mine, Phainon, and I am your master. You will serve me until there’s nothing left of you.”

The memory shatters there.

He wakes drenched in sweat, heart hammering, half expecting to find blood on his hands. But when he sits up and looks around, it’s only the faint glow of the candle on his nightstand. Only Mydei’s eyes, glowing yellow in the dark. Only your soft breathing from the other room.

And the contrast between the two worlds—the one he lived and the one he’s living now—gnaws at him. Because here, in your small house at the middle of the forest, he’s learning what gentleness feels like again. He’s learning to speak softly, to hold things that break easily. He’s learning what it means to be seen as something other than a weapon once again.

And every time you smile at him, every time your hand brushes his shoulder, he feels something bloom that he cannot name. Something that hurts and heals in the same breath.

He wonders if this is what redemption looks like; not a cleansing, but an illusion—fragile and fleeting. He wonders how long he’s allowed to have it before the world remembers what he is.

Afternoon comes, and you’re both in the garden, knees dusted in soil. Phainon’s fingers, broad but careful, move between the roots as if he’s afraid of breaking them. He’s learning how to tell weeds from the herbs now, though he still hesitates sometimes, glancing toward you for confirmation.

There’s peace in it. The small sounds, the rustle of leaves, the buzz of insects, the distant lap of water somewhere. And you hum under your breath, something tuneless.

Then he stops. Abruptly. A stem snaps between his fingers, hanging limp. His shadow falls over the patch of rosemary.

“What if my memories return,” he speaks, sudden and quiet, “but I don’t want to leave?”

You blink, turning towards him. His eyes are somewhere far off, and there’s soil in his cheek, a smear like paint that doesn’t belong there.

You don’t think before you answer. “Then don’t leave.”

He breathes out a small laugh, half disbelief, half something else. “Really? You’d let me stay? Even though my stay was only meant to be temporary?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “And honestly… I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

The words drift out like a sigh, unplanned and unpolished, but they catch in the space between you and hang there. It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need an echo out loud to still reverberate.

Phainon doesn’t move for a long time. He only stares, as if your words were something he needed to memorize before the air could take them away.

I’ve grown quite fond of you.

It isn’t a confession, not really, and he knows that. You said it like one might admit the sun’s warmth or that the rain falls where it wishes. Simple, natural, true. But gods, it’s close enough to make something twist in him.

The words dig in, take root, and the warmth that spreads through his chest feels almost unbearable. Because if kindness could be fatal, it would sound like that. It would sound exactly like you.

He turns back to the soil before you can see the way his expression softens—because if you did, you might realize that those simple words have already undone him. The ache in his chest isn’t the old kind anymore; it’s gentler, the kind that he doesn’t want to fade.

He works in silence after that, slower this time. You get back to work too, humming once again. And though nothing else is said, he feels the shape of your voice in his head—circling, settling, steadying.

Then don’t leave.

He won’t. Not if he can help it.

𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆

“Go and take a break.”

From the soil, Phainon stares at you like you’ve just cast him out. His hands are still half-buried in the dirt, wrists streaked with soil. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to understand a language that shouldn’t apply to him.

“Why? I’m not tired. I can still help—”

You shake your head, shushing him before he can finish. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you need to go outside every now and then, Phainon. Don’t be a hermit like me.”

He blinks again. “Outside? But aren’t we—” He gestures vaguely at the sky, the trees, the garden that is quite literally outside. "—already outside?”

He’s pouting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You sigh, pulling off one glove. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. And our trips to town don’t count. You need… enrichment time.”

“Enrichment,” he says flatly, as if it’s a punishment. “What do I even do while I’m on break?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Take a walk. Lie in the sun and pretend to be a rock. Anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or chores.”

He exhales a small sound that’s almost a whine. “Then I’ll take a walk.”

“Lovely.” You clap your hands in delight. “Get back before sunset.”

He lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for you to rescind the order. When you don’t, he dusts his palms on his trousers and straightens, a little stiff. He hesitates, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods once and turns towards the trees.

The forest receives him the way it always does—too quietly, as though listening. He walks without direction. The world is still; only the sound of water in the distance, a bird calling, and the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots can be heard.

A break, you said. But rest feels foreign, like a word from a tongue he’s forgotten. His hands itch for work, for something to hold, something to guard. The axe, the bucket, the rhythm of doing—those are easy. This, the wandering, the having-nothing-to-do—it gnaws at him.

He keeps glancing behind him, half-expecting Mydei to appear, silent and judging, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you’ve sent him to make sure Phainon really does rest. The thought makes him huff, amused despite himself.

The path slopes upward until he finds himself on a small ridge overlooking the glade. The air here smells different—warmer and faintly of wildflowers. He sits down, awkwardly at first, like a man trying to remember how to sit. He closes his eyes.

It feels like he can hear the forest breathe. He hears the wind through leaves, a frog croaking by a creek, and even his own pulse, slow and steady for once. For a long moment, he lets himself sink into it.

Then he hears something crack—a branch somewhere behind him—and instinct surges before thought does. He’s already on his feet, shoulders squared, gaze snapping toward the sound. There’s no sword, but his stance remembers one.

He prepares himself for an attack, but when only a doe comes out from behind a tree, blinking at him innocently, Phainon exhales shakily. He forces his body to ease, hands unclenching one finger at a time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice softer than he expects.

The animal watches him a while longer before flicking its ear and turning away. After the doe disappears, Phainon stands still for a moment longer. He exhales slowly, then straightens, scanning the woods. He decides to keep walking.

You had said to take a break, and he supposes walking counts as rest if he pretends hard enough. Besides, the forest is vast and he’s still learning its edges. If he means to protect this place, he should know its bones as well as his own.

He moves deeper into the forest. The air grows cooler the further he goes, the light dimming where the trees thicken. He marks the way as he walks—fallen birch, hollow trunk, crooked pine—and imagines how a blade might catch there, how a man could vanish behind that ridge, how once could defend this place if it ever needed defending.

He doesn’t notice the sound right away. It starts fainly: metal against metal, faint and stuttering. He stills, listening. Then comes another sound: the low murmur of men’s voices.

His breath catches. Phainon turns toward it instinctively.

The forest dips ahead into a narrow clearing, and between the trees, he glimpses movement—a cluster of figures in armors gathered around a small fire.

Knights.

He recognizes their bearing even before he sees their faces. The stance, the way they hold themselves, how their swords rest close to hand even at rest.

He should leave, he thinks. But curiosity—or perhaps the ache of recognition—roots him in place. He edges closer, silent as he can be, until he can see them clearly.

Five men, all armored in the same style. The sigil painted on their breastplates is faint, scraped by battle and time, but the mark is unmistakable—a lone tower wreathed in flame. The paint has peeled away in places, yet the shape endures: proud, ruined, unyielding. It is the symbol of the king’s dominion. The brand of the beast he once served.

His throat closes. That symbol burns behind his eyes, familiar as the weight of a sword hilt.

Phainon doesn’t remember their names, but he recognizes their faces. He’s seen them before—fought beside them, maybe. Bled beside them even. Before he can decided whether to step forward or vanish back into the woods, his voice betrays him.

“Who are you?” he calls out, and his tone is sharper than he means it to be. “Why are you here?”

The men jolt up at once, startled. Hands fly to hilts, blades drawn with the rasp of steel. For a moment, the clearing brims with threat. But then, one of them speaks. His voice cracks around the edge of disbelief. “Commander?”

Another lowers his sword, eyes widening. “Sir Phainon—by the gods—it is you!”

The rest follow, faces lighting with something between awe and relief. They drop to their knees before him, blades pointed down in salute.

Phainon doesn’t move. The sound of his name—his title—rings hollow in his chest. Commander. The word fits him like an old wound reopening. “I…” He swallows, searching their faces. “Do I know you?”

The question makes their joy falter. They look at one another with confusion. One of them—a younger man with a scar beneath his jaw—takes a hesitant step closer. “Of course you do, sir. We’re your men.”

Phainon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks at them—these ghosts of a life he’s certain he doesn’t want back. “I remember your faces,” he admits. “But not who you are.”

The men exchange uneasy glances. Then one of them speaks again, almost reverently, “Commander, we’ve been searching for you for weeks. We thought you’d died.”

Another one poses a question, tentative. “None of our other comrades had made it when we came to check the battlefield. How did you survive? Have you been living here all this time?”

Phainon doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because the truth—that he woke beneath a witch’s roof—feels too strange to speak aloud.

When he stays silent, another knight fills the space with words. “The king sent us to find you,” he says. “Dead or alive. He said the kingdom couldn’t lose its hound just yet. You were his best, Commander. His right hand.”

That word lands like a blade. Hound.

Phainon feels his pulse stutter. Images flash in his mind—marble floors, cold as stone. Then a gloved hand pressing down on his head, forcing him to kneel.

My beast.

My hound.

My creature of war.

He inhales sharply, and the forest tilts back to normal.

“I’m not his anything,” he finally says, low and certain.

The knights exchange uneasy glances once again. Then one speaks first, laughing, as if to cut through the tension. “Sir, surely you jest. We can return together—tell His Majesty you’re alive! The king will be overjoyed to have you back.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, sharp enough for the smile to fade. “No.” The word startles them. “I’ve seen what he is. What he makes of men. I’m not going to kneel to that beast again.”

Their faces harden. “You… would defy His Majesty?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch. “I will no longer serve him.”

There’s a pause, before one steps forward and draws his sword. His voice is strained, almost pained. “Then you leave us no choice.”

Another shakes his head, eyes full of regret. “You taught us loyalty, Commander. You told us a knight without his king is a blade without purpose. Don’t make us turn ours on you.”

Phainon huffs, almost amused. “Then perhaps I taught you wrong.”

The knights exchange one final look, grim, before they raise their blades in unison.

“Then you must die for such treachery,” one of them says, and the sentence carries all the weight of a verdict.

For a moment, neither side moves. The forest waits, silent and breathless. Then the first knight lunges. Phainon ducks the first swing, feels the wind of it graze his cheek, and moves instinctively. He grips the knight’s arm, twists, and bone cracks beneath his hands. The man drops his sword, but Phainon doesn’t bother picking it up.

Another charges—younger, faster, but clumsy with fear. Phainon sidesteps, grabs the back of his neck, and drives his face into the earth. “You shouldn’t hesitate,” he says, too calm. “Did no one teach you that?”

Someone shouts something—an order—but it’s drowned in the sound of metal striking bark. The next blade skims across Phainon’s ribs, opening a shallow line that burns hot and wet. He hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowing.

A third swings high. The tip catches his cheek; though shallow, it paints his mouth red. He tastes iron, laughs low and breathless. With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lip and smears it across his jaw.

“Did I train any of you?” he mocks. “None of you move like your lives are on the line.”

They circle him, three blades catching the light. He moves through them like shadow and muscle—less a man than a reflex. He takes a blow to the shoulder, catches another’s wrist, and wrenches it back until steels clatters to the ground. He drives his knee into a stomach, his fist into a jaw. He hears the crunch of something breaking, and something in him exhales in relief.

This, his body remembers. This is what I was built for.

But even as the fight unravels into chaos, another thought threads through him. He isn’t doing this for the king, or the crown, or the memory of command. He’s doing it for something smaller, gentler, kinder. For the quiet house in the woods. For the one who said then don’t leave.

A knight swings wildly at him, and Phainon catches the blade barehanded. Blood spills between his fingers, but he only smiles. “You should find a new master,” he says, shoving the man back, voice low and rasped with laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d actually care whether you live or die.”

The knight staggers, gasps. “And you? Who do you serve now?”

Phainon’s grin fades, eyes darkening. Someone worth dying for, he thinks, but what leaves his mouth is far different— “You should worry more about your lives.”

The last two come at once. He meets them head-on. The world blurs into motion and noise—boots slipping in mud, armor crashing, the hiss of breath through teeth. He drives an elbow into a throat, hears the wheeze, feels a blade glance off his arm.

By the time the silence returns, it’s thick with the smell of iron and pine.

Phainon stands alone in the clearing, chest heaving and hands slick and trembling. The fire the knights have set is still alive and crackling. His knuckles are raw and his tunic—torn. This is what his hands are made for; what the king carved into him. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he’s learned how to use that curse for something good.

He wipes his mouth again, smearing the blood across his face again, then he starts back toward home.

You are waiting outside the cottage, entangled in conversation with the birds and a bold red fox who refuses to mind his manners. The animals cluster around you as if you are a tree with fruit, and the fox keeps yipping—short, sharp sounds, tail swishing as he tries to startle the songbirds from your shoulders. They scold him in return, fluttering just out of reach, and you laugh softly at their quarrel.

Then the heavy scrape of boots over leaf sounds through the forest, and everything stiffens. The birds that were on your shoulders flutter once and go. The fox tucks his tail and runs off. Even the rabbits that had been lackadaisical in the grass bolt into the bushes. They do not scatter because of you; they scatter because of him.

Phainon steps into the clearing like a thing that has been pressed through a grinder. He is all torn cloth and the smell of iron. There is a thin line across his cheek where the blade kissed him; the corner of his lip is dark. His eyes are wide, lit at the edges with something like hunger. For a moment, the look is almost feral—it is the look of a man who has found what his hands were made to do and will not stop until they are still.

You don’t recoil from the stench of iron or the hunger in his eyes. You only watch as the animals skitter away, as the clearing empties itself of gentle things.

He halts a handful of paces from you and breathes, long and ragged. His fingers flex at his sides, as if still aching for more.

“What happened to you?” you ask. “You scared away my friends.”

He exhales. The sound is brittle. “Your spell isn’t very effective against people who change their minds.”

You pause, humming. “Hm… I suppose you’re right. Is that what happened?”

His answer is simple: “I killed them.” The words are delivered without flourish, like he hadn’t just admitted he committed something immoral. Then he drops to his knees, head lowering toward the earth in a soldierly bow. He doesn’t look at you as he asks—asks as if testing, “Did I do a good job?” There’s a faint, needy tremor in his voice, a whine dressed up as obedience.

There is a hand on his head before he can taste the mercy of your reply. It lands there the way it once had, long ago, by a different hand—heavy and owning. For a moment, the past flashes behind his eyes: a gloved palm, a crown’s amusement. But your touch isn’t the same. Your fingers are softer, and the pressure doesn’t claim him.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk. He allows himself that small thing: to be steadied by the one who steadies him. Instead, he folds into the touch.

“You’re acting quite like a dog right now,” you murmur, fingers combing through his hair as if you’re ruffling the coat of an animal. “You told me you don’t like being compared to a dog. And yet here you are.”

For the first time since he arrived, the edge in his eyes melts. Adoration pours in like warmth. He lifts his head and looks at you, and the feral light in his eyes shifts into something gentler, more worshipful. The hand on his head trembles; he wants—wants so small, wants so large—to kiss it, to press it to his cheek and seal the gesture there. But he fights it, fingers curling just enough to catch your palm without taking it.

“Yes,” he says, earnest and raw. “But if it’s you, then I don’t mind.”

You let the silence make itself then, and he drinks the sound of it. And when you draw your hand away, he instantly misses your touch. It’s visible in the slump of his shoulders—in the small twitch of longing at his lips.

“Stand up,” you say at last. “Show me where you left them.”

He rises, obedient as a man trained to obey. Though he lingers. “Why?” he asks, the eagerness leaking back into his tone. “I can dispose of them myself. Just say the word.”

You shake your head, slow and certain. “I would like to bury them properly.”

He hesitates, incredulous and almost petulant. “Even when they tried to kill me?”

“Yes.” You tuck a stray curl behind your ear. “I believe giving them a proper burial would be their last and greatest mercy.”

His mouth opens to retort, but then closes it immediately. He nods his head just slightly and, without another word, turns toward the path that leads away from your cottage and back to the clearing he left.

Phainon’s footsteps drag heavier the longer he walks, as though the earth itself is trying to pull him down. His breaths are shallow and he keeps his eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of letting them rise.

It makes no sense.

You’re not angry. You didn’t recoil from the sight of him returning, with blood on his face and running down his arms, chest heaving with the aftermath of killing, and eyes blown wide from the adrenaline. Yet the silence between you gnaws at him—it burrows into the hollow places inside him like something alive.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s done wrong.

And he has. He definitely has.

The forest doesn’t judge him. You didn’t judge him. But he judges himself.

