Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m hungry…”

Phainon muttered, slumping beside Castorice. Even her deathly presence did nothing to soothe the ache in his stomach.

“Well… Lord Phainon, you did give out the rest of your snacks—”

“Little Ica ate them all!” he interrupted with a weary sigh, shooting an exasperated look at the small unicorn. Hyacine had left the creature in their care while she went searching for Anaxa. Most of their classmates had already trickled out of the hall, and Phainon was on the verge of giving up and leaving himself.

Castorice smiled when he poked at the unicorns stomach ”fat fuck…” he nicknamed it with a joking upset tone. Castorice had already watched the man eat 5 other types of snacks before- but seeing him so upset she suddenly remembered she may have packed some herself.

Castorice rustled in her bag and pulled out a small packet with only a few snacks left. “I’m not sure if they’ll be to your liking—”

Whatever worry she had disappeared the instant his whole face lit up with childish delight.

So cute… like a puppy, she thought, sliding the packet across the table.

He savored every bite as if it were a sacred offering. Castorice rested her chin in her palm, watching him with an amused expression.

“If I could hug you, I would,” he declared dramatically, crumbs still on his lips.

She snorted. “Please don’t.”

-

It was a hot day in Okehma. Phainon finally dragged himself to the bathhouse, moving with the slow, defeated gait of a man who had fought too many battles in one day, Aglaea only needed a glance to know exactly what was wrong.

Without a word, she guided him to a low table where a half-finished charcuterie plate sat. She’d ordered it earlier but hadn’t felt like eating much herself.

“Lady Aglaea… I love you so much,” he whispered with the most heartbreakingly grateful expression she had ever seen.

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Of course, Phainon.”

He set about eating as politely as he could manage—sampling each delicate slice of cheese, each cured meat, each cracker with reverence.

“Have you not eaten today?” she asked after a moment, her tone gentler than usual.

He paused, thinking. “I ate breakfast… and lunch… and a few snacks… I—I mean, I—”

She stopped him there with a soft wave of her hand. “You’re a growing warrior. You don’t need to defend your appetite.”
She did wonder though- how he always did seem to have an appetite. Either way- some part of her felt… fulfilled feeding the child she raised. Watching him grow. Her emotions do not stir often anymore, and yet she finds herself filled with something aching watching Phainon.

-

Cipher was not the sort to linger in Okhema. She usually despised the place—too many memories, too many prying eyes. But Aglaea had called, and Cipher was weak to her requests.

And, well… she was also weak to a certain idiot’s charm.

Phainon of Aedes Elysia sat across from her now, talking animatedly about the finer points of some obscure snack trade. He was so painfully earnest that Cipher couldn’t help but grin, treating him more like an overeager little brother than anything else.

He offered her a rare delicacy she’d never tasted before—some crisp, honeyed morsel he’d been hoarding—and, to her surprise, it was delicious.

So there they sat, sharing a dish he insisted was life-changing, Cipher pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself as much as she was.

“Oh— and that appraisal you asked for,” Phainon added brightly, somehow managing to look triumphant even though the plate in front of him was already empty. He’d been the one talking nonstop, yet he’d still eaten nearly everything.

Cipher’s ears gave a tiny twitch. “Authentic. Everything you brought is athletic gold—though I’m sure you could have taken them anywhere and asked.”

“Awhh~ don’t be like that, Snowy,” he teased, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “I value your opinion as an appraiser more than most. Besides, didn’t you want to spend some time with your favorite Ciphey~?”

Her eye twitched this time, though she tried to hide it behind her cup.

His pale cheeks were definitely pink now, and he fumbled for dignity. “I—I stopped calling you that when I was like thirteen,” he muttered defensively.

Cipher smiled over the rim of her drink, just sharp enough to remind him she hadn’t forgotten anything about those years. “And yet here you are.”

-

Mydeimos had a problem.

And it had everything to do with the giant, dog-like idiot currently sprawled across his living room.

He wasn’t the sort who liked to show off wealth—far from it. But somehow, every single damn Chrysos Heir eventually found their way into his home for one reason or another.

Sometimes it was Castorice, drifting in to pore over his private collection of Kremnoan-written texts.
Other times, the three Tribios sisters stopped by just to chat. He told himself he minded, but he never quite managed to make them leave.
Hell, even Aglaea would visit now and then—only on the rarest of occasions, but still.

But Phainon?

Phainon showed up every. Single. Day.

And the worst part?

Mydeimos had started to look forward to it.

It began with daily spars—friendly, if relentless—and conversations that lasted longer than either of them admitted. Despite himself, he’d grown to enjoy his rival’s company.

Then, one afternoon, he’d made the tactical error of cooking while Phainon was there. Somehow, in the space of a single meal, they’d eaten nearly everything in the kitchen.

After that, it became routine: every morning, without fail, Phainon appeared like an oversized stray who’d decided Mydeimos’ doorstep was his new territory.

And, Titans help him, Mydeimos fed him every time.

Why?

He had absolutely no idea.

He’d even started setting out an extra plate every morning in silent preparation for the man’s inevitable appearance.

And now, standing there with his arms folded, staring first at the spotless dishes Phainon had insisted on washing, then at Phainon himself—sprawled across the couch with his armor tossed carelessly aside—Mydeimos had to wonder how the hell they’d gotten here in the first place.

“Ahh~ Mydei… you’re such an amazing cook,” Phainon sighed blissfully, one arm flung over his eyes like he’d just survived some grand ordeal. “Truly, it’s a marvel how you work…”

“Save your praise, Deliverer,” Mydeimos muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You owe me groceries for the next thousand years at this rate.”

“Whaat—? But Mydei, you’re a prince!”

“…And?”

Phainon peeked out from under his arm, blinking innocently. “Well… isn’t it your royal duty to provide for your loyal subjects?”

Mydeimos stared at him, unblinking. “Get. Out.”

“Eeeh?! Already? But it’s so comfortable here!”

“Out.”

Phainon made an exaggerated, wounded noise but didn’t budge an inch, only settling deeper into the cushions. Mydeimos sighed—loudly—and stalked over, fully intending to haul him up by the collar.

But when he reached out, he noticed Phainon’s eyes were already fluttering closed, exhaustion finally winning over all his dramatics.

And so, with a long-suffering groan, Mydeimos let his hand fall.

“…Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “But you’re paying for dinner tomorrow.”

He could pretend, just for tonight, that he hadn’t been expecting him to stay.

-

“…Phainon, we should talk about your eating habits,” Hyacine said carefully.

She’d meant to bring it up in private, but unfortunately, today was the rare occasion when both Castorice and Mydeimos were too tired to fill the silence with their usual commentary.

“Huh?? What about it—?”

Phainon looked genuinely bewildered, a spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Well…you just don’t seem to get the right balance of nutrients,” Hyacine continued, gesturing vaguely to the questionable bowl in front of him—some sort of…thing the owner had given him on the house.

Phainon stared at it, then slowly set it down, looking as if she’d just told him his entire life had been a lie. “Do—do I really not? I eat what Mydei makes me—”

“You make him food?” Castorice asked, lifting a brow, her expression halfway between suspicion and surprise.

Mydeimos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He shows up every single day. I’m not about to let him starve on my doorstep.”

There was a beat of quiet.

“…That’s actually very sweet,” Hyacine admitted.

“It’s not sweet,” Mydeimos said flatly. “It’s an unfortunate fact of my existence.”

Phainon’s face was slowly turning red. “I—I can cook for myself, you know.”

“Oh?” Castorice tilted her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “And when was the last time you did?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Hyacine sighed, rubbing her temples. “This is exactly what I mean– not to mention the amount of food you get for free-”
“I—in my defense, I tried to pay,” Phainon protested, gesturing helplessly at the bowl like it might leap to defend him.

Castorice giggled behind her hand. “Yes, well…the owner of this restaurant seems to like you a great deal, Lord Phainon.”

“He fixed their roof the other day,” Mydeimos chimed in, deadpan.

Phainon hunched his shoulders a little, glaring at his rival. “That was one time—”

Hyacine let out a small sigh. “That isn’t the point. Whether people feed you out of gratitude or pity doesn’t change the fact you’re not getting enough real nutrition.”

“I can cook!” Phainon insisted, straightening up indignantly. “Or—or buy my own meals—”

“Oh?” Castorice arched a brow. “Then why, exactly, are you always showing up at Mydei’s house every morning like an abandoned pet?”

“I—well—that’s—” He looked around for support and found none.

Hyacine leaned forward, her expression softer than her tone. “Phainon, nobody’s saying you can’t cook or look after yourself. It’s just…even when you do, you eat whatever’s put in front of you without thinking if it’s enough, or balanced.”

“I—”

She continued gently, “It isn’t just that you’re eating too little. It’s that sometimes you only eat what’s convenient. That’s not the same as taking care of yourself.”

Phainon fell quiet, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

“…I do try,” he said after a moment, voice small.

“I know you do,” Hyacine said, her tone softening further. “We’re just worried.”

And for once, he didn’t try to argue.

Phainon didn’t argue much after that.

If anything, he looked uncharacteristically thoughtful as he prodded at the last of his meal.

The next day, he showed up again—of course he did—but this time he had a small notebook tucked under his arm.

“…What’s that?” Hyacine asked warily.

“It’s…um.” He cleared his throat. “You said I don’t pay attention to what I eat, so…I started writing it down.”

Mydeimos and Castorice both looked up from their cups, clearly intrigued.

Hyacine blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He flipped it open to the first page, squinting at the scrawled notes. “Breakfast, lunch, snacks—everything. I figured you could look it over.”

She accepted the notebook with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

Over the next week, he kept it diligently. Every day, he handed it to her without fail, sometimes with a sheepish look.

On the seventh day, Hyacine finally sat down to read the entire thing properly.

Her expression shifted steadily from polite interest, to confusion, to utter disbelief.

“…Phainon,” she said slowly, her voice dangerously calm.

He froze. “Uh. Yes?”

She turned the notebook around so he could see the page. “You ate…one roll and two pieces of candied fruit for breakfast.”

“…Yes?”

“And then…you skipped lunch—”

“I got busy—”

“—and for dinner, you had three plates of roasted meat, four pastries, half a pie, and something the owner called ‘the big bowl special.’ ”

Phainon looked genuinely puzzled. “…I don’t see the problem?”

Hyacine pressed her fingers to her temples. “The problem is that you apparently consume the caloric equivalent of a small nation’s rations in one sitting and then nothing for twelve hours.”

Castorice burst out laughing, nearly choking on her tea.

Mydeimos didn’t even try to hide the smirk. “I told you,” he drawled, “he’s a bottomless pit.”

Phainon flushed bright red. “I—I’m trying!”

“I know you are,” Hyacine sighed, closing the notebook with a soft thud. “And I appreciate the effort. But you are terrible at this.”

“…Does this mean you’ll keep helping me?” he mumbled.

Her expression softened despite herself. “Yes. Clearly someone has to.”

After the notebook incident, Hyacine finally accepted that drastic measures were required.

So she enlisted the only person stubborn enough to help her enforce them.

“Mydeimos,” she said one evening, cornering him in the kitchen while Phainon was sprawled on the floor nearby, reading a cookbook upside down. “We need to make a plan.”

He didn’t look up from chopping vegetables. “A plan for what?”

“For making sure your stray doesn’t die of malnutrition.”

Mydeimos sighed, set the knife down, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “…Fine.”

And so, over the course of an hour, they worked out a complete meal schedule—three balanced meals a day, plus sensible snacks. No more entire pies for dinner. No more skipping meals because he was “busy.”

Hyacine brought in detailed lists of nutrients. Mydeimos contributed practical recipes and a grim determination not to let Phainon wriggle out of anything.

When they finally presented the plan to Phainon, he blinked at the stack of neatly labeled papers, then looked up at them like they’d just invented fire.

“…So…this is what I eat now?”

“Yes,” Hyacine said firmly.

He looked back down at the list, reading it with the solemnity of a holy text.

“…Okay,” he said simply.

“…That’s it?” Mydeimos demanded. “You’re not going to argue?”

Phainon shrugged, unconcerned. “Food is food. If you’re both going to the trouble, I’ll eat it.”

Hyacine had to bite her tongue to keep from smiling.

So it began.

Every morning, Mydeimos would set out the prescribed breakfast, and Phainon would sit and eat it obediently. Lunch and dinner followed without complaint.

And though he would never admit it out loud, Mydeimos found the sight of him finishing an entire plate— one plate, not six—strangely satisfying.

Phainon seemed… surprisingly happy with it. He seemed fuller- less sluggish. Mydei can't help but preen just a little at the effects that his cooking has on the body.

Phainon though seems just happy to be fed everyday without having to think about it.

-

Cipher happened to catch wind of the whole arrangement during her monthly visit to Okhema.

She’d stopped for lunch with Phainon—he’d ordered only a single steak, to her bafflement—and afterward didn't even sneak any snacks on their walk back?
Maybe the kid she brought to Ohkema years ago is finally learning he doesn't have to eat everything in sight- it won't be unavailable tomorrow.
she wandered to the baths, half out of habit, and half to feel the humm of Aglaeas threads. 

On her way in, she ran into Castorice and Hyacine, who were deep in quiet conversation.

“Ah, Cipher,” Castorice greeted warmly. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Monthly check-in,” Cipher said with a casual wave. “I can’t let you all have too much peace without me.”

Hyacine smiled faintly. “You just missed Phainon.”

“Oh, I know.” Cipher tilted her head, her grin growing sly. “He was being strangely restrained at lunch. Only ordered one steak.”

Hyacine sighed. “Yes…he’s on a meal plan now. We’re trying to help him get a better balance.”

Cipher’s laughter rang out, echoing down the tiled hall, her tail flicking in amusement. “Awhhh—poor little Snowy’s been put on a diet ?”

“He agreed to it,” Castorice pointed out gently.

“I’m sure he did.” Cipher shook her head, still grinning. “He’s always been like that—give him anything to eat and he’ll just…take it. No question.”

Her tone softened a fraction, a shadow flickering in her bright eyes.

“…You know,” she went on quietly, “it’s not exactly a new habit. When he was in his hometown after it burned, he survived off whatever he could scrounge for weeks. Couldn’t keep anything down half the time.”

Hyacine and Castorice exchanged a look.

“And after I…found him,” Cipher continued, her voice lower still, “he was all bones and bruises, didn’t even have proper shoes. For months on the road, he ate whatever we could get—roots, scraps, nothing decent. He just…never learned to expect more.”

There was a beat of silence.

Cipher cleared her throat and flicked her tail again, trying to shake it off. “Anyway—Agy and the Tribios sisters know more about that than I do. But…keep up the good work. He looked better today than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

Hyacine’s expression gentled. “He was glowing at lunch,” she admitted.

Cipher’s grin returned, though it was softer now. “Maybe he should stay away from the greasy tavern slop more often. Though don’t tell him I said that—he’ll pout for a week.”

