Discover Top Posts Tagged with #manuscript.

𝐈 · 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒.

fem reader x mydei · words 11.0k MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

𐂥 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 · · · the one and only paradise left in all amphoreus — the holy city of okhema — at last welcomes you within its borders. but even what’s made of pure alabaster and gemstones, up close is marred with imperfections. and you become one of those as well.

𐂥 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 · · · sort of prologue, switching perspectives, the story here is tame but still veiled with themes of discrimination, dealing with a crisis in the city, political corruption, workplace abuse, and more…

𐂥 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 · · · hello! the first chapter is finally out and i pray i won’t die trying to write the ones that follow. i hope anyone who decides to read it ends up enjoying it! i’d appreciate being gentle with any feedback as i’ve poured blood, sweat and tears into this story, and i hold it close to my heart due to personal reasons. thank you!

Fed on stories of the Holy City for your entire journey, you can’t help but feel excited. As the caravan passes the last hill and the wheels rattle onto smoother stone, the quiet night starts to brighten. From behind the curtain of clouds and dark fog, a globe of light resting atop the Worldbearing Titan, on Kephale’s shoulders, welcomes all weary travellers with its warmth and hope to see one more sunny day. It does not pierce the darkness — it invites it to soften.

Looking at the Dawn Device for the very first time marks the first dawn of a new life as well. With mouth agape, you watch as the divine gift grows and grows with each passed road sign, and you wonder if it covers the whole sky over Okhema.

“The golden city,” the man beside you says, his voice already changed by nostalgia. “You will fall in love there, this I can promise. The world outside may be corrupted, but… no, everything in Okhema is how it was. As if Era Chrysea has never ended.”

“I don’t believe you, sir!” you laugh, a rare moment of lightness.

“You don’t have to, hah! You’ll see it with your own eyes tomorrow, maybe in two days at most.”

As the first day fades, the delay begins to stir unease.

You arrive to find the outer city burning.

The attack had happened just a few hours earlier — creatures blackened by corruption, hunched and warped like failed sculptures of man and beast, stormed through the outer districts, clawing into stone and flesh alike.

What greets your group from outside the walls is chaos. Soldiers pick through the wreckage for survivors, charred items, stray talons. Caravans are left overturned, flames licking at the forgotten shipments, and refugees wander in circles as if trying to reassemble their lives from fragments on the ground.

People rush through the open gates in the mountain in both directions. Some try to flee. Some try to return. Scattered citizens collect dropped goods, and others call out for friends and family. Water is thrown on small fires and it shimmers like liquid crystals. (You’ve never seen water so clear in your life, not even when passing over the streams in the mountains.)

You stay close to your companion, following him towards the main road and the large marble bridge — one built to trace a rainbow’s curve into the city’s centre. The colours are faded because of the smoke, but it still glows under the Dawn Device’s radiance.

“How could that happen?!” you ask, trying to match his fast pace.

“It’s not unusual… although rare.”

“You haven’t said anything about it…!” Your voice cracks slightly. You’re trying not to look too shaken, but your steps falter. It’s not that you’ve never seen worse, but you didn’t expect to see it in the Holy City. Not so close, not while still catching breath after stepping from the road.

“Everything beautiful that I said about Okhema is true, and I will stand by those words even now.” The man doesn’t stop, but he glances at you with something like an apology tugging at his brow. “We are blessed that this was but a surge of lost black tide creatures and not a coordinated attack of the Titankin.”

You don’t know whether his reassurance is meant for you or for himself.

“Will these people be alright?”

“Okhema is still the safest place in all Amphoreus. People get hurt more tripping over ditched carts in panic than because of the black tide monsters.” Your companion forces a dry chuckle, flattening the crease on his sleeve. “The city always finds its balance again — you’ll see. We’re just in the noisy part of the fall before everyone remembers how to stand upright.”

You see a giant — a real Mountain Dweller — kneeling beside a group of children, one massive arm curved gently around them like a wall. His calm presence seems to hush their restlessness and weepy hiccups. A golden bell hums from a small roof above them — the dromas caravan stop, its beams askew but still standing. You were meant to disembark there if not for the chaos outside the first gate. Now it’s a landmark you pass by quickly, one that has turned into a place of improvised shelter. The bench is crooked, scorched at one corner, but the kids sit in a row as if waiting for something ordinary to resume.

Behind you, a new surge ripples through the crowd, but this one is not born of fear. A wave of sound rises — cheers, shouts of relief, a collective sigh of release. The air shifts from acrid smoke to something like triumph as a group of soldiers begins sifting back through the gates, weary but resolute. They part like a river around a stone, and at the head of the returning force, you see him — a figure bright as day despite the grime.

Lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

His white hair is messy from the wind, streaked with soot, and there are torn threads across the shoulder of his fine coat. He moves with exhaustion that seems to settle deep in his bones, yet it does nothing to dim the brilliance of his presence; his steps are still proud and brisk. His bright cyan eyes scan the crowd, and when a tired smile touches his lips, the people erupt.

“Lord Phainon is back!” someone cries, the sound thick with gratitude.

“He saved us!” others echo, pointing. “He came back!”

You’ve heard stories of the Chrysos Heirs, of course. Everyone has. But to see one in the flesh, wading through the chaos he has just helped quell, is something else entirely. The sight of him, this young hero returning to his city, feels like a promise of a better tomorrow. It soothes the hysteria, dampens the raw edge of panic.

Your companion, who had been agitated by the chaos around him, finally calms down as the cheers for Phainon fade slightly. Then he swings his bag over his shoulder and glances your way.

“Come on,” he says, gentler now. “My place isn’t far — just past the mural gate and left of one of the shrines. You’ll be safe there tonight.”

You’ll be safe, you repeat in your mind, as if that’s something people mean permanently. You hesitate only a moment before following.

But the moment you turn past the corner, whatever sense of safety his words gave you crumbles.

There is no house.

There is rubble, still licked by a dying fire that glows faintly beneath splintered beams. You can tell the mansion had once stood tall, opulent and with many rooms. A garden had trailed down into what must have been a shopfront, now blackened and half-buried in dirt. The twisted remains of ceramic tiles glitter like scattered jewels. He must have been a successful merchant here, you think.

Now all of it is gone.

Your companion drops his bag without a word and sprints ahead. His voice rises quickly, breaking into raw shouts. You watch him scream at the few pale figures who stumble from the nearby archway — housemates, business partners, staff, maybe even family, who knows. He demands an explanation for the charred walls, the scorched stone. His words are too tangled to catch. All you can do is stand there, heavy with someone else’s grief.

Eventually, he drags his feet back towards you again.

“You must forgive me,” he says, brushing ash from his sleeve. “There’s nothing I can offer you right now.”

