at some point in your life you will be boiling fruit, water, sugar, and lemon juice in a pot to make a syrup or jam. the instructions will tell you to simmer for a certain amt of time. your timer will go off and you will look at the pot and go, "hm, this doesn't look thick enough. maybe i'll let it go for another 10 minutes." this is the devil speaking. it's only so liquid right now because it is at boiling point. it will thicken when it cools down. learn from the follies of my youth and do not let this happen to you
at some point in your life you will be making a sauce or a stew in which you need to add cornstarch to thicken it. and you will prepare a slurry of starch in cold water and think "this looks like way too little starch to thicken this amount of liquid." this is the devil speaking. cornstarch instantly polymerizes at 95°C and if you add too much it will turn into an impossibly thick goop.
at some point in your life you will be making some sort of cream based dessert that requires gelatin to thicken it. and you will soak some gelatin sheets in water and think "this is too few gelatin sheets for this amount of cream." this is the devil speaking. it will thicken in the fridge and if you add too much you will end up with milk jelly
at some point in your life you will be baking cookies. you will take the sheet out after twelve minutes as the recipe instructs and the cookies will still be glistening and soft. "these don't seem cooked enough," you will think to yourself, "i should place them back into the oven until their edges are nice and golden." this is the devil talking. this is how you get dry, overdone cookies. the cookies will continue to bake on the warm sheet for several more minutes and then harden up after sitting on a rack for a while. trust the process. trust the process.
at some point in your life you will be adding a small pasta to a soup and you will think "that is not enough small pasta." this is the devil talking. the pasta will absorb the stock and expand. this is how you end up with a soup that is a solid mass of soggy ditalini.
At some point in your life you will be adding garlic to a dish and you will think "that is not enough garlic." These are angels speaking. They are correct. Add more garlic.
Synopsis: On a bright, sunny day, the hero of Amphoreus and the most beautilul princess of the east were meant to become each other's in holy matrimony. Petals piled high on the streets, trumpets roared and the crowols waited in anticipation for the words “I do” to unite two pure hearts. That is, until, the monster arrived.
Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Yandere Themes, Abduction, Isolation, Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Heavy NSFW, Dubcon → Consensual Sex, Corruption Kink, Size Difference, Age Gap Relationships (Older Male x Younger Female), Flame Reaver's Shadows, Dubious Morality, Mentions of Blood, Infidelity, Fluff (Kind Of), Slight Knight!Phainon x Reader, Mentions of Human Experimentations, Unreliable Narrators. MDNI.
Words: 13,528 (I am so sorry)
♡ Note: I usually write Flame Reaver as that burnt out exhausted Phailing so, I wanted to write sinister Flame Reaver out of sheer personal indulgence for once — did I mention that this fic is very self-indulgent? I do apologize.
「 Artwork Credits 」 「 Read On AO3 」
That lone Cecilia at the dip of the cliff has wilted.
Or at least, you think it has, given the distance. The winds and the clouds have relentlessly tested the limits of your vision, just as they tested that flower’s strength.
But you have scant sympathy for its ending. The flower may be no more, but it was free, it shed its last petal on the soil of its home.
Home. Has it been a week since you have been away from yours? Two weeks? A month? A daunting task to measure the time from a cloud-kissed fortress, but you try anyway. It's either that, counting the ridges in the bricks under your nails, or pacing like an ant at the cusp of death ; which, you’d rather not tease after just narrowly escaping it.
So, you sigh as though the world were hurled upon your shoulders, even though it was far, far away from the peak of the tower.
There are only apparitions of stars up here, crescent moon shining at the cusp of twilight twice a day, and boredom. Boredom that has coated your being like a tipped inkwell upon a paper, and no matter how anxiously you attempt to remove it, it sticks, it bleeds into the ivory of your wedding dress, plunging it in ruin like your fate—
“Thinking about escape plans again, princess?”
Ah, and there's him, too. The monster.
You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.
If you had any clue that he’d entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.
You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.
What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.
You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.
Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.
You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it — almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.
It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.
That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.
“If I am?” you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.
It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.
Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.
He does that a lot, as you’ve observed.
What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.
Typically, he’d deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior… you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.
“Well,” human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged — you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.
The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, “We both know how that ends, don't we?” unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.
As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairway—
“Y-you came back early today…!” you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaver’s nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.
You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.
“Are you upset?” your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.
If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.
This— this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.
It infuriates you.
You want scream and break a few things.
For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?
(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)
Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.
It's hard to pinpoint the monster’s expression due to that mask — if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.
“You are.” he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.
You cross your arms across your chest, “Am not.” your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.
And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.
Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.
Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.
“Why…” you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, “Why does it matter to you…?”
The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, “Can it not matter to me?” the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.
Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.
How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?
“I—I’m cold!!!”
If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.
It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.
You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.
A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.
Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.
The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.
You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.
The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what you’d expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.
The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.
He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.
You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, “Thank you…?”
You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaver’s shoulders seem to loosen.
The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.
Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.
“Hmph.” he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.
You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.
It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.
Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.
So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself — in the cloak of your captor, no less.
The fact that there are blankets at arm’s reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.
It chills you more when the events that’d preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.
Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed — those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.
Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times it’s heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.
Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort you’d received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.
Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagoras’ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver — how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?
He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror he’d endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.
The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the century’s most anticipated wedding.
You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if he’d been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.
Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.
Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.
And perhaps, that is the … problem.
“See that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?” you recall him pointing once in one ‘date’, and you’d followed his eager finger with all your trust.
“That is called a Sousourada.” the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.
Your mouth forms an ‘O’ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, “It’s so cute.” you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.
If possible, Phainon's smile widens. “Right?” he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.
“Back in… Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.” he leans back against the bench, smile softening.
“The new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I suppose…!” his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.
“They’d keep the air alive with their songs all day long,” his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.
“And I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps… though Snowy would always sniff me ou— ah! I'm extremely sorry, my lady— I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.”
A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.
After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry — not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.
You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.
“What do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?” your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, “I’d like to formally mourn the departed with you.”
Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.
Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. “Uhm…” you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.
Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.
“Are you certain that you… want to do that with me, my lady?” Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.
There's no way you could say no to that look, “Mhm, I am.” you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.
A trembling breath leaves the hero’s lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.
Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.
“Patience, my lord?” you loosen the press of your hand.
The gold in Phainon’s eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.
“Of course —! I apologize again, I—” he grips your hand before it could slip away, “I don't know what came over me there, it's just that…” he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.
“Ugh… excuse me, I was just being an idiot.” he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.
When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. “I’ll be as patient as you order me to be,” his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, “— For as long as you want me to be.” he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.
Yes, you are the lucky woman who’ll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.
Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.
There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.
“Are you planning on luring it to you with that bread?” the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.
You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say — what if I am?
The Flame Reaver huffs, “Are you aware that they're carnivores?”
That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “I know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? I’ll give it meat after!”
The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.
“Foolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predator’s meal is the thrill of the hunt?”
You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.
“Ahh, or perhaps,” your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, “You’re leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.”
“Don’t speak of my fiance like that.” this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.
Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. “… Or else?”
“Or… or else I—” you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. “I’ll…!”
Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.
“Hm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?”
You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.
“I don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?”
Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.
You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.
A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.
You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.
One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.
There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.
Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.
“What?” he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadow’s grasp, “Shall I get you a bib as well?”
Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.
“Don’t touch me!” you recoil in the Shadows’ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.
The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, “I’m warning you I—” you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.
Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.
The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.
No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.
Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, “Uh, Flame Rea—”
“Khaslana.”
Right. You’d nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title he’s known by, one which you’ll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.
“Ahem, uhm, I was wondering —! Are these… do these clones of yours have free will?” you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.
“… Why do you ask?” you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.
Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.
You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, “I’m bored.”
“What?” the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.
It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, “Boreeeeeed! I’m so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!” you clench your fists, dodging the Shadow’s attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.
A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, “You’re eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?” there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.
“What do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics of—mmph!” the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.
You push through to make your point anyway, “Leevewing! Baysics of leevinh!”
The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.
He forces out an annoyed sigh, “Alright then, princess.” crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. “What is ‘entertainment’?”
The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, “Like! Reading! Books!”
A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, “While eating?”
“Yes!”
“That’s childish.”
“Whoa—” you lean back as though scandalized, “Have you ever tried reading a good book while eating?”
The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, “I don't need to eat.”
He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.
You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.
“That’s… quite sad.” your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.
Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.
All the indignation that’d lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.
You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.
You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.
“Come down after you’ve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.”
—
You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.
It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.
Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.
Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory — were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.
It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.
When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the ‘Deliverer’ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.
“Which part moved you the most?” she’d asked in that terse tone of hers.
You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). “The part where… the monster's past was revealed.”
“Oh? Do elaborate.”
“Uhm,” it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, ”It was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.”
The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, “And what did you think about the Deliverer?”
You stared at the painted sun on the book’s cover for a second, and then shrugged. “He was okay.”
That took her visibly by surprise.
“Huh. What an odd child.”
The books that filled the ‘library’ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books you’d read back at home.
Since your arrival — or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place — you’ve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.
The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholar’s secret study.
And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.
The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.
It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.
You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled ‘basics of meteorology’ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.
A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.
You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as — if not more — emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think it’d be them.
It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.
Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.
With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise — the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.
A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.
He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.
You’ve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.
Which he meets.
You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.
He copies it.
You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.
And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.
“Hey, can you—” your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.
The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.
The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.
When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.
You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.
His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.
Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.
When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap — you didn’t even realize it’d fallen from your hands.
When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.
“There lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus — we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.”
“And the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.”
“Lady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia… and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun who’ll bring dawn to this world one day.”
You remember the edge of pride on your governess’ face as she’d introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.
Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.
On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his house…
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.
The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.
Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath — you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.
For the past weeks, you’ve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.
But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.
In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.
Though it doesn't last long.
You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.
Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.
The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.
A sting shakes you awake.
The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.
At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.
Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.
Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.
The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot — from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.
Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.
By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.
On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.
Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.
You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.
You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.
Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.
It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.
A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.
The water’s heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.
Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. You’ve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.
Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.
… His Shadows.
You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.
There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.
The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.
Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.
A faint tremble seizes your body.
What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?
And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?
Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.
You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the ‘library’ — without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.
Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.
If breaking your ankle the last time you’d tried to escape wasn't bad enough, they’d decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.
Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.
As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously — he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.
But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things you’ve been taught your whole life to loathe.
The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.
You're scared to even observe it for long — and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).
Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.
Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.
You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where he’d reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.
The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadows’ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?
Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.
You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinet’s door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.
The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.
A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.
You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.
Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.
You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.
… But the prospect of finding out how he’d react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.
Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candles’ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.
The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.
You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274
• LIGHT CALANDER — 4894, MONTH OF JOY •
The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. One’s location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called “Khaslana“. … Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.
…
ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY •
Admittance of subject “Neikos496”. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 003: Attempt #28,371,276
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF - - - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of “brother Phainon“. Further observation required.
…
ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM •
Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.
..
ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING •
Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.
..
ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING •
Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..
ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE •
Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth… Form growing distant from that of… umans… Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT •
Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash… Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.
Overseer : --.. .- -. -.. .- .-.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #33,550,36
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4910, M- -TH O- - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The tower’s defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. —
“I thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?”
Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.
You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.
The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek — not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.
His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.
“Answer me, princess.” you’re yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.
The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.
You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, “What’s wrong?“ condescension drips from his words and into your ear, “You weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.“
“I…” you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. “I’m—”
Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.
“Are you about to apologize, princess?” he moans against your cheek. “Save me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.”
That makes you blink as some clarity returns.
Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.
“I’m sure you know where my interest is in.” you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated — at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.
“But the question is,“ his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, “Are you brave enough to indulge me?” he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.
You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.
You know what he's pushing you towards.
Phainon — you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and you’d wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.
“You…” you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. “You should stop touching me like this. I— I'm betrothed to someone else!”
In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.
But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.
“Oh? Betrothed you say…“ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.
“But did you remember that the past few months?“ something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, “Or, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?“
You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.
You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely — so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.
The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, “I’m curious, princess,”
He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, “Would your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself you’ve given to me already?” he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.
“Even now,” he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, “You don't tell me no, not even once.”
That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance he’d illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.
No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride — if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.
So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?
The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. “I have a proposal, princess.”
“Instead of living like a prize on that brat’s shelf,” he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, “Why don't you become mine instead?”
Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.
Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it — enjoyed it even.
And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver — Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss he’s only been teasing you with touches and words.
Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?
There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.
It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea — in his eyes.
His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.
And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.
When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.
Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.
Until, the mad researcher asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”
Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.
At his silence, the scholar urged, “For your ruined hometown? For your family?”
That, that’d struck him.
Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.
That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.
But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.
“The pain and the anger are your life forces.” he’d been told, “Nurture it, cling to it and wield it.”
But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much he’d asked.
Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.
“For the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!” Lygus had exclaimed in delight, “And you— you… will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!”
Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.
Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. He’d be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.
But of course, why would it be so kind to him?
“Have you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!”
“The Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!”
“He must be defeated!”
“Off with his head!”
“Death to the monster!'”
“BURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!”
Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.
As such, he’d used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khas— Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.
And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate ‘heroes’ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.
… That was until, he came.
Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides — every bit the hero from those stories he’d read with him in childhood.
A mirror of himself, if he’d still retained anything of his former image.
Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.
Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory — but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.
And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's ‘favor’.
You were one such ‘treasure’, the beloved princess of Stygia who’d been hidden since childhood from the world.
Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The century’s most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!
How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.
It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.
So easily? Just like that?
The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.
The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames — now that was pretty.
And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.
Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.
You’d looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.
So, he took you.
Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.
In the beginning, he’d been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.
But something had stopped him, something… yes, that ruffled look on your face, how you’d scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.
He thought it was amusing — and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.
So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.
The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.
See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.
So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.
Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.
It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.
And that brewed a new plan in his mind.
He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.
Until you’re so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.
And you will play right into his hands.
He’ll make sure of it.
Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.
When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.
Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.
Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.
With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.
You’d tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.
Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? You’d even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.
But what can you do? You’ve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance — and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.
Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?
Let alone cherish?
The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.
An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.
“What are you doing?“ he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.
Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.
But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.
The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, “You said,” your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, “That you could make me forget it all.”
You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. “But I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.” warm breath mingling with his.
The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.
“Correction, princess.” he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. “I offered you to become mine.”
Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.
You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.
“Become yours without even seeing ‘you’?” you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.
Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. You’d only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.
(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle that’d brought to your mouth.)
His sigh makes you blink, “You’re an impulsive creature.” he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.
“Does it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?” his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.
You purse your lips in confusion, “Is your face radioactive?”
The taps pause, “Worse.” he says breezily.
“How worse?” you push closer.
“Enough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?” there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself — is uncertain.
You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. “Try me.”
A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.
The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.
It's enough permission for you.
Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.
A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.
Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than you’ve ever dared to venture.
Khaslana turns his head away — in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.
It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.
You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands — and kiss him.
Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.
His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.
You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.
It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.
You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips —
“PRINCESS [NAME]!!!”
A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.
“LADY [NAME]?!!”
Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, you’ve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altar—
Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.
“Ahh…” he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, “Looks like your hero— no, your fiance is here to pick you up.”
Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and then— him.
A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).
“Well then? Princess?” your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, “What will you do now?” a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.
You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.
It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows — you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.
…. However.
“I don't want to go.” your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the hero’s armory, those silver strands — ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.
It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.
“…What?”
You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, “I don't want to go ba— oof—!”
A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.
“I don't believe you,” he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.
You keep on searching for it though, “Tell me what will make you believe then.”
He sneers, “This is just a game to you.”
“It is not.” frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.
But he doesn't listen, “You don't even understand— you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to you—!” he tugs at his hair.
You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, “You naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?” his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. “There is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do that—”
You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.
Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything he’s dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.
His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.
Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.
His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself — and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.
“You’ll leave me.” he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.
Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.
Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. “You’ll abandon me at the first chance you get— like him, like everyone —”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, “Never. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.”
A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.
“Tell me…” his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. “Tell me to stop, princess.” he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.
Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, “Don’t— don't stop, Khaslana.”
A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.
“Could you… kiss me again?” you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, “So that I know this isn't a dream?”
He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, “… Please?”
If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.
This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.
Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.
The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face — though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.
The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.
Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, you’d caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop — till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.
Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.
When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears — you feel lightheaded in the best way.
“Hah…“ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. “Sick of me already?”
At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.
It makes him croon.
Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.
“You’re one greedy princess, aren't you?” your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.
You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.
His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.
His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.
“What’s wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?” he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh — but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.
He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.
“Well,” he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. “It doesn't really matter to me either way. Because…”
He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one — he dives in.
You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.
Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.
Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.
Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.
He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.
Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.
You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaise’s surface.
The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve — no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.
The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.
But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.
Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.
He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.
“Beautiful.“ he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.
The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.
But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.
It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.
You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold — and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.
You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.
“Princess,” he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback — mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.
“You’ve given yourself to me so sweetly.” your heart thumps at the praise, “So,” he presses his forehead against yours, “Won’t you let me give myself to you, in return?”
You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten — perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability he’s offered.
You nod, “Y-yes,” wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “All of you— I want all of you, Khaslana.”
Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, “Last chance, princess— if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.”
Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, “Good.”
This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.
Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.
Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.
Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.
One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.
Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine — your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.
“Tsk…” Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, “I thought the Shadows had loosened you eno— ugh…”
Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.
Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.
And then, a chuckle escapes him — snapping you out of the numbing jolts.
You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.
In all honesty? You feel the same.
“[Name], [Name], [Name]…” he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.
“Kha..as…—!” you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.
“Shhh…” Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. “I know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.”
You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.
With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.
In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.
Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together — your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.
If he died right here, he thinks, he’d die a very, very happy man.
The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.
Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.
Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.
Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.
And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where you’ve always yearned to be at.
—
Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.
When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.
It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.
Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that he’s spent all night in that position.
For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him — at his unmasked face.
Tenderness dusts the porcelain edges like the brushworks on a beloved painting, the burgeoning dawn makes his silver hair sparkle.
He reaches to take your smaller hand in his, his thumb traces circles on the faint swells on your wrist, before he leans down to press his lips against the mark on your ring finger.
You don't flinch, or recoil, rather, you relax in his hold and it makes his whole soul preen in victory.
You chose him, you chose the monster instead of the hero.
You’ve decided to stay with him instead of his brother, you’ve become his and you’ve accepted him in return — all with a smile.
And really, what better revenge than this?
… So, you’ve made it this far, huh? Have this badge 📛 of the Freaklings™️
The base of this fic is taken from a very old brainrot I shared when Flame Reaver was first leaked and the “twist” is taken from a Phantom of the Opera au I had in my drafts (featuring Phainon and Flame Reaver as well). But I kind of lost interest in that project, so, I decided to use it here instead 😔
This is very, very different from my usual works, I knowww. The objective of this fic was really only to dump all of my Flame Reaver thirsts in one place because oh my god, they were driving me CRAZY every ovulation season and I just really really needed to get them out somewhere once and for all.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading<3 I’ll now go reconnect with nature 🗿
but... i mean... if you don't approve of my solitary decision and plans to create a new path with myself, towards a future that no one could imagine... you'll always find a way to break the rules, right?
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
They're not terribly expensive for the quality of Carhartt's products. In fact, Carhartt should be the standard.
A warm, durable canvas winter coat from Carhartt cost me about $200. But this thing will last forever. Because it's designed to be worn for work. After a few years, it's actually gotten more comfortable and better looking because it's broken in. I'm gonna have this coat for the rest of my life. It's made to last. I've never had a winter coat last more than a couple years because it rips or tears.
My friend with a pretty Burberry raincoat spent $2,000 and it's not designed to hold up that well or be punished like a Carhartt coat. That's expensive, and impractical. $200 for a coat that will last a lifetime is great if you can afford it.
Big boys love them cuz they fit. They're a little oversized and come in lots of sizes and as a big boy I don't have time or money anymore to waste on crappy clothes.
I have a Carhartt backpack. Carhartt boots and pants. My dog even has a Carhartt harness.
Carhartt is also women run, loudly supports the LGBTQ community, treats its workers well, and was one of the first and few companies to support mandatory COVID vaccines. It's not just a good product, it's a good American company.
As more and more people are being forced to switch to Windows 11, Microsoft's most AI-malware-ridden OS yet, I've been putting together articles and links for how to undo the damage and save your battery, your RAM, your disk space, your privacy, and your sanity from this bullshit.
FIRST:
The easiest way to get rid of the majority of the bullshit that Windows is forcing on us, as of October 2025, is this one-stop-one-click debloat solution from a modern day hero:
A simple, lightweight PowerShell script to remove pre-installed apps, disable telemetry, as well as perform various other changes to customi
It's very easy, even if you're not tech savvy or get scared of pop up windows saying "ARE YOU SURE?" Yes, you are sure, I promise. This program takes maybe two minutes and will save you SO MUCH pain, time, and money (and exploitation).
Now that you've done that, here's the cleanup, to catch the little shit that the debloat might have missed (most of this will already be done by debloat, but hey, it's good to double check).
