Chapter Text
Three months—or perhaps some more—went by in the blink of an eye. Time blurred into routines and quiet moments of loneliness felt a little more endurable. The palace, once felt too grand beyond his reach, slowly began to hum with the comforting hush of familiar whispers that drew him to sleep every night. The restless patter of his steps on marble no longer echoed back like a stranger’s voice. The hallways remembered him now—or so he liked to pretend. Even the silence seemed to shift around his presence, as if it had grown used to the rhythm of his breathing, the shape of his shadow.
Phainon nowadays woke up not from dreadful nightmares—not as intense nor real as it formally was, he refused to let it haunt him—but with a sense of peacefulness wrapped in soft pillows and warm blankets. He opened his eyes to the gentle light spilling through the curtains, the early sun casting long shadows that danced lazily on the stone floors like little spirits.
For a moment, he lay still, savoring the feeling of ease.
The kind he had once thought lost to him forever. And the palace, in all its grandeur, cradled him in a way he hadn't known he needed.
Maybe, just maybe, he could forget all the shuddering, the fear, the weight of the past, of survival…
Begone.
The world outside was still but not silent. There were lives, vibrating.
It was time to get up.
He rose, bathed, put on the new tailored tunic Aglaea had yet again commissioned for him. He still didn’t understand why he needed more new clothes. There were plenty of uniforms in the storage room.
“Those are old,” Hyacine set the plates out on the table, she giggled. “Most of them will not fit. You are a big boy after all, Snowy.”
Phainon had sighed, not in a way to complain however.
“That is one,” he murmured. “But I have more than enough already…”
Tribbios, busy setting down a hot bowl of soup between the plates and glasses, glanced at him with a smile tugging too knowingly at her lips.
“Having a few more isn’t bad,” she said, her voice tinged with warmth and amusement. “If Aglaea has decided something, it’s better not to question it. She might throw the entire tailor’s shop at you next time.”
Hyacine laughed into her bread. “Wait until she brings back jewelry.”
“I’d rather she didn’t,” Phainon replied, his protest half-mumbled, half-genuine. Although the idea was nice, he couldn’t imagine himself adorned with glinting stones and delicate chains. Those were not exactly his type, or maybe it was just strange to think about it.
He lifted a slice of bread to his lips, chewing slowly as the conversation drifted toward other light things—the weather, the garden’s last bloom, a peculiar bird Tribbios’ daughters had seen nesting near the chimney’s edge. All of it spun together into a peaceful, domestic atmosphere. It felt like home , if he willed to say it.
Phainon listened more than he spoke, it was one of those days, where he was content to let their voices carry him.
And then—
His thoughts drifted. As they often did recently.
To the soft gravel crunch beneath boots in the gardens.
To the way a low voice murmured by the fountain over an afternoon tea.
To the memory of Dei’s laugh—stifled, awkward, hidden behind the back of his hand as though it might reveal a secret if left unchecked.
Phainon noticed. He was not oblivious, not to the way Dei seemed to get more comfortable around him nor the fondness in his pretended coughs sometimes slipped out despite its master’s attempt to hide it.
He was glad. Happy. Excited . For every meeting they might come across… And how he tried not to overthink it when darkness embraced him into its safe presence. How he tried not to let the warmth in his chest bloom into something too loud, too noticeable, too fragile.
Castorice always nodded in encouragement (or was it amusement?) when he told her about those . She had said something in between a joke and sincerity—he wasn’t sure which one. A blessing? Could be as well. Or maybe it was a mere laugh that sounded too much like one.
Phainon could hear her voice ringing clear in the back of his mind.
“You act like some love-struck maiden.”
He had pouted at her, of course. Thrown a grape at her even, to which she had dodged with the grace of someone who already knew his dramatics like the back of her hand. She had barely laughed then. But her smile… her unreasonably knowing smile …
The man had an overwhelming urge to pinch her cheeks—he seriously considered it, out of sheer spite for that smug look on her little face.
He hadn’t. And Castorice hummed, pleased with his childish glare.
The words just hung in the air, floating like mist, as if a fragile truth had been carved into the delicate rhythm of life within the palace walls.
Perhaps it did, without the necessity to voice its existence.
.
Love. That word hadn’t touched him in so long—it scared him, really. How quickly he longed for someone’s presence again. For Dei’s voice. For that invisible thread he wasn’t sure they were both pulling.
And what if he pulled too hard? Would the whole thing unravel? Would Dei vanish like everything else he had ever loved?