You feel disappointment stir in your chest, but you don’t want to burden the man. After all, he’s a stranger, and you shouldn’t ask for more from someone who’s just lost everything.

“I understand,” you say, quietly. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make it.” He smiles, half-honest, half-trained. “Please look for the instructions on the murals. You’ll find the place where refugees can register and receive basic help.”

“Thank you. Are you going there, too?”

“I will, I will… I just want to see if there’s anything here worth saving. But you should go! There might be a queue.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

And then you leave him, with your reluctance slowing your feet. You think about turning back and offering to help. Staying. But something tells you it would only make things worse.

The streets are quieter now, and the panic that swelled through the gates like fever starts to thin. Besides a mess on the streets, the inner districts of the city barely look like they suffered an unexpected blow. You think of the ruined mansion as you pass the gossiping crowd — how easily things fall apart, whether built on stone or trust.

Following the overly elegant instructions along the stone walls, you make your way towards the Marmoreal Palace. It towers above the valley and layers of smaller houses, a monolith of white marble and golden ornaments, elegant and pristine even beneath the air that still smells faintly of rust. The banners with symbols of each Titan, painted with purpura, the imperial dye, sway from the azurite columns. It’s said the palace has always served a dual purpose — both as the governing residence and as a place of healing. And today, it lives up to the title.

People stream in and out of its open baths and long halls — hurried, uneven, with the little space between the masses filled with voices and the tang of sweat, ash, and ointments. There’s a rhythm to the disarray, like a city breathing too fast. Volunteers — mostly medical scholars from the Grove of Epiphany — move between groups to offer water, bandages, and fresh clothes folded with rushed care. Some kneel beside soldiers, wiping blood from their brows or helping them out of the tightened metal pieces. These are likely the Okheman guards and other defenders who fought the surge, weary from battle.

You join the line that curves around the entrance and spell your name to have it written on a scroll. No one asks where you’ve come from, your past left unquestioned. You’re given a blanket and two cloth bags: one with dried fruit, hard oval bread and simple produce; the other with a change of tunic and a set of self-care tools still wrapped in linen, though the bundle seems smaller than what others received.

It’s difficult not to stare when the grand pool casts iridescent shimmer on the sapphire walls and turquoise silks draped around rings high above your head. For a brief moment there, you’re nearly certain there’s a golden figure standing at the edge of the hanging bath that overlooks the entire gallery, but with another glimmer of passing lights, the presence is gone. The Overflowing Bath seems too beautiful to be accessible to all civilians, but it’s true, if you believe what you overhear from mingled conversations. You do not wish to participate, too overwhelmed by today’s events to even think of starting a dialogue.

You wash your face in the fountain basin just off the main courtyard. The water is colder than expected, but clear and refreshing. The baths are closed for today and will probably be for the next day as well, but you wouldn’t use them anyway, too unsure about stepping into a vast space full of people with but a towel to yourself.

The flowers growing on the other side of the polished balustrade are almost glowing with their intense purple shade, and you cannot see the part of the city that was attacked from the alcove. It seems peaceful, almost perfect, and the Dawn Device casts an orange light announcing changing hours. For the first time in months, it’s silent enough around you to hear the wind and subtle songs of birds and nymphs living high up the lakes from where the water flows into the bathhouse.

Without anything better to do with yourself, you roam around for the next few days, getting to know the layout of the streets and gardens, which paths are easy to walk and which curl towards steep hills.

The best place to draw is the flat shore of one of the shallow ponds nestled between the Marmoreal Palace and the market square. You don’t mean to attract attention — it’s just something to do with your hands, lines and spirals sketched idly with a stick into damp sand while your thoughts drift. But someone notices. You think he must be rich — his robes are deep indigo, stitched with the patterns only worn by those who worship Phagousa, and his speech carries the smooth accent of southern courts. He watches you for a while before casually asking if you know how to paint. You do.

The job he offers is strange, maybe even absurd. Something about restoring murals in a forgotten house or painting symbols onto imported silk. He omits the details, but you accept it, curious and having no better alternative.

(For a time, it will be decent work.)

Later the same day, you sit on the stone wall near the gardens and wag your legs mindlessly. The sky shines like burnt peach above you, unmarred by clouds. The sun is gently warming your skin, local food between your fingers and on your tongue.

You will eventually have to settle down like a proper citizen, but maybe that man — the one throwing figs who lost his mansion — was right, after all.

Any worries weigh less in Okhema.

(You see him a few weeks later, wearing golden earrings and bracelets around his wrists. By either luck or the generous help of the ruling party, the man has reclaimed a portion of his wealth — maybe not everything, but from just a glance certainly enough not to mourn. But he’s forgotten you, and something tells you that even if you approached him, he would not remember.)

You wonder if the attack before your arrival was just a nightmare you had witnessed in a dream. It’s been a while since the smoke cleared and the initial chaos subsided.

Besides that one job offered to you by the man in indigo robes, you needed a stable income, working where you could. Difficult, often unpleasant tasks that paid little and demanded much, exposing you to the city’s less visible cruelties, but you bite your cheek and remind yourself that the beginnings are never easy. You wish not to think about it when the gentle lustre of the Dawn Device kisses your face.

The bright afternoon finds you at the Marmoreal Market, trailing behind your part-time employer. The streets smell of spices, tanned leather, and the sweet perfume drifting from the shop across the cobblestone. The man in indigo robes haggles with a vendor over the price of fruits (something about bruises on the velvety skin of the peaches, even though you cannot spot a single imperfection on them from your place behind his back). You hold a small pouch of crushed pigment, its crimson colour more interesting than the fake conversation. Truthfully, it makes you happy that you can use a fine paint now, even if only for these specific murals you work on; and now you hope that the man will eventually agree to buy these peaches, bruised or not, because you would receive one, maybe even two, if he’s having a good day.

It is in the middle of this mundane transaction, as your employer finally secures his price with a satisfied click of his tongue, that a different sound cuts through the market chatter. A low, rolling murmur from the direction of the main bridge — a wave of discontent that makes vendors pause and shoppers turn their heads in curiosity.

What cuts through the tiring monotony of your early life in Okhema is the arrival of the detachment from Kremnos, bringing more refugees saved on the way. The grim parade of warriors, draped in crimson robes and clad in golden armour, enters the city, and behind them — just as mighty-looking women and elders with sharp eyes. Their rounded shields, burnished though battered and chipped at the edges, gleam faintly beneath the layer of dust, while swords and spears are at last laid down. They look every bit as if the battlefield still clung to them.