He killed people—men who once followed him into battle, who once trusted him enough to put their lives at his back. Even if he can’t fully remember their voices, even if their names are like dust in his mind, their faces still tug at something buried deep within him.

He slaughtered them with his hands.

And the worst part is that some part of him felt relief when it was over. Relief that the violence had someplace to go; relief that the hunger in him had been fed, even for a moment.

Phainon has always been hungry. The kind of hunger that isn’t for food, but for survival. For purpose. For something to strike, to break, to destroy before it destroys him.

He remembers stealing bread for his sister with shaking hands. He remembers stealing coins from the king, and how that single act shaped the rest of his life. He remembers the moment the king looked at him and saw not a boy but a weapon.

His guilt began there; and it only grew sharper, heavier, uglier. But today it feels different.

“It’s up ahead,” he says, voice strained.

You keep walking until the trees open into a clearing.

And there they are—five bodies, scattered where they fell. Their armors are dented and darkened with drying blood, and their swords lie discarded in the ground.

Phainon stops at the threshold of the clearing, breath caught in his throat. You step past him, skirts brushing the grass.

Watching you walk toward the bodies—toward the carnage he caused—tears at him. He watches the way you kneel beside the fallen men, brushing dirt from their armor, and straightening their limbs with gentle hands. And something in him collapses. Because now, watching you give them the tenderness he never could, something new forms inside him—

Shame.

Not for killing them—that part he understands, that part he can justify—but for how quickly and easily he did it. And for how you treat the dead better than he ever treated the living.

Is that why his guts twist? Is that why his throat feels constricted?

The thought coils tight, tighter, until it hurts to swallow, to breathe.

Would you have shown him the same mercy? If he had died out here, would you have buried him too? Would you have cared?

If he hadn’t killed them, they would have killed him. And then they would come for you. They would have torn through this forest, through your home, through you, without hesitation. And he can’t—will not—imagine that.

You are the only thing in his life untouched by blood. The only salvation he has left. The last thread tying him to the person he wants to be instead of the creature he was made into.

So why—why are you burying them? Why do you give them peace when they came here to retrieve him? When they didn’t hesitate on killing him for breaking his oath to the king? Why do you care enough to kneel beside their corpses?

The questions claw at him until they finally break free from his mouth, “Why are you doing this?”

You pause. “Doing what?”

“Showing mercy,” he says. “To men who tried to kill me.”

You brush soil from the gauntlet of one knight, studying the cracked metal with dried blood. “Because death is still death and they were still human,” you reply softly. “Someone raised them. Someone will grieve for them. Even if they came here with violence in their hands… they still deserve rest.”

Phainon stares at you like he’s seeing you in another light. His throat bobs almost painfully. “If I had died that day when you found me…” His mouth feels dry. “Would you have buried me too?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to rot.”

His chest tightens so sharply he almost mistakes it for pain. He stands rigid, and for a moment, he looks less like a warrior and more like a man who’s been struck by something he never learned how to guard against.

You lift your head. “Will you help me dig?”

He nods before he can think. His body moves clumsily at first, as though the guilt has made him heavy. You step back from the bodies, life your hand, and with a small twist of your finger, your space pocket emerges into existence. From within the pocket’s glow, you reach in and draw out a shovel. You offer it to him readily.

Phainon stares at the tool, then at you, still bewildered by how easily you conjure magic like it was as natural as breathing. He takes the shovel, his fingers brushing yours, and his heart stutters. He doesn't dwell on it too much; instead, he walks to a patch of soil near a tree and thrusts the shovel into the earth with a thunk.

He doesn’t speak anymore the moment he starts digging. The soil is loose near the roots, but the deeper he goes, the heavier it gets, and you can hear how strained his breathing is. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his wrist, but he doesn’t stop working.

You don’t speak either. Somehow, it feels wrong to make any noise.

He keeps going until the grave is deep enough. You help move the first body, slow and careful. He barely looks at the faces. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.

You both place them on the ground. Then more dirt, then another grave, and another.

Phainon doesn’t rest. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are bleeding a little from gripping the shovel too tight. You try to take it from him once, but he jerks away like the touch seared him.

“…I can do it,” he mutters, voice rough and low. He’s not angry. Just… tired.

So you let him.

By the time the last mound of dirt is in place, the sun is low. The light is soft and warm and it hits the graves in long strips. Phainon stands there with the shovel planted in the earth, head bowed. When he finally lifts his head and turns to you, he’s pale. Too pale.

“Let’s go home,” you say.

He nods, but it feels like he barely hears you.

You walk side by side, though he drags a little behind you. His steps are slow and heavy, and sometimes you hear his breath stutter. You keep glancing back, checking to see if he’s still upright. He is, but it’s like he’s walking because he doesn’t know what else his body should do.

No animals cross your path. Everything is silent.

When the house comes into view, something changes in him. Maybe it’s the relief of seeing it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up. But when he steps up into the porch, his foot catches a little and he stops completely right in front of the door.

He stares at the wood, and then his knees give out.

It’s like watching a tree slowly tilt and finally topple. He catches himself with one hand on the knob, but they tremble badly. His breath is shaky—like he’s trying not to let it turn into a sob.

“Phainon—” you rush to him, grabbing his arm before he can fall forward. “It’s alright. Come on.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at the ground beneath him. Dirt sticks to his palm and his clothes, and there’s blood drying on his knuckles.

You slip an arm around his back, trying to steady him. “Let’s just go inside.” You guide him in slowly. He leans heavily on you, and you can feel how cold his fingers are.

Inside the house, it’s dim and warm. You lead him to the couch and ease him down. The moment he sits, his shoulders sag, and he looks like he’s sinking into the cushions without meaning to.

You kneel in front of him, brushing dirt off his hands with your thumb.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

For a second, his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but the only thing that leaves him is a shaky exhale. Then he lets his head drop forward. Not onto the cushion, but onto your shoulder.

You don’t leave.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓

When Phainon finally wakes, it’s slow—like surfacing from deep water. His body feels heavy, almost numb, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s really awake or just stuck somewhere between dream and memory.

The first thing he sees is the ceiling.

He knows this ceiling now, but his mind still does that small, confused stumble, like it’s trying to compare this moment to the first time he opened his eyes here.

Back then, everything felt new. Confusing. He had no name, no anchor, nothing to hold onto. He remembers sitting up too fast, gripping the blanket, and the world spinning while he tried to make sense of anything.

It feels weird thinking about it—like remembering something from someone else’s life. Like it was a whole lifetime ago, but also kind of like yesterday.

He blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog of his mind and in his eyes. His wounds don’t hurt as much now, but his body still feels like it’s been squeezed dry and left in the sun.

He turns his head, and there he is.

Mydei.

Perched on the windowsill again, in almost the exact same spot he was the first time Phainon saw him. Light behind him, tail curled neatly around his paws, and staring at him with those bright yellow eyes like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Phainon doesn’t say anything. He just laughs, though nothing is funny. Something inside him loosens at the sight, something warm and kind of embarrassing. He didn’t realize how much he missed that little face until right now.

Mydei blinks once, slow. Phainon blinks back. It feels stupid, but he does it anyway.

They hold eye contact for a while. Then Mydei lets out a meow, before hopping down from the sill. His paws barely make a sound as he lands. He gives Phainon one last look and then pads toward the door. He slips through the gap like he always does, tail swaying behind him as he disappears without another sound.

Phainon watches the doorway long after the cat is gone. He breathes out and sinks deeper into the mattress. He lies there for a while before the room starts to feel too quiet without Mydei in it.

It’s silly, he knows that, but the silence presses at him in a way he doesn’t like. So he pushes the blanket off and sits up.

He regrets it instantly.

His whole body aches—like his muscles are reminding him that he hasn’t used them like that in a long time. Not since before he came here. Not since before… everything.

He presses a hand to his side, where the knight’s blade had caught him. The wounds have closed, thanks to your care, but the memory of the fight still thrums under his skin. That sudden burst of violence—after weeks of calm, of chores and menial tasks—had knocked him. He’s not used to being idle, and though his mind aches for it, he’s also not used to being that monster anymore, either. His body feels caught between two selves.

He stands anyway.

He steadies himself on the bedpost, like he did the very first time he woke here. It’s strange how easily the memory returns—how he remembers the spinning room and the ache in his skull.

And how he had followed that same meow down the hallway.

“Mydei…” he murmurs, more to remind himself that he’s not dreaming.

He steps forward. His gaut is uneven, but Mydei is already waiting in the hall, sitting like he knew Phainon would follow. When their eyes meet, the cat flicks his tail once and turns around, walking ahead.

Phainon huffs a weak laugh. “We’re doing this again, huh?”

Mydei doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He just keeps going, trotting ahead with that almost smug walk of his.

So, Phainon follows. Down the hallway, down the stairs. Each step is familiar but also feels new because he’s remembering the last time. But this time, the uncertainty isn’t there. There’s only that soft ache, the echo of what he used to be and what he doesn’t want to return to.

The sunlight spills in from the the door just like before. Mydei pads out into the clearing without waiting for him. Phainon stops in the doorway, and it’s exactly the same.

You’re standing there again—in the clearing, surrounded by animals. Birds are perched on your arms, a fox is pressed against your leg, rabbits are scattered around your feet. A deer lifts its head when it sees Phainon, as if acknowledging his presence, but it doesn’t run. None of them run this time.

And somehow, that makes his chest feel even tighter.

You’re smiling at something one of the birds is doing; he can see your lips move as you speak to them even from where he is, and it makes the whole scene looks unreal—like it’s been pulled straight out of some dream he once had. He feels the same sudden stutter in his chest that he felt the first time he saw you like this.

His heart jumps, but it’s not painful—just… loud. Like it’s calling out to something. Like it remembers something even if the rest of him doesn’t.

He thinks back to that very first moment, when he stood here confused and disoriented, and you had turned toward him. How his breath had hitched without him knowing why. How something inside him had reached out.

Maybe it had been a sign.

Maybe his heart had already known back then—when he didn’t yet know his name, when he could barely stand, when everything was just fog—that he would come to love you. Maybe that’s why it reacted the way it did. Maybe it was already trying to tell him something.

Maybe falling for you was always going to happen, no matter what path he took.

His fingers curl lightly against the doorway. His legs feel unsteady again, but it’s not because of exhaustion or his wounds this time.

And then you turn—hearing Mydei’s meow, or maybe you just sensed him like you always do—and your eyes meet his.

His heart jumps again. Just like before. Just like it was always meant to.

And then you smile.

Not the polite ones you give to the townspeople even when they sneer at you. Not the teasing one you shoot him whenever he messes up a chore. Not the fond one you save for Little Ica when they fly into your arms every time. No, this one is different—like something you kept tucked away, something you didn’t think anyone would see. Something only he gets to see now.

And Phainon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that hits him. It’s sudden—like warmth blooming in his chest and running all the way up his neck until his ears throb.

This time, he moves first. His feet carry him before he even finishes thinking about it. Last time, it was you who approached him first, walking toward a stranger who couldn’t even remember his own name. But now he remembers enough to choose.

And he chooses you.

You, who he’s decided is the safest thing he’s ever seen.

You, who he thinks looks even more beautiful when your eyes are on him and only him.

He’s so focused on your face—your smile—that he forgets to watch his step. His heel catches on a root, and he stumbles. He braces himself for the impact, for his knees to hit dirt, for humiliation, but he doesn’t hit the ground.

Instead, you catch him.

Your hands come up quick, holding him by the arms just like the first day—except it feels different this time. He’s no longer a stranger with your hands pressed against him as you lead him inside your home. He’s just… Phainon. A grown man tripping over nothing because you smiled prettily at him.

He feels stupid. He feels warm.

“You should be in bed,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

It’s the same thing you’d said the very first time too—except now there’s a faint laugh in your voice, like you know exactly what you’re referencing. Like it’s an inside joke the two of you have shared for weeks. And Phainon can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him.

“I followed Mydei here,” he says, almost breathless. His face is still burning, but the words come easily. Like they’ve been waiting.

You shake your head in amusement. “Of course you did.”

He huffs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck even though your hands haven’t let go yet. “It’s becoming a habit, I think.”

“It is,” you agree. “Every time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I find out you’ve wandered after that cat.”

“Well,” he mumbles, eyes lowering before lifting again—slowly, shyly, wanting desperately to keep looking at you, “he usually leads me to you.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Phainon seems to realize what he’s said only after it leaves his mouth; his hand lifts to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck again.

“…Oh,” you murmur, and it comes out far too soft. You clear your throat quickly, trying to smooth the fluster from your voice. “Well… he does have a talent for finding me.”

Phainon watches you, puzzled by the sudden shift in your demeanor. You avert your eyes, looking at everywhere else but him.

“You must be hungry,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”

You slip an arm beneath his, steadying him at the waist with your other hand, and his breath stutters—not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

You help him upright, guiding his weight with ease. His body leans into yours without resistance, as though the simple act of touching you turns his bones to water. For a moment, he stands there, closer than he normally allows himself to be. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. Close enough that when he lowers his head, he can smell the faint scent of herbs clinging to you.

But then you step back.

The moment your hands leave him, Phainon deflates. You pretend not to notice, though your eyes soften imperceptibly.

“Come on,” you say. “Inside. You should sit before your legs give out again.”

He nods, but the stiffness in his jaw betrays him. He tries to straighten his posture, tries to pretend he didn’t melt the second your warmth left his skin. His hand hangs awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching once, as if resisting the urge to reach back for you.

Mydei meows and pads ahead, trotting toward the house with the confidence of a small prince. You turn toward the cottage as well, and Phainon follows you instantly.

Not because he’s weak, not because he needs to be led, but because following you feels right in a way nothing else in his broken memory does. Because he feels steadier with you in front of him. Because the ghost of your touch still lingers on his arm like something he already misses.

The forest closes behind him, peaceful and green.

The house waits, warm and familiar.

And Phainon trails after you through the door, shoulders relaxing the moment he steps inside once again—as though he hasn’t just returned to shelter, but something else entirely that is close to belonging.

Phainon wakes in the middle of the night that same day.

For a long moment, he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Moonlight spills across the floorboards, guiding him to the corner where his old life rests—the armor you cleaned for him when he was still unconscious, and the broadsword propped beside it like a soldier.

He crouches slowly. His fingers brush the cool metal.

It should feel familiar. It only feels heavy.

Phainon stays like that for a while, hand on the breastplate, and staring at the blade that once answered every command except his own.

He huffs a quiet breath. Then he hears a meow. Phainon turns.

Mydei is awake on the windowsill, body a small silhouette against the moon. His golden eyes are open and fixed on him, unblinking.

Phainon lifts the armor slightly, voice low. “Sorry for waking you.”

Mydei’s tail flicks once.

Phainon gestures toward the door with a nod. “I was just about to go outside.”

The cat doesn’t move, nor does he make any sound. Then, as if his attention drifts, his head dips, eyes flicking to the armor in Phainon’s hands.

Phainon lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, this?” He turns the breastplate a little. “I was thinking of burying it, that’s all. I have no need for it now.”

He pauses, then adds lightly, “Do you want to come with me?”

Mydei yawns—a long and slow yawn that nearly splits his tiny face in two. Then he curls his tail around himself and settles back down, closing his eyes like the affair is beneath him.

Phainon smiles. “Okay then.”

He tucks the armor under his arm, takes one last glance at the sleeping cat, then quietly slips out the door and into the cool night.

Phainon steps off the porch, careful not to let the armor clatter in his arms. The cottage behind him glows faintly with the warm candlelight from your room—the only star in the forest that never seems to dim.

He heads deeper into the forest, barefoot in the grass, toward a place where the forest breathes differently. Where you once told him the land grows thick with roots.

It just feels right to go there.

The armor in his arms feel heavier now—not because of the metal, but because of the memories it drags with it. The weight of commands. The weight of kneeling. The weight of everything he did because someone else told him to.

He sets the armor on the ground.

For a long time, he just stares at it.

On any battlefield, it would have marked him as something to be feared—something deadly. Here, under the rustle of leaves, it looks small and lost. Like a relic of a life that no longer fits him.

Phainon exhales slowly. He kneels, digs his fingers into the soil, and begins to carve out the first handful of earth.

It isn’t burial like one does for a corpse.

It’s burial like one does for a curse.