Microsoft wants to put AI everywhere on your PC, but you can take back control.
Even just reading about some of these features makes me angry. Fucking Copilot and "Discover" AI scrapers are in Notepad. NOTEPAD. And then there's this uncanny valley garbage:
No uncanny valley video calls for me, thanks! (Also, what else is it doing while it scans your face and listens to your calls? What else, microsoft? Because there was a lot of memory being assigned to this program for a simple "smooths your skin" add on).
Tired of Microsoft pushing ads throughout Windows 11? Here are the settings you can tweak to turn them off and reclaim some privacy.
The truly insane number of places they have stuck ads on your own home computer is sickening. Become Unmarketable.
Bonus:
Some background programs you probably don't need that are taking up space and how to remove them (Microsoft forums, 2024)
Your Samsung Galaxy Phone comes with 22 apps you don't need (Android Police, 2025)
How to disable the AI in firefox (still the only browser that lets you do this permanently) (Windows Report, 2025)
synopsis. where phainon’s body betrays how much he wants you every time you are in bed. and while he is embarrassed by it, you love it.
warnings. MDNI. nsfw. smut. vaginal sex. mentions of knocking up reader (extremely small mention). unprotected sex. overstimulation. creampie. size kink. cervix sex.
wc. 2.1k
It’s too much.
Those thoughts were a constant presence in your mind each time you and Phainon entangled yourselves in the sheets, sweaty bodies touching, breathless gasps and moans, the ache in your pelvis and unmistakable ache in his own legs and thighs from the effort of completely ruining your body for even yourself.
Too much, was the heat. The way he practically lays his body on top of yours, earning for your skin to touch his’ in every inch, every centimeter, every way possible. Hands never stopping in one place, always alternating in different areas of your body, be it stomach while he presses his hand down as if to feel his own cock inside you. Be it shoulders, that would soon have his mouth joining and kissing them, while his hands would caress your arms to your hands, grabbing your fingers and kissing so lovingly as if his cock wasn’t making you dumb.
Be it his body pressing against your tits, him admitting later on that he likes to feel your nipples touching his chest when it's not his mouth that is touching them.
Too much, being the amount of cum that he fills you with, to the point where feeling so full with him has completely turned your brains to mush, the sensation easily becoming your favorite to feel.
Too filled with his cock, too overwhelmed with his constant touches, and too full with his cum.
He ruined you. His touches ruined you completely. No longer you felt satisfied with touching yourself, no longer you even wanted to imagine asking for a toy so each time he went away, you at least could relieve yourself. It was no use.
Which was funny. Because the way his cum filled you so much, to the brim, made you so addicted to it, while each time it happened Phainon had the nerve to act embarrassed by the fact that his body betrayed him each time on how much is body wants you, craves for you, and undoubtedly wanted to see you round and knocked up at some point.
The nerve to whine in your neck, while you would moan and clench around him, saying ‘i’m sorry’.
The nerve to think he had to apologize to something that you absolutely and irrevocably loved.
“Phainon-”
It was endless. The the sound of skin slapping and groans in a mixture of moans inside of Phainon’s big room in the Okhema Bath House, courtesy given by Aglaea for the Chrysos Heirs, allowing them to properly rest instead of the small rooms with a small bed that frankly, with his size, would have half of his legs dangling out.
Just like how you were dangling at his shoulders, with his cock bullying your cunt in a delicious way.
“Yeah?” He breathed, laying his body more into yours, bringing his right hand to your back, making you press your pelvis more to his own, grinding for a bit until he continued with his pace.
Bringing both your hands to his hair, you closed your eyes and moaned loudly, throwing your head back to the mattress while forcing his head to the crook of your neck, slightly pulling at his hair to ground yourself, clenching when he moaned in pleasure due the sting in his scalp.
Phainon opened his mouth and bit you, not too hard, but enough to mark. To leave his mark.
Your moans were becoming loud whines, the feeling of being almost there consuming your body. “H-ha..” You tried to say, eyes rolling at the back of your head, pussy gushing even more, your juices starting to make a nasty noise around the room, small ‘plat, plat’ echoing as Phainon’s thighs collided into yours. “Do-don’t stop.” You managed to whine it out, taking a big breath.
Phainon dragged his tongue out, licking from your neck to your chin, looking at your face. He knew you were easily overwhelmed when having sex with him, and while in the beginning he grew concerned, asking if he was too much, his concerns were easily shut down the moment you uttered words that would come to bite you back.
“I actually love it. I mean, feeling overwhelmed like that..”
So right now, looking at the tears in the corner of your eyes, the small drool in the corner of your lips, and how from your mouth only melodies to his ears were being released, he knew he was doing right. As you would say, he always did.
It was.. Uncharacteristic of him to feel so smug and cocky about something. To feel a smirk growing on his lips, and feel as his eyes sharpened as if he was staring at a prey. But watching your reaction each time he fucked you, abused of your cunt, not to mention how it was always a mess with how much juices your pussy would leak, it was hard not to. After all, you had him in the palm of your hand, while in bed, he had you in the palm of his.
“Please..” You whined, opening your eyes to look right at him. Big, blue orbs staring right back at you, a feral glint in them, and you knew that this would not be the last round as he had promised.
It’s okay, it’s not like you didn’t like it anyway.
“Tell me what you want.” He breathed out, grabbing your thighs and putting his forehead to touch yours, his tone coming out slightly whiny just like yours, but hips snapping against yours in a much faster pace as before.
Moaning, you momentarily closed your eyes to feel the way his cock was so deliciously nestled inside you, fucking you so good, making you forget anything else that didn’t envolve the lover in your arms and..
“Pl-please cum inside me.” You said, opening your eyes and feeling a tear fall down.
Watching your glossy eyes stare at him, and seeing the tear slowly fall and blend with your hair, something in him snapped.
It was just, so, so good to watch your eyes cross, your mouth no longer spell moans but start babbling nonsense, barely forming words.
Phainon removed his cock from inside her for a moment, leaving only the tip inside. You groaned in displeasure, glossy eyes no longer being able to see properly, but only a blurry image of the man above you, chest wide and white hair on top. He was big, Phainon was big in every aspect. Be the wide chest, the strong arms, the hard abs, or big cock. Everything in him was big, as big as his feelings and heart.
But oh, how you loved feeling small in his arms, how he would manhandle you sometimes, and how he would use his strength in bed to show you exactly what the Deliverer was capable of.
In an instant, he thrusts inside you again, one sharp trust enough to make you swallow your moan in shock.
Sex with Phainon was good. More than that, it was addictive.
“A-ah- Ah!♡” You moaned, eyebrows creasing and moans leaving your lips.
“Like that?” He breathed out, trying to control his voice while leaving all his control behind in his thrusts. Phainon squeezed your thighs harder and forced his body upon your chest, making a mean matting press. “Hear that. Ah-” He whined, kissing your cheek weakly. “Your pussy is so loud.”
And it’s true. There is no way for it to not be true, when you feel your body burn at the mere thought of him, and your pussy gets more wet than a fountain.
“Can’t decide-” Phainon spoke again, and while your brain was completely dumb with pleasure, you could still hear the strain in his voice, as if he was forcing himself to speak, when all his body wanted was to groan and moan. “If I like your pussy this wet in my face more, or on my cock.”
Whining at his words, you clenched hard on him, making him momentarily gasp, yet, his thrusts never stopped. Instead, he made one sharp thrust with intent, making you open your eyes wide with a silent moan, knowing that he was most certainly reaching for your cervix, and that he as always, succeeded.
Feeling the high coming, you desperately grabbed onto his hair, legs that were bent so close to your own face now shaking like a leaf, moans becoming even louder. To hell if anyone hears it. No shame to feel with such a man so devoted to make you feel good. No shame to ever feel around Phainon, ever.
“I love to paint you, s-should I cum on your stomach instead?” He spoke, eyes glinting with mischief, anticipating your answer.
To no one's surprise, you sobbed a “No!” and tried to throw your pussy more into him, meeting his thrusts on the way. “Inside. Inside.” You begged, and couldn’t even care when you felt Phainon smile against your cheek.
“Yes.” He whispered, thrusts no longer on the same pace, showing that he was closer. “Of course my darling.”
And with a few more snaps against your hips, he came.
Deep, unforgiving, and marking. The moment the first spurt of cum could be felt, you came with a low moan, forgetting how to breathe for a second, only focused on him.
So much, and so good. Phainon’s cum filled your pussy and past your cervix, while you began to feel your own juices wet him and yourself in the process, but nothing as good as how filled to the brim he made you feel. And it was not over yet.
Phainon hugged your form, twitching with oversensitivity each time his cock continued to deliver his cum inside your cunt, whining occasionally in your neck.
“S-sorry.” He said, feeling his cum start to leak from your pussy, even with his cock still deep inside you. Phainon gasped, grabbing at your arms with surprising force the moment he felt you clench tightly around him.
“I love it, love it so much.” You mumbled with a pleased smile, ranking your nails in his scalp, making the man in your arms positively melt in your hold. “You fill me so well, Phainon.”
Swallowing, he looked at you, seeing that you were no less sweaty or red in the face with the lack of air, but eyes clear enough of tears to look at him with eyes nearly black with want.
“But it’s leaking.” You continued. You saw the moment that his breath hitched, and felt his cock jump in interest inside you.
Rising his form, he eased your legs from above his shoulders and instead wrapped them around his waist, caressing your thighs and soothing the flesh.
“Then, as the Deliverer,” Phainon moved his cock out of your pussy, making you bit your lip and smile a little in pleasure as the sound of his cock, covered in his cum, left and then entered your equally filled pussy with his cum, making another obscene sound that in your ears, sounded beautiful. “I will keep filling you until you beg me to stop.”
And when he thrusted inside you again, you knew that there was never too much with Phainon. After all, it’s not like you could ever get enough of him.
in the quiet between resets, between the halcyon days of wheat fields and the inevitable pull of the vortex, there exists one fragile cycle where things are different. where you, who have always been khaslana's constant, now bear the weight of a coreflame in your chest.
for as long as khaslana can remember, you were there—steady, unwavering, a constant presence by his side. even back when the two of you were just children, playing knights and heroes in the golden wheat fields, pretending to defend a kingdom that hadn’t yet fallen.
you were always the one who took the role of the noble protector, a wandering hero from beyond the so-called kingdom, the one who stood firm even when the game turned too rough, the one who made sure no one got left behind.
and now, years later, as the two of you stand together in the ruins of the holy city of okhema, swords drawn against the relentless black tide that swallowed your home, he realizes some things never change.
and that’s the thing about you—you haven’t changed. not really. yes, you’ve grown taller, stronger, your hands calloused from years of gripping a sword. but at your core, you’re still the same person who would rather throw yourself into a fight for someone else’s sake than walk away. the same person who, even now, stands with your back straight and your shoulders squared, as if you could shield the entire world if you just tried hard enough.
khaslana is grateful for that, more than he could ever say. after aedes elysiae fell, after the three of you—you, him, and cyrene—were left with nothing but ash and survival, everything shifted. cyrene found solace in prayer, in the quiet halls of the temple.
you and khaslana? you picked up blades instead. but where khaslana’s path twisted with uncertainty, yours remained clear, unshaken. you were still the one who laughed a little too loudly at his terrible jokes, still the one who could read him like an open book, still the one who never hesitated to drag him into trouble if it meant doing the right thing.
speaking of trouble—there was that little tradition between the two of you. a deal, of sorts. if one needed help, they had to offer something in return. khaslana swears you invented it just to annoy him, but he can’t bring himself to mind, not when you appear at his side with that familiar glint in your eye, your fingers curling around his wrist before tugging him toward whatever chaos you’ve stumbled into this time.
usually, it’s because you’ve gotten into another fight. not for pride, not for glory—no, it’s always because you saw something unfair and decided someone had to do something about it. and if that meant squaring up against three drunk mercenaries in a back alley or challenging some noble’s spoiled son to a duel for harassing a shopkeeper, well.
you’d do it without a second thought. khaslana sighs every time, but he follows anyway. how could he not? you’ve always been worth following.
and as per tradition, khaslana’s cramped little room in the shared quarters was cluttered with all the trinkets and oddities you’d given him over the years—payment, you called it, for every time he’d helped you.
a chipped porcelain figurine of a knight you’d found half-buried in the mud during patrol, a polished river stone you swore looked like his grumpy morning face, a ridiculously overpriced pocket watch he'd been eyeing from the market that you’d saved up for weeks to buy. each one had a story, a moment where you’d shoved it into his hands with that stubborn look of yours, insisting it was a fair exchange.
khaslana was starting to suspect you made up reasons to ask for his help just so you could give him things. it didn’t matter if the task was as simple as boosting you up to rescue a cat from a tree or as tedious as drilling sword forms with you until your arms shook—you’d still press some little treasure into his palm afterward, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
and at the end of every month, without fail, you’d show up with something extravagant—a leather-bound book, a finely crafted dagger, things far beyond a soldier’s usual budget. he knew you skimped on your own meals to afford them, no matter how many times he scolded you for it.
"you don’t have to do this," he’d grumble, even as he carefully placed each gift on his shelf, arranging them like sacred relics with a smile on his face. but you’d just laugh, that warm, familiar sound, and tug him along to the next absurd adventure. "it’s not enough," you’d say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "not after everything you’ve done for me, hero."
sometimes, the payment was simpler—his favorite pastries from the market, a steaming bowl of stew after a long march, the way you’d bump your shoulder against his when he was lost in thought. but today, when you perched beside him on the old wooden rails, swinging your legs like a carefree child, the question that tumbled from your lips wasn’t simple at all.
"how do you know if the person you like returns your feelings?"
your voice was light, curious, as if you were asking about the weather. but the words hit khaslana like a blade between the ribs. you were staring up at the sky, completely oblivious to the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers dug into the wood beneath him. how could you look so perfect like this—sunlight catching in your hair, your brow furrowed in that achingly earnest way—while shattering his heart into a million pieces?
khaslana nearly chokes on his own breath, fingers tightening around the rail as he jerks his head down, staring hard at the ground like it might swallow him whole. think, think— but his mind is a mess of static, his pulse hammering in his ears. "w-well, umm..." he stammers, voice cracking like he’s fifteen again, "do they... talk to you a lot?"
he risks a glance at you from the corner of his eye—just a quick, desperate flicker—but the second you turn to meet his gaze, he flinches away, cheeks burning. stupid. so stupid. why did he say that? of course you talk to them. you talk to everyone, with that easy warmth of yours, but—
"yeah, we talk every day," you muse, swinging your legs idly, completely unaware of the way his stomach plummets. "hmm, but that’s not enough to say whether they like me back or not."
what? his head snaps up, eyes wide. who—who could it be? you weren’t close to anyone outside of him and cyrene, not really. you were too busy hauling recruits out of trouble or lecturing drunk soldiers about honor or—or—oh.
his chest twists. had someone else finally noticed? the way your laughter carried across the training yard, the way you always stood a little taller when defending someone weaker, the way your hands were always so careful when bandaging his wounds—
no, focus. he swallows hard, brain scrambling for an answer. what else… what else did people do when they liked someone? his thoughts spiral, but all he can think of is you—the way he memorizes the curve of your smile, the way he saves the last bite of his meals just in case you’re hungry, the way he’d throw himself into the black tide itself if you asked.
"well," khaslana presses, fingers nervously tapping against his thigh, "do they know your favourite colour?"
"yep."
"favorite food?"
"mhm."
"the way you like your hot chocolate?" his voice pitches slightly higher—too specific, he realizes too late.
you turn to him with one eyebrow arched, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're biting back a laugh. "yes?"
he doesn't back down. if you've been talking daily, then surely those are just... basic facts. right? except—except he'd always thought those were his details to know. the way you prefer your hot chocolate sweet, with a dash of cocoa powder on top. the fact your "favourite colour" changes depending on the season (but you always circle back to a particular shade of blue). even cyrene only knows half these things.
"do they buy you gifts often?" he asks, too quickly.
"actually, yeah."
okay. okay. that's—that's fine. gifts are normal here. polite. he'll just have to find out what they gave you last and get something better. maybe that engraved dagger you'd eyed at the market last week, the one with the ivory hilt. you'd pretend to scold him for spending too much, but your eyes would light up anyway.
"do they buy you food often?" he tries again, voice strained.
"yeah, they actually buy me food a lot."
khaslana's jaw tightens. fine. if they're going to play that game, he'll learn to cook. properly. none of that street-vendor stuff—he'll track down recipes from aedes elysiae's old kitchens, the ones you still sigh about sometimes. he'll burn or tire his fingers a dozen times if it means presenting you with a perfect slice of cheesy garlic pizza, still warm, just like you remember.
(he doesn't realize he's pouting. you do.)
khaslana grits his teeth, fingers curling into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. the question sticks in his throat like honey—too sweet, too telling—but he forces it out anyway. "do they... make you laugh often?"
and then he looks at you. really looks at you.
mistake.
because the expression on your face—the way your eyes soften at the corners, the way your lips part just slightly, like you're tasting something wonderful—it punches the air straight from his lungs. he doesn't know whether to fall to his knees and carve this moment into memory or to let the black tide take him now. this is the look of someone in love, and the worst part? it's beautiful. that warm, bright smile he thought was his alone now blooms for someone else, and when you laugh—light, effortless, happy—it feels like a knife between his ribs.
"oh, do they make me laugh, huh?" you muse, tilting your head. and then—
wait.
what was that? that flicker of—of shyness? the way your gaze darts to his, just for a heartbeat, before you look away, cheeks tinged pink? khaslana's throat goes dry. he wants to beg the titans for answers—let me be the one to make you look like this, or strike me down where I stand, he isn't picky—but all he manages is a strangled noise when you add, "but... is there anything else?"
anything else? if his heart wasn't currently shattering into irreparable pieces, maybe he could think straight. but all he has left is the truth, spilling out in a clumsy, desperate rush. "they—they’d notice things," he blurts, too loud, too raw. "little things. like if you’re tired, or if you skipped breakfast, or—or if your sword grip’s off." his voice cracks, shoulders hunching like he can physically shrink away from his own words. "...and they’d try to fix it. even if you didn’t ask."
the silence that follows is agonizing. khaslana wants to fling himself into the nearest chasm. why did he say that? now you’ll know, now you’ll—
but when he risks a glance, you're just... staring. lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something he doesn’t dare name. and then—
"huh," you murmur, that familiar playful smile tugging at your mouth. "didn't think you'd be an expert when it comes to this topic, hero." a pause. a tilt of your head. "and i've noticed that your questions are... well." your voice drops, teasing but soft. "they’re… exactly what you do for me."
khaslana’s entire body goes rigid. if the earth split open beneath him right now, he’d thank it.
oh, he is so cooked. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, brain scrambling for any excuse, any deflection—anything to avoid acknowledging what you just said.
but as he flounders pathetically, he catches it: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, soft and fond, like you're looking at something precious. something loved. and just like that, khaslana feels something in his chest snap. his vision blurs—are those tears?—because how dare you look at him like that when he's this close to crumbling?
"but thank you for your help," you say, voice warm with amusement, and oh no, that's worse. "i think i know my answer now."
know your answer? his stomach plummets. are you—are you going to confess? to someone else? no, absolutely not, he forbids it—
but before he can even choke out a protest, you're already turning, hopping off the railing with effortless grace. you stretch, arms arching over your head, completely oblivious to the way his heart is currently attempting to claw its way out of his throat.
and then—then—you have the audacity to take his hand, your fingers slotting between his like it's the most natural thing in the world, tugging him down after you.
"c'mon," you say, like you haven't just shattered his entire existence.
khaslana stumbles after you, legs numb, soul halfway to the afterlife. he's not recovered. he's not okay. and yet here you are, leading him somewhere (to your mystery lover? to rub salt in the wound?), your grip firm and reassuring like you always are, like you haven't just ruined him forever.
you tug him toward one of the pricier food stalls near the square—the one that sells those perfectly golden-brown pastries filled with spiced meat, the ones khaslana never buys for himself because "it's a waste of coin" but always stares at a little too long when you pass by.
right now, he looks like he's just survived a battlefield, shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, while you're already digging into your coin pouch with that determined glint you get when you've decided to spoil him.
"two, please," you tell the vendor, ignoring khaslana's weak noise of protest. the scent of butter and herbs wraps around you both as you shove the still-warm bundle into his hands, your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel how cold they are.
"there you go," you murmur, satisfied when his face finally changes—the way his pupils dilate, the way his throat bobs as he inhales the aroma. "your payment."
he takes a bite, and the way his shoulders relax makes something warm settle in your chest. "thank you..." he mumbles around a mouthful, and you can see the tension leaving him, bite by bite.
