synopsis: Beneath Zuko's usual calm and decisiveness, he grows shy and soft in your hands, still unused to comfort that comes so easily.
wc: 2.1k
The bedroom was too quiet for a place so large.
Candlelight flickered along towering walls of carved stone, catching on gold inlays and silk drapery that spilled from the canopy above the bed. The air smelled faintly of melted wax and something softer-jasmine, maybe-clinging to the sheets, to the curtains, to you. Outside, the palace had long since settled into silence, guards posted like statues beyond thick doors, the world held at a respectful distance.
Inside, everything felt… close.
Zuko stood near the edge of the room at first, as if crossing it required permission he did not yet have. Long black hair fell over his shoulders in a loose spill, unbound, unfamiliar like this. It softened him in a way no one else was ever allowed to see, save for the moments in battle. The scar over his left eye caught the candlelight when he turned his head-sharp, red against his skin-but even that seemed less intimidating tonight.
Because he wouldn’t look at you.
Not fully.
Golden eyes flickered in your direction and then away just as quickly, like he’d touched something too hot.
“…You should rest,” he said, voice steady, almost too steady, the kind he used in court, in front of others, when every word was measured and deliberate.
But there was no one here to perform for.
You were sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, watching him with a quiet patience that only seemed to make it worse. The mattress dipped slightly beneath you, silk whispering with the smallest shift of your weight. It drew his attention again-brief, betraying-and this time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Then his face flushed.
It was subtle at first. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. A soft color rising along his cheekbones.
He turned away again.
“…It’s late,” he added, as if that solved anything.
You almost smiled.
Because this was the same man who faced down entire courts without hesitation. The same man whose presence alone could silence a room. Whose voice carried authority without ever needing to rise.
And yet now…
Now Zuko looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands.
They flexed at his sides, then stilled, then shifted again like he was trying to decide where they belonged. His posture remained straight out of habit, but there was tension in it now, something uncertain threading through all that practiced composure.
You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not coming to bed?”
The question was simple.
It ruined him.
His shoulders stiffened, just for a second, before he forced them to relax. Slowly, he turned back toward you-this time committing to it, even if it clearly cost him something.
Golden eyes met yours.
Held.
And immediately betrayed him.
The flush deepened, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. His jaw tightened, like he was annoyed with himself for it, but he didn’t look away this time. That might’ve been the only thing he had left to cling to-his stubbornness.
“I…” He stopped. Tried again. “I will.”
A pause.
“I simply-”
He exhaled, slow and controlled, like steadying himself before stepping into battle.
Ridiculous.
There was no battlefield here. Just you. Just a quiet room and too many candles and the weight of something new settling between you both.
Still, he moved.
Each step toward the bed was measured, deliberate, as though he could maintain control that way. As though he could pretend his pulse wasn’t betraying him, wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silence.
When he reached you, he hesitated again.
Closer now, you could see it more clearly-the way his golden eyes softened despite himself, the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly when you looked up at him. The scar over his eye didn’t make him look harsher like it did in the daylight. In this light, it only made him look… real.
Human.
And very, very flustered.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly.
You didn’t deny it.
That only made it worse.
Color bloomed deeper across his face, and for a moment, he looked like he might retreat again- step back, put distance between you and whatever this was.
But he didn’t.
Instead, slowly, almost cautiously, he sat beside you.
The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing him closer, the space between you shrinking to something fragile and noticeable. His arm brushed yours- just barely- and he froze like the contact had sent a shock through him.
It might as well have.
His hand hovered for a second, uncertain, before settling on the bed between you. Fingers curled slightly into the silk, gripping it like an anchor.
“I have faced worse situations than this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
And yet he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you again without that soft, helpless flush returning. Calm. Honorable.
Except here.
You take his hand, guiding him to sit between your legs on the down-filled bed. gathering his hair between your fingers, the silky strands slip with ease. you lift a strand, smelling it- jasmine, burnt cedar.
Zuko goes still the moment your fingers lace with his. Not tense-no, not pulling away-but aware.
Deeply, acutely aware.
And yet he lets you guide him.
There’s no resistance as you gently pull him back, settling him between your legs on the plush, down-filled bed. The softness gives beneath his weight, but he feels anything but grounded. If anything, it only makes him more unsteady, more conscious of every point of contact-your knees at his sides, your hands in his hair, your breath just behind him.
His breath catches.
Your fingers gather his hair like silk, and it is; smooth, well-kept, slipping easily through your touch. He doesn’t tie it back tonight, didn’t even think to. Now he’s painfully aware of that too, of how exposed it makes him feel, how close it lets you get.
When you lift a strand and bring it to your nose, he nearly forgets how to breathe altogether.
Jasmine. Burnt cedar. Him.
“Zuko, my love, why are you so shy all of a sudden?” A teasing lilt graced your lips along with a smile he did not miss. You were messing with him.
He exhales quietly through his nose, like he’s trying to steady something unraveling in his chest-but it doesn’t quite work. Not when your voice is laced with that soft teasing, not when your lips brush his jaw-
Once.
Twice.
A third time, slower.
His hands tighten slightly where they rest on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric there. His shoulders draw up just a fraction before he forces them to relax again, but the effect lingers-subtle, but unmistakable.
“You-” he starts, then stops.
His voice isn’t as steady as before.
He swallows, tilting his head just slightly-just enough to give you more space, though he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.
“You’re… making it difficult,” he murmurs, quieter now, the words slipping out like a reluctant confession.
Another kiss.
Softer this time.
His composure cracks a little more.
A faint, helpless flush spreads across his cheeks again, deeper than before, and this time it doesn’t fade when he tries to will it away. His golden eyes flicker downward, like he’s searching for something-control, maybe, or the right words-but they don’t stay there long.
They close instead.
Just for a second.
Because it’s easier than trying to hold himself together while you do this to him.
“I'm not shy,” he adds, though there’s no real conviction behind it now. Not when his voice dips like that, not when his breath hitches almost imperceptibly as your lips linger near his jaw.
Not when he leans-just slightly-back into you.
As if drawn there without thinking.
“…I am simply unused to this.”
That, at least, is honest.
Painfully so.
You laugh softly. "Still? This is routine now, is it not?"
His hand lifts then, hesitant, uncertain, before settling lightly over yours where it still threads through his hair. He doesn’t stop you- doesn’t even try.
He’s quiet for a moment after that-your hand still in his hair, his resting over yours-like he’s weighing something small, something almost… embarrassing.
Then, softer than before-
“Will you do my hair?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to feel fragile.
“Just to sleep in?”
It’s such a simple request. Almost boyish, in a way that doesn’t match the man everyone else sees. No command, no expectation-just a quiet ask, like he’s not entirely sure you’ll say yes.
“Of course.”
The answer comes easily, warmly, and something in him loosens.
Not all at once-but enough.
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing as he exhales slowly. Carefully, he shifts, turning just enough to give you better access, settling more comfortably between your legs. This time, when his back brushes against you, he doesn’t go still.
He leans into it.
Just slightly.
Your fingers move through his hair again, more deliberate now, smoothing through the long, dark strands. They fall easily into place beneath your touch, soft and warm from his skin. He lets his head tilt forward when you guide it, compliant in a way he never is with anyone else.
The room feels quieter now.
Closer.
His eyes drift shut as you begin, your fingers parting sections, weaving them together with gentle care. Each movement is slow, unhurried-something meant to soothe rather than impress.
And it works.
His breathing steadies, evening out as he sinks into the feeling. The faintest furrow in his brow disappears, replaced with something softer, something almost… peaceful.
“…You’ve done this before,” he murmurs, voice low, touched with quiet curiosity.
Not suspicion. Not doubt.
Just… noticing.
Your fingers glide through another section, smoothing it down, and he exhales again-this time heavier, like it’s pulling something deeper out of him.
There’s a long pause.
Then, quieter still-
“My mother used to do my hair.” Zuko says, breaking the silence. He rarely spoke of his mother these days.
The words are simple, but they settle heavily in the air between you.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
Doesn’t move away.
If anything, he leans back just a little more into your touch, trusting, unguarded in a way that feels rare-like something you’re being allowed to see.
Your hands continue their gentle work, braiding his hair loosely, something comfortable enough to sleep in. A few strands slip free near his face, framing it softly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Not tonight.
His hand, still resting over yours from before, shifts slightly-fingers brushing against your wrist, then settling there.
Not stopping you.
Just… staying.
“…It feels the same…yours I mean.” he admits, barely above a whisper.
Your hands still for just a moment in his hair.
Not stopping-never stopping-but slowing, softening, like the words deserve something gentler in return.
“...she used to brush my hair when I was a child,” he says quietly.
There’s no bitterness in his voice. Not quite. Just something distant. Remembered.
“Father thought it wasn’t a thing boys should do.”
Your fingers resume their slow rhythm, smoothing, parting, weaving. Careful. Intentional. Like you’re holding something fragile without ever letting him feel it might break.
“Your hands feel like hers.”
That makes your chest ache.
He doesn’t move when he says it. Doesn’t look at you. If anything, he sinks further back against you, his weight settling more fully, trusting you to hold it.
The candles flicker.
The room breathes around you.
And he-this man who carries himself like steel and fire in every other room-sits quiet and open in your hands.
You lean forward slightly, your lips brushing the crown of his head this time. Softer than before. Slower.
“Then I’ll do it as often as you want,” you murmur.
No teasing now.
Just warmth.
Your fingers continue the braid, loose and comfortable, something meant for rest rather than formality. A few strands slip free, grazing his cheek, and you smooth them back without thinking.
He exhales.
It’s different this time-deeper, like something long held finally eased.
“…He was wrong,” he says after a moment.
There’s a quiet steadiness to it now. Not defiance. Not anger.
Just certainty.
His hand shifts again, still resting over yours, but this time his fingers curl slightly-just enough to hold. Not to stop you.
Just to feel you there.
“I don’t care what he thought.”
Another pause.
Then, softer, “I would rather have this.”
And he leans back into you again, eyes closed, letting your hands move through his hair like it’s something he’s been missing for far longer than he ever allowed himself to admit.
synopsis, a/n: I see them as potential dads (save for regto cause ya know). ergo. i must write them as dads. girl dads. sfw. features enjin, corvus, gris, zodyl, and regto
wc: idk.
-Enjin + Learning To Say No.
You finally sit him down after yet another morning of your daughter eating sweets before breakfast because Enjin caved at her pouty eyes.
“Enjin. You have to stop giving her everything she wants. She’s got you wrapped around her finger. You’re the dad—you have to say no sometimes.” He looks genuinely scandalized, umbrella propped against his shoulder like a prop in his dramatics.
“Say no? To her? Do you even hear yourself?”
The next day, he tries. Baby girl wants to climb on the table for the third time. She looks at him with those wide eyes, hands reaching.
He steels himself, crouches down, and says firmly:
“…No.”
She blinks once… and then her lip wobbles. Her eyes well up. A single fat tear rolls down her cheek.
Enjin immediately panics—scoops her up, umbrella clattering to the floor.
“Wait! No, no, don’t cry—alright, fine, you can climb the table! You can have the whole table, I’ll buy you five tables!”
From the doorway, you pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Enjin.” He freezes mid–pep talk, his daughter happily giggling again now that she’s been scooped up. He glances at you guiltily.
“…I said no. Briefly.”
Later that night, he admits in a half-whisper while your daughter sleeps against his chest:
“I don’t want her to ever look at me and think I’m not on her side. That’s why I can’t say no.”