When the pit is deep enough, he rests back on his heels. For a moment, he hesitates, fingers brushing the sigil painted on the breastplate. The mark is faint, shaped by years of blood, years of being the hound of another beast.

“…But not anymore,” he murmurs.

Then he slides the armor into the earth.

Metal thuds softly as he settles it into the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just stares, half expecting the armor to glow with some remnant of his past—rage, violence, loyalty that tasted like rust. But there’s nothing; only silence.

Phainon releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He covers the grave with slow motions. Soil over steel. Dirt over duty. Earth swallowing a past that nearly swallowed him. And when he finishes, the mound looks like nothing more than a soft rise of ground.

There’s no marker—no trace, no legacy.

He sits back, knees bent, arms resting loosely over them.

For the first time since he woke in your house, he feels… light. The kind of lightness that makes his chest ache. That makes his eyes sting. It makes him almost laugh at the strangeness of it.

He tilts his head back. Above him, the stars blink at him. And for a brief moment, Phainon feels the forest shift around him—like it, too, recognizes what he’s done. Like the earth has finally accepted the weight he has carried for too long.

Then he stands, wiping dirt from his palms. When he turns to walk back home, the cottage glows faintly through the trees.

Your light.

His direction.

His reason.

He moves toward it without hesitation.

© 2025 kominigiru.

end note: the “man” hyacine was talking about is mydei; she knows mydei can shift into a human. i didn’t write a scene where he reveals himself to phainon as one bc i feel like it wouldn’t match with the vibes or whatever i was going for in here, but he was in his human form when he carried phainon’s broadsword :3 ALSO I DID NOT MEAN TO MAKE THE LAST FEW SCENES SO SOFT AND FLUFFYSVDJEBFJD the fluff writer in me just had to make an appearance ig 😔 it may have ruined the vibe i was going for a little but at the same time it felt as if the last act was begging for me to write some romantic shit so there’s that. this fic was self-indulgent anyway (just like the rest of my works tbh) so pls no bashing 😣 /lh

anyway! writing this was so fun and even though i struggled a little with it, it was still such a wonderful experience! i mean, what’s writing without a little challenge, right? i usually don’t like most of the things i write because i always feel like i could’ve executed them better, but i honestly think this might be my magnum opus LMAO. it still needs improvement of course but i really like how this one turned out yk!! it’s also the most i’ve ever written for a one-shot! and even though it took me a while before i could finally post this fic, i’m pretty proud of it :’]

if you’ve read some of my works, you probably know i often stick to fluff and whatnot, but i really really REALLY enjoyed writing phainon in a different light this time. he’s such a versatile character and in a way, this fic just made me love him even more hahahaha. though yes, i did still write him like a fool in love but i love it when he’s silly

i apologize for the yapfest!! i hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you so much for reading ❤️

[monocaelia]

Dewdrops at Dawn.

Your new beginning starts with eyes that reflect the endless seas; aka, a country boy cheers you up from your city blues.

feat. farmer!phainon & gn!reader content : fluff, non-canon au, puppynon, neighbors to friends to lovers, kind of a slowburn.... like 10k words of yearning LOL, ooc phainon bc nothing bad happened to him, happy trail jumpscare, entirely self-indulgent boohoo. w.c. : 10.4k note : i saw this fanart of phaicham and i was possessed by the stardew/rune factory/harvest moon demons. i've been working on this for a while bc school and life have been kicking me, so i'm sorry if i was constantly teasing everyone with this orz but now he's here! and ready to kiss all of you! i hope you enjoy silly little moments of a country bumpkin cheering up a sad city dweller.

Autumn.

Fields of golden grass shimmer underneath the glow of the afternoon sun and make the small town before you glow. The tranquil breeze dances through the foliage of aureate trees, making their branches sway with each push. It's quiet, only the sounds of the ocean waves gently washing up against the shoreline and the distant sound of birds singing their songs to one another as they fly across the blue skies can be heard.

Children weave through the meadows of wheat, giggling with excitement as they play their games while the adults are busy at work on the fields surrounding the village, fishing on the wharf just on the outskirts of town, or simply living. It's lively despite the small number of people, but it's a noise that you don't mind.

No raised voices filled with anger and impatience as people shout at each other during the rush of transportation to and from work, and definitely no endless demands from a prickly boss with pay that barely covered your living expenses. No rush for any deadlines and no one yelling at you for wasting your time on your dreams, just patience and peace in the life around you.

This is Aedes Elysiae, a remote seaside village and your new beginning.

The old wooden door of your new home creaks open, revealing a quaint kitchen big enough for a small dining table and a living space to the right. There's a staircase leading up to rooms that you can only assume were sleeping quarters and a washroom. This old cottage was used and quite dusty, but it was much bigger than your measly apartment while living in the lively and busy city of Okhema.

With some dusting and decor that you've brought with you, you're sure you can make this place a home.

However, as you place your luggage by the staircase, three knocks come from your aged door. Curiosity paws at your mind; you aren't expecting anyone to greet you the day you move in and yet…

"Welcome to Aedes Elysiae, neighbor!"

You're greeted with the sight of two older folk smiling with a warmth that you had never experienced living in the city. A sudden visit that you don't find yourself dreading.

"Sorry for the sudden visit, you're probably unpacking and all from just moving in," the woman says, her golden eyes filled with sympathy from interrupting your peace. She's holding a wicker basket of various fruits in her arms—apples, pears, persimmons and pomegranates. Her silver hair is tied into a ponytail that rests above her right shoulder, a beautiful contrast to her golden irises that shine with kindness and youthful mirth. "But we never get any visitors, let alone a new neighbor so we couldn't help ourselves."

"I'm Hieronymus, and this is my wife Audata. We have a son as well, but he's off running errands for us. He's a charming boy, but such a slacker when it comes to finishing his tasks. I apologize in advance for his shenanigans if you ever bump into him," the man introduces himself, reaching out a hand for you to shake. And you do.

His hand is rough from years of farming, you presume. It is firm and strong, but it's not one of intimidation; you would know. With blond hair that rivals the gold of the field of grass surrounding the small village and eyes a pale blue, he looks quite youthful. But his eyes crinkle as he smiles and give way to years of experience of life that you have yet to know yourself.

You give your own name and their smiles grow brighter. "Thank you for dropping by. I would offer you both a meal for welcoming me with such excitement but…" Your eyes trail to the empty home and lack of both furnishing and food.

Hieronymus laughs heartily. "Don't worry about hospitality just yet; you're a new face. It would be rude of us to demand anything of you on your first day here."

"Instead, take this as your first gift here in Aedes Elysiae," Audata chimes in, handing you the basket of fruits. The weight is hefty in your arms and you wonder just how strong your neighbor is for her to carry this with ease. "If you need any help with moving around or getting around our small town, don't be shy to ask us."

—

The morning is chilly as the sun rises up over the golden, grassy horizon. The breeze that pushes through the small village is brisk and nips at your skin; it's a cold that you don't mind even as it bites with every gust. There's nothing about a brisk morning walk by the seaside that can't put you at ease. The village is already awake as everyone begins their day; if the sun is up then everyone is, save for the young children catching up on their rest before their busy days of youth.

The dirt pathway crunches underneath your feet as you walk above the shoreline of Aedes Elysiae, gentle waves wash up against the sand below you. The sound of the ocean and wildlife brimming with life is comforting and you inhale the salty sea air to embrace the new era of your life that you've walked into.

In.

Out.

In.

Bark.

…What?

The soft pitter-patter of paws against the dirt road and the sudden shout of warning alerts you of the incoming danger rapidly approaching. Your head turns towards the direction of the bark, merely catching a glimpse of snow white fur before there's a sudden weight slamming into you. You're knocked off of your feet with an 'oof!' and the world spins before you're looking at the sky from the floor with an eager fluffy dog licking the side of your face.

"Snowy! Oh, I'm so sorry about this!"

The furry creature is lifted off of your body and suddenly you're face to face with the bluest eyes you've ever seen. They twinkle with light like the ocean reflecting the sun as it hovers above and you find them to be the most beautiful shade of blue you have ever seen. His white hair, fluffy and pure like the clouds drifting across an endless sky, is tousled in an effortlessly messy and boyish way that fully complements his eyes.

The sun has branded itself onto the skin of his neck; golden and bright as if inked by the golden ichor that drips from the core of the blazing star. His arms are… honestly, quite big and muscular. It's hard to hide his broad chest underneath the plain white shirt and, quite frankly, you find it difficult to look anywhere else.

He's a pretty man, but one that you aren't ready to encounter in the countryside.

You don't realize you've been staring until the handsome stranger says something that you aren't able to catch, but his outstretched hand and worried demeanor gives enough context for you to answer what you didn't hear. You take his hand, calloused and firm, in yours and you're pulled up with such ease; just how strong was he?

"I'm alright. If anything, I'm happy to be the victim of something so cute," you reply. In response to your words, the big cloud of fluff barks in response and grins at you with a huge dopey smile. "I didn't quite catch your name, I just moved in so I've yet to meet everyone."

The stranger gives you a boyish grin and it nearly takes your breath away with how he's practically glowing with the sunrise just behind him, emulating a halo around his head. Was he blessed by the Titans or something…?

"Phainon, I'm Phainon. You must be the new neighbor my parents talked about the other night," the blue eyed stranger introduces himself. He lifts the pup in his arms and you notice that they both smile in a similar way. It makes your lips pull up into a smile of your own. "And this is Snowy! He's friendly, I promise. He's just very curious and excited."

Ah, is this Hieronymus and Audata's son? Getting an even better look at him, you notice that he's a perfect reflection of his parents— you recall his mother's pure white hair and his father's clear blue eyes as they stare right back at you. Hieronymus is right; he's charming indeed, and you have a rising suspicion that he shouldn't be here by the shore so early in the morning when there are fields of wheat in need of harvesting.

You tell Phainon your name and he repeats it.

"Well, neighbor. Since you're new around Aedes Elysiae, how about a tour? I know this village like the back of my hand," Phainon suggests to you with such excitement that you feel yourself wanting to agree just by the brightness in his smile. "Unless, you're busy that is."

"No," you respond with a shake of your head. "I would love a tour."

The seaside village of Aedes Elysiae is truly small; it doesn't take the full day to explore everything Phainon's hometown has to offer. Everything from the open oceanic view from Voyager's Wharf to the cobbled pathways of the Sacrament Courtyard and the forested areas beyond were all within a walkable distance. All the townhouses and family owned markets or businesses congregate into a compact town square and with a population of only a handful of people, everyone knows each other quite well. As you walk through the quaint village, many people greet Phainon with a smile and a wave and he returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

The older folk free of any responsibility reside in the heart of the village with the young children as they run through the old, cobbled streets with no expectations on their shoulders. And yet as you and your two white haired companions make your way closer to the center of it all, the children begin to ease their gait and the older folk speak in hushed whispers.

Curious eyes follow you around, an unfamiliar face is something rare for anyone in Aedes Elysiae to see. And slowly, like grains of sand trickling through an hourglass, you've become swarmed by children and old folk alike.

"Hello, how's the city like?"

"What made you come here?"

"Is it true that droma are everywhere in the holy city of Okhema?"

"Do you have a partner?"

Huh?

The questions swirl around you like a dizzying tornado; before you're able to answer one question another is quickly pelted at you. Small hands gently tug at the hemline of your shirt or grip your arm to grab your attention; you try to answer everyone to the best of your ability. Those who had no questions to ask were playing with Snowy—his delighted barks mix in with the clamor of the sea of curious children.

But it's a bit overwhelming and by the tenth question you can feel Phainon gently pull you aside to shield you from the swarm of eager people who have yet to venture past the golden fields of Aedes Elysiae.

"Alright, let's give our new neighbor some room to breathe," he announces with arms outstretched to gently herd them away from you. "I'm sure they'll be glad to answer all of your questions another time." You hear the collective groan of everyone, but eventually one by one they bid their farewells to you and you finally have the space to think. Snowy whines softly at the kids saying their goodbyes but quickly rejoins yours and Phainon's side; his furry tail gently whacks against your legs.

You can hear the soft chuckle from the man beside you and your gaze is immediately redirected towards his direction. Phainon is smiling at your frazzled appearance, eyes twinkling in amusement as you try to recalibrate yourself and catch your breath from the sudden attention.

"Hard work being the celebrity in town, huh?" Phainon teases you gently and you sharply exhale at his jest. "Sorry. Again, a new face always gets everyone in high spirits."

"No need to apologize. Though, I guess I shouldn't have trusted my tour guide to protect me from my new fans," you shoot back. Phainon blinks in surprise at your jab, clearly not expecting you to match his energy. Your hands reach down to pet Snowy; the large, fluffy dog seems to appreciate the attention and gives you a big dopey smile with each gentle scratch to his fur. "I'm just not used to the attention."

"Someone from the big city not used to this many people? That's a surprise," your white haired companion comments as he leans down as well to bury his hand in Snowy's white fluff. "Shouldn't this amount of people be normal to you?"

You can tell he's merely curious and that none of his words hold ill will to them; how could they when his eyes hold a sincerity that was never shown to you in the city of Okhema.

A pure blue.

"There's many people, sure," you begin with a heavy heart, as if the words you speak take a toll on your spirits the more you recall the memories before moving here, "but everyone's so busy with life that no one has time to enjoy life. We work to live over there, and it gets so lonely the longer you stay."

"It was so suffocating, I hated every living second of it," you continue to pour your heart out to your newly acquainted neighbor, something you normally wouldn't do but maybe it's something about his friendly demeanor and the fresh ocean breeze filling your lungs that's letting your small heart open for the first time in a while. "But the people living here are different, in a good way. I just need to get used to being around such friendly people welcoming me to their home."

"Well," Phainon begins with a warm smile that catches your breath, "Aedes Elysiae is known for showing hospitality to any and all guests. I hope you'll find your new home here, neighbor."

You don't know exactly why Phainon chose to listen to you ramble about your city life, but you appreciate the small gesture as you finally unload the little weight on your shoulders. Your heart swells with a feeling you haven't experienced for a long while, but you don't find it discomforting. If anything, you embrace this new beginning with open arms and you hope that it is kind to you in return.

Winter.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. The color of the wheat fields that surround the land of Aedes Elysiae fade into something more muted as the weather begins to cool down. But, like the undying flame that flickers within the heart of the sun, even the dead of winter cannot subdue the sea of golden grass that brings life to this isolated town.

The creeping cold of the winter months does not seem to deter the townspeople either; most continue on their day tending to the domestic farm animals now more than ever since crops are difficult to grow in the frosty air. The distant sounds of livestock mix in with the merry chatter of the excitable youth and working adults keep the town thriving and alive.

With each rise and fall of the sun across the horizon of Aedes Elysiae, Phainon has greeted you nearly everyday during your stay in this fishing village that he calls his home. It has come to the point where it's rather odd to not see that familiar tuft of white hair outside your cozy cottage or those ocean blue eyes that you've come accustomed to peering back at you when you're walking around Voyager's Wharf.

He's always where you least expect him to be—on your doorstep with another wicker basket filled with today's harvest from his parents' crops, bumping into you while taking a stroll on the dirt paths surrounding the ocean side with Snowy galumphing beside him adorning his signature dopey grin, by your side as you help the elderly in the village's small town square with their own errands or tasks for the day.

And even now as he helps carry and move your furniture inside your small home in Aedes Elysiae.

Your eyes follow the taller man as he pushes your couch into place in your living room; it's the last piece of furniture that you've brought back from Okhema and now your home is beginning to finally feel and look like, well, home.

There's a small, wooden dining table placed in the middle of your kitchen with a knitted tablecloth draped over the top. The designs of sunshine and wheat are delicately threaded together and bring a little brightness to your home; a handmade gift from Audata. Various pots and pans and other dishes now fill your cabinets—you hope one day you'll have enough ingredients and plates to host a thank you dinner for Phainon and his family for being so kind to you.

In your connected living room, Phainon is draped over your old, beaten up couch that he himself had lugged into your home and shoved into place according to your directions. The cool azure has long faded into a dimmer shade, but that doesn't take away from the comfort that it still offers. The fire in the hearth of your stone fireplace crackles with warmth, the embers encasing your home in an intimate glow as the sun begins to set across the ocean's skyline.

