Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the whispering winds of fate, it was always said karma had a way of catching up with you—silent, inevitable, like shadow hot on your heels. In a world that spins in circles, our deeds reverberate and circle back, a reminder that what goes around comes around.

So, it was never a surprise, not really, when your father—the king, draped in the shadows of corruption and tyranny—was torn from his throne in a storm of blood and fury, undone by the very hands he once crushed beneath his own. The storm of revolution, fueled by the flames of injustice and the cries of the downtrodden, descended upon the castle walls like a vengeful deity, casting the king from his lofty throne into the harsh reality of his own making.

In the unforgiving tides of change, the pendulum of justice swung without regard for innocence or guilt, and revolution—in all its fury—can easily blind you with its smoke. You never stood by your father’s cruelty; every protest smothered beneath his iron will, your voice swallowed beneath the weight of his crown. Yet, to the eyes of the enraged masses, you bore his blood, wore his sins like a second skin.

And so, you too, must burn.

But he wouldn't let them.

Your escape dissolved into a blur in your mind; Screams tearing through the air, a sea of crimson rage, and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. In the other, his sword sang death, striking down anyone who dared raise a hand against his liege. His white hair caught the glow of the mobs' torches, almost golden in their flickering light. His blue eyes, usually so gentle, were now steel-cold with purpose. His once-pristine armor streaked with blood, icy to the touch, but his hand... his hand wrapped around yours is....

Warm.

Then, it hit you all at once.

The sudden, jarring shift from chaos to stillness.

One moment, the world was fire and fury—voices raised in furious chants, torches blazing, the glint of sharpened weapons amidst the mob.

The next, silence.

Heavy, almost sacred. The kind that presses into your ears like cotton, makes your breath sound too loud. The forest wrapped around you like a blanket soaked in earth and rain, grounding and unreal all at once.

And then—him.

A pair of blue eyes, wide and searching, locked onto you. Worry etched into every line of his face. Not just concern, something more akin to fear. Like he'd just watched you disappear, and wasn’t sure if you were really back.

"Your Highness?" Phainon’s voice breaks the quiet, low and cautious, like he’s afraid even the sound might shatter you. He doesn't move closer, just watches, eyes flicking over the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breath stutters like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to breathe in peace.

You’re pale, shaken, and at the sound of his voice, as quiet as it was, you finally look at him. No longer through him, but at him.

He takes a cautious step forward, each movement measured like he’s approaching a wounded creature, because in some ways, he is. You’re already so close to unraveling, and the last thing he wants is to be the thing that pushes you over the edge.

There was no point in asking how you were. It was written all over you; in the tight set of your shoulders, the haunted glaze still clinging to your eyes, the way you swayed slightly, like your legs weren’t entirely convinced they could keep holding you up.

So instead, he does what Phainon always does—chooses gentleness.

"May I carry you?" he asks quietly, his voice a breath softer than the rustle of the leaves around you. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't presume. He has never touched you without your explicit permission. That’s just who Phainon is. Always waiting, always asking.

Always yours, for as long as you'll have him.

"We need to find shelter for the night," he adds, glancing around the thick trees, the canopy swallowing what little light remains. "We’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the kingdom.”

You don’t say anything—just stare at him, eyes wide and unreadable, like you're still somewhere between this moment and the last. But then, slowly, your head moves in a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It’s enough.

Phainon hesitates for just a breath longer, searching your face one last time for any sign of protest. When he finds none, he steps closer and carefully lifts you into his arms. You don’t resist. You don’t flinch. You just let him. He holds you like you’re made of glass and memory, something fragile, something precious. Like a wounded creature he’s afraid to hurt more than the world already has. His arms are steady, though. Warm. Grounding.

"With my honor as a knight," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing against your hair, "I’ll protect you."

And with that promise hanging between you, he carries you deeper into the woods, away from the flames, the shouting, the wreckage of a day that nearly stole everything. Searching for somewhere—anywhere—you can finally rest.

You didn’t know how long he walked, only that the rhythm of his footsteps and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you into a kind of daze. Time slipped sideways, minutes, hours, you couldn't say. You barely registered the way his arms tensed, his body instinctively bracing at the distant sound of hooves pounding against earth.

But you did notice when he began to lower you, gently, beneath the rough arch of a shallow cave. The cool stone met your back, and suddenly the thought of him letting go was unbearable. Your hands clung to the fabric of his cloak, your fingers trembling, eyes searching his like they could stop him from leaving.

He paused. Saw the silent plea in your gaze.

"Stay here," he whispered, his voice warm and low, as if it could wrap around you like a second cloak. His eyes held yours—steady, unwavering, like they always had. "I’ll be back."

Phainon stepped out of the cave, his movements measured, deliberate, planting himself firmly between the riders and the one thing he would not let them take, the shadows of the cave behind him concealing you. There was no fear in his eyes, only steel. A cold, quiet confidence etched into every line of his face.

"I’d like to believe no good men would pursue the royal heir to do her harm," he said, voice calm, almost conversational.