Castorice smiled. “Your secret’s safe with us.”

-

Later that afternoon, Aglaea stepped into the quiet courtyard behind the old archives. She was expecting to find the place empty, but instead, there he was.

Phainon sat cross-legged on the low stone bench, sunlight tangled in his white hair. He was unwrapping a neatly packed lunch—simple, balanced, unmistakably Mydeimos’ cooking.

He didn’t see her at first, too absorbed in carefully arranging the little containers. One for grains. One for roasted vegetables. One small sweet tucked in the corner.

When he finally looked up, his face lit with shy satisfaction. “Ah—Lady Aglaea. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” she replied, her voice gentler than she meant it to be.

He hesitated, then lifted the small box slightly, almost like he was showing off. “Mydei made this. And…um. I’m actually eating on time today.”

Something in her chest went warm, soft in a way she rarely allowed herself.

“I can see that,” she said, her lips curving into a smile.

Phainon looked down again, clearly trying not to fidget. “Hyacine said it was important to…try.”

Aglaea walked over and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She simply took in the sight of him—alive, healthier than she’d ever seen him, surrounded by people who, in their own odd ways, cherished him.

It struck her all at once how far he’d come.

From that starving boy she’d glimpsed in the ashes of Aedes Elysia to this—someone who could accept help, who trusted enough to let others care for him.

Her throat tightened, but her smile didn’t waver.

“I’m proud of you,” she said softly.

His eyes went wide, stunned, and he looked down again, cheeks pink with embarrassed pleasure.

And Aglaea thought, not for the first time, how deeply the bonds he’d created ran—how much brighter the world was, simply because he was still here to share it.
She sat next to the boy as he ate, delicately like she taught him- that contagious smile on his face while he savored every bite. She felt that familiar feeling in her chest, one she prayed to the Titans to never take away, her affection for the friends, the students, for her Chrysos heirs. 

Chapter Text

“I’m hungry.”

“Sleep it off, Deliverer.”

“Ugh… fine!” Phainon groaned, rubbing his face. “See you tomorrow, Mydei?”

“Yeah, yeah. Deliverer.”

When the two men finally parted ways, Phainon found himself in a surprisingly good mood. The meals Mydei and Hyacine helped him put together always left him feeling better—satisfied in a way he rarely managed alone.

And yet… he still tended to be hungry. Almost always. Even now, with the taste of warm bread still lingering on his tongue, there was a hollow place in his belly he knew would return in an hour or two.

“My mom and dad used to spend a lot of money on food,” he admitted once, watching Hyacine giggle as she set another plate in front of him. “It was kind of ridiculous.”

“It’s all about when and what you eat!” she chirped, smoothing her apron. “You can eat a lot more than the average person. I think your body just… processes and burns through energy faster. Like a furnace.”

He laughed under his breath, already reaching for the next bite.

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it.”
Phainon chuckled at the memory. He really was thankful for Hyacine, Castorice, and—most of all—Mydei. Titans, he wasn’t sure how he was ever going to live without Mydei’s cooking now. The Kremonan was surprisingly skilled at culinary arts, a fact that still amazed him no matter how many meals they shared.

Either way, Phainon slumped down onto his couch, tossing pieces of armor aside with a contented sigh. His stomach gave an insistent growl, but he ignored it for now. Rest sounded better than anything else.

When sleep finally graced him, Phainon dreamed of hell.

Blood—golden, incandescent—spattered across pale marble. Mydei, eyes dulling, collapsing into his arms. The searing agony of a blade driven straight through his own chest. The consuming, blinding revelation that burned through every vein as everything he loved slipped away. Voices, wishes, Cries. A haunting hymn he used to hear every night. 

He awoke with a ragged gasp, heart slamming against his ribs.

Whatever else he’d been dreaming of dissolved into nothing as he struggled to catch his breath.

He pressed a hand to his sternum, half expecting to find fresh blood there. But there was nothing—only skin, slick with cold sweat.

His stomach twisted, hollow and queasy with the phantom echo of pain. He couldn’t sit still.

So, before the sun had even cleared the rooftops, he slipped out into the quiet streets.

The town was peaceful at this hour—only the earliest merchants setting up their stalls, the air still cool and damp. He drifted without direction, hoping movement might settle the ache in his chest.

At some point, he paused at the little fruit stand on the corner. The kindly woman behind the counter—he’d never actually asked her name—smiled and pressed a bundle of ripe pears into his hands.

“You look like you need something sweet,” she said gently.

He tried to smile back. It felt brittle, but she didn’t comment.

“…Thank you,” he murmured. He told himself he’d get back to Hyacine’s carefully written meal plan tomorrow.

Maybe.

He walked a little farther, winding down the narrow alleys until he reached the familiar street that led to Mydeimos’ door.

He stopped.

His hand hovered halfway to knocking, his heart thudding painfully behind his ribs.

He could picture it—Mydeimos’ tired scowl, the inevitable sigh, the way he’d quietly set out another cup and pretend it was no trouble. The solid, infuriating comfort of just being there.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He didn’t want to be a burden. Not today.

Even if every part of him was screaming for someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t alone.

So he turned away, hugging the pears to his chest, and kept walking as the first golden light crept over the town.

He sat perched on a familiar rooftop, legs dangling over the edge.

This was the place he and Mydeimos had sparred so many times before—sunlight glinting off blades, laughter echoing across the tiles.

Today, it felt impossibly quiet.

The dream still clung to the edges of his mind, refusing to fade. He couldn’t remember what it had been about—only that when he woke, his heart felt scraped raw.

One fruit. Then another. By the time he realized it, all ten of them were gone.

“…Whoops,” he muttered.

With a sigh, he pulled out the little notebook Hyacine had given him and dutifully wrote it down. Ten pears—breakfast.

Maybe he could balance it out later. He’d have to ask Hyacine for advice. She’d probably scold him—again—but at least she’d know what to do.

He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders. Everything felt sore and hollow, as if he’d fought for hours. But there was nothing he could recall—no training, no injuries.

Just that dream.

A flash of blood. A burning in his stomach—then spreading, consuming him from the inside out.

His stomach churned, nausea crawling up his throat, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t think he could.

He felt…stuck.

After a long moment, he tipped his head back and let out a soft, humorless laugh.

“C’mon, Deliverer,” he murmured under his breath. “Snap out of it.”

His gaze drifted to the far end of the rooftop, to where Mydeimos always stood when he was lecturing him about his footwork.

Mydei.

He should go ask him.

He told himself it was because Mydeimos knew more about these things—about old wounds, about the past.

But really, he just needed an excuse to hear his voice. To feel like something in this endless cycle made sense.

And maybe—just maybe—to remember he wasn’t alone.

Wait, endless cycle?

Phainon’s headache only feels worse. Even the words he's thinking of don't make sense anymore.
He watched the sun climb over the rooftops, its light washing the tiles in soft gold.

The warmth did little to chase away the chill in his chest.

He shifted his grip on the edge of the roof, feeling the sticky residue of pear juice on his fingers—he’d forgotten to wipe them off. It clung there, tacky and uncomfortable.

He thought about going home. Freshening up. Maybe lying down again.

But something about the quiet here—the stillness before the city fully woke—made it easier to breathe.

At least for a little while.

When he finally moved, it was slow, almost reluctant. His steps carried him down winding alleys, past shopkeepers opening their shutters and students hurrying to morning lectures.

Somehow, without really deciding to, he found himself at the grove.

It hadn’t been that long since he’d graduated—weeks, maybe months—but lately he visited more often than not.

The place looked the same as always. Arching marble colonnades, pale stone pathways dappled with morning sun, roots etched into architecture and the old cypresses standing in their quiet watch.

He slipped inside almost without thinking.

The halls were starting to fill, the low hum of scholars exchanging notes and half-asleep greetings wrapping around him like a familiar blanket.

He nodded to a few old friends in passing, offering a tired smile when someone called his name. He stopped once to help a student adjust a stack of unsteady books. Another time, to answer a question about some kind of odd question about the black tide.

Anything to distract himself from the sick, hollow feeling coiled in his gut.

But nothing worked.

No amount of small talk, no comforting ritual of walking these familiar corridors, could shake the dread that had settled under his ribs—like something waiting to break loose.

He rubbed his palm absently over his chest, as though he could smooth it away.

It didn’t help.

He ran into Professor Anaxa by pure coincidence.

Or perhaps inevitability—Phainon wasn’t sure there was a difference, where the Grove was concerned.

The older man emerged from one of the side halls, arms folded behind his back as always. He stopped short when he spotted him.

“Phainon.”

Anaxa’s tone carried the crisp edge of a reprimand, but when he looked closer—really looked—his expression shifted.

“Professor—” Phainon began, trying for a sheepish smile.

“You look ill.”

He winced. “I didn’t have the best sleep.”

“I see,” Anaxa said evenly, though there was the faintest crease between his brows. “And you decided to come to the Grove—a place of study, of rigorous thought—with a tired mind?”

His voice grew drier with every word.

“…In what world,” Anaxa continued, “would that possibly help?”

Phainon laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Too late for apologies,” Anaxa sighed, though his tone softened by a degree. “Come with me.”

Phainon blinked. “Where—?”

“Somewhere you can sit without pretending you’re fine,” he said firmly, already turning on his heel.

And because it was easier than arguing he simply followed.

The frailer man led him through hall after hall, up winding stairs and narrow passages he’d never bothered exploring as a student. By the time they emerged into the high, domed chamber near the top of the Grove, Phainon realized they were in some kind of observatory.

A great glass skylight flooded the space with gentle morning light. Instruments crowded every surface—delicate brass devices, half-finished contraptions, old star charts.

Anaxa gestured to a low, cushioned bench near the center.

“Sit, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

“You know, Professor Anaxa, you can just use—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“Ah—sorry, Prof—”

“Just sit.”

He sat, sheepish, hands folded in his lap.

Anaxa moved around the room in measured, unhurried strides. He didn’t speak again, nor did he offer any explanation for why Phainon was there. Instead, he picked up a small brass mechanism and began adjusting it, his fingers deft and precise.

Phainon didn’t dare interrupt.

He watched in silence as the older man worked—tweaking gears, swapping out tiny parts, tightening a series of screws with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times.

There was something strangely calming about it.

The rhythmic clicks of metal against metal, the muted scrape of parchment as Anaxa consulted an old schematic—each small sound settled around Phainon like a lullaby.

For the first time since he’d woken from that dream, his mind felt…empty.

Peaceful.

He rested his chin on his hand, letting his eyes follow the sure movements of Anaxa’s hands. He should have asked why he’d been brought here—should have protested, or at least offered to help—but somehow it didn’t seem important anymore.

Eventually, the tension drained out of his body. His eyelids grew heavy.

He tried, halfheartedly, to fight it. He didn’t want to be rude. He should stay awake.

But the soft morning light and the quiet clinks of brass were too much.

Before he knew it, he’d slipped under, breathing slow and even.

Anaxa didn’t look up until the last piece of the mechanism was in place.

And when he finally turned, his expression was thoughtful—almost fond—as he watched Phainon sleep.

—-

When Hyacine got the call— “Come pick up Phainon.” —from Anaxa of all people, she nearly dropped her Teleslate.

Anaxa.

She could count on one hand the times he’d texted directly to her, and while they had spoken on numerous occasions none of them had involved any tone resembling… well this.

Still, she obeyed without question, though by the time she’d climbed the endless flights of stairs—through more wards and security glyphs than she could name—her patience was hanging by a frayed thread.

I understand why he lives like this, she thought, dragging herself up the last step, but Titans, I’m so tired.

The door swung open at her touch, and she stopped dead in the threshold.

Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, this was not one of them.

Anaxa—The Great Performer, the most inscrutable, blasphemous scholar ever to grace the land (or so she heard some people say)—sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-finished brass mechanism at his side.

And Phainon, the Deliverer of Okhema himself, was curled in his lap, sleeping with his cheek pillowed against Anaxa’s robes.

“Um—?” Hyacine began, her voice cracking.

“Quiet,” Anaxa hissed without looking up. He pressed two fingertips gently to Phainon’s temple. “Nightmares. Possibly a curse—more likely the detritus of his past. Either way…he just stopped having them.”

Hyacine blinked. “You… did something?”

“I merely recalibrated the ambient resonance,” Anaxa muttered, as if this were the simplest explanation in the world. “It seemed to calm him.”

She stepped closer, careful not to disrupt the delicate circle of runes chalked on the floor.

Phainon looked…utterly at peace.

His breathing was slow and easy. Even the tension that always clung to his shoulders had melted away, replaced by the soft weight of sleep.

“Awh…Snowy looks so…” She trailed off, fighting a strange warmth in her throat. “…So peaceful now.”

“Yes, well,” Anaxa grumbled, adjusting the little brass device that was still faintly ticking in time with Phainon’s breath. “I would prefer not to repeat the process. It’s quite draining.”

She studied the contraption—some kind of resonance stabilizer, though she didn’t pretend to fully understand it.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice low, “he really does trust you.”

Anaxa’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second.

“…He is very foolish,” he said quietly.

But he didn’t move his hand from Phainon’s temple.

Hyacine smiled, her heart soft and aching all at once.

Phainon always carried some kind of weight—more than any one person should. Being the Deliverer meant everyone expected something of him.

Strength. Reassurance. An unbreakable will.

She remembered all too well the times she’d begged him to come to her more often. To let her help when he was hurt, to stop pretending he was invincible.

And every time, he’d just given her that tired, crooked smile—like he was sorry for existing—and promised he’d “try.”

Even then, even when he was bleeding or exhausted or shaking from some nightmare, he’d insist on waiting in the long line of the wounded, patient and quiet, never once using his title to push ahead.

When she finally reached him, he’d always say the same thing:

“Just a small amount of your time, Hyacine. I know you’re busy.”

Her fingers curled loosely against her palm.

Looking at him now—finally resting, finally unguarded—she felt something loosen in her chest.

He deserved peace. Even if it was only for an hour.

By the time Phainon finally stirred, the sun had shifted high overhead.

Anaxa sat exactly where he had been, a leather-bound book open in one hand. His other hand rested lightly in Phainon’s hair, absently carding through the white strands as he read.

Hyacine almost smiled at the sight.

She watched as Phainon’s eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering across his face as he tried to register why everything felt so…comfortable.

He blinked up at Anaxa, and the older man glanced down, arching an eyebrow as if to say well?

Phainon opened his mouth, closed it, and flushed a deep pink when he realized exactly whose lap he was still using as a pillow.

Anaxa only sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair gently from his forehead.

“Awake, at last.”

Hyacine pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her grin. She’d never seen him look so utterly disarmed.

As much as Anaxa would never admit it, he was more than just a teacher to them.

More like a mentor.

Dare she say—even a father, she thought.

Cass and Phainon had both said as much in quieter moments—late-night conversations under moonlit colonnades, when none of them could sleep.

They’d sat there comparing notes, each trying to outdo the other with examples of how the famously inscrutable professor was, in fact, the softest-hearted person alive—if you knew where to look.