.
“Phainon.”
Blue eyes blinked up, slow, unfocused. Who called…
“Are you daydreaming about your crush again?” Castorice tilted her head, her shadow casting from above.
The wind rustling through the leaves stirred the soothing silence surrounding them. Branches swayed gently overhead, and the mellow sound of it all shook him from his reverie.
“No… I just—”
Hold on.
“Stop calling him that, Cas!” Phainon groaned from the ground and rolled away from the girl.
“I didn’t point out anyone in particular,” came the reply. Too casual. A trap.
That made Phainon whine, louder.
Castorice simply looked at him, or she stared. He was too busy staying annoyed at her to notice.
The early light of afternoon bathed his features in a warm orange glow—kissing his cheekbones, smoothed temples. The kind of light that made him look almost statuesque in his alluring beauty. Hyacine had insisted on a skincare routine, after all, and her relentless diligence had paid off well.
“... Phainon?”
“What.”
“You looked stressed. Is anything troubling you? Ah, outside than me, please.”
There was a pause. Because he’d meant to say you , but she’d preempted him, as she always did. Again.
As if to protect what little ego was left, he just shrugged, curled closer to the fruit basket at his side, and mumbled weakly.
“Nn-mm…”
“Is that a moan?”
“Wha—No! I can talk fine!”
She laughed, light and quick, and reached over to tap his back with a single finger. “There you go.”
“I swear you’re getting smugger,” he muttered sulkily, muffled in the linen of his sleeve.
“I don’t really hear a complaint,” she hummed, another laugh.
Phainon didn’t argue. No, it was still better than the lonely quiet of his chambers—or the narking voice that always seemed to creep up when things grew too silent.
Castorice scooted closer to him with the kind of ease that came from knowing you were welcome—no matter how dramatically someone rolled away from you moments earlier. She plucked a grape from the basket and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she stared up through the canopy of leaves of the old oak tree.
“You know, it’s funny,” she said between bites, her tone shifting just enough to mark a turn. “You pretend like you're not waiting for something. But your eyes… They always look like they're listening for footsteps.”
Phainon let out a breath, slow and measured, like it could steady the flutter in his chest. It didn’t help.
“I’m not waiting,” he denied, yet his shaky voice gave him away.
“Mm...” A noncommittal sound replied to him. Castorice didn’t press. She never really did. She simply existed beside him, gently brushing the dust off his delusions without tearing them apart.
The sunlight filtered through the leafy dome, dappling her pale dress in golden patterns, and for a moment they sat like that—two figures tucked in the rhythm of an usual afternoon. A quietude in the padded footsteps through hallways, whispers between walls—soft and unassuming.
“It’s alright if you are,” she added after a while. “Hoping, I mean.”
He turned his face to the side, cheek against his folded arm. “I’m still… trying to get used to things,” he admitted.
“Like the new tunics?”
He rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t start again.”
She grinned, victorious.
But neither of them moved to break the moment. The wind played between them, and Phainon—despite himself—closed his eyes and let it be. Not stillness. But something close enough.
His heart had yet to stop pounding against his chest.
.
It was almost dawn when Phainon stepped into the library.
The scent of old parchment and fresh ink greeted him like familiar friends, welcoming him as his boots clicked softly against the tiled floor. Anaxa was there, of course—seated in his usual corner, surrounded by towers of books that loomed like quiet sentinels. His spectacles rested low on the bridge of his nose, and his sharp gaze flicked up at the sound of Phainon's entrance. Those wise eyes squinted, just enough to judge but not enough to scare Phainon off this time.
“Ana—I mean, ehem teacher. Good afternoon,” he greeted, fumbling as the stack of books in his arms teetered dangerously.
Anaxa raised one brow, unimpressed. “It is not afternoon. It is nearly dinner. Your concept of time remains tragically skewed.”
Phainon pouted as he carefully set the books down on the nearby table. “I was helping in the garden… lost track of time.”
“Lost yourself, more likely,” Anaxa deadpanned, though his voice lacked real bite. He waved a hand toward the seat opposite him. “Sit, then. Let’s see if anything managed to stick in that pretty little head of yours since the last session.”
Phainon slumped into the chair, exhaling as though he’d carried the weight of ten baskets instead of ten books. He rubbed at his temple. “I remember some things,” he said. “I read about the Twelve Scribes and the Laws of the Moonlight Accord.”