Now they come not as conquerors but as guardians — just like Nikador, Titan of Strife, had once protected the land before he descended into madness and turned his blade against Amphoreus. Protection is a word heavy with honour, but where there should have been gratitude, there’s unease. The people gathering at the sides of the main road cheer only faintly; more they gossip and cast judgemental gazes instead. The battle-ready soldiers of Kremnos bring a dread that no chivalry could dispel, regardless of how many lives they saved.

The man at their head walks differently, like he’s carrying something far heavier than his own armour. Something in your body shrinks at the sight of him. He looks even more frightening than any black tide creature: his clothes are half-stiff with dried blood, both red and black, and a glimmer of gold sprinkled over his face. His hair is matted, lumped together with mud and ichor from…

“… Wounds that heal on his body faster than one could inflict another.” You hear people behind your back gossiping to each other. You don’t want to believe them, but looking back at the warrior, if anyone here could challenge death itself, it would be him.

You’ve heard many stories on your way to Okhema. Everyone has talked about Chrysos Heirs like they’re sent by the heavens to save the world. It’s been years since the last hero joined their ranks, but now, another has come.

There’s one tale already passed in gossip between the streets — about the glorious challenge between the two gold-blooded heroes. One called the Deliverer — Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, who bears the colours of Okhema and claims victory wherever he goes. The other one, Mydeimos — the crowned prince of Castrum Kremnos, the ruined citadel from the south, once hailed as a boy of war. No one knows if the Kremnoan Detachment was marching to doom anyone on their path or to bring salvation. However, the evenly matched contest between two Chrysos Heirs stopped it altogether — that is exactly why many are still uncertain if Prince Mydeimos is a welcome guest. Some say that if he was sent to save them, the gods must’ve grown tired of mercy.

The man in Phagousa’s robes, the one who offered you the job, most of the time cares only about counting coins in his purse. He’s a little too chatty for someone of his station. You wouldn’t suspect him to be disrespectful… until you see him join the commotion and throw overripe fruits at the Kremnoan legion returning from the wide bridge.

“Sir, what are you doing?” you half-whisper through gritted teeth, grabbing his sleeve.

“This is what happens when you let Kremnoans into the city,” he snarls, fingers dripping with fig syrup, eyes flashing.

“What did they do?” you ask, panicked and confused. “Didn’t they just save those people?”

“Who knows? In that chaos?! We open the gate, they pretend to save us, and the next thing you know, they steal and rape!”

“Sir, it’s not okay to say those things!” you try to reason, but as it seems, Nikador and Cerces speak different languages.

“This is how they are. They smile while they set your house on fire.”

You want to argue. You really do. But your words catch behind your tongue because the man’s voice isn’t the only one anymore. Chatter and agitation grow together around you, formed from ill wishes and fuelled by hysteria that still remains after the attack. You hear all kinds of curses, confessions, and accusations.

“That witch will get us all killed,” someone mutters — they mean Aglaea, the city’s ruler. “We will see her dead sooner than later!”

“She’s not even mortal anymore…”

“She let a lion loose and now expects him to sit quietly by her throne.” Apparently, some believe that the Kremnoan Detachment plans to take over Aglaea’s position and influence.

“A witch and a lion!”

It startles you how easily comfort breeds contempt. From what you understand, people in Okhema live conveniently, which means that as soon as that nicety is taken away from them, they start arguing. It’s bizarre to someone like you who has joined them not long ago after a long struggle on the road. You’ve come from the darkness high up north. You’ve walked over the bones of emptied cities, trying to escape the black tide. To you, this place still looks like salvation — but to its people, even salvation needs scapegoats.

The legion passes, unamused and unfazed. Their backs are straight, and their silence is somehow louder than the crowd.

One quiet truth about peace is that it makes government meetings feel unnecessary — a chore endlessly postponed, filled with the invention of problems where none exist. That’s what many in the Council of Elders murmur behind the neatly folded edges of their chitons. With the last real threat to the city now a distant memory from months ago, there’s little to do. Bored politicians nod off in their seats or look away from petty crimes below their status, half-irritated, half-relieved that Lady Aglaea has kept order all this time. For generations now — and with each passing year more than the last — she has extended her reach, her web of omnipresent eyes tightening patiently across Okhema. What is hidden from others is never hidden from her.

But the gatherings of those who follow the Flame-Chase Journey do not falter.

The day is bright, and the aquamarine sky above the Holy City seems to shimmer just a little more than usual with the breeze of the gentle west wind. Aglaea stands near the edge of the golden bath, sunlight clinging to the folds of her white dress. She watches the departing backs of the Chrysos Heirs in silence, not much different from the statues holding the columns; already having said enough during the discussion, she’s quieter than the water licking the mosaic, until one of the group in particular steps into the descending lift.

“Mydeimos,” she calls, not loud, but it halts him all the same — she has never needed to raise her voice to command attention.

He turns at once.

“Yes, Lady Aglaea?”

“Has Okhema been kind to you and your people?”

There’s a pause before he responds — calculating what is right to tell her and what is not. “The city has offered us shelter. Work. A future, of sorts. But many remember what Kremnoans once did to their cities.”

Aglaea finally stops gazing at the sky to meet his eyes and asks, “Do you blame them?”

“No,” Mydei says. “We did invade. We took what wasn’t ours. We brought fear, and now we live among those who remember it. I understand. But my people are not the same men who carried weapons. Most of them had not even been born yet. Still… peace takes longer to teach than war.”

A slow nod from her, as if she’s weighing not only his answer but his efforts. “And you? Can you call Okhema your new home?”

Mydei hesitates at her question. It’s hidden in the narrowing of his eyes, in the faint shift of his posture — but it betrays the ripple of discomfort.

“Kremnos is our home,” he replies, clearly puzzled. “And I try not to think about myself before others. My people… still face much. Not violence, not outright, but…” He exhales, glancing aside. “We aren’t easily forgotten, not in a city full of survivors.”

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, “the answer will come in time. If not for them, then for you.”

He says nothing, but she catches the way his gaze lingers — thoughtful, maybe grateful, maybe only more burdened.

“Do you still struggle with debates and diplomacy here?”

A faint, rueful smile touches his lips. “I’m learning. From watching you, mostly.”

She accepts the compliment without a word, simply folding her hands at her waist, golden fingers briefly brushing over the frills.

“I want you to investigate one place,” she tells him at last.

Mydei straightens. “What place?”

Aglaea lowers her chin just slightly, opal eyes reflecting the sun-drenched water at her feet.

“There’s a workshop up the southwestern hill. It handles storage and distribution of goods for refugees. Donations, emergency supplies, trades authorised by the Council of Elders.

“It’s a little more than a lattice of greed,” she continues. “The owner takes what is freely given, sells it for profit… or worse. Some people never see what they were promised. Others are coerced, indebted, or simply disappear.”

“Disappear how?” Mydei’s jaw tenses.