Seeing them now—Anaxa’s hand still resting protectively in Phainon’s hair—she knew it wasn’t an exaggeration.

She let this go on, just for a little longer.

“In the future, I hope we can be just as close, just like this”

She didn't mean to say it outloud. But she's glad she did.

Chapter Text

“I’m hungry…like… really hungry”
It was mid-day now. Phainon was staying with Aglaea, some political scrolls abandoned in favor of the soft winds drifting through the garden. Even here, surrounded by the subtle perfume of flowering vines and the hush of distant fountains, his appetite clung to him like a second skin.

Phainon shifted where he sat, arms folded loosely across his stomach. He kept glancing past Aglaea’s shoulder as if hoping a servant might appear with a tray. But no one came.

His hunger was never really quiet. Even when he had eaten moments before, it always returned—like a tide, insistent and aching. Today it felt worse, somehow. He rubbed at his ribs and let out a small, weary sigh.

“That meal plan they put you on…” Aglaea began gently, “is it really that difficult?”

“For a man like me?” He gave a tired half-smile. “Or more so… for a stomach like mine.”

He laughed, that soft bubbly earnest kind he always did while she slid him a small fruit for him to temper himself with. While he ate happily he had the tendency to hum, a small happy quirk Aglaea enjoyed about the others company. 

It didn't take long, but this time it was so softly she almost missed it, he began to hum. A slow, low melody threaded itself between them, winding and uneven, carrying a heaviness that pressed into her chest.

Aglaea tilted her head, watching the way his gaze had gone distant again. “What is that song?”

He didn’t look up.

“…Just something from home, probably,” he said after a moment. His voice was quieter than before, tinged with something that sounded almost like shame.

She had heard him speak of his old city in fragments—scattered memories he only dared share when he thought no one was really listening. Little things: the way the fields of golden wheat caught the sunrise, the smell of open-air kitchens where whole villages gathered to cook, the bright noise of children running with baskets of flatbread. Sometimes, when he was especially tired or especially full, he would tenderly share the hymns the elders would sing in the evenings.

But this song felt different.

It wasn’t a hymn of celebration or devotion.

It was a lament—something he hummed when hunger gnawed too hard to ignore, when the memory of warm, plentiful meals felt as distant as the city itself.

Even without words, she could feel it—a grieving for something long gone, something that perhaps had never been whole to begin with.

She didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t ask him to stop.

Instead, she let the gentle, sorrowful tune fill the quiet between them, and she thought that sometimes the greatest kindness you could give was simply to bear witness.

When Phainon finally let the last note fade, silence pooled between them.

Aglaea looked over, expecting to find him embarrassed or sheepish.

But he was simply still.

His expression had settled into something rare and unguarded—more solemn than she’d ever seen it, as though he were staring straight back into a memory too old and too deep to fully name.

She already missed his smile.

Missed the way he tried—always—to lighten the air around him, even when he was the one suffocating.

So she rose, brushing grass from her dress, and stepped closer. Perhaps this time it wasn't just his appetite on his mind, this time he must have much more swirling thoughts going on, and so for today she will once more spoil him.

Gently, she extended her hand.

“Shall we head somewhere? Perhaps to relax, then to eat?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

It was an invitation, not an order—something to remind him that the present was still here, waiting, and he didn’t have to stay trapped in the past alone.

Phainon blinked, as if surfacing from a long way down.

Slowly, he looked up at her, and though the sadness hadn’t left his eyes, something lighter flickered there too.

“…Yes,” he murmured, his voice rough. He reached for her hand.

“Let’s.”

-

Mydeimos was never one for fine arts.

He understood them—respected them, even—but they rarely stirred anything lasting in him. Music, especially, had always felt like something distant and ornamental, meant for other people to get sentimental about.

That opinion shifted the moment he heard Phainon’s voice echo through the empty baths.

He paused on the threshold, the scent of steam and minerals curling around him, and for a moment he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Everyone was used to Phainon humming.

He did it absentmindedly, always had—filling the air with some tuneless melody to smooth over awkwardness, to make everyone else feel at ease. It was one of the many ways Phainon navigated the world with more grace than Mydeimos could ever claim.

But this was different.

Aglaea stood nearby, her arms folded, watching with a solemn stillness he couldn’t quite read.

Phainon was perched on the wide stone ledge, his feet dangling in the steaming water. His head was bowed, silver hair falling forward to hide his expression.

And the song—soft as it was—felt like it scraped something raw and vulnerable from the air itself.

It sounded…sad.
Not performative or polite. Not the kind of sadness you shared to make yourself look gentle.

Real.

The kind that came from old wounds you didn’t expect anyone to see.
For a moment, Mydeimos didn’t know what to do.

He’d always assumed Phainon’s cheerfulness was simply a facet of his nature—another of his effortless strengths. But hearing that voice shaped into something so aching, so honest…

It made something tight and unfamiliar pull behind his ribs.

He didn’t step forward.

Didn’t interrupt.

He just stood there, silent, and listened.

By the time Aglaea finally turned, Mydeimos knew she’d sensed him standing there for a while.

“Mydei,” she greeted evenly, her voice carrying that faint note of wry tolerance she reserved only for him. 

Phainon twisted around, brightening so fast it made his scowl deepen on reflex.

“Mydei!”

“You were late this morning,” Mydeimos snapped, crossing his arms over his chest like that might help fend off the warmth in his throat.

He could physically see the gears turning behind His deliverer’s—( Woah. Hey. ) THE deliverer's expression. He tried not to think about it, but there it was anyway.

“Ah—sorry about that…” Phainon rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking guiltily to the bathwater. “I…didn’t sleep well, so I ended up at the Grove early this morning and i just got caught up.”

His voice trailed off, the tips of his ears pink.

Mydeimos wasn’t stupid.

He could see exactly what Aglaea was doing—getting the Deliverer to slow down for once, to sit still in a place where no one expected him to be anything. Insane for someone who put the pressures of “the deliverer” onto him anyways. Not to mention she had sent him a very “bring Phainon some food?” message he can't believe he listened to.

But, it was working, mostly.

Anyone could read the signs in Phainon if they looked: the way his shoulders were still a little too tight, the way his eyes drooped like he hadn’t rested properly in days.

He sighed, softer than he meant to.

“You’re hopeless,” he muttered, though the bite had already left the words.

Phainon looked up, sheepish, and offered that same bright, unguarded smile.

“…But you’re here now, so… we still got the rest of the day!” he said quietly, like that was enough.

Mydeimos pressed a hand to his forehead.

Titans help him, he really was here– what is he doing? He’d even, somehow, brought the man lunch—neatly packed, each container sealed from this morning. 

Packed by a king.

Insanity.

He sighed again, more heavily this time, but it was already too late.

Phainon had climbed out of the bath and padded over barefoot, hair damp and sticking to his cheeks from the steam. He stopped in front of Mydeimos and tilted his head, still smiling like nothing in the world was wrong.

Over Phainon’s shoulder, Aglaea was watching them with that infuriatingly satisfied look she got whenever her meddling paid off.

That scheming woman, he thought, pressing his thumb to the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t even want to guess how many strings she’d pulled behind the scenes– he didn't even ask how she dragged him from his normal schedule to here anyways. 

Not to even mention somehow— somehow —he found himself sitting there not five minutes later, with Phainon at his side, happily working his way through the lunch he’d brought.

Every few bites, Phainon would look over as if to make sure he was really there, and Mydeimos would scowl just to keep up appearances.

But he couldn’t deny the truth of it.

Watching that exhausted, haunted expression slowly ease off Phainon’s face—seeing the color return to his cheeks as he ate—was…satisfying.

Even comforting.

Hopeless, he told himself again, but by now, it didn’t sound like an insult anymore.

“Mydeimos—this is so good.”

Phainon looked positively luminous, and Mydeimos didn’t mean that metaphorically. He could swear there was some faint, golden aura shimmering around the other man like an afterimage of a god.

…perhaps it was just the sun who seemed to love the man. 

He scowled reflexively. “You’re glowing again.”

Phainon only beamed brighter.

Then, mid-bite, his expression shifted, thoughtful.

“…I’ve been having this strange dream lately,” he said, voice softer, almost hesitant.

Mydeimos’ attention sharpened.

“It’s…kind of horrifying, honestly,” Phainon went on. “My home town is engulfed in flames, and I’m fighting that black-clad swordmaster. The one from my hometown but this time I'm older—”

He finished chewing, then let out a small, satisfied sigh.

“Somehow, in the end, I always manage to defeat him. But right after that…everything goes white. And I wake up with a splitting headache.”

He said it so simply, like he was describing the weather.

Mydeimos felt something cold and heavy settle behind his ribs.

“…Is that why you’ve been humming that same tune recently?” he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Phainon shrugged, glancing away. “The swordmaster in my dreams—he was singing it. It’s just…stuck in my head.”

He looked back up, searching Mydeimos’ face with a strange, fragile curiosity.

“It sounds quite sad, doesn’t it?”

Mydeimos didn’t answer right away.

He just watched him, the way the sunlight slipped across his features, how easily he could smile even while describing something that sounded like the end of the world.

“…Yes,” he said finally, his voice low.

“It does.”

“Anyways—”

Phainon’s smile returned, bright and fearless, as if none of the heaviness from before had ever touched him. In a flash of pale light, his greatsword materialized in his hand, the blade gleaming against the marble.

“Up for a spar?”

Mydeimos huffed a quiet laugh, the edge of his own grin tugging free despite himself. So quick to recover. So infuriatingly resilient.

But he never backed down from a challenge.

“Don’t get distracted,” he warned, drawing his own weapon.

Phainon’s eyes sparkled. “I won’t.”

–

When Aglaea brought up Phainon’s night terrors with Hyacine later, the younger woman’s shoulders slumped under the weight of guilt.

“…He’s been eating better,” Hyacine murmured, twisting her fingers together. “Maybe the sudden change in diet isn’t helping his mental state—too many disruptions all at once—”

“Don’t fret, Hyacine,” Aglaea interrupted gently.

She waited until Hyacine looked up before continuing.

“Phainon has suffered from nightmares ever since he came to the city as a younger boy,” she said. “Cipher confirmed as much—when she first brought him here, she said their travels were plagued by his insomnia.”

Hyacine’s eyes widened. “Ah—I see… Thank you, Lady Aglaea.”

Her hands slowly unclenched, though she still looked troubled.

“…And don’t worry,” she added, her voice steadier, “I’ll make sure he takes care of himself.”

Aglaea’s lips curved into the faintest smile. She reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Hyacine’s cheek in an almost motherly gesture.

“Of course.”

Her gaze turned distant, thoughtful.

“Doot—doot!”

A tiny nudge at her hip made her glance down. Little Ica had waddled over, the small unicorn blinking up at her with solemn, beady eyes.

“Aww… it’s okay,” she murmured, bending to scratch gently behind its ears. “I’ll just have to do my best.”

As she straightened, she picked up the little journal Phainon had dropped off earlier that day. She flipped it open, expecting to see neat records of proper meals—finally on track.

Instead, on the first page, in his precise, earnest handwriting, she read:

10 pears.

She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.

“Little Ica,” she whispered conspiratorially, “you have some competition.”

-

Later that afternoon, with her market baskets tucked neatly under her arms, she made her way back through the winding streets—only to pause, startled, at the sight above her.

On the rooftop, Mydeimos and Phainon were sparring, blade to gauntlet flashing in the slanting afternoon sun.

Both of them were grinning ear to ear, moving with the easy familiarity of old rivals.

“Lord Phainon! Lord Mydei!” she called up, shading her eyes.

She hadn’t really expected either of them to respond mid-swing, but Phainon immediately turned—just in time for Mydeimos’ fist to miss him by an inch.

He yelped, nearly losing his balance and pitching straight off the roof.

“Lady Hyacine! Hello!” he called back, voice bright as ever, as though he hadn’t almost plummeted to the street.

“I brought some food!” she called up, fighting a laugh.

She watched as Mydeimos reached out and grabbed Phainon by the collar, hauling him back onto the tiles with an exasperated scowl.

Phainon said something she couldn’t hear, waving his free hand defensively. Mydeimos pointed his finger at him in a way that could only be described as deeply scolding.

Hyacine just smiled to herself, warmth easing through her chest.

Judging by the way Phainon was still grinning—and the fact he’d nearly fallen off a roof twice—she had no doubt he was in a much better mood now.

After they finally climbed down from the roof—Mydeimos still muttering under his breath about reckless fools—they settled together in the shade of a low awning near the courtyard.

It had somehow become…comfortable.

Hyacine realized she no longer felt the old nerves about being around Mydeimos. Not when Phainon was there to fill every quiet space with chatter.

“This is so good, Hyacine—” Phainon declared around a mouthful of rice. “Is it from that little place below the marmoreal palace gates? I’ve been there once—the owner was so sweet. She gave me extra bread last time I went and told me I looked too skinny and—”

Goodness, he filled space too well.

Mydeimos sat cross-legged beside him, arms folded, appearing to listen with a kind of weary resignation. But every so often, Hyacine caught the faintest edge of something almost like…fondness in his expression.

“Yes,” she said, smiling as she reached for the extra bags. “That’s the place. I thought I remembered you mentioning it, so…”

She set the parcels on the ground between them, her smile widening.

“Today can be your cheat day.”

Phainon froze mid-bite, his eyes going wide.

“You—you remembered?”

He took one of the bags from her hands as if it might vanish if he moved too fast. With exaggerated care, he peeled it open to reveal two more bowls brimming with fresh food.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked up at her, bright-eyed and amazed in a way that made something warm unfurl in her chest.

“…Thank you,” he whispered, a little breathless.

Hyacine laughed softly. “Of course.”

And when she glanced over, she could swear Mydeimos was doing everything in his power not to look too obviously pleased.

Between Mydeimos and Phainon, the two of them somehow managed to eat twelve entire bowls of food.

Hyacine, by comparison, only finished what Phainon teasingly called a “measly two.”

Little Ica…well, she decided she didn’t even want to think about how much the tiny unicorn had eaten. It was probably best for everyone’s peace of mind.

“The owner thought the order was all for me when I asked for fifteen bowls,” she admitted with a sigh, leaning back against the wall, her belly pleasantly full.

Phainon’s eyes widened, and Mydeimos actually looked faintly alarmed.

“I had to explain it was for you two as well,” Hyacine went on, smiling, “and then she insisted on giving it to me for half price.”

Phainon let out a bright, easy laugh, the sound so full of life she felt her chest ache with affection.

“Apparently you frequent that place pretty often, Snowy,” she teased.

He ducked his head, grinning. “I do, admittedly. Well…Mydei and I both do.”

Mydeimos, sitting with his arms folded and a mostly empty bowl resting by his knee, gave a slow, dignified nod.

“After spars,” he confirmed, as though this were perfectly normal behavior.

Hyacine looked between them, her smile growing.