You press his hand and gently remind him:
“Sometimes saying no is being on her side. She needs that too.”
The next attempt? He actually succeeds. He tells her no when she tries to eat crayons, and though she pouts, he distracts her with a silly umbrella dance until she’s giggling instead. Baby steps—for both of them
-Corvus + Bay Girl Being Chaotic
Corvus is seated at his desk, huge frame hunched over papers, maps, and mission reports. He’s dead focused, that calm intensity radiating from him… but on his lap and shoulders? A baby with zero respect for authority. She’s crawling across his arms while he’s trying to write, little fingers smudging ink. At one point she climbs his broad back like it’s a mountain, squealing happily as she tugs at his hair. He doesn’t even flinch, just sighs softly. To anyone else, he’s the boss—but to her, he’s a jungle gym. When she goes quiet, he looks up—always suspicious of silence. That’s when he sees it: she’s sitting on his desk, happily gnawing on a very familiar pair of round glasses. Semiu’s. Corvus stares for a long beat, then pinches the bridge of his nose.
“…How did you even get those?”
He plucks the glasses from her mouth, wipes them carefully, and sets them aside—though he knows Semiu is probably going to notice the tiny teeth marks later. Baby girl pouts, so Corvus wordlessly hands her a different “toy”—a safe wooden block—before tucking her against his chest. She immediately starts climbing again, trying to stand on his thighs and reach his papers. Finally, he just leans back in his chair, letting her crawl and babble all over him while he keeps one massive hand steady at her back so she never falls. His tone is dry but fond: “You’re worse than the Raiders, little crow.”
Later, Semiu walks in and freezes when he sees his chewed-up glasses on the table. Corvus doesn’t even look up from his work, just says calmly:
“…Ask her about it.”
-Gris + Baby Girl's First Steps:
At first, Gris hesitates—he knows this is a big milestone, and part of him wishes you were there to see it too. But when his daughter lets go of the couch and wobbles toward him with her tiny arms stretched, his heart melts.
He crouches down low, massive frame shrinking into something soft and approachable, his scarred face breaking into the gentlest smile.
“Come on, sweet girl, you’ve got it. Papa’s right here.”
She takes one step, then another—nearly topples, but Gris is quick to catch her. Instead of putting her back on the couch, he sets her upright again and encourages her with that patient, steady voice he uses in the field when guiding rookies. He holds out one big hand, not touching, just hovering—letting her know she can do it on her own, but that he’s always there if she falls. When she finally makes it into his arms, Gris actually laughs out loud—a rare, deep, unrestrained sound. He scoops her up and spins her once before planting a kiss on her forehead.
"That's my brave girl. Look at you, so big,"
Later, when you come home, you find Gris sitting on the floor with her on his lap, her little legs kicking excitedly. He admits shyly, almost guilty:
“…She took her first steps today. I…I wanted you to see it too, but—I couldn’t stop her.”
To make it up, Gris patiently coaxes her to do it again for you, staying behind her this time so you can watch her toddle across the room.
-Zodyl + Baby Girl's Bedtime
Zodyl shifted the small bundle higher in his arms, her tiny fists curling into the fabric of his shirt. The house was quiet, the faint glow of the lantern casting warm shadows across the walls.
“Alright, little star,” he murmured, his deep voice softened just for her. “One last bottle, then we settle in.”
He eased into the old rocking chair by the bed, feeding her slowly, watching her eyes flutter heavier with each sip. She made a little hum, almost a sigh, as her lashes brushed her cheeks. Zodyl smiled faintly—an expression only she ever got to see. When she finally finished, he set the bottle aside and held her against his shoulder, swaying gently as he rubbed her back. A soft burp escaped, followed by a sleepy whimper.
“There it is,” he whispered, pressing a careful kiss to the crown of her head. “Brave girl.”
He laid her down in the crib, tucking the blanket snug around her. For a moment, she fussed—tiny legs kicking against the fabric—but Zodyl rested a broad hand over her stomach until she stilled, comforted by the weight and warmth.
“Sleep, baby girl,” he said, voice almost reverent. “I’m right here.”
Her breaths evened out, and only then did he lean back, lingering by her side. The world could fall apart beyond these walls, but here, in this quiet, it was just the two of them.
-Regto + Eating Vegetables
Regto sat cross-legged on the floor, spoon in hand, glaring down at the small bowl of mashed carrots like it had personally insulted him. Across from him, your little girl sat in her highchair, lips clamped tight and head turned stubbornly to the side.
“C’mon, kid. It’s carrots,” he coaxed, waving the spoon in front of her face. “Orange, bright, looks fun, yeah? You eat junk off the floor half the time, but this—this is where you draw the line?”
She gave him a look. A full-on squint, as if daring him to try again.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Regto huffed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright, new plan.” He took the spoon and made a low vroom noise, pretending it was some kind of racing hovercar zooming through the air. “Open the gates, champ, this baby’s comin’ in hot—”
Just as he went for it, she slapped the spoon right out of his hand. Mashed carrots splattered across his shirt.
You finally lost it, laughing into your hand while Regto froze, staring down at the mess on his chest. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, deadpan. “...She did that on purpose.”
“She’s just smart enough to know when she’s winning,” you teased, walking over with a damp cloth.
Regto wiped at the stain, muttering, “You think you’re funny, huh? I’m not losin’ to someone who still can’t even pronounce my name.”
Your daughter squealed—delighted, victorious—and Regto groaned, slumping back in defeat. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, baby girl. Next time, I’m bringin’ out the peas. You won’t stand a chance.”
Phainon, who kisses your knuckles without realizing. It’s habitual, like breathing. Sometimes mid-conversation, mid-laugh, even when your hands are dirty from gardening or holding a spoon. You could be rambling about something silly, and he’ll just—kiss your hand. Like it’s a tether grounding him.
When he braids you hair, it's...clumsy. He's too careful. He fumbles with strands, mutters things like "Too many gods, how do you keep this from tangling?" But he always tries, even if the braids end up uneven. You never fix them. You just kiss his wrist and thank him.
Phainon, who doesn't think you fragile. But it undoes him to see your face twist with emotion. He cups your cheeks gently, whispers “Let me hold it for you. Whatever it is—give it to me. Let me carry it.”
When you sit between his legs when he's reading or polishing his armor, you lean back against his chest. Other times, you just sit close enough to feel the warmth of his thighs and let your foot press against his. He doesn't say anything—he just reaches down and curls his fingers with yours.
Phainon knows what it looks like when you're faking your smiles and when you're not. He's observant. He notices the way your eyes crinkle, memorizes what kind of fruit you like best in summer. Which memory makes you tear up. What part of your shoulder you rub when you’re overwhelmed.
He doesn't let you walk near the curb- wordlessly, he always switches what side you're on before you realize it. Every time. City streets, dark alleys, early morning walks—his hand finds your waist, and he nudges you gently away from traffic. If you try to argue about it, he just says, "Don’t fight me on this, starlight."
Enjin catches you mid-conversation like he always does—sliding in close, familiar, like the space beside you has been his all night.
“How’s my girl doin’?” he says easily, arm hooking over the back of your chair instead of you. Close enough to count. Close enough for you to drown in his scent.
You glance up at him, unimpressed but amused. “Is every girl your girl,” you ask, “or am I special today?”
Someone nearby laughs. Enjin doesn’t miss a beat, golden eyes bright and dimples deep when he smiles.
“Nah,” he says, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop. “Just you.”
You hum. “Bold thing to say in public.”
“Bold’s my brand, sweetheart.”
He pulls a cigarette from his jacket, rolling it between his fingers before setting it between his lips—still unlit. Then he holds out his lighter to you, palm open, expectant.
“Light it f’me?”
You don’t, pushing it away. “You know I don’t smoke.”
Enjin clicks his tongue. “I’m asking you to light it, not smoke it.”
His arm drops from the chair to your shoulders without ceremony, thumb resting against your collarbone like it’s meant to be there.
That’s when someone edges a little too close. A guy you barely know, eyes flicking between you and Enjin.
“Didn’t realize you were taken,” he says, half-joking.
Before you can answer, Enjin shifts. Not dramatic. Just enough—body angling in, hand sliding from your shoulder to your upper arm, grounding and unthinking.
“She’s good,” Enjin says lightly. Pleasant. Final.
The guy backs off.
You tilt your head, looking up at Enjin. “You’re being territorial.”
He blinks, like the word just caught up to him. Doesn’t move his hand.
“Am I?”
You smile. “Yeah.”
He exhales, quiet. “Didn’t mean to.”
“But you don’t mind,” you say.
His eyes meet yours. No grin this time. No joke.
“…No,” he admits.
Another beat. Too close. Too honest. You tap the cigarette between his fingers. “So. Am I actually ‘your girl,’ or is that just for fun?”
Enjin considers you for a long second, then leans in—not kissing you, not yet. “I dunno. Do ya wanna be?”
***
The room is quieter back here. Not empty—just muted. A door pulled mostly shut, noise dulled to a distant thrum like the place is holding its breath.
Enjin leans against the wall like he owns the space by habit, jacket loose, goggles pushed up into his hair. He watches you for a second before speaking, eyes slow, unreadable in that way of his.
“C’mere,” he says— not a command. An invitation he already knows you’ll take.
You do. You always do.
He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers before setting it between his lips. Still doesn’t light it. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can smell the tobacco, the faint metal of the lighter, the heat of him.
“Light it f’me?” he asks again this time, holding the lighter out.
You take it without comment, thumb flicking the wheel. The flame blooms small and bright, painting his face in warm gold as he leans down toward it. His lashes cast shadows against his cheeks. He inhales, slow and deliberate.
You’re already stepping back when he exhales-
-and then his hand is on your jaw.
Not rough. Certain.
He cups your face like it’s instinct, fingers warm against your skin, thumb settling just under your cheekbone as he leans in and kisses you. Not quick. Not playful.
Smoke pours from his mouth into yours, thick and warm, curling between you as his lips move against yours like he’s taking his time. Like he’s decided something. The taste hits your tongue—sharp, bitter, unmistakable- and you don’t pull away even though you don’t smoke, even though it makes your lungs burn just a little.
His other hand slides to the back of your neck, anchoring you there. The kiss deepens, smoke spilling and breaking around you, drifting up past your faces in pale ribbons.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe.
“You good?” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours.
You swallow, exhale what little smoke you caught, eyes steady on his. “Yeah.”
A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “Thought so.”
He keeps his hand on your face, thumb brushing once, like he’s grounding himself. The cigarette burns forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling lazy around the two of you.
“You know I don’t smoke.”
“I know.” His eyes soften—not apologetic. Just honest. “Didn’t do it for that.”
You tilt your head slightly into his palm. “Then what did you do it for?”
He considers you for a beat longer than usual. No grin. No deflection.
“Because I wanted to kiss you,” he says simply. “And because I didn’t want anyone else to.”
The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Settled.
You lift a hand, tap ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray like you’ve done it a hundred times before. “You’re being real bold for someone who won’t define shit.”
Enjin huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”
He leans in again—not kissing this time. Just close. Close enough to feel his breath, to smell the smoke, to share the same space without pretending it’s nothing.
The first time you kiss Phainon, he stopped breathing. You lean in, slow and steady, and kiss him before he can overthink it. His breath catches in his throat—actually stops. He doesn’t move at first. His eyes snap wide. And then they flutter shut like something finally surrendering.