Your friendly neighbor is just as worn as your couch after lifting and pushing around your heavier furniture pieces around your quaint home. His chest heaves slightly as he catches his breath and his skin has a sheen of sweat that makes him glow golden from the warmth of the fireplace before him. His snow white hair is messier than usual from laboring in your home; white tufts sticking out in places you didn't know they could and you resist the urge to flatten them down.

You thank the Titans for gracing you with Phainon as your neighbor; had it been anyone else less handy or friendly you're not sure you would've been able to find your home in this place anytime soon.

"Thank you for helping me move all my stuff in," you thank your neighbor with a warm mug of hot cocoa pressed to the side of Phainon's face. His body perks up at the ceramic on his skin and he turns from the fireplace to face you, gratefully accepting your act of gratitude with both hands and a bright, boyish smile.

The one that you always feel your heart fluttering at.

"You really didn't have to."

"But I wanted to."

His reply is simple, and you know that he means it sincerely.

"I'm more surprised you know how to brew hot chocolate, being from the city and all. Are you sure this isn't poisoned?"

Oh, he wanted to play this game?

Your eye twitches at his dig and you reach over to snatch away the ceramic mug from Phainon's hands. Unfortunately, his reflexes are quicker than yours. His arms lift up higher than you had aimed for and, not expecting the sudden movement, you find yourself toppling over the back of your well-loved couch and flopped over onto the plush cushions beside your white haired neighbor. He's looking down at you with an amused smirk and you so desperately want to wipe it off of his pretty face.

"Give me that back, jerk. You don't deserve my gratitude anymore," you huff from below him. You lean over his lap, an arm outstretched into the space in front of Phainon's face while your other hand flattens itself on his thigh to leverage yourself up. Your fingers graze the ceramic mug and you almost snatch away the warm liquid away from the grinning madman above you.

But Phainon is quicker than you are. His long arms extend to its full length high above the both of you and far out of your reach and you can hear his soft, airy chuckle as your determined expression falls.

There it is again; those pristine pools of azure that reflect the wavering flames of the hearth peering back at you. They're filled with mirth and delight at gaining the upper hand in this situation and seeing you seethe below him, but your blazing anger dwindles down as you stare into the endless sky above you. His tufts of fluffy, messy white hair frame his face, seemingly soft to the touch and your fingers twitch. From this angle, he truly resembles his pup and you wonder if the texture will also be similar.

Phainon is hot, his heat emanates from his body and consumes you from the proximity of your body to his. Compared to the heat of the hearth, it's like the sun has found its home in his soul, embracing you in its gentle yet searing warmth. He's closer to you than you had anticipated and there's nowhere to hide from those twinkling eyes as they gaze down at you—and he cannot hide from you either. You're close enough to count how many pure, white lashes line his eyes, the places on his skin where the sun has kissed and left its mark in the form of faint freckles that are invisible from a distance, and the faint blush that runs across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

You wonder if you have anything to do with that, or if it's just a matter of being to close for only being neighbors.

Probably because you're just neighbors.

As you open your mouth to fire another quick and snarky remark at your smug companion, your stomach grumbles in place of your voice; a low, gurgling growl like the rumbling of a wildcat. There's a thick silence between the two of you as you both digest the sudden noise that erupted from the deepest pit of your stomach.

And then Phainon is laughing; a deep, hearty laugh that comes from his gut and you can feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. There's a wide, jovial smile that spreads from cheek to cheek; so boyish and charming that you want to wipe it off of his face but can't find it in your heart to do so. He sets down the warmed mug of hot chocolate on the small table by the side of your worn blue couch and helps you sit upright so that you're no longer leaning on his lap, eye to eye with his mirthful gaze.

"That reminds me, my parents invited you for dinner tonight if you're up to it." You can see the corners of his eyes creasing even more as his smile widens. "Though, I think your own stomach gave away your answer before I could even ask you."

A light punch is thrown to his arm and he's laughing again, this time more subdued. Gentler.

Phainon stands up from your worn blue couch, dusting off his trousers with gentle pats. Then, he offers his hand to you, palm side up and a delicate smile that you can't refuse. And with bated breath and a heart that skips a beat, your hand slides into rough palms and Phainon is pulling you up.

His ears remain a dusty shade of pink, but you don't bring it up.

—

Dinner was as decadent and filling as usual; Audata's cooking never ceases to to amaze and comfort you to no end. Every bite of meat is so tender that it melts on your tongue and the vegetables are roasted and seasoned to perfection that pairs so perfectly well with the main course. Despite wanting to be a courteous guest and only eat one plate, every time you finished a portion of food you would find it replaced with another portion and Audata or Heironymus smiling at you with such familiarity and affection that it's difficult to turn down their offers.

"You need to eat well in this weather. Wouldn't want you to fall ill, neighbor," Audata talks to you with such tenderness, as if you were her own, and it completely melts away at your resistance and you let her fill your plate again and again.

Until you're full to the brim of a pleasant home cooked meal with some leftovers in a covered wicker basket to take back home, courtesy of Audata herself.

The winter wind is cruel on your way back home, especially after sundown, nipping at any exposed skin like barbed wire whipping at your body. It is unforgiving as it blows nothing but dry, cool air to your exposed face until your cheeks and nose are cool to the touch and numb of any sensation. Yet, with nothing but frigid air greeting you as soon as you exit Phainon's home, your heart is tender and warm from the loving dinner served to you with amicable company.

And warm from the person who followed you out of his own home and now walks side by side with you in the night, your basket of leftovers held in his hand and an embroidered lilac scarf around his neck.

It's silent between you two with only the distant sound of the sea lapping up against the shores of Aedes Elysiae and the crunch of the dirt underneath your shoes filling the the space between you. Quiet, but not awkward in the slightest. Although the walk to your home isn't far, you appreciate his effort to escort you in the night.

"Sorry for my parents," Phainon's words break the comfortable silence, his voice quiet to match the surroundings of the night. "They can be a bit much, but they mean well. And they like you."

You exhale sharply, a soft laugh, and your lips curl upward in a smile. Your head turns to look at him; Phainon is bashfully looking at you, a timid smile on his own lips and his free hand rubbing the back of his neck in his embarrassment.

It's cute.

"Don't apologize," you begin, "I'm not used to this type of affection from family, but I don't hate it."

There's a flash across Phainon's expression. His eyes widen slightly and his brows fly up for only a millisecond; there's a question on the tip of his tongue but, thankfully, he doesn't press any further.

"Good, my parents have so much love to share. I'm sure they won't mind letting it overflow into you," Phainon continues the conversation with ease. "Not that you have a choice. They're fond of you, you know?"

There's a certain tenderness in the way he looks at you, like even he reflects the endearment of his own parents. His blue eyes are warm, reminiscent of the sea by sundown when the remaining rays of light cast the gentle waves in a golden light.

Affectionate and inviting; does he share the same sentiments? The question is on the tip of your tongue, but the cold freezes your mouth shut.

You take a wrong step forward and your hand brushes against Phainon's. For a second, the warmth of his hand seeps into your skin like an invitation to wrap yourself around it to flee from the chill of winter. Instead, an apology slips through your lips in a soft murmur and you pull your hand away.

The warmth of Phainon's body seems to melt into you as his hand darts forward, enveloping yours in his with one swift movement. The heat from his palm pressed into yours melts away the frigid air surrounding you two and you can feel your heartbeat pick up in tempo; an accelerando that you can't control no matter how much you try to calm yourself.

You don't pull away.

"How was winter in Okhema like? Livelier than Aedes Elysiae, I presume," Phainon asks. "Did you get to spend it with your family?"

You shrug your shoulders. "It was lively and enjoyable when you had the people to share the season with. Often times, my friends would be spending winter with their own families so I wasn't able to spend many winters with them."

You take a breath recalling the memories of your family. "But whenever my family was able to visit me in Okhema, those winters weren't too bad."

A weight seems to float off of your shoulders as the recollections of your winters in the city begin to resurface. Not that any of them were too remarkable; often times they would be lonely as your family chose to stay home for the colder season or the weather was too rough for either of you guys to go and visit one another. But the times that were good felt so good and comforting that you couldn't help the warmth flooding to your chest as you begin to recall them.

You tell them all to Phainon, who is eagerly listening to every word you say; every tale of family or friend back in the city is met with an attentive nod and a gentle tug of your hand when you're too invested in a story to notice the rock in your path.

Before you know it, your small home is in sight—a yellow tulip hangs by your door with wind chimes dangling at the bottom of the wooden green stem dances in the wintry winds, a gentle tinkling melody sings through the night. For once in this new life of yours, you don't want to go home just yet and leave the comfort that you find in this intimate moment shared with a man you never would've expected to grow fond of. But the destination is inevitable and you're standing face to face to your white haired neighbor outside the front door of your humble home.

"Sorry, I was talking so much about myself and Okhema. You should've told me to be quiet." The heat rises to the back of your neck and your free hand reaches up to bashfully rub the burning skin. "I'm sorry if I bored you with all that."

There's a gentle squeeze to your hand; your eyes flit up to meet his and you're met with nothing but the softest smile grazing Phainon's lips.

"Don't apologize for something like that," he begins, with a tilt of his head. From this angle you can see those azure eyes of his so clearly—lustrous and kind, twinkling with something you can't quite decipher just yet. "Why would I stop you from sharing a part of your life with me?"

You don't answer, letting the calm winter night do the answer for you.

"…I have a friend living in Okhema now, actually," Phainon brings up as the silence finally settles between you two, effectively breaking it with a new conversation with a smile so gentle it could soothe the swirling winds coming from the sea.

"Oh? A friend… or something more?" You gently nudge him with your shoulder and Phainon chuckles softly before shaking his head.

"No, just a good friend. She grew up with me in Aedes Elysiae and only left recently for a new job opportunity," Phainon continues with gentle smile. "I'm happy for her, and of course I supported her decision in leaving."

He pauses briefly, taking a deep breath as the memories flow like a movie behind his eyes; a movie you can't see but, from the warmth that seems to grow in his visage, you didn't need to witness it all to know they were cherished and dear to him. "But things have been lonely without her, I won't deny that."

Something sombre twists in Phainon's expression; your body instinctively urges you to try and comfort him in the way that he comforted you in the small moments leading up to this. But the fear of overstepping a boundary you aren't sure of freezes your body in place and all you can do is listen to him.

And yet there's a certain fondness in his eyes that turn such a cool shade of blue so warm when he looks at you that stirs your heart; it skips a beat and your breath hitches at an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling.

"That's why… I'm glad that you've moved here. Having a new face to welcome in has really made this small town feel less small, despite the said person being so small." Phainon's words would have moved you greatly, but you gently shove him again with your shoulder after hearing the gentle diss at your height. He laughs heartily, filling your chest with something tender. "There, a part of my life shared with you in return for sharing with me."

There's another pause in the conversation; not awkward, but one fitting of the amicable atmosphere shared between two friends. A cool breeze rushes past you, chilling your body to the bone. Your body stiffens in response and a shiver travels up through you from head to toe—there's a sharp exhale of laughter in front of you.

"You should head inside now, it's getting late, neighbor," Phainon tells you, letting go of your hand in the process. There's a pang in your heart at the empty space, but you don't dwell too much on the feeling.

Phainon's nose and the tips of his ears are rosy, nipped by the frosty winter air. Yet, there's not a hint on his face that indicates that winter is even present. He's grinning from ear to ear with stars dancing in his eyes; mirthful and joyous as he is nothing but spring incarnate and you are the sole victim to wintry winds.

Through delicate, quiet chuckles, your messy white haired neighbor unravels the knit scarf around his neck and drapes it over your shoulders; the lilac yarn is soft as it touches your skin. It's still warm from absorbing Phainon's body heat and the scent of the sea breeze and fresh linen fills your senses as he wraps the scarf twice over your neck—you want to bury yourself into it and get lost in the newfound comfort he seems to bring you.

Spring.

Luckily, the dreary winter season seems to come and go in the blink of an eye and, before you know it, your days begin to stretch a bit longer and the sun starts to warm the earth with rays that kiss the surface at the break of dawn and don't disappear until the moon has decided it's her time to soothe the busybodies of Aedes Elysiae. Even the cold surrounding the small town of Aedes Elysiae seems to brighten up, not that it ever was dull in the winter, but the changing seasons bring a change of mood and a new harvest.

The markets and businesses that make up the small town square slowly fill with life as more and more produce begins to sell and seeds for future harvests are displayed for the local farmers to get their hands on for the welcome of spring.

The welcome of a new season.

Phainon's family's farm isn't too far from your own home, you know this quite well from one too many trips to his place for dinner; his mother always had the excuse of making too much and that leftovers were a hassle to deal with and how could you ever say no to her. Audata and her son were truly one and the same with their ability to utilize such a pitiful expression on their faces and team up on you to stay for a meal or two.

Though this time, you're offering something for once; the same wicker basket used to carry goods from Phainon's household to yours and back filled with a warm lunch that you've prepared yourself. It isn't much, but it's something homemade and made with love that you hope would be enough to convey your thanks for being so kind to you since day one.

Phainon's farmhouse peers above the dirt road as you approach it; the distant sounds of the farm life awake in the early afternoon are evident signs that the whole household is busy at work. You spot Phainon's mother first; her silver hair shines brilliantly in the sunlight and her golden eyes seem to brighten up more than they already are as she recognizes your figure at the entryway of their farm. She is carrying a large bundle of hay near the front of their home, a small group of lambs tail behind her as they try to steal some of the dried grass before the rest of them can. Their own mother nips at the little rascals even though she's clearly stealing a couple strands of hay here and there as well.

"Oh, greetings neighbor!" Audata chirps, throwing the dry grass in one of the nearby bins before turning to you with a smile brighter than the sun. "What brings you here, dear? My son, perhaps?" She sends you a playful wink and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks at her teasing.

"Not really? I made you guys lunch as thanks for taking care of me so many times." You meekly hold up the familiar wicker basket and Audata's smile melts into something more endearing. "I thought that this was the least I could do… for a friend and his family."

The wicker basket is taken from your hands accompanied by a knowing gaze from Audata, but she doesn't tease you any further. "You're such a sweetheart. I'm sure the meal you've prepared for us is going to be delicious. I'll call my husband inside since he's near, but my son is a bit farther away into the fields. Would you be a dear and call in Phainon for me?"

The trek into the fields of their family farm is a bit daunting; the sun is bright and high enough into the sky to illuminate everything in your path, but the fields seem to be continuously rolling in every direction that you're worried you'll either get lost or not be able to spot your neighbor. Or perhaps it's intimidating because you'll have to see your neighbor, your handsome and charming neighbor that never seems to fail in making your days brighter even through the darkest times in winter.

Is it excitement that's thrumming in your chest? Your stomach is flipping, but you aren't sure of the reason why. Maybe you missed seeing those messy tufts of silver and those beautiful, crystalline eyes that never seem to stop glimmering when looking at you.

Yeah, that's all.

As your eyes scan the field to your left, you're met with a familiar body hunched over green bushes. There's a large wicker basket strapped to his broad back filled to the near brim with orange carrots and a straw hat resting on his head to block the sun from his face. Your heart skips a beat when he stands to his full height; a loose gray-ish shirt cut off at the sleeves that allowed his built arms to be on display, the collar of said shirt dips low enough to show his collarbone and the muscular chest that teases you just enough, and his blue eyes hazy from the labor and heat of being on the field. His tattoos, a golden sun on the base of his neck and shoulder and a ring that crosses his chest, shine in the sun, almost as if his skin was inked with the golden ichor of the gods.

A gloved hand reaches for his collar, pulling it up to wipe away the sweat accumulating on his face and you catch a glimpse of his navel; small tufts of white peek through for just a moment before his shirt falls again and you're met with those familiar, those gorgeous seas of blue as they twinkle like sunlight reflected off of the sea at the mere sight of you.

"Neighbor!" Phainon calls out to you with a boyish grin spreading across his lips. You've seen this cute smile one too many times; you've grown used to his charms and how he seems to get even prettier with the sun shining on him directly. But seeing such a sweet smile in contrast to the appearance of his body stirs your heart in a way that you can't quite determine whether or not feels good.

Your scrambled thoughts are quickly shooed away as your neighbor saunters over to you. With every step he takes, his sculpted body and sweat-stained skin are even more prominent and you send a quick prayer to Kephale in hopes of keeping a sane disposition in front of him.