“It’s nice,” she said softly, “that you have somewhere you both go.”

Phainon glanced at Mydeimos—who did not quite look at him back—and then back to her.

“yeah!…It is,” he agreed, and for once, he didn’t fill the quiet that followed.

It didn’t need filling.

After a while, they simply sat together, letting the warm hush of afternoon settle over them.

For once, there was no bickering, no teasing—only the easy stillness that sometimes happened when they were all too tired to pretend they didn’t enjoy each other’s company.

Phainon leaned back on his palms, his eyes turned toward the bright sky overhead. A soft hum slipped past his lips, so gentle it almost blended into the rustle of leaves.

Hyacine felt herself go still.

It wasn’t the usual tune he defaulted to when he was filling silence—some pleasant little melody to soothe everyone else.

This was something else.

The notes were low, winding, almost mournful.

Mydeimos, who never paid overt attention to music, went completely quiet, watching Phainon with a searching expression.

Hyacine folded her hands in her lap, listening closely.

The song felt…odd.

Like a memory that didn’t belong to her—one full of loss she couldn’t name. It didn’t carry the comforting warmth his humming usually brought. Instead, it was the kind of tune that left an ache behind in its place.

When the last note faded, the quiet that followed seemed deeper somehow.

Phainon exhaled slowly, his gaze still fixed somewhere far away.

“…That one again,” Mydeimos said finally, his voice low.

Phainon startled as if he’d just realized he’d been humming aloud.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, glancing down at his hands. “It…it’s just stuck in my head.”

Hyacine hesitated. “What song is it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s…I keep dreaming about it. The swordmaster—the one in black—he sings it every time, right before everything burns.”

Mydeimos’ frown deepened.

Phainon looked up, eyes troubled but earnest.

“It feels important,” he said quietly. “But…I’m not really sure why it’s sticking with me so much.”

Hyacine reached over, covering his hand with hers.

“…Then we’ll help you figure it out,” she said, voice soft but certain.

Mydeimos didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Phainon—steady, unflinching—was an unspoken promise all its own.

And for a moment, even with the ache still lingering in the air, Phainon looked almost at peace.

“We could…make this into a thing,” Phainon suggested after a thoughtful pause, twirling his chopsticks idly between his fingers. “I mean…meet up frequently for lunch?”

Mydeimos let out a long-suffering sigh, tipping his head back against the wall.

“You all are turning my schedule into a disaster.”

Phainon leaned in, eyes bright and hopeful. “So…is that a no, Mydeimos—?”

“…I didn’t say no.”

Hyacine clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. Titans, they were hopeless.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on the…peace you two already have with each other,” she said, her tone all careful innocence, though her eyes were gleaming far too brightly.

Mydeimos squinted at her. “Peace?”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re not intruding. If anything, you keep the conversation civilized.”

Mydeimos rolled his eyes. “And prevent you from eating fifteen bowls of fruits.”

Phainon gasped, scandalized. “ That was one time. ”

“Twice.”

“One and a half times.”

Hyacine pressed her lips together, determined not to start laughing. Instead, she cleared her throat delicately and tried again, her voice light and far too casual.

“I just mean…you two spend a lot of time together, don’t you?”

Phainon nodded without hesitation. “Well, of course. We spar, we eat together, we—”

He paused, counting on his fingers, brow furrowed. “—um…we train, we do errands sometimes…”

Mydeimos gave her a look like he suspected she was up to something. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” Hyacine lied, her smile entirely too bright. “It’s just…most people don’t spend quite this much time together unless they’re, you know… close. ”

Phainon blinked. “We are close.”

“…Yes,” Mydeimos agreed, after a beat, voice flat.

Hyacine tried a different tactic. “So…would you say it’s a special sort of closeness?”

They looked at each other. Then at her.

Then back at each other again, identically blank expressions.

Phainon shrugged. “I mean, he’s my best friend.”

Mydeimos nodded once. “He’s insufferable, but tolerable.”

Hyacine dropped her face into her hands, shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh. Titans above, they were both so painfully blunt and oblivious.

“…You two,” she groaned, voice muffled. “You really are impossible.”

Phainon blinked, bewildered. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she sighed, lifting her head to look between them, exasperated but fond. “You just…never change.”

Mydeimos huffed. “Not planning to.”

Phainon beamed.

And Hyacine decided that no matter how frustrating it was to be one of the closest person to these two in all of Okhema, she wouldn’t trade it for anything… 

Chapter Text

"ughh.... I'm so hungry..."
"honestly?? me too..." Castorice muttered out with a gentle sigh.

It was hot today.

Okhema’s weather had turned sweltering for no apparent reason, and even Mydei—who normally wore little clothing—had retreated into the shade. Castorice, usually so cool and composed, sat under the same tree a little farther away, fanning herself with as much elegance as she could muster.

“This heat…” she began, letting out a long, weary sigh as Hyacine dunked her hand into the basin of cold water at her side.

“Here, Cas—try this. It helps,” Hyacine offered, holding up a cold dripping cloth.

Phainon groaned, shoulders slumping as he loosened his jacket. Aglaea was going to murder him if he ruined this outfit any further, but by the Titans, it was unbearable.

Mydei huffed and accepted the cold towel Ica slung over. Phainon gave up entirely and abandoned the jacket in a crumpled heap beside him.

The heat reminded him of home—if home had lacked the soft breeze that usually tempered the sun.

He glanced over at his bag. Empty. No food, no drinks, nothing. His stomach had been aching since morning, and the heat only made it worse—like his body was trying to burn through what little energy he had left. He’d already eaten everything he’d brought. Even now, he was painfully aware of it.

He was going to have to leave the shade if he wanted anything.

“You all look miserable,” came a warm rush of fur and a blur of gray and blue—

“Cipher?” Phainon tried to smile, but it probably came out crooked. His vision felt a little swimmy, and gods, he was so hungry.

“Woah! Even little Deliverer is out here! Sheesh! This heat has really got you all down,” Cipher teased, somehow not even sweating. Was she just…unaffected or something?

“Lord Phainon usually isn’t affected by heat waves…” Castorice began.

“—meaning if he’s suffering, imagine how the rest of us feel,” Hyacine finished for her, sighing as she dunked her hands into the cold water again.

“We don’t normally have days like this…” Castorice murmured, sounding almost betrayed by the weather itself.

Cipher hummed, tail flicking. “Well~ I just needed to stop by for a moment anyway—oh! But I do have a special present for all of you.”

Her grin snapped everyone’s attention toward her, even Mydei, who had been studiously ignoring her up until that point.

She wore a cheeky grin as she zipped one way, before dropping three enormous watermelons onto the ground in front of them.

“Suuuupriiiiiise!”

Castorice blinked. “These are—?”

“Karpouzi?!” Phainon’s expression lit up so brightly he nearly rivaled the sun itself. Cipher laughed as he lifted one as though it were some sacred treasure.

“Kar…Karpouzi?” Hyacine looked thoroughly confused now.

Castorice smiled gently. “Watermelons. But that’s just another way to say it. It’s an older dialect of our language—Ms. Cipher and Lady Aglaea are usually the only ones who still use it.”

“Ah! That makes sense,” Hyacine nodded thoughtfully. “I guess Phainon and Lady Cipher must be quite close.”

The two girls exchanged a giggle as they watched the scene in front of them—Cipher laughing while Phainon all but worshipped her, holding up the melon like it was a priceless treasure.

“Haha! Aren’t I just so kind, little Deliverer?”

“Aren’t these out of season…?” Mydei asked, picking one up and tapping it lightly with his knuckles to check the ripeness. He seemed satisfied after hearing a good sound, maybe even a little impressed. 

“Mhm~” Cipher preened, tail flicking. “But your genius Cipher here happened to get her hands on quite a few. And besides—technically, I still owe you for all those items you appraised for me.”

Phainon’s eyes were practically glowing. “You are the best , Ms. Cipher! We should all share these!”

His energy seemed instantly replenished as he tugged her down to sit in the shade with the rest of them.

“Ah—? Oh, sure, why the hell not!” Cipher laughed, settling herself between Hyacine and Phainon. Mydei shifted closer, dropping down beside the Deliverer as they all stared at the three watermelons like they were plotting a heist.

“I’ll go get a knife,” Mydei announced.

“From where?”

“The kitchen?”

“Wha—That’s way too far, Mydei!” Phainon protested, clutching one of the melons to his chest as if it might vanish if he looked away.

“Okay? Then what do you suppose we do, then?”

Phainon frowned, thinking hard. Mydei just stared at him with an expression that clearly said see?

“Um… I don’t know. I’m hungry…” Phainon sighed, looking pitiful while Mydei groaned facepalming. 

Cipher burst out laughing. “Why don’t we just use Ms. Death Girl’s scythe—”

“Out of the question,” Castorice huffed, turning her head away with a little pout, protectively scooching away from everyone.

“I’ll go grab a knife—it’ll be super quick!” Hyacine offered, already starting to stand.

“Wha—but then you’ll have to go out into the heat!” Phainon protested, dropping the melon onto his lap in dismay. He looked down, Mydei swears he could see cogs turning in his head.

Hyacine looked out past their shady spot, sighing “You’re right… but I don’t mind—” 

“Hks— I’ll go get one,” Mydei sighed, bracing to stand up.

—

CRACK.

Everyone froze.

“Oh! It worked!” Phainon beamed, delighted, as the melon sat perfectly split—crushed surprisingly neatly between his thighs.

“Wha—”

Mydei looked torn somewhere between utterly surprised and maybe…a little impressed. Judging by the faint flush creeping up his neck, probably more than a little.

“Here!” Phainon said brightly, splitting the melon half again with his hands and offering the piece to Hyacine first.

No one moved.

Castorice had her hands pressed over her mouth, but behind them, Cipher and Hyacine could clearly see her trying to hide an excited smile.

“Th—thank you,” Hyacine managed, taking the piece and sinking back down onto the grass.

Cipher looked like she might manage to hold it in for three more seconds—then promptly burst out laughing when she caught sight of Mydei’s expression.

Phainon blinked, still wearing that oblivious smile. “Um…did I do something wrong?”

“N-nono—pfft—ah— haha —no, never change, little Deliverer—” Cipher wheezed, wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of her eye. She happily accepted another piece of melon Phainon split off for her.

When he reached over to break off a piece for Mydei and held it out, Mydei just stared at him for a second, then took it silently, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Mydei? You good?”
Castorice peeked over the top of her teleslate, her fingers flying furiously across the screen as she documented every second of the exchange.

Meanwhile, Mydei took a slow, silent bite of the melon, clearly trying very hard not to look at Phainon—or at anyone else who might be witnessing his moment of weakness. The tips of his ears had gone bright pink.

“Mydei?” Phainon leaned in closer, poking at his shoulder. “You good?”

No answer.

“Mydeiiii,” he insisted, voice turning plaintive as he prodded again.

“I’m fine, ” Mydei muttered, though it came out a little strangled. He took another determined bite, focusing on the fruit with the intensity of a man clinging to the last shred of his composure.

Cipher had one hand over her mouth to muffle the hysterical laughter threatening to burst out again. Hyacine leaned over to whisper to Castorice, whose eyes were glued to her teleslate:

“Are you… live-transcribing this? ”

“It’s for posterity,” Castorice whispered back, not looking up as she kept typing.

Phainon glanced around, confused by the collective meltdown happening around him. He tilted his head, brows furrowed.

“Why is everyone acting like this is a big deal? It’s just a melon,” he said earnestly, gesturing to the now perfectly halved fruit in his lap.

Mydei choked on his next bite. Cipher actually had to turn away, shoulders shaking as she tried—and failed—not to howl with laughter.

Hyacine, ever the gentle voice of reason, patted Phainon’s knee. “Well…it does prove how strong you are,” she said brightly.

Phainon blinked, clearly thinking that over. “…Really?”

“Absolutely,” she insisted, smiling. “I don’t think I could do that even if I tried. You’re stronger than you realize.”

He looked down at the crushed melon, then back at her, his expression lighting up with genuine delight. “Oh! That’s…kind of nice to hear.”

Castorice, still recording the entire thing on her teleslate, added helpfully without looking up, “For the record, most people can’t crack produce between their thighs like a hydraulic press.”

Phainon’s eyes went a little round. “Oh.”

“You’re just…very impressive,” Mydei muttered under his breath, staring fixedly at his half-eaten melon with the haunted look of someone grappling with too many thoughts at once.

Cipher finally lost the last of her composure and burst out laughing, tipping sideways against Hyacine, who started giggling too.
Phainon, still blissfully unaware of the chaos he was sowing, beamed at them all. “I can crack the rest too if you want!” he offered brightly, already reaching for another melon.

Castorice nodded so fast her hair bounced. “Yes—Lord Mydei would probably enjoy seeing that again—”

“Castorice. Quiet.” Mydei’s voice was tight, the tips of his ears scarlet.

“I can record it for the rest of Okhema to appreciate,” Cipher declared, pulling her teleslate out while Castorice nodded in approval. 

“Cipher. Quiet.”

“…Lord Mydei, you should share your melon with—”

“Hyacine. Quiet,” Mydei sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Phainon just looked around at them all with that same sunny, oblivious smile. “Okay, but really, I can crack the rest if you’d like?”

Nobody dared answer. The only sound was Cipher’s helpless snickering as Mydei buried his face in his hands. “You all are…
Phainon, still unbothered, picked up one of the remaining melons, settled it between his knees, and—with that same earnest concentration—pressed until it split with a clean, resonant crack.

Mydei made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled squeak.

Cipher didn’t even pretend she wasn’t recording this time. Her teleslate captured every second—Phainon’s focused, gentle smile, the tense moment before the rind split under the pressure, the way he looked so perfectly, innocently pleased afterward.

“Here—fresh pieces for everyone!” Phainon chirped, breaking the halves again and handing them out. He took a big bite of his own portion, juice dribbling down his chin.

“Mmm.” He sighed, utterly content. “I’m so happy right now. It’s the best day.”

Cipher wiped a tear of laughter from her cheek, grinning like a cat.

Mydei, meanwhile, looked like he’d short-circuited completely. He hadn’t moved from his seat, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t spoken. Just…staring.

Phainon didn’t notice. He was too busy demolishing his melon with the blissful enthusiasm of a man with no clue what he’d just done to the group’s collective composure.

Cipher glanced down at her teleslate, watching the replay of Phainon’s concentrated smile, the gentle flex of muscle, the melon splitting apart in his hands.

“Oh,” she whispered to herself, eyes gleaming. “I’m gonna go viral. ”

Chapter Text

“I’m hungry.”

“Still?” Mydei raised an eyebrow, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“Okay…” He sighed, dragging out the word. Calories were one thing—Phainon hardly needed to lose weight. If anything, Mydei wouldn’t have minded if he actually gained some. He was always so lean, always burning through energy faster than Mydei could replenish it.

But Titans, did this Deliverer eat.