The riders stared him down, eyes narrowing, hands tightening around the hilts of their weapons. Their silence said everything, fury simmered behind their eyes—righteous, bitter. The kind that doesn’t listen. They were revolutionaries, that much was clear.

The one at the front swung down from his saddle, his boots hit the earth with a thud, knuckles bone-white, clutching around his weapon. 

"Step aside," he commanded. "The princess has to pay for her father’s crimes."

Phainon didn’t move.

"She’s done nothing wrong," he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "You’d punish a girl for her father’s sins?"

One of the other riders let out a bitter laugh. Disgust curled his lip.

"Not her mistake? That bastard’s blood runs in her veins. She is part of the throne. And you.." he spat, full of scorn. "What has become of you, Phainon? Some fallen knight guarding the tyrant’s daughter? You’d betray us? Turn your sword against your own people?"

Phainon didn’t blink.

"If protecting the innocent is treason," he said, "then yes, I'll proudly be a traitor."

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Kill her father. Burn the palace to ash. Do what you will, if that’s what your justice demands... but you will not lay a hand on her."

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. The forest itself seemed to still, the only sound the restless whisper of leaves caught in the wind.

The riders didn’t respond, but they didn’t have to. Their expressions spoke volumes—feral and cold, eyes flicking between each other, weighing the cost of moving forward.

Because they knew who he was.

Phainon. The perfect warrior. The man whose blade had never faltered.

And here he stood, sword unsheathed not for the king or the palace…

But for the fallen princess.

"This is how you defend your people, knight?!"

The rider at the front steps forward, fury distorting his features into something near feral. His eyes burned with a hate that had nothing to do with justice.

"You’d betray us, betray your oath, betray this kingdom, and the country you swore to protect… for some pampered little princess?!"

Something in Phainon’s expression shifts. The air grows colder around him, the atmosphere dense with a sudden, cutting stillness. Gone is the composed mask he always wears; what replaces it is anger, sharp and honed like the edge of his blade. His gaze narrowed, sharpened into something unforgiving.

"Don’t you dare pretend this is for the country’s sake," he said, voice low and laced with venom. "You’re not here for justice. You’re here for blood. You’re no different than the king you claim to hate."

The words land like a slap. The other riders stiffened, anger radiating off them in pulsing waves, but it was their leader who reacted first. 

"Don’t you dare compare us to that bastard. We’re trying to fix what he ruined. We’re trying to build something better." His sneer deepens, lips curling in disgust.

Phainon took a step forward, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

"I don’t care what you're trying to do," he said, voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut. "Do what you must. Raise your banners. Burn the city. I don’t care..."

"...But you will not harm my liege."

The leader lets out a laugh, dry and mocking, tinged with disbelief.

"Your liege?" he spat. "She’s the tyrant’s spawn. And you, great knight? You've been reduced to a loyal lapdog, clinging to a dead order."

Phainon’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles paling, the cold in his eyes enough to send out a warning for the rider to seize his comments.

"Watch your mouth," he says darkly. "I don’t care what your grievances are with her father. She is not him. And I will not let her suffer for his sins."

"She’s his heir," The leader snarled. "She’ll turn out just the same. She’ll sit on the same throne, make the same decisions, spill the same blood… And a traitor like you will be right there at her feet, worshiping her like a good little mutt."

"You don’t know a thing about her." Phainon snaps, "She’s nothing like her father. She’s been silenced, like a doll on display, dressed up and paraded around as a symbol. If you think she’ll become a tyrant, you’re blind."

"Gods, don't tell me you've fallen for her?" The leader’s expression twisted, ugly and mocking.  "You really think she gives a damn about you?"

"Of course not," Phainon replies swiftly, flatly. "That doesn't matter."

The leader just laughs again, louder this time, leaning into the sound like it shields him from the weight of Phainon’s glare. His smirk grows wide, sharp, vicious.

"Then why, oh why, are you risking your life for her, hmm?" The leader’s voice drips with mockery, his posture relaxed, his amusement dripping into every word that slips past his lips.

"What do you get for defending the princess? Her favor? A smile, perhaps? Or something better…" He grins, teeth flashing. "Like her body?"

Something snaps.

In a blink, Phainon closes the distance—no hesitation, no warning. One hand fisting the leader’s collar, the other drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. He slams the man hard against the nearest tree, bark cracking under the force, the blade pressed to the vulnerable skin of his throat.

"Keep your tongue in check." Phainon’s voice is barely a voice at all, more like a growl ripped from deep in his chest. "Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not another word. Do you hear me?"

But the leader only grins wider, unshaken even with a blade to his throat. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

"You protect a woman who’d throw you to the wolves the moment it served her," he spits out, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You think you matter to her? You’re nothing. Just a pawn she’ll sacrifice to save herself."

"I’m not protecting just any woman." Phainon sneers, a rare sight for the kind knight. "I protect my liege. I don’t give a damn if she values my life or not. That’s not the point. You speak of things you don’t understand."

He presses the sword harder against the man’s throat, but still, the man smiles.

"You've been blinded," The man hisses, smirking like a man with nothing left to lose. "She doesn’t care about anything but herself. Just like her father. A pampered, selfish princess."