The shade of his straw hat cannot hide the excitement of seeing you on Phainon's face—if he had a tail like Snowy you're sure it would be wagging so hard that it would be sore tomorrow. Upon closer inspection, you notice some streaks of dirt on his face. He must've made the mess from wiping away his sweat throughout the day.

You pull out a small, folded cloth from your pocket and hold it out to him; a small blue handkerchief with a small purple dromas embroidered into the corner. Phainon peers at down at it with curiosity before he leans down closer to your height, to your surprise.

"What brings you here?" Phainon asks, closing his eyes with a flutter of his white eyelashes. They're long and beautiful, much to your dismay—must he always be blessed in every which way? You slowly unravel the small handkerchief from your hands and reach over to gently wipe away the sweat dripping from his forehead and the dirt smeared across his cheeks.

His face is soft under your touch—a contrast to the roughness of his hands, you mentally note. With every graze of your fingers against his skin, Phainon leans closer to your touch.

"I-" You begin, but your voice cracks from the nerves threatening to leap out of your skin. You clear your throat and try your best to ignore the heat spreading from your chest to the tips of your trembling fingers. His eyes open; he's already peering down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as an affectionate smile sprawls across his lips and the handkerchief nearly slips from your fingers.

He's looking at you like you hold the life of the planet in your hands and your heart thumps against your chest, threatening to leap out the longer you bask in Phainon's warmth. Can he hear the simple beating of your heart? You hope not.

"You…?" He trails after you, no hint of pulling away from your hands that rest comfortably on his cheeks. If anything, he looks right at home resting in the palm of your hands with his beautiful blue eyes twinkling with nothing but mirth at the mere sight of you. The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit more and he scrunches his nose in response to your eyes trailing on his visage; cute, but you don't tell him that,

"I brought some lunch over. Your mother told me to call you in to eat together."

His smile seems to grow at your news. "Will you be joining us for a meal?"

"I only made enough for you all. Besides, I've already eaten lunch before heading over here. I couldn't possibly stay for more than I need to," you explain.

"Aw, shucks. That's unfortunate. You'll break my ma's heart…" Phainon's expression seemingly falls, the metaphorical ears and tail that were upright and wagging before now drooping as his expression melts into something more pitiful. With his face still in the palm of your hands, it's dastardly how a mere pout from him could tug at your heartstrings in such a way.

With a heavy sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat and you don't even need to look at Phainon's expression to know he's perking up at your demeanor. Your finger and thumb pinch at his cheek, his punishment for taking advantage of his mother and himself to manipulate you into whatever he wants to do. "Fine, but only this once."

"You said that the last fifty times we've invited you to a meal at- Ouch!"

You're already walking away from your neighbor at this point, escaping his teasing words by creating some physical distance. But his feet carry him right by your side in a few easy strides like they always do.

—

Aedes Elysiae seems to be bursting with life as Anthos Day, the day celebrating the Spring Solstice, looms just beyond the corner. The children eagerly whisper to one another as the hours of light begin to get longer and the season begins to warm; allowing for more playtime in the evening before the sun sets to signal the end of the day. The elderly talk amongst themselves, brainstorming of what dishes to bring to celebrate Anthos Day and share with the other townsfolk; your ears perk whenever someone mentions something that piques your appetite and you send a silent prayer that they follow through with their promises.

The younger adults are busy with their own harvests as well, preparing the most bountiful crops and animal products to share with others or flowers to decorate the quaint village with. There are eager teens helping their parents paint eggshells for the annual egg hunt hosted for the youth; the bright pastels of each painted shell are decorated with delicate designs and soft palettes and you take a mental note to snatch at least one during the hunt.

The morning is cool, but the rising sun encases Aedes Elysiae in its creeping warmth as a new dawn begins. Birds begin to wake with a song to greet the break of day with the gentle waves rolling along the shorelines of your small town as the harmony supporting their interwoven melody of chirps and tweets.

Phainon is sitting beside you, his knee bumping into yours occasionally as the two of you hunch over your kitchen table. The white and blue gingham tablecloth is littered with various wildflowers and golden stalks of wheat which would occasionally be picked up by deft or unskilled fingers alike. As the season of Spring makes its grand appearance in Aedes Elysiae, it's tradition for wreaths of flowers or wheat alike to be adorned by all in celebration of Anthos day.

Your fingers aren't as adept to weaving strands of plants together as your neighbor is, even with his careful advice and guidance, your wreath isn't as… grandiose as you would like it to be. With the flower stems weakly braided into place and empty patches scattered here and there, your wreath looks more like… a sad, rope of flowers tied together with a knot, especially in comparison to the beautiful golden wreath that Phainon has woven in the midst of your pleasant conversation from earlier.

You try not to bring any attention to your little attempt at weaving, but your silence from the conversation is enough for your neighbor to notice. As blue eyes peer down at your lap, a sympathetic smile grows on his lips.

"You're… not quite good at this, are you?" There's a playful lilt in his tone and usually you would attempt to fire back anything in response, but the embarrassment of your limp and measly wreath overpowers the need to punch him.

"I mean… I tried? Maybe I'm just not built for this. I could always buy one-"

"Hey, come on now. You shouldn't give up just like that," Phainon interjects with a gentle tone. All playfulness has melted away into something much more tender and caring as he scoots his chair a little closer to you. "Here, I'll help you. See this? You'll have to make a knot here and then loop it…"

Phainon's fingers have taken a hold of your flimsy wreath, gently weaving and braiding the flower stems into the correct way in order for the wreath to form and take shape. They lightly brush against yours as he guides your own fingers to follow his directions. Although his teaching is clear and concise and with the additional hands-on learning, you're sure to get the weaving by the end of it. The only issue is…

You're aware of his proximity to you; how close his body is to yours, his rough fingertips grazing along your skin as the wreath slowly gets braided, his warmth seeping into you as his thigh presses against yours. The smell of fresh laundry, the sea breeze, and light, clean citrus intermingle with your senses and it's all you can think about as your neighbor's arm brushes against your own.

His voice is gentle, so sweet and calming, as he instructs you through the process of weaving a wreath and you find it almost addicting to listen to. Not that he didn't have a nice voice until now it's just… maybe it was the changing of seasons that's affecting your hearing and your senses.

Phainon is just a friend, after all. A friend who happens to be so kind to you and be attractive both in physical appearance and in regards to personality.

Honestly, the old grannies of Aedes Elysiae were right in their desire to have him as their future grandson-in-law; he's always so helpful to the community in this small village. Even when he's playing hooky with his parents, he would never turn his back to the people around Aedes Elysiae that need his help. He's never far behind in aiding the older women carry their groceries or harvests back home or playing with the cheerful children running amok along the dirt roads.

It just so happens to be that he's charming in his appearance too.

You wonder what his future partner would be like; would they get along with his family as well? Would they be just as beloved in this small village as he is? Would he be showing the affection that he shares with you to them as well? Or perhaps he would stop it with you altogether so that they wouldn't feel weird about your relationship? Would they also share meals with his family and be invited over for meals? Would they get to see the cute smile Phainon always shares with you when he meets their eyes?

Would he stop being your friend if they asked him to?

You know that wouldn't be the case; Phainon isn't one to ditch his friends for a loved one. At least… you hope that he isn't.

The thought of being distant with your dear friend because of a future significant other pains you, the thought of no longer being welcome to his family alone strikes your heart with a grief you didn't know could hit you.

"You listening, neighbor?"

Yet, when Phainon calls your name to bring your attention back to the importance of weaving wreaths, the anxieties eating away at your mind seem to ebb away. Like a lighthouse guiding the ships to the safety of their docks, Phainon has become your safe haven. You didn't realize how much he affected you and your daily life.

Just a call of your name and suddenly the fog of winter has cleared and spring has emerged to guide you to its warmth.

"Y-yeah, I am."

The wreath of flowers have come to fruition with the aid of Phainon and the colorful blooms are so beautiful woven into one another. If you had compared it to the flimsy one you had made earlier, you wouldn't have believed that that turned into something so pretty.

"I can't believe we made this…" You whisper in disbelief, holding up the braided flora in your hands. Phainon chuckles softly, a large hand holds onto your wrist so can he gently push the wreath away so he could see you. Twinkling sapphires meet your own, playful mirth swimming in every hue as the corners of his eyes crinkle with his beaming smile.

"No, you made this all on your own. I just helped you a little bit." His voice is just as warm as he is, like the sun had melted away into one with his soul. You wonder if he would entertain you if you told him that you'd want to listen to it forever.

"Oh, please. I couldn't have done this without you, Phainon," You counter back with a quiet laugh. The morning sun's rays shine through the window, casting a bright and homey glow into your kitchen. The blues and yellows of the flowers of your wreath pair well together; they remind you of someone. Blue like the vast ocean that holds the world's beauty in every wave and yellow like the golden sea of wheat that billow in the wind; each a reminder of your new life built in this small fishing village that you never would've expected to love so much.

Blue and yellow, like the wildflowers that grow on the grassy meadows near the forest bordering Aedes Elysiae—forget-me-nots, as Phainon had once told you before—and the ones woven into your beautiful wreath. Remembrance and connection.

Blue and yellow, like the colors that always bring you to peace. Blue and yellow, like Phainon.

Your hands raise the wreath once more, high enough to reach over your neighbor's head until it's placed gently on top a sea of fluffy white hair. Your fingers brush against the tufts; soft, just like Snowy's. He's looking at you with wide eyes, surprise etched into his expression and the softest dust of pink along the tips of his ears—was it getting warmer already? He looks like a prince of the forest with the braided wildflowers on his head; the perfect example of elegant beauty, a person blessed by the gods.

"But if this is all mine, then allow me to gift this beautiful wreath to someone worthy enough for it."

Phainon chuckles at your words, light and airy, before he lifts his own golden wreath. The stalks of wheat rest on your ears as his fingers gently place them down, calloused fingers softly brushing against the side of your cheek as he pulls away from your face. "Then, allow me to do the same."

With a bright smile, you spritely turn your head from side to side to model the golden wreath sitting on top of your ears.

"What do you think? Won't we be a pretty sight at the festival with these?"

"Yeah."

His breathy, quiet response to your playful question catches you off guard. Your eyes flit up to meet his and you're met face to face with the most tender expression Phainon has ever given you. His eyes are half lidded, smile barely curled up into something sweet, and, with the sunlight hitting him at just the right spot, he's glowing with something you can't quite put your finger on. He's made of starlight, and you fear you've become addicted to the warmth of his radiance.

As his eyes, that beautiful shade of blue that you've come to find your solace in, gleam at the sight of his golden wreath of wheat stalks shining brilliantly in your hair, you've come to a realization all on your own.

You like Phainon. You like him a lot.

—

You aren't exactly quite sure how you got here adorning a pair of borrowed overalls and some worn out boots as you crouch down in the golden grass. The woven straw hat sitting on top of your head blends you in with the surrounding flora and your slow movements could hardly be heard through the hot breeze that sifts through the field of grass.

Well… Correction. You do know how you got here. One cute neighbor requesting your help and taking advantage of his pretty face; how could you ever turn him down? Maybe you've grown too much of a soft spot for him. Who knows what kind of shenanigans he'll get you to do, like hunting down the baby chicks that happened to escape the coop right before the sun has set. Luckily, by the time you've got there, Hieronymus had managed to capture some of the little rascals.

Chirp.

Chirp. Chirp. Tweet.

The sound of tiny, little tweets catches your attention and your head snaps to your right. A handful of small, plump feathery chicks are bundled up beside one another hidden beside stalks of golden grass. It seems like a majority of the missing ones are here, thank goodness. But figuring out how to snag all of them without losing sight of any…

You inch closer, careful not to make any sounds or sudden movements. A hand slowly reaches outward with fingers stretched to hopefully scoop them all in one go and-

"Hey! Get back here!" You exclaim as you lunge forward. Two chicks have successfully been captured, but the other two have scattered off in two different directions. The captured duo seem to chirp and squirm within your grip and luckily the pocket in your overalls is deep enough to comfortably hold them so your hands could remain free.

Quick on your feet, you dash towards the escaping babies with clumsy grace; your city body isn't quite used to running around in boots and trampling through golden grass but here you are doing so anyways.

The chicks are faster and much more agile than you are clunking around in clothes you're unfamiliar with. But, thankfully, you've outsmart the young chicks and with one more jump forward, you've collapsed to the ground with heavy breaths, the remaining baby chicks squirming in your hands and the other two chirping incessantly in your front pocket.

Phainon greets you with a whistle as you return to the coop all rustled up; four baby chicks tweet and wiggle and writhe in your pocket. There's a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips and his eyes rake over your body to take in every detail—your hair is a mess, there's dirt everywhere on your clothes, and you're sweating profusely from chasing around little chicks amidst the farm. Truly, you're the definition of beauty and grace at this very moment.

"Babies gave you a rough time, neighbor?" Phainon teases you, following your movements as you trudge forward and drop off the little fluff balls into the coop. They chirp incessantly before huddling into their mother's bosom after a shrill squawk.

"Yeah, all thanks to you," You grumble. You wipe away at the sweat on your forehead with your arm, causing a small chuckle to arise from the man beside you.

"Here, you're making a mess of yourself." A familiar small, blue handkerchief with a purple dromas embroidered in the corner is handed to you; correction, your own handkerchief is handed to you.

You take it, narrowing your eyes at the grinning man before you. "I was wondering where that went. You stole it from me?"

"More like keeping it clean and safe for you," He says with a simple shrug of his shoulders. "You're welcome, by the way."

It smells like him, you notice as you unfold the little handkerchief and hold it to your face—the all too intimate scent of ocean breeze, clean linen, and faint citrus flood your senses as you gently wipe away the sweat and grime of the day off of your face. When you meet his gaze again, he's giving you that look again; his head tilted at a slight angle, eyes softening at the sight of you, and smiling like you have all the answers he has been looking for.

It sends your heart racing.

"You missed a spot, neighbor." Phainon's voice is gentle, tender in all of the right ways as he raises his hand closer to your face. You flinch initially when his finger brushes against your skin, but his warmth is an addictive feeling. Fingers calloused from years of experience working as a farmhand wipe away the remaining dirt from your cheekbone; a delicate touch, as if he were handling the most precious porcelain. "There, pretty as always."

His words strike a chord within you, one so consonant that the overtones ring through every part of your heart. His compliment is small and yet your chest is so light, it feels like you could fly.

"So you think I'm pretty?" You jest, a feeble attempt at calming your nerves.

"I do." And he crumbles it all with two simple words. Warmth floods your cheeks, burning you up from the inside. You hope that he's joking, but your heart skips a beat seeing the sincerity gleaming in his eyes. His gaze never leaves yours; if anything, the seem to glow brighter at your reaction to him. His thumb brushes against your cheek again as his palm rests against your jaw to hold it—you can't hide your expression from him now.

"I really do think you're pretty."

"You shouldn't say things like that. People will get the wrong idea." Your gaze falls to anywhere but your neighbor. Phainon can most definitely feel the heat radiating off of your face at this point; your heart is hammering so hard against your chest, carrying the blood to the apples of your cheeks and the tips of your ears. You want to disappear and, at the same time, melt into his touch.

"That I like you?" He asks, a lilt to his voice. "They wouldn't be wrong then."

"Is it okay to kiss you?" Phainon's voice is barely above a whisper, but they're louder and clearer than ever to you. Your eyes finally meet his when he calls your name; endless blue takes your breath away. It's like a melody to your ears the way your name falls so easily from his lips—he has called it countless times but in this very moment it falls with a perfect cadence.

You nod your head.

When his lips finally meet yours… it's honestly quite clumsy. As the nerves eat the both of you alive, Phainon leans in a bit too fast and crashes into your lips. Your noses bump, your teeth clack against each other in an awkward way and, in shock, the both of you pull away with wide eyes and parted lips before hearty laughter fills the space between you two.

"I'm sorry, let me try that again."

His lips press against yours in a sweet, yet simple kiss. It's one that shares the months of yearning shared between the two of you in these months of rebuilding your life in Aedes Elysiae; soft, affectionate, and sentimental. When you begin to pull away, thinking it was over, Phainon's strong arms pull you back in for another kiss. And another, with his confessions of love murmured to you in between each kiss.

A kiss or two to celebrate a new love, and a new beginning.

[elysiumae]

runaway.

