Hello! Can I an platonic request? Like the chryso heirs(( of your choice :D)) white a fellow chryso heir reader that's like an kid 8-10 years old.. Because their so young, emotional which kinda make them irrational to the eyes of many and clueless the council of elders always picks on them? Like "bully them" sorta?
ʚɞ Sadder days, why do they keep on using me? ʚɞ
Pairings: Phainon, Mydei, Aglaea, Anaxa, Tribbie, Castorice, Hyacine, Cipher + Reader (Platonic)
Summary: Being a child and a Chrysos Heir isn't the easiest life to lead. Before you stand the Council of Elders who question your worthiness, restricts you of privileges. Innocently, you let your fellow Chrysos Heir know about this, thinking it of a funny joke. But their protective reactions say otherwise.
Tags: Fluff, child!Reader, Chrysos Heir!Reader, bullying mentioned, nickname 'Pebble' by Cipher, CW: Caenis
A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! HEY GUYS 😘 um tbh i didn't think id write all thw Chrysos Heirs, my indecisive ass couldn't pick 3 so i wrote them all, n i wanted to practice writing them, CIPHER MY DAUGHTER, IF HER PART LOOKS LONGER TO U ITS BC IT IS I LOVE CIPHER, ALSO ‼️‼️‼️ Aglaea is there in almost all the scenerios bc i wanted to keep her beef w Caenis and i wanted to see Caenis get cooked by her, anyways, hope you enjoy!
⚘ Phainon:
You don’t mean to cause a stir. You’re just playing with Phainon in the garden, gathering poppy crowns and giggling over flower names when you casually mention how the Elders always make you skip dinner to memorize ancient hymns—how sometimes, you fall asleep hungry. You don’t say it like it’s a tragedy. Just another thing you’re told is “normal for a Chrysos Heir.”
Phainon stills. The laughter drains from his golden eyes, replaced with an unreadable calm. “They made you go to sleep hungry?” he repeats softly, as if confirming it with himself. When you nod innocently, he offers you a little smile—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
When Phainon enters the Council chamber, his presence hits like a cold wave. The smile is gone. His sword is at his side, but it’s his voice that cuts deeper. “I don’t remember starvation being part of divine inheritance,” he says with polite fury. “So unless Caenis would like the Court to believe we mistreat children under the name of legacy—” Caenis tries to defend protocol, but Aglaea arrives silently, crossing the chamber like a shadow made of light.
She stops beside Phainon, her voice slicing through. “This Council does not decide who is worthy of meals.” Her sharp eyes land directly on Caenis. “Let it happen again, and Chrysos Heirs will not be the only one watching.”
That day, Phainon sneaks into your room with a basket of your favorite pastries and a bright crimson cloak. “To keep you warm,” he says, gently tucking it around your shoulders. “And full.” His eyes shine with something fiercely protective.
⚘ Mydei:
You’re trying to explain why you couldn’t join the morning drills— “One of the Council Elders said I wasn’t allowed because I ‘stumble too much,’” you say, with a small shrug. Mydei had invited you to watch his sword forms, hoping to inspire you. You thought it was funny at first, even. Mydei doesn’t.
He goes stiff like a storm’s brewing inside him. “Which one?” he asks bluntly. When you tell him, he huffs a sharp breath and mutters, “Coward. Talking like that to a kid.” He doesn’t say much else—just grips your hand and tells you to follow him.
The door to the Council opens with a slam. Mydei doesn’t wait for permission to speak. “Let me make one thing clear,” he growls. “If I hear anyone—anyone—calling a Chrysos Heir weak again, you'll face me in battle. And I won’t be gentle.”
Caenis raises a brow, but Mydei steps forward with a soldier’s bite. “You think you’re teachers? You can’t even train your own mouths.”
The Council stays quiet. Mydei only leaves after Aglaea places a hand on his shoulder and says, “They’ve heard you. Now let them listen.” Her gaze meets Caenis’ like lightning meeting stone.
Later, Mydei gives you a wooden sword shaped like his own. “Next time someone calls you clumsy, show them this. And swing it.” He thinks he's done a great job, at being your self-proclaimed older brother.
⚘ Aglaea:
You didn’t expect her to take it personally. You’re sitting with Aglaea, gently brushing gold thread through her loom while she works, when you mention how the Elders often "joke" that your voice is too soft to be taken seriously. “That’s why they skip me when we make announcements,” you add with a laugh.