“There are links to brothels. The kind even the Council won’t acknowledge. I suspect some of the missing end up there, traded like coins. I need to prove their wrongdoings. Enough to dissolve the business by law, not merely by force.”

“What should I do once I arrive there?”

“I made an order, listed as intended for the Council of Elders. I have reasons to believe that within the crates should be hidden evidence — unedited documents and payments, unlike the official ones. That’s what I need.”

“Wouldn’t Phainon be a better choice to—”

“He won’t,” she cuts in smoothly. “Not this time. He’s directly under my care and associated with me too closely. If they realise I’m sending my messenger, they’ll react. You’ll go as allied with the Council of Elders — as cruel as it is, I must use the fact that Kremnoans are not fond of me.”

“So this is why you’ve remained indifferent to the offences my people and I face on the streets. It is cruel… but I understand.”

“Do not lose your composure, Mydeimos.” Her tone softens, though her eyes remain sharp. “We’re not confronting a merchant. We’re confronting someone who profits from desperation — and people like that, as you know, are rarely easy targets.”

“So I might meet innocent workers there, ones who know little of the scheme.”

“Many of them may be underpaid, misled, or too frightened. They may believe they are helping others — and in a small way, they are. The goods do flow outward. But not to the right people.”

Mydei nods slowly.

“It’s the right moment for you to change and let your weapons rest in times of peace. You are not there to punish the unwitting,” Aglaea affirms. “I will take care of the rest once you succeed with retrieving the order.”

Under the canopy of blossoming trees, where dappled sunlight spills liquid gold onto the dusty path, one could believe that the world is not ending. You secure another freshly washed canvas on the wooden loom to stretch it, the damp fabric cool against your fingertips. Amidst the heavy scent from the flowerbeds and the gentle rustle of olive leaves, the pale light of Okhema’s Dawn Device feels softer, less demanding.

Yet, peace is a fragile thing…

A shadow falls beside yours, and the man standing there — arms crossed, brow furrowed like he’s been stewing in his own discontent since waking up — judges your movements with undisguised disapproval. He scrunches his nose and huffs, as though your simple act of labour is a personal affront.

“These tasks aren’t meant for someone like you.”

You barely glance up, pinning the canvas corner. Your gut warns against stirring the fire, but Elpenor is always like this, just getting on your nerves while all you do is mind your own business.

“Someone like me?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be working on our production instead?” He ignores your question.

“It’s busy there now. I’m still working, though!”

“You carry yourself as if you belong among the city’s true craftsmen and scribes, handling materials meant for record and art,” he clarifies, spitting the word as if it tastes foul.

“Are you jealous…?”

His gaze sweeps dismissively over your practical tunic and the row of drying canvases. “Of what? Of an unwed woman in rags?”

Unwed. He’s poking needles under your skin. That much, at least, confirms you were right — he sees you as a threat.

“You’re not even getting paid for this. What’s the point?” he snorts.

Dust motes dance in the shafts of light between you.

“I’m only volunteering to help those in need on Lady Aglaea’s official request.”

“The Council will pull those banners down soon enough — they always do. And you… now you’re playing the saint? With your salary? When other Okhemans keep their heads down and do what’s assigned?”

A flicker of annoyance stirs inside, but you tamp it down. The Librarium at the Marmoreal Market is almost certainly about to accept you as the apprentice in the upcoming days, and you’ll leave this poisonous place.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

You wipe your damp hands on the cloth tied at your waist and curl a bit into yourself, meeting his resentful gaze. Your voice remains quiet, yet holds a subtle edge, like wind whistling through brittle parchment,

“I’m not from Okhema.”

“You live in Okhema now,” he hisses. “And being an unmarried woman is enough to silence your tongue,” he sneers, lips twisting in contempt. “Yes, I’ve heard you had declined the proposal from our boss.”

So he has heard…

You wish Elpenor could break his leg one day on the way to the workshop and not pester you or the boss just to gleen useless information.

“I don’t think it’s proper to accept a marriage offer when one works for the other,” you say, your voice indifferent as you return to your paused activity. It’s the truth, but you don’t mention the whole truth.

“He won’t take a second refusal, you know. Or are you really that naive?” Elpenor’s voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, as he rests his arm on his hip. “He had to leave to take care of more important matters, but you won’t escape your duty another time.”

“There’s no value in me as a wife.” You shrug.

“You should be grateful he even considered taking a sickly woman as his wife!” He says it as if unaware that it was meant as ownership. But he is stupid. And you know that all too well.

“I would only disappoint him, more than I already disappoint him as an employee.”

“Well, then surely there’s still some use for you in the brothels.” Elpenor eyes your whole body, and you shudder, trying not to gag.

His face twists, ready to continue, but his tirade dies in his throat as another presence joins you beneath the olive trees, silent and sudden as a hawk’s descent.

Towering over both of you stands a man seemingly forged from sunlight and bronze. The crown prince of Kremnos, Mydeimos. Known here as the warrior of Okhema, Mydei. You’ve seen him before from afar — a radiant but terrifying figure often standing near Lady Aglaea during the public debates.

Up close, his presence is overwhelming. Scarlet markings, akin to ritual scars, run through his exposed chest and beneath the crimson robe that hangs loosely on his shoulders. His hair, the colour of bright honey, is messily brushed behind his ear, revealing the proud, sharp lines of his face. And his eyes — molten amber, currently fixed on Elpenor with a look that could curdle milk.

He doesn’t speak or move aggressively, yet the sheer, coiled power emanating from him makes the air crisp, silencing even the lingering buzz of insects, such as your supervisor.

“Lord Mydei! H-here?!” Elpenor stammers, his voice jumping an octave as he straightens abruptly and wipes his hands on his tunic like a child caught stealing figs.

“Here, indeed,” Mydei replies, and his tone doesn’t fit this place, like he’s announcing himself in a court chamber rather than a quiet garden path. “May Kephale bless your day.”

“Ah, your arrival must’ve been brought by the generous west wind! Elpenor, at your service!” He bows, a taut string let loose. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m meant to collect the order commissioned by the Council of Elders.”

“Ah, right, that one! I know which one! Please give me a moment; I will get it ready!”

The rat of a man mutters an excuse, nearly tripping over a tree root in his haste to leave immediately.

Please, break your leg…

Silence returns, punctuated only by the murmur of the production on the other side of the wooden fence and the distant chatter of the city. Mydei’s intense gaze shifts from the retreating figure, lingers for a moment on the drying canvases swaying gently in the breeze, and then settles on you. He takes in your dishevelled state, the faint flush on your cheeks, and the determined look despite the argument. His expression remains impassive, perhaps but a fraction less stern than when confronting the other man.