With practiced motions, Mydei set another plate in front of him, trying—and failing—not to smile as Phainon’s face lit up, those godforsaken bright eyes locking onto him like he’d brought him an entire feast instead of just another serving.

“Have I ever said how much I love you?” Phainon asked cheerfully, already shoveling a big spoonful into his mouth before Mydei could even react.

The words hit him harder than they had any right to. So casually spoken, so utterly guileless—and yet—

“Hks…” Mydei made a strangled noise he tried to disguise as a cough, averting his gaze to hide the heat prickling up the back of his neck.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Phainon devoured every last speck of food on the plate, humming softly under his breath. When he finally set the spoon down, he looked up with that same sunny smile, completely unaware of the way he’d turned Mydei’s chest inside out.

“Ah… Such a wonderful cook, Mydei. Really, you are,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair with all the bliss of someone who’d never tasted anything better in his life.

For a moment, Mydei couldn’t bring himself to speak. He was too busy trying to steady the sudden thrum of his heartbeat, too busy wondering when this had all started to feel so… dangerous.

“…You’re insufferable,” he managed finally, voice soft.

Phainon just grinned, tilting his head. “But you love me anyway?”

Mydei didn’t answer. He just picked up the empty plate and turned away, hoping the idiot wouldn’t notice the small, helpless smile he couldn’t quite stop. He wasn't even hiding it. But he didn't want to make Phainon… Uncomfortable. Not with the delicate bond they've created now.

As he set the plate in the sink, he heard the scrape of the chair legs across the floor. He didn’t have to look to know Phainon was watching him, probably with that same theatrical, doe-eyed expression he wore whenever he wanted something.

“Do you say that to every person who cooks you food?” Mydei called over his shoulder, attempting to sound dry, though there was no real bite behind it.

Phainon made a scandalized little noise, clutching at his chest as if struck by a mortal wound. “Must you think I’m so shallow?” he demanded, lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Do you truly believe I’d say something so tender to just anyone with a ladle?”

“You would,” Mydei said, finally turning around to face him. “You absolutely would. You once told that festival vendor you loved them for handing you a fried cake.”

“That was different,” Phainon insisted, pointing a finger at him in emphatic accusation. “That was a very good fried cake.”

“And this,” Mydei gestured to the empty plate, “is just dinner.”

Phainon shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “It isn’t the same. You cooked it for me.”

The simplicity of the statement hit harder than it should have. Mydei swallowed, feeling the words settle somewhere warm and inconvenient behind his ribs.

“Besides,” Phainon went on, softer now, “you don’t understand. You…you make things feel safe. Even something as ordinary as food.” He lifted his gaze, meeting Mydei’s with a tentative smile that had none of his usual easy bravado. “That’s why I say it. Because when you’re here, I remember what it feels like to…to belong somewhere.”

For a long moment, Mydei couldn’t seem to find his voice. He just stood there, feeling something fragile and bright curling through his chest.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he murmured eventually, though his tone had turned almost fond. “And sentimental.”

“You like it,” Phainon said, hope brightening in his eyes.

“Unfortunately.” Mydei sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to hide the helpless affection tugging at his mouth. “I really do.”

Phainon beamed, all wounded dignity instantly forgotten. He reached out as Mydei passed, catching the hem of his sleeve between his fingers. “Does this mean you’ll make dessert?”

Mydei huffed a laugh despite himself. “Fine. But if you tell me you love me again, I’m confiscating your spoon.”

“You’d never,” Phainon declared, triumphant, and gave him a smile so bright it almost hurt to look at.

And as Mydei turned back to the kitchen, he realized he wouldn’t. Not even if he tried.

-

“I love you so much, Mydei… Thank you!”

Phainon said it more often now. The words slipped past his lips like they were the most natural thing in the world, never weighed down by doubt or shame.

And every single time, it felt like a punch to Mydei’s gut—not in a bad way, but in a way that left him reeling, like he’d stepped outside on a winter morning and drawn a lungful of air so cold and clean it hurt.

By Kephale, he was starting to lose his sanity, hearing that bright voice say it every time he set a plate in front of him. It didn’t matter if it was something simple—just broth and bread, or whatever scraps he’d managed to scrounge up. Phainon would look at him with those luminous eyes and say it like it was a truth older than either of them, something as constant and essential as breathing.

And Mydei never knew what to do with it. With how unguarded it was. With the way it scraped against the hollows he’d spent centuries pretending weren’t there.

He tried to pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried to school his face into indifference, to offer some dry retort about how Phainon ought to reserve that kind of devotion for someone who deserved it.

But the truth was, every time he heard it— I love you so much, Mydei —something warm and terrible coiled in his chest. Something that made it impossible to keep pretending that all of this, all of him , was temporary.

He set down the next plate a little too carefully, afraid his hands would shake if he didn’t.

“Eat,” he muttered, voice low and rougher than he meant it to be.

Phainon didn’t even notice. He just smiled, already reaching for the spoon, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to love him back.

Did he…did he love him back?

It was a question Mydei tried not to ask himself too often, because every time he did, he felt the ground shift under his feet in a way he didn’t know how to brace against.

He wasn’t—well, he wasn’t the most accustomed to how people expressed love in Ohkema. It was different here. Very different from how it had been in Castrum Kremnos.

For one, gender apparently mattered to some people. Perhaps it was more the influence of those janusopolis merchants who had settled in the cities, spreading their narrow customs like mold, but he’d seen it—people who would scoff or turn away in disgust at the thought of loving someone of the same gender.

In Castrum Kremnos, it hadn’t mattered. Love was never the point. It was fleeting at best—some brief indulgence between campaigns, a distraction from the truth that your purpose was to die in glorious battle, to live as a warrior until the moment your final breath left you.

Well…Mydei had taken multiple “final breaths,” though evidently none of them had quite stuck. And despite all those deaths—despite all the things he’d seen and survived—he had never felt anything for any man or woman. Not really. Nothing that lingered, nothing that carved itself into his bones.

That was, of course, until Phainon came into the picture.

He still remembered it with painful clarity—those first ten long days and nights they spent fighting each other across the city. He’d thought it was hatred at first. Some bitter, personal antipathy neither of them could name.

But by the second night, he’d found a strange, unbidden smile curving his mouth. A smile that felt foreign on his face—too light, too alive.

It had slipped out when Phainon’s breathless laugh rose up over the clash of their blades—carefree and bright in the dark.

Mydei hadn’t understood it then. Why the sound had felt like something soft striking the hollow place behind his ribs. Why it had made him want to stop fighting, just for a moment, and look at him. Really look at him.

Even now, he wasn’t sure he fully understood.

But he knew that every time Phainon said, I love you , something in him answered—something wordless and aching.

And maybe that was all the answer he needed.

But despite it all, he still wanted to be sure.

He wanted to know—truly know—that he wasn’t destroying what they had by feeling this way. That he wasn’t mistaking the soft edges of companionship for something else. Because this—whatever name it deserved—was sacred to him.

His life, for all its strangeness, wasn’t normally in peril every moment. Not the way it once had been. But even so, he had seen his friends fall. He had watched comrades bleed out in the dirt beside him. He had felt the cold ache of grief more times than he could count.

So letting Phainon in—letting him this close—meant more to Mydei than he would ever admit out loud.

It meant trusting him not just with the shape of his days, but with the quiet spaces between them. With the battles he still found himself in, and the long silences afterward.

It meant letting Phainon fight alongside him and knowing—without a shadow of doubt—that he would never have to look over his shoulder in fear.

Because there was no other person he would trust to guard his back in a skirmish. No other soul he would rather have beside him when the fighting started and when the dust finally settled.

And maybe that was why it mattered so much to be sure.

Because for all the deaths he’d survived, this was the first time he’d ever believed that something—someone—might be worth surviving for... well. living for.

“Mydei? You okay?”

Phainon’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts like a hand tugging him gently back to the present. Mydei blinked, realizing his gaze had drifted unfocused to some distant corner of the room.

Phainon was watching him with that earnest, worried expression—his plate scraped clean, while Mydei’s own dinner sat untouched in front of him, the food gone cold.

“…Ah.” Mydei cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Phainon said, voice softer now, careful. He reached across the narrow table, his fingertips brushing the back of Mydei’s hand. “You’re thinking too hard again.”

“I’m not,” Mydei tried, but it came out hoarse, unconvincing.

Phainon only tilted his head, studying him with those bright, relentless eyes that always seemed to see too much. “Then what is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Mydei said quickly, before that hopeful light could dim. “You didn’t.”

“Then…?”

For a moment, Mydei almost told him everything. About the way the words I love you still struck something deep and fragile inside him. About how he was afraid—more afraid than he’d ever been in battle—that he might already be too far gone to pretend this was anything less than what it was.

Instead, he exhaled slowly and reached for his fork, pretending he didn’t notice Phainon’s hand still hovering close, warm and steady.

“Just…thinking,” he murmured, finally meeting his eyes. “You know how I get.”

Phainon’s worry softened into a quiet smile. “Yeah,” he said, voice gentle. “I know.”

He didn’t press further. He just stayed there, close enough that Mydei could feel the heat of him, as if to remind him he wasn’t alone in the dark.

“You two are—”

Castorice’s voice cracked as she stepped into the doorway, teleslate balanced precariously in her hands. Her gaze swept over the table, over Phainon’s hand resting so close to Mydei’s, over the way Mydei’s expression had gone uncharacteristically soft.

Her mouth opened again as if to finish her thought, but nothing came out. Instead, she dropped the teleslate with a clatter, clapping both hands over her face.

“Ah…actually, don’t mind me,” she mumbled, voice muffled behind her palms. She took a small, uncertain step back, eyes wide as she peeked through her fingers. “I—I’ll just—um.”

She glanced down at the floor as though she hoped it would swallow her whole. But every second or so, her gaze flicked back up at them, as if she were waiting for some grand declaration or, possibly, for one of them to spontaneously combust.

Phainon blinked, then looked over at Mydei with a puzzled frown.

“Is everything okay? Cas?” he asked carefully, brow furrowing. “Ah…seriously, what’s with this ambience, you two? Did something happen and you’re both not telling me?”

Mydei let out a long sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing yet,” Castorice muttered into her hands, a little too loudly.

Phainon’s frown deepened. “That’s…not reassuring.”

“Cas,” Mydei said dryly, giving her a look that was equal parts exasperation and resignation. “Put the teleslate down before you drop it again.”

“It’s already on the floor!” she squeaked.

He sighed again, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his temples. Phainon, meanwhile, still looked between them, bewildered and a touch indignant, as though he were convinced there was some important secret he was missing.

“Look,” Mydei said, voice low, trying to maintain what little dignity he had left, “it’s not what it looks like.”

Castorice slowly lowered her hands just enough to peek out, her cheeks flushed pink.

“Are you sure?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Mydei and Phainon chorused—though Phainon’s answer came half a beat later, and sounded just a little disappointed.

“…I’ll, um.” Castorice bent to retrieve her teleslate, cradling it to her chest like a shield. “I’ll leave you two to…whatever this is.”

And with one last, darting glance between them, she turned on her heel and hurried out, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, By the stars, it’s about time.

Phainon watched her retreat, then turned back to Mydei with wide, earnest eyes.

“…Are you sure nothing happened?” he asked again, quieter this time.

Mydei pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and counted to five before answering.

“Yes,” he said. “For the last time.”

But as Phainon’s gaze lingered, soft and questioning, he couldn’t help thinking—just for a moment—that maybe he wouldn’t have minded if something had.

“Did you finish eating?” Mydei asked, his voice a touch rougher than he meant it to be.

“Yes!” Phainon declared brightly, already pushing back his chair. “It was delicious as always! Thank you, Mydei.”

He stood up, and Mydei tried—without much success—not to mourn the quiet warmth that had been radiating across the table. The space felt strangely emptier without him sitting there.

Phainon glanced down at Mydei’s plate, still untouched, and then back up, a flicker of concern crossing his features.

“Do you…want me to heat up your food?” he offered, tentative, as if he were unsure whether Mydei would accept help with something so small.

“Hm? Oh.” Mydei blinked, pulled from the tangle of his thoughts. He looked at the cooling meal and realized he had no excuse to let it sit any longer. “…Sure.”

Phainon’s face lit up with that unguarded, boyish smile that always made something in Mydei’s chest twist in ways he couldn’t explain.

“Alright!” He scooped up the plate with a practiced ease and carried it to the hearth, already humming to himself under his breath.

Mydei watched him go, a slow exhale leaving his lungs as he finally let his shoulders relax. He could have insisted on doing it himself. He could have insisted on keeping that small distance between them, the buffer that let him pretend this was just ordinary companionship.

But as he watched Phainon crouch by the fire, carefully stirring the food to warm it evenly, he couldn’t bring himself to say a word.

“It’s not like you to zone out like that,” Phainon said, glancing over his shoulder as he stirred the pot. His face glowed warm in the firelight, eyes soft with something that looked dangerously close to affection.

“It’s alright, you know,” he went on, a little more quietly. “If you want to confide in me. I don’t mind at all…if it’s you.”

For a moment, Mydei couldn’t seem to find words. He felt them pile up behind his teeth, a tangle of things he’d never said—things he wasn’t sure he even knew how to say.

He looked at Phainon—really looked—and saw no expectation there. Just open, unguarded trust. The kind he’d never learned how to accept.

“…I know,” he said at last, voice softer than he intended. He shifted in his chair, his gaze falling to the floor. “It’s…not easy.”

“I didn’t think it would be.” Phainon’s tone was warm, with the faintest hint of a laugh. “You’re very…stubborn, you know.”

Mydei huffed, though it came out closer to a sigh. “You’re one to talk.”

“True.” Phainon turned back to the fire, shoulders shaking a little with quiet amusement. “But you don’t have to tell me everything. Just…whatever you feel like sharing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It felt almost peaceful, punctuated only by the gentle clatter of the spoon against the pot.

And when Phainon looked over again, meeting his eyes with that steady, golden warmth, Mydei thought—just for a moment—that maybe he could.

Maybe, one day soon, he would.

He just…he had to be sure.

Before he could sink too deep into the thought, Phainon’s voice piped up again, lighter, as if he were deliberately giving them both something safer to focus on.

“Oh—by the way,” he began, brightening a little, “Cipher said she was bringing me back some rare artifacts tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me to pick them up?”

Mydei arched a brow. “I thought you liked your time with Cipher.”

Phainon made a small, dismissive noise, waving his hand. “Ah, well. She can’t visit this time—she’s just dropping them off and running off to…whoever knows where.”

“Hmm.” Mydei pretended to consider this gravely, though he was already planning what food he would bring to make Phainon focus easier. 

“Castorice offered to help,” Phainon went on, scratching at his cheek, “but…ah…she’s worried about being in a populated area.”

“She always is, I don’t blame her” Mydei muttered, though there was no judgment in his voice—only a quiet understanding.

Phainon gave him a hopeful look, rocking on his heels. “So…will you come?”