“That was last week,” the older said, but a small curl of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Impressive. Most would forget it the next day.”
“I also remember you said the Laws were contradictory,” Phainon added, eager. “Especially Article Nine.”
At that, the scholar perked. He leaned forward with an almost hungry glint in his eyes. “Yes. Do tell me why.”
Phainon launched into it, stuttering a little at first, but gradually building confidence as he spoke. He recalled how the Article’s phrasing about "uninterrupted sovereignty" clashed with the Accord’s demand for expanded lands and commanded authorities. He remembered the argument his teacher had once muttered to himself—about hypocrisy and duplicity. The Great Prince , Phainon recalled vaguely, had once said something not too different in tone in some scroll he had come across before.
As the discussion went on, Phainon forgot time again.
There was something strangely satisfying in these sparrings, though "sparring" was generous. Anaxa simply nudged and Phainon—though he tried not to—more than once scrambled. However, he was learning. He could feel it, in the way his mouth began to match his thoughts faster, or the way Anaxa no longer paused to dumb down his words.
After a particularly sharp debate about the philosophies of divine versus mundane laws, the older man finally leaned back, closed his book with a firm snap, and gave a long sigh through his nose.
“You are either blessed by relentless curiosity or cursed by it,” he said. “I can’t yet decide.”
“I think you’re just tired of losing,” Phainon replied, grinning too widely for his own good.
Anaxa snorted at the child. “When you win, I’ll let you know.”
A silence settled between them, though this one felt earned. Not empty. Not awkward. Phainon leaned his arms on the table, fingers idly tapping at the corner of a page.
“... Is there anything more about—uh, the Prince?” he asked, after a beat too long. “Outside the things you’ve given me.”
Anaxa tilted his head slowly, the pause long and deliberate. “Some,” he said at last. “Although, not many will tell you what you’re really looking for.”
Phainon blinked, lips parted in a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “I’m not looking for anything in particular,” he said. “Just… context.”
“Hm.” The elder returned to his notes, flipping a page with more interest than necessary. “Context is a tricky thing. You give it too much weight, and it turns into narrative. Give it too little, and it crumbles into fragments.”
“That’s still not an answer,” Phainon said, a little bolder now. “You always do that. Riddles things.”
“I teach ,” Anaxa corrected, without looking up. “Whether or not you like the lesson is not my concern.”
“But there must be records. Letters. Old edicts. Something?”
“There are,” Anaxa said mildly. “But not here.”
“Why not?”
“Because not everything belongs in a library,” came the reply. “Some truths are preserved in people. In silence. In patience .”
Phainon frowned, he could smell the teasing the man’s words. “That’s not helpful at all.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
A small, frustrated noise escaped him. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. It’s not that I mean to read his secrets. I just want to know him.”
Anaxa’s eyes lifted then, sharp and sudden. “How come?”
The word cut cleanly through the air. Phainon faltered.
“I… I don’t know… Maybe because he’s the only one here who doesn’t make sense to me.”
“And that bothers you?”
“... A little,” he admitted, unanticipatedly warmed up.
“Then good,” Anaxa said. “Let it bother you. Let it turn in your mind like a stone in the shoe. Understanding isn’t something you find in a book, Phainon. Not the kind you want. It’s something earned.”
Phainon sagged a little, defeated. “You sound like Castorice.”
“For the record, she sounds like me.”
He stuck out his tongue at that, childishly.
Anaxa only smirked, faint and rare. “You may borrow the ‘Red Compendium’ if you wish. Pages 74 through 82—there’s mention of his father’s rule and some early treaties. Not much, but context, like you wish for. The rest…” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ll need to learn the hard way.”
Phainon reached for the book slowly, reverently. “Thank you,” he murmured, though the lack of answers still gnawed.
Anaxa carefully tilted his head, as if the weight of memory was something physical. “Just remember, boy—curiosity can be a blade. Useful. Dangerous. Beautiful. But it cuts both ways.”
Phainon didn't push further. He just sighed with a pout, letting his storm-blue gaze fall back to the open book before him, the letters seeming to dance and shift under the weight of his thoughts, almost mocking him with their baffling meaning.
Dinner would be soon, he knew. But the silence of the library clung to him like a gentle veil—one he wasn’t quite ready to shrug off just yet.
.