"of course," you say, leaning against the stall. "it's only right, since you helped me with such a big question." you watch him devour the pastry, the flakes catching on his lips, and hum. "hmm, but that does look good though."
then—before he can even blink—you're suddenly right there, leaning into his space with that familiar determined glint in your eyes. one hand closes over his wrist to steady it while the other braces against his shoulder for balance, and before khaslana can process what's happening, you're taking a huge, deliberate bite right from the pastry still clutched in his fingers.
your teeth graze his thumb accidentally-on-purpose, warm breath ghosting over his skin as you pull back with the flaky crust crumbling at the corners of your smug smile.
khaslana makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a whine, fingers twitching where they still cradle the now-missing chunk of his snack. his face burns at the proximity—at the way your grip lingers just a second too long—but you're already straightening up with that infuriatingly pleased look you always get when stealing food from his plate.
the golden afternoon light catches in your lashes as you chew triumphantly, and despite himself, khaslana's traitorous heart stutters at the sight.
"how selfish..." he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance in it—just fondness, the same tone he uses when you "accidentally" take the last slice of his dessert.
(you’ve always done this. he’s always let you.)
you know his habits and vice versa, after all. how he’ll buy your favorite skewers on days you’re too busy to eat and "casually" snack on them in front of you until you cave. how he’ll sigh and produce a second portion the moment you reach for his, like he’d been waiting for the excuse to feed you.
now, you just grin, licking salt from your thumb before grabbing his wrist again. "c’mon," you say, and his breath hitches when your fingers slide down to intertwine with his.
khaslana’s chest floods with warmth as he lets you pull him along. this—this—feels right. the weight of your hand in his, the way your steps match his stride, the quiet certainty that you’d always find each other.
but then he remembers.
someone else gets this too.
someone else makes your eyes soften like that. someone else earns your laughter, your stolen bites, your relentless affection. the thought lodges like a splinter in his ribs, sharp enough to make his steps stutter.
(but it’s okay. it has to be. as long as you still reach for him—as long as you still drag him into your light—he’ll survive it. won’t he?)
૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ
fate was cruel. this was cruel. he shouldn't have opened his mouth, shouldn't have let the truth spill from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. he should've let you remain oblivious, let you keep smiling that bright, carefree smile until the cycle reset and wiped everything away again. but he was weak—so terribly weak—and now he had to live with the consequences.
he'd already failed you numerous times. first when you had saved him from being killed during the black tide engulfing okhema in that initial cycle, your body crumbling to the ground before he could even reach you. then again when he found you bleeding out in some forgotten alleyway, your fingers trembling as they brushed his tear-streaked face before going still.
he should've learned his lesson. should've stayed away when he saw you walking home from patrol that day, your armor glinting in the sunlight, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.
but he didn't. of course he didn't.
he'd crashed into you like a drowning man reaching for shore, his arms locking around your waist with desperate strength. he'd buried his face in the crook of your neck, choking on sobs that wracked his entire body, and you—you'd just held him. like you always did.
your calloused hands had carded through his hair, your steady voice murmuring reassurances against his temple as you guided him home. you didn't even know why he was crying, you knew that he wasn't your khaslana phainon, but that never stopped you from offering comfort.
and then, perhaps because the universe pitied him, the phainon in that cycle wasn't there. some emergency had pulled him away, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet of your shared home. the space between you had felt charged, dangerous, and still he'd let you coax the story from him piece by broken piece.
"tell me," you'd said, your thumb brushing away his tears with that infuriating tenderness. "whatever it is, we'll face it together. we always do."
he shouldn't have listened. shouldn't have confessed everything—the cycles, the resets, your deaths. shouldn't have clung to you like a child, his fingers twisting in your shirt as he begged to stay wrapped in your arms just a little longer.
(it wasn't your fault. it could never be your fault. you were just being you—kind and steadfast and so painfully good. the blame was his alone for being greedy, for craving your warmth after so long without it. for loving you enough to break his own heart over and over.)
but now here he was, facing the consequences. in this cycle, you had chosen to take a coreflame and inherit a titan's divine authority—watching you shoulder burdens with that stubborn resolve of yours just so that you can help alleviate phainon's even if it's just a little bit (you do, a lot in fact), your spine straight even as the weight pressed down. khaslana was a fool. an absolute, wretched fool.
he’d spilled every secret to you that day except the cruelest one: that he was the one who reset the cycles, that he needed to carve the coreflames from your chest to stop "era nova". and now, standing before you, he felt hollow. his eyes, once so bright, were dull as tarnished silver, his expression shattered enough to make your own heart fracture.
"hey there, hero."
your voice was too light, too familiar. you rose from the windowsill—your windowsill, in the home you’d shared, where the sunlight always caught in your hair just so—and offered him that playful smile. but khaslana could see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers flexed at your sides.
you knew. of course you knew. you’d heard what happened to the other chrysos heirs, and still, still, you stood there like this was just another afternoon. "long time no see. tell me, have you had lunch yet? there’s a new stall in marmoreal market—their skewers are supposed to be—"
"please." his voice cracked like dried parchment. "don’t make this harder than it already is." a shaky breath. your name on his lips tasted like ash. "i just… i need to end this cycle. this is wrong. you’re not supposed to be—i don’t want to—"
"khaslana."
you cut him off, closing the distance with that same confident stride that had always made his pulse stutter. he tensed, pathetic and trembling, but couldn’t look away. not when you stopped mere inches from him, not when your scent—warm leather and the faint tang of steel—wrapped around him like your warm embrace. "i need your help with something."
for a single, treacherous moment, light flickered back into his eyes. warmth pooled in his chest, sweet and fleeting as a summer rain. then reality crashed back in. he exhaled, long and slow, as if breathing could steady the earthquake in his ribs. "i don’t have time to help you right now—"
"oh, come on." you deadpanned, unimpressed, and oh, oh, how cruel you were—acting like this was normal, like he hadn’t memorized the exact cadence of your teasing. "when have you ever refused me?" before he could protest, you grabbed his hands, clasping them between yours. "just help me out one last time! please?"
one last time.
the words lodged in his throat like a blade. it wasn’t the last time—not truly, not when the cycles would reset—and yet it was, because this version of you, not his but is always, would be gone.
he wavered, the ghost of a thousand memories whispering in his ears: your laughter in the wheat fields, your fingers laced with his, the way you’d looked at him like he hung the stars. but mistakes like those had led him here—to this moment, where he’d have to tear out your heart to save a world that meant nothing without you in it.
"in return," you rushed, desperation bleeding into your voice, "i’ll give you the coreflame. no fighting, no pain. i’ll hand it to you myself. so just—help me this once. okay?"
it hurt. it hurt. to see you like this, to know he was the reason your hands shook. but you were right—he could never refuse you. not when you smiled, not when you begged, not even when the cost was his own soul. you were his first and only weakness, the flaw in his resolve, the crack in the foundation of every oath he’d ever sworn.
(and wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? that love could be both the anchor and the knife?)
khaslana sighs, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words, before his lips curve into something small and unbearably tender. "how could i ever refuse you?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to—a whisper meant only for you, fragile as the dandelion seeds you used to blow into the wind as children.
and oh, the way you light up at his words. the desperation in your eyes vanishes like morning mist, replaced by that brilliant spark he'd know anywhere. your posture straightens, shoulders rolling back with renewed purpose, and suddenly that smile—your smile, bright enough to rival the sun—is back where it belongs.
it hits him like a punch to the chest, this dizzying sense of deja vu. for a heartbeat, he's ten years old again, chasing you through golden wheat fields with sticks as swords, your laughter ringing in his ears as you declared yourselves protectors of a kingdom that hadn't yet crumbled.
then your fingers curl around his, warm and calloused and perfectly familiar, and just like in his visions—just like in every lifetime before this one, and in every lifetime after—you tug him forward without hesitation. toward danger, toward destiny, toward whatever adventure awaits. and khaslana follows. he always follows. because even knowing how this ends, even with the weight of countless cycles pressing down on him, being led by you still feels like coming home.
૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ
"two please," you tell the vendor at the new stall, already digging for coins before khaslana can protest. beside you, he tugs his hood lower, the fabric casting shadows over eyes that dart away the moment you glance at him. you roll your own eyes—some things never change—but the smile tugging at your lips is fond.
when you turn back, you catch him staring, that same quiet wonder in his gaze as when you were kids sharing stolen sweets behind the barracks. for a heartbeat, the years melt away. the war, the cycles, the weight of what's to come—none of it exists. there's just you, him, and the sizzle of meat on the grill.
"here you go," you say, pressing one skewer into his hand. the scent of spices and seared fat curls between you, but his fingers barely close around the stick. his expression darkens, that familiar unease settling over his features like stormclouds.
"i... don't feel particularly hungry right now."
you hum, considering, before shrugging. "then i guess i'm not eating either. feels rude to chow down while you just watch."
"no, you should eat," he insists immediately, brows knitting. "you haven't had lunch yet, have you?" the concern in his voice is so him—so painfully earnest—that your smile softens. you really are terrible, aren't you? playing on his worry like this.
"but i want to eat with you," you counter, bumping your shoulder against his. "so if you're not hungry yet, i'll wait."
the look he gives you is downright tragic, all pouting lips and wounded eyes, like a kicked puppy being told he can't go outside yet. you bite your cheek to keep from laughing. "you... this is cheating," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. just that same resigned affection he's always had for your antics.
victory is sweet. you laugh, tangling your fingers with his again—his palm warm against yours, his pulse a frantic rabbit-run under your thumb—and tug him toward your usual haunt. he follows, of course. he always does. by the time you reach the wooden rails of your "scheming spot," he's already taken a bite, the way his face lights up at the taste sending a stupid rush of pride and warmth through your chest.
the view of kephale stretches out in front of you both—a fractured masterpiece of stone, where sunlight catches on every jagged edge of the titan. but khaslana's gaze isn't fixed on the ruins. he's drinking in everything: the way the afternoon light turns the city walls golden, the cloudless blue of the sky stretching endlessly above, the distant shrieks of children chasing each other through the plaza.
he catches snippets of gossip floating up from the market, merchants calling out their wares with practiced charm, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. yet his attention keeps circling back to you—always you—as if trying to memorize details his heart hasn't already carved into its walls.
this moment. this stolen breath between tragedies. your shoulder pressed against his, steady as bedrock. the way you hum around a mouthful of food, eyes crinkling at something happening below. the comfortable silence that's always existed between you, needing no words. it's a scene he's replayed countless times behind closed eyelids, when the weight of the world becomes too much and he needs to remember that joy still exists somewhere.
and isn't that the cruelest truth? in every memory worth keeping, in every moment he retreats to when the darkness presses too close—you're there. laughing in the wheat fields. shoving his shoulder after a bad joke. standing vigil beside him when the nightmares come. even now, with the end looming over you both, you remain his constant. his compass. his light. his dawn.
(he doesn't realize he's staring. doesn't realize his fingers have tightened around the skewer until the wood creaks in protest. all he knows is that he wants to remember the exact shade of your smile in this light before he has to wait decades to see you again.)
"it was good, right?" you nudge your shoulder against khaslana's with practiced ease, leaning into his space like you've done a thousand times before—just to tease, just to feel him stiffen before inevitably giving in.
except this time, he doesn't tense. he just... melts into the contact, tilting ever so slightly toward you until your warmth bleeds through the fabric of his cloak. his quiet nod is barely more than a dip of his chin, but you feel it where you're pressed together.
"anyway... what did you need help with?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to, already shifting to accommodate your weight as you slump more comfortably against him, back to his shoulder. it's second nature by now—the way his arm lifts just enough to brace behind you, the angle of his shoulders adjusting to become your support. like his body remembers this dance even when his mind is screaming to pull away before he hurts you.
"oh, right. well," you tip your head back until it rests against his, staring up at the sky where clouds drift lazily across the blue. your arms cross over your chest, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your elbows. "remember when i asked you that time about how i'd know if someone liked me back? years ago?"
yes. the word lodges in his throat like broken glass. for you, it's only been a few years. for him, it's been decades. decades of two cycles stretching between that conversation and this moment, each one filled with him trying—and failing—to show you what you mean to him without tipping his hand, no matter how desperately he wanted to. he'd spent every day after that question bracing for the moment you'd bring someone home, smiling that proud smile as you introduced them as yours. (it never came. you never mentioned them again. somehow, that was worse.)
"yes," he manages, staring hard at his hands where they've fisted in his pants. the fabric wrinkles under his grip, but he can't make himself let go. not when his chest feels this tight. how could he forget?
"good." you exhale sharply through your nose, a sound he's learned means you're steeling yourself. "because i need you to help me get it through his thick skull that i've liked him for ages."
the deja vu hits like a punch to the gut. his ribs splinter all over again, the ache so familiar he could map its edges in the dark. "why not just tell him?" he mutters, staring at the cracks in the stone beneath your feet. "you don't need my help for that." please. please don't make me watch this.
"it's not that simple." you pull away suddenly, and the loss of your warmth is a physical wound. when he risks a glance up, you're studying the skyline, jaw set in that stubborn line he knows too well. "i don't think that idiot would get it even if i spelled it out for him." your laugh is quiet, almost fond, but it does nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
khaslana swallows around the lump in his throat. "you still haven't told me who it is."
you look at him then—really look at him—and there's something in your eyes he can't name before you turn away with a sigh. "you'll find out when i tell him," you murmur, propping your elbow on your knee and resting your cheek in your palm. the sunlight catches in your lashes, turning them gold. "so? any romantic ideas for confessing to your lifelong crush, oh great hero of mine?"
the title still sends his heart stuttering against his ribs - that foolish, hopeful flutter that never fades no matter how many lifetimes pass, no matter how many variations of your voice calling him "hero" echo in his memories. it's pathetic, really, how his pulse trips over itself every single time, how warmth blooms beneath his skin like the first rays of dawn after a long winter. he ducks his head before you can see the way his lips twitch upward, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on his sleeve as he feigns contemplation.
"i mean," he mumbles, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug, "you could... do the swing method?" the suggestion comes out more question than statement, tinged with the self-deprecating awareness that he's absolutely terrible at this.
your laughter rings out bright and clear, the sound weaving through the air like wind chimes on a summer breeze. khaslana can't help the way his gaze snaps up to watch you, can't stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he commits this moment to memory—the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly, the sunlight catching in your hair like liquid gold. if the universe demanded he forget every other memory, he'd cling to this one with both hands until his fingers bled.
"that," you manage between breathless breaths, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand, "sounds exactly like something you'd do." the teasing lilt in your voice is familiar as your own heartbeat, accompanied by that fond look that always makes his chest ache.
(he doesn't mention that he knows exactly how the swing method works because he'd planned to use it himself, once upon a time. doesn't confess that he'd spent weeks practicing the perfect confession speech to deliver while pushing you on a swing he'd have made himself, with ribbons of your favourite colour and little charms attached to it that signified 'happiness' and 'eternal love'. some dreams are better left unspoken.)
"hmm, what else?" you hum, tapping a finger against your chin after your laughter finally subsides. there's a thoughtful pause before you glance at him sideways, that familiar determined glint in your eyes softening into something more hesitant. "what if," you start, watching his reaction carefully, "i tried writing a love note with pomegranate seeds?"
khaslana's eyes flutter shut without thinking. the image comes too easily—you hunched over a table, brow furrowed in concentration as you painstakingly arrange each ruby-red seed, muttering complaints when they refuse to stay in place. he can almost hear the exasperated huff you'd make when the peel tears unevenly, see the way you'd stubbornly start over despite the juice staining your fingertips.
the chuckle slips out before he can stop it, warm and fond. no, he thinks, you shouldn't have to work so hard. if it were him, he'd spend hours crafting the perfect message, carving each word with care until his hands ached—until it was worthy of you.
"not a good idea, huh?" you ask, and when he opens his eyes, you're watching him with that tilted-head look of yours, cheek still cradled in your palm. sunlight filters through the clouds above, dappling patterns across your face that he wants to trace with his fingers.
"i'm sure they'll love whatever you do," he murmurs, but the words taste like ash on his tongue. you make a face, clearly unsatisfied, and before he can say more, you're swinging your legs off the railing with that effortless grace he could never replicate.
your hand finds his automatically, outstretched and waiting like it's the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it is—because despite everything, despite the centuries and cycles between them, some things never change. his fingers slot between yours without hesitation, the callouses on your palm familiar against his skin.
you don't let go once he's standing. instead, your grip tightens just slightly as you tug him forward, already marching toward some new destination with that single-minded determination he's always admired. "oh whatever," you declare, waving your free hand dismissively, "i'm sure we'll find our answers in the grove."
the mention sends a ripple of memories through him—his teacher's voice, the weight of duty, the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. but when he looks at you, at the way your fingers stay tangled with his like an unspoken promise, the shadows recede.
he takes a slow, steadying breath, matching his stride to yours. it doesn't matter where you're leading him. it never has. he'd follow you to the edge of the world and beyond, as long as your hand remains in his.
(always. he'll always follow.)
૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ
what had started as research quickly devolved into the two of you curled up side by side, knees bumping together as you passed dog-eared romance novels back and forth. the hours slipped by in a haze of whispered commentary and stifled laughter, your shoulders shaking every time you encountered a particularly cringe-worthy line.
khaslana would never admit it, but he'd memorized the exact pitch of your snort when something was unbearably cheesy—the way you'd elbow him when a scene made you flustered, your cheeks warming even as you mocked it.
and though you teased every over-the-top confession and dramatic gesture, khaslana found himself cataloging them anyway. the way the hero knelt in the rain, the flowery monologues delivered at sunset—he'd recreate each one in a heartbeat if it meant seeing your face light up.
in another life, perhaps. one where his hands weren't stained with the weight of countless resets, where he could press love letters into your palm without fear of the ink bleeding through to something darker.
by the third hour, he noticed your attention waning. not for lack of interest in his company—never that—but the way your fingers tapped restlessly against the pages gave you away. "break time?" he suggested, and the grateful smile you shot him could've powered entire cities.
now, as you stroll through the quiet halls, he watches you stretch with the same careful attention one might give a sacred text. the way your back arches, the satisfied noise you make when your shoulders pop—these are things he hoards like treasure. "so," he asks, bracing himself, "have you thought of any ideas yet?"
"well, actually," you glance down, scuffing your boot against the cobblestones in a rare show of hesitation before meeting his gaze again. "i think i might just tell him." a shrug, casual as anything. "maybe throw in a poem or something."
khaslana stops dead. the world tilts. "so... you were just going to... tell him after all?" the words come out strangled, equal parts disbelief and something painfully close to hope.
you turn to face him fully, and oh—there it is. that smile. the one that crinkles your eyes just so, the one he's convinced exists solely for him. "well," you say, rocking back on your heels, "i originally wanted fireworks or some grand gesture. but after our very productive and very meaningful research session..." you scratch the back of your head, grin turning sheepish. "turns out there's no beating good old-fashioned honesty and pouring your heart out, right?"
khaslana exhales through his nose, the sound equal parts exasperation and helpless affection as a smile tugs at his lips despite himself. his brows lift slightly—this was so perfectly, painfully you. blunt as a hammer to glass, sincere to a fault, charging forward where others might hesitate.
the ache in his chest flares hot and sharp as he imagines some faceless stranger receiving what he's spent lifetimes yearning to give you—every fractured piece of love he's managed to salvage from the ruins of his soul, offered up like broken stained glass catching sunlight.
"alright," he murmurs, leaning into your shoulder with practiced ease, the teasing lilt in his voice belying the way his fingers twitch at his sides. "do you have an idea on how you're gonna go about professing your undying love?"
"actually, i do—"
the words die in your throat as shadow swallows the light above you. khaslana's body moves before his mind catches up—one arm hooking around your waist as he yanks you sideways, the other coming up in a desperate defensive stance. the black tide creature's claws whistle through the air where your head had been just seconds before.
"are you okay?" the words tumble out in a frantic rush as his hands fly over you, checking for injuries he knows aren't there but needs to confirm anyway. his palm cups your jaw without thinking, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his eyes dart across your face. "did you get hurt? was i too rough? i'm sorry—"
"khaslana!"
your voice snaps him back just in time for you to grab his collar and haul him sideways, the blade meant for his ribs slicing empty air instead. the creature shrieks in frustration, the sound like rusted metal grinding against bone, and suddenly the hall isn't empty anymore. creatures detach from the walls, from the rooftops, from the cracked ground beneath your feet—a dozen corrupted forms landing with unnatural grace as their hollow eyes lock onto you both.
"well, won't you look at that," you murmur, that familiar edge of battle-ready excitement coloring your voice as you shift into stance. your sword gleams in the dim light, its edge singing as you give it an experimental twirl. "seems like fate is on my side tonight."
khaslana doesn't need to look to know where you are—his body moves on instinct, shoulders pressing flush against yours as he covers your blind spot. the solid weight of you at his back is as natural as breathing, as steady as the sunrise after a long night.
"why in the titans' name would you possibly want a horde of black tide creatures surrounding us?" he asks, even as his fingers flex around his weapon's hilt. one slash. that's all he'd need to reduce these abominations to ash.