His hands hover....and then they grip. Because, at first, he didn't touch you. He's stunned, reverent. Then one hand lands on your lower back, the other behind your neck, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment. His kiss back is delayed—but devastating. He pulls away, dazed.
"Why would you do that to me?"
"Do what?"
"Make me fall harder than I already have."
He’s so clearly shaken. Quiet. Jaw clenched, thumb brushing his bottom lip like he’s trying to relive it. When you finally ask, “Was that okay?”, he only says:
It’s early. The kind of early where the world still feels half-asleep — pale sunlight spilling through the cracked blinds, dust motes drifting like lazy ghosts in the air.
Zodyl’s already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed with his boots half-laced and his hair falling into his face. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, still buried under the blanket, the sheets warm where he’d been a minute ago.
“Why’re you up so early?” your voice comes out rough, soft from sleep.
He glances over his shoulder, one eye visible beneath that messy fringe. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You hum, stretching a little. “You never do.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just finishes tying his laces, fingers moving slow, deliberate. There’s a tiredness in him that never really goes away— like he’s always braced for something, even here, even now.
“You could stay,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Just for a bit.”
Zodyl huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, not mocking— just weary. “You’ll never let me leave if I do.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
That earns a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. He leans back slightly, elbows resting on his knees, turning his head to look at you. “You talk big for someone who was snoring five minutes ago.”
“Liar. I don’t snore.”
He grins, eyes half-lidded, amused. “Sure you don’t.”
You grab a pillow and toss it weakly in his direction, and he catches it one-handed without even looking. He doesn’t throw it back — just rests his hand on it, quiet again. For a moment, the teasing fades, and there’s something else between you. Something easy. Safe.
“You know,” he says finally, voice lower now, “you make it… quieter. In my head.”
You blink, the words heavier than you expected. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his hand brushes against your ankle through the blanket — a small, grounding touch.
You reach out too, fingers curling around his wrist. “Then stay till it gets loud again.”
He exhales through his nose, soft, a little laugh breaking out of him, and you smile into the pillow.
And he does stay — boots still semi-on, body slouched into the mattress beside you. The two of you end up half tangled, quiet and warm, the morning stretching slow and golden around you.
synopsis: In the golden empire of Ochema, beauty is a currency, marriage is a weapon, and loyalty is a fickle thing. Promised to the moon-born prince of Kremnos, you are meant to bring peace between two ancient powers. But peace is shattered when a foreign man—beautiful, unknowable, and brutal—emerges from beyond the horizon and wins more than just glory in the arena. Winning you in blood, the balance between empires shatters. Torn between duty, desire, and ruin—you must decide what survives: the crown, the war… or your heart.
trigger warnings: psychological and emotional trauma, gaslighting/manipulation, power imbalance, implied coercion in both romantic and sexual relations, non-consensual voyeurism/voyeuristic practices, slow burn, pregnancy, sexual violence, dubious consent, mild body horror, torture, virginity idolization, reproductive control, forced abortion and miscarriage, forced marriage, religious control, parental abuse, cultural ritualism (dehumanizing and objectifying women), suicide ideation. cannibalism, kidnapping, love-triangle(?),alcohol abuse, sexual shame, loss of agency, pregnancy used as political symbol, p-in-v sex, oral (both). this list may be altered at any time.
wc: 12.4K
a/n: mdni or get blocked. this chapter had to be split and its so, so, so very annoying.
masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.
IX. Winner's Rights PART TWO OF CHAPTER NINE.
Phainon hissed as the hot water touched the worst of his wounds.
The sound escaped him before he could stop it—sharp, involuntary, more animal than dignified—and his shoulders jolted hard enough to send a fresh ripple of pain through bruised ribs and tender muscle. The bath chamber was all steam and polished stone, the air thick with the clean, bitter scent of herbs crushed into the water and oils meant to draw blood from skin instead of leaving it to crust there.
He had thought the arena had taken enough from him.
The bath, it seemed, intended to argue.
The basin was deeper than he expected, sunk into a wide stone floor veined faintly with pale mineral streaks. Warm vapor curled over the edges and clung to the walls in soft silver sheets, fogging the torchlight into halos. Two attendants stood nearby with folded cloths, their expressions carefully blank in the way of people trained not to stare at a man they had been told was important, but not important enough to be treated like one of them.
One of them dipped a ladle and poured water over his forearm.
Phainon’s jaw tightened instantly.
The cuts there—shallow in some places, deeper in others where sand and sweat had ground them raw—flared hot, then worse, then into a sting so vivid it made his fingers curl into a fist. Blood, half-dried and tacky, loosened in dark red streams and bled down into the basin at his feet.
“Hold still,” one attendant muttered, not unkindly.
Phainon let out a breath through his nose, low and controlled. “I am holding still.”
The man didn’t answer. He only reached for another cloth.
A second ladle came over his shoulder and poured across the skin between his ribs and his side.
Phainon sucked in air sharply through his teeth, the muscles there tightening in a reflexive spasm. A bruise had bloomed purple-black beneath the surface, and the warmth of the water made it throb all at once as if every blow from the arena had decided to speak at once. His body seemed to remember the whole day in one instant—thundering hooves, Mydeimos’s fist, the elephant’s blood-wet scream, the king’s voice, the sand, the sand, the sand.
He shut his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, the attendants were waiting.
Not watching with curiosity, exactly.
Assessing.
One of them leaned closer, inspecting a cut at his temple where dried blood had matted his hair against his skin. “You should have been broken apart,” he said quietly before thinking better of it.
Phainon looked at him.
The attendant’s mouth pressed shut at once.
For a beat neither moved. Steam curled between them, turning the warm room strangely intimate and tense. Then the man cleared his throat and reached for a basin cloth as though he had never spoken.
Phainon gave a faint, humorless huff.
“Apparently not.”
The water came again, and again.
Each pour stung, then soothed, then stung once more as dirt and blood lifted away from his skin. Where the basin water touched the split skin on his knuckles, it turned pink almost immediately. Where it touched the harder bruises across his shoulders and back, there was only heat and a deep, pulsing ache that no amount of washing would remove.
A third attendant came forward with a razor and a bowl of oil.
Phainon glanced at it. “What’s that for?”
“To clean you properly,” the man said.
Phainon’s brow rose slightly. “And if I say I prefer being filthy?”
The attendant’s eyes flicked briefly to the cut at his brow. “Then you’ll still be filthy, but in a much more expensive room.”
The corner of Phainon’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Not a smile, quite.
Something close.
The attendants worked around him with brisk efficiency after that. One began washing his shoulders, careful not to press too hard where the bruises had already settled into him like old, angry hands. Another used a cloth to wipe away the darker streaks on his forearms, following the blood until the skin beneath appeared pale again by contrast. The scent of herbs thickened as they rubbed them into his cuts, sharp and medicinal and faintly bitter, the kind that bit at the nose but promised healing later.
Phainon gritted his teeth as they cleaned a deep scrape along his side.
The skin there had split when he hit the sand hard enough to drag against a hidden stone or broken edge of something left behind by the games. He hadn’t felt it in the arena. Hadn’t had the luxury. But now, with the shock wearing thin and the heat of the bath pulling every ache forward into full awareness, it burned like fire.
“Easy,” one of the attendants said, more gently this time.
Phainon exhaled slowly and nodded once.
The chamber around them remained quiet except for the soft churn of water and the occasional splash of a wet cloth wrung out over his shoulders. Steam beaded along the edges of the stone pool and softened the lines of the room. Somewhere beyond the bath chamber, beyond the corridor and the marble and the careful attention of the palace, the emperor still waited in some other chamber, somewhere with too many lamps and too many listeners.
The thought of that made Phainon’s shoulders tighten despite the warmth.
He was being cleaned.
Prepared.
Not for rest.
For whatever came next.
The attendants were careful not to name it, but the silence around them carried the shape of it anyway. Victor. Prize. Winnings. Boy from the farm. The man who had taken the prince’s fall and survived long enough to be brought here alive. A thing to be rinsed, dressed, and shown to the world in whatever form the empire decided best suited the story.
Phainon dipped one hand briefly into the bath water and watched the ripple spread.
The red haze in it was already thinning.
A servant handed him a fresh cloth. He took it without speaking and pressed it to the side of his neck, feeling the lingering sting of soap and herbs against the half-healed cut there. His reflection, warped in the surface of the water, looked almost unfamiliar—blood gone, dust mostly removed, skin marked now by bruises that seemed darker for how clean the rest of him had become.
One attendant reached for his hair.
Phainon tensed immediately.
The man froze and held his hands up. “Only to wash it.”
There was a pause.
Then Phainon gave a reluctant nod.
The attendant moved carefully after that, fingers working through the strands to loosen grit and dried blood, the water running dark as it poured over the basin edge. The tension in Phainon’s jaw eased by a fraction, though never fully. He sat with both arms braced on the stone lip, gaze lowered, listening to the quiet scrape of cloth and the soft clink of a metal bowl being set down nearby.
There was something almost worse about this stillness than there had been in the arena.
In the sand, at least, the violence had been honest.
Here, every motion had purpose. Every touch meant to prepare him for being seen by someone else.
His eyes drifted toward the doorway once.
No one stood there now.
But the memory of the emperor’s gaze remained, cool and measuring. Suspicious. Interested. Not quite hostile, not quite kind.
Phainon turned his head back toward the water and let it run over his wrist again.
His body ached in all the places the arena had tried to break him.
Another hiss- hot water struck the open cut along his side, his hand snapping down against the edge of the basin as his breath caught.
“Gods—” he muttered under it, teeth clenched.
“Hold still,” one of the attendants said again, though softer this time, as if the sharpness had already been spent on men who needed it more.
“I am holding still,” Phainon shot back, voice rough, though it lacked real bite. The effort of staying upright, of not flinching away from every pour of water, was already costing him.
A faint sound—quickly stifled—came from somewhere to his right.
Not laughter.
Something lighter.
He turned his head slightly.
Two of the servants—women—stood just beyond the edge of the basin, cloths folded over their arms, waiting their turn to step in. Their eyes flicked away the moment he looked, but not quickly enough to hide what had been there before.
Interest.
One of them leaned subtly toward the other, whispering under her breath, “That’s him?”
“The one from the arena?” the other murmured back, barely moving her lips.
“Who else?” the first replied, her gaze slipping back toward him despite herself. “Gods… I thought they’d be exaggerating.”
Phainon exhaled slowly through his nose, turning his attention back toward the basin as another ladle of water was poured over his shoulder.
It stung less this time.
Or maybe he was getting used to it.
“Keep your hands steady,” one of the male attendants muttered toward the women without looking at them. “You’re here to work, not stare.”
“Yes, of course,” one of them said quickly—but there was a hint of a smile still tucked into her voice.
Phainon caught it.
Didn’t comment.
A cloth pressed against his upper arm, wiping away the last of the dried blood. The attendant working there paused briefly, glancing at the fading bruises.
“You took quite a beating,” he said.
Phainon let out a quiet, humorless breath. “So did the other man.”
The attendant hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. He did.”
Behind them, the women shifted again, one stepping closer now with a fresh cloth steeped in oil.
“Here,” she said, her voice gentler than the others, though not shy. “This will help with the sting.”
Phainon glanced at her as she reached for his forearm.
Her hands were careful—more careful than strictly necessary—as she pressed the cloth to the split skin along his knuckles. The oil cooled where the water had burned, easing the sharpest edge of the pain.