He leans forward just enough for his words to feel like poison he’s trying to inject right into Phainon’s veins. 

"And you? You’ve doomed yourself for her. She’ll stab you in the back the second her life’s on the line. Mark my words."

Phainon doesn’t flinch. 

"You don’t know her."

Phainon's words are quiet. More breath than voice, like a warning carried in the wind. He presses the blade closer. The tip bites skin. A thin bead of crimson wells up where the blade meets the skin of the leader’s throat.

"And I’ll cut down every last fool who dares to speak of her that way."

And then… he does.

One swift motion. 

Clean. 

Precise.

The forest falls silent.

The only sound is the soft thump of a body hitting the leaves crumpled on the ground.

A moment later, the man’s head rolls across the ground, eyes wide with the last expression he ever wore; that twisted smile, frozen in time.

None of them move.

Phainon stands over the body, sword slick with crimson, breath slow and steady.

No triumph. 

No rage.

Just duty.

The other riders could only stare, stunned into silence, eyes darting between their leader’s lifeless, decapitated body and the knight who stood above it. Phainon remained still, breath heavy, blade lowered but still slick with blood. 

"You… y-you killed him…" one of them whispered, the words cracking with disbelief.

Phainon didn’t even blink. 

"I did."

His words hung in the air.

The riders exchanged nervous glances, shifting in place. One man’s hand trembled as it hovered near his blade. Another backed toward the horses.

"You’re a murderer," one of them dared to say.

Phainon’s head turned slowly in the speaker’s direction, his eyes sharp and full of disdain.

"I am a knight."

He took a single step forward, slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

"And you..." He swept his gaze across them.

Chaos nearly erupted. One man lunged for their fallen leader’s sword. Another tried to mount a horse that reared up and shrieked in fear. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, the horses stamping nervously, catching the scent of blood. The rest froze in place, unsure whether to fight or flee.

Still, Phainon didn’t move. He simply watched. Detached. Unbothered. Like he was watching children flail through a game they didn’t understand.

Then, he spoke again. Calm, quiet, and chilling.

"None of you are going anywhere."

The words cut through the rising noise like a blade. And just like that, everything stopped. Horses snorted, pawing the ground nervously. The riders froze mid-movement, caught between instinct and dread. No one moved. No one dared breathe.

"Y-you… you’re going to kill us too? Just like him?" One of them, voice trembling, forced himself to speak.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet, then slowly back to the man.

"It’s nothing personal."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"But as long as any of you breathe, my liege remains in danger."

Another step forward.

The air grew heavier. 

"We’re falling back," someone said quickly, hands half-raised, as if they could bargain their way out. "Our leader’s gone… we won’t hurt Her Highness anymore,"

But it was already too late.

Phainon gave no reply because the time for words had ended.

The forest was filled with the sound of quick, brutal justice. Thuds of bodies hitting the earth, gasps cut short, steel slicing through flesh. Phainon moved like death made flesh—silent, unstoppable, precise.

When it was over, the woods were quiet again.

Only he remained standing.

Him and the horses.

Phainon stood among the fallen, sword in hand, his breath steady once more. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen men, then he turned back toward the cave, toward the only person who mattered.

Back to his liege.

You didn't say anything when his gloved hand appeared in your vision again. You didn’t flinch at the crimson streaks staining his armor, didn’t ask about the blood still clinging to his sleeve. You didn’t have to. The stench of iron lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. And still, he looked at you with utmost gentleness.

"Let’s keep going, Your Highness," he said, voice soft and warm again, like it hadn’t just spoken death into existence. He smiled, gentle and careful, as if that alone could soothe the storm in your heart, your mind.

And of course, you took his hand.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you deeper into the forest, looking for somewhere to stay the night. His grip is steady, his pace measured. The silence between you was no longer heavy, just there. Present. Like a companion rather than a burden. The first time the silence was broken was when the trees thinned and a clearing revealed itself, a meadow bathed in moonlight. Not ideal for rest, but safe enough for a fire. The tree line was distant enough not to catch if the flames rose too high.

Phainon didn’t hesitate.

He swiftly went to work, gathering timber and stacking firewood, his movements practiced, and you watched confusedly as somehow, someway, he coaxed a spark into a flicker, then into a steady flame—a pleasant warmth against the biting cold of the night, casting a golden light against his blood-slicked armor and you tried not to look too closely.

He turned toward you, eyes softening again.

"Please," he said gently, gesturing toward a nearby rock. "Have a seat, Your Highness."

The rock was jagged, uninviting, but it was better than the ground. And somehow, the offer didn’t feel like an order. It felt like kindness, one born out of genuine concern.

You sat.

Phainon got down on his knees before you, slow and deliberate, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, his eyes meeting yours, those bright, steady blues searching for something, asking without words. For what, you weren't sure, but you trusted him enough to give him a small nod.