His voice is rough and resonant. It carries easily even when nearly whispering, “Are you alright? You seem a moment away from crying.”

You startle slightly and smooth down your tunic for no reason other than just to pull your eyes away from him.

“I’m sorry— I, well, didn’t expect any of it.”

“Rest assured.”

“Just in time. I appreciate your intervention, O Chrysos Heir Mydei,” you manage, the formal title awkward yet necessary on your tongue. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself. I’m but a mere part-time worker here and a volunteer for Lady Aglaea’s initiative.”

A flicker of something — perhaps impatience, perhaps mild offence — crosses his features.

“I am not ordering you around,” he states, his tone level but firm. “And I wish you to respect my judgement all the same. Do not tell me what concerns should or shouldn’t capture my attention.”

“My apologies!” You dip your head slightly, feeling thoroughly chastened. “My words were unbecoming. Please, allow me to repay your kindness and reward your visit here. Perhaps… perhaps you would accept a small token? A crafted trinket from the workshop, maybe?” You gesture vaguely towards the nearby building, a part of the business you work for.

Mydei’s gaze follows your gesture, then returns to the drying plaster dolia near the kiln and the canvases, his eyes briefly focusing on the clean cut, the sturdy weave. He adjusts the strap of his pauldron, though it clearly needs no fixing.

“You artists master the fine arts, shape beauty from clay and pigment, weave tales into thread. Your gifts are often pleasing to the eye…” he pauses, his gaze becoming distant, pragmatic. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I cannot help but wonder how many of these delicate skills prove useful when dire times truly descend upon us.”

“Oh,” you say softly, taken aback by his bluntness. “I suppose… I suppose many hope there will be no such dire times.”

“Foolish,” he clicks his tongue, though without malice. “The dire times have already begun. But,” a subtle shift in his mien, a softening almost imperceptible, “I hope you, at least, face no evil greater than the insolence of that man.”

If only…

But Lord Mydei doesn’t know you or anything about your life.

For a while there, you play with the embroidered hem, unable to face him fully, merely stealing glances. His intimidating aura is undeniable, yet beneath the surface there’s…

A strange tenderness hiding in the mane of a lion, the thought flits through your mind.

“Speak up if you have something to add.”

Nothing gets past his sharp eyes. Nothing. Pinned in place by the quiet command, you sigh and reply with a wavering courage,

“You appear formidable, lord. Intimidating, even. But the way you speak…” You gesture uncertainly. “You care deeply about the people around you, even strangers. I… I hope you don’t have to worry about your companions in real battles.”

“Hmph.” A scoff rumbles in his chest, not exactly what one might expect from a prince. His voice returns after a moment, shedding the earlier hint of softness, regaining its confident edge. “Fear not — my companions are no less capable than I. We look forward to victory, never dwell on the possibility of a defeat.”

“That is good to hear. I wish you all the success.”

“Appreciated. What a—”

“Lord Mydei, please come this way! The order is ready to be collected!” Elpenor calls him from under the arch of the entrance to the warehouse.

Mydei glances your way one last time, a farewell both fierce and calming, like he’s trying to believe you’ll be alright once left alone. You lower your head before he can read anything else from your face. And just in the blink of an eye, his entire presence is gone from your orbit, following his original mission of visiting the supplier.

With a slow stride, he joins the manager beneath the arch and vanishes into the shadows of the warehouse, the sunlight glinting once more on his golden hair before he disappears inside.

Elpenor frowns at you behind Lord Mydei’s back, and you purse your lips before returning to your canvases. Anxious, because you know your supervisor will nag you further, just not personally, but probably by sending you a rotten apple for dinner. However, you still prefer skipping one meal if it means he won’t be complaining about you to your current boss, the one who had proposed to you before.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

It starts with screaming and complaining, the usual. Then, a tug at your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to fray your nerves. To make sure you’re not too calm in your steps, what Elpenor often says. To test it, he pushes you, just to see if you can save the thing you were just carrying in your hands. If not — if you dropped it — you’re forced on the ground to clean it up with vulgarisms lisped above your head.

Sometimes you regret leaving the job before this one — better pay, more stimulating work, and fewer intrusive supervisors. But even passion for art can erode under enough pressure, and the man from back then, the one dressed in robes with Phagousa’s patterns, did omit important details. The danger wasn’t loud or obvious, but it lurked in every corner, whispering that your safety was conditional, your freedom fragile. Comfort came at a cost you couldn’t afford.

(You buried those memories for a reason. To deal with none of them ever again.)

You try to argue with yourself that you need money, but earning so little is not worth what you have to endure here day by day. Alas, ending up unemployed scares you more than dealing with Elpenor’s weak attempts at intimidating you — it hurts when he’s using violence against you, but it rarely puts more pressure on your body than the everyday work. What is more worrying is that running away would certainly bring the attention of your boss.

Because what a man fears more than himself is another man. Rarely a woman. Unless she is claimed by another, but even then, her safety is merely borrowed. Your only shield against Elpenor’s worst was the boss’s unwanted interest in you. A hollow sort of protection, but enough to keep the exhaustion from getting worse.

You drop the small dolium, its warmth from drying in the sun slipping through your fingers. With the clink of shattered clay, you wake up, sweaty and startled.

No, it happened in a dream.

You’re no longer there, no longer having a reason for a restless sleep. In the stillness, you reach out in the dark, your fingers brushing the rim of the clay bowl kept beside your bed. The water inside is lukewarm and helps you settle back into reality.

The room is shadowed, curtains drawn thick against the eternal daylight. The sun never sets here, not fully. The Dawn Device only shifts its hue from pale blush through bright gold to amber haze. You had to pin the fabric carefully, double the layers, to mimic the night you were raised in. You lie back, not sure if sleep will come again, but comforted by the hush of the Curtain-Fall Hour.

You don’t miss your previous occupation.

An illegal business it was, sure something you had suspected but could never prove. You didn’t want to lose a job either; failing to report without enough evidence would mean being thrown out or even beaten up. Nothing you wouldn’t survive, perhaps, but had it really been an illegal business, you would also pose no threat to a smuggler or two.

It would be unwise to expect a lavish life. You wish to think not long after arriving to Okhema, but you know a lavish life is not meant for you. Ever. This is fine, though. As long as you can keep yourself happy and healthy, you ask for no luxuries. And, hopefully, such a goal is realistic enough, even in the city that devours itself despite the peace at first glance.

Although crimes officially do not exist here, sometimes it takes a while before they are discovered: small theft, assaults of many causes and consequences, exploitation. And being poor is not a crime. The city goes through difficult seasons when new refugees from places that fell to the black tide join the population. And while you know that the Council of Elders tries its best to provide, it’s not enough for everyone. Brothels, shady trades, questionable prices for goods that were supposed to be delivered free, unfair fights and deals — all are always present in the bleak shadows under the Dawn Device’s perpetual glow.