“…You fought like a madman,” she added quietly.
Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that meant as praise?”
She met his gaze for a brief moment—longer than she should have.
“Depends,” she said. “Did you win?”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly again.
“…Apparently.”
A soft breath of amusement escaped her before she stepped back, though her eyes lingered a fraction too long before she forced them away.
Another of the women leaned in toward her as she passed, whispering just loud enough to carry.
“He doesn’t even look like he should’ve survived that.”
“No,” the first murmured back, glancing once more over her shoulder. “He doesn’t.”
One of the male attendants cleared his throat sharply. “Enough.”
They quieted, though the energy in the room didn’t fully settle. It shifted instead—less open, more contained, but still present. Still watching.
Phainon dragged a hand through his damp hair as another servant stepped behind him to rinse it properly. Fingers worked through the strands, loosening the last of the grit and dried blood. He tensed instinctively at the contact.
“Easy,” the servant said. “I’m not trying to drown you.”
“Good,” Phainon muttered. “I’ve had enough of that for one day.”
A faint snort came from somewhere behind him—quickly suppressed.
The water ran clearer now as it poured down his back, carrying the last of the arena with it. Sand, blood, sweat—all of it slipping away into the basin below, leaving behind skin marked in bruises and cuts that no amount of washing could hide.
One of the attendants stepped back, assessing.
“He’ll do,” he said finally.
Phainon glanced at him. “That all I am? Something that’ll do?”
The man met his gaze briefly, then looked away. “For now.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“That’s more than most get.”
The room fell still again after that.
The women had stopped whispering, though their presence remained—watchful, curious, something unspoken lingering beneath their silence.
Phainon pushed himself slightly more upright, ignoring the pull in his ribs, the dull ache settling deeper now that the heat had drawn it out fully.
They did not leave him in the bath long after that.
“Up,” one of the attendants said, offering a hand—not out of kindness, but efficiency.
Phainon took it anyway.
The moment he stepped out, the air felt cooler against freshly cleaned skin, raising a faint shiver along his arms despite the lingering heat in his body. Water slipped from him in thin rivulets, dripping onto the polished stone before it was quickly blotted away by waiting cloths.
They moved faster now.
Purposefully.
A towel was draped over his shoulders—thick, soft, far finer than anything he had ever touched before—and another servant knelt to dry his legs, careful around the worst of the bruises. Someone else stepped in with clean wrappings, binding where the cuts had been stitched, the fabric snug but not suffocating.
Phainon stood through it, still, jaw set—not resisting, but not relaxing into it either.
Then came the clothes.
Not simple linen.
Not even the better garments worn by merchants or lesser nobles.
Silk.
Layered, smooth, cool as it brushed against his skin. A tunic first, pale and fitted through the shoulders, the fabric catching faintly at the planes of muscle beneath it. It clung just enough to show what it covered—broad chest, defined arms, the solid build of a man who had worked, not trained for show.
One of the women paused as she adjusted the collar.
“…Gods,” she breathed under her breath.
“Keep your hands steady,” a male attendant warned, though there was less bite in it now.
She swallowed, nodding quickly—but her fingers lingered just a fraction too long before smoothing the fabric flat.
They dressed him piece by piece.
A darker overlayer, embroidered subtly in gold thread. A belt, fitted precisely to his waist. Bracers—not for battle, but for form. Even the boots they brought were soft leather, molded to fit, laced tight with practiced hands.
Phainon watched them move around him like he was something being assembled.
Or revealed.
Someone stepped behind him, gathering his damp hair, working oil lightly through it to tame the roughness. The white strands, now clean, caught the torchlight differently—no longer dulled by sand and blood, but bright, almost stark against the warmth of his skin.
When they were done, they stepped back.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Phainon frowned slightly, glancing between them. “What?”
No one answered immediately. Because they were looking. Not casually. Not in passing.
Looking.
One of the younger attendants—a woman—let out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “He’s—”
“Careful,” someone murmured.
But it didn’t stop the rest.
“He doesn’t look like a farmer,” another said, softer.
“No,” a man added, almost to himself. “He doesn’t look like he belongs in the dirt at all.”
Phainon shifted slightly under the attention, his shoulders tightening a fraction.
“I was in the dirt,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” the older attendant replied, still studying him. “And yet…”
He didn’t finish it.
Didn’t need to.
Because it was obvious now.
Cleaned, stitched, dressed—
Phainon stood tall, his frame no longer hidden beneath grime and torn cloth. Broad without excess, strong without the crude heaviness of a brute. Every line of him spoke of strength shaped by labor, not indulgence. His skin, sun-kissed and marked by faint scars, contrasted sharply with the fine fabrics now draped over him.
And his eyes—
Clear now.
Striking.
Cyan, bright even in the dim light, sharp in a way that didn’t soften simply because he stood in silk instead of sand.
One of the attendants—older, perhaps less cautious than the rest—shook his head faintly and muttered,
“By Aphrodite…”
A few glanced at him.
He didn’t stop.
“…what a marvelous creation.”
A quiet ripple followed that—some disapproval, some agreement, some careful silence.
Phainon’s expression shifted slightly.
Not pride.
Not quite embarrassment.
Something… uncertain.
He looked down at himself briefly, tugging once at the edge of the sleeve as if testing whether it was real, whether it belonged on him.
It didn’t feel like it did.
“You’re staring,” he said after a moment, voice dry.
A faint flush crossed one of the women’s faces, though she didn’t fully look away. “Can you blame us?”
“Yes,” Phainon replied without hesitation.
That earned a small, stifled laugh.
Even that—his discomfort, his bluntness—did nothing to lessen the effect. If anything, it sharpened it. Made it feel less rehearsed. Less polished. More… real.
The older attendant cleared his throat, stepping forward again, professionalism reasserting itself.
“That will be enough,” he said. “You are to be presented.”
Phainon’s gaze lifted.
“Presented to who?”
The attendant met his eyes for a brief moment.
Then: “To those who decide what you are now.”
The room fell quiet again.
Phainon stood there, dressed like something he had never been, feeling every eye still lingering just a moment too long before they forced themselves away.
Clean.
The room settled into a strange, hovering quiet once they finished with him.
Not the kind from before—this one lingered, as if no one quite knew what to do now that the work was done.
Phainon adjusted the cuff at his wrist, the fabric unfamiliar beneath his fingers. Too smooth. Too clean. It didn’t sit right on him, not yet.
“Can you tell me about the princess?” The question slipped out, low, almost casual.
But it landed.
A few of them glanced at one another. And then one of the women—bolder than the rest—laughed softly. “You wish to know of her before you ask for her hand?”
There was a ripple of quiet amusement at that.
Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?” she returned, tilting her head as she looked at him more openly now. “You won. That makes you… what, exactly?” Her lips curved faintly. “Lucky? Doomed? Honored?”
“Convenient,” one of the male attendants muttered under his breath.
That earned a small snort from another.
Phainon exhaled lightly through his nose. “That depends on her, doesn’t it?”
That, at least, seemed to interest them. The first woman crossed her arms loosely, considering him. “You want to know what she’s like?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then the answers came—not in unison, not rehearsed.
Real.
“She’s beautiful,” one said immediately. “That much is true. Not just dressed up for court—she’s… striking.”
“Everyone says that,” another added, less impressed. “Beauty’s expected of her.”
“She carries herself well,” a man offered. “Better than most nobles twice her age.”
A different voice, quieter: “She listens. More than she speaks.”
“Until she doesn’t,” someone else cut in.
That drew a few looks.
Phainon’s gaze shifted toward the speaker. “Meaning?”
The woman hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Meaning she can be… sharp. When she chooses to be.”
“Sharp?” another echoed with a faint scoff. “That’s one way to put it.”
One of the men shifted his weight. “You’ve heard about when she ruled in the emperor’s place, haven’t you?”
Phainon didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
“She tightened everything,” the man continued. “Taxes, laws, punishments. No hesitation. No… softness.” He glanced at Phainon briefly. “People complained. Loudly.”
“And yet nothing changed until the emperor returned,” another added.
“Exactly.”
One of the women gave a small, thoughtful hum. “She’s not foolish.”
That drew a quick look from another servant. “No one said she was.”
“You implied it.”
“I said she acts soft.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Phainon watched them go back and forth, saying nothing for a moment.
Then, “So which is it?”
That quieted them again.
Because none of them seemed entirely certain.
“She’s…” one began, then stopped.
Another tried instead. “She knows what’s expected of her.”
“And she plays it well,” the first finished.
“But?” Phainon pressed.
A moment. Then one of the younger women spoke, more hesitant this time.
“…Some think she doesn’t always know when to stop.”
Phainon tilted his head slightly. “Meaning?”
“She pushes,” the girl said, glancing briefly toward the others as if checking she wasn’t overstepping. “At things. At people. At her father, even, they say. There’s… talk.”
“Careful,” one of the men warned.
“I’m only repeating what’s already whispered,” she replied quickly.
Phainon’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before shifting again.
“And you?” he asked. “What do you think?”
That seemed to catch them off guard. They weren’t used to being asked that. The bolder woman from before huffed lightly. “I think she’s been given too much and not enough at the same time.”
He frowned slightly. “Explain.”
“She’s the heir,” the woman said simply. “But not yet the ruler. She’s taught to command, but expected to obey. To be strong, but not threaten. To be seen, but not… too seen.”
Another servant nodded faintly. “It’s a difficult place to stand.”
“And she doesn’t always stand where she’s told,” someone added.
That drew a few murmurs—agreement, uncertainty.
Then one of the older women, who had been quiet until now, spoke.
“If you want to know her,” she said, “you should ask Lady Agnes.”
A shift moved through the room at that name.
Subtle—but unmistakable.
Phainon noticed immediately.
“Agnes?” he repeated.
The older woman nodded once. “She raised the princess. Knows her better than anyone.”
Another servant let out a small, uneasy breath. “And she’ll have your head if she thinks you’re not worthy to even speak of her.”
A faint laugh followed, though it carried a thread of truth.
“She’s strict,” one said.
“Strict?” another echoed. “She’s terrifying.”
“But loyal,” the first added quickly. “To the princess above all.”
Phainon absorbed that quietly.
“Then why isn’t she here?” he asked.
A brief pause.
Then, “She doesn’t attend to just anyone.”
That answer came carefully.
Another servant shifted, then added, “She’ll be with the princess, most likely.”
A beat.
Then, almost as an afterthought: “The coronation was meant to happen already.”
Phainon’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”
“It was postponed,” the older woman said. “Delays. Politics. Timing.” She shrugged slightly. “Which means…”
“She’s older than you,” one of the men finished plainly.
That landed differently.
Phainon didn’t react immediately.
Just considered it.
“…And she’s still not crowned,” he said.
“No,” the woman replied. “She isn’t.”
A quiet settled again after that.
He let the silence sit for a moment, then asked, more quietly now—
“And the prince?”
A few glances passed between them.
“You mean Mydeimos?” someone said.
“Yes.”
Another servant exhaled faintly. “She favored him.”
“Favored?” one of the others repeated.
“She was fond of him,” the first corrected. “Or seemed to be.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened slightly. “Seemed?”
A small shrug. “With her, it’s hard to say what’s real and what’s… chosen.”
That again. That uncertainty. That duality.
Phainon looked down briefly at the fine fabric at his wrists, then back up at them.