"so i can fight by your side," you say, like it's the simplest truth in the world, "and profess my undying love to you once we claim victory."
the world tilts. khaslana's head whips toward you so fast something in his neck protests, eyes wide enough to hurt. wait—what did you just—
"quit staring at me like that and fight with me, will you?" you snap, but there's no real heat behind it—just that same fond exasperation he's come to know better than his own reflection.
then the creatures surge forward, and there's no more time for questions.
the first one lunges at your exposed side, and khaslana moves without thinking. dawnmaker arcs through the air in a silver flash, severing the creature's arm before it can reach you. you don't even flinch—already pivoting to drive your sword through its chest, trusting him to watch your back as you strike and vice versa.
it's always been like this between you: his precise, calculated strikes tempering your bold, sweeping attacks; your relentless forward momentum covering the split-second openings in his defenses.
another creature leaps from the shadows, and you're already there—stepping into the space he'd just vacated, your elbow brushing his ribs as you move. the familiarity of it aches. how many battles have you fought like this? how many times has he felt the whisper of your cloak against his armor, heard the sharp exhale you always make when you land a killing blow?
too many to count. and yet, never enough.
a particularly large creature swings at you, and khaslana's there before it can connect—his blade meeting yours mid-swing as you both strike simultaneously, the impact sending dark ichor splattering across the stones. you grin at him over crossed swords, breathless and bright-eyed, and something in his chest cracks open.
he's missed this. missed you. the way you fight like every battle is your last, the way you trust him to catch you when you overextend, the way you always seem to know what he needs before he does. it's terrifying. it's perfect.
the last creature falls with a gurgling shriek, and suddenly the alley is quiet again save for the sound of your ragged breathing. you're still pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, your warmth seeping through the layers of fabric and armor between you. when you turn to face him properly, there's blood on your cheek and triumph in your eyes, and khaslana has never seen anything more beautiful.
"so," you say, wiping your sword clean with practiced ease, "about that confession—"
"it's really... me?"
the words come out shattered, fractured at the edges like broken glass. khaslana's voice trembles in a way you've never heard before, his eyes wide and shimmering with something dangerously close to hope. the sight makes your breath catch—this legendary deliverer, this man who's faced down titans without flinching, now looking at you like you've hung the stars in the sky just for him.
you can't help the laughter that bubbles up, bright and unrestrained, as you clutch at your stomach. your cheeks burn with equal parts amusement and flustered affection. "see?" you manage between breathless chuckles, "i told you the person i liked was a total idiot."
"but..." he swallows hard, hands hovering uncertainly in the space between you. "since when?"
"since the day you caught me when i fell from that tree."
the memory hits khaslana like a physical blow—sudden and vivid as lightning splitting the sky. a memory from the first cycle.
he sees it all again with perfect clarity: himself as a boy, small and serious, dragging his wooden stick through the dirt after another frustrating 'training' session. the fairies' stories of great heroes still fresh in his mind, their words about courage and destiny spinning through his thoughts as he wandered the outskirts of town.
if only he could acquire a weapon, even if it was just a wooden sword, then he'd be able to train properly. then—movement. a flash of color high in the old oak tree. another child, all reckless energy and stubborn determination, climbing higher than was wise.
he remembers the exact moment your knee slipped. the way time seemed to slow as you teetered on the branch. his body moving before his mind could catch up, feet pounding against the earth as he launched himself forward with arms outstretched. the impact knocked the breath from both of you when you collided, sending you tumbling into the grass in a tangle of limbs.
when the dust settled, he found himself staring down at you—this strange, sunlit child with leaves in your hair and dirt smudged across your cheek. your eyes had gone wide with surprise at first, then softened into something warm and delighted as you took him in. "thanks, hero," you'd said with that first, earth-shattering grin.
neither of you could have known then how that moment would echo across lifetimes. how those two simple words would become a promise, a prayer, an anchor point in the storm of cycles to come. all khaslana knew in that instant was that he wanted—needed—to keep being worthy of that title. worthy of you.
khaslana's heart swells until he thinks it might burst, each frantic beat echoing through his ribs like war drums. his hand flies to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric over his heart as if he could physically steady the storm inside. tears spill over before he can stop them, tracking hot paths down his cheeks that he's powerless to halt.
"woah, are you okay?" your voice wraps around him like sunlight as you close the distance between you. calloused palms cradle his face with a tenderness that undoes him completely, thumbs brushing away his tears with infinite care. he melts into your touch without hesitation—leaning into your hands like a flower turning toward the sun, his lashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly, desperate to clear his vision.
he needs to see you. needs to memorize every detail of this moment—the way your brows knit together in concern, the soft part of your lips, the warmth of your skin against his. when his fingers find yours, they're trembling, but he holds on tight, anchoring himself to you.
you chuckle, the sound warmer than any hearthfire, and he feels the vibration of it where your foreheads nearly touch. "gosh," you murmur, voice laced with amusement, "i didn't think you'd cry like this. i still haven't even properly confessed yet." your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, so gentle it makes his breath catch. "how many cycles were there where we got to confess our feelings?"
the question sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through him. khaslana ducks his head, suddenly sheepish, peering up at you through damp lashes with the full force of his most devastating puppy-eyed look. "this is the first one..." he admits in a whisper so soft it's nearly lost between you, his fingers tightening around yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.
your entire body locks up at his confession, muscles tensing like a bowstring drawn too tight. for three heartbeats, the world stops spinning. then—"what?!" the word explodes from your lungs with enough force to startle birds from nearby rooftops, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. "this is the first cycle where we actually confess?!"
khaslana nods, those damn puppy eyes somehow growing even more potent as fresh tears cling to his lashes. the sight would be adorable if your brain wasn't currently short-circuiting with a much more pressing realization. "wait so—" your voice pitches upward, fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak, "did we die as virgins?!"
the question lands between them like a lit firework. khaslana's breath hitches—once, twice—before his composure shatters completely. laughter bursts from his chest, raw and unfiltered, the kind that makes his ribs ache and his vision blur. he doubles over, shoulders shaking, as centuries—cycles—of tension pour out of him all at once. for the first time in countless lifetimes, the weight of the world doesn't crush him. there's just this moment. just you. just the absurdity of it all.
"khaslana!" you swat at his arm, but there's no real heat behind it. "this is no laughing matter!" your voice cracks on the last syllable, torn between outrage and the infectious joy of hearing him laugh like this. "what do you mean i lived a life of celibacy?!"
he can't answer. not when every time he tries to catch his breath, another wave of giggles overtakes him. instead, he drags you into his arms, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his body continues to tremble with mirth. you keep grumbling, of course—something about romantic incompetence and wasted opportunities—but your hands come up to clutch at his back anyway, holding him just as tight.
and if your grip borders on desperate, if your fingers press hard enough to leave bruises—well. neither of you mention it. not when the alternative is letting go. not when you can still feel the ghost of all those cycles where his eyes held no light at all.
(you'll hold onto this version of him for as long as the universe allows. you just pray it'll be longer than a moment. but a deal is a deal.)
for one fragile, stolen moment, the two of you exist in a world of your own making. his arms around you feel like the only solid thing left in the universe, your foreheads pressed together as if you could fuse your souls through sheer willpower.
the scent of him—steel and something faintly sweet, like sun-warmed honey—fills your lungs as you breathe him in, memorizing the way his heartbeat thrums against your chest. you want to stay like this forever, wrapped in this quiet pocket of time where nothing exists but the warmth of his hands on your back and the soft puffs of his breath against your skin.
but the universe has never been kind to either of you.
your eyes flutter open against your will, drawn upward to the sickly glow of the fractured sky. your jaw clenches so tight it aches as you force out the question that's been clawing at your throat: "how long do we have?"
the silence stretches between you, filled only with the sound of his shaky exhale. you can feel him committing this to memory—the weight of you in his arms, the way your fingers clutch at his shirt, the exact cadence of your breathing. when he finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every word: "one more day."
of course. one more day. because khaslana has always been too softhearted for his own good, dragging things out until the last possible second, unable to bear the thought of hurting you a moment sooner than necessary. the sigh that escapes you is equal parts fond and resigned.
you pull back just enough to see his face, and your resolve nearly crumbles. his eyes are red-rimmed and shining, lips pressed into a thin line as he tries—and fails—to keep his composure. you're still so close you can kiss his tears away, your hands resting on his waist while his arms remain loosely draped around you, as if he can't bear to let go completely.
(for him. you have to do this for him.)
with every ounce of love burning in your chest—brighter than any coreflame could ever hope to be—you smile at him. that same smile he's carried across countless lifetimes, the one that crinkles your eyes just so and makes his foolish heart stutter against his ribs. "well," you say, voice steadier than your trembling hands, "a deal's a deal. thank you for helping me once again, hero."
you step back before he can protest, palm raised to stop him from following. it shakes—you both know it does—but neither of you acknowledge it. there are a thousand things you want to say, a million promises clawing at your throat, but the time for words has passed.
the chuckle that escapes you is weak, watery, but still so unmistakably you. "just as i promised," you murmur, fingers hovering over your sternum, "i'll hand over the coreflame to you, khaslana." then—before either of you can hesitate—you plunge your hand into your chest with a gut-wrenching groan.
khaslana flinches like the pain is his own, head jerking away on instinct. he's seen this too many times, watched you shatter in too many ways, and yet—he forces himself to look. to memorize the curve of your lips, the stubborn set of your jaw, the way your eyes never leave his even as your body begins to fray at the edges. he owes you that much.
"you know," you gasp, fingers curling around the glow inside your ribs, "i wouldn't mind if you did the swing method on me." golden blood trickles from the corner of your mouth, but your grin never wavers.
something in khaslana breaks. tears spill over without permission, streaking down his cheeks in hot, relentless streams. not now. not when he'd just gotten you back.
"though," you continue, voice growing fainter, "i have a feeling i'll mess it up somehow." the affection in your gaze could power entire kingdoms, could rewrite the stars themselves. then—with one final, shuddering pull—you wrench the coreflame free.
your triumphant smile is the last coherent thought he has before you're shoving the glowing core into his shaking hands. "i hope," you whisper, pressing closer as his sobs fracture the air between you, "in the next cycle, and every one after... you'll kiss me first. and let me have the chance to say 'i love you'."
"i promise," he chokes out, fingers scrambling to clutch at your disintegrating form. "i swear it—every lifetime, every cycle, i'll—" his voice cracks, raw with devotion. "i'll court you properly. take you on dates. read you terrible poetry at sunrise. anything—everything—just—"
"good." your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it settles in his bones all the same. "and since i'm so selfish—"
you surge forward before he can react, one hand fisting in his cloak while the other cradles his jaw with devastating tenderness. the kiss is messy—all clashing teeth and salt-stained lips, your blood on his tongue and his tears on your cheeks. he kisses you like a dying man granted one last miracle, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise if you weren't already slipping through them.
you taste like home. like every sunrise he's ever woken up to, every battlefield he's ever survived, every prayer he's ever whispered into the dark. and when you pull away—too soon, never enough—your lips are still curved in that damnable smile even as your body dissolves into golden embers.
"see you tomorrow, my hero." you murmur against his mouth, and then—
you're gone.
khaslana collapses to his knees, the weight of the coreflame in his hands nothing compared to the crushing absence where you should be. his fingers tremble around its glow, clutching it to his chest like he could somehow press it back into the hollow space beneath his ribs where you belong. the sobs come then—great, heaving things that tear through him with enough force to bruise, his forehead pressing into the dirt still warm from where you'd stood moments before.
"i promise," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words scraping his throat raw. "i swear on every star, every cycle, every broken piece of this damned world—" his voice cracks, splintering like the earth beneath his knees. "next time, i'll love you properly. no more hiding. no more waiting." the coreflame pulses against his palm, its light catching on the tears dripping steadily onto the ground. "i'll tell you every day. i'll kiss you at every dawn, hold you through every nightmare, fight for you in every lifetime. i promise you that, dawnlight."
a shudder wracks his frame as he presses his lips to the glowing ember, your name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once. the taste of salt and smoke lingers on his tongue, bitter and sweet in equal measure. somewhere, in some distant future where the cycle begins anew, he'll find you again. he'll love you louder this time. love you enough for all the lifetimes where he was too afraid, too careful, too late.
(and maybe—just maybe—that will be enough.)
i’ll admit, i’m almost afraid to check the word count on this one—turns out it’s 9.9k, which explains why it took me a solid eight hours to finish. it’s currently 7:43 AM, and yes, i did start this at 11 PM last night. maybe i should’ve slept instead, but the amphoreus arc has been living in my head rent-free, and the urge to write something aching and tender got the better of me. i haven’t written proper angst in so long, and my hands just wouldn’t stop until i’d wrung out every last drop of emotion. so, here we are. apologies for the pain—i did say i couldn’t bear to hurt phainon, but i just couldn't take it anymore. i needed to write at least one angst one-shot for him, so here it is.
i'm too softhearted when it comes to him, so i tried to end this... not so painfully LOL
this was entirely self-indulgent, born from a single daydream that spiraled into something much longer. no outline, no overthinking—just me chasing the feeling of a scene until it became this. that means some moments might feel raw or uneven, like glimpses into a wandering mind rather than a structured story. but that’s how inspiration works sometimes, isn’t it? you cling to it before it slips away, even if it means writing through the night with gethsemane by sleep token on loop.
if you made it this far, thank you for indulging me. i hope you found something to love in this mess of emotions, even if it hurt a little (or a lot) <3 and props to the people who got the little references i included in this one-shot hahahah
i have to confess—phainon's E6 eidolon has completely captured my heart. there's something about the delicate details in his design, the way the light plays across his features, that makes me want to just... take a BIG CHOMP. it's that perfect blend of ethereal beauty and overwhelming strength that i can't resist. i find myself constantly pausing just to admire the artistry whenever it appears on screen.
his entire aesthetic resonates with me on such a deep level—i may have developed a tiny (okay, not so tiny) obsession with how beautifully his character was brought to life.
✎ gender. afab, she/her
✎ contains. explicit smut, VERSION 3.4 SPOILERS, double penetration in one hole, double penetration in two holes, Yandere Phainon (kinda), Mildly dubious consent, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, yearning phainon, plot what plot, Netorare (by technicality), cum eating, squirting
✎ wc. 10k
✎ summary. Phainon wanted you, needed you. If he didn't have you, he felt like he was suffocating. You were all that he had left of home. He would protect you until his dying breath before he let death touch you. Even then, he'd come back from the grave to keep you safe.
You are all his, and he is all yours.
Each cycle, each iteration, he would always take you in the way that you deserved. Except this time, this cycle, it was different. He was there.
No longer was Phainon your first.
✎ ameris’ notes. special thanks to fae, ten, and tae for the help on beta reading and support!
I debated for a while to post here again, wondering if i should stick to ao3. but here i am!
[AO3 Link]
“Fuck,” Phainon (?) murmurs your name under his breath. You’re not sure what overcame him. He was supposed to be on a mission to rescue more survivors and bring them back to Okhema. He might have mentioned getting back sooner, but you didn’t expect him to suddenly appear in your room as you were getting ready for bed.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” he nudged his nose under your ear, talking in a low voice that sent a warmth between your legs. It didn’t help that his knee was against your core, tempting you with something more that you’ve been begging for.
“What do you mean, Phainon?” You reached up to grab his face with both of your hands so you could bring his gaze back up to yours. Your brows furrowing as it hadn’t been too long since he left. “The expedition was supposed to be longer. Did something happen?” Your thumbs stroke his cheeks as he leans deeper into your touch.
His eyes flickered between both of yours. There was a certain sadness behind his eyes. You couldn’t tell if it was the trick of the lighting from the Dawn Device or if it was truly flickering between his calm blue or deep, unwavering golden eyes that you thought saw more lives than the one in front of him.
“I just-” He buried his head between the crook of your neck before wrapping you in a tighter hug. You promptly wrapped your arms around his neck, waiting patiently for him as you played with the hairs on the back of his head. They were surprisingly soft and clean for just returning from an expedition. Although sometimes he’d go wash himself up before returning to you. “Khaslana.”
“Huh?”
“My name... It’s Khaslana.” Khaslana pulled away from your neck to look at you with a fiery need to hear his name leave your lips. After all, for each cycle, he’s never once told you his name. He’d only ever hear of his other name leave your lips as you both made love each cycle before going to reclaim the last Coreflame among the sky. Just this once, he wanted to be selfish. Even if it meant your first time would be with him and not this cycle’s version of him.
“Khaslana,” you said, smiling at him, “it suits you.”
Khaslana felt guilty feeling his cock hardening at how innocent you looked in this moment. After all, you believe him to be your Phainon of this iteration. But after all these endless cycles, he missed the feeling of you melting in his arms. The way that your pussy would suck him in, begging for him to fill you up with his cum. He missed the way that you would rake your nails down his back, desperate for more.
Well, he is still Phainon, isn’t he? This iteration will soon become a part of him. So it wouldn’t be wrong to take your first time now.
Besides, your Phainon wouldn’t be back from the expedition for another few days, if he remembered correctly from previous cycles. He’ll help keep your bed warm. Khaslana was meant to be yours, and you were meant to be his. And even if you weren’t, he’d make you his.
You let out a sudden gasp when Khaslana placed his lips on yours with a hunger and a need to make you his, as if you already weren’t. He took advantage of the gasp, letting his tongue slip into your mouth. The slick of his tongue against yours made you weak in the knees. As if he already knew, he placed his hands on your hips, pushing his knee up into your warmth.
Khaslana swallowed the moans that you let out as he grinded into you, letting out a grunt when you pulled his hair to pull him away. Amongst the glimmer of light that was let in, the glint of the string of saliva caught your eye.
“I need you,” Khaslana breathed out, his tongue darting out to catch the string back to him. “Please.”
You felt a rush of heat flow up your neck and to your cheeks as you finally felt how hard he was against you. This was your first time with him. How would you even be able to take him? But his golden eyes were so desperate for you. And honestly? So were you. Every lonely night you’ve spent without Phainon was filled with your fingers between your legs, wishing it were his calloused fingers.
“Okay,” you whispered with a smile, holding his face between your hands. “I’m all yours.”
He began to kiss your neck, biting and leaving marks that left you at his mercy, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d done this with you. Khaslana bit harshly against the part of your neck that met your shoulder.
“Ah!” His tongue darted out against the mark that was left behind, asking for forgiveness. You lightly laughed at how sweet he was, like a puppy that accidentally hurt their owner. “Come on Khas, let's move to the bed.”
His heart skipped a beat at the nickname you gave him. Happiness surged through him, as if he were waiting for you to truly enter into his heart. He just wished that in one of these cycles, the other version of him would let himself be open about his name for once.
But he’ll take what he can get. Khaslana just felt guilty that he waited this long, this many cycles, to finally fuck you as him, as who he truly is.
He wonders, would you still love him for all the sins he's committed? Would you deny him of you for the harm he’s placed on the other Chrysos Heirs, all in the belief of the hope that there will be one cycle where an outsider interferes?
It doesn’t matter.
You’ll forget all of this soon enough, he’ll have to savor this moment.
Khaslana slides his hands down below your ass, spreading them slightly through your gown before he picks you up. You let out a scream of delight, not expecting him to be so bold when before he would blush at you kissing his ear, then his neck, his chest, his stomach, before he stopped you from going any lower.
He chuckled against your neck, leaving small kisses while carrying you to the bed. A chill ran through his body as you continued to run your hands through his hair. It had been too long since he'd felt your touch. The fact that the last time he had you writhing beneath him was a whole cycle ago, he couldn’t bear it. Khaslana wanted you—needed you.
This time, he’ll take you over and over again until his carnal desires are satisfied. Even then, he’s not sure the night would be enough.
“Khas,” you murmured as he left a few marks on your neck to your collarbone.
“Yes, my love?” Khaslana asked, looking up at you, your hair adorning your face. To him, you looked like a goddess sent from beyond the skies.
“Put me down already,” you lightly laughed at him before giving him a small kiss on the corner of his lip. Although he moved his head, thinking you were trying to kiss him.
“Such a tease.” He gently placed you down on the bed. His hand trailing up from your calf before pushing your leg to the side, spreading your legs before him, your gown riding up your sides. Khaslana raised a brow when he saw what was in front of him.
“I-” you blushed, trying to cover your bare self with your gown before he grabbed your wrists to place them over your head with one hand. Your breath hitched in your throat at the sudden dominance he began to display for you.
“Don’t cover yourself, I want to see you,” he said, his hand lightly brushing against your soft, plush skin before reaching your bare lips. “But I wasn’t expecting you to sleep for the night without your panties.”
You pursed your lips, nervous at the fact that the man in front of you was so mesmerized by you. A gasp left your mouth as Khaslana brushed against the outside of your pussy when you heard a groan leave his lips.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he thought aloud. Your arms struggled against his hand.
“Please,” you whined. “Touch me? Need you.”
Khaslana slid in one of his fingers, feeling your warm slick surround him. His cock throbbed in his pants, he wanted to fuck you senseless against the bed but he’d have to wait. The first time you’ve had sex, you were so nervous that it hurt. He wants to make you feel good this time so that every time you have sex, you will only be able to think about this moment right now.