The heavy wooden doors to the dining hall creaked open as Phainon and Anaxa stepped inside. The long table stretched out before them, laden with food—plates of fresh bread, roasted meats, vegetables in glistening sauces, and fruit arranged with careful elegance. The room, though large, was filled with warmth and the soft chatters of the other occupants. Castorice, Hyacine, and Tribbios had already gathered, even the caretaker’s three daughters were whispering something Phainon could only depict as hazardous when they were out of their mother’s sight.
Their laughter was quiet as they exchanged light conversation. Anaxa barely gave them a glance, heading straight for his seat at the head of the table, while Phainon hesitated for a moment, scanning the room.
The absence of one person didn’t escape his notice.
There were no signs of Aglaea’s usual meticulousness in the air—no fresh scents of whatever culinary concoction she’d been working on, no delicate trays of new recipes brought to be appraised. The chair she often claimed sat empty, leaving an almost eerie silence in its wake. His eyes flickered to the space next to him, a seat now hollow.
The inquiry caught in his throat. It was almost sacred, perhaps, or simply something that should be kept unspoken. He knew better than to comment on the absence of Aglaea at dinner, knowing it wasn’t his place to ask where she had gone or why she wasn’t there.
But he could , so...
“Where’s Aglaea?” Phainon asked, his gaze sweeping over the table.
The others exchanged a glance, the kind that suggested something was amiss but left it unsaid.
“She’s…” Hyacine began, pausing as if considering her words carefully. “Having some matters to attend to, I suppose?”
Phainon nodded, though a small knot of curiosity tightened in his stomach. He had been expecting her to be present. But then again, it wasn’t unusual for someone to miss dinner—especially when they were preoccupied with things far more important than food.
The tension in the room was subtle, though not lost on him. Tribbios, as usual, seemed completely unbothered by the absence, already helping herself to the steaming soup in front of her with a casual ease. She glanced at Phainon with a little smirk.
“She’s probably off trying to find more things to buy,” Tribbios teased, though there was no playful bite to her words—just a gentle observation. “Or something equally worthy .”
Phainon grinned a little, lighter and less hollow. He didn’t ask about someone today, either—although for the fact that he hadn’t seen him for three days. He figured it was best to let the man out of questions—just how Castorice had told him (she had merely implied, and Phainon had picked up).
Phainon settled into his seat beside Castorice, still pondering Aglaea’s absence, though he knew better than to press the subject any further. The soft chatter around the table continued, a blend of idle musings and casual jests, and it wasn’t long before the rhythm of the meal lulled him into a quiet sense of contentment.
And he let himself indulge…
The flickering candlelight cast gentle shadows across the table, and the aroma of the food—tender roast and the sweetness of honey-glazed carrots—began to pull him away from his thoughts.
Tribbios, meanwhile, had begun her usual exploration of the meal, picking at the roasted meat with the same enthusiasm that she’d shown for any new project or challenge and putting it into everyone’s plates, Phainon’s especially.
Her mouth was full of food when she turned to him, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” she mused, licking her lips before picking up a fork. “Not like you at all, lil Phai.”
Phainon blinked at her, caught mid-bite, the taste of buttery greens melting on his tongue. He swallowed, a little slower than necessary.
“Not true,” he said, brushing his fingers against the edge of his plate. “I’m just… conserving energy.”
The caretaker raised an eyebrow at him. “You seem to be wasting it with your absorption rather than saving it.”
“I—” he began, then paused, searching for an excuse. His eyes met Castorice’s next to him, and her gentle smile gave him permission to speak honestly. “I’ve just… been thinking.”
“About what?” Tribbios asked, nudging his elbow with her fork in a silent prompt.
He swallowed, the rich flavors grounding him. “I guess, I’m still in process… About how strange it is, to feel so at home one moment and still so untethered the next…”
Then he shook his head, chuckling but no lighter than how his heart was. “Maybe I read too much. My brain’s got plot twists it didn’t sign up for.”
“Hmph.” Anaxa refused to make a comment on that.
Castorice reached out, covering his hand with hers. “That’s only natural,” she said quietly, her voice a soft anchor. “You’ve rebuilt yourself from ashes, bit by bit. It won’t happen all at once.”
Phainon nodded, sighing but smiling again, letting her words settle in his swirling heart. He lifted his fork to take another bite, the meal suddenly tasting of reassurance rather than mere sustenance.
A few exchanged murmurs later, the candles’ flames dancing in his peripheral vision, Phainon realized the hall was growing quieter. Plates were cleared, voices softened, and one by one his companions rose from the table. He followed suit, brushing crumbs from his tunic.