“I’ll go,” Mydei said finally, watching the relief flicker across Phainon’s face like sunlight through leaves. “What time?”

“Early morning,” Phainon said, smile widening. “You can stay at my place tonight, if you’d like!”

Mydei’s heart gave a treacherous little lurch.

“…That isn’t necessary,” he began, though the words lacked conviction.

Phainon tilted his head, expression soft and a touch mischievous. “I know. But I’d like it if you did.”

For a moment, Mydei simply looked at him—at the way the firelight danced over his hair and caught in his eyes, at the earnestness he never tried to hide.

“…Fine,” he sighed, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll stay.”

Phainon’s answering grin was so bright it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Good,” he said softly, voice warm as the embers. “It’s settled, then.”

By Mnestia let his heart calm down.

Chapter Text

“…Are you hungry, Lord Phainon?” Castorice asked hesitantly, rubbing at her temple. Maybe if she kept her questions simple, her brain would catch up.

The day had started early—too early, in Castorice’s opinion. She’d only just managed to coax herself out of bed, bleary-eyed and wrapped in her shawl, when she stepped out into the early morning of Okhema. The dawn device was wonderful… But on days where she would prefer a gentle morning dawn… it was… less than great.

When she met up with Phainon he was humming to himself. Humming. At six in the morning.

“Huh?” He turned, blinking at her as if only just noticing she was there. “Oh…um, no, not really. Thank you, though, Cas.”

Castorice stared.

“…??? H—huh???”

“I already ate with Mydei!” he added brightly, as if that explained everything.

Her mind went blank. She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“…It’s—it’s six in the morning ,” she managed, her voice climbing an octave in her confusion.

“Yeah!” Phainon beamed, unbothered. “He stayed over last night.”

“Wh— what? ”

Her hand flew to her mouth, her teleslate slipping from her grasp and landing on the floor with a soft clack… again.

“You—he— you —”

Phainon tilted his head, his expression earnest and just a little concerned, as though he couldn’t begin to guess why she was having such a spectacular meltdown.

“Is that…weird?” he asked, scratching his cheek. “He said it was fine. We had breakfast and everything.”

Castorice felt her knees wobble.

“You cooked for him?” she squeaked, voice breaking on the last word.

“No, no— he cooked,” Phainon corrected, as if that made the situation any less absurd. “He always does. He’s very particular about seasoning.”

She pressed a hand to her heart, trying to decide whether she needed to sit down or just collapse outright.

“…Did you two—”

Phainon blinked innocently. “Did we what?”

Castorice squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling a long, shuddering breath.

“Never mind,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “I…don’t think I’m awake enough for this conversation.”

He watched her shuffle away, clearly bewildered, then called after her in that bright, oblivious tone that made her want to scream into her hands.

“Okay—well, let me know if you want any breakfast! Mydei made extra!”

She didn’t answer. She was too busy trying not to faint.
Castorice had only made it as far as the entryway when she felt it—a familiar, slightly electric sensation that meant Phainon was too close for comfort again.

She turned, heart thudding nervously. She had to tell Hyacine about this right now– ah. She had dropped her Teleslate… again. 

In a moment Phainon was right there, just a breath away, and holding her teleslate out with both hands as if it were something precious.

“You dropped this,” he said, smiling so brightly she almost had to shield her eyes. In the light of the dawn device, he looked unbearably earnest, as if nothing in the world could touch him.

Goodness. Her friend was bright. Sort of like the sun. A very bright, happy sun. Like a puppy.

“Oh—th-thank you,” she stammered, carefully taking the teleslate and clutching it to her chest.

He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned a fraction closer, tilting his head. She felt her palms go clammy. Not because she disliked him—far from it—but because standing too near anyone always made her worry. That somehow, her curse would flare up and drag the people she cared about into ruin.

He never seemed to mind.

“Ready to go, Cas?” he asked, cheerfulness undimmed. “Mydei should meet us there soon—he just had to do something real quick.”

“Ready to…” She blinked, her voice trailing off.

“You know,” he prompted gently. “To pick up the artifacts? Cipher said she’ll only be in town for an hour.”

“Oh—right. Yes.” She exhaled, trying to force her thoughts back into some semblance of order. “Sorry. I’m just…a little overwhelmed.”

His expression softened. “Overwhelmed?”

“With…all of this,” she admitted, gesturing vaguely between him and, presumably, everything he’d just told her.

Phainon laughed, warm and unguarded. “It’s just breakfast and errands,” he said, as if he hadn’t just casually announced he’d spent the night with Mydei.

“Mm.” She glanced down, trying to hide her blush. “If you say so.”

He reached out—careful, always so careful—and hovered his hand over her shoulder lightly, a reassuring gesture that didn’t linger long enough to frighten her. He seemed like he wanted to just rest a hand on her shoulder, just anything to reassure her, while her anxiety spiked… the gesture was so kind she couldn't help but go still.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “It’s alright. You don’t have to worry about me.”

She looked up, her throat tight.

“…That’s exactly why I do,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue, just smiled again, bright as ever.

“Come on,” he said gently, stepping back at last. “Let’s go before Cipher decides to leave everything on the curb.”

And somehow, despite the swirl of confusion still prickling in her chest, she found herself following him out into the morning light.

When they arrived at the market square, Cipher was already there, tapping her foot impatiently beside a stack of crates that looked entirely too large for any one person to carry.

“Ah~ You brought friends!” she called brightly, waving them over. “Good, good. I was worried you’d have to carry everything by yourself.”

Phainon relaxed at her smile—at least until she continued, her grin turning sly.

“Though~ I hope you don’t mind if I record it.”

“Um…why?” Phainon asked, voice climbing a little higher than usual.

Cipher pressed a hand to her heart, her eyes going distant and suspiciously gleeful.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” she sighed dramatically. “The last video I posted got so popular, people started sending me money. Money , Phainon! To watch their Deliverer crack a fruit open with his thighs!”

She threw her head back, cackling like she’d just revealed some divine secret.

Castorice watched in mute horror as Mydei, who had met them halfway up the street, scowled so hard she worried his face would stick that way. He turned aside, clearly determined not to be associated with this conversation.

was he jealous?!  

Though…maybe she was reading too far into it. After all, he had once confided in her about his feelings for Lord Phainon—well, “confided” was a strong word. He’d sent her one clipped message that read I don’t want him to be injured, which she had chosen to interpret as a confession of love.

“Anyway!” Cipher chirped, sweeping right along. “These ones are extra heavy. You sure Cassie here can manage some of them?”

Castorice blinked. “Cassie?”

“That’s rude,” Mydei interjected flatly before she could decide how offended to be. “Castorice is much stronger than most warriors.”

He punctuated the statement by lifting a crate nearly as wide as he was tall, barely sparing it a second glance.

Phainon’s gaze flicked over to Mydei, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary—and Castorice felt her face flame as a single, catastrophic thought bloomed in her mind.

Oh my Titans, is he checking him out?

Phainon seemed blissfully unaware of her internal screaming as he turned back to Cipher, offering an awkward little smile.

“Yeah, Cas is quite strong,” he agreed quickly. “Um—about that video—what did you mean, exactly?”

Cipher’s eyes went round and innocent, which was never a good sign.

“Hmmm…” she hummed, tapping her lip. “Well—”

“Oh no,” Castorice muttered under her breath, already bracing herself.

“—it was very educational!” Cipher declared brightly. “The whole world deserved to witness your…unusual technique. And,” she added, fluttering her lashes, “I’m told it was quite inspirational. Lots of very creative fan letters.”

Phainon looked like he might faint. Mydei looked like he might commit a crime.

And Castorice, clutching her teleslate to her chest, decided this was going to be a very, very long day.

“So!” Cipher clapped her hands together, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Just pose those arms, Deliverer~ Let little Ciphey get rich off your body—”

Thunk.

Mydei dropped the crate he was carrying. It landed with a bone-jarring crash, suspiciously close to Cipher’s tail.

“ YAHHH—! ” Cipher yelped, leaping sideways and nearly tripping over another box.

Mydei’s expression was the picture of cold, righteous indifference. “Hand slipped,” he said flatly.

Castorice pressed both hands over her mouth, torn between horror and the hysterical urge to laugh.

Cipher rubbed her tail, pouting. “You’re so mean, Mydei,” she whined. “You can’t intimidate me out of my art!”

Phainon, who had been watching this entire exchange with a sort of fascinated bewilderment, hesitated. Then he looked down at himself, then back at Cipher, his expression earnest.

“Um…should I…take off my jacket?” he asked uncertainly, already reaching for the buttons and belts.

Castorice nearly swallowed her tongue.

Cipher lit up like a festival lantern. “ Yes, darling, exactly—”

“No,” Mydei snapped before she could finish, his scowl deepening by the second. “Leave it on.”

“But—”

“Leave it.”

Phainon blinked, then slowly let his hands fall back to his sides. “…Okay,” he said meekly.

Castorice closed her eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache form right behind her temples.

Stars above, she thought, I should have stayed in bed.

It took a while to get everything sorted—longer than any of them would have liked.

The four of them worked steadily, carting crates into the old storage hall one by one. There were simply so many boxes—filled with artifacts, supplies, and a truly baffling assortment of trinkets—that even Cipher eventually relented and decided to stay behind to “help.”

Though if holding her teleslate up to record whenever she thought Mydei and Phainon weren’t paying attention counted as “helping,” Castorice had serious doubts about her definition of the word.

And Phainon…

Well, unfortunately—and perhaps a little fortunately—he had eventually given up on his jacket.

The day’s heat, which had lingered from the stretch of stifling weather the week before, was too much even for him. He’d sighed, cheeks pink, and slipped it off with all the unselfconscious ease of someone who never thought twice about the effect it might have.

Castorice tried— truly tried—not to stare, but it was difficult not to notice the way the light caught the smooth expanse of his skin. His arms were lean but strong, dusted faintly with freckles she’d never seen before. His coloring looked almost luminous, like warm milk and honey poured over sunlit stone.

Cipher certainly wasn’t helping.

“Ouuuu, look at you,” she cooed, zooming her teleslate in without a shred of shame. “This is going to break the network. Flex for us, Deliverer—your fans will lose their minds!”

Phainon turned, bright-eyed and impossibly earnest.

“Well—if it has to be something, I’d rather it be my arms,” he said, as though discussing the weather. “They’re my favorite part. I work them out a lot.”

And—just to prove the point—he lifted one arm and flexed with a big, sunny grin that nearly blinded her.

Castorice let out a tiny, strangled sound.

Before Cipher could squeal something truly mortifying, Mydei calmly reached out and smacked the teleslate right out of her hands.

“ YAH! ” Cipher yelped as it clattered to the ground.

Mydei didn’t even look repentant.

“Hand slipped,” he said blandly, folding his arms across his chest as though that were the end of the matter.

Phainon blinked, lowering his arm. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

Castorice was fairly sure she was going to pass out.

And yet, despite everything, Phainon only looked amused.

“Alright—well, I’ll try to treat everyone to some food later,” he added, as if nothing had happened. He glanced between them, sheepish. “Also because…I’m already kind of hungry again.”

Of course he was.

Castorice pressed her hand over her heart and silently prayed. Mnestia forgive her for her thoughts.

It was…odd, she supposed.

Not that she could deny Phainon’s attractiveness—anyone with functioning eyes could see it. But even as she catalogued the way his hair stuck to the back of his neck or how his smile never seemed to fade no matter how many boxes he carried, she felt none of the fluttering nerves she’d once mistaken for affection.

Because she knew, with an unshakable certainty, that he was precisely the sort of person she would never pursue.

Not because he wasn’t kind, or good, or impossibly radiant—but because whatever it was he gave to the world, whatever it was that made people flock to him, it was already spoken for.

Every time she looked at him, she saw the way his gaze drifted to Mydei, the way some unspoken thread seemed to pull them together without either of them realizing it. Her heart fluttered more for seeing their relationship develop than anything. 

And that was fine.

More than fine, actually.

It made her oddly relieved, in a way she hadn’t expected, to know there was no confusion in her heart about this.

So she simply squared her shoulders, picked up another box, and did her best not to think too hard about Cipher’s camera or Mydei’s increasingly thunderous scowl whenever Phainon bent to lift something heavy.

Besides, she and Hyacine were well aware of the Threads network people posted on.

Of course, every Chrysos heir ended up as a consistent topic of fascination—sometimes adoration, sometimes gossip, sometimes something stranger and more uncomfortably fervent.

Recently, though, Phainon had become an especially hot topic.

But then again, it was hard for him not to be. His entire personality was…well. Him. Bright, kind, guileless in a way that made people either want to protect him or fall hopelessly in love with him—or, in more cases than she could count, both at once.

She’d long since learned the term shipping —or, in more polite phrasing, the habit of pinning for two people to end up together—and while she’d never had much personal stake in that sort of thing, she couldn’t deny she found it oddly entertaining to read about. Various books and fiction that she was happy to have someone to read and talk about with, Hyacine was always happy whenever Castorice stopped by. 

On quiet evenings, she and Hyacine sometimes sat together, trawling the network for the most outlandish or sweet speculation they could find. And on rarer occasions—when Lady Agalea happened to be in a mood to humor them—she would join in, shaking her head fondly at the more overzealous posts.

Unfortunately, Castorice was not immune to the sight of the increasingly common Myphai —or, depending on which region’s dialect you preferred, Phaidei —tags that popped up on every board.

At first, she’d tried not to think much of it. She didn’t believe in forcing people together for the sake of other people’s amusement. Love, in her mind, was an intimate and sacred thing—something she’d long since accepted she might never be able to experience for herself.

And yet…

She wasn’t blind.

She’d seen the way Mydei’s expression softened whenever Phainon spoke, how his carefully controlled composure faltered in tiny, telling ways. She’d seen the way Phainon’s entire face lit up at the simplest kindness, how naturally he gravitated to Mydei’s side as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Forgive her—but she and Hyacine had spent enough evenings dissecting those little moments to know that something was there, whether they themselves were aware of it or not.

So she kept her observations to herself, quietly content to watch from the sidelines, and to feel—if not envy—then a kind of gentle curiosity.

Because whatever it was that tied those two together, it was something real.

And even if she would never have it herself, it was enough to know that such things could exist at all.

If her two dearest friends didn’t see it—well, she was perfectly content to watch like a reader waiting for an author to come out with the next book, page by page.

More importantly—though she would never say it aloud—she was quietly enamored by the expression Mydei wore whenever Phainon did something as simple as lifting a box.

It was subtle, in the way all of Mydei’s feelings were subtle—just the faintest crease softening his brow, a look that hovered somewhere between resigned exasperation and…something warmer. Something almost tender.

It happened again when Phainon bent to pick up a particularly large crate. The muscles in his arms pulled taut, lean and well-defined under skin the color of sun-warmed cream. His hair fell loose over his cheek as he braced his weight, and for one heart-stopping instant, Castorice could swear Mydei actually forgot how to breathe.