It’s been a few months since you started your new job at the Librarium. It is not just a repository of knowledge; it is said to have been established from the very instant the concept of books was created. Shelves fill every corner in the cramped space, laden with scrolls, tablets, and books that whisper forgotten histories to those willing to listen. The scent of aged parchment mingles with the faint tang of ink.

Your days now follow a predictable rhythm — and for once, that’s a blessing. You walk down to the first floor early, just as the morning haze begins to lift from the cobbled streets as you first unlock the windows and sweep the floors. The tasks are repetitive: sorting scrolls by era, restocking tablets on the lower shelves, and assisting an occasional scholar or wandering customer with their search. You don’t speak much. Most people don’t expect you to.

There’s no shouting here. No thinly veiled threats, no bribes disguised as pay bonuses, no stomach-gnawing dread every time someone’s shadow loomed over your crouching figure. There’s no boss who has never heard ‘no’ in his life. You are not watched like a potential traitor or worse — a prize. You are allowed to be tired, but you do not feel too exhausted, for once. You’re not thriving, perhaps, but at least you can do more than just survive.

Here is better.

Archilochus, the current owner, is intelligent. Though his old age and a past incident left his speech rather insignificant, slurred, you can sense great knowledge behind each sentence. He is also considerate, allowing you to work though you’re not a part of his family. His son is an archivist, promoted to sort the scrolls at the Bathhouse Library and spending less time behind the counter. A spare pair of hands turned out quite useful, especially now when the shop receives more and more products to sell or to borrow.

“You came here from the production workshop up the southwestern hill?” Archilochus asks one slow morning, squinting at a faded paint on the stone tablet as he dusts the shelf. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Did you know it was under investigation for a few weeks and closed on the Month of Balance?”

“Wait— you’re certain?” you ask, peering over the counter.

“Was Lord Mydei himself who shut it down. I thought someone like him wouldn’t bother with little liars.”

“W-why? How did you learn about it?”

“Couple of guards from the gate to the market passed the news. They said it was Lady Aglaea’s own voice that ordered the seals on the door. All official. But quietly.”

You slump against the wood, playing with the pen in your hands. “No one told me anything.”

“You’d already quit,” he shrugs. “You weren’t working there legally, I assume? No surprise there’s hardly anyone to associate you with that place. But maybe that’s a good thing.” His dry voice mellows down at the end.

“I just— I wish I’d known. I’d suspected things weren’t… right.”

“It was not your job to play investigator. You did the smart thing. Got out before the storm.”

You nod slowly, heart thudding with quiet disbelief. “And Elpenor?”

“Oh, and who was that?”

“The manager. Not the boss, but bossy for two.”

“Ah, the one you said that was closer to a rat than a human!” Archilochus lets out a soft laugh. “Dead, from what I heard. Fought the arrest, broke his leg while escaping and fell on the lower street. Foolish.”

You have to take a deep breath before your next question. “And the boss?”

“What a good question. I wonder myself… if it’s better to end up in the caged cell or be trialled by Lady Aglaea herself. Perhaps a lifetime in prison is kinder than the judgement of the Goldweaver.”

Archilochus returns to dusting without much more ceremony, leaving you to sit with the news in the hush of the Librarium, ink-stained fingers pressed to your lips.

Dead. The finality of that word scares you because you haven’t thought about the possibility of getting out of that unfortunate place without anything as impossible as a miracle. And yet it happened. Peace. The finality of that word scares you as well, even if peace is rarely something to last long. But now it is peaceful in your life, and the punishment from the boss will never arrive. You will not be forced into a marriage, then. Something you thought of as slavery without calling it one.

(Despite your love for arts, many Okheman traditions, though artistic at first sight, have never aligned with your beliefs, especially not given the treatment of women.)

A reason for your nightmares gone, because you were dreading each day, worried that your new reality would disappear and he would want you — his property — back.

You smile. You’re free to do whatever you want. Okhema gives you another chance to start life anew. Failure after failure, you don’t know how to experience true joy anymore. But you’re happy, even if for a moment before the usual fatigue overwhelms all positive emotions.

In the weeks that follow, you often catch the old man watching you out of the corner of his eye, like he wants to say something else but thought better of it.

The workshop has been abandoned ever since Elpenor’s death, then. The boss wasn’t directly involved with that place, and although he played his pawns, you’ve remembered Elpenor as the one who wasted the potential of that building and the small land attached to it. People who had worked there scattered all around Okhema, and you rarely see familiar faces anymore. Or you don’t remember them, really…

You feel alone again, with only scrolls and tablets to keep you company. Yet in their silence, they offer more comfort than the false warmth of your old workplace ever had.

It starts with a simple exchange — a man searching for a chronicle of his vanished town north of Dolos. He cannot remember the name of the river that once fed its fields. You help him comb through a stack of migration records and land surveys, and when nothing comes up, you scribble a note to ask the archivist on the next shift.

Then a woman from the southern deltas of Aristia arrives, her robes adorned with crystals and her voice like the waves. She tells you, unprompted, while packing cooking recipes, that she once saw a temple sink into the earth in a single day, the marsh reclaiming the Phagousa’s sanctuary without warning. Her people believed it was a punishment. You find her a scroll about flood myths and write down her version in the margins.

It becomes a habit. You start keeping a journal of everything they tell you — fragmentary songs, forgotten holidays, festival customs that no longer have altars to be danced upon. You scramble through old books even off the clock, trying to match their memories to surviving records. When the trail runs cold, you forward them to someone else, an elder from across the street or the client from two days before, anyone familiar from their city-state perhaps, or a linguist who might remember the dialect, or a baker who still knows how to pound the batter the right way to get the regional speciality.

And though you rarely speak about yourself, people begin to trust you. They return, sometimes just to sit and talk. You nod, listen, and file away each tale like a rare relic. Every day, you learn how little of the world has remained — and how fiercely people hold onto what still lingers.

It’s already difficult to store all the sheets of the handmade paper under the countertop; it’s too bothersome to bring them back to your room. Located on the first floor, a small lodging above the shop that is not pleasant enough to become permanent, but better than any of your previous bedrooms.

Kremnoans rarely visit. Either out of spite and unhealed resentment against Okhema, or because they’re not too interested in reading. Some of them come, speak loudly and proudly, and you jump in your chair but end up fascinated by the energy they’re able to convey through just words. Children are more curious than adults. They point their fingers at tablets and scrolls, ask if you have any legends and stories about their heroes. Some want to learn their language, but the Kremnoan tales in Okhema are told only verbally. Despite being a straightforward language, its alphabet is oddly complex. Moreover, you’ve never encountered a preserved piece that could teach you more than a few phrases.