You sighed, even though it was just one finger, it felt so good, better than you could imagine. He reached all the parts of you that you couldn’t reach these past few nights. You already felt yourself becoming addicted to him.
Khaslana’s thumb toyed with your clit as he put in another finger, reaching and continuously prodding at the one spot that kept making you struggle against his hold. The room was filled with your quiet whining, the slick of your cunt getting louder as he placed another finger in. You whined, shutting your eyes, toes curling as you felt that familiar buildup in your lower stomach. Never did you imagine that he would be the cause of the dirty sounds coming from your pussy so soon.
He called out your name. “Look at me.” Khaslana released your wrists to grab you by your chin, forcing you to stare up at him, your eyes fluttering open. Khaslana groaned, feeling your pussy clench around his fingers.
“What, do you like me treating you like this?” His grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly. With your free hands you grabbed the wrist that was toying with your pussy. He tsked, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he took pride in how your hips were grinding against his, your eyes blown out as you tried to chase the upcoming orgasm.
Khaslana let go of your chin, grabbing the ends of your gown to reveal your breasts. He sucked in a breath as he stared at them, mesmerized. No longer was the shy Chrysos heir in front of him, instead one filled with the wanton need to cum on his fingers.
He changed his pace, instead having the base of his palm grind against your clit as he continued to bring you closer and closer to the edge, his head bending down to wrap your nipple with his lips, lightly nibbling, making you arch your back as you got closer, closer, and closer—
You gasped his name out loud as his fingers left your warmth before you could reach the climax. His mouth left your breast with a light pop.
“I was so close, Khas,” you whined. Khaslana laughed lightly before bringing his fingers up for you to see. Your slick covering his hands, causing some webbing between his fingers. You held your breath, watching him clean up your mess finger by finger with his mouth. You felt yourself clench around nothing, your cunt begging to be filled by something once more as you watched the erotic scene unfold in front of you, air thick with lust.
Never in a million years did you think that the man before you would be so bold. Not that you were complaining.
He patted your thigh, “It’ll be alright, my love, you’ll be begging for me to stop soon enough.”
Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him move away to strip his armor and his top accessories off. Sure, you’ve felt his toned muscles under all of his clothes, you’ve watched him on the training grounds, but never did you realize how much work he put into his body, even if he didn’t mean to make his body look like... that.
Subconsciously, you pushed yourself up to reach for Khas before you quickly got your senses back, pulling your hand back to your side and looking away, embarrassed at how you were ogling him just a few moments ago.
With a smile (which looked more like a smirk), Khaslana reached for your hand, leaning in and placing your hand on his chest.
“Don’t worry,” he brought your hand to his mouth, kissing the tips of your fingers lightly, “whatever you want to do to me, I’m all yours.”
“Khas...” You reached for his neck, pulling him down to crash his lips against yours. He groaned into you, his hands moving to push the gown up and over your head, briefly breaking away from you so that he could leave you bare underneath him. His hands roam your body with a sense of familiarity. You felt his fingers pinch and twist against your perky nipples, making you cry out, but he wouldn’t let up, savoring his lips against yours.
Your legs moved to each side of his hips. Khaslana, being so in tune with your body from cycle after cycle, moved his hands down to your hips, bringing your warmth against his hardened member still underneath his pants to grind down into you. There was, without a doubt, a stain that was left behind on the front of his pants. But neither of you cared, too desperate to be part of each other.
You both pulled away from each other, panting. You’ve never seen your boyfriend this flushed, but you’re sure he could say the same for you.
In Khaslana’s eyes, he missed seeing how desperate you’d be for him. No longer did the voice in his head exist, saying that this was wrong; that you’re not really his; that he’s betraying your trust by not telling you the truth. But even if it was wrong, it felt so right to have you underneath him like this. Stripped bare for him to admire, pussy dripping all because of him, for him, your neck filled with his marks. He frowned, however, when he realized there were no marks on your chest.
He had to change that.
Bending down, he mouthed at the space between your breasts, suckling and kissing before making his way to one of your breasts. Khaslana tried to put as much of you into his mouth before suckling and biting. You cried out in pain and pleasure, your hands gripping his hair. You couldn’t tell if you were trying to push him off of you with the way you were grinding against him in desperation.
He eventually moved to focus on your nipple, alternating between suckling and biting. His other hand was playing with your other breast before switching to give it the same amount of attention.
“Please,” you begged, your hands letting go of his hair to fumble where his belt was against his pants, “need you. Been touching myself every night since you’ve been gone, to the thought of you.”
Khaslana groaned deeply at the image; you all by your lonesome, touching yourself, crying for him as you waited every night for his return. He couldn’t explain how happy he was to let himself see you again.
“You’ll have me. I promise,” he murmured against your chest before moving to help you unbuckle his pants. “Won’t have to touch yourself every night anymore.” He clumsily shoved off the rest of his clothing, desperate to feel you. You couldn’t help but laugh at his excitement before he sent you a light-hearted glare. But it wasn’t the glare that stopped you in your tracks, but the size of him.
Khaslana wrapped his hand around his member, stroking it languidly, “You can take it, I know you can.” His free hand caresses your face. Your hands hesitantly reach out, and he chokes on his breath as he realizes that this time, in this iteration, you’re the one to initiate touching him.
He lets go of himself, letting you wrap your smaller hands around him instead. He jerks at the touch of you before you end up leaning over to let out a small lick with your tongue against the tip. Khaslana shut his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself if he kept watching how vulgar you looked.
Although he’s not sure how much more control he has. Not with the way that you wrapped your lips around his tip, your tongue swirling around him before taking the rest of him into your mouth. Your hands gripped his thighs, squeezing him once, then twice, as if asking Khaslana to look at you.
So he does.
“Fuck.” His hands make their way to your hair, gripping it hard, slightly thrusting into your mouth. He couldn’t help it, not with the way your innocent eyes looked up at him, his dick in your mouth, how you ran your tongue against him, how you used your hands to stroke whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth. If only you knew that he wasn’t who you thought he was.
Khaslana thanked the heavens for the type of stories you would pick up from the market to read. Otherwise, he would have thought that this wasn’t your first time.
You continue to move your head, hollowing your cheeks the best you can despite the ache in your jaw. But there was something about making him so flushed, his golden eyes darkening as you continued your movements, that just ignited a fire in your core. You needed him, craved him, wanted him. You needed him to come undone in your mouth, a warmth pooled in your core with that thought of him feeling hot and heavy and your mouth.
That is, until Khaslana pulled you off of him, panting with regret from not being able to finish in your mouth.
“I need to cum in you,” he murmured, his fingers swiping up and down your cunt, begging to be filled.
“My mouth is still me, no?” You asked cheekily, looking up at him your tongue darted out to lick his underside before he pushed you fully down and into the bed, flipping you over on your front, ass up, with your arms restricted behind you. An incoherent noise left your mouth, no doubt that this was making your pussy drip with want.
“Brat,” he said against your back, laying kisses where he could reach. “Who taught you how to be a brat, hmm?”
You cried underneath him, wiggling your ass towards him as if that was your response to the question. Khaslana could only groan at how wanton you looked. He wanted to tease you for longer, punish you. But he’ll have to save that for the next time Phainon leaves you for a few days.
Khaslana gave his member a stroke and then another before he lined it up with your entrance. As if teasing, he slightly pushed in, only to pull back out to swipe his tip along your folds. Even going as far as tapping his dick against your bud. You whined with need.
“Please don’t tease me,” you called out, trying to push back against him as best as you could in this position. Although this was your first time with him, with anyone, you couldn’t help but act like a brat. It’s as if you’ve been with him for a millennium, as if your body was made for him like a perfect mold.
“You drive me insane,” he replied, finally placing himself at your entrance, “let me know if it hurts, okay?” You nod your head in response. With that, he pushed in slowly. You let out a sigh, feeling how he filled you up, stretching you so well that you felt like he was about to split you in half. You wanted to sob at how good it felt for him to finally, finally, be inside you. He was right, you were able to take him, and you still wanted more, more.
And more he gave, even when you thought that Khaslana bottomed out, he still had more to give you. You whined, crying out in pleasure against the mattress below you. If you knew sex felt this good, you would have made him fuck you sooner.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he let go of your arms to move both of his hands to your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin back and forth. You moved your arms underneath you, pushing up ever so slightly against the mattress, your eyes flickering down to watch the sight of his last few inches entering you. Before you knew it, his hips met yours. Khaslana was so deep that you could swear you felt him in your stomach.
He couldn’t believe that he was able to take your first time again. Khaslana almost felt guilty.
Almost.
He took away Phainon’s chance to watch you unfold for the first time. But Khaslana was greedy. You made him greedy. He pressed one of his hands against your stomach, trying to find where he was on the other side. A gasp of pleasure left your mouth, your arms giving out with how full he was making you feel.
The two of you stayed still for a few moments, his hands moving to stroke your sides from your waist to your hip soothing you and giving you words of praise. Your cunt clenched every so often around him, trying to adjust to his size and Khaslana would squeeze your waist each time.
“You can move,” your voice muffled against the mattress.
Khaslana squeezed your hips, “What’s that?”
You huff, moving your face to the side to glare at him the best you can, his face full of mischief and so instead of asking him again, you took the initiative to grind yourself on his dick, moving your ass back. But his hands held you in a death grip as you tried to move.
“Don’t try to be cute, tell me what you want, my love.” He bent down to whisper, “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you have to ask loud and clear for me.”
You whimper from the feel of his breath against your ear. Your pussy clenched around his cock and he couldn't help but groan before sitting his head against your back, trying to restrain himself.
“Need you, please? Want your cum,” you cried out. His cock twitched at the sound of you begging for him to fill you. To reward you, he reached down to play with your clit, feeling your slick already seeping out of you. His other hand groped your breast, squeezing it and occasionally twisting or pulling lightly on your nipples.
“Now was that so hard?”
Khaslana pulled back, leaving only his tip in between your plush walls before thrusting deep into you. Your cry gets caught in your throat as you feel him rock his hips into yours, desperate to reach the deepest parts of you.
“Feels good,” you cry out, “so big, I can’t-”
“Yes, you can, you can take it.” Khaslana pinched your nipple, tugging on it, making you choke on your sounds of pleasure as your body began to get closer and closer to the edge once more. With his deep thrusts into your pussy, his other hand playing with your clit.
The room filled with his heavy panting, your scandalous moans, the lewd noises that your pussy makes each time Khaslana thrusts into you, he couldn’t help but grow more turned on. He stared down at your pretty little asshole, thinking about the time that he stretched that hole wide. But it's not like he could stop, oh no, he wouldn’t stop even if he could. Your cunt just kept coaxing him to stay, wanting him to fill you up until you couldn’t take it anymore.
And his dick, the girth of him stretching you out so deliciously, stimulating every part of you while still hitting that one part that had you gripping the sheets underneath you.
“Khas, ‘m close,” you moaned out, moving your hips in time with his to get him even deeper. Khaslana’s hips stuttered with how irresistible you looked beneath him. Your ass bouncing against him, the small hole puckering as if begging to be filled alongside your pussy. An angel asking to be ruined by the devil. Your supple skin giving way to his fingers as he gripped your waist, his fingers swiping back and forth on your clit with a precision you never would have expected from him for this being your first time together.
It wasn’t until your pussy clenched around him, pulsing, your mouth opening as a debauched moan filled the room. Your toes curling with the way he kept thrusting deep into that one spot you could never reach, with the way that his fingers toyed with your clit so meticulously, the knot finally untying itself in your stomach. Khaslana wasn’t too far behind in following suit, what with how your cute little cunt kept tightening around him, begging for him to fill you up deep.
He wanted to fill you up—needed to fill you up. Khaslana no longer just wanted to take your first time. He needed to pump you so full of his cum so that when Phainon of this cycle comes back to fuck you for the first time, he would have to ask you who was already here and you would only be able to say him in confusion.
Khaslana called out your name, the air filled with the scent of sex, the warmth of his seed filling you in so deeply and so fully that it threatened to spill out of you already. But it’s not like he was surprised how much cum he had. It had been too long since he last filled you; he still had so much more to give. He slowly pulled out of you, watching as his cum threatened to drip out before he swiped it up with his fingers to push it back in. You whined under him, trying to move away, but you couldn’t help but rock your hips back towards him.
He flopped down next to you, wanting to bask in the afterglow with you. You turned onto your side to admire your lover, your hand reaching up to caress his face with his blue eyes staring deep into yours. But your hand hesitated to rest on his face, your eyes widening as you looked behind your supposed lover. Khaslana felt an all-too-familiar presence in the room. His eyes flickered to gold, and before you knew it, what looked like an angel fallen from the heavens appeared in front of you and the space beside you was empty. His form he took up was different and yet all too familiar.
The presence in question had his sword raised in front of him, pointing at Khaslana. You sat up, stunned.
“Khaslana?” You called out, your eyes flickering back and forth between the man who just shared your first to another man whose blue ocean eyes were filled with betrayal and pain, but looked so much like Phainon, like your Phainon. The man in pain froze at the mention of his name—his real name.
Phainon was delighted to finish the expedition early with almost no bumps in the road. It meant he got to go back home to you and watch your eyes widen with surprise. Although there were times you would come on the expeditions with him, seeing as you too were a Chrysos Heir, just not one that was chosen to be a Titan in the next Era Nova. However, with Okhema having more and more attacks, you chose to stay back to help out if there was a need for it.
There was a small pep in his step as he headed to the baths, Mydei making sly comments at him and how it seemed everything he did was for you. But he wanted to clean himself up for you. He felt a bit guilty for denying each of your pursuits for something more intimate in the bedroom each time.
But there was a good reason for that! He swears. But coming to terms with it means that maybe he isn’t the hero that he dreamt of being since his time in Aedes Elysiae. Phainon so desperately wanted to keep you to himself. And if he opened himself up to you like that, take your first and give you his, he feared that he would want to keep you all to himself, shelter you from the world.
All he knew was loss, and he couldn’t lose you. Not now, not ever.
So how else was Phainon supposed to react to seeing you in bed with someone else, with their cum dripping out of you. What is he supposed to do when he sees that someone else looks exactly like him?
(Until he doesn’t and instead has golden eyes and lighter colored hair, but the man still is undeniably, although Phainon will try to deny it, him or some version thereof.)
Khaslana raised his weapon defensively in response to Phainon.
“Did you-” Phainon’s voice cracked “-why did you—”
“It’s not her fault.” Khaslana interrupted, his eyes flicking back towards you, your face filled with confusion. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you be on the other end of the blade.
Khaslana should have known better. Not every cycle can or will go exactly as it had in the past. His presence being here, he being in your bed very well could have been the butterfly effect to lead this cycle’s variation of him back to you.
You were their everything.
“If you don’t explain yourself quickly, consider this your final moment,” Phainon demanded, his sword piercing the skin against Khaslana’s neck, gold glimmering underneath.
Khaslana’s eyes flickered to yours, and an emotion that he could not describe was etched across your face. Confusion? Hurt? Betrayal?
Or was that a hint of want and need hiding underneath your eyes?
Phainon raised his sword in response, maneuvering Khaslana’s gaze to return to his.
Words would be too difficult for him, for even you to understand. But if the explanation came from Phainon, then maybe...
Khaslana took a step forward towards his other self. The blade against his neck pierced deeper, allowing for the golden blood to flow, proving himself as a Chrysos Heir. And so, despite the rage burning beneath Phainon’s eyes, the blade that he held with determination, he faltered.
Sudden memories flashed through his mind. Memories that he has yet to make and memories that he’s already made. Memories that he knows were in the past, and yet he never experienced them himself until now.
Then the memories of you flooded through.
Your laugh, your smile, your love, your warmth, and your tears and suffering.
In some cycles, after every demigod and Chrysos Heir fell from his hands, you were the last one to remain, the last to step up to see Era Nova succeed even if you weren’t part of the prophecy. Only for him to end the cycle there because he already succeeded in his mission. Never would he dream of a timeline where you were put to rest because of him.
Phainon’s eyes glimmered with pain and regret. But he can’t even blame the master of all cycles in front of him. He lowered his sword, letting it dissipate, to look over at you. Your hand gripping the blankets to cover yourself the best that you could, trying to make sense of what was in front of you.
Phainon walked over to you, settling down on the bed beside you, his hand rising up to meet your cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stroking your cheek. You let him, revelling in the warmth he gave you.
“What’s going on Phai?” Your eyes flickered to the angelic man in the room who wouldn’t dare look at you right now then back to Phainon.
“Do you trust me?” He asked. You nodded your head without any hesitation. If the man told you to jump, you would. Phainon, your Phainon began to explain everything. The endless recurrences, the Flame-Chase journey, how Era Nova could never be, Lygus’ true intentions...
Khaslana stood there, listening. He stayed to ensure that Phainon didn’t do anything to you. Not that he would, he knew Phainon wouldn’t (he was him), but Khaslana needed an excuse to stay by your side, if only a little longer.
Phainon watched you in silence. Your eyes flickering between the two of them, their presence ever so large, and then there was you, a Chrysos heir with no destiny. And here he was, Khaslana, who willingly took on the burden for the hope that the cycles would be broken. Then your Phainon, the man destined to be the Deliverer, and soon to take on the mantle of the many versions that came before him. You were nothing compared to the two of them.
Shame overwhelmed you, causing you to lower your head. Not only did you barely have a role to play in this story, but you felt a tinge of guilt; you couldn’t even give your first to him, even if they were the same person. And yet, there was still a heat that blossomed between your legs, knowing that the two of them stood in this room and wanted you just as bad as you wanted them.
As if sensing your dilemma, Phainon placed his finger underneath your chin to bring your gaze back up to his. The guilt you may be feeling is nothing comparable to the pain he’s put on you (and the others) in the countless cycles. He wouldn’t mind holding the pain for the two of you.
“Don’t worry, my love,” he placed his forehead against yours, “you were and always will be my first.” And maybe you weren’t his, you were still, and always will be his.
“That’s not-” you pulled away, your eyes meeting Khaslana for a beat, your legs subconsciously rubbing together as you tried to cover yourself up more “-I just...”
Silence entered the room, Phainon pursing his lips. All he wanted was for you to be happy, for you to lean on him whenever you could, even if you didn’t want to. He wanted to fulfill all of your wishes, your deepest and darkest desires. He wanted to be your confidant as much as you were to him.
You felt a dip on the bed behind you. Khaslana, still in his angelic form, rests behind you, his fingers dancing over your bare back, his breath against your neck, and his eyes met his counterpart in front of him.
“You could still take her first, she has another hole after all.”
A small, depraved whine left you that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but the two men in front of you watched your every breath during every moment he was with you.
Khaslana’s hand went up to your neck, giving you a new piece of jewelry that you’ve been wanting for a while now. He nibbled against your earlobe, his other hand softly grabbing the blanket you’ve been using to cover up to reveal your bare body to the man in front of him.
Phainon clenched his hands in his lap. His eyes lingered on your glistening pussy, the cum leaking out practically asking him to stuff it back in. With slightly shaking hands, Phainon placed his hands on the insides of your thighs, slowly pushing your legs up towards you. He glanced up, your face flushed with your hands resting above your breasts, your eyes filled with need, begging for him to touch you.
If this were your desire, then he would fulfill it.
He lowered his head close to your warmth, his tongue darting out with slight hesitation between your folds, groaning at the taste of his cum and your pussy mixed together. The hesitation dissipated, his hands gripping your thighs, pushing them harder to expose more of you. Phainon flattened his tongue against you, tasting your sweetness mixed with Khaslana’s with each stroke before he would settle his tongue against your sensitive bud to tease you then back down your slit, repeating those actions over and over just to hear your melody fill up the room.
Khaslana moved his hands to your breasts, groping them as he had earlier, playing with your perky nipples, teasing them before pinching them hard, surprising you, making you need to hold onto something to ground yourself. He hummed, watching your brows furrow at the stimulation. The squelching sounds were music to his ears to the scene unfolding in front of him.
Phainon’s eyes looked up at you when he felt your hands tug his hair. His dick hardened, if it could anymore, from the sight of you; lips parted, eyes shut, your hands on him, and your hips grinding against his mouth as if there was no tomorrow. He couldn’t believe that he got to see you so debauched, so desperate for him.
God, he wanted you. Needed you. He craved for you every moment he was away. Phainon couldn’t believe that he would stop himself from giving in to your advances. He grinded into the bed for some friction, tongue as deep in your hole as possible, trying to reach all the parts of you as he could. He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations flooding through you.
You threw your head back with a deep sigh at the feeling of falling apart on his lips, your juices spilling out onto Phainon’s face and the mattress below the three of you. Khaslana took this chance to cup your face, bringing your lips to his, devouring you as if this was his last. You parted your mouth, desperate to feel his tongue roll over yours.