As you did, he reached for the hem of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your feet, still in those heels. He handled them like something sacred, fingers brushing delicately over the worn straps as he undid the fastenings around your ankles. Then, the shoes slipped off with barely a sound.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he took in the damage: raw, red skin and blisters blooming along your soles. His expression twisted into something pained, like it physically hurt him to look.

"You should’ve told me," he murmured, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His brow furrowed, soft and earnest, looking at you akin to a puppy kicked by its owner. "I would’ve carried you."

"It’s fine, really." You shook your head gently, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You've already done enough. I didn’t want to ask more of you."

"It's my duty to care for the princess."

"And I'm no longer one."

"You'll always be a princess."

You pause at his response, glancing to meet his eyes as he met yours with unwavering devotion, no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his features.

"For as long as I live," He added, "You'll always be a princess to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, not uncomfortable, but weighty, like something unsaid hung in the air between you. You had to look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare, you let your gaze drift back to the fire, its flickering light dancing across the clearing like it, too, was trying to avoid the weight between you.

Behind the veil of quiet, you heard the soft clatter of metal as Phainon shed his armor. Piece by piece, it hit the ground with dull thuds, leaving him in the worn fabric beneath. Then came the rip of cloth, sharp in the still night, and you realized he was tearing his shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

Just reached for your feet again, gently cradling them in his hands as he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the blistered skin, his touch impossibly careful.

"Phainon." You said his name softly, as he continued his current task.

"Why didn't you join them? Why didn't you kill me?"

That made his hands still.

His gaze flicked up to your face, searching. He was quiet for a beat, before responding.

"Killing you is never an option." Was his simple, yet blunt response. "I could never do such a thing to you."

You frowned, unable to make sense of it.

"But… of all people, you have the most reason in the kingdom to drive your sword through my chest," you murmured, "The only thing standing between you and your freedom is me. You don’t have to do this. Any of this."

There's the slightest hint of a sad smile on his face, chuckling softly at your words, but there's no humor in the sound.

"I don't 'have' to do anything, princess. I choose to protect you of my own free will." His eyes softened.

"But your oath-" You opened your mouth to protest, to remind him of his oath, of duty, of his supposed loyalty to the people.

"Was to you." He cut you off, quiet but firm. "Not to the King. Not to the throne, not the palace or its people."

He paused, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.

"My oath has always been to you."

You paused at his words, trying to make sense of them. His loyalty… his devotion... it didn’t make sense. Not in a world that had taken so much from both of you.

"You’re the son of my father’s personal knight. From the moment you were born, you were shackled to me." Your voice softened further. "Our births are only months apart. That wasn’t a coincidence."

Phainon didn’t interrupt. He let you speak, his hands still and steady at your ankle.

"You were forced to train and to be my shadow since we were children, don't you ever wish to be free?"

"Forced?" he repeated softly with a smile, almost amused. "I’ve never been forced to do anything, princess."

"But you were." You looked at him fully now, your brows furrowed. "Just like your father before you. And his before him... and if the system hadn’t been dismantled… your children would’ve been bound to mine. The cycle would’ve never ended."

There was a long beat before he spoke again.

"My family never regretted our duty. We’ve protected every heir of your bloodline with our lives," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "And I’ll do the same for you."

Then something in him shifted. His features softened, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth—gentle, knowing.

"But... you’re wrong about one thing." He looked at you with a strange tenderness in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in his voice. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

"My children...." he said slowly, voice laced with something unreadable, "...won’t be doing the same for yours."

"What do you mean?"

But all you got in return was that smile. That quiet, secret-laced smile, like he was tucking something important behind his tongue. He gave your ankle a gentle squeeze. Comforting. Familiar.

"You’ll understand later," he murmured, voice almost lulling.

"Don’t push yourself, Your Highness," he said softly, skillfully shifting the topic. "We’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow."

He stood, gathered the remnants of his torn shirt, and moved to tend the fire again, like he hadn’t just shaken your world with a few quiet words.

"I'll try..." you murmured, your voice tinged with hesitation, your eyes fixed on his back as he knelt by the fire, tending to the flames with care, keeping it alive to somehow keep the coldness of the night at bay.

"Thank you... for everything."

Phainon glanced over his shoulder at you. Your weariness was plain on your face, carved into the way your body sagged slightly under the weight of the day.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His tone was quiet, like it always was, but beneath it was a quiet warmth that never seemed to leave whenever he spoke to you. “Get some sleep, princess.”

You didn’t protest again.

Despite the jagged rock beneath you, despite the ache in your limbs and the open sky above, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim you. The day had wrung you dry—body, heart, and mind—and the sound of the crackling fire, the distant rustle of trees, and Phainon’s steady presence nearby became the lullaby that finally allowed your guard to fall.

It wasn't until your breathing had evened out, deep in sleep, that Phainon stood up from the fire. The flickering glow cast long shadows across the clearing as he moved, silent as a ghost, towards you. He crouched beside you, eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing every curve, every eyelash. His fingers reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the crimson stains still dried against his skin.

"My kids being the knights of yours?" He muses, a quiet laugh curling at the edge of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous... my kids wouldn't be doing the same for yours..."

"Because my kids will be yours too, princess."