“Everything from academic classics to popular novellas is included here,” you repeat to a new client what Archilochus always brags about, proud of his business, and then you smile.

But the client is not here for books. The messenger of an utterly forgettable face calls your name instead and says, “I’m glad that I didn’t have to look for you for too long. An invitation to the scroll reading at the Bathhouse Library has been sent to you.”

Though the initial message surprises you, you guess it’s a part of your apprenticeship training. It excites you, but you don’t show it, still too suspicious. Is Archilochus that generous? He’s not known for wasting resources, especially on newcomers. Maybe this is just another task meant to test your memory and manners in public.

“If you wish to participate, be ready on the first day of the Month of Joy.”

You recite the description of the fifth month in your head, having forgotten what it’s like to care for the routines written in the calendar (what a blessing that one copy always stands close to the corner you sit in) and not those pushed onto you through your occupation.

The month when spring cultivation ends. During this month, spring waters flow, and fishermen flourish. The heaviest workload for the year ended last month, and everyone is revelling in the atmosphere of festivity. This is the best month for brewing and holding celebrations, when people wake up, massage their temples in a daze, then shake their heads and go back to sleep.

“Next week, then…”

You bring it up with Archilochus in the late afternoon, while he’s sweeping the front step off the dust and pebbles. He raises an eyebrow at the invitation held before his eyes, but the surprise doesn’t last.

“Not from me,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “But go. It won’t hurt you. Might even help.” Then he smirks, crooked and sly. “And if you see my son there, remind him to visit his father and the Librarium. He forgets sometimes.”

Not knowing how to prepare, you pack a bag and linger over the choices more than needed. In the end, you slip in parchment and a charcoal set wrapped in a piece of leather, a habit you picked up from collecting tales. Perhaps you’ll take notes, or perhaps you’ll sketch someone’s face if the story grows too dull. You hesitate over a change of clothes (not that you have a difficult choice between one simple dress and another) and then decide against it.

When the day arrives, you walk towards the Marmoreal Palace for the second time in your life. Not to bathe — you’ve never done that there, not once, despite the years spent in Okhema — but to visit the Bathhouse Library. It stands open to all citizens who seek mindful enrichment after taking care of their bodies, but you walk slowly, unsure if you’re not intruding.

The marble of the threshold shines too white. You remember standing here once before, clutching a cloth bag with your name on a scroll. That was the day you first registered in the city. Now, the air is perfumed and clean, smelling of Dawncloud Peach. Attendees move in pairs, dressed in soft fabrics the colour of almonds and sea foam. You keep your gaze low and your stride quiet, trailing your fingers along the outer pillars until the inner hall draws you in.

The library wing diverges to the right of the bath chambers. Inside, light seeps through the compluvium in the flat ceiling, ribs of lacquered wood and plaster holding the vines and hanging flowers above tall shelves. Scrolls rest in shallow alcoves that line the walls, guarded by red columns and muted bronze of balustrades. Soft cushions have been scattered around the reading space, and some already sit, murmuring low greetings to one another. You recognise none of them, though most are not dressed that much finer than you.

A pair of musicians tune their instruments near a small fountain where, usually, everyday prayers are performed, and their hushed notes float like threads of warm air. You take your place on the edge of one cushion, trying to seem at ease, though your heart stirs fast beneath your hand when you check it. A faint zephyr from the outside stirs the hem of your tunic, bringing in a cooler scent of flowers.

Soon after, the reading begins.

It’s not Archilochus’s son who speaks first — rather, a scholarly woman with a voice low and clear as a bird’s song. She reads from a scroll so old the ink flakes slightly at its edges. You try to listen closely, but your thoughts catch outside the paper’s margins: the way the candlelight flickers against polished stone, the shape of someone’s wrist as they take notes, the gentle shifts of people settling deeper into the room.

You manage to focus at last when a familiar name is mentioned — not yours, of course, but a character from one of the oral tales you’d overheard seasons ago on your journey here. It’s different. In the version you know, the character dies alone by the riverbank after getting lost in the darkness of the Evernight, pursued by monsters. A warning for children not to roam far away from their homes when the times are so dangerous. But in this one, dating back to Era Chrysea, the protagonist befriends the beast after tending to its wounds, and it transforms into a beautiful human, offering their love in return. It makes you wonder what tales have changed through the retellings and whether there’s truth in any version or only what’s needed at the time.

At some point, someone brings clay cups filled with water infused with Sagelore Fruit to further stimulate one’s mind. It’s bittersweet on your tongue, but refreshing. When Archilochus’s son finally speaks, his commentary is more precise than inspiring, but still you listen, even sketch his profile with soft lines on a scrap of parchment.

You linger longer than expected, even after speaking to the archivist to visit the Librarium (you had to reintroduce yourself, for he had forgotten that you work for his father). A few participants cluster in discussion, but you hang back, content to observe. No one approaches you. That’s all right and means you can still come off as invisible. The walls hum faintly, as if the stone itself remembers each voice that passed through it.

The Bathhouse Library has emptied without your notice, the rustle of pages and shuffling of feet fading into silence. You remain seated, hunched over an open scroll, blocking the light from the overhead crystals. Then — there’s a movement. A shimmer. The sound like butterfly wings unfurling mid-air.

You glance up, and there she is.

Lady Aglaea.

Leaning across the long table, as if she’d always been part of the scenery. Her features glow as if shaped from sunlight and memory — beautiful, golden but cold, warm but unreachable, like a reflection in the mirror that smiles back with a secret. She watches you with the calm patience of someone used to being revered.

“I saw you looking at the scrolls with admirable passion. It’s quite endearing. Why the fascination?”

“I— uh, it’s an interest of mine. Lady.”

You fumble with your posture, trying to sit straighter, unsure if you should bow or speak more formally. Her presence presses into your bones, not crushing, but impossible to ignore — like stepping into a sacred place with muddy shoes. You’re aware of your worn tunic, your hands ink-stained and dry from work. It’s not shame exactly, but you feel oddly transparent.

“Curious. Just what I’ve been looking for.”

“What…?”

“Please, tell me what is the purpose of those marginalia you so diligently fill in between hearing the anecdotes?”

“Oh, you know about this. I didn’t… didn’t think you would be aware, Lady.”

“I do, and I am. But rest assured — it’s not an interest that you should be hiding.”