Aglaea’s thread stills. “And you believe them?” she asks quietly. You shrug. “They’re just grown-ups. They know more.” Her hands lower from the loom entirely. “No. They should know better.”
She enters the Council chamber with poise, but her tone could cleave marble. “You ridicule a Chrysos Heir for softness when it is precisely softness that weaves our world?” Caenis tries to defend it as “harmless critique,” but Aglaea turns to him fully. “You silence children with cruelty and call it structure. I call it cowardice.” Her voice resonates like bells in frost.
Caenis falters, for once unable to summon a counter. Aglaea’s threads glimmer faintly at her fingertips. “If I ever hear of this happening again, Caenis, your title will not shield you from public scrutiny. Do not test me.”
Later, she invites you to recite the announcements beside her. She amplifies your voice with a golden thread wrapped gently around your throat. “You don’t need to speak louder,” she whispers. “Only truer.”
⚘ Anaxa:
You're munching on fruit slices with Anaxa in the twilight courtyard, swinging your legs off the edge of the marble ledge when you casually say, “The elders said I should never sit there again—something about 'dirtying the marble with a lowborn's presence.' But they were joking, I think?”
Anaxa doesn’t laugh. In fact, he freezes.
You watch him for a moment before he rises silently, his silver decorated gun glinting beneath the faint light. “Stay here,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes the trees stop rustling. When you look up, he's already ruffling your hair before he decides to leave, the gun never leaving his side.
At the next council assembly, Anaxa stands before them, posture straight, gaze unflinching. “If you ever use your authority to wound one of our own again, I will remind you of your place beneath the Heirs,” he said with that rare, cold fire that made even Caenis lean back. Aglaea, seated beside him, adds calmly, “Would you like us to issue a decree about seating, Caenis? Or are you worried it would make your favoritism too obvious?”
Later, you find Anaxa sitting beside you again, wordlessly handing you a fresh fruit plate and adjusting your seat on the marble ledge with a cushion he’s brought. “Let them speak again,” he mutters, “and I’ll make sure they eat their tongues.”
⚘ Tribbie:
You’re on the floor of the garden sketching creatures when Tribbie flops beside you with a sandwich. She offers you half, but you hesitate—“The Elders said I shouldn’t ask for extra food again,” you explain. “They said it makes me look greedy.” Tribbie blinks. Then blinks again.
Then she laughs. “Pfft. Idiots.” You think she’s joking—until she’s marching off across the marble halls, determined she is. She's let Aglaea know everything beforehand to prepare something to have the Council's mouth shut.
She bursts into the Council meeting mid-session. “Who told a child they were greedy for being hungry?” she demands, voice echoing off every polished wall. One of the Elders stutters out something about “teaching restraint,” but Tribbie dismissed them immediately. “You want to teach restraint? Try restraining yourselves from being terrible.”
Just then, Trianne, Trinnon slip in behind her. “We agree,” Trianne says smoothly, already feeling proud at her own intervention. “Very distasteful.” Caenis tries to object—but Trinnon starts unpacking notes of complaints filed by others. Suddenly, the Elders have nothing to say.
Tribbie returns with her arms full of bread rolls, cookies, and a sticky note that has the Tribios and you drawn on it, presumably Trianne's artwork. She plops them down beside you. “Eat like a monarch, heir.”
When you point at the artwork, Trianne suddenly flies over to you, Trinnon tagging along. For the rest of the day, you're surrounded with the company of who you thought were angels, if only you understood how much of it is true.
⚘ Castorice:
You are curled up in the Library of Phillia, showing Castorice a new drawing you made of her butterflies. Offhandedly, you say, “The council laughed at my handwriting when I gave them my poem. They said ‘a Chrysos Heir shouldn’t scribble like a child.’” You smile. “But it’s okay. I’ll just draw instead.”
Castorice blinks, her smile fading.
“That... was not kind,” she says quietly, but there is something brewing behind her eyes—something sharp. She nods to herself, closes your drawing book, and stands. “I’ll be back soon.”
The elders were deep in deliberation when Castorice entered, silent as snowfall. Without greeting, she places your poem on the table before them. “You mocked this,” she says softly. “Mocked a child who creates beauty without pride.” She meets Caenis’s gaze, not blinking. “Do you even remember what it means to feel joy when someone gives you something they made?”
Caenis opens her mouth—but Aglaea, who's been there for a 'conversation' with the Council, speaks first. “Apologize,” she commands. “Or would you rather Castorice recite the council’s mockery before all of Okhema?”
