Hiii ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚! May I request an Anaxa, Phainon and Aglaea whit a fellow chryso heir ((reader can be the chryso heir of anything really, passion,abundance ect)) gn Reader that's like the Robin of Amphoreus? Their very beloved and revered for being crowned the best singer of the era, their kindness, Benevolence and cheerfulness even made them more popular . Which made other singers who have one sided rivalry whit reader extremely jealous and envious. So they hired an cleaner ((assassin from the council of elders btw)) to take reader out ꉂ૮(°□°'˶)ა..
So during one of Readers concert, they were watching the idol perfume until reader got shot in the neck😨.. But thankfully reader Survived thanks of hyacinth. Than the guards caught the assassin that tried to kill reader 😱
Anyway have a good day! You don't need to do this request if you dobt wanna. Take care₍ᐢ⑅•ᴗ•⑅ᐢ₎♡!
ʚɞ The cut that always bleeds ʚɞ
Pairings: Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Aglaea x Reader
Summary: Being the Chrysos Heir of Dream, you guide the lost ones with your voice to the light of each dream. Your voice lights up the dark but the darkness falls like a drape over the ones who are envious of you. During a concert, your lover watches you with a gaze that speaks love, only to have their hands covered in your blood. Luckily, Hyacine is able to heal you and they take an oath that no blade will touch you ever again.
Tags: Mild angst, mention of blood and death, attempted assassination, Chrysos Heir!Reader, Chrysos Heir of Dream!Reader, Reader sings too, ay, happy ending, Phainon is a sobbing mess, Reader becomes temporarily mute
A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Hey guys, is this angsty enough, ngl i got carried away w Phainon, he is such an angst material, anyways, hope you enjoy!
⚘ Anaxa:
You were more than just the Chrysos Heir of Dream — you were the stillness that made Anaxa’s world bearable. Ever since the fall of his homeland, his nights had been tormented by memories, visions he couldn’t shut out. But your voice? It silenced the noise. It soothed him like it once did his sister. You didn’t just lull the lost into dreams — you gave Anaxa a reason to rest.
He sits far from the stage that day, concealed in the back rows to avoid drawing attention. But even from a distance, his gaze never leaves you — the way your voice spills like golden light, the way your presence seems to command the dream-realm itself.
And then the shot rings out.
Anaxa doesn’t breathe. His body reacts before his mind catches up — he’s already on his feet, calling out for Hyacine in a voice that cuts through the chaos. Then he’s running. Pushing past others. Dropping to his knees beside you.
There’s blood on your throat. Your eyes fluttering, mouth trembling to sing a song that won’t come out.
Anaxa cradles you, his hand pressing over the wound with controlled precision — but his heart is thundering in his chest. He's already making mental calculations, tracing every possible angle: who fired, who ordered it, who knew your schedule.
He was right about the others. The ones envious of your light. And now, they will suffer. Not swiftly. Not cleanly.
Later, in the Twilight Courtyard, you wake to find him at your bedside, reading — not a report, not a strategy memo — but a small, leather-bound book of old lullabies. His voice stops the moment your eyes open.
He closes the book. “Your voice,” he says, “will return. Hyacine’s confirmed it.”
You try to speak. He shakes his head. Not yet.
“They caught the cleaner. The ones behind it will never see daylight again.”
His hand comes to rest above your heart, steady and warm. “I will protect this voice… this life,” he says softly. “Even if I must stand against the gods themselves.”
He leans down, forehead pressed gently to yours. “Until the day I die… no hands will paint themselves in your blood.”
⚘ Aglaea:
To Aglaea, your existence was poetry. A living sculpture carved by Mnestia herself, draped in the essence of dreams. Your voice — ephemeral, divine — was the only thing she couldn’t weave with her golden threads, and so she cherished it all the more.
You were her lover, her muse, the most beautiful thing she had ever known.
During the concert, Aglaea watches from afar. She cannot attend in person, but her threads — thousands of them — wrap around the venue like unseen guardians. Every heartbeat, every breath you take, she knows.
Which is why she knows the instant you’re shot.
Before the crowd even screams, her threads constrict, tightening like a net. Her voice commands the Twilight Courtyard and within moments, an armed escort floods the hall. The assassin doesn’t escape. Nor do those who funded it.