Her presence is like the golden Hero’s Bath itself (what you imagine it to be, since no ordinary person can take the lift to see it with their own eyes), bringing solace to your soul. Not without a sting when the healing water gets into the wounds — just like her eyes, the colour of dulled opal, looking at you with deadly precision, getting under your skin. You know she could cut your heart open, but you wish to believe she would do it out of her goodwill. You want to trust her because she’s veiled with warmth. So when her beautiful hand extends to you, almost as if glad to hold yours (hurt, with chipped nails and scrapes from work that you cannot quite get rid of despite trying to take care), you reciprocate and let yourself be guided.

“Lady Aglaea, please excuse me, but… what does it mean?”

“I have been collecting memories of Amphoreus. Perhaps not the land as it was, but how it is remembered — imperfect, fragmented, but real in its sentiment. Unfortunately, many of the current researchers are… tired. Or old. Or worse, following the Council’s rigid rules.”

She begins to pace slowly beside the table, her sleeves brushing the polished floor, her voice smooth as poured oil.

“They erase the ugly parts. They trim the wild branches of history. Leave out what is indecent, inappropriate, or unflattering. But I know too well — what is omitted, dies. And I am not ready to bury cultures simply because they do not align with the Okheman one.”

You watch her fingers twist a ring absentmindedly.

“Besides, I find myself in need of someone who can walk where I cannot. Some streets are not kind to noble footsteps. Some names close doors, but new faces can keep them open. If you go on my behalf, they will not question your purpose. They may fear it. That is the power I offer.”

“I know nothing about courtesy.”

“Yet I do not find your presence displeasing. And anything can be learnt if given enough time, which you do possess in abundance, am I right?” She comes closer and examines you. “You’re young.”

Her touch is barely there, but it lifts your chin, and you forget how to breathe. She observes you like a sculptor studies a stone — curious, assessing, not unkind. Your heartbeat flutters against your ribs, trapped. Not a butterfly, nothing quite as graceful.

Not a question, but you still answer, “Yes.”

Then she lets go and strolls away, already in quiet discussion with her servant — a silent mannequin, dressed in shimmering silks, moving under a spell with mechanical elegance, golden threads floating in the air like it’s water. Aglaea turns her head, the corners of her mouth softened by something wistful.

“And to speak truthfully… It’s been a while since I made a younger soul my guest, too. I hope you forgive me the sentimentality, it’s perhaps a small display of my weakness.”

It’s not meant as a confession. It’s control.

She says it because she doesn’t fear you. She considers you harmless. Enough to lift the veil of mystery off her face, just a tiny corner, and lure you in with honesty. And you, the gullible creature you are, charmed by her beauty and ethereal disposition, follow her honeyed voice.

“I do not wish to bribe you, but it is within my power that if you agree…” She places a golden apple in front of you, its sweet colour like the sun and solidified syrup. “There will not be any more rotten apples for dinner.”

You stare at it.

Just do what you can, help where you can, and stay out of the affairs.

You’re still not sure you should even be part of this conversation — sitting across from the most powerful woman in Okhema, a demigod holding the Coreflame of Romance who has lived for centuries and risen to her station through equal parts cunning and grace.

You’ve never needed to think about her beyond the vague whispers that brush the lips of commoners. You’ve heard her name spoken with awe and scorn alike. She’s but a gossip among merchants, refugees, nobles, street performers, soldiers.

Depending on who you ask, she is either a saviour or a tyrant, a blessing or a curse, who makes veiled decisions behind closed doors and controls everything through her webs. Everyone in Okhema has something to say about Aglaea. And most of it contradicts. But there’s one truth hard to deny — that under her guidance, the city has grown quieter, safer, more stable than it ever was under the corrupted rule of the Council of Elders.

You’ve never met her personally before today.

You never expected to.

And yet here she stands, speaking as though you matter, as though your agreement could tip the balance of something you don’t even understand.

You hesitate, the golden apple still between you. “I’ll… think about it,” you say finally, your throat dry. “But I’d like to know more. What exactly would I be—”

She interrupts, gentle but firm, “The answers will come to you. In time.”

You blink. She’s already turned, hands returning to her scrolls, as though nothing has changed — as though your whole life hasn’t just been quietly tilted sideways.

You murmur a thank you that barely has the strength to leave your lips and turn to go, the tides of anxiety tying your ankles together to make walking difficult.

The heavy door groans under your hand — old wood, well-oiled hinges, resisting at first and then shifting with a sigh. But before it swings fully open, before you can slip out into solitude, something pulls from the other side.

You stagger back a half-step, startled, and then freeze entirely.

“Lady Aglaea!”

“We were looking for you!”

There they are.

Lord Mydei and Lord Phainon.

The other Chrysos Heirs. One a blue sky of kind intensity, the other a scorching flame with a piercing gaze. You’ve seen them in passing, through whispers, behind the crowd. But this is different. They’re here. Now.

Mydei’s eyes are the first to meet yours — steady, a flicker of recognition stirring behind their golden shade. As if he’s seen you somewhere before and is now trying to align the pieces. But the flicker does not flare into speech.

Behind him, Phainon leans slightly, curious as always, like the sun itself trying to peek over a mountain. He’s the more visible of the two, the one who walks among people, always smiling, often joking. You once saw him catch a falling bag of oranges and charm an old vendor into laughter. You hadn’t expected his gaze to be so direct now, or for it to settle on you.

You lower your head before either can speak, your movement a reflex — partly submission, partly protection. There’s no place for you in the kind of look they give you, no answer you’re ready to offer to the heroes.

You slip with a polite nod through the narrow gap between Lord Mydei’s shoulder and the doorframe, careful not to brush against him. Their presence lingers on your skin like heat from a fire passed too closely. You barely breathe until the marble steps cool the bottom of your shoes again.

The door closes behind you, sealing the library’s chamber and the weight of their stares.

Inside, your absence leaves a silence that settles strangely in the air. Phainon is the first to speak, casting a look over his shoulder as though trying to follow your shadow even after it’s vanished, almost disappointed he didn’t get to greet you.

“Who was that?”

“We will see, soon…” Aglaea says, and a gentle smile tugs at her lips — one that reveals nothing but promises everything.

𐂥 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 · · · i?????sdhfuvsdofiuoeigy??????? <- this is my brain after trying to post it for two days straight and still finding an excuse to add one more sentence or another whole paragraph just to run away from bragging about my fic. this is the most stressful moment of my life fr please at least ignore this fic if it wasn’t up your taste BUT i personally am happy with myself for finishing the first chapter and somehow managing to write the eughhhm… an actual plot. for once. though i believe my writing voice might be all over the place trying to navigate new themes and a lengthy chapter. i’ve been writing this for quite a while now and will continue to write for much longer (rest in peace my sanity), even if i battle hating being incapable of conveying what i want through words 24/7 owwie i apologise for the unserious afterword T-T lmao i need to cope okayy if i give up on writing the continuation please forget about this title haha ^^; <3

#manuscript.

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#manuscript.