“And you think she’ll accept this?” he asked.
No one answered right away.
Because now—
they were all thinking the same thing.
Finally, the older woman spoke again.
“If she must,” she said.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“But whether she accepts it… and whether she welcomes it…”
She shook her head slightly.
“…those are not the same thing.”
“Well, you’d be an idiot only Hermes could construct if you think she’d simply be okay after you’ve killed her lover.”
The words cut through the room with a kind of reckless boldness that didn’t belong to the others.
Phainon’s head turned.
The girl who’d said it didn’t shrink under the attention—not fully. She was younger than the rest, still carrying that edge of honesty that hadn’t yet been trained out of her. Her chin lifted just slightly, even as one of the older attendants shot her a warning look.
“Mind your tongue,” he snapped.
But it was too late.
The truth had already been spoken.
“Why?” she pressed, quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not wrong. Everyone saw it. She—” the girl hesitated, then finished anyway, “—she cared for him.”
A few of the others nodded, more subtly.
One of the women added under her breath, “More than she was meant to show.”
Another gave a soft, uneasy hum. “Or perhaps exactly as much as she intended.”
Phainon didn’t respond immediately.
He stood there, still, the weight of the fine garments suddenly more noticeable against his skin.
“…I didn’t kill him,” he said at last.
It wasn’t defensive.
Just stated.
The room shifted slightly at that.
The older attendant gave him a look—measured, knowing. “No,” he said. “But that’s not how it will feel to her.”
The younger girl folded her arms loosely. “It will feel like you did.”
“And feeling,” another added, “is often more important than truth in places like this.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened faintly.
“Why, I imagine she’ll bite you,” the girl went on, a flicker of something almost mischievous in her tone now, though it didn’t quite mask the seriousness beneath. “Claw, perhaps. Depends on how angry she is.”
A few quiet laughs slipped through the tension, quickly stifled.
“She won’t literally bite him,” one of the men muttered.
“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen in this palace,” another replied dryly.
That earned a sharper look.
But the mood had shifted again—lighter on the surface, uneasy underneath.
Phainon let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“Good,” he said.
That caught them off guard. A few brows lifted.
“Good?” the older attendant echoed.
Phainon shrugged slightly, though the motion pulled faintly at his ribs. “Better that than indifference.”
There was a pause. Then, unexpectedly, one of the women let out a soft, almost approving hum.
“…Perhaps not an idiot after all,” she murmured.
The younger girl smirked faintly, though she said nothing more. The older attendant clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive, breaking the moment.
“That’s enough. We’re done here.”
The shift back to purpose was immediate.
They moved again—faster now, more focused.
“Someone get the oils,” he ordered.
A servant hurried off at once, returning with a small set of polished containers. The lids were lifted, releasing a richer scent this time—something warmer than the bath herbs, smoother, meant not just to heal but to present.
Phainon frowned slightly as one of them stepped closer with it. “More?”
“You’re being seen,” the man replied simply. “Not just cleaned.”
That answer didn’t sit comfortably, but Phainon didn’t argue.
They worked the oil lightly into his skin—along his arms, across his shoulders, careful around the bandaged wounds. It caught the light subtly, not enough to shine, but enough to soften the harsher edges left behind by bruises and scars.
Refinement. Polish. A final touch before display. The younger girl lingered a moment longer than the rest as they finished, her gaze flicking over him once more—not in awe this time, but in quiet assessment.
“…She really might bite you,” she muttered again, almost to herself.
Phainon glanced at her.
“…Then I suppose I’ll deserve it,” he said.
She huffed softly at that, shaking her head, though there was something like reluctant amusement in her expression now.
“Come,” the older attendant said, stepping toward the doorway. “You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
As they moved out of the bath chamber and into the quieter corridor beyond, the warmth of steam gave way to cool stone and long bands of filtered light. The palace here was less ceremonial and more lived-in—still too refined to feel natural, but no longer purely for spectacle.
The others walked ahead in a loose cluster, speaking among themselves in lower tones about preparations, oils, and what garments would be needed next. Phainon followed a step behind them, as instructed, though not with the posture of a prisoner. More like someone being escorted because everyone had collectively decided it was inconvenient to let him stand anywhere else.
The younger girl from earlier drifted slightly to his side.
Not enough to be insubordinate.
Just enough to speak without being overheard.
“I’m Trinnon,” she said quietly, as if the introduction itself was something she had decided on her own terms. “Before anyone tells you otherwise.”
Phainon glanced at her. “That important?”
“It is if you plan on remembering who pushed you into silk and who only watched,” she replied without missing a beat.
A faint huff of air passed through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
“…Noted.”
She seemed satisfied with that.
After a moment, she added, “I have two sisters. We’re triplets.”
Phainon’s brow lifted slightly. “All working here?”
“One in the outer kitchens,” she said. “One in the temple.”
That caught his attention more than he intended it to.
“Temple?” he repeated.
Trinnon nodded once. “Temple of Hera. She serves in the lower rites.”
Phainon looked forward again as they walked, absorbing that in silence for a moment. The palace corridors stretched ahead in clean, deliberate lines, banners hanging at measured intervals, guards stationed at predictable points like parts of a machine that never stopped turning.
“And you?” he asked after a beat.
“I serve where I’m told,” she said simply. Then, after a pause, added, “Which today is you.”
That earned a brief sidelong glance from him.
Trinnon shrugged lightly, unbothered. “Don’t look so offended. It’s not personal.”
“I’m not offended,” Phainon said.
“You are a little.”
“I’m adjusting.”
That made her exhale something like amusement.
They walked a few steps in silence before she spoke again, her tone shifting subtly.
“Things have been… strange lately,” she said.
Phainon didn’t respond immediately, letting her continue.
“The palace has been tight. More than usual,” she added. “People are being moved around. Conversations stopped halfway through. Even the temple’s been… unsettled.”
“Unsettled how?”
Trinnon hesitated, then lowered her voice further. “The priests are arguing.”
Phainon glanced at her again. “About what?”
“About signs,” she said. “Omens. The princess. The match.”
That word- match- carried more weight here than it had in the bath chamber.
“They’re saying it wasn’t clean,” she continued. “Not in the arena sense. In the divine sense.”
Trinnon nodded once. “Some think it was meant to go differently. That the outcome… wasn’t aligned.”
A faint pause.
Then, carefully:
“Others think it means exactly what it looked like.”
Phainon’s jaw tightened a fraction, but he said nothing.
Ahead of them, one of the older attendants glanced back briefly—checking distance, not listening, but ensuring they weren’t straying.
Trinnon kept speaking anyway, just under her breath.
“The temple sister says Lady Agnes hasn’t left the princess’s side since the arena,” she added.
That name again.
Phainon looked at her fully this time. “Agnes seems to come up often.”
“She does,” Trinnon said. “And usually that means someone important is either very safe… or very unlucky.”
A faint pause.
Then she added, almost casually, “Depends which side of her she decides you belong on.”
Phainon let that sit for a moment.
“And the princess?” he asked.
Trinnon hesitated just slightly before answering.
“She’s been quiet,” she said. “Which is worse than when she isn’t.”
Phainon gave a small, thoughtful hum.
Trinnon glanced at him sideways. “You don’t know her.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
A beat.
“But everyone keeps telling me who she is.”
That made her look forward again, expression unreadable for a moment.
“…That’s because no one agrees,” she said simply.
They turned down another corridor, this one narrower, less ornate, but still clean enough that every footstep echoed faintly between stone and polished wood. The air here smelled faintly of ink and incense, as if records and prayers lived too close together to be separated.
Trinnon slowed slightly as they walked.
“Just… be careful,” she said after a moment.
Phainon glanced at her. “Of what?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Then, quietly:
“Of thinking you’ve been brought here because you understand what happened.”
Phainon didn’t speak right away.
Ahead, the others continued walking, unaware—or pretending to be.
Finally, he said, “And what if I don’t think that?”
Trinnon gave a small, almost wry look, but didn’t say anything.
“I just don’t understand—”
Trinnon let out a quiet huff beside him, clearly irritated now, her steps a touch sharper against the stone.
“The princess is a normal woman,” she said, almost under her breath but with enough force to carry. “Why these servants insist on making her seem like some kind of monster, I don’t know.”
Phainon glanced at her, brow lifting slightly.
“She’s no evil thing,” Trinnon went on, more firmly now. “Much less cruel. She only has a temper—which is normal.” She shot a brief look ahead at the others, as if daring them to argue. “You put anyone in her position and see how gentle they stay.”
Phainon’s mouth curved faintly at that. “…A temper,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Trinnon said, a little defensively. “A temper. Not a curse. Not a sign from the gods. Just… a temper.”
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, the hint of a smile lingering as he looked ahead again.
“Well,” he said, voice easy in a way it hadn’t quite been before, “I understand that she may hate me.”
Trinnon didn’t interrupt.
“But I mean her no harm.”
That earned him a look. Not mocking this time. Studying.
“You say that like it matters,” she said.
Phainon’s gaze flicked back to her. “Doesn’t it?”
Trinnon tilted her head slightly, considering him. “It might. To her.”
A pause.
“Or it might not matter at all,” she added.
They walked a few more steps in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly along the corridor. The others ahead turned another corner, their voices fading briefly out of earshot before drifting back again.
Phainon’s smile lingered, softer now, more thoughtful than amused.
“I don’t think she’s a monster,” he said after a moment.
Trinnon’s shoulders eased slightly at that.
“Good,” she replied. “Because she isn’t.”
Another beat passed.
Then she added, quieter now, “But she’s not soft either.”
Phainon nodded once, as if that only confirmed something he’d already begun to suspect.
“Good,” he said again.
This time, Trinnon let out a small, incredulous breath. “You say that like you’re looking forward to it.”
Phainon’s smile returned—faint, but unmistakable.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I’d rather meet someone who bites than someone who doesn’t feel anything at all.”
Trinnon stared at him for a second, then shook her head, a half-laugh slipping out despite herself.
“You really are strange.”
“Apparently,” he replied.
They caught up to the others as the corridor opened slightly ahead, light spilling in from a wider hall. The air shifted again—less private, more watched. Trinnon straightened a little, falling back into step as a servant rather than a girl speaking out of turn.
But before she fully withdrew, she glanced at him one last time. “…Just don’t mistake her temper for something simple,” she murmured.
Phainon met her gaze briefly. “I won’t.”
There was something about him she couldn’t quite place—not just that he had survived, or that he stood now dressed like something far above where he claimed to come from—but the way he spoke. As if he had walked into all of this without fully grasping it… and yet wasn’t entirely blind either.
It made her wonder.
Why he had come.
Why he had fought like that.
Why he was still standing.
But whatever question was forming in her mind never left her lips.
Because Phainon had already stopped listening; his attention had shifted. Ahead, the corridor opened into a wider chamber—busier, louder, alive with motion. Servants moved in quick, practiced paths, carrying fabrics, trays, scrolls, adjusting banners, speaking in hushed urgency. It wasn’t chaos—but it was close to it.
And at the center of it all, an older woman stood, commanding it without raising her voice.
She didn’t need to.
A single look from her was enough to redirect a servant. A flick of her hand sent two others moving in opposite directions. She stood tall, posture unyielding, her presence cutting through the room more cleanly than any shouted order could have.
Everything bent around her.
Phainon slowed slightly.