⟢ pairing: mydei x f!reader

⟢ word count: 10k

⟢ tags: modern!au, cto!mydei, romance, angst, mydei becomes the victim of someone's hot girl summer, slightly problematic reader, based off my favourite k-drama lovestruck in the city

After a sun-soaked summer in Carmitis, you return to normalcy in a shoebox apartment in Okhema City. You accept a job at Kremnos Engineering, determined to rebuild your life, only to find out that your new boss is a familiar face — the same fling that you'd vanished on a year ago without a trace.

⟢ chapters: one | two

Mydei is a man of routine.

Once, he might have described his life in these words: dull, perhaps not quite tedious, but certainly monotonous. They aren’t insults, though. To Mydei, routine is a familiar comfort — the ease with which shoes slip on after being moulded to the shape of one’s feet, the instinctive reach for a toothbrush by the sink in the wee hours of the morning. An amalgamation of small habits worn smooth over the years, the accompanying notes that make up the ostinato of a song.

And on the first Saturday of each month, that ingrained rhythm brings him to Kephale Plaza. 

He makes the twelve minute drive into the city center, evening lights bleeding into long, liquid streaks across his windshield. The parking spot outside Halovian is narrow and difficult to access — which is why it’s usually left empty. He takes it. The air has turned cool with the edge of autumn, and so Mydei pulls on his coat as he steps out of the car.

The rest of the way he could walk with his eyes shut. He crosses the busy road first, then takes a quick left. Fifteen paces down, another turn, following the bend until the glare of the city fades. It’s quieter in the park, shielded from the commercial billboards by a line of maple trees, and the air carries with it a damp, earthy scent. Mydei lets his fingers brush over the flowers as he crosses the arched bridge, the edges of their delicate petals curling inward from the cold.

He steps down to the river. They call it a river, but it isn’t, really. Kremnos Engineering designed it years ago, back when Okhema was still growing — a narrow waterway cutting through the heart of the city. An attempt to incorporate nature into an otherwise concrete landscape.

A facsimile, pretending to be something that it’s not.

Mydei arrives at its southern bank at exactly seven fifty-five. He glances down at the shallow, warbling stream, the thirteen stepping stones that will take him back to the other side.

He doesn’t cross them.

Instead, he sits on one of the stone benches nearby, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. Every few minutes, his head lifts at the sound of footsteps on the path: a jogger with headphones and a sweat-darkened collar, an old couple shuffling past sedately arm in arm, a man being tugged along by his dog. And each time, his shoulders fall almost imperceptibly, before his gaze drifts back to the water again.

Still, Mydei waits. He waits until the sun has long set behind the glass-steel spires in the distance, until the lamps lining the water have lit up like fireflies and the wind rolling off the water nips at his throat. Then, the clock tower in Kephale Plaza begins its usual toll.

A bronze note that he knows by heart. It rings out nine times — just as it has, every time — and each one sinks into Mydei’s bones like the stones in the river below.

He holds his position for one more moment. Then, with a sigh, he rises from the bench and turns his back on the water. His steps carry him along the path, back towards the city’s bright, beating, indifferent heart.

Alone.

Kremnos was once a small engineering firm in Castrum Kremnos. It’d started out in a single, rented room above a machine parts wholesaler, located in some industrial district whose name Mydei can barely remember. Now, decades later, it stands as the biggest EPC in all of Amphoreus.

Their Okhema headquarters occupies the top five floors of a prime commercial tower in the central business district, and overlooks a skyline shaped by their own hand — Adriose shipping port and the Bastion flyover being just a couple of mega-projects they’ve undertaken in the last decade. And in the evening, the sky burns an orange-ochre ombre as the sea catches the dying light, flint sparking against the waves. Investors and partners always seem more amenable when faced with the view.

Unfortunately, Mydei doesn’t have the time to enjoy it. His attention is fixed on the wall of monitors in front of him instead, each one displaying data from a digital twin of the Dome — a megastructure meant to crown Aidonia’s newest international airport. He studies the screens in silence, eyes flicking between readouts and models, only looking away when a soft knock comes at his door.

“Come in.”

His secretary steps inside, a cardboard box in her hands. “Your things from the old office,” she says as she sets it down carefully. Mydei looks up, surprised. “You’ve been talking about going back for these for a while, but looking at your schedule…” She shoots him a sympathetic look. “I told the courier to be extra careful with it.”

Mornings before sunrise, nights long after dark — he hasn’t even had the time in the past few weeks to make the drive downtown himself. Becoming CTO of a multinational corporation does that to you, unfortunately. Regardless, he’s grateful. “You have my thanks.”

She smiles, gives a polite nod and moves to leave. Mydei waits until the door has shut behind her to pull off his glasses, setting them on his desk before he sinks back into his chair. His eyes are sore from staring at the screens, and there’s a dull ache in the back of his neck that no amount of ergonomics will fix. Exhaling slowly, he drags the heels of his hands down his face, before glancing at the box.

He pulls it over and eases the lid off. Inside is a collection of familiar artifacts that had once littered his desk — a battered calculator with its numbers worn clean off the buttons, an ugly clay lion his mother had got for him while holidaying in Jericha. A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth when he pulls out the photostrip. To commemorate our final finals, Phainon had joked, terribly — all of them crammed into a booth too small for five almost-but-not-yet-quite adults. Mydei runs a thumb across their bright grins, unweathered except for the shadows under their eyes, before he carefully sets it aside.

The last thing inside the box is a photograph. Mydei lifts it carefully, fingers brushing over the wooden frame as he does. Within its borders is a memory preserved in perfect colour — a sun bleached stretch of sand, and a turquoise wave captured forever in a perfect curl. 

The beaches in Carmitis had been perfect for surfing. He’d gone there for a two month sabbatical, as a reward to himself, for closing a deal of a lifetime. The project would propel Kremnos beyond the shores of Amphoreus into international renown, and his father had been happy to grant him the time off. Two months of salt air and the horizon, trading the gravity of responsibility for the buoyancy of the tide.

But that summer, it hadn’t been the waves that had swept him away.

Mydei’s fingers curl around the photoframe. As though if he grasps it tightly enough, he would be able to shatter the glass and fall back through time itself, back onto that sandy beach. Then he might be about to hear your laugh again, to run his fingers through your salt stiffened tangles, and this time Mydei would be smarter, know better — and he would cherish each moment like a shining treasure, hold on to you tighter so that—

His phone vibrates on his desk. The screen lights up with a familiar name.

“That was fast,” Phainon remarks the second the call connects, his tone laced with that usual, quick amusement of his. “You usually let me wait longer than that. Feeling sentimental today?”

“No,” Mydei says, and knows instantly that it has come out too sharp, too quick. “Why are you calling?”

His friend just sighs, frustratingly perceptive. “Let me guess,” Phainon says, brushing past Mydei’s question entirely. The words pierce just like his mother’s sharp eyed gaze does, and Mydei hates the way it makes him feel — like a child once more, caught with one hand in the cookie jar and crumbs all over his small mouth. “You were thinking about her again.”

Mydei doesn’t respond. He looks down at the photo in his hand again.

“You are. I can practically hear you sighing over the phone.” Phainon pauses a second in his ribbing, almost as though he’s weighing whether to press further. He does. “It’s been a year, Mydei. You knew her for two months. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Mydei answers automatically, although his eyes keep drifting back to the photograph. “I’m over her.”

Phainon snorts, the sound thick with disbelief. He sounds thoroughly unconvinced. “Right.” Another tactical pause. “Well, in that case, you wouldn’t mind meeting my cousin. She’s smart, funny, maybe a little quiet — but a real riot once you get to know her. You two can talk brutalism and art deco and mid-century modern whatever. It’ll be cute.”

This again. Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar ache blooming behind his eyes. “No, Phainon.”

“Come on, just one drink. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“An evening of polite conversation that ends with both of us relieved that it’s over,” Mydei replies bluntly. His gaze is still fixed on that wave, frozen in time. “I’m not interested.”

Phainon is silent for a few seconds. Mydei is wondering whether he should hang up when he speaks again, and when he does it’s to grumble at him. “You’re a certified social hermit,” Phainon mutters, and Mydei braces himself — he can feel the familiar lecture building up already. “The only reason you didn’t graduate four years of university with a net zero friend count is—”

“—because of you, I know—”

“Because I practically adopted you! I should get tax deductibles for charity work, honestly.” Phainon sounds exasperated, even over the phone. He still ends up relenting with a huff, though. “Fine. No cousin. But you’re still a human being, and human beings need to see other human beings outside of boardrooms and suits. So, we’re hanging out.” His tone turns bright, like he’s already made the decision for Mydei. “The gang hasn’t seen your face in forever.”

He’s busy, Mydei wants to say. But he knows his friend means well, and that knowledge warms him almost as much as it unsettles him — the quiet discomfort of being read so easily. It’s a quality that Mydei has always admired in him, which is why he finds himself quite unable to resent the man’s habit of bulldozing straight through his boundaries — all with a grin and no apology.

Unfortunate, he thinks dourly to himself.

“Alright,” he concedes at last. “Drinks at our usual place. I’ll pay.”

“Deal! But don’t even think about driving home — I’m going to make sure you actually enjoy yourself this time, got it?”

Mydei shakes his head, unable to help the small smile that threatens him. “I’m hanging up now.”

The line clicks dead. Silence settles over his office once more, only broken by the low hum of his laptop. Suddenly weary, Mydei sets his phone back down, before his gaze falls to the photograph in his hand once more. 

He allows his thumb to trace the frame for only a second longer. Then he sets it on the desk, turns it down so that the waves are no longer in view, and returns to work.

The cardboard box lands on your kitchen floor with a dull thud.

“Is that the final one?” you ask, from where you’re crouched by the sink. The remainder of your cleaning supplies are lined up next to you, a row of half-emptied soldiers standing at attention. Phainon lets out a groan as he straightens up, strands of white hair plastered to his damp forehead with sweat. He tugs at the hem of his shirt to wipe at it.

You throw a cleaning rag at him. “Keep your clothes on, whore.”

He catches it mid-air with an athlete’s reflexes, pretending to aim it at you with a snort before he lets his arm drop. “One, two… yeah, that’s the last of them,” he confirms for you, his voice echoes lightly in the small, sparse space. Phainon’s gaze sweeps the apartment quickly — not that there’s much to see, anyway — before it comes back to you with a warm, unguarded smile. “It’s nice. I like it.”

Nice is probably a generous term for the old studio apartment, but you accept the compliment with a nod regardless. After the ordeal with your previous inconsiderate roommates, securing this place had felt like a dream — four walls of your own, a miraculously functioning toilet, and most importantly, rent that wouldn't eat your paycheck whole.

It had been everything you needed. The only real drawback to this place was the three floor walk-up, which had made the thought of moving in without professional help a nightmare. But Phainon seemed to be able to anticipate that, somehow, even without a word from you. You’d opened your door this morning to him dressed in an atrociously faded tank top and grinning on your doorstep, quite literally strong-arming his way into assistance with a stubborn willingness to lift heavy things.

And well, you weren’t exactly in a position to refuse.

“Thanks for your help,” you tell him as you stow away the last of the cleaning supplies. “I would have killed my back carrying all those boxes up on my own.”

Phainon shrugs, casually. “Don’t sweat it. I think of it as a free gym session.” He flexes a bicep and you flash him a look of pure disgust, which just makes him laugh. He braces a hip against the counter to watch you with those impossibly blue eyes. “You know,” he says, and his tone softens just a fraction, “you could have just moved in with me.”

You don’t have to look at him to know he means it. Your cousin hasn’t changed a bit ever since you were kids, even after moving here from Aedes Elysiae for university. Sure, he’s shot up at a terrifying rate and put on some muscle — a lot of it, actually — but he still cries at sad movies and somehow manages to retain a heart too soft for Okhema’s relentless grind. 

He’s all wrong, you think fondly. The face of a fuckboy without an ounce of the ego that should come with it. It actually wouldn’t be terrible, sharing an apartment with him. But you shake your head.

Phainon gives you a searching look, but you drop your gaze, busying your hands with an open box on the counter. Among all your relatives, he’s the one that you're closest to. But his concern has a tendency of spilling over into smothering — though you’re fairly certain that’s more your issue than his — and the fact that it comes too close to pity grates on you, too.

Even now, you can feel the weight of the questions perched on the tip of his tongue. Like there is a firm dam in place, holding back his curiosity to avoid dredging up old memories. Knowing that he’d be walking on eggshells in his own home because of you is more than enough to make you firmly refuse.

“Nah. I need my own space, I think.” You hold up a hand. “Besides, you snore like a nine point five magnitude earthquake.”

Phainon looks extremely scandalised by that accusation. “Excuse me? I sleep on my side now, thank you very much.” He lobs the damp washcloth you’d thrown at him back in your direction and you dodge, laughing. His smile is fond as he studies you for a beat with those too blue eyes. “Well, I guess it must be nice to have some peace and quiet after all those awful roommates. I still can’t believe they had sex in your bed.” He makes a face, as if he’s just bitten into an unripe fruit. 

“Nasty,” you agree. “I hope they get chlamydia.”

Your cousin blinks. “Err…”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm of unpacking the rest of your things. A playlist of Ast Rickley’s most popular hits plays on your phone, his soulful voice crooning to every corner of your apartment. When the final cabinet is shut and your mattress is no longer bare, you let yourself collapse onto the cheap floorboards with a sigh.

A draft whispers under the door — a reminder that autumn is here, and that heating is expensive. You make a mental note to stock up on heat tech the next time you head into town.

Phainon’s face suddenly looms in your field of vision, upside down and grinning. “Mission accomplished,” he announces with a salute, back from where you’d dispatched him to stow your pots in the overhead cupboards. “And I’m starving.”

You push his head away, and your fingers come away damp with sweat. Yuck. “You can take whatever you want from my fridge.”

He makes a show of peering into the barren appliance. “Your fridge is basically decorative, idiot.”

“Right.” You never got into the habit of cooking, even when you’d first started working. Long nights and overtime had been the norm, and by the time you stumbled home from your previous job, you’d barely had the energy to get undressed, let alone prepare a meal. “Starve, then.”

You let your head fall back to the floor with a thud, but Phainon grabs your arm and hauls you unceremoniously to your feet. “I saw a minimart downstairs,” he declares. “Let’s get popsicles.”

“It’s literally autumn, Phai.”

He shrugs, thoroughly unbothered as he practically manhandles you towards the door. “And since when have we let something like that stop us?”

And five minutes later, the two of you are back upstairs, backs against the lumpy couch. The only sounds are the rhythmic whir-click of the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above, and the quiet, sticky noise of two adults eating rainbow popsicles side by side. You remember sitting on the curb outside Phainon’s childhood home and staring up at the ichor-rinsed summer sky. The synthetic fruit flavour tastes exactly the same as it did twenty years ago.

For a long time, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching the fan blades slice through the cooling late-afternoon air. The cold sweetness melts faster than you’d like, dripping down your fingers in sticky rivulets. You stick out your tongue to catch the drops.

Phainon’s voice is quiet, cutting through the hum of the fan. “I missed you.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his eyes on the spinning blades, as if he’s commenting on the rainy weather or a store in the new shopping mall downtown. But the weight of his words fill your small, empty apartment, sugar clinging to your tongue sticky sweet, heavy with everything else he’d been careful not to say.

You take another slow bite of your popsicle, and nod.

“It’s good to be back.”

You have a special hatred reserved for job interviews.

It’s ironic, actually, considering the role that you’re interviewing for — Marketing Strategist, Strategic Content Department. You can craft a narrative for a product, a service, even an entire corporate vision with believable enthusiasm, but turning the camera inward to talk about personal strengths and career journey feels nauseatingly vulgar. You feel the same way as you sit in that sleek, intimidating conference room at Kremnos’ headquarters, expecting to fumble through your usual corporate script.

The only thing that’s keeping you grounded is your phone. Or, more accurately, the messages that have been blowing it up all morning. First, a joint text from Stelle and Caelus, featuring a poorly photoshopped picture of your head on a muscular bodybuilder. The caption “GO CRUSH THEM!!!!” had been followed by several bicep and fire emojis. Next had been an offer for a last minute practice run from March, who’d then volunteered Dan Heng for a good-interviewer-bad-interviewer drill.