All of your senses felt overwhelming but you had to admit, you were filthy for wanting both of them. You couldn’t help but love the way they were both possessive over you, wanting to protect you, wanting to fill you.
It was only fair to make them both take you.
Khaslana was the first to pull away, his golden eyes couldn’t decide where to settle; your eyes or your swollen lips panting as you came down from the high. But he settled for your lips when your gaze moved towards Phainon.
Phainon sat up, his tongue licking his lips to savor every last drop you gave him. His eyes filled with lust as he stared deep into your soul. As if he were searching for your deepest and darkest desires so that only he could fulfill them.
“Phai,” you reached out to him, your grabby hands that you would always do when you wanted to kiss him. So he did, with a gentle caress on your neck, he kissed you. But upon hearing his nickname, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of want.
He felt guilty, ashamed even, to want to be called by his given name. After all, it had taken him endless cycles to open up to you, if Khaslana is any show for that. So for now, he’ll be satisfied with this, with the nickname he’s been given by you all this time.
Hands, Khaslana’s, roamed down your side, lifting you up ever so slightly to spread your cheeks. Although he had his time with you earlier, he still desperately craved your attention. His two fingers dipped into your heated core, covering himself with your slick before he moved them back, now prodding at your untouched hole.
You squealed, breaking apart from Phainon’s kisses, “W-wait!”
Khaslana paused.
“I-” you blushed, staring down. Unable to let the words out of your mouth you turned yourself around, exposing your bare ass to Phainon. Your hands held onto Khaslana’s shoulders for support while looking back at Phainon with heavy-lidded eyes, coaxing him into taking your puckered hole.
Mesmerized, Phainon groped each one of your cheeks with his hands. Squeezing them, letting his hands run over your plush skin. God, how he wished he took you sooner. His eyes flickered up to you, Khaslana taking care of your need to have your lips on his, his hands kneading your breasts. He never thought that he’d ever be jealous of himself and yet here he was.
Phainon slid his fingers into your cunt, listening to your muffled moans that made his pants feel ever so tighter. But right now, he wanted to focus on you.
He took out his fingers, watching how much you dripped with need, with the mixture of yours and Khaslana’s fluids webbed his fingers.
With one hand on your cheek, Phainon lightly circled the rim of your little asshole. Your hips cant backwards, desperate for more. And who was he to deny you of your wishes? He pushed his finger in, the mixed fluids on his fingers helping aid his mission to stretch you out.
He gently moves his finger inside of you, allowing you to get used to the feeling before he adds in another. You toss your head back, reveling in the new and foreign feeling, yet not opposing it either. Khaslana begins his onslaught on your already marked neck, licking, biting, kissing every part of your skin that he could reach.
Phainon shuddered at how tight your asshole was, you were already clenching around his fingers. He was desperate to feel you around his cock, clenching, sucking him in with every thrust.
A third finger entered the fray, your melodic noises with a slight crescendo. Phainon prodded at your walls, stretching you further, thrusting his fingers every so often for you to get used to the intrusion. The sound of your slick lubricating your asshole with every thrust of his finger rang through the room.
“Ph-phai! I-mmph!” Phainon stuck his other two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, continuing his motions in your asshole, hitting that one spot that made you see stars from this hole.
Your pussy clenched at his aggressive actions, the build up in your core growing faster, the knot wanting to become undone. It didn’t help how Khaslana in his angelic form (which seemed so debauched with the current scene before you if you thought about it [you didn’t]) suckled at your breast, his tongue flicking back and forth over your perky nub, only ever letting go to give your other one the same amount of attention. Then there was the feeling of Khaslana’s already hardened dick resting against your stomach.
Phainon whispered your name into your ear, “You can take this, I know you can.” His words mirror the same sentiment as Khaslana’s from earlier. His perpetual motions, the empty feeling of your pussy but your asshole being filled and his continued words of praise pushed you over the edge.
Your cunt clenched around nothing and Phainon groaned deep into your ear with the feeling of your rim squeezing his fingers, wishing it was his cock in you instead.
“Never thought you’d be able to cum with just fingers in your cute little asshole,” Khaslana chuckled. Phainon agreed silently, but he had yet to gain the confidence to say something as lewd as that out loud. He felt that he was already delving into his dark desires with his rough handling of you earlier. (He almost forgot that although this was his first time with you it wasn’t his first time with you).
His fingers slipped out of you, allowing him to watch your gaping hole clench and unclench.
With a sigh, Phainon moved off the bed, shedding off only the heavy armor, too desperate to feel you to take off anything else. He unbuckled his pants, pushing it down just enough to pull himself out. Your breath hitched, staring at how his cock was practically purple with how hard he was, precum drooling from his tip. Although him and Khaslana were the same size (duh), you couldn’t help but feel a bit weary with his cock deep in your asshole. You already felt like you were splitting apart earlier.
Khaslana teased his dick at your entrance and squeezed your waist with his free hand, forcing your attention back to him and taking you out of your thoughts.
“Come on now,” he murmured against your lips, “pay attention to me.”
You whimpered at his demand, your hands finding hold in his longer and fluffier golden hair. The bed dipped behind you, Phainon’s hands on your hips, his dick poking at your other entrance.
Your eyes widened, looking back, “Wa-wait! At the same time?”
Both of them laughed, squeezing and stroking the parts of you that they held onto. Their eyes met with each other and although they hated having to share you, their need to watch you fall apart was greater.
“Remember?” Khaslana spoke first.
“You can take it, you can take both of us,” Phainon finished. Butterflies churned in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if it was excitement or fear. Maybe both. You could barely handle Khaslana fucking your cunt, but your little ass too, at the same time?
You didn’t feel confident that you could satisfy both of them.
“It’ll be okay,” Phainon kissed the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your hip. He felt like he was torturing himself, holding back until he knew your nerves were gone.
There was a small beat before you nodded your head, you turned to look at Phainon and reached back to pull him down for a kiss. Your lips parted to let him in. Khaslana took this as the chance to pull you down onto his cock. He let out a visceral groan at how wet you were, how much you were dripping, and just how tight you were even after all of this preparation.
Phainon broke the kiss first, much to his distaste, but he wanted to watch your bodies join together as one. This time, Khaslana roughly pulled you in for a kiss, his dick already deep inside you. Phainon was surprised at his patience, Khaslana was waiting for him to enter before he started moving.
Phainon used his hand to guide himself into your hole, with the preparation and all the slick from before, he entered easily enough.
“Ah, fuck,” he moaned out, your asshole swallowing him. He also felt Khaslana’s dick on the other side of your thin walls separating the two of you. Slowly, he pushed in, your warmth, all of you, surrounding him bit by bit. Phainon was mesmerized at the sight of his dick disappearing deep into you, shocked that all of those dreams became a reality.
Your hand reached back to rest on his hip, your hand grasping at his pants, making him pause as he was worried he was going too fast. But when he stopped, you pulled your lips away from Khaslana’s.
“N-No,” you breathed out, staring back at him with only lust in your eyes, “Don’t stop. More. Wan’ more.” You tugged on his pants, pulling him deeper into you.
You were going to be the death of him.
“Just a little more.” Lie. He still had a little over half of his dick left to go. A little faster, he pushed in, feeling the tightness and feeling Khaslana’s cock twitch on the other side. Phainon knew that Khaslana was barely hanging on, wanting to fuck up into you. In a few more moments, his hips were pressed up against your ass.
All three of you let out a sigh of relief; finally Phainon took your first, Khaslana could breathe as he was fearful he would cum then and there with all the friction, and you--you were filled so, so, so full to the brim. You didn’t know where you started and ended anymore. All you knew was that you needed to be defiled, used, fucked, and filled.
No longer did you care about the Flame-Chase Journey, this was where you were supposed to be. Sandwiched by your boyfriend and his other variant, their cocks deep inside of you, stretching you out.
You don’t think you could ever go back to fucking yourself with the toy that Aglaea got you. But you suppose you don’t need the toy anymore if you could keep both of them here.
Phainon thrust into you first, testing the waters after letting you adjust to the two of them, your eyes rolled back into your head, already feeling overstimulated. Khaslana hissed at the feeling of you tightening and Phainon’s dick separated by the thin wall. He began to fuck into you as well.
You moaned with each of their thrusts, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes, entirely overwhelmed by all the stimulation. Phainon wrapped his arms around your torso, keeping you close to him with Khaslana holding your hips, thrusting himself up into you.
The squelch of your pussy and your ass joining with your melody as the harmonic accompaniment. This moment slowly searing itself into your mind, your mouth agape, one of your hands barely hanging onto Phainon’s arms with your other resting on Khaslana’s abdomen, his taut muscles underneath your fingertips. You were so full and you just desperately wanted to be filled with their cum. If you had any of your sanity left, you’d feel guilty for wanting more.
“ ‘S too much,” you cried out, tears trailing down your cheeks. Phainon kissed your neck, his grip on your entire body tightening.
“If it’s too much, why are your holes sucking us back in?” Phainon asked, voice hoarse. You couldn’t answer, no, not with the way Khaslana reached for your sensitive bud, rubbing it with his thumb to continue to stimulate you.
You wanted to push them away; you felt like you were going to meet Thanatos’ Hand if they kept this up. Your eyes rolled back, gasping when Phainon bit down on your shoulder, groaning into you as he kept fucking deep into you at the same pace as Khaslana.
Khaslana sang you praises, his dick kissing your cervix nice and deep. Describing you as a beautiful whore, begging and crying for their cocks. And... he wasn’t wrong. You loved this, you loved being spoiled by them, feeling them fucking into you at the same pace, only ever feeling slightly empty for moments not too long.
You have to bite back a moan, the tight knot threatening to unravel once more as they continue to abuse your insides. The pressure in your abdomen built up, a familiar and yet foreign feeling appeared.
“ ‘M close, Phai, Khas,” you cried out, your hips lightly rocking back and forth as you tried to help them fuck into you. “Feels good, ‘m so full.”
“Come on, my love,” Phainon grunted, feeling his climax approaching. “You’re being such a good girl for us.”
You were, you were such a good girl taking their cocks like it was nothing. Letting Khaslana play with your little bud. You’d be such a good girl that you’d let them do this every day if they wanted to. The thought of them doing this every day alongside both Phainon and Khaslana, filling you up.
Khaslana moaned out your name, cumming deep into you, his thrusts growing more shallow. Feeling his warm seed filling you up once more with his thumb rolling over your clit pushed you over the edge and then some. The foreign feeling you felt earlier suddenly disappeared as clear liquid escaped you, spilling over Khaslana’s abdomen, making the man groan with desire over the debauched scene that unfolded in front of him. Your pussy spasming around his cock, milking him for every last drop.
Phainon followed soon after, thick ropes of his seed filling your hole, deep groans escaped his mouth into your ear and your asshole clenched around his dick like it did to his fingers earlier.
You whined at the feeling of both of their cum filling deep inside of you painting your walls, your high slowly fading away. But one different thing different to when Khaslana fucked you for the first time, their dicks weren’t softening.
Khaslana grabbed onto your hips, his eyes locking with Phainons.
“Think she can take one more?” He asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Phainon’s eyes darkened, his grip on you loosening before pushing you down on top of Khaslana, your eyes widened. “Of course she can.”
“Wa-wait!” You straightened your arms to try to get up and off of Khaslana
Khaslana grabbed hold of your hips, thrusting up into you, “You can keep going, you’re a good girl for us, right?”
Your eyes rolled back, your entire body falling down on top of Khaslana, your arms no longer had the strength to hold you up. You felt so, so overstimulated but it felt so, so good with their cum filling you up, dripping out of you and their cocks in both of your holes. You’re so sure that they’ve ruined you. They created you to be their perfect mold so that no one else could ever make you cum in the way only they can. You’re almost scared that you wouldn’t be able to cum without the two of them.
A whine escaped your mouth when Phainon pulled out of you, but the feeling of his cum dripping out of your ass made you squeal with delight. With furrowed brows, Phainon couldn’t help but wish his cum was in your pussy instead (though, don’t get him wrong, he loved watching your gaped asshole spill out his cum every so often). He wanted to fill you up. He wanted you to come to him the next day out of fear that it was his cum that was the reason your period was late.
Phainon so desperately needed to breed you until it was certain that it was only going to be his cum dripping down your thighs.
At this point, Khaslana slowed down, waiting for Phainon to join because, as much as he’d hate to admit, he wouldn’t be able to ruin you without him. His eyes widened with shock when he felt Phainon line himself up at the entrance of your pussy. But then again, he’d do the same thing.
An incoherent noise left your mouth, but at this point, you didn’t care. Your hips rocked back and forth on Khaslana’s dick, wanting more friction. You cried for Phainon to hurry up and hurry up he did.
You didn’t know if you should be thankful or if you should be ruined. Or both.
This time, the stretch felt different but still so deliciously pleasurable. Phainon pushed his cock into your pussy with Khaslana’s already so deep inside. There was little to no resistance and the three of you weren’t even the slightest bit surprised. Not with how much of your slick spilled out mixed with Khaslana’s two loads of cum already inside.
You don’t know how much you could take but you wanted to keep going, needed to keep going. And when Phainon finally filled you with Khaslana holding his breath, you’re the one who began rocking your hips back and forth.
“Fuck.” You’re not sure who says your name this time, or maybe it’s both. Not when the tingling sensation began to build up in your abdomen once more. You wanted to chase the high again. You wanted to feel them pump you full of your cum to the point that you’d still feel their cum dripping out of your cunt, down your leg a few days from now.
Although your asshole felt empty this time, your pussy was stretched out beyond belief, your cervix being bullied beyond relief. You almost wished there was a way for a third to fill up your asshole (maybe one of your toys?).
Phainon and Khaslana begin fucking into you, their cocks hitting your deepest parts, the sound of flesh against flesh filling the room once more. The squelching noise was louder than before. Your moaning motivated the men to keep driving into you even as they continued to work up a sweat.
“Doing so good for us, sweetheart,” Khaslana murmured into your ears. “You’re still so tight for us.” He felt your cunt clench at the soft nothings, Phainon’s groans following not a beat later.
“Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” Phainon cried out. “Both of your holes feel so good.”
“Jus’ for you,” you slurred out, wanting to please them but you barely had any energy to say anything else, too sensitive for anything more.
“Should feel her mouth next time,” Khaslana smirked up at him, knowing that was the last hole he had yet to experience.
“Only if you feel her asshole,” Phainon quipped back. If you were coherent still, you would have slapped the two of them for fighting over your holes, but you were so lost in the pleasure that you couldn’t comprehend anything else.
This time, Phainon reached down between your and Khaslana’s body, finding your clit and rubbing it. You cried, your legs squeezing Khaslana’s hips, your hands clenched as you buried your face into Khaslana’s neck, his hands on your waist as if grounding you into this moment.
“Gon’ cum ‘gain,” you whined, the high approaching you again. Your cunt squeezed them tighter and tighter before your release finally broke free. Your entire body shook with relief.
Phainon and Khaslana kept fucking into you, letting you ride out the high but it wasn’t until he came faster than he expected, his cock twitching in you with each spurt painting your walls white. Khaslana wasn’t too far behind, and though this was his third time cumming today, he still had more to spill into you (he could honestly keep going if you asked).
Their cocks began to soften, your body relaxing from the high. You whined at the loss when Phainon pulled out, and Khaslana followed suit. The cum already dripping out of your pussy and Phainon watched before scooping it with his fingers before sliding it back into your pussy.
“Let's get you cleaned up,” Phainon spoke softly, getting off the bed. Khaslana nudged you with his nose, breathing in your scent deeply.
You let out a tired groan, flopping over and off Khaslana’s chest. “Tired.”
Phainon laughed, scooping you up into his arms, about to move you towards your private bath, when you patted his arm to stop.
Khaslana sat up, his wings sunken, not flying high like they had earlier when the two men had a stand-off. His face was crestfallen as he realized he would have to leave and leave the two of you be.
“Khas,” you reached your hand out to the master of all cycles, “come join us while you have the chance.”
Admittedly, Phainon was a bit jealous, but he couldn’t lie... He enjoyed the fact that, despite everything he told you and everything he had done (since Phainon would soon replace him for the next iteration), you still loved him.
You still chose him.
You still cared for him.
Even in his darkest hour, when he hated himself for not saving his hometown, not saving Cyrene, you chose to love him. So he too chose to love himself if it meant keeping you in his life and if it meant being able to continuously put one foot forward in front of the other.
“You’ll have to go back to collecting the Coreflames, and I’ll meet you on the battlefield then,” Phainon called out. “Come, join us. Relax for a bit. I’ll be taking up your mantle soon enough.”
Khaslana gritted his hands. He knew what was going to happen, what had to be done. But if this could be his moment of solace, then just this once, he’ll enjoy himself. He got up from the bed. Phainon nodded at him before turning back to walk towards the baths.
You wrapped your arms around Phainon to pull yourself just enough to look back at Khaslana before saying, “Your wings are pretty, I like them.”
Khaslana smiled, knowing that this was his answer to his turmoil from earlier. That despite all the sins he’s committed, the worlds he’s burned just for the chance for the next to survive, you still chose him.
do NOT stick anything into your pussy after it was in your asshole, thank you
this man singlehandedly brought me back from the dead! this is very shameless.
no feeding my works to gen ai training! thanks :^)
Wc: 21.8k+ (woops)
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji).
Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!
CHAPTER I
You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul.
But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.
You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner.
Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?
You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here.
It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.
Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide.
Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.
“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”
Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light.
From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones.
The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.
When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine.
It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure.
“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.
That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders.
You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.
You tried. You really did.
Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come.
But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.
Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity.
Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols.
You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind.
You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.
You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Then, light emerged from below you.
A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred.
You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.
The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.
There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.
You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.
That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats.
Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered.
You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”
You weren’t sure if you believed it.
As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.
When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.
The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.
The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.
“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.”
You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here.
You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.
You even tried to make yourself look pretty.
You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?
Right?
You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?
You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?
You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.
Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.
Minutes passed.
Then hours,
The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.
Still, he did not come.
You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you.
When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.
Was it supposed to be like this?
You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.
But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest.
Were you not worthy of his presence?
Had you done something wrong?
A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.
Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?
Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.
After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.
The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”
That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”
You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice.
The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.
You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.
Hesitantly, you spoke.
“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued.
“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.
“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”
You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.
Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.
Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.
You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls.
Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.
Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside.
The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.
It had been a long time since you’d last visited.
You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.
You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.
But it wasn’t the same.
The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.
You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.
You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.
You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?
You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.
You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.
You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night.
You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom.
A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.
Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.
Has he… abandoned me?
You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.
CHAPTER II
You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.
The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.
You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now.
So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.
“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…”
The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.
The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.
As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.
As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.
“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”
Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea.
Your footsteps slowed to a halt.
You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air.
You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.
But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.
For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances.
It wasn’t worth it.
Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.
What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?
Your heart skipped.
Could you even do that?
It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore.
You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.
Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take.
With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
This temple was built like a damn fortress!
Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest.
Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple.
You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.
When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.
They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed.
After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching.
But then you saw it.
Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned.
It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something.
Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.
If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.
You would need luck. Even divine intervention.
The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?
You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?
You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god.
You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.
But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.
Or straight into a trap.
You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face.
Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.
You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.
It was almost suspicious, even.
You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.
With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.
Now.
You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.
You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.
For the first time in months, you felt free.
The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded.
Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration.
You were finally here.
You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.
Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.
“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”
Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”
You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”
She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”
“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.
Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”
“Of course,” you said with a grin.
Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.
The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.
He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.
“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.
“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.
You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.
“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.
He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”
“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.
His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.
Your bag. A rustle.
You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.
“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.
You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.
A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.
“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”
He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.
The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.
You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.
He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.
Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”
You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…
You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.
You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”
He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”
“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.
He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”
The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.
You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.
Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.
“Thank you, pretty lady.”
You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.
The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.
Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.
You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”
He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”
You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”
You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.
Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”
Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”
Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.
You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”
Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”
Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”
You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”
She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”
You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.
“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”
She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”
You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind.
“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”
You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”
He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”
Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.
“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.
You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”
“...Alright.”
The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face.
Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.
You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”
An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.
“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”
“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.
“I never told you my name, did I—?”
But he was gone.
The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.
Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.
Maybe you would see him again.
CHAPTER III
Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.
You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.
That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.
…Were those snores?
Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?
But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through.
There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.
Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it?
You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.
They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.
You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.
The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps.
Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!
For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber.
You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.
Sleep came quickly that night.
The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.
You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder.
“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced.
You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed.
You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.
The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.
“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”
Your breath caught. Then you blinked.
What.
“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”
“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”
You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.
“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”
Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”
The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”
You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”
“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”
Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.
“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”
You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.
“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked.
You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.
“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.
Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!
“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied.
He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”
You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.
You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”
“Yes?”
You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”
He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”
The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”
You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…
Why won’t he speak to me?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it.
You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue.
Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.
You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.
“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile.
He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades.
The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled.
And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.
You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.
“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”
Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.
“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”
You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.
Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.
“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.
You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.
Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.
You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.
Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.