His expression stayed soft, but there was something darker flickering beneath it—a quiet hunger, possession cloaked in tenderness. His hand moved again, hooking a single lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though the scent alone grounded him, drawing it in like a man savoring something he believed— no, he knew belonged to him.

“Yours,” he whispered, “You hear me?”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying his words into the night, where they vanished like smoke with no one else to hear them but himself. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked on your sleeping face, watching the faint shifts of your breath, the flutter of your lashes. You looked peaceful. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry for what happened, princess. But you understand, don't you?" He questions you quietly, as if you could hear him, still making sure his voice is quiet, so as to not wake you.

"Your father was a tyrant, a dictator..." He murmurs, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, watching as you stirred faintly under his touch, but did not wake, "He was going to marry you off to someone else."

"Surely, you understand why I urged people and started the revolution, don't you?"

His fingers trail lightly down your cheek, pausing at your lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly as his thumb grazes over the soft curve of your mouth. He exhales shakily, as though even this contact is almost too much.

"The only reason I was born was to be yours,” he whispers, a quiet conviction in his tone. “And thus, you, in turn, have always been mine. Law of equivalent exchange.”

His voice is low, fond, but there’s an undercurrent of something far heavier—something dangerous—coiling just beneath. He inhales sharply, as if steadying himself, and glances away from your lips like a sinner resisting temptation.

"That old man never should’ve tried to interfere," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his jaw tensing like the memory alone is enough to reignite his fury—the same fury that led to your father's downfall.

His finger lingers against your lips, then shifts, trailing down to hover just over your abdomen, his eyes now fixed there, unblinking. The soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath the fabric of your dress seems to hold him captive.

"Once all of this dies down.." he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. A little house, tucked away from the world… where you’ll be safe. And then—"

His breath hitches again, this time heavier, filled with desire.

"Then I’ll give you my children. As many as you want."

His gaze darkens as it lingers on your stomach, and his lashes lower as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering closed like he can already see the future blooming there. His future. Your future. Your shared future.

"I’ve waited my whole life," he breathes, almost dreamlike. "And now you look at me like I’m your savior...."

There’s a pause, still heavy, and then his eyes open again, trained solely on your face. His expression softens at the sight of your sleeping features.

"It’s only a matter of time," he says softly. "Just a few more years... or months, if I’m lucky."

His thumb traces the corner of your mouth again, delicate and adoring.

"Right, princess?"

A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and hushed and laced with something that doesn’t quite sound sane.

"You don't need the palace, the crown, the throne.... I'm already here. I am all that you need." He murmurs, fully believing his own words.

"You're mine." He breathes out, a silent declaration with only the stars above as his witness.

"You will be mine."

The infant’s wail echoed through the marble‑lined corridors, the sound bouncing off vaulted ceilings until it spilled into the royal nursery. In the obstetrician’s arms—swaddled in linens still warm from first breath—the newborn finally quieted, and at the sight of such, Her Majesty’s lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile.

Moments later, attendants had bathed and bundled the child in soft blanket. The newborn slept now, cheeks flushed, unaware of the world he'd entered. Beside him lay another babe, barely a few months older, yet already every inch a princess; Her gown an explosion of pastel silks and seed‑pearled lace. Tiny fingers fluttered from the ruffles, reaching instinctively for the newcomer.

"Look at them," the Queen whispered quietly, as if she might shatter the spell if she spoke a little louder. The princess’s chubby hand closed around her companion’s.

"Have you chosen his name?" Her Majesty turned to the young woman—her maid, still resting on the bed, the sheets pooling around her waist.

"Phaenon," The maid said, voice velvet‑soft. "He will be called Phaenon."

"Phaenon," the Queen repeated, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. "The Bright One."

Her gaze lingered on the intertwined hands of her daughter and the maid’s son, a tender cradle of fingers—royal lace against humble clothing.

The Queen leans closer to the toddlers until her words brush the downy curls of both children, whispering.

"Phaenon... May your light forever chase away my little princess’ shadows."

Thus, marks the beginning of two lives fated to always be intertwined.

They grew up within the same garden walls, the princess and the boy named Phaenon. Raised under two very different ceilings but always ending up beneath the same sun-dappled canopy—feet muddied, laughter echoing off marble columns, the air between them always thick with make-believe kingdoms and imagined rebellions.

It was innocence, in the purest form of the word. Two children, barely old enough to count past twenty on their fingers and toes, who didn't yet understand borders or bloodlines, only the strange gravity that drew one to the other.

"P-H-A-E-N-O-N," he spelled it slowly, crouched beside her in the dirt, a twig scratching the letters into the soil between them.

"You spelled it wrong." The princess frowned, brows furrowing.

"No, I didn’t." He responds in protest.

"You did." The little girl tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. "It’s Phainon. Like phaíno, to shine. I heard it in Father’s study. Your name is Greek. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

He hesitated, glancing down at the letters.

"But… my mother said..."

"Besides, I like it better with the i," she interrupted. "It's prettier."

And that was that.