“…Is that-”
“Lady Agnes,” Trinnon said quietly beside him, her earlier ease gone now, replaced with something more measured. Respect, certainly—but something sharper edged beneath it. “The princess is not here, though, so why…”
Phainon didn’t answer right away.
His gaze remained fixed on the woman. Agnes. There was nothing soft about her.
Not in the way she held herself. Not in the way others avoided lingering too close unless summoned. Even the air around her felt… disciplined, controlled.
A servant rushed past carrying folded silks too quickly. Agnes didn’t raise her voice.
“Stop.”
The word alone halted the girl mid-step.
Agnes turned her head just slightly, eyes flicking over the bundle in her arms. “Those are for the upper chamber, not the receiving hall. Must I remind you of the difference?”
The girl flushed deeply. “N-no, my lady,”
“Then don’t make me repeat myself,” Agnes said, already turning away, dismissing her without another glance.
The girl hurried off in the corrected direction. Phainon’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture sharpened—attention narrowing, focus settling.
Trinnon leaned closer, her voice barely above a breath now.
“She’s been like that all day.”
Phainon finally spoke. “Like what?”
Trinnon hesitated. “…Tighter.”
That word lingered.
Phainon watched as Agnes turned again, issuing another quiet instruction, adjusting the placement of something on a table before moving on without pause. Nothing escaped her. Nothing went uncorrected.
Not even for a moment.
“…She doesn’t seem surprised,” he said.
Trinnon followed his gaze. “No.”
A pause.
“She wouldn’t be.”
Phainon glanced at her. “You think she expected this?”
Trinnon shook her head slightly. “No. But she would have prepared for something going wrong.”
Another servant approached Agnes—older, more composed—and spoke in low tones. Agnes listened, her face unreadable, then gave a short nod.
Whatever was said, it changed nothing about her pace. Nothing about her control.
Phainon looked back at her, more intently now. This was the woman they had all spoken of. The one who knew the princess better than anyone. The one who decided who was worthy to even stand in her presence.
“…And she’s the one who decides what happens to me next,” he murmured.
Trinnon didn’t sugarcoat it.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Or at least,” she added quietly, “she decides how you’re brought to her.”
Phainon’s gaze remained steady.
Then, almost to himself, “Good.”
Trinnon blinked at that, caught off guard.
“Good?”
He didn’t look at her this time. Just watched as Agnes turned, her sharp gaze sweeping the room and, for the briefest moment landing on him.
“…Better her than someone careless.”
Agnes’s gaze moved first to Phainon.
Then, almost immediately, it shifted.
Not past him—through him, really—to the girl at his side.
Trinnon froze before she even realized she had done it.
Agnes’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the change so small it might have been mistaken for nothing at all if one did not know better. But Trinnon knew. She felt it in the way the older woman’s attention sharpened, in the way the room seemed to settle around her with sudden, uncomfortable precision.
“Trinnon.”
The name was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Trinnon straightened at once, posture becoming impeccable out of sheer instinct. “Lady Agnes.”
Agnes did not look pleased. Not angry either. Simply attentive in that terrible way of hers, as though nothing in the palace existed outside of her notice for very long.
“You should be elsewhere,” Agnes said.
Trinnon swallowed. “I was assigned—”
“I am aware of your assignment.” Agnes’s eyes flicked once toward the attendants moving in the background, then back to her. “You were also meant to deliver linen to the west chamber before noon, and yet here you are.”
Trinnon’s mouth opened, then shut again.
Phainon glanced between them, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
Agnes took a step closer. Not threatening. Never that.
But the movement alone caused two nearby servants to quiet and lower their eyes, as if the air had grown thinner around her.
“Why are you not with your sisters?” she asked Trinnon.
Trinnon hesitated just long enough to betray herself. That was all Agnes needed.
One corner of the older woman’s mouth tightened. “Hm.”
It was not a sound of approval. Phainon noticed that too.
Trinnon quickly said, “I was escorting him.”
Agnes’s eyes returned to Phainon for a heartbeat—measuring, unreadable—and then back to Trinnon.
“Were you?”
The words carried no accusation, but they did carry the weight of a question she had already answered internally.
Trinnon’s shoulders lifted and fell in a small, resigned breath. “Yes, my lady.”
Agnes regarded her for another long, disquieting moment. Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened by the smallest fraction.
Not much.
Just enough for the tension in Trinnon’s spine to ease a little.
“You’ve always been too curious for your own good,” Agnes said.
Trinnon let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. “That sounds like something my sisters would say.”
“It sounds like something I’ve said before.”
“That too.”
Agnes gave the faintest hint of a sigh through her nose, as if this were somehow exactly the trouble she’d expected to find. Then she looked at Phainon again, and Trinnon could see the pivot in her attention—how quickly the older woman was reassessing the situation, the girl, the man, the corridor, the timing.
“Did you tell him anything foolish?” Agnes asked Trinnon.
Trinnon’s eyes widened. “No.”
Agnes held the silence a beat.
Trinnon added, more defensively, “Only truths.”
A faint, almost imperceptible lift to Agnes’s brow.
“Truths can be foolish in the wrong ears.”
Phainon spoke before Trinnon could answer. “I think she’s been useful.”
Agnes looked at him.
It was not a warm look.
But it was not cold either.
Useful.
That word seemed to amuse her in some quiet, private way, though it never touched her mouth.
“Useful,” she repeated. “How generous of you.”
Phainon gave a faint incline of his head, not quite a bow, not quite insolence. “She’s the one who actually answered my questions.”
Trinnon shot him a look—half warning, half disbelief—because that sounded much too close to praise when said aloud in Agnes’s presence.
Agnes noticed that too.
Of course she did.
“She speaks when she ought not,” Agnes said to Trinnon, “and you stand where you ought not. Together, that makes you almost acceptable.”
Trinnon blinked, then looked faintly offended. “Almost?”
Agnes’s mouth twitched once, just barely.
Almost a smile.
“Do not become vain,” she said.
Trinnon visibly fought not to smile back.
Phainon watched the exchange with sharper interest now. The sternness everyone had described was here, certainly—but so was familiarity. A familiarity forged by years, not hierarchy. Agnes spoke to Trinnon the way one speaks to a child one has known since birth: strict because she cared, dry because softness would be wasted.
And Trinnon, for all her nerves, seemed to understand that perfectly.
Agnes’s gaze shifted once more to Phainon, but this time she did not ask him anything. She simply studied him, as if deciding whether he was a problem, a coincidence, or something she had not yet been given enough information to name.
Then she said, to Trinnon but clearly meant for both of them, “You will leave him here.”
Trinnon stiffened. “My lady—”
“Now.”
The command was quiet. Trinnon closed her mouth at once.
Agnes turned slightly, already gesturing toward the attendants beyond the chamber. One of them noticed and hurried over. “My lady?”
“Take him to the receiving room,” Agnes said. “And ensure he waits there properly.”
The servant bowed and moved at once.
Then Agnes glanced at Trinnon again. “And you.”
Trinnon straightened so fast it was almost comical.
“You are needed elsewhere.”
Trinnon took a small breath, then nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
Phainon looked at Agnes. “Receiving room?”
Agnes returned her full attention to him.
Her eyes were sharp, old, and entirely unsentimental.
“Yes,” she said. “Unless you would prefer to stand in the corridor until someone more important remembers you.”
There was something in her tone that made the servants nearest her look down quickly.
Phainon did not.
He gave the slightest exhale through his nose, almost amused despite everything. “No. The room sounds better.”
“Wise.”
Agnes’s gaze flicked to Trinnon once more, and the servant girl had the odd sense that she was being measured for something much larger than today’s errands.
Then Agnes said, quieter now, “Trinnon.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Do not wander.”
Trinnon blinked. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Agnes held her gaze until the younger woman’s bravado gave way to something more honest.
“…I know,” Trinnon admitted.
That satisfied Agnes.
Barely.
The older woman turned away then, already resuming her orchestration of the room with a flick of her hand and a single low instruction to the nearest servant. She was back in motion at once, as though the exchange with Trinnon had taken no time at all.
But it had.
Trinnon stood still for a moment longer, watching her go, then glanced at Phainon with a look that said very plainly: I told you she was the one to pay attention to.
Phainon caught the look. His mouth curved faintly. Then the attendant at his elbow gestured toward the side hall.
“Lady Agnes, if I may—”
Phainon didn’t follow the attendant.
Instead, he stepped after her.
It was subtle at first—a shift in direction, a refusal to be carried along with the current of servants—but it was enough.
Agnes did not turn.
“You may not.”
The answer came immediately. Clean. Certain.
Phainon didn’t stop.
“I have no ill intention towards the princess—”
“I would not assume so.”
Still, she didn’t look at him.
She moved through the room with the same precision as before, adjusting a servant’s placement with a brief touch to the elbow, redirecting another with nothing more than a glance. The flow of people bent around her, and yet she never broke stride.
Phainon matched her pace.
“My lady, with all due respect—”
That was when she stopped.
Not abruptly.
And now—she turned.
“I am a very busy woman,” Agnes said, her voice low, even, but edged with something unmistakably firm. “You would keep this old soul from her duties?”
Phainon held her gaze. There was no fear in it. No arrogance either. Just that same measured calm he had carried out of the arena.
“If you wish to impress the emperor,” she continued, eyes narrowing just slightly, “or anyone for that matter—”
“—you ought to know your place.”
Silence settled between them.
Around them, the servants had not stopped moving—but they had grown quieter. More careful. No one lingered too close, but no one strayed too far either.
They were listening.
Phainon inclined his head slightly.
Not a full bow, mind you. Just enough to acknowledge the correction without submitting to it entirely.
“My place,” he repeated.
Agnes watched him.
Really watched him, now.
Not the surface. Not the silk or the posture or the carefully cleaned edges.
Something beneath that.
“I came from the arena,” he said calmly. “I was dragged here. Dressed. Presented. Spoken about.”
A faint tilt of his head.
“And now I’m told to wait.”
Agnes said nothing, But her gaze sharpened.
“I’m trying to understand where exactly that leaves me,” he finished.
A faint exhale through her nose. Not annoyance. Recognition.
“You speak plainly,” she said.
“And you listen carefully,” he replied.
That earned him the smallest flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or acknowledgment—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“You are not as simple as you appear,” Agnes said.
It was not a question. Phainon’s expression didn’t change.
“I never said I was.”
“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t.”
Another pause.
The noise of the room seemed distant now, though nothing had truly stopped. Agnes stepped closer. Not enough to invade.
Enough to make it clear this was no longer a conversation meant for anyone else.
“You play at innocence,” she said quietly.
Phainon didn’t react.
“You choose your words carefully,” she continued. “You ask questions you already have pieces of answers to. And you follow a woman who told you not to.”
Her gaze held his. Sharp. Unyielding.
“And yet,” she added, softer now, “you stop just short of overstepping.”
Phainon’s mouth curved faintly. “Seems like a useful place to stand.”
Agnes studied him for a long moment. Then she turned away again.
“Do not mistake observation for permission,” she said, resuming her movement without waiting to see if he followed.
Phainon did not.
This time.
He stayed where he was.
“Lady Agnes,” he said once more, though he didn’t move after her.
She paused—but did not turn.
“…I meant what I said,” he added. “I mean her no harm.”
Another silence. Longer this time. Then Agnes spoke, still facing away.
“I know.”
That answer came too easily. Too certainly. Phainon’s brow shifted slightly. Agnes continued walking.
“You are not the first man to mean well,” she added. “Nor will you be the last.”