Perhaps—she thought with a secret, delighted pang—he was a little too susceptible to that particular view.

Strong, lean, large biceps well befitted for worldbearing, she quoted silently from one especially florid post she’d seen the week before, and had to smother a laugh behind her hand.

Cipher, naturally, was already grinning from ear to ear, her teleslate lifted at the perfect angle.

“ Ouuu~ Deliverer’s fans will eat this up,” she cooed, voice gleeful.

Phainon glanced over his shoulder, blinking innocently. “Eat what up? Did you order something?”

Mydei didn’t answer.

He just exhaled, very slowly, and set his own box down with a care that suggested he was devoting every scrap of his formidable discipline to not saying something he might regret.

Castorice sighed, unable to stop the small, helpless smile that curled her mouth.

Truly, she thought, it was better than any story she could ever have hoped to read

By the time they finally finished hauling everything, they were all…kind of sweaty. And tired.

Castorice let out a long, exhausted sigh as she leaned back against the cool stone walls of the old storage hall. The chill seeped into her skin in the most blessed way.

“Ahhh~ that took so long,” she groaned, wiping her forehead. “Thanks for the payment, Snowy~ I’ll be heading out now!”

“Payment?” Mydei straightened, a lock of hair falling across his cheek. “What payment? I haven’t even—”

“Cya!”

Cipher vanished in a gust of air and a triumphant laugh, gone so quickly it almost felt like she’d evaporated.

The three remaining Chrysos heirs just stared at the empty space where she’d stood.

“…Well,” Castorice said slowly, trying not to sound too amused, “Lord Phainon, did you need help sorting everything?”

Mydei hummed in agreement beside her, folding his arms.

Phainon perked up immediately, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his temple. “Oh! If you both have the time, that would be wonderful. I was going to livestream the appraisal for fun.”

“...You livestream?” Mydei asked, his voice so flat it bordered on disbelieving.

Castorice turned to stare at him, scandalized.

He knew that, she thought in exasperation. I’ve literally seen him watch the streams—

She opened her mouth to point this out, then promptly shut it again when a realization struck her with all the force of a falling crate.

Oh my gods, she thought, feeling her hands start to tremble with barely contained glee. Where is Hyacine. I need to tell her immediately.

Phainon, oblivious, only smiled, bright as ever. “Of course! It’s nice to share things with everyone. Besides, people get excited about the artifacts. It feels good to make them happy.”

Mydei grunted something noncommittal, but she saw it—that little, betraying softness in his eyes again.

Oh, she was going to have so much to report later.

…Okay. She needed to calm down.

These were her friends. Her dearest companions, the people she trusted most.

But by the stars, look at how excited Phainon was.

He was practically glowing, shifting from foot to foot like he could barely keep himself still.

“Okay!” he chirped, clapping his hands together. “Ah—I forgot to grab that stand Anaxa gave me—”

“It’s alright,” Castorice cut in gently before he could start spiraling. “I can hold the teleslate for you, Lord Phainon.”

His eyes went huge with relief, his smile somehow even brighter. “Perfect—thank you so much.”

He turned, already scanning the stacks of boxes. “Oh—Mydei, could you bring—oh wait.” He paused mid-sentence, tilting his head to examine the neat rows. “Did you…sort them?”

Mydei, who was busy adjusting a crate, didn’t even look up. “Just by type.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his chest in a theatrical display of delight. “You know me so well,” he sighed.

Castorice felt something in her chest give a ridiculous little flutter at the casual affection in his voice.

Stars, she thought helplessly, they don’t even realize it.

She tightened her grip on the teleslate, doing her utmost to keep her expression politely neutral.

No, she reminded herself firmly, she would not squeal. She would not smile like a fool.

…Maybe just a little.Phainon took a moment to show her how to start the livestream, guiding her fingers over the controls with the same easy patience he used for everything.

“Here,” he said, tapping the screen. “This icon starts the broadcast. If you need to end it, just hold it down until it asks to confirm.”

“Understood,” Castorice murmured, grateful he didn’t seem to notice how her hands trembled just a little.

Once the stream was live, Mydei moved to the crates without a word, lifting them one by one and setting each in front of Phainon with a careful deliberation that felt almost ceremonial.

Castorice…hadn’t expected much, honestly. She thought perhaps a few dozen viewers would drift in and out. But within minutes, the screen flooded with little floating comments, hundreds of names she didn’t recognize scrolling past in rapid succession.

She was…pleasantly surprised.

Some of the messages were simple, praising Phainon’s knowledge or the beauty of the artifacts. Others…

Well, others were written by what she could only assume were thirsty nymphs, waxing poetic about those arms and his voice, and suggesting things she was fairly sure were not appropriate for any public forum.

Ah, she thought, lips pressing into a thin line, he doesn’t need to read those.

Not that Phainon seemed to notice. He was too focused, his expression intent and almost serene as he lifted each object and turned it in the light.

Listening to him speak was oddly peaceful.

His voice was smooth and practiced, carrying just enough warmth to keep it from sounding like a lecture. He explained how some pieces were truly ancient, pulled from ruined temples or hidden archives—and how others were clever fakes, crafted to mimic authenticity so precisely that only a trained eye could tell the difference.

She watched, fascinated, as his hands brushed over the worn grooves of a brass amulet.

“It’s always in the weight,” he murmured, his fingertips gliding over the metal. “Older alloys carry impurities that make them a little denser. And here—” He tipped it forward, showing the underside to the camera. “—you can see the seam, where the mold was joined. A true pre-Descent piece would have been cast whole.”

He set it aside and reached for another crate, and Mydei silently handed it over, their eyes meeting for the briefest moment.

Something about it made her chest ache a little, though she couldn’t have said why.

So she simply held the teleslate steady and let herself listen, quietly grateful she’d agreed to come.

“Ah—this is—”

The next artifact Phainon pulled from the crate made his face go soft in a way that caught Castorice completely off guard.

He turned it gently in his hands, brushing dust from the engraved surface.

“Hm…this one’s authentic,” he murmured, his tone lower, almost reverent. “You can tell by the engraving—see? None of these are ever the same. Every artisan would sign their work differently, even if it was hidden.”

He glanced up at Mydei, eyes bright. “From Castrum Kremnos. Which,” he added with a little grin, “I happen to be able to return to its rightful owner.”

Carefully, he wiped the tiny piece clean—a small, tarnished necklace whose delicate chain looked ready to crumble if handled too roughly.

Mydei reached out, taking it from him without hesitation. He turned it over in his palm, thumb brushing across the pendant’s face.

For a moment, he just looked at it, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then—perhaps remembering they were live—he lifted his gaze to the camera with a politely neutral expression.

Castorice thought that was the end of it, until Mydei leaned in, close enough that she had to crane her neck to see, and whispered something low against Phainon’s ear.

Whatever he said made Phainon laugh—really laugh, warm and unrestrained, the sound ringing out clear and sweet through the old hall.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Mydei straightened and calmly handed him the next artifact.

Goodness, Castorice thought, her heart thumping so hard she was sure the teleslate would pick it up. Can the people watching tell I’m shaking?

She dared—just once—to glance at the comments.

They were an avalanche.

[windweaver4]: the way he looks at him???
[chrysaline_collector]: Such a talent for telling fakes apart
[arcane_nymph]: Woah… ive never seen a kremnoan look that soft
[sunforged_heart]: Lord phainon! Thank you for making these, they are so informative :)
[opalvine]: MYDEI JUST LEANED IN LIKE IT WAS NOTHING
[Orangeheir]: Phainons laugh… oh my titans….

Castorice slapped a hand over her mouth to keep the undignified noise in her throat from escaping.

This was…

This was going to be the end of her.

She almost dropped the teleslate— seriously, why does this keep happening —when Phainon’s stomach let out a long, plaintive growl that echoed across the hall.

His face flushed a pretty, ridiculous mix of gold and pink.

“Ah—maybe we should end it here,” he stammered, pressing a hand over his abdomen as if he could will it silent. “I’m…um…”

“Hungry,” Mydei finished flatly, setting down the next artifact he was holding.

Phainon pouted at him. “I was going to say ready to wrap up, but yes.”

“What about that place by Mamoreal Palace?” Mydei asked, as though this were an entirely ordinary conversation.

“Oh!” Phainon brightened immediately. “I was thinking just the same!” He turned to Castorice with that same wide, hopeful smile that made her feel about two seconds from combusting. “Cas, you want to come?”

“…If you don’t mind,” she mumbled, trying not to sound too eager.

“I never mind, Cas,” Phainon said, voice warm and earnest. He shifted to look back at Mydei. “Could you call them and—”

“Warn them that we’re coming? Already did.”

“ Hey! ” Phainon’s mouth fell open, scandalized. “It’s not a warning—”

“It is.” Mydei’s tone was unbothered, his arms crossing over his chest. “We eat a lot.”

“Oh.” Phainon blinked, then relented. “Well…they don’t mind.”

“No,” Mydei agreed, a trace of amusement flickering in his eyes. “They really don’t. Kind owners.”

Castorice tried—truly tried—to keep her composure as she juggled the teleslate, her fingers half-numb with adrenaline and mortification.

“Um,” she squeaked finally, voice very small, “Lord Phainon…how do I turn off the livestream?”

Phainon looked up, cheeks still pink, and offered her a sheepish little smile.

“Oh—just hold the icon in the corner,” he said gently. “Then it’ll ask you to confirm.”

Castorice nodded, heart pounding, and did exactly that—praying the comments would not haunt her dreams forever.
Her thumb hovered over the screen as she held the icon to end the broadcast.

Just for a second— just one more second —she let her eyes flick down to the comments, scrolling by in a glittering, unstoppable tide:

[starfallreader]: THE WAY HE BLUSHED WHEN HIS STOMACH GROWLED IM CRYING
[moonshimmered]: someone make a compilation of every time they look at each other please i’m begging
[evermist]: did you see mydei’s face when phainon flexed??? he’s so GONE
[silverthreaded]: THAT ANON JUST POSTED A VIDEO OF PHAINON CARRYING BOXES
[evermist]: LINK. WHERE IS THE LINK.
[opalvine]: i swear if they don’t get married by the end of this year i will perish
[windweaver4]: Mydei is stupidly pretty when he looks at Phaichan…

Castorice made a tiny, strangled sound in her throat.

She closed the stream with a trembling finger, then carefully— very carefully—handed the teleslate back to Phainon.

“Thank you, Cas,” he said sweetly, his expression blissfully unaware of the meltdown she was currently experiencing.

“You’re…welcome,” she managed, her voice an octave too high.

As he turned away to help Mydei stack the crates again, she just stood there, hand pressed over her mouth, trying to calm her racing heart.

Oh my gods.

Oh my gods.

Oh my gods.

This— this —was going to be her entire personality for at least the next month.

And with that singular, overwhelming thought, she let the moment settle around her like the closing of a storybook—warm, absurd, and so much more real than she ever expected.

Oh my gods, she thought again, dazed, they’re hopeless.

Chapter Text

“I’m so hungry…” Phainon sighed out, shoulders slumping.

Aglaea had heard this phrase countless times since the day he came into her life. It was almost a refrain at this point, uttered in all seasons, all moods—sometimes with humor, sometimes as distraction, and sometimes, like now, as a tired truth.

“Well,” she said without looking up from her scroll, “what’s in your itinerary today?”

She knew her tone could be mistaken for cold—people often said she sounded detached, calculating in ways even she hadn’t realized a thousand years ago. But Phainon… Phainon had always seen past that.

In his presence, she was reminded that compassion didn’t have to be loud to be real. That clarity and calculation could coexist with care.

That perhaps—just perhaps—the prophecy had chosen well. That her goal and mindset to ensure the prophecy comes to pass does not come from a careful tyranny but from a genuine care for the world. 

Phainon groaned softly, setting his teleslate down beside him. “The council meeting. I swear I don’t know why they insist on speaking with me instead of you—”

“You know very well Caenis’ view of us,” Aglaea replied calmly, folding her hands in her lap. “She despises me and takes any opportunity to sow cracks within our ranks.”

She looked up and offered the smallest of smiles. “Also, you are quite pleasant to talk to and debate with, Phainon.”

Phainon laughed, though it was short-lived. “I don’t even dislike it, really. I like debates. I like discussion. But meeting with the council elders always feels less like diplomacy and more like preparing for a siege.”

“Don’t fear too much,” she said, her tone warming. “You’re ready to face this. You have mine and Tribios’ full support in this matter.”

Phainon straightened a little at that, nodding firmly.

“Thank you, Lady Aglaea,” he said, flashing her a bright smile as he stood. “I’ll be sure to live up to your expectations.”

As he turned to leave, she watched him go—his steps light, his posture tall, his presence undeniable.

There was no doubt in her mind that he’d be fine.

Phainon had a way with words not many possessed. He could coax reason from the unreasonable, warmth from the distant. And yet, even he had moments of faltering. She knew him too well to miss it.

He always got hungrier on days like this.

Not from physical need—though his appetite was already notoriously strong—but from stress. From anxiety he tried too hard to hide.

It was an old habit. One she’d first noticed during early strategy sessions years ago, when he’d polished off three sweet buns before saying a single word about a diplomatic visit. When she’d asked if he was truly that hungry, he’d only blinked and replied, “I suppose I was.”

But she knew the signs now. The way he hovered too long over his tray. The way he absentmindedly reached for food even while reviewing council documents. The way he talked faster between bites, not slower.

Stress-eating was Phainon’s quiet ritual—one he didn’t even recognize in himself.

It wasn’t greed or gluttony. It was self-soothing.

And as the doors closed behind him, Aglaea made a mental note to send something warm and grounding to the chamber— before the council meeting started.

He would need the comfort.

And if nothing else, she could ensure he faced that room with something better in his stomach than nerves.


When she received the small message from Phainon—“Food delivered. Thank you.”—Aglaea allowed herself a quiet nod of satisfaction.

She didn’t need grand gratitude. A brief message was enough to know her contribution had reached him.

This was a smaller meeting, yes. Nothing world-shattering on the surface. But it was also the first time Phainon would be going alone—without her or Tribios beside him.

She wasn’t anxious, exactly. But there was a strange hum of concern in her chest that hadn’t quieted since morning.

He would be fine, of course. Phainon was clever, patient, and intuitive in ways that made him ideal for these discussions. He had a natural charisma that softened even the most jaded council members, and a vocabulary that could dismantle a poorly framed argument with a single gracious phrase.

But even stars could burn out if watched too closely.

Aglaea turned back to her own work, fingers moving with quiet precision across the network interface she had helped design.

She was well aware of how people used the network—how the platform meant to unify discourse and connection was also used to spread rumors, biases, and shallow praise dressed as obsession. She monitored and filtered it all, silently and without recognition, every single day.

She knew exactly what they said about her: cold, calculated, divine in name only.

She knew what they said about the other heirs, too.

But most of all—she knew what they said about Phainon.