He stared at the name in the dirt. And then, with a sigh that almost sounded amused, he watched as her little hand was already scribbling again in the dirt, the stroke of the 'i' tall and proud.

"Fine," he muttered, a little too easily. "Phainon, then."

The princess beamed, victorious.

That night, he carefully crossed out the old spelling on the little wooden tag he kept hidden under his pillow, carving a wobbly 'i' in its place.

Their mothers often watched them from the veranda, sharing quiet conversations behind gloved hands, their laughter soft like silk rustling in the breeze. Her Majesty insisted the two play together, said it was good for the princess to have someone constant, someone who didn’t look at her and see a throne.

So, they had play hours in the garden, poetry lessons shared between two cushions instead of one, toys not handed over, but passed between small fingers.

And for a time, they were safe. Phainon laughed freely, and the princess learned how to give as much as she received. There were tea parties with unevenly poured cups and games of hide-and-seek that always ended with both of them giggling under the same curtain, their tiny feet sticking out.

But not everyone agreed.

They weren't supposed to be friends, that much, the King clear with every tightening of his jaw.

"You are not equals," the king growled to the little boy one day, voice as cold as the steel of his crown. "She is of royal blood. You are not her friend, you are hers. She commands you."

Phainon stood still beneath that glare, hands clenched behind his back after his hand was ripped away from the princess's own. His own father stood beside the king, face unmoved. A wall of tradition and stubborn loyalty.

Phainon didn’t understand all the words, but he understood the tone. And the way the King’s hand lingered on the hilt of his sword even while speaking to children.

Later, when the King was gone, silence filled the space he left behind, until Her Majesty gently broke it. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, then turned to Phainon and combed his snowy white hair with her own fingers.

"You are more than what they say," she told him, voice quiet like prayer. "And to her, you’re more than even you know. And her thoughts are all that should matter."

Behind her, the maid stood quietly, a flicker of something knowing in her eyes. She had always understood the cost of being near royalty, and as much as she worried for her son, she trusted in Her Majesty more.

But childhood does not protect against the cruelty of the world forever. The quiet world they’d built of play and storybooks eventually shattered.

It happened in the same week.

The Queen’s room was sealed first, rumors fluttering through the castle like moths drawn to flame: an illness, a poison, a betrayal. By the time they carried her body out under black velvet, the maid was gone too—disappeared without a trace.

Not even a funeral, not even a grave.

Phainon cried the first night. Curled up beside the princess on her bed, he clenched the hem of her nightgown in his fist, as if it could keep him tethered to something that hadn’t vanished.

Both were still too young to understand death, but were old enough to feel the emptiness it brought. The princess reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.

"She said you were bright," she whispered. "So don’t go dim."

Phainon didn’t answer. He only cried quieter.

Time, as it always does, moved forward—uncaring.

The laughter that once echoed between the hedgerows wilted like the roses left untended. The princess no longer ran barefoot across the grass with Phainon trailing behind her, no longer insisted they chase fireflies until their fingertips glowed.

They were growing up... and apart.

It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. The space between them grew not with a single moment but with a thousand small silences, like frost creeping over a windowpane, easy to miss until everything was cold.

The princess became a fixture in court: upright, poised, learned in the languages of diplomacy and cruelty alike. Every step she took was watched, weighed, recorded. Every mistake was punished before it could become rumor.

Phainon, too, was growing. But unlike her, he grew like a shadow that had forgotten how to be a boy.

Without his mother’s hand to smooth back his hair, no warm voice to remind him that he was more than what they told him he was, there was only the King.

And the King was merciless.

"She is your purpose," he would say, voice like steel scraping bone. "You are not her friend. You are not her equal. You are hers. You exist because she lets you. Because I let you."

"You’re the sword sheathed at her side. Her creature. Her proof of power."

Phainon would nod, like he understood. He was still so small then—barely taller than the armrests of the thrones—but the words lodged in his ribs like splinters, festering.

"She doesn’t need your friendship," the King would sneer when Phainon dared to ask why she no longer looked at him the way she used to. "She needs your loyalty. Your obedience."

And when the King judged Phainon ready, he gave him a lesson, one he would never forget.

"Now, Phainon."

The 9-year-old looks up with big eyes, his face framed by a mop of snow-white curls. His Majesty towers over him, regal and imposing, but Phainon’s gaze quickly drops to the table. There, cold and gleaming, lies a small knife.

His hands twitch at his sides.

From across the table, the soft, terrified hissing of a kitten echoes. It's chained now—an iron collar around its tiny neck, the other end of the leash held in the King’s hand.

"This kitten hurt the Princess, didn’t it?" the King asks, his voice calm, but weighted, the kind that makes your stomach twist into knots.

Phainon’s lips twitch into a frown. His eyes glisten, wide with guilt. He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to answer. But he nods, just barely.

"He did," he admits, voice trembling, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room. A pout pulls at his mouth, quivering like he’s holding back tears. "I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was supposed to protect her."

"No, no. Keep your tears, boy."