The next day, Castorice returns to the Library with a gentle smile and a new pen set, custom-engraved. “Write anything you want,” she says, setting down her own writing beside yours in hopes of inspiring you. “And if they laugh again, I’ll have them see the work of death myself.”
⚘ Hyacine:
You're gardening in the sun with Hyacine, pulling weeds with muddy hands. Laughing, you say, “The elders said I looked like a wild rat in the wheat fields last time.” You don't realize anything was wrong until Hyacine stops.
Hyacine sits back, hands frozen on the trowel. She tilts her head slightly, face unreadable.
“Is that so?” she asks softly.
Later that evening, she walks alone into the council chamber, Little Ica following her behind. The room quiets as she approaches Caenis, her demeanor just as polite as before.
“I believe it is beneath your station to insult a Chrysos Heir’s appearance while they tend to the lands that feed you,” Hyacine says calmly. “Perhaps you’ve confused your position as Elder with that of Tyrant.”
Aglaea raises an eyebrow from her seat. “Should I schedule a disciplinary hearing, Elder Caenis?”
The outcome is a quiet shift in the way the council looks at you afterward—stiff backs, awkward greetings. That night, Hyacine returns to the field with a wide-brimmed hat and gloves in your size. “Let them come here and work a day,” she says gently. “They won't be able to do half the work you've done.” At that, Little Ica nods its head. You can only smile and giggle, playing with the small animal and blissfully unaware of the situation that had unfolded and folded before your own eyes.
⚘ Cipher:
You’re sitting cross-legged in the Archives Hall with Cipher, who’s animatedly decoding one of the ancient puzzles meant only for Chrysos Heirs. The two of you have always had a curious sibling-like bond — she calls you “pebble,” even though she’s never told you why. As you're watching her flick a holographic rune between her fingers, you casually remark:
“Elder Caenis said I don’t need a voice, just obedience. And that I’m lucky to be allowed in the Twilight Courtyard at all. Isn’t that funny?”
Cipher’s hand freezes mid-air. The rune stops spinning.
Her blue eyes shift sideways toward you, her smile still on — but it’s tight now. Too tight.
“Funny,” she echoes with a little giggle. “Oh, pebble… that’s not funny. That’s war.”
She leans forward, brushing your cheek with her knuckles in a seemingly affectionate gesture, but the glint in her eyes is pure wildfire. You don’t realize it yet, but Cipher's already scheming. And the Council of Elders? They just became her next puzzle to break.
Cipher never storms into the Council chambers. That’s not her way. Instead, over the next week, strange things begin happening. First, an announcement from the Twilight Treasury: several of the Council's estates have been flagged for "historical debt inconsistencies" — despite being paid in full centuries ago. Then, the lights in their personal quarters flicker endlessly in a Morse-like code that spells "Shame. Shame. Shame." in Old Okhemian script. Mysterious scrolls arrive at their doors bearing scandalous (but utterly false) allegations of betrayal against the Chrysos Lineage. The public stirs. Whispers spread like wild vines.
The Council calls an emergency meeting with Aglaea, demanding she identify and restrain the culprit behind the chaos.
Standing before the silver dais, Aglaea regards Caenis and the others with that glimmering stillness of hers — the unbreakable elegance and serene silence.
“You believe someone has targeted you through manipulation, forged accounts, and deception?” she asks, voice silk over ice.
Caenis stiffens. “Yes. The records and the symbols — they’re Cipher’s design. She must be punished.”
Aglaea’s lips part in a soft smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Mmm. How unfortunate,” she replies simply. “But I see no reason to intervene. Perhaps it is your accounts that deserve closer examination.”
She turns away without another word, her threads already weaving protection around you in invisible rings.
Cipher meets you later that night under the sky of the Twilight Courtyard. She’s wearing that same carefree grin, legs swinging from the balcony as if nothing happened.
“Pebble,” she hums. “I handled it. They won’t be bothering you anymore.”
You blink, confused. “What did you do?
She leans in conspiratorially and winks. “Just... moved a few numbers around. Drew some attention. Gave them a taste of feeling small. You know, justice — but with extra glitter.”
You don’t understand all of it, but you smile anyway. Cipher bumps her shoulder against yours and tosses you a tiny silver coin etched with the Council’s crest — and a cartoon goose stamped over it. “Keep it,” she says. “A souvenir. From your very first coup.”