Their punishment is swift — and absolute.
When you wake in the Courtyard, the softest golden light filters through the curtains. Aglaea sits beside you, hands folded on her lap, her posture straight — but her lips quiver slightly with relief.
“Beloved,” she breathes, and her fingers wrap around yours. “You’re awake.”
She tells you everything with a calm, silken voice. The healer’s report. The damage to your throat — shallow, non-fatal. The consequences delivered to your enemies.
“You will sing again,” she assures you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Then, with a tenderness few ever see from her, she leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek.
“I will keep my threads around you always. Even if I must wrap the entirety of Amphoreus in gold — I will not let them touch you again.” Her grip on your hand tightens, her blind gaze locking on you as if she sees every part of you still.
“You are my dream,” she whispers. “And I will not let the world wake without you in it.”
⚘ Phainon:
As the Chrysos Heir of Dream, you are beloved by Amphoreus — and all of Okhema. Every soul that has ever wandered through a dream knows your face, if not your name. And among them stands Phainon — fellow Chrysos Heir, Flame-Chaser, and the only one who depends on you not just for peace, but for sanity.
You and Phainon have grown close over the years. You realize just how close the day he opens up to you about his recurring dream — the one where he pushes a boulder up a mountain, only to watch it tumble down again. Over and over. A cycle with no end.
It’s you he turns to for help. Your voice, your songs, the calm you bring — it’s the only thing that lets him rest at night. And so, at every concert, he’s there. Always front row. Always watching you as if you’ve descended from the stars themselves.
They say your voice is a gift that Aquilla forgot to steal — the last angel that slipped through their grasp when the sky sealed shut. When you sing, you guide the lost and the weary through their dreams. And Phainon watches you, drinking it in. Your beauty. Your brilliance. Your strength. All of it.
He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you — like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
That’s why he blames himself for what happens next.
You’re reaching toward him, your voice high and bright — then suddenly, it cuts. Blood stains your clothes. You collapse mid-note.
For a heartbeat, Phainon is frozen. Then he’s sprinting up to the stage, the crowd a blur of screams and panic. He drops to his knees, gathers you in his arms, presses your body close to his chest, his hands shaking as they try to stop the bleeding from your neck.
You’re still breathing — barely. He’s whispering prayers to every Titan he can name, eyes wide and frantic as he scans the crowd. And then he sees them.
Cleaners.
He tightens his hold on you. He will find them. He will make them pay.
The rest is a blur. He remembers yelling. The scent of your blood. The healer’s hands. The cold stone walls of the Twilight Courtyard. He doesn’t leave your side. Not once. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t speak, just keeps holding your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane.
He tells himself if you die, so will he.
But you don’t.
You wake.
Your eyelids flutter open, slow and heavy. Your limbs ache. Even the act of breathing feels strange. Your gaze lifts — and there he is. Phainon. At your bedside. Tear-stained, wide-eyed, his hand wrapped tightly around yours.
“Dawnlight…” he breathes, his voice cracking. “You’re awake.” The tears fall freely. He doesn’t bother hiding them.
You try to speak. Nothing comes out. The panic sets in — have you lost your voice?
Phainon sees it all on your face. His grip on your hand tightens.
“No, no — Hyacine said it’s just the wound. You’ll recover. You’ll sing again, Dawnlight. You will…” His voice breaks into whispers, repeating the words like a prayer.
Then, quieter still: “The culprit’s been caught. The ones behind it — the Council, the Cleaners — they’ve been imprisoned. But if you want more… just say the word. I’ll do whatever you ask. Anything.”
He leans forward, his forehead pressing gently to yours. His voice shudders against your skin.
“I thought I’d lost you. I can’t—” His breath hitches. “Please. Don’t leave me. Stay with me till the end. I need you.”
His tears soak your shoulder as he pulls you into his arms — not as a Flame-Chaser, not as a Chrysos Heir — but simply as Phainon. The boy who once watched his home burn. The man who found light in your dreams. The one who would give the rest of eternity just to hear you sing again.
You were never just his peace. You were — and always will be — his reason.