The King’s voice is quiet but firm, sharp enough to halt the trembling in Phainon’s lip. He doesn’t raise his voice, instead, he lowers himself, crouching just enough to meet the child’s eyes across the heavy oak table.

"Let this be a valuable lesson," he continues, gaze locked on the boy’s wide, blue eyes—eyes that are too young for what he's about to see, and yet too old to ever forget this moment. "You can't always protect her. She's bound to get herself hurt, one way or another... but..."

The word hangs there, a sharp hook in the air. The King watches him, making sure the boy doesn’t miss a single word.

"...There’s always something you can do to whoever dares to hurt her."

His Majesty’s voice never rises, but the tension behind it tightens like a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushes the blade across the table, and the hilt stops just inches from Phainon's trembling fingers.

And then, with terrifying ease, the King lifts the hissing kitten and drops it on the table.

The creature scrambles, chain rattling as it claws at the polished wood. It’s small. Helpless. Hissing. Ears flattened. Tail lashing.

Phainon flinches.

"It's your job to ensure the Princess is safe," the King says, no longer a lesson but a command. A command that Phainon has carried since he first learned what her name was. "Or, at the very least... get revenge on those who hurt her."

The boy stares.

The blade.

The kitten.

The King.

"...You know what to do, don’t you, Phainon?"

His breath hitches.

The color drains from his face.

Still, the knife waits.

Phainon trembles.

His tiny shoulders shake as he stares at the blade, then at the King, and finally at the man standing silently behind His Majesty—Phainon's father. There’s no comfort in his presence. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His expression is unreadable, even as Phainon's eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

"I-I can’t." Phainon chokes out, voice cracking like thin glass. Terror wraps itself around his words. "I can’t."

Blue eyes flick to the kitten again, its fur puffed in fear, its hiss now a desperate whimper.

"He didn’t mean to hurt her," Phainon pleads. "He was just scared."

The King doesn’t blink.

"I’m afraid you don't have a choice," he says, still with that eerie calm. A cold decree wrapped in velvet.

"It hurt the Princess," he continues, voice unflinching. "The moment it did, it stopped being a living being."

He leans on the table, not getting any closer, but his words, his presence felt heavier. Like it was enough to fill the room, to crush the air from the boy's lungs

"It’s a monster now. Do you hear me, Phainon?"

The boy swallows hard, blinking past the blur of tears. He looks at the kitten again—still hissing, still trembling.

"But he..." Phainon begins, voice soft, breaking.

"The moment it hurt the Princess," the King cuts in, low and final, "it gave up its right to live."

His voice doesn’t rise, but it sharpens like the blade between them.

"Think of her cries. The pain in her voice. Her tears—" his tone dips into something dark, something that coils around Phainon’s heart and squeezes. "—and all because of those claws."

The kitten whines.

Phainon stares.

And the knife waits, still, and terribly patient.

Phainon doesn’t move.

He just stares. At the kitten, at the chain, at the trembling bundle of fur crouched on the table before him. But as the King’s voice continues, low and relentless, something begins to shift.

He’s no longer seeing the animal at all.

Instead, it’s the Princess he sees.

All he sees is the scratch on the Princess’s cheek.

The red that soaked into her sleeve.

Her lip quivering.

"It hurt her." The words fall from his lips, quite and hollow. His voice no longer shakes. His hands no longer tremble.

"It hurt her."

"That's it," the King says, voice like silk.

He watches as the boy reaches for the blade. Small fingers close around the hilt. The metal gleams.

The kitten hisses again, louder now, as if it's sensing something.

Phainon leans in, drawn not by hatred—no. Not even by rage. But by something... colder. Something he just learned.

Duty.

"...Now," the King murmurs, like a prayer or a curse, or perhaps, both. "I'll ask you again."

"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon?"

The boy doesn't answer.

Not with words.

At the age of nine, Phainon took a life for the very first time.

And thus, he became her shadow. Silent, swift, ever-present. He followed her everywhere now—not as a companion, but as an extension. An arm. A blade.

He stopped asking for stories at night. Stopped humming the lullaby his mother used to sing when she brushed his hair. He stopped spelling his name in the dirt.

All he knew was how to wield a sword.

All he knew was being a knight.

All he knew was being hers.

The King was pleased.

The shadow had taken shape.

Phainon was never meant to shine. He was meant to burn—for her.

But beyond the palace—far from the King's gaze—Phainon wore a different face.

To the townspeople, he was kind. The kind of kind that never asked for thanks. The kind that carried baskets for old women and walked street children home during storms. He remembered their names. Remembered birthdays. Helped patch broken fences with his bare hands and paid out of pocket for medicine when a healer couldn’t be summoned in time.

When he smiled, it was real, soft at the edges, like morning light peeking through shutters. They called him The Perfect Knight. A flicker of warmth in a place where royalty rarely stooped low enough to see dirt on their boots.

"Such a good boy," the bakers would say, handing him extra rolls. "That’s a noble heart, that one."

He wasn't sure why he was doing what he did, but perhaps it was a shadow of what his mother once taught him, echoes of a time before the King rewrote him from the inside out.

But there is one thing he's sure of....

He's in love with the princess.