That was not comfort. Not reassurance. Just fact.
“And yet,” she went on, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without rising, “intent has very little to do with consequence in this palace.”
Phainon said nothing.
Agnes stopped once more—but only for a moment. “If you wish to survive here,” she said, “learn the difference.”
Then, finally, she glanced back at him. Not fully, Just enough for him to catch the edge of her gaze.
“And learn it quickly.”
The look held for a heartbeat longer.
Then she was gone again—absorbed back into the movement of the room, issuing orders, correcting paths, shaping the chaos into something controlled.
Phainon stood where he was.
The attendant who had been waiting to escort him shifted awkwardly at his side.
“…Sir,” he said carefully, “the receiving room.”
Phainon didn’t look away from where Agnes had disappeared. After a moment, he exhaled softly.
“…Right.”
This time, he followed.
Some hours later, the palace had shifted around him.
The heat of the baths had long since faded from his skin, the last of the oils settled in his hair, and the fine clothes they had dressed him in now felt less like a gift and more like a claim. He had been led through too many halls, too many pauses, too many watchful eyes. Questions had been asked and answered in circles. Names had been repeated. Someone had written things down on wax tablets. Someone else had frowned at those tablets as if the marks might betray them.
At last, he found himself in a receiving chamber that was less ceremonial than the great hall but no less oppressive for it—walls hung with embroidered drapery, braziers burning low, a long table laid with platters of meat, bread, olives, fruit, and wine that had already been poured into a dozen cups as if the people here had every intention of staying long enough to grow comfortable with him.
Phainon did not.
He stood at the edge of the room with his back straight and his hands folded loosely behind him, expression calm enough to pass for ease if one did not look too closely.
That was when the advisor spoke.
“So,” said the man, tearing a piece of lamb leg from the bone with his teeth and chewing with the kind of loud, careless satisfaction that made the room feel smaller, “you will reside in the palace. You understand.”
He was introduced as Fillipos, though the title had come with a shrug from someone who clearly did not respect him enough to make it sound formal. A broad man with a swollen belly and wine-red cheeks, his robe strained at the middle where he sat heavily at the table. He had the air of a man who had long ago decided other people should make room for him and had found the world irritating ever since.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pointed the greasy bone vaguely toward Phainon.
“Because of your winnings,” Fillipos said. “And because we do not know your records, we have to do a check.”
One of the men at the far side of the table gave a slight nod, as though this was obvious. Another did not bother looking up from his cup.
“The Kremnoan prince was supposed to win,” Fillipos went on, speaking around another bite. “But you’re no fool, so I figured everyone already told you that.”
He laughed at his own statement, a short wheezy sound that died quickly when no one else joined in.
Phainon’s face remained composed.
Inside, something in him tightened hard enough to feel like wire being pulled through bone.
A check.
Records.
Warnings dressed up as courtesy.
And the way they said supposed made the whole thing sound less like a victory and more like a disruption they still hadn’t decided how to tolerate.
Fillipos chewed, then took a long pull from his cup.
“As for your prize—” he began, then waved the thought away with the same greasy hand before finishing, “—given that you already get Princess Y/N, well, that’s none of my business, so never mind that.”
A few of the men in the room stirred faintly.
Phainon did not.
Not outwardly.
But the muscles at his jaw went just a fraction tighter.
Fillipos either did not notice or did not care.
“Point is,” he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath him, “you will reside here. In the palace. We’ll see to your comforts.”
He spread his free hand as if announcing a generous favor from the gods.
“Food, rooms, attendants if needed, whatever a civilized man requires after a spectacle like yours.”
The word civilized landed oddly in his mouth, but he seemed pleased with it.
Phainon let the silence stretch for a moment.
Then he smiled.
It was gentle.
Almost sweet.
Too sweet.
Enough that Fillipos blinked once, then again, as though he had expected resistance and now had to decide whether that smile meant gratitude or trouble.
Phainon inclined his head by the smallest degree. “How considerate.”
The words were warm. The expression was warm. The tone was warm.
Too warm.
Fillipos frowned faintly, trying to read him and finding no easy shape to pin down. “Well. Yes. Naturally.”
Phainon’s smile did not change.
“Of course,” he said.
One of the men at the table—older, thinner, with a careful face and hands that never quite stayed still—looked between them, sensing tension but not yet understanding it. He cleared his throat and reached for an olive as if to disguise his attention.
Fillipos, emboldened by the absence of immediate resistance, went on.
“We can’t have you wandering around the city with no oversight. People will talk. They already are talking. There are concerns. About you. About the match. About what’s proper.”
“Proper,” Phainon repeated lightly.
“Yes,” Fillipos said, then frowned. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.”
The smile remained.
It was maddening how mild he sounded.
Fillipos squinted at him. “Good. Because this is all very straightforward. You live here until the emperor decides what’s next. You’re fed, housed, evaluated, and presented when required. Simple.”
Phainon nodded once, as if this were all entirely reasonable.
“I see.”
Fillipos relaxed a fraction.
That was his first mistake.
Phainon’s smile sharpened by the smallest amount, still pleasant, still composed, but now with something tucked beneath it that no one in the room would have mistaken if they had been looking for it.
“And the check,” he said, “is that because you’re concerned for my health?”
The advisor waved the question off, already reaching for another strip of meat. “For your records, mostly. And to make sure no one has lied about you.”
“Oh?”
“Especially if you’re not exactly what you were made out to be.”
The room went a little quieter at that.
Fillipos seemed not to notice.
Phainon did.
His fingers, hidden behind his back, pressed lightly into his own palm until the edge of his nail bit skin.
Made out to be.
He could feel the insult inside the phrase, polished until it sounded neutral.
Fillipos chewed, then added with a mouthful of lamb, “A man who fights the way you did doesn’t just come from a farm unless there’s something unusual in the blood.”
There it was.
Phainon held the man’s gaze for a breath.
Still smiling.
“Then I suppose it’s fortunate,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “that you’ve already decided to be curious.”
A couple of the men at the table shifted.
Fillipos blinked at him, caught between amusement and annoyance, and in that second Phainon saw exactly how far the man’s attention wandered when he believed himself in control.
It was almost enough to be satisfying.
Almost.
But the prince’s face flashed through his mind again.
The sand.
The blood.
The way the crowd had gone silent before the screaming.
The way the emperor had watched him.
And now this—being handled, arranged, spoken of like a difficult piece in a larger board game.
The smile on Phainon’s face never moved.
Inside, he could feel the agitation biting deeper with every word.
Fillipos took another drink. “You may think this all quite flattering.”
“I haven’t said one way or the other.”
“Oh, come now,” the advisor said, wagging the bone at him as if they were old friends. “You won a prince’s prize, earned a place in the palace, and might possibly become one of the most talked-about men in the empire by sunset. Flattery is implied.”
Phainon tilted his head slightly. “That depends on whether I survive sunset.”
The room stilled.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Fillipos let out a noisy laugh a moment later, but it was delayed, forced, a little too loud. “Ha! Ha! Well. You’re spirited.”
Phainon kept his expression open and polite.
The sweetest smile in the room.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I’ve been told that.”
The older thin-faced man looked down at his cup, very deliberately pretending he had not noticed the temperature of the conversation changing.
Fillipos wiped his mouth again and sat back, the leather of his chair creaking under him. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re not speaking of execution.”
Phainon’s eyes remained on him.
“No?”
“No. We’re speaking of protocol.”
“Of course.”
“And of course,” Fillipos added with a grunt, “if there are complications with the princess, that will be handled by those better suited than me. I’m only telling you the basic arrangement.”
The way he said it suggested basic arrangement covered an awful lot of unpleasant possibilities.
Phainon smiled a little more.
It was exquisite, that smile—pleasant enough to disarm, gentle enough to look harmless, and false enough that anyone with sense should have felt uneasy when they saw it.
Fillipos, for all his size and noise, did not seem to be one of those men.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if confiding a kindness.
“Just be sensible, boy. Keep your head down. Let the palace do what the palace does. You’ll have a warm room, food better than anything that farm could offer you, and the emperor is not a cruel man so long as one remembers his place.”
Phainon’s sweet smile held.
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
The advisor sat back with a self-satisfied grunt.
Phainon nodded once more, the motion barely there.
Then, very politely: “Then I’m sure I’ll have no trouble at all.”
Fillipos gave him a final, vague nod, apparently taking that at face value. Which only made Phainon’s agitation settle more sharply under his ribs.
Because he knew he was being managed.
Because he knew the palace was deciding what category he belonged in.
Because every polite word around him had the shape of a leash. And because he could already feel, with dreadful clarity, that “reside in the palace” was not an invitation.
It was containment, but he kept smiling anyway.
Outside the hall, the argument cut through the stone corridors like a blade.
“I am not stepping in there!” your voice snapped, sharp enough to make a passing servant freeze mid-step. “Do you understand me, Agnes? I will not!”
“Lower your voice,” Lady Agnes replied coolly, as if she were correcting a child mispronouncing a word rather than restraining a grieving heir. “You will do nothing of the sort.”
A harsh sound—half laugh, half choke of fury.
“You cannot make me look at him,” you hissed. “I will not stand in a room and smile at the man who-”
“He is not a plague you can avoid by shutting your eyes,” Agnes cut in. “And you will not make a scene.”
“A scene?” your voice rose again, trembling now with something sharper beneath it. “A scene? He killed Mydeimos, Agnes!”
A pause.
The name hit the air like something sacred and shattered. Then your voice broke into something more ragged, less controlled.
“I will not stand in front of him. I will not breathe the same air as him if I can help it. I will—” you choked on your own fury, “—I will take that fat advisor’s sword and drive it through his chest myself if you make me walk in there smiling!”
There was a heavy silence.
Then Agnes sighed—long, weary, utterly unimpressed.
“Oh shut up, child,” she said flatly. “Enough with your bickering. You are making a scene.”
“I am allowed to make a scene!” you snapped immediately. “Mydeimos is dead!”
“And screaming about it in a corridor will not resurrect him,” Agnes replied, voice tightening just enough to cut through your panic. “Compose yourself.”
A strangled noise escaped you.
“I will not compose myself,” you spat. “Not for him. Not for any of them.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“I am not being ridiculous-”
“You are,” Agnes said firmly, and then, with far more force than before, “and you will walk in there.”
Another pause.
Your breathing was uneven now, anger and grief tangled together so tightly you could barely tell where one ended and the other began.
“I hate him,” you said suddenly, quieter—but far more dangerous for how steady it sounded. “I hate that stranger. I hate that I have to look at him. I hate that Father is entertaining this—this thing like he matters more than Mydeimos did.”
Agnes’s tone softened by a fraction, but only slightly. “You do not hate him.”
Your head snapped up. “I absolutely do.
“You have not even seen him.”
“I don’t need to see him!” you shot back. “I know what he is!”
A beat.
Then Agnes, with infuriating calm: “You know what you have been told he is.”
That stopped you for half a second.
Only half.
Then the fury surged again, sharper.
“I don’t care,” you said through clenched teeth. “If he breathes in that room, I swear I will—”
“You will do nothing,” Agnes interrupted, and this time there was steel in it. “Because you are not a child in a market street. You are standing in a palace.”
A sharp motion; guards at the side shifted.
And then suddenly, before you could argue again, they were there.
Hands at your arms.
“Don’t touch me!” you snapped instantly, jerking against them. “Get off— I said get off!”
“Your Highness,” one of the guards started.