“Why am I the bad interviewer?” Dan Heng had messaged, sounding completely offended even over text. “Well, am I the bad interviewer, then?” March had sent back, equally incredulous, and then the chat group had proceeded to devolve into absolute fiery, meme-slinging chaos.

Much to your surprise, however, the interview defies expectation. The panel skips over the glaring gap in your resume from a year ago entirely, and instead focuses on having you walk them through a complex case study — one, coincidentally, that mirrors a project in your own portfolio.

Before you know it, your mental script has been discarded. You’re leaning forward, hands animated as you dive into the gritty details and trade-offs that shaped the corporate vision you once helped bring to life. The interviewers nod along, their questions feeling less like an interrogation and more like genuine curiosity. Almost scarily similar, you think, to a real conversation. 

One of the interviewers, a lady with gold spun hair, shakes your hand on your way out. “I was very impressed,” she says, and your heart thumps, despite the fact that she probably says that to every interviewee. Her grip is firm. “I hope we’ll see you again soon.”

Well, that’s wasn’t completely terrible is a thought you allow yourself as you step out of the elevator. A tentative sense of optimism trails you into the lobby and you swat it away, superstitious about giving it too much space to grow. No expectations, no disappointments. You’d learnt your lesson the hard way, the first time.

You root around in your bag for your phone as you weave through the midday crowd. Phainon had been pestering you all last night, insistent that you update him the moment the interview ended. You glance up to search for the exit.

And you see him.

He’s standing about thirty paces from the revolving doors — immaculate in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your monthly rent, sharp lines sculpting his powerful frame. He’s speaking with a circle of important looking businessmen, and even from this distance, his presence radiates authority. Gravitas, so natural it’s almost tangible, obvious in the way that they nod attentively, leaning in to catch his every word.

He looks nothing like the man you’d met in Carmitis. That man had been a surfer with a penchant for chasing sunrise waves, all golden eyes and sun kissed skin. He would sigh but let you braid his hair back, regardless — doesn’t it keep getting into your eyes, De? — before pulling you after him into the surf. His wardrobe had consisted entirely of faded tank tops and salt-stiffened bermuda shorts. That was the man who’d — if only for a brief while — loved you.

What is he doing here?

You don’t know how long you stand there, feet rooted to the floor, unable to tear your eyes away. But it’s too long — because then he’s tilting his head to address an associate standing at his side, lifting a hand to emphasize something important. The shift in angle brings his eyes directly to yours.

For a single moment, the busy lobby and all the people in it fall away. The two of you stare at each other through the moving crowd — a pair of flies suspended in amber. His gaze is blank at first. Almost like he doesn’t quite recognise you, or he can’t believe that you’re here. And then the cool indifference on his face fractures all of a sudden, right down the middle, to give way to shock.

His mouth forms a word. You can’t hear it from here, but you don’t need to. You’ve seen his lips form that name a thousand times — curled at the edges with a laugh, panted into the crook of your neck, murmured against your lips like a prayer.

Helena?

Your heart stumbles in your chest, and you take an instinctive step back. Your heel catches on the floor.

At your reaction, something in Mydei’s reaction shifts. The shock hardens into sharp, focused purpose, and he starts moving — doesn’t even spare the men around him a single word of excuse — all without breaking eye contact, cutting directly through the crowd with single minded intent.

Towards you.

That shatters your paralysis. You spin on your heel and begin to walk in the opposite direction with your head down, as quickly as you can without breaking into a sprint.

“Wait!”

His voice cuts through the crowd, sharp and desperate. You don’t dare to look back, shoving through a group of startled office workers. You can feel him, the way the air parts as he pushes through the same crowd, his longer strides closing the distance between the two of you. A panicked breath catches in your throat.

You duck behind a pillar, hand skimming the cold surface. Your eyes scan desperately for an escape route. There! The universal symbol for restrooms. You lunge, shoulder connecting with the heavy door to shove it open, and you manage to slip inside just as rapid footsteps round the corner. The door clicks shut behind you.

You fumble the lock with shaking fingers before pressing your back to the door, chest heaving and lungs screaming. For a long moment, there is only the faint mechanical hum of the ventilation system and your own heavy breathing. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm in the cage of your chest. Did he see you? Did he see which way you went? 

It feels like an eternity before you hear the frustrated pound of a fist against a wall, from the other side of the door. It’s followed by a low, muffled curse — Mydei. There is a long pause, then another familiar voice, murmuring a few words you can’t quite make out, and then the footsteps turn around and retreat, fading into the distance. 

And then, nothing.

Only after everything is silent do you let yourself slump fully against the door, grasping at your knees as you try to make sense of what just happened.  Mydei was here. In this very building. Just on the other side of this door. And now, he’s gone.

You’ve lost him again.

Outside, Mydei stands alone in the corridor, his hand stinging from the impact with the wall. He’s breathing hard, and the tie around his neck suddenly feels like a noose. He yanks it loose with a frustrated movement as he scans the empty hallway.

Nothing. It’s almost as though you were never there. You’ve disappeared as completely as you had the first time.

Doubt washes over him like a tidal wave. Did he really see you? Or did he hallucinate it? Has the memory of you become so blurred, that his mind had to paint you into the crowd of his own workplace?

“Mr. Mydeimos!” One of the Grove associates catches up to him, shoes squeaking on the polished floor and his face a picture of bewildered alarm. “Did something happen? Is everything alright?”

Mydei doesn’t know what to say. I just saw a ghost of the only woman I’ve ever given my heart to. The confession rests on his tongue, absurd and unprofessional. He runs a hand through his hair, realises it’s trembling, and lets it fall to his side, helpless.

“I don’t…” he begins, voice cracking and he swallows. “I just thought… I saw someone I used to know.”

Mydei spends the rest of the day in a daze, moving through his roles with a mechanical detachment. The hours blur together — briefings, presentations, polite smiles — all passing through him like static. And when he finally stumbles out of three back-to-back meetings, he collapses into his office chair and stares at the dark screens until Phainon calls to drag him to the pub.

The battered fish and chips are still as good as they were back in his university days, but Mydei can barely taste a thing. Phainon keeps the conversation afloat, as usual, and Hyacine shares stories from the ER that border on fictitious — “A what up their ass? Seriously?” — as Cipher shamelessly swipes pieces of breaded calamari off Castorice’s plate. It’s an easy, familiar atmosphere that used to pull him out of his head — warm, noisy and grounding.

But tonight, Mydei can’t focus on any of it.

After nearly an hour of dissociating, Cipher finally elbows him in the side. “Hey. You leave your brain back at the office or something?” Her grin is sharp with its usual mean-spirited edge, but he catches the worry eddying underneath. “You’ve been out of it all night.”

He looks up to see Hyacine and Castorice staring at him with varying levels of concern. He lifts his cup to his lips in an attempt to avoid their eyes.

“It’s nothing. Long day.”

“Bullshit,” Phainon says, cutting through the pub’s chatter. “Every day is a long day for a big-shot CTO like you. This is different.” His blue eyes narrow, and not for the first time, Mydei wishes Phainon were more like the carefree joker he appears to be and less like the perceptive psychologist he actually is. He holds the whiskey in his mouth for a few seconds, letting the smoky peat spread across his tongue before he swallows.

Hopefully, the burn will do something to steady him. It doesn’t. 

“This afternoon,” he begins, resigned. “At the office… I thought I saw her.”

Hyacine’s toothpick stills above a french fry. “Her?” The way she says it makes it clear that she knows exactly who Mydei is talking about. “Where?”

Mydei hesitates. The memory still feels raw, like the delicate skin beneath a freshly picked scab. “In Kremnos’ lobby,” he says, at last. “I was sending off some associates from the Grove when I looked up and she was just… there. Across the room. I think she saw me. And then she ran.”

Cipher exchanges a loaded glance with Castorice. “So,” Castorice says slowly. She looks like she’s choosing her words with extreme care. “Do you know if it was actually her that you saw?”

He presses his lips together. “No,” he admits.

Phainon runs a hand through his hair. The sound that escapes him is a mixture of disbelief and pity. “Mydei, come on. You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you’re really going insane. I’d suggest another surf trip, but…” He shakes his head helplessly, gestures at him. “I don’t get it. You’re usually a great judge of character. I don’t know how you fell so hard for someone like… like that.”

The words spark a defensive fire in Mydei’s gut that’s almost reflex. “You don’t know her,” he mutters, the words coming out sharper than he intended.

“Neither did you, apparently.” When Mydei shoots him a half-hearted glare, Phainon presses on, his tone softening despite the frustration. “Look, she has you completely wrapped around her finger. It was a summer fling, but it’s over now. You need to let it go.”

He opens his mouth to argue back, but Hyacine leans forward first, hands folded neatly in front of her. “This isn’t healthy, Mydei,” she says, in that gentle doctor-tone of hers. Castorice nods. Even Cifera — who would normally be the first to cheer on any stupid decision he or Phainon makes — just looks at him.

The sympathy in their eyes grates at him — partly because he wants to insist they’re wrong, and partly because he knows they are right. A sun-soaked summer. A two month long fling that had caught alight in the blink of an eye and fizzled out just as quick. He knows he’s not the first one to fall for something fleeting, and he won’t be the last.

But gods, he’s still burning.

Once, Mydei had prided himself on being a man of reason. It’s foolish to still be hung up on you. He knows that the logical thing to do is move on.

But he still remembers the last time he’d ever seen you, and the memory of it haunts him like a ghost. 

Mydei had flown back first. He’d known that the time apart would feel endless after the privilege of waking up in your arms every day, and so he’d stolen every kiss, every moment he could — from the second he’d opened his eyes to the drive to the airport. Even then, it hadn’t been enough.

“Two weeks is too long,” Mydei had muttered against his lips, and you’d laughed, arms winding around his neck to pull him down. He’d let go of his luggage handle to wrap his arms more securely around you. Other travelers in the airport stared as they passed the two of you, but Mydei couldn’t bring himself to care. “Should I just take another month off? Stay with you until the surf shop lets you go?”

“Don’t be silly,” you’d replied between kisses, sounding breathless. You’d smiled at him then, so sweetly that he never would have guessed something was wrong. “Your big important job needs you back in Okhema, doesn’t it? It’ll just be two weeks.”

Two weeks was nothing. If he could go back, Mydei would have quit just to stay by your side. But he hadn’t. “I won’t be able to contact you in the meantime, though,” he’d sighed into your hair, tugging you tighter to his chest. You’d giggled. “Seriously, can’t you let me buy you a phone? I really don’t know how you’ve survived a whole summer without one…”

“And that’s quite enough of you lording your wealth over me, Mr. Rich Man,” you’d scolded, poking his nose, and he’d relented with a quiet sigh — as he always did. You’d refused every attempt from him to buy you a phone, as inconvenient as it made communication for the two of you. “It’s been nice, actually, disconnecting from everything. I’m kind of dreading getting one once I get back to Okhema.”

And then you’d smiled at him so brightly, and just like before, every excuse — as absurd and silly as it was — had completely slipped his mind. Don’t worry. I’ll find you. It’s more romantic that way, right?

He’d kissed you again, dreading the distance. A lingering press of the lips, slow and indulgent, when the watch on his wrist had buzzed. Ten minutes until his gate closed.

You’d glanced down before your eyes widened in panic. “Ten minutes!” you hissed, pushing lightly against his chest. “You’re going to miss your flight!” You tried to step out of the circle of his arms, but he only pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, inhaling the scent of salt and summer one last time. Two weeks.

“You remember, right?”

“How could I not?” You’d laughed then, your face softening with fond exasperation. “Eight o’clock on the first Saturday of the month, at the stepping stones by the Janus bridge. See?”

“You’ll be there?”

“Yes, yes.” Your voice had been gentle but sure. You’d squeezed his hand, a comfort and a promise. “Of course I’ll be there.”

Mydei had stolen one last kiss (or two, or three, or plenty more) before sprinting to catch his flight, your words clutched tightly to his chest as he stumbled through the gate. Two hours and fifteen minutes, a thousand miles. That would be the distance between the two of you, for the next two weeks.

Every second had felt like torture. But he’d spent the time productively, clearing a generous space in his closet for your chaotic array of clothes, hunting down that obscure brand of coffee you insisted on drinking and buying softer pillows that he’d noticed you liked. He’d called his mother and told her all about you. You’ll love her, Ma, he’d insisted. Gorgo had just laughed, her amusement palpable even over the phone, and said, any girl able to ensnare my son like that? I’m sure I will. 

Mydei had blushed.

And on the first Saturday of the month, at exactly seven thirty in the evening, Mydei had showed up at the stepping stones next to the Janus bridge with a bouquet of flowers he’d carefully arranged himself, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. And he’d waited.

And waited.

He’d waited until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its final, dying rays of light across the city. He’d waited as the evening grew cool and the lights began to glitter on the water, and a light drizzle began to fall, soaking into the wool of his jacket. He waited until a cold, hollow realisation had settled deep in his bones, a truth he could no longer ignore. 

You weren’t coming. 

You’d never shown up. And that, Mydei thinks, is the real reason he will never be able to move on. Because the true agony wasn’t in missing you, or mourning the time you’d spent together. It was the way that things never truly ended. Perhaps it would have been easier, to let go of things if the two of you had fought. But you’d woken up early that morning and made him those uneven pancakes with too much syrup that he secretly loved, kissed him probably a hundred times between the beach and the airport, and sent him off with a smile. 

“Go,” you'd mouthed, waving vigorously from the departure gate. You’d been smiling, that wide and unrestrained grin that he’d fallen in love with. “I’ll see you soon.”

What happened? Mydei had asked himself in the days, weeks, months that had followed. When did things start to go wrong? Was it something that I did? What did I do wrong?

He's replayed every moment, over and over, searching for an answer. But he never finds one, try as he might. And that is, perhaps, the cruelest torture of all.

Phainon looks at him again. For a moment, it almost seems as if he’s going to speak, before his shoulders slump forward, defeated by Mydei’s stubbornness. He tries one last time. “You need to let it go, Mydei. For your own sake.”

Mydei knows that he’s right. That he’s pining after a summer long gone, the memory of a ghost who exists only in his memory. But his thumb finds the cheap metal band on his left hand, and suddenly, the illusion of rationality vanishes like smoke. 

“I can’t.”

The click of your apartment door locking behind you is impossibly loud. You lean against it for a moment, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the almost frantic heat still racing beneath your skin. The image has seared itself onto the back of your eyelids — Mydei in that sharp suit, his face a mask of stunned realisation. Recognition. The determined, almost desperate that he had cut through the crowd in his attempt to reach you.

Helena?

You don’t know why you’d thought that you would never see him again. It had always been a possibility, of course. Okhema might be big, but it is still only one city. But you’d always avoided that park and that river, like it was the plague — still cowardly, still afraid, nothing at all like the bold and bright facade you’d worn in Carmitis.

Helena.

You push off the door, movements stiff. Dropping your bag on the floor, you make a beeline straight for the kitchen sink to splash some cold water on your face. It doesn’t help. The adrenaline is still coursing you, leaving an uncomfortable, hollow unease in its wake.

You need to know.

Your laptop is still sitting where you’d left it this morning and you grab it, dropping to the floor to sit with your back to the sofa. The device whirs to life too slowly for your liking, its glow a small window of light in your dim apartment. You type two words into the search bar with shaking fingers.

Mydei. Kremnos.

The first result on the search engine reads ‘Kremnos Engineering: Leadership’. You swallow, but click on it anyway. The link takes you to the company’s official website, and the page is filled with professional headshots — a gallery of important looking men and women in immaculate suits. You’ve barely scrolled down once when you see him again.

In the photograph, his hair is shorter, just slightly more tamed. The suit is expensive, but it’s the authority that he’s wearing — with the effortless ease of someone used to wielding it — that really makes him stand out. You aren’t looking at Mydei. This is the CTO of Kremnos Engineering, a multinational corporation worth hundreds of billions of dollars.

A complete stranger.

But his eyes are the same. The same ones you’d kept your gaze fixed on, even as you’d clutched at the surfboard under you, terrified by the lack of balance and control. He hadn’t laughed, or even teased — just grasped your hand, his touch an anchor amidst the waves. Keep your eyes on me, he’d said, voice calm amidst the rolling crash of seawater. I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.

CTO of Kremnos Engineering. You repeat the title in your head, testing its weight. Some part of you had guessed that he was successful — it’d been evident in the way he’d spoken about his work, how easily he’d spoken about staying another month with you. There had always been a laser sharp intensity about him, but it’d been buried under his laid back, unbothered exterior. 