You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.”
Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”
You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.
Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it.
You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.
And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…
But guilt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.
The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.
Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.
Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.
Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.
Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.
If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned.
Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.
When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf.
You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—
“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”
You froze.
“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.
“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”
“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”
Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others.
Just… before you came.
You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”
“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.
He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”
You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”
The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”
You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more.
You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.
Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.
You ran.
You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.
You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.
Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs.
You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone.
The months of hoping for something — anything.
“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”
She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”
Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”
You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”
“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”
“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”
You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you.
“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”
You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.
Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar.
But eventually, the moment had to end.
You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.
“I love you, too, mother.”
You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now.
You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.
“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance.
You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.
You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.
CHAPTER IV
The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.
The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his.
Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened.
With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.
Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.
His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.
“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began.
The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.
“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”
Ah. That exchange..
“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.
“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”
Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered.
“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”
The Archbishop remained silent.
“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”
“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.
“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The wedding day arrived.
Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.
You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.
And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.
Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.
He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon.
As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed.
As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.
His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?
He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?
That was his first mistake.
“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”
Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”
A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”
Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.
And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed.
That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below.
On you.
There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.
Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious.
Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.
Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.
He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves.
“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.
“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.
Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”
He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”
His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea.
“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”
Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”
He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”
She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps.
He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone.
He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.
He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.
You were… fragile.
He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?
He withdrew.
Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.
He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised.
And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.
He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.
It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection.
You began to whisper your loneliness.
At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.
But then, he noticed something… odd.
Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.
Suspicious. Curious. Restless.
Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.
And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost.
Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.
Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.
Then came the night of your escape.
Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.
With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.
There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.
But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.
Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.
He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.
“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.
Then you looked at him expectantly.
Oh. You were waiting for a name.
He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.
Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.
He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—
“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”
He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”
“Then I'll insist.”
There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?
So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.
His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.
Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.
“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.
Your cheeks turned crimson.
Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.
He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.
He wanted more of that.
But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family.
After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.
But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks.
“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”
His brows knit together. Him? Strict?
“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.
You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.
“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”
Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.
“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.
“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
The words landed like a stone in his stomach.
When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.
The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.
He owed you that much, at the very least.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.
You had begun to bloom.
Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar.
You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.
It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.
Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.
Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.
What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?
But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.
He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.
You still remembered him.
Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.
After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.
It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.
Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.
He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.
And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.
You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.
You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.
You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared.
He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain.
To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.
But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.
A stranger.
That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?
No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.
When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.
When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.
He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.
The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.
Until he heard your sobs.
At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.
Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.
It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable.
Then, loud sobbing.
Phainon stilled.
His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.
“What's the matter—?”
But Phainon was already gone.
He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.
“I hate him!”
He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.
“I hate him.”
No.
No, no, that can’t be right.
He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.
Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”
The air around him cracked.
“I hate him!”
His heart stuttered.
“I hate him!”
Stop... please—
“He left me!”
No. No. I’m right here–!
“I don’t want to go back!”
That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.
I hate him.
He left me.
I don’t want to go back.
He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.
The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.
Why?
Why did you feel this way?
He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.
So why did you hate him?
He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.
Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.
The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.
It was all because of him.
Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.
And he didn’t understand.
Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.
This... this was heartbreak.
Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.
“You hate… me…” he whispered.
You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.
He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.
Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations.
High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.
But this one had become… excessive.
Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge.
A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.
Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.
She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Without another word, she vanished from her realm.
In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way.
And there he was.
At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.
Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.
No response.
She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”
Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.
Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”
Still silence.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.
“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”
At last, his jaw shifted.
“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.
“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”
She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below.
“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”
Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.
“She said she hated me.”
Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”
“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”
“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”
His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.
“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”
“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”
“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.
Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.
“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”
Khaslana looked away.
“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”
Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”
The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling.
“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.
“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”
“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”
“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”
Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”
Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”
He was quiet. Then, softly:
“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”
His claws curled against his palm.
“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”
Aglaea was silent for a long breath.
Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”
Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.
“She hates me.”
“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.
He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”
But Aglaea only stepped closer.
“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”
And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed.
For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day.
You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal.
Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening.
Then came a knock at your door.
You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed.
“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.
You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.
“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him.
He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence.
He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled.
“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”
Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders.
“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.
The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”
You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.
“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”
His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”
You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”
The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his.
“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it.
You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”
He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said.
Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.
You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him?
You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger.
You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was useless.
No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.
How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!
You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach.
You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates.
The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you.
Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky. The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step.
But you pushed through it anyway.
Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.
By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier.
“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came.
The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.
“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”
Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.
“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.
“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.
“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster.
A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.
A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.
He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.
Radiant and terrifying.
Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.
His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.
You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.
You dared a glance upward.
He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.
With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.
“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”
Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.
“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,
The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out.
“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”
Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”
“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”
Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.
“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”
“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”
And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.
Phainon stood before you.
You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”
He frowned, looking away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”
“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”
“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”
“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”
“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.
“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”
His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”
Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.
You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”
You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”
Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.
“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”
Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.
It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.
Then another fell. And another.
You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.
His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared.
You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke.
“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”
A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.
His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield.
“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”
“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours.
“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”
His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”
Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”
“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.
“I see…” You murmured.
Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”
You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”
Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.
Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”
Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.
He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake?
But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.
You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”
His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.
When he looked up, he smiled.
“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.
You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”
CHAPTER V
When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.
You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.
“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”
And with that, he vanished.
Just like that.
You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.
No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.
Still…
You sneezed again—sharper this time.
You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers.
Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.
Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.
You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.
Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.
After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed.
“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”
His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”
Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”
And so you talked. For hours.
The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.
Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then.
You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.
In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.
Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun.
He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.
He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.
Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”
There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.
Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.
Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual.
Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”
His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.
You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.
You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.
“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.
Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.
“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”
“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”
Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest.
You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”
His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”
You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”
He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.
He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.
“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.
“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”
He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.
Phainon froze.
He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”
He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.
“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.
Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.
“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.
So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter.
You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.
He chuckled.
You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.
“My turn.”
In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.
You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.
His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again.
You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was different now.
Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.
Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear.
He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.
Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.
And then, he bites.
It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended.
But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.
“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.
“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.
He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, It’s—”
“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.
“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”
For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.
“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”
In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.
Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath.
There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.
Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.
He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.
You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.
Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.
Phainon noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.
You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”
His frown deepened. “Why?”
You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”
Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.
“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained.
Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.
He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you.
“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.
“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.
You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…”
“More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer.
“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.
Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you.
“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.
“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.
“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions.
He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head.
“Okay… you can go a little faster.”
With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.
You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.
But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure.
With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.
As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.
“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.
You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.
You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.
He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.
Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.
Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before.
As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.
Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.
You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”
His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.
With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you.
His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.
But not this morning.
This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.
You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.
Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.
And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.
His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.
Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.
“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.
You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation.
The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen.
You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
But... It was all worth it.
Notes: Hey, so uh, if you see this first, I recommend you read this fic before this one, otherwise it won't make sense hehe. With this, To Love The Burning Sun has come to a close. Please look forward to my future projects (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
Side Story I
“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” Arielle whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves. She kept glancing nervously over her shoulder, eyes locked on the grand doors of the temple’s main prayer hall—the very room the three of you were supposed to be kneeling in, chanting verses.
“Don’t worry about it~” Fortuna said with a dismissive wave, flipping her braid over one shoulder. “We’ve done this a hundred times.” She jerked her chin toward you and the tree.
You stood at the base of the old fig tree, squinting up into its thick tangle of branches. Your fingertips brushed the bark, testing for the dampness.
Good grip, you thought as you gave a satisfied nod. “Alright, just like before. Follow my lead.”
Without another word, you hoisted yourself up, sandals scraping against the bark and trunk pressing into your palms. The muscle memory guided you as you put your left foot on the knot and your right hand on the branch just above you. You have to admit it didn’t look elegant, but hey, it worked.
“I-I really think we should head back,” Arielle said, wringing her hands at the base of the tree. She looked as if she’d rather face the head priestess than climb a tree.
“If you’d rather spend the entire Lucid Hour rewriting verses we’ve all memorized since we were ten, then, by all means,” You said, not even glancing down as you climbed higher. “But I’m going to see what Okhema has to offer today.”
Fortuna snorted with laughter and grabbed a low branch, pulling herself up with ease. “Come on, Elle. You can’t live in fear forever.”
You reached the branch that jutted over the temple wall and inched across it, balancing carefully as the leaves brushed your face. With practiced motion, you swung your legs over the edge, perched like the birds you often see.
“See you on the other side,” you whispered to them and jumped.
You landed on the grassy slope with a soft thud. A pulse of victory surged through you as you turned and threw a grin up to your friends. “Easy!”
Fortuna followed with a fluid leap, landing with the grace of someone who was clearly enjoying the rebellion a little too much. She brushed off her hands and turned around t look at Arielle.
Meanwhile, the girl had just managed to crawl to the top of the wall. She sat there frozen, hands gripping the edge of the wall as she looked down with wide eyes.
“Come on!” You called up, hands cupped around your mouth. “You’re not going to die!”
“I’m not so sure,” Arielle muttered.
After a lot of coaxing and a little peer pressure, she slid off the edge with a squeal that made a few birds fly from the nearby trees. She landed in a clumsy heap, dress tangled around her knees. Her face was bright red as she stood and attempted to dust herself off with whatever dignity she could salvage.
“See? You survived!” Fortuna grinned.
“Barely,” you added with a snicker, patting Arielle’s shoulder as she groaned. “Let’s go. The market’s waiting!”
“What about your dad? What if he finds out?” Fortuna asked.
“My mom visited yesterday and told me to pray for him during his travels to Akashic. He won’t be back for a while.” You shrugged.
As you led them down the winding footpath away from the temple, the city of Okhema opened before you. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, bursting with the colors of fruits, silk, painted trinkets, and books with cracked spines and questionable titles. The sweet and savory smell of food filled your nostrils. Children ran between carts, laughing.
You sighed, breathing in the air.
The three of you browsed and bartered, your pockets nearly empty but your curiosity overflowing. You spent your last few coins on skewers and sizzling meat. You pointed to a quiet corner near the fountain, and the others followed as you sat and enjoyed your hard-won lunch.
Just as you raised your skewer to your lips, a familiar sound froze you in place. A sharp clearing of the throat.
You turned, stomach dropping to the nether realm.
Your father stood there in his full military uniform, arms crossed, brow raised in a way that could silence a battlefield. His presence casts a shadow bigger than the temple walls themselves.
Fortuna’s smile vanished, and Arielle’s soul was probably already turning herself in to Lady Castorice in the nether realm by how pale she turned.
“What a surprise,” your father said dryly, voice flat with disapproval. “Didn’t realize temple training involved grilled meat and street musicians.”
“We were just — um — there was— I—” You tried,
Your father didn’t even blink. “All three of you. Back to the temple. Now.”
The walk back felt longer than your journey out. Heads ducked, feet dragging, you followed him like prisoners returning to their sentence. You glanced at Arielle and Fortuna. All three of you wore the same expression of dread and resignation.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Wow,” Phainon murmured, resting his head lazily on the pillow beside you. “Didn’t take you for a troublemaker, with how obedient and polite you acted when you first came here.” his chuckle was soft, almost amused, his eyes half-lidded with post-bliss after another intimate session.
You snorted, your cheek pressed against the plush pillow as your body sank deeper into the mattress, your bare skin still warm beneath the blankets you both now shared.
“Yeah, well… I learned my lesson. After that last escapade, the temple enforced stricter rules just for me. And my father? He made sure I got my fair share of punishment.” You exhaled through your nose, the memory still vivid enough to make you wince.
“My rebelling teenage days were cut short; the ‘Elusive Priestess’ was no more.” You dramatically cried.
Phainon sighed, “I don’t think that’s something you should be boasting about… especially to me,” he commented.
“Don’t worry. Just because I used to sneak out of prayers doesn’t mean I forgot my devotion to you. All those stories they told about how brave and loving you were… they really did something to me.” You smiled wistfully, eyes distant with the memory of the Khaslana you once imagined.
Though, to be fair, there were times when it felt like you’d been coerced into loving him. By putting you in that temple, learning those prayers, lessons, and praises sung in his name… it had felt less like love and more like obligation.
But the man before you now was everything you had once dared to hope for. Kind, flawed, warm. You hadn’t been wrong about him. The path to get here had just been… a little rougher than expected.
Phainon shifted beside you, turning to his side, his bare chest in full view, his white hair slightly tousled as he rested his head on his hand.
“But wait,” He said, narrowing his eyes as the thought struck him, “Didn’t you say your father was supposed to be on a campaign? How was he even in the city that day?”
You smiled faintly.
“Funny you ask that. He actually said something weird at the time — he swore in your name, mind you — that a mountain had suddenly appeared where there wasn’t one before. He and his men had taken that road dozens of times, and it had always been flat. The maps didn’t show any mountains nearby either. He had to turn around and rethink the entire route.”
You laughed quietly to yourself at the memory. Your father’s face was twisted in frustration, gripping a map in one hand and cursing the magically-appearing-mountain under his breath.
But Phainon didn’t laugh.
You turned your head, “Phainon?”
He was quiet, his expression blank for a moment before he blinked, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “Where exactly did you say your father was going again?”
“Akashic…” you replied slowly, narrowing your eyes.
Phainon let out a soft laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh dear,” he muttered under his breath, then looked at you again. “Okay, this is going to sound… bad, but do you know Mydeimos, the God of Strife?”
You nodded, “Yeah…”
“So… we sort of had this wager a while back. He claimed I couldn’t move one of Georios’ immovable mountains in a day. He said that if I failed, he’d get to rule Okhema for a full year.”
You stared at him, “You’re joking.”
“Nope. I took the challenge. Moved the mountain in under half a day. Tossed it near Akashic because it seemed out of the way. Crisis averted, Okhema remains under my jurisdiction.”
Your jaw dropped.
“So… you’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that my father wouldn’t have caught me sneaking out if you hadn’t moved an entire mountain into his path?!”
Phainon smiled nervously, inching slightly away from you. “Technically— yes?”
You squinted at him. “You absolute—!” Your hand shot out, grabbing his ahoge. That one rebellious strand that always sprang from his head.
“OW— Hey!” He yelped.
“Do you have any idea how many verses I had to write?!”
“OW! Not so hard!”
“My fingers were cramped for a month!”
“Forgive me!”
“You think a god would have some foresight,” you muttered through gritted teeth, twisting the strand lightly.
“Wait– why are you blaming me? It’s your fault for sneaking out– OW!”
With one final tug, you let go, watching him collapse dramatically onto the pillows with his hands shielding his hair. His eyes were glassy, and his lower lip jutted out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen— like a kicked puppy.
“Come here,” you mumbled, pulling him into your arms.
Phainon let out a pleased hum as you wrapped yourself around him, his face nuzzling your naked chest. You placed a firm kiss on his ahoge, slightly harder than necessary, and he chuckled again.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“Barely.”
You kissed his temple, your earlier annoyance melting into soft affection. Your fingers combed through his white hair, soothing the pain. He had relaxed completely, limbs tangling with yours under the blanket.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your father let out a long sigh as he crossed his arms, watching you from across the room. You sat at the low table in the living room, hunched over a worn sheet of parchment, your cramped finger scrawling the same sentence, what must have been the thirtieth time.
I will not try to sneak out again.
The scratch of your pen was the only sound filling the air, save for the occasional huff of frustration you would let out. This was supposed to be your weekend of fun! You can even hear the sound of laughter from outside your house. Instead, you were trapped indoors under your father’s surveillance, paying the price for your latest stunt.
Your mother appeared beside him, placing a cool drink into his hands. She settled into the seat next to him with a small laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement as she glanced at your miserable figure.
“What am I going to do with her?” your father muttered, not loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to his wife.
“I heard they found a map of ‘possible escape routes’ scribbled behind her desk at the table,” your mother replied, unable to stop the fond smirk tugging at her lips. “She definitely inherited your strategic genius.”
Your father groaned, rubbing at his temples as if the memory of his youth physically pained him. “And what does she do with it? She uses it to scale walls and dodge prayer sessions! I just want her to be ready… her future’s already been decided because of me. The least I can do is prepare her.”
His voice was softer and quieter, heavy with guilt.
Your mother’s gaze softened. She leaned into his shoulder with a knowing sigh. “Oh, like you were any better,” she said, nudging him gently. “You used to skip out of training just to see me in the market, remember? You climbed up those spiky fences once just to leave me a note.”
Your father tried to hide the flicker of a smile. “That was different.”
“Sure it was,” your mother said, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe Lord Khaslana will appreciate a lover with a rebellious streak. You know, someone who’s bold and witty. The kind who climb temple walls for fun.” She sipped from her own glass, her eyes twinkling with tease, “I accepted you, didn’t I?”
He raised a brow at her, deadpan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing!” she said quickly, rising to her feet with feigned innocence. “Phew! The weather’s hot today, isn’t it?” And with a teasing smile, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to grumble behind her.
Side Story II
“Wow! So this is Carmitis!” you gasped, eyes wide with wonder as they roamed the breathtaking cityscape.
Built along the curve of a serene bay, Carmitis shimmered like a gemstone beneath the sun. The city was renowned across Amphoreus for its devotion to the arts. Sculptures adorned every corner of every plaza, and murals danced across temple walls in hues so vivid they seemed to glow. The sound of music floated on the sea breeze, even though no musician was visibly performing. The wind itself carried the ethereal tones of water lyres, instruments unique to this city, creating melodies that colored the air like threads of silk.
You had always wondered what other cities in Amphoreus looked like. And Phainon, ever the considerate husband, had kept his promise to bring you beyond the marble gates of Okhema. Now here you were.
Before your trip, Phainon had consulted the other gods for suggestions on where to take you at the Vortex of Genesis. Naturally, the ever-proud God of Strife, Mydeimos, had jumped at the chance.
“You must visit Castrum Kremnos,” he’d said with a grin. “We serve the finest pomegranate juice in all of Amphoreus. The annual Kremnoan Festival is just around the corner. It’ll be held in the colosseum. Nothing stirs the blood like the clash of swords while drinking the taste of pomegranate juice with milk. Trust me, your little wife will love it.”
Phainon had barely stifled a grimace when Anaxagoras, God of Reason, interjected coolly.
“Do you want her to die of a heart attack from those brutal Kremnoans you’re always so proud of?” Anaxagoras stepped forward, arms behind his back, gaze steady. “I suggest the Grove of Epiphany instead. The public library there is extensive, from divine philosophy to romantic fiction. Knowledge deepens connection. Let her mind grow with yours.”
Phainon had considered it. You did love reading, after all. The Grove of Epiphany, where Anaxagoras resided and had watched over, could be an excellent choice.
But…
“But, Anaxa, are there–” Phainon began.
“Anaxagoras,” the god corrected with a sharp glance.
“A-Anaxagoras,” Phainon tried again. “Are there… any other activities there besides reading?”
Anaxagoras frowned, as though the question offended him on a spiritual level. “What other activities should there be, when reading is clearly the pinnacle of shared experience?”
Before Phainon could reply, a soft, melodic laugh floated through the air.
Aglaea arrived with grace, her heels clicking elegantly across the polished marble floor. Her arms crossed over her chest, expression full of amusement.
“Do not listen to these fools, Khaslana.” She said, her voice silken. She stopped beside a now scowling Anaxagoras and a very unamused Mydeimos, casting her eyes toward Phainon.
“The Grove will give you more trouble than pleasure,” She drawled, casually flicking her hair toward the God of Reason. “You’ll be too busy slipping over damp moss and avoiding overly curious scholars to enjoy a good book in peace.”
Then, with a coy smile, she added, “We wouldn’t want another storm to befall our beloved Amphoreus, would we?”
Phainon groaned under his breath. She was never going to let that incident go.
“Oh, and what, pray tell, would you suggest?” Mydeimos asked, raising a brow.
Aglaea smirked like she had already won. “Trust the Goddess of Romance to know the answer.”
And for once, Phainon followed her advice without protest. Because standing there now, beside you, watching your face light up as the sea wind played music through unseen lyres, he had to admit that Aglaea was right.
“Well,” he chuckled, “You really can’t go wrong with a city that worships the Goddess of Romance. It lives up to her name, that’s for sure.”
Phainon gently tugged your hand as the two of you strolled through the marble-lined streets of Carmitis. The scent of salt hung on the breeze, mixing with sweet hints of florals that spilled from balconies above. He led you through an ivy-covered archway, toward a villa tucked near the cliffs, its design both modest and elegant.
“She prepared this for us?” you asked, eyeing the delicate rosewood carvings on the doorframe.
Phainon nodded, though his lips curled sheepishly. “I originally planned for us to book an inn. You know, get the full ‘mortal couple on a trip’ experience. Maybe a rickety room with creaky floors and too many windows.”
You snorted. “Very romantic.”
“But... a private place like this?” He smiled faintly as he pushed open the doors. “It’s nice to have something that’s just ours.”