“Don’t call me that, like I am some ornament!” you spat. “Let go of me!”
“Enough,” Agnes ordered sharply.
You turned on her, eyes blazing. “You cannot force me!”
“I can,” she said simply.
And she did.
The guards guided you forward anyway, despite your resistance, not dragging you roughly but not giving you choice either. Your heels struck the stone in uneven steps as you fought them the entire way.
“I swear to the gods I will never forgive this,” you hissed under your breath. “Never. I don’t care who he is, I don’t care what title they give him—he is nothing. He is nothing to me.”
Agnes walked just ahead, not looking back.
“Try telling the emperor that,” she said mildly.
“I will tell all of them,” you snapped. “I will tell every single one of them what he did. I will-”
The doors loomed ahead.
Massive. Open. Light spilling from within. And the sound of voices, silence shifting, attention turning.
Your breath hitched.
“No,” you said instantly, panic threading through the anger now. “No, I’m not going in there. Agnes, Agnes, I will not-”
But the doors were already fully open. And the hall inside saw you.
The shift was immediate. Silence. Then movement.
Every person in the chamber- advisors, attendants, guards, nobles- they all lowered themselves in unison. Deep, immediate, practiced bows.
All of them.
Even Fillipos, still half-chewing something at the table, froze mid-motion and dipped his head awkwardly.
Agnes’s voice came beside you, low and absolute. “Stand.”
You didn’t want to.
Every instinct in you screamed not to. But you were pushed forward anyway. The guards released you just enough for you to step through the threshold.
Your gaze refused to lift. Refused to meet anyone. Not your father. Not the council. Not the center of the room where you already knew he was.
Your voice came out before you could stop it—ragged, furious, breaking.
“I hate him,” you said again, louder this time, as if the words alone could undo everything. “I hate him. I don’t care what any of you say. I hate him.”
A few gasps. A shift in the room. Agnes’s hand came lightly at your back, not comforting, but anchoring.
“Breathe,” she murmured.
“I will not breathe,” you snapped. “I will not stand here and pretend this is acceptable. He is—he is a stranger. A nobody. He killed Mydeimos and you expect me to—”
Your voice broke sharply on his name. For a moment, you couldn’t continue.
Then you forced it out anyway, trembling with rage and grief.
“I will never accept him.”
You're pushed inside, a scowling Agnes behind you now.
Your words were still hanging in the air: sharp, trembling, impossible to take back—when your father’s voice cut through them at once.
“Enough.”
You stiffened, chest heaving, face still turned downward so you did not have to look at the man who had caused all of this. Around you, no one moved. The advisors remained bent in their bows. The attendants froze. Even the servants along the walls seemed to have gone rigid where they stood.
Your father rose from his place at the head of the chamber.
He did not raise his voice again. He did not need to.
“You will not speak like that in my hall,” he said, measured and cold, each word set down with the weight of law. “You will not behave as though the gods themselves have been offended by what has been done in accordance with tradition.”
Your hands curled into fists at your sides.
“Tradition?” you bit out, voice shaking now with fury. “You call this tradition?”
His gaze sharpened at once. “I call it order.” He turned then, not to you, but toward the center of the room.
“Farmer,” he said.
The name landed like a stone in still water.
You finally looked up.
There he was.
Cleaned, dressed, composed—far too composed, given the day he had made of everything. He stood among the polished stone and silk in garments that had been chosen to make him fit the palace more than the palace fit him. The sun had been washed off him, the blood hidden, the bruises softened beneath cloth and oil.
And still he looked dangerous.
Not in the wild, brute way you had expected from someone who came from sand and blood and an arena floor.
No.
In a quieter way.
In a way that seemed to know exactly where he stood.
Your father’s voice came again. “Kneel.”
A collective silence moved through the hall.
Phainon did not hesitate.
He lowered himself to one knee with only a single clean motion, the kind that made it plain he could obey without becoming smaller.
That only made your anger sharper. You looked down at him with utter disgust and repulsion and all the grief you had not yet been able to put anywhere else.
He had the audacity to meet your gaze.
Not smugly. Not challengingly. Just directly.
You wanted to hate how steady he looked.
You wanted to hate how unashamed he seemed to be standing here after all of it.
Your mouth tightened. “You have some nerve.”
His expression did not change much—just the smallest tilt of his head, as though he had been expecting nothing kinder.
“I’m told that is useful,” he said quietly.
The answer startled you enough that your expression sharpened.
Anger flashed hotter.
“You think this is amusing?”
“No,” Phainon said at once, still low, still calm. “I think it’s unbearable.”
That made you pause.
His eyes flicked briefly—not away from you, but somewhere between your face and the floor, as though he knew better than to pretend he was not being judged.
“You’re allowed your repulsion,” he said, so quietly only you and perhaps the gods could hear it. “Your feelings too.”
For a moment, the words did not make sense.
Then they did.
And somehow that made them worse.
Because he wasn’t arguing with you. Wasn’t trying to charm you. Wasn’t trying to make himself smaller than the thing he had done. He was simply acknowledging it.
Your breath came harder. “You speak like that absolves you.”
He looked at you for a long beat. Then answered, just as quietly, “It doesn’t.”
A tiny sound moved through the room—one of the advisors clearing his throat somewhere behind your father—but the emperor’s attention remained fixed on the two of you.
You hated that he was watching. You hated that everyone was watching. And worse, you hated that Phainon remained kneeling as if that were somehow enough. Your father stepped closer now, the movement precise, measured, his hands folded behind his back in the way he did when he meant to become impossible.
“You will both understand this now,” he said, voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Not later. Now.”
He stopped where he stood, between you and Phainon, as if placing himself deliberately in the line of all consequences. “The arena has spoken,” he continued. “The gods have witnessed. The law has been fulfilled. The victor has been declared, and the prize has been recognized.”
Your stomach turned at the word.
He said it as if it were simple.
As if you were not standing there, as if your feelings had no place in it.
Your father looked first to the advisors, then to the gathered court.
“This is tradition,” he said. “The victor claims what he has won. The crown does not dishonor what the gods have permitted.”
A murmur, thin and restrained, moved through the chamber and then stilled again.
He turned his head slightly toward you. “And you,” he said, with a little less hardness but no more mercy, “are not exempt from tradition simply because you dislike it.”
Your jaw tightened hard enough to hurt.
“I am not a coin to be claimed,” you said.
“No,” your father replied. “You are the emperor’s daughter.”
That did not help.
He continued anyway, as if your outrage were just another objection to be filed away.
“You were always to be married according to rite. According to bond. According to what the empire recognizes as lawful succession.”
Your chest rose and fell too sharply. The room felt too small. Too warm. Too full of eyes. Your father went on, voice steady as stone. “Phainon won the games. That means he won the right to name his prize.”
You stared at him. For one reckless moment, you thought perhaps he might say something else. That perhaps he might relent, or at least soften the statement into some more palatable form.
He did not. In fact, his gaze remained unwavering. “And you,” he said, “are the prize he sought.” It felt like the air had been struck from the chamber.
You could hear your own pulse in your throat. You looked down again at Phainon, still kneeling, still composed, still far too calm for the ruin he had caused.
He did not smile. Did not preen. Did not look triumphant. That almost made it worse.
Your expression twisted with disgust. “You had no right.”
Phainon’s eyes remained on you.
When he spoke, it was barely above a breath. “I know.”
That answer made something in you catch.
Not soften.
Never that.
But catch.
He went on, still quiet. “You don’t have to like me for this to be true.”
Your fingers clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms.
You could not decide what was more hateful—that he understood your fury so quickly, or that he did not seem offended by it.
Your father’s voice cut back in before you could speak again.
“The marriage will be arranged,” he said bluntly. “Not because sentiment demands it. Not because this court is sentimental enough to pretend otherwise.” His eyes swept the room once more. “But because this is what was won, and what was won must be honored.”
Your throat tightened. “Honored,” you repeated bitterly.
“Yes.”
He looked at Phainon now.
“You will rise when addressed,” the emperor said.
Phainon did not move immediately.
Not in defiance, just enough pause to make it clear he was listening. Then, smoothly, he rose to stand. The motion was controlled, careful, and somehow that made the insult of it worse—because he did it as if he knew exactly what the room needed him to be, and exactly how much of himself he was willing to show while being made into a symbol.
Your father continued, “The empire will not be made foolish by public spectacle. Kremnoan pride will be managed. The court will accept the outcome. The rites will be observed. The union will proceed.”
Your face went cold. “No.”
The word broke out of you before you could stop it. It rang through the chamber. Every head turned slightly, though no one dared fully look up.
Your father did. So did Phainon.
Your voice shook, but your fury steadied it. “I will not be treated as though I belong to some peasant because men in silk and armor decided to call it law.”
11:41
more fluffy dilf caleb, whisper the masses....
Caleb was big. And heavy. And right now, he was sprawled across you on the couch, half his body draped over yours like a human weighted blanket.
You wiggled, trying to adjust, but he only hummed in contentment and shifted even more of his weight onto you. “Mm. Comfy,” he murmured, completely unbothered by the fact that you were currently being smothered.
You let out a dramatic gasp, arms flailing slightly. “Caleb, you’re crushing me. This is how I die.”
He chuckled, the rumble vibrating against your chest, but he didn’t move. If anything, he settled in further, nuzzling his face against your neck. “Nah, you’re fine,” he mumbled. “You’re warm. And soft.”
You squirmed again, but it was useless. He was a boulder. A big, smug, heavy boulder. “Caleb,” you whined, poking at his side. “You’re literally suffocating me.”
One of his arms lazily looped around your waist, completely ignoring your suffering. “Shh,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Just let it happen.”
You groaned, tossing your head back against the couch cushions. “I hate you.”
He grinned against your skin. “No you don’t.”
Sighing, he was completely unrepentant as he nestled his head further against your chest. “See? Au naturel pillows.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh my god.”
He hummed, completely ignoring your exasperation. “Perfect height, perfect softness. Honestly, I don’t know why I ever bother with actual pillows when I’ve got these.”
You flicked his ear. “Because actual pillows don’t breathe, you pervert.”
He just chuckled, completely unbothered, and gave you a slow, deliberate squeeze around the waist. “Yeah, but they also don’t smell like you.”
Your brain stalled for a second. Stupid. Stupid, flirty man.
You huffed, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “Shut up."
Caleb grinned against your skin. “N. O. No.”
With all the strength you could muster, you shoved him—hard.
Caleb let out a startled grunt as he tumbled off the couch, but before you could so much as breathe in victory, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, and—
Oh, shit.
You yelped as he yanked you down with him, the world tilting for a split second before you landed right on top of him, sprawled across his broad chest.
Caleb let out a dramatic oof, but you barely had time to process before he was laughing—deep, smug, and way too satisfied with himself. “Tried to ditch me, huh?” he teased, his arms locking securely around your waist. “Big mistake.”
You groaned, trying to push yourself up, but he just tightened his hold, keeping you trapped against him. “Caleb—”
“Nope,” he interrupted, grinning. “Actions have consequences, pipsqueak.”
You squirmed, trying to pry his arms loose. “The consequence was supposed to be you on the floor, not me too!”
Caleb only hummed, completely unaffected by your struggle. “Yeah, well. Now you’re stuck.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this.”
His grin widened. “Maybe.”
You huffed, flopping against him in defeat. “…I hate you.”
He kissed your temple, all warm and lazy. “No, you don’t.”