Mydei never went into depth when speaking about his job, and you’d deliberately chosen not to pry for details. He hadn’t brought it up again.

After a second of hesitation, you click on his photo, eyes scanning quickly over his bio. There is a laundry list of awards, acquisitions, accolades. The chasm between the man here and the one you’d known feels as deep as the ocean itself.

You shut your laptop. Something aches quietly in your chest. 

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself. We’ve gone our separate ways, now. None of this matters anymore.

The dark screen just stares back at you, silent.

The email arrives a week later.

You stare at the notification in your inbox for a solid ten minutes, a bomb nestled between spam emails and subscription notices, before you finally click on it. Your heart is racing in your chest. You brace yourself for polite rejection — the standard “thank you for your time, but unfortunately we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate” response — but you don’t see it, much to your surprise. It isn’t a rejection.

It’s an offer.

A generous one, at that. You read the numbers once, then twice, almost in disbelief. The salary is substantial, the benefits comprehensive, and every review you’ve read points to a positive company culture. It feels almost too good to be true.

Yet, one detail casts a shadow over it all.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you try to think of an appropriate reply and come up with none. You end up delaying your response for a day, torn between hesitation and practicality before the fear of them rescinding the offer wins out.

You accept, of course. You have to. It’s the most promising, stable career opportunity you’ve ever had, even compared to your past jobs. You will seize the opportunity, carve out a new chapter of life for yourself, start over the right way this time. 

And you will never, ever let Mydei see you.

The strategy is simple. You arrive early and leave late, timing your movements to avoid the main flow of human traffic. You learn where the back stairwells are, the floors accessible by the service elevators. Your desk is on one of the lower floors, far from the executive suites at the top — a comfortable distance, or so you tell yourself. 

Still, close calls are inevitable.

The first time happens in the main lobby, a week into your new job. You’re stepping towards the security gantry, looking forward to heading home after a couple hours of overtime, when you see him. The lobby is empty, and he’s coming straight towards you. Your heart lurches into your throat.

You drop your head, pretending to be completely absorbed in fumbling for your access card in your bag. He passes through the gantry next to yours, the electronic beep a sharp punctuation to your panic. The moment he’s clear, you lurch out of the building, the cool autumn evening doing nothing to slow the frantic race of your heart.

The second time is worse.

You’re running late for a meeting, moving full speed towards the elevator just as the doors begin to slide shut. You lunge forward, manage to catch them with an outstretched hand, and stumble inside — breathless and triumphant — until you see who’s already there.

Mydei is standing next to the lift panel, phone pressed to his ear. The doors close behind you. It’s too late to escape.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to pay much attention to you, brow furrowed as he speaks. He sounds like he’s in a serious conversation. You clutch your folder like a shield and retreat to the far corner of the lift, desperately digging in your pocket for your face mask. Your hand shakes a little as you yank it on, all too aware of his presence in this small, enclosed space.

Only after the lift begins its ascent does Mydei end his call. He tucks it in his pocket, glances at the panel. The silence is deafening.

“Floor?” he asks, and you nearly jump. His voice is still that low, familiar timbre, but you’ve never heard it so detached or professionally polite before. It’s… strange.

You blurt the first number that pops into your head. “Thank you,” you mumble, hoping that you sound believably congested behind your mask. He presses the button for you without a comment, just a nod. And the moment the doors open, you’re gone — fleeing into the corridor before the thought of looking back can even form. 

It’s a cat-and-mouse game, one that only you are aware that both two of you are playing. A draining, constant vigilance, but for the job, the stability — you can endure it. 

Even if it means having to see him again.

The city at night has a different rhythm — a quieter pulse you’ve grown accustomed to during your covert comings and goings. Walking home takes fifteen minutes longer than the bus, but it’s a good time to get some steps in and also decompress, to shed the tension of a day spent hiding in plain sight.

You cross through the park near the city center, and turn into a narrow side street lined with small late-night shops. You’re passing by a dimly lit bar —- the kind that spills warm light onto the pavement with muffled jazz tunes coming from behind closed doors — when a familiar silhouette behind the window catches your eye.

Your steps falter.

Slumped over a wooden table and surrounded by a small army of empty shot glasses is Mydei. You barely recognise him like this — head buried in his arms and shoulders slumped over as if in defeat, golden hair spilling over his shoulders. His jacket is discarded next to him. He looks nothing like the poised and decisive CTO of the company you now belong to, nor like the man you’d spent the most beautiful summer of your life with in Carmitis.

You stand there for a long moment. The Mydei you’d known had barely touched alcohol. A single beer in the evening, sipped slowly as the sun set, had already toed at his limit. He’d always said that he liked to keep his head clear — though the underlying stiffness in his tone had always hinted at some negative experience with it in his past. So, for him to be here in a bar, in this state…

Before your mind can catch up, your hands are already pushing open the door, your feet carrying you inside. The air is thick with the smell of whiskey and old wood. You move cautiously, afraid to disturb the stillness surrounding him, and slide into the chair opposite.

He looks like he’s out cold, his breathing deep and even. Up close, he looks closer to his age than he usually does — the sharp lines of his regular expression softened by sleep, a hazy flush to his cheeks from the alcohol. Your eyes drift to his hand, resting loosely on the table. A breath catches in your throat when you see it.

The ring is nothing fancy — just a simple, cheap band, its finish worn and scratched. But you find yourself staring at the little silver accessory, a painful lump forming in your throat. Slowly, as if pulled in by a magnet, you find yourself reaching out. Your fingers hover for a moment, hesitant, before they graze over that cool, familiar metal — so gently it barely counts as a touch.

The moment your finger brushes the ring, though, Mydei’s body stiffens. You freeze like a deer in headlights, your own recklessness crashing down on you like cold water. What are you doing? This is a line you will never be able to uncross.

But it’s already too late. Mydei stirs, a slurred sound escaping him as he sits up, a little unsteady. His eyes are heavy lidded, swimming in a thick haze as they scan the table in front of him, before they finally settle on you. You swallow hard, bracing for the inevitable.

He doesn’t startle. Instead, Mydei just squints at you — your boring work clothes, your dull haircut, your unsmiling face — for a few, agonisingly long seconds. Then he lets out a weary groan and drags a hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly against the stubble along his jaw.

“Another dream,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. You watch as his gaze drifts to the scattered shot glasses littering the table, his brow furrowing as he struggles to count them. “Fuck… how many did I have this time…”

The casualness of his statement undoes you. “What are you doing here, De?” you ask softly, careful not to break the fragile spell. Mydei stares at you for a moment with that stilted, unfocused gaze, before looking down at the table again as if the glasses hold the answer.

“I was waiting for you,” he says. The words are slightly slurred but simple, matter-of-fact. Quiet dread pools in your chest.

“Waiting for me where?”

“At the Janus bridge,” he answers, looking almost offended — as though it should have been obvious. “We agreed to meet at eight o’clock on the first Saturday of the month, at the stepping stones next to the Janus Bridge.” He recites all of this, a mantra memorised by heart. Then he glances down at his watch, squinting, before looking back at you, expression bleary. An unsteady laugh escapes him. “It’s… it’s not Saturday today, though.”

You draw in a breath you don’t quite feel. “Mydei… that was over a year ago.”

Mydei nods slowly. “I know.” He blinks, looking utterly lost. “The first time you didn’t show up, I thought maybe you’d just forgotten the date, so I came the next week. Then I thought maybe you’d forgotten the time, so I came in the morning. And then I came the week after that, and the week after that…”

He trails off, his brow furrowing as if he’s reaching for a thought that keeps slipping through his fingers. “But you didn’t show up.” His voice turns soft, almost fractured. “Not for the last twenty three times.”

The number hangs in the air between the two of you. Twenty three Saturdays. Twenty three times he had gone to that riverbank, waiting for a meeting that would never come. For a person who didn’t exist.

His words send a sharp ache through your chest. You hear your own voice even before you know that you’re speaking. “Mydeimos,” you say softly, almost pleading. “Can’t you just forget about me?”

He looks up at you then — eyes unblinking, unfocused, stripped bare by the alcohol — and it’s like staring straight into the festering wound you’ve left in him. “How?” he asks, and the word comes out raw, almost like a plea. “How do I do that?” He tilts his left hand, the cheap band there glinting dully under the bar’s dim light. “Look. We got married. I’m yours.”

“We did that as a joke—”

“No.” The denial comes instantly and Mydei lurches forward to glare at you, the look in golden eyes almost fierce. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “No, it wasn’t a joke to me.” His voice drops to a whisper as he presses his hand to his chest, fingers clenched into a fist. “I’ve never taken this off. Not even once.”

“Why?” Why keep wearing that cheap token? Why continue clinging to the ghost of a promise that should have long since faded? Why do something so ridiculous?

He looks at you as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you said not to,” Mydei answers. “Because you said it was important.”

The memory, hazy and half-forgotten, crashes into you like a breaking wave. You had said it. Laughing, tangled in the sheets of his trailer bed, tracing the ring on his finger. “Don’t ever take this off, okay? It’s important. It means you’re mine,” you’d laughed, kissing him on the nose. You’d meant it as a flirtation, a possessive joke in the heat of a perfect moment. Okay, he’d answered. 

Mydei had taken it as a vow.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words feeling woefully inadequate. “I’m a terrible person.” 

You are, by every definition of the word. You’d dragged him along on your silly adventure of make-believe for two months, then discarded him the moment it ended. No explanation. No contact. You’d left your courage behind in Carmitis — along with the name Helena. And because of that, you’d convinced yourself that Mydei would get over you quickly. That he might worry at first, then grow angry when he realized the truth (you wince at the thought), but he would eventually let go and move on.

You couldn’t have predicted that he would be so stubborn about it. So unwilling to let the memory of you fade. If you had known he would be like this, perhaps you would have done things differently. Not ended it sooner — you were too selfish for that, even then — but perhaps in some other, kinder way.

Mydei stares at you for a long, heavy moment, his hazy eyes searching yours. Then he gives a single, slow nod.

“You are.”

The confirmation is blunt — stripped of malice, worn thin by exhaustion. He picks up the last shot glass and downs it in one motion, wincing as it burns its way down his throat. When he looks back at you, his smile is a wry, defeated thing — lopsided and sluggish, like a man trying to remember how to wear one.

“So, Helena,” he slurs slightly, “how have you been? Have you been doing well?”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening around the name. “Here and there.”

He presses his lips together. “Good,” he says after a beat — then shakes his head, the pleasant facade crumbling as fast as it was built. “Actually, I hate it. I hate that you’re doing okay.”

You manage a watery, broken laugh. “That’s not very nice.”

“I can’t sleep,” Mydei says bluntly. The words tumble out of him like a confession. “When I do, it’s not well. I look at the sky and think of how you used to point out their shapes. I try to surf, and I remember teaching you to catch the waves. I bury myself in work, and I can’t focus.” He meets your gaze, and the pain in his eyes is so raw it feels like it wounds you just to look at him. “I hate it. I hate you.”

Your mouth twists, searching for something — anything — to say. Instead, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down your cheek. Mydei watches it, his expression a miserable cocktail of hurt and regret. The anger drains from him as quickly as it had surfaced, leaving only a profound helplessness in its wake.

After a few seconds, his face crumples. He reaches out, his hand unsteady, and with a clumsy thumb wipes the tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I’m sorry for saying I hated you. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t cry.”

The gentleness of his touch, so at odds with his harsh words, undoes you completely. Even drunk, even heartbroken, his first instinct is still to comfort you.

A sob breaks free before you can swallow it back, then another, until you are crying in earnest, your shoulders shaking. His fingers wipe clumsily at your tears, but they only make them fall faster, rolling down your cheeks. Mydei looks utterly helpless as he stares at you, his own pain forgotten in the face of yours.

“Hey… no.” His voice is hoarse with a mixture of drink and emotion. Before you can process it, his hand is at your elbow, tugging gently, coaxing you up from your chair. You stumble around the table and he gathers you into his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

You collapse into him, your face buried in the familiar scent of him as you cry into his shirt. His arms are a solid anchor in the storm, one hand patting slowly at your back while the other strokes your hair.

“Don’t cry,” he says again, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on your back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. Don’t cry.” The words are a knife, twisting between your ribs. None of it was his fault. None of it is his fault. But the truth sticks in your throat, lodged somewhere deep, impossible to dislodge.

So, you don’t speak. Instead, you just cling to him — the man you’d hurt, the man who still embraces you like you’re something precious — letting him hold you together, despite being the one who’d broken his heart.

A hand on his shoulder shakes him awake.

Mydei looks up blearily from the polished wood of the table. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and there’s an incessant throbbing in his skull. Phainon is standing over him, arms crossed and face set in a mask of concerned frustration.

Mydei just groans, tries to lower his head back down. “How did you—”

“Someone called me from your phone,” Phainon mutters, dragging him upright and slinging one of Mydei’s arms over his shoulder. Mydei’s vision swims a little. “Said you were ‘out of it’ and needed a ride home. Didn’t give a name.” His friend shakes his head in disbelief as the two of them exit the bar. “What were you thinking, drinking alone like this? Look at the state of you.”

Mydei lets himself be steered to the car parked at the curb, his mind a foggy mess. A vague memory tugs at him — a familiar voice, strained and wet with tears, fingers curling in his shirt. But try as hard as he can, it remains just out of reach, like a phantom that he can’t quite touch.

Phainon bundles him into the passenger seat unceremoniously, the lecture continuing unabated even as he rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. “... and you’re lucky it was a decent person who helped you and not some thief or scammer,” he mutters as he starts the engine. “What would you have done then, huh?”

Mydei presses his cheek against the cold car window, watching as the streetlights streak past, each one a blurry smear of orange against the dark. Phainon’s voice continues, a steady, grumbling drone from the driver’s seat. “…a whole year, Mydei. It’s not healthy. You have to let this go.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mydei mumbles, the words slurring out before he can stop them. “Haven’t you and your partner broken up, like… eleven times already?”

Phainon’s hands still on the wheel. The car falls into a sudden, suffocating quiet, broken only by the hum of the engine.

The haze in his mind clears, just enough for guilt to seep in. Mydei opens his mouth to apologise, but Phainon beats him to it. “Twelve, actually.” He lets out a soft laugh that’s tinged with wry defeat. “She broke up with me again last week.”

Phainon doesn’t say more after that, but he doesn’t have to. Mydei presses his lips together and turns to stare out of the window, affording his friend the privacy of his own silence. What a pair of fools they make, he thinks to himself with bitter humour. One clinging on to a summer long gone, and the other to a love that never seems to stay.

His eyes drop to the ring sitting on his finger. The two of you had been walking along the beach hand in hand, when you’d spotted a couple posing for pre-wedding photos, a photographer directing them against the setting sun. You’d squeezed his hand tight and laughed. “A wedding would be fun,” you’d said, your tone light, joking. “Just us. No fuss.”

He’d kept his voice equally light, not wanting to scare you off with the sudden, fierce intensity of his own longing. “We could do it tomorrow.”

And so you had. You’d worn a simple, flowing sundress, the colour of the sea at dusk while Mydei had put on the only nice shirt and trousers he’d packed, feeling both ridiculous and more serious than he ever had in his life. The rings came from a souvenir shack — simple, silver-coloured bands that would probably turn your fingers green. It didn’t matter.

You’d stood before him, with the waves crashing behind you and the gulls crying overhead, and spoken your vows. Ones that you’d come up with the night before, written onto the back of a dinner receipt — to kiss him whenever you wanted to, to steal every single one of his shirts, and to love him until the sea no longer touched the shore. And in turn, Mydei had promised himself — every part of the man that he was — to you.

“I’m yours,” he’d said. And the second he’d slipped the ring onto your finger, he’d kissed you — not a chaste peck, but a deep, claiming kiss that had tasted of you’re the one and I love you more than words and forever. You’d melted against him, laughing, hands clinging to his shoulders as if you never wanted to let go. A group of passing tourists had whooped and cheered, but he had barely even heard them. In that moment, there was just you.

Only you.

“It wasn’t a fling.”

Phainon glances over, but Mydei doesn’t elaborate. He just stares ahead, closing his hand into a fist, and lets the familiar shape of the metal band etch itself into his skin.