Inside, the house was bathed in warm light, soft drapery flowing with the breeze through open windows that framed the sea below. After setting down your travel essentials, you both ventured back into the city, arms brushing as you walked side by side, savoring the relaxed freedom of being unknown, unburdened.
“Aglaea said we’re welcome to visit her tailor shop here,” Phainon mentioned, glancing at you with a hint of mischief. “Anything we like, on the house.”
You blinked. “Wait, Aglaea has a tailor shop?”
“She’s a terrific businesswoman,” Phainon said, “Sewing and dressmaking are her passions.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Which one? Which shop?”
“I think it’s called... Romantic Threads?”
Your jaw dropped. “The Romantic Threads? The one in Okhema that books up three seasons in advance?!”
“...Possibly?”
Without another word, you latched onto his arm. “We are going. Now.”
Phainon let out a startled laugh as you dragged him down the main street.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The boutique was nestled between sculpted columns and surrounded by glowing flowers that never wilted. You stepped inside, and your breath hitched. The interior was all velvet drapes and mirrors kissed with gold. A soft instrumental hum floated through the air. As if summoned by your entrance, one of the Garmentmakers glided toward you, its elegant, floating form headless but perfectly graceful.
“Greetings, Lord Khaslana and his bride. Lady Aglaea has instructed us to offer you our full attention. Please, make yourselves at home.”
You could barely believe it. Garmentmakers flitted across the floor, carrying bolts of silk that shimmered like captured starlight. Phainon wandered curiously to a mannequin clad in a regal ensemble.
“Hmm… do you have this color in purple?” he asked, tilting his head. The Garmentmaker paused mid-glide, its hand tilting in acknowledgment before floating off to find alternatives.
You, meanwhile, stood in the center of the boutique, completely overwhelmed by the grandeur.
“I can’t believe it’s empty,” you murmured aloud. “In Okhema, you can’t even peek through the windows without a reservation.”
A nearby Garmentmaker turned toward you. “Lady Aglaea cleared the schedule. Today, this boutique belongs to you alone.”
Your heart warmed at that. You were ushered gently into a fitting chamber, the Garmentmakers taking precise measurements while whispering silks and satins floated from their unseen racks.
When you finally stepped out, you wore a dress crafted in hues of soft blue, white, and warm gold. A corset cinched your waist in elegant curves, engraved with delicate floral motifs that shimmered with each breath. The skirt floated just beneath your knees, perfect for walking near the sea.
You saw Phainon was still busy asking the poor Garmentmaker for other colors. So, you cleared your throat to get his attention.
He turned. And froze.
His eyes widened as if he had forgotten how to breathe.
“You…” he exhaled, stepping forward as if drawn to you by some invisible thread. “You look… amazing.”
He circled around you slowly, fingertips brushing against the curve of your arm, then ghosting along the edge of your sleeve. His gaze was reverent, like a priest looking upon a miracle.
You giggled, cheeks warm. “Right? I’ve always wanted to visit this shop back in Okhema. But every time I tried, it was fully booked. I didn’t even know she owned it!”
Phainon chuckled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Next time, we’ll just ask Aglaea directly.”
The Garmentmakers helped adjust your accessories as Phainon disappeared into a fitting room of his own. You didn’t see the outfit he chose, but you were certain it was wonderful. (it's not)
You decided to immediately wear yours while Phainon’s clothes were wrapped up. By the time you stepped out onto the street again, hand-in-hand, the world felt warmer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Unlike the structured stone markets of Okhema, Carmitis boasted a floating market unlike any you’d ever seen. Wooden platforms bobbed gently atop the clear turquoise waters of the bay, connected by arching bridges of woven rope and driftwood. Colorful stalls shaded by silk canopies swayed in the breeze, offering everything from exotic fruits to jeweled trinkets.
You found yourself drawn to a stall where strands of pearls gleamed under the sun, laid delicately atop deep blue velvet. Each pearl shimmered with subtle hues: rose gold, ocean silver, even a rare iridescent black, and for a moment, you were lost in their beauty.
Phainon had excused himself moments ago, promising to return with a delicacy he spotted. It was a charred fish skewer, seasoned with spices known only to this coastal region. You’d smiled and waved him off, humming softly as you browsed.
That peace didn’t last long.
A man sidled up beside you, a little too close for comfort. His voice broke the serenity. “These pearls are something, huh?”
You turned to him, instinctively taking a half-step back but offering a polite nod. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful.”
He grinned, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’ve lived in Carmitis my whole life. I’d remember someone like you.”
Your smile tightened. “I’m just visiting.”
That should’ve been enough, but he wasn’t finished. He launched into a stream of chatter—stories of his childhood, fishing trips on the bay, festivals he’d danced in, all the while inching closer. When you tried to change the topic, he pivoted. When you gave short answers, he filled the silence.
Then, as if you hadn’t already been trying to signal disinterest, he asked, “Mind if I buy you something to drink?”
There it was.
You exhaled sharply, keeping your tone civil but firm. “No, thank you. I have a husband.”
He blinked. “Really? Don’t see a ring on you.”
You gave a tight-lipped smile and glanced toward the stall owner, silently hoping for help, but the man behind the counter suddenly busied himself with rearranging necklaces, pretending not to hear.
Before you could conjure another excuse, you felt a shift behind you, like the air itself had thickened.
A sudden chill crawled down your spine, and a familiar pressure pressed in on your senses.
“Would a punch to your face suffice?”
The voice, low and dangerous, sliced through the tension.
You turned to see Phainon standing behind you. But this wasn’t the soft-eyed, patient Phainon who held your hand ever so gently. No, his posture was sharp and rigid. His usual ocean-blue eyes blazed gold, glowing with divine ire.
The stranger visibly paled. “H-hey, man, I didn’t mean— I didn’t realize—”
Phainon stepped forward once. “Get lost.”
The words weren’t shouted, but they echoed like thunder. The man didn’t wait for a second warning as he spun on his heel and stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.
You let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Thanks for saving me back there—”
But before you could finish, Phainon’s hand gently but firmly clasped your wrist. “Phainon?” you blinked, trying to catch up. He led you to a more secluded area, where no one was watching.
You were about to protest, but it died in your throat as the world around you flickered, blurred, and folded inward. The scent of salt air was replaced by wood, and the hum of the market gave way to silence.
When your vision cleared, you found yourself standing inside your villa. In your bedroom.
You’d never get used to his teleportation.
Phainon stood with his back to you, shoulders still tense. You reached out instinctively. “Phainon, are you alright? I’m okay, truly. He didn’t hurt me.”
He turned slowly, and your heart skipped.
His golden gaze still burned, bright and unyielding. But it wasn’t anger that radiated from him now; it was protective, possessive, and unnerved.
His lips parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at you as if confirming you were really there, unharmed.
“I know,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “But… seeing someone else speaking to you like that…” his jaw clenched. “It infuriates me.”
You stepped toward him gently, your fingers brushing the curve of his arm. At your touch, Phainon let out a shaky breath, the storm in his golden eyes beginning to settle. You reached up, resting your hand on his cheek, grounding him back to the moment.
He took your hand in his, his thumb lingering over your ring finger. The gesture was soft, but his expression turned pensive. You followed his gaze and realized what he was fixated on.
You gave a faint sigh. “I’m yours, Phainon,” you said softly, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You don’t have to prove that to anyone else.”
His shoulders relaxed at your words, and he leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms encircled your waist with a quiet desperation, as if anchoring himself to you.
You chuckled lightly and ran your fingers along the back of his neck. It was something you’d discovered that calmed him in moments like this. He melted into your touch.
The dress you wore slipped slightly as you shifted, baring more of your shoulder. Phainon’s lips found the newly exposed skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses there.
At first it tickled, but then he added the slightest pressure with his teeth— gentle nips that sent warmth coursing through you. You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, then tugging lightly when he bites harder, your knees weak.
“Ah— Phainon…”
He let out a quiet growl in response, his grip around you tightening. When his lips left your neck to meet yours, the kiss was unrestrained. It was messy and hungry, his emotions pouring into every movement. He guided you back toward the bed, easing you down as he hovered over you.
His breathing was uneven, matching your own. He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the dazed look in your eyes. Then he smiled, a mix of affection and something more intense.
“I blame Aglaea,” he murmured, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a low huff. “Making you wear something this beautiful… now I have to protect you from pests.”
You laughed, breathless, watching as he fumbled with his shirt. There was something endearingly human about the way he struggled with it despite all his godly elegance. Once it was off, he leaned down again and pressed a softer kiss to your lips.
“As much as I adore you in this,” he whispered, fingers brushing the edge of your dress, “I want to see you out of it.”
His hands moved with care, slipping away the layers of fabric with practiced grace. His gaze never left yours, reverent and full of fire, as if each inch of skin revealed was something sacred.
He trailed kisses from your collarbone, leaving red blooming marks in his wake. Once his lips reached your breasts, he latched his mouth to your nipple, giving the bud kitten licks while his hand paid attention to the other, tugging and pinching at the flesh. You moan at the waves of pleasure crashing to you.
After having tended both of your breasts, his fiery kisses traveled lower to your stomach, then to the inside of your thighs. His muscular arms opened your legs wide. He pulled away, earning a whine of protest from you.
He slid your panties down your legs with ease, letting them fall forgotten to the floor. His gaze flicked up to meet yours— your breath uneven, the back of your hand pressed to your mouth, eyes fluttering from the weight of pleasure. With a playful grin, he leaned in close, blowing softly against your wetness. You let out a frustrated whine, your body tensing in anticipation. He chuckled, clearly pleased by your reaction.
“Don’t tease me.” You said, between breaths.
Phainon chuckled, lying down on the bed as he put your legs over his shoulder, “You’re making it hard not to, sweetheart.”
Your heart leaped at the pet name. But before you could calm yourself down, Phainon connected his lips to your folds, tongue lapping you up and down before pushing it inside.
You arched your back from the pleasure. Usually, Phainon would be more gentle during intimacy. This time, it felt like he was impatient—angry almost, with the way he pulled you closer to his mouth.
You reached down, fingers threading through the tousled strands of his hair. With a gentle tug, you felt him shudder below you— a low moan escaping his lips. The sound reverberated against your core, you ground your hips on his mouth, and the sensation sent a jolt through your entire body.
Phainon then inserted two fingers inside. A shameless moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, the sound far too indulgent for your own comfort.
Phainon finally pulled away from your vagina, lips glistening with your fluids. He hovered his body above you, fingers still inside as his gaze met yours. With hooded eyes, he watched you whimper and whine while he thrust his fingers roughly, grinning as your body would jolt with pleasure every time he hit that spongy spot inside you. Your hands flew to his arms, gripping his muscles tightly.
“Phainon–Phainon–Phainon,” you murmured his name like a prayer, breathless and trembling. A soft smile curved his lips as he leaned in to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
When Phainon curled his fingers, you couldn’t help but pull away from his kiss, letting out screams of pleasure as you near your high.
“Come on, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go,” He whispered, rubbing his thumb on your clit.
You came undone after a few more thrusts of his fingers. Your voice cracking as you felt the tight knot in your stomach snapped. Phainon slowed down his digits, calming you down from your high.
When your breath became steadier, he pulled his fingers out, causing you to whimper at the empty feeling. Still drunk from the euphoric feeling, you didn’t realize Phainon was flipping you over to your chest. He then lifted your hips with care, just as you heard the quiet rustle of his pants being pulled off from behind you.
“Phainon, what– ah!”
Before you could even finish your sentence, Phainon had fully pushed his length into you, letting out a low groan as he bottomed out. His breaths quicken as he holds you still, watching you squirm and whine, still sensitive from your previous high.
You propped yourself on your elbows, and he leaned closer, placing his head beside yours, which only caused him to go deeper into you. You whimpered as your walls tightened around him; no matter how many times you've done it, you still had to get used to his size at first.
“I’m sorry, just—let me have my way with you—just this once. Okay, sweetheart?” He asked, voice pleading.
You calmed your breathing, adjusting to his size before nodding your head.
“Okay.” You said, breathless.
Phainon let out a contented sigh as he kissed your cheeks. He moved his hips backward, pulling out from you, leaving only his tip, before pushing his length inside you with force. Your body swayed with each push and pull, mouth hanging open from the sensation. Your moans were getting louder with every thrust, and the way his hands played with your nipples.
Phainon wasn’t any better. He moans, groans, growls, and whimpers in your ears. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He murmured slurred praises into your ear, occasionally biting down on your neck and reaching his hand lower to rub your core.
“Oh, you feel so—mmh, s’good around me, sweetheart.” A hard thrust into you.
“You want me to go harder? Hm? You want that? Yeah?” He was already picking up his pace before you could give him an answer.
He pulled away from your neck, straightening up his body to get a better angle. The room pulsed with the sound of ragged breaths and bodies moving in rhythm. Every gasp, every whisper of his name, mingled with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You were sure that anyone who passed by the building could hear the melodic sounds you and Phainon let out.
His thrusts were getting sloppier, words he spoke were unintelligible. He leaned back down in your ear, his fingers rubbed your clot faster in a circular motion, urging you to finish.
“C’mon, sweetheart, come with me, yeah?”
You nod frantically, choked moans escaping your lips with his every thrust. You chanted his name once more and tightened around his length, your knees growing weak. The feeling of your walls caused him to reach his edge.
“You’re mine. Mine. mine. mine.”
His hips still, unloading his seeds inside you. He gave a few lazy thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out.
You let your hips sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and trembling from your climax. Beside you, Phainon collapsed with a deep, contented sigh, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the quietness of the room.
Then, he turned to his side and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest. The warmth of his skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek soothed the rest of your lingering tremors. He then pressed soft, slow kisses to your hairline.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, his voice still rough, “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, snuggling closer until his arms tightened around you. “No, you weren’t. I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice light with affection.
A light chuckle rose from your throat as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Did you get it out of your system, then?”
Phainon let out a long exhale, his brows knitting slightly with guilt. “Yes… Though I’m not proud of myself for taking it out on you,”
You reached up, brushing your fingertips gently against his cheek. His eyes had returned to his usual soft blue, no longer intense. “You didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed it… Really.”
A playful glint entered your eyes as you leaned in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Maybe I should make you jealous more often.”
Phainon groaned dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. “Please don’t,” he mumbled.
You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as you wrapped your arms around him tightly. “I love you,” you whispered, your words warm against his chest.
He plastered a grin, “I love you more.”
“Don’t start.”
Side Story III
Phainon stood at the heart of the temple gardens, now transformed into a soft dreamscape of ivory and gold, nervously clutching the small velvet box in his hand. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of trees above, painting dappled light across the petals scattered along the aisle. Every inch of the garden shimmered under careful touches of decoration, elegant and simple.
Today marked your wedding anniversary, one full cycle since the day you had been bound to him. But the memory still lingered heavily in his chest, that first ceremony marked more by duty and uncertainty than celebration or love.
There were no kisses. No shared vows. Just a pact, divinely sealed and hastily delivered.
Phainon had spent weeks planning a proper wedding.. A wedding with laughter and vows, flowers and witnesses, and most importantly… a ring, crafted with the help of Chartonus himself.
He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight between his feet as he watched his friends (the other gods and goddesses) milling about the decorated garden space.
Flower garlands hung between ivory pillars, gentle lyre music drifting from unseen strings in the wind. Tables were arranged with modest care—Ambrosia, honeyed cakes, fruits, and traditional Okheman dishes lining the platters. A clear aisle of white petals led up to where he stood, waiting.
Aglaea stood beside him, regal and radiant. The Goddess of Romance had been both surprised and delighted when Phainon asked her to officiate the ceremony. She never thought the Deliverer would ever wear such a nervous expression over something so delicate.
Mydeimos looked at Phaino’s hands. “You’re holding that box like it’s going to explode.”
Phainon gave a tight-lipped smile. “It might. My heart’s been in it for weeks,” he then puts the box inside his pocket, fidgeting with his hands lightly.
A firm clap landed on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Khaslana,” said Anaxagoras, God of Reason, dressed far too formally for someone who had once argued weddings were ‘inefficient emotional rituals.’ “This is a wedding, not a battlefield.”
From behind him, a familiar lilting laugh rang out. “You should’ve seen his face when Aggy scolded him for his original outfit choice,” said Tribios, Goddess of Passage. “He looked like a child getting caught breaking something precious.”
Phainon scowled. “I liked that outfit. It was from Aglaea’s boutique.”
“Yes,” Aglaea said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And it made you look like a fool. How dare you mix violet and mustard in front of me, with my own designs no less?”
The laughter that followed was interrupted by a fluttering of wings. From above, Hyacinthia descended with her miniature pegasus, Ica, trailing glittering sky dust behind her. She landed gently, her heels brushing the grass lightly.
“I cleared every gray cloud from the sky just for today,” she smiled, brushing back strands of her pink colored hair. “No storm’s going to ruin this one.”
"Doot, doot!" Ica added.
“Thank you,” Phainon said sincerely, looking at each one of his friends.
Just then, Castorice, the Goddess of Death—pale and composed—peeked from between the garden hedges. “She’s coming,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
Time seemed to stand still.
Phainon straightened. His heart thundered in his chest. He could already feel the warmth of your presence drawing near, the familiar hum of your soul that soothed his own. For all his power, all his light, nothing made him feel more undone than the sound of your footsteps approaching.
Then you appeared, the sunlight catching on the gold threading of your dress as if even the heavens wished to spotlight your presence. Your family followed closely behind.
The garden had never looked more beautiful. Flowers that normally only bloomed in different seasons now adorned the path in unison, their petals vibrant and full. Music floated through the air from invisible strings, harmonizing with the wind.
Your eyes scanned the crowd. Familiar faces looked back—Phainon had introduced them to you before, gods and goddesses of Amphoreus in their finest attire. Your eyes landed on Anaxagoras, Hyacinthia, Tribios, Aglaea, and then Mydeimos.
And then you saw him.
Phainon stood at the center of it all. He looked nervous, heart-bared, and unmistakably dazzling in a tailored robe. You recognized Aglaea’s influence immediately in the subtle elegance of the embroidery across his shoulders and cuffs. His hair was neatly swept back, though the familiar ahoge still bounced stubbornly in place. His blue eyes, brighter than ever, locked onto yours the moment he saw you.
“Phainon?” you breathed, stunned. “What is this?”
You turned in confusion, your voice filled with wonder, only to be met with a warm smile from your father. He stepped beside you, offering his arm.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise as you looked between him, the petal-strewn aisle, the altar at the end, and the dress your mother so stubbornly told you to wear today. A realization dawned over you. This wasn’t just a celebration—this was a wedding.
Your heart swelled. Slowly, you reached out and linked your arm with your father's.
As your mother and Atlas took their seats, your father leaned in slightly, his voice tight with emotion. “I’m glad,” he said softly, “that I’m finally, properly, giving away my daughter.” His hand tightened gently on your arm. “It may have started from a vow made for peace. But today, I know you’re walking toward love.”
You bit your lip, your vision already blurring with tears. “Thank you, Father.”
Both of you reached the end of the aisle. Phainon stepped forward and extended his hand. You glanced once more at your father, who gave your hand one final squeeze, tears already streaming down his cheeks, before placing it in Phainon’s.
Then it was just the two of you standing before Aglaea, who was holding a ceremonial scroll in her hand. Though she didn’t have to read from it.
“Dearly beloved,” Aglaea began, her voice carrying every corner of the garden.
“We gather here not to forge a new bond, but to renew one. This is no ordinary union, nor a formality. A vow spoken not by decree, but by choice. A promise not from god to mortal… but from soul to soul.”
She turned her gaze to you first, calling your name. “Today, do you vow yourself to him again? This time not as an offering, but as a partner? Do you give your heart freely, not to his divinity or power, but to his person?”
You swallowed back your tears and nodded. “I do. And I always will.”
Aglaea smiled, then looked to Phainon. “And you, Khaslana, God of Worldbearing. Do you vow yourself to this mortal not out of obligation, but out of love? Do you promise to show her not only your divinity, but your humanity?”
Phainon’s voice wavered slightly as he answered. “I do. More than anything.”
Then Phainon reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a small velvet box— one you hadn’t seen before. Your breath caught when he opened it.
Inside sat a beautiful ring, golden, forged with delicate sunburst patterns that shimmered faintly with divine warmth. In the center stood a diamond that glimmered slightly in the light.
Phainon took the ring between his fingers, his hand holding yours. With great care, Phainon slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for you all along. Aglaea conjured her golden threads as they swirled brighter around the two of you, encircling your joined hands.
“Then, as Goddess of Romance,” Aglaea said with a soft smile, “I bless this union, again and forever. Let the world bear witness to this second vow. You may seal this promise with a kiss.”
Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and took your face gently in his hands as he kissed you, soft and slow. You reciprocated all the same, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. Everyone rose in applause, the wind turned musical as sunlight poured through the clouds above in radiant beams.
In that golden moment, with the gods as witnesses and romance as their blessing, two hearts vowed once more. This time, not by fate, but by love.