He loved her the way the King taught him to. The way a blade might love its sheath. The way a shrine loves the god it houses: devotion soaked in dread, worship steeped in dependency.

He consumes her with his eyes from a distance, always from a distance, because that was what shadows did. Though she barely noticed him. Not truly. Not like before.

She had grown into her crown. Her voice sharp, her spine steel. Her eyes, once full of sunlight and laughter, now held the weight of ruling too early, of losing too many things too soon.

Sometimes, he wondered if she missed their garden days. If she remembered how she used to trace letters into the dirt, if she remembered every smile she gave him before her mouth learned how to frown with dignity, every laugh before it was replaced with silence, every touch before she stopped reaching for him at all.

But he never asked. And she never said anything.

He just served. Always.

Anything for his light, his star, his sun.

And like all things that orbit too close to their star, he was burning from the inside out.

Phainon was in the room when the King said it.

He hadn’t been summoned; he never was, but he stood by her as he always did. Unmoving, unacknowledged.

"Her betrothal will be announced at the Festival," the King said, voice clipped and final. "A prince from across the sea. Wealthy. Fertile. That’s all that matters."

The words left the King’s mouth like a verdict.

Phainon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But inside, something cracked.

He looked at her—at her—sitting tall beside her father, silent and unreadable. Her hands were folded in her lap like a good heir. Her eyes forward. Her crown, a little heavier than usual.

She didn’t protest. Of course she didn’t.

She had been taught not to.

And so, quietly, something began to stir in him.

It started small.

A slip into town disguised in worn clothes, no insignia on his shoulder. Then another. And another. Phainon slipped out of the palace, and none of his fellow knights stopped him. No one ever did. They all knew him as the loyal one, the sword at the princess’s side. A boy who would die before he disobeyed.

The townspeople gathered at the edge of the square when he called. He stood beneath the statue of the old Queen, the one whose smile he barely remembered, but whose absence carved the path to where he now stood. His cloak pulled low, moonlight silvering his hair.

He never used the word rebellion. Not once.

He called it restoration. Correction. A return to what should have always been.

He didn’t want blood. Gods, he didn’t. Not hers. Not ever.

"We do this quietly," he told them. "No blades unless you must. No fire. We win hearts, not wars."

Because if she ever looked at him with fear in her eyes, if she ever thought him a traitor instead of a savior... He was sure he wouldn’t survive it.

This wasn’t just about the kingdom. It was about her. It had always been about her.

And even as he planned her father’s downfall, Phainon still prayed she’d understand. That one day she’d look at him not as the shadow she outgrew but as the light that refused to leave her side.

But things didn't go quite as he planned, there was a variable in his plan that he didn't expect, didn't think of happening...

The princess was meant to smile. To nod. To accept the prince’s jeweled hand and become a symbol, not a sovereign.

But she stood now, right there in the throne room, her voice sharp, unwavering, cutting through generations of obedience like a blade through silk.

"I refuse the betrothal."

She didn’t flinch even when her father turned to her. Didn’t lower her gaze.

"I will not marry him," she repeated. "I will not tie myself to a man I do not know to please a throne I am already an heir to."

Those words were like a balm to Phainon's soul, for the first time in years, he felt something bloom in his chest. She was still in there. His princess. The girl who made him spell his name in the dirt.

The King, however, did not feel the same.

The back of his hand cracked across her face.

A gasp tore from the maids in the throne room, sharp and ugly. She staggered—staggered—and Phainon moved without thinking, his footfall silent, breath caught like prey in a snare, and was quick to keep his liege on her feet.

As his sapphire gaze turned to look at the one across them, he didn’t see a man anymore. He saw a threat.

"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon? "

The plan was supposed to be bloodless. But now? He stopped thinking of it as prevention. As resistance. He started calling it what it was.

Revolution.

And this time, there would be blood.

He made use of his status and privileges as the crown heir's personal knight; He knew where the guard loyalties fractured, knew which generals still grieved the Queen, which councilmen resented the King, and most importantly, the people trusted him.

Phainon was practically everywhere. Whispers in corridors, secret meetings in cellar taverns, folded letters inked with the sigil of a sun.

The night they rose, it was quiet. No drums. No banners.

Phainon planned it perfectly. The guards loyal to him moved swiftly through the corridors, disarming without killing where they could. He had studied the castle like a living body: where it bled, where it healed, where it could be broken.

And at its heart, the King.

"You traitor. I made you." the King hissed. "You would kill your King?"

"No," Phainon said softly, drawing his blade.

"I would kill the one who raised its hand against her."

But revolution, he learned, doesn’t end with a king’s death.

It spreads.

The man's blood had barely dried on the stone when the castle doors were thrown open, and the people surged like a tide. Phainon had expected fire, but fire with purpose. Order, not chaos.

A clean slate.

He had orchestrated everything down to the breath: which gate would fall first, which noble to spare, which guard to bribe, which lie to whisper into which ear.

It was supposed to be over—The King was dead.

But the revolution had grown teeth he hadn’t sharpened......

And now, they're about to bite her.