“Night walk?” Hyacine asked as she passed, smoothing a stray lock of hair.
“Just… for a moment of air,” Phainon replied, offering a small, grateful nod.
The little girl grinned, reaching up to pat his head.
“Don’t wander too far.”
Phainon took note with a grateful nod.
He slipped past the servants stacking trays, through the open doors, and into the corridor beyond. The hush of the dining hall fell away, replaced by the soft echo of his own footsteps.
Halfway down the marbled hall, Phainon slowed his steps. A flickering candle had guttered low in its sconce, casting shadows across the wall, and he paused to stare at it—perhaps to delay returning to his chambers, perhaps simply to linger. He wasn’t quite ready for solitude, nor for dreams that didn’t let him rest.
Then he heard it.
A voice, low and indistinct, like a secret spilled beneath a door left ajar, not meant to reach a passing ear. He turned his head, frowning faintly. One of the side chambers—rarely used this late—was lit from within, the warm amber glow seeping through the thin seam of two nearly-shut doors.
He didn’t mean to stop. Didn't mean to turn, to reach.
And he certainly didn’t mean to listen.
But the second voice—that voice, low and familiar, velvet with control even in private—caught his name. His name , not as an address, but a subject . Spoken like something delicate and precarious.
Why was he…
He shifted nearer before realizing it, drawn by instinct more than curiosity. The corridor was otherwise silent, the kind that would make small sounds too piercing, too obvious.
He took one slow step.
Still muffled.
… Another .
Now he could make them out.
The voices grew clearer as Phainon inched closer, hushed but firm. He recognized Aglaea’s tone first—measured, low, laced with a kind of gentleness she rarely wore in public. It was the voice she reserved for private concerns, for careful advice she feared might sting.
“… You weren’t supposed to speak with him so often,” she said, her voice just barely audible through the crack in the door. “He’s begun to look for you. Waited longer in the garden. Sometimes even later than midnight.”
There was a pause. A stifle, heavy and expectant.
Then came the answer.
Low. Velvet-dark. Not loud, but commanding even when soft— that kind of voice. One that didn’t need volume to cut cleanly through the air.
“I only meant to make sure he was adjusting. That was all.”
Phainon stopped.
That voice.
It was him.
It was Dei.
“You meant to remain a distant kindness,” Aglaea answered, and something about her words curved like a blade—sharp only because they were true. “But you’re no longer distant. Not when he’s no longer unaware.”
Another second stretched—longer this time. Then, softly:
“I… couldn’t help it.”
The words were so quietly spoken that Phainon almost didn’t catch them. But when he did, they wrapped around his chest like a band of light— warm but terrifying.
“I know,” Aglaea murmured. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Phainon’s breath caught in his throat. Something in the way she said it— not disapproving, not warning—just knowing . As if she’d already seen how the story would unfold and was trying, gently, to tug the seams closed before the fabric unraveled.
He leaned back slightly, unsure if he was intruding on something fragile or about to shatter something sacred. The corridor felt colder now, despite the candlelight flickering behind him. The warmth from the dining hall seemed distant, as if he’d stepped out of one world and into another—
But Dei spoke again, this time barely above a whisper. “If he knew who I was…”
“He would act differently,” Aglaea’s words cut, yet it held the truth. “You’d lose the part of him that’s honest. The part he only gives to someone who doesn’t hold power over him.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed.
Power…?
“You can still choose otherwise, though…” Aglaea said, softer now, like the tail end of a prayer. “Before it reaches too far. You know what will happen if he learns who you are.”
Phainon’s breath caught. Who could he possibly be…
A silence pressed in. Heavy. Unbreathing—
“I’m not certain he wouldn’t leave, Aglaea.”
huh?
“And I’m not certain I could let him, either,” came Dei’s answer, slow, shaped by something tender and terrible.
Phainon felt something tilt in his chest.
Like a name too big to be spoken. Like a truth so large it had to fold itself into shadows just to fit in the room.
But Dei—Dei was no one of rank, was he? Just another inhabitant of this winding, golden place. A presence among many.
Then why…
His breath slowed. Something itched behind his ribs, an unspoken thought beginning to coil and twist, searching for a name it could not yet claim.
“You still have time to walk away,” Aglaea said at last, her voice quieter now. “He’s growing used to you. If you stay too long, you’ll become necessary.”
There was nothing responding back. Everything stopped at that moment.
Phainon’s fingers curled against the edge of the wall.
And yet, even then, he didn’t leave.