The threads that praised his looks with no regard for his mind. The messages that dissected his body, his posture, his tone of voice. The viral clips that Cipher, in her irreverent joy, posted with little thought to the weight they carried.

He flexed became a headline.
He laughed became art.
He hesitated became analysis.

And she knew—because she saw him.

She saw how often he opened his teleslate when he should have been resting.

She felt it, even now, as his presence stirred on the network—quiet and isolated. Not posting. Not messaging. Just scrolling .

Through comments. Through old livestream footage. Through fragments of himself reflected back in thousands of voices.

And while most were kind, some…were not.

She didn’t know which comment he had seen tonight—what words had hit the wound—but she sensed it lingered.

So, quietly, carefully, she filtered them. Not all. Just the ones sharp enough to cut.

She didn’t want him waking up with those words lodged in his mind like thorns.

He already bore too much.

The prophecy. The expectations. The weight of his own image.

If she could clear the fog, even slightly, then she would.

Let him walk into that council room with his head high, she thought, smoothing her robes. Let him feel light, if only for a day.

And next time she saw Cipher—she would speak to her. Kindly, but firmly.
There was a difference between celebration and spectacle.
And Phainon, in all his light, deserved to shine on his own terms.

Hours passed.

The sun had long begun its descent, golden light slipping gently across the floor of Aglaea’s quarters. She sat at her desk, fingers stilling when she felt a soft chime ripple through her thread connection.

Phainon’s online again.

Her gaze shifted toward the screen. He hadn’t messaged her—not yet. And that was strange. Normally, he would send at least a small message after a meeting. Something like “I’m done!” or “I survived!” Even just a single emoji sometimes, when he was too tired to type.

But now…nothing.

Just silence.

She let it be—for a while. Gave him space, time to breathe.

But when another few hours passed and her own teleslate finally lit up with a new message, it wasn’t from him.

Instead, it was from Tribios.

[tribbie]: snowy’s meeting went well!

She stared at the message, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Did it?

Tribios rarely exaggerated—but THEY was also an optimist. THEY had a way of seeing “well” even in stormy skies. And though she trusted THEM deeply, there was something in her that resisted the comfort of those words.

So she opened the system quietly, a silent thread-path opening across her interface. She didn’t pry—but she observed. Monitored the ripples left in the wake of Phainon’s activity.

He wasn’t replying to messages. He wasn’t watching lighthearted content. He wasn’t resting.

He was scrolling again.

Her eyes scanned the trail.

And then she saw it.

He was looking through old comments—comments from his previous streams, his public appearances, even a few of Cipher’s more “viral” posts.

But more than that—he was looking at the bad ones.

The filtered ones. The ones she had already manually hidden from public visibility. And yet—he had found them.

Or someone had reposted them.

A thread had started up again. Baseless and cruel:

“Phainon’s not fit for leadership.”
“He’s too soft, too emotional, always smiling like he doesn’t take things seriously.”
“Not to mention—he’s not even that attractive? Definitely not elegant enough for a Deliverer.”
“The Chrysos heirs need someone sharp, not someone who looks like he was sculpted to sell peace treaties to children.”

It was slander. Cowardly, baseless slander.

But Aglaea knew Phainon.

She knew the way his mind worked—gentle and forgiving toward others, but never toward himself.

He’d read every word. Not because he believed it, but because some part of him feared that he did.

He would internalize it. Quietly. Without complaint.

He would nod at Tribbie and smile at THEM and say, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

And then at night, alone, he would look at his reflection and wonder if the mask of confidence he wore had been too thin all along.

Aglaea scrolled deeper into the flagged threads, eyes narrowing as the filtered algorithm continued to pull in related activity.

At first glance, some of the threads appeared like praise—gilded with emojis, stylized headers, and fancams of Phainon smiling on the field or caught in mid-laugh during a public address. But underneath the glitter, she could see the rot.

"So soft-looking, you just know he’s obedient where it counts 😩 Deliverer of what, exactly??”
“He’s too pretty to lead. Let him serve in other ways…”
“I get that he’s charming but he’s obviously a diplomatic puppet. You think someone with that face is actually making policy? 😂”
“Every time he turns someone down you just know he’s rehearsed the rejection. Bet it still hurts. Poor baby Deliverer can’t take the heat.”

Aglaea’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

And then came the ones that chilled her more deeply—the conspiracies.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae? Please. That name has too much poetic weight to be real. I’m betting he’s lying about his homeland.”
“Calling it now: he’s not even one of the original candidates. He’s being inserted by the demigods to win public favor while they consolidate power behind the scenes.”
“He smiles too much. Have you seen his eyes? There’s something in them. He’s not who he says he is.”
“Mark me—he’s going to bring this world to ruin.”

That last one made her stomach turn.

And it had thousands of replies.

Some arguing, many laughing. But a disturbingly vocal minority agreeing.

Aglaea’s hand hovered over the moderation panel for a long moment. She could have it all pulled down. She had that power. She had the reach. But even if she erased the surface, these things had a way of resurfacing—like rot beneath a painted wall.

More than anything, she hated that he might have already seen it.

No.

She knew he had.

Because he wasn’t resting. His thread presence was still active, and she could feel the jagged, anxious hum of it beneath the polished exterior.

He wasn’t interacting —but he was reading.

And that, in many ways, was worse.

She imagined him sitting alone, knees pulled up in whatever quiet room he’d retreated to post-meeting, scrolling through those words.

Reading people mock his diplomacy.
Doubting his origins.
Reducing him to a body.
A vessel.
A tool.

And Phainon, who tried so hard to live with grace, would say nothing.

He would swallow it down like ash.

He would smile at her tomorrow and insist he was fine.

Aglaea closed her eyes, a quiet breath escaping her lips.

What could truly be done?

Politically, she was already treading carefully. Any overt action—even from her—risked accusations of censorship, control, or bias. And while the Threads were meant to protect Okhema and promote transparency, she, more than anyone, understood the fragile illusion of neutrality that held the system together.

She couldn’t simply silence voices. Even the cruel ones.

Not without risking the trust of the public and feeding the very conspiracies she loathed.

“They’re hiding something.”
“She’s scrubbing the truth.”
“The Chrysos heirs are controlling everything.”

The narratives would spin themselves into storms.

And so, she sat in that tension—one hand hovering with her own threads tangled between her fingers, the other curled into a fist against her robes.

She would not tear the threads apart to protect one boy.

Even if that boy deserved it.

So she rerouted what she could. Shadowed the worst of it. Rebalanced what few things she could without being controlling. 

And then she leaned back in her chair, eyes still closed.

This would not be the last time Phainon saw slander written in glittering text. It would not be the last time he found himself reduced, misunderstood, objectified, or doubted.

He is too bright not to be seen, she thought. And being seen… always comes at a price.

She could not shield him from the world.

But she could meet him in its aftermath.

So when he inevitably came by—smiling a little too brightly, speaking a little too quickly, asking something innocent like “You wouldn’t happen to have any spare data logs from that council meeting, would you?” —she would be ready.

To offer him tea. To sit beside him without asking questions.

To dance around the truth in a way that left the door open, should he want to walk through it.

She would reassure him—not with empty comfort, but with presence. With grounding. With continuity.

Because there would always be noise.

And while she could only do so much she was still someone he looked up to, his mentor. She would play this role until her final breath, when she will pass this heavy torch onto him.

Later that day, Aglaea found herself crossing the Twilight Courtyard—and spotted Hyacine just outside, rubbing at her shoulder with an exasperated look.

“Ah! Lady Aglaea!” Hyacine called out quickly, shifting upright with the politeness of someone trying very hard to look less drained than she was. “Good afternoon!”

Aglaea’s gaze narrowed slightly. The faint tightness in the girl’s left arm and the small, newly healed scratch trailing just below her eye did not go unnoticed.

She halted a few steps away, arms folding with gentle command.

“Do pray tell,” she said smoothly, “what happened?”

Hyacine offered a sheepish smile—equal parts flustered and fond.

“Well,” she began, brushing hair behind her ear, “it’s been a bit of a day.”

Apparently, Phainon had stopped by the courtyard earlier to turn in his log, and within minutes, Mydei and Castorice had arrived as well. The four of them had decided, somewhat impulsively, to go out together.

Everything was fine—until, as they passed through the northern terrace, a small cluster of people began murmuring behind them.

Phainon, as ever, tried to pretend he didn’t hear. But Mydei had scowled instantly, and Castorice, from what Aglaea could gather from Hyacine's story, looked upset in a way she hadnt seen in a long time.

The comments had been about Aedes Elysiae—about Phainon, to be specific.

Dismissive. Derisive.

Calling him a “pretty face with a borrowed title,” questioning the legitimacy of his homeland, and reducing him to nothing more than a decorative figurehead trailing behind the more “serious” demigods.

Hyacine herself had been busy healing a passerby at the time and had tried to remain calm—until someone, emboldened by the crowd, dragged her name into it as well.

Said something about how even Hyacine was simply not fit to even bear any duty or coreflame as she was simply… too weak. 

Aglaea felt her jaw tighten.

“And what happened then?” she asked, though she had a guess.

Hyacine beamed. “Phainon scolded him.”

Aglaea blinked. “ Phainon? ”

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Hyacine said, clearly delighted now. “It was elegant. Graceful. He didn’t raise his voice, but he made every word land exactly where it needed to. Called out the cruelty. Defended me. And did it all like it was a formal address. The man didn’t know what to do—he just left. ”

Aglaea couldn't help the small smile that touched her lips. Of course he did.

“Unfortunately,” Hyacine added with a sigh, “that’s when the other problem started.”

Apparently, someone nearby had recorded the whole encounter. And the moment the video hit the local network, admiration for Phainon surged like wildfire.

By the time they tried to continue on their way, the group kept getting stopped. For praise. For photos. For questions. Some came up to argue, and Phainon and Hyacine had done their best to answer yet also get away so they could all just go eat. 

They didn’t even make it to their destination.

“Castorice looked like she was going to cry,” Hyacine said with a laugh. “Mydei gave up first and suggested they just get food delivered and eat by the riverside instead.”

Aglaea sighed, rubbing her temple.

“I imagine it will be trending by tonight.”

“Oh, it already is.” Hyacine smiled guiltily. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Aglaea murmured, though her mind was already racing through contingencies. She’d have to double-filter tonight. Make sure the admiration didn’t twist into something else. Something too consuming. Too invasive.

Phainon never asked for the spotlight.
He just tried to do good—even when it came at the cost of his own peace.

Aglaea knew that. All too well.
And yet, the tides of admiration rolling through Okhema weren’t showing signs of slowing.

Perhaps it was Cipher’s videos—well-meaning at first, but spreading far too quickly. Or perhaps the people of Okhema, starved of miracles, had found a new toy they could sink their teeth into. A golden story they could project their desires onto.

And Phainon—dear, radiant Phainon—was too kind, and knew too well where he had to stand to bite back.

Aglaea exhaled slowly, her concern deepening as Hyacine’s tone shifted from humor to something more weary.

“That wasn’t even the worst part, though,” she murmured, rubbing the faint mark along her cheek.

Aglaea’s brow lifted. “What happened?”

Hyacine hesitated for just a moment before continuing, voice tight but composed.

“We were trying to get out of the crowd when someone called for help—claimed to be dizzy. Looked pale, too. So of course I stopped everyone to check in.”

She paused, her expression darkening. “But the second I got close, he grabbed my arm. Hard. Wouldn’t let go.”

Aglaea’s expression chilled. “What did he want?”

“Attention. A reaction. I don’t know,” Hyacine muttered, visibly upset now. “He kept saying how I was one of his favorite Chrysos heirs. That I should be honored he noticed me. When Phainon tried to step in, the guy tightened his grip. I couldn’t get free.”

Aglaea’s eyes sharpened with fury just beneath the surface. “And then?”

“Mydei didn’t wait,” Hyacine said flatly. “He punched him. Straight across the jaw.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh. “It made everything worse. The man stumbled and caught me with his elbow—scratched my cheek. Not bad, just… messy.”

Aglaea reached out gently, brushing her fingers near the barely-there mark. Her voice softened. “And you’re certain you’re alright?”

“Physically, yeah. Just…” Hyacine looked away. “Tired. We never even made it to eat together. We were supposed to have a normal evening.”

Her words hung in the air, quiet and mournful.

And Aglaea understood.
Not just the disappointment, but the ache beneath it.

An ache born from love—not romantic, but the kind that roots itself deep, made from shared burdens and unspoken care.

Hyacine, Castorice, Mydei, Phainon… they weren’t just allies. They were each others world. Friends, Companions, Closer than Aglaea could have ever thought they would get. And if even they couldn’t shield each other from being picked apart in public, what chance did any of them truly have?

Aglaea closed her eyes, a quiet breath slipping from her lips.

She could not silence the crowd—
Not without risking the very ideals they stood for.

But Aglaea knew now that she needed to tighten her grip more than ever.
Not out of fear.
But out of duty.

If the mental and physical states of the Chrysos Heirs continued to fray beneath the public’s demands—
If the constant scrutiny chipped away at their confidence and connection—
Then they would become vulnerable.
More vulnerable than anyone could afford.

And vulnerability, in their line of existence, was a luxury none of them could carry for long.

Aglaea, who had long regarded emotions as second to responsibility, found herself pausing now—not out of hesitation, but deliberation. She was not warm, nor nurturing in the way Hyacine or Castorice were. Her strength had always been in composure. In restraint. In silent protection.

But perhaps…
Perhaps she could do more than simply watch from the edges and filter the damage.

Maybe tomorrow, she would begin reaching out to the others.
Individually. Quietly. Carefully.

She would speak with Hyacine about maintaining boundaries, with Castorice about presence and security, with Mydei—about everything he refused to speak aloud. 

They were strong, but even strength needed grounding.
And grounding, she realized, was what she could offer.

Her duty was to the prophecy.
But her heart, however seldom she acknowledged it, had long since settled with the children of fate who bore its weight.

She would not let them break beneath it.

–

The greatest abnormality came when Phainon texted their group chat to say he wouldn’t be available.

No explanation. No details.

Tribbie was the first to reply.

--

Chrysos Heirs

Phainon: Wont be around. Sorry

Tribbie: Are you alright Snowy?

--

The message sat there unanswered. No read receipt appeared beneath it.

Later that day, Castorice chimed in:

--

Chrysos Heirs

Castorice: Lord Phainon, Are you still feeling ill? I can stop by and drop some tea off if you need. 

Mydei: He was fine last night. It was the council and... the events of yesterday that was giving him a headache.

--

Aglaea frowned at her screen, a prickle of unease curling in her chest.

She knew Phainon. If he were truly sick, he wouldn’t bother sending any message at all—he’d simply vanish and reappear days later looking half-dead, insisting he’d “handled it.”

He tried to deal with everything himself, always. But he had never lied to her about it.

And that silence—no read receipt, no offhand joke, not even a single complaining emoji—felt more ominous than any disappearance he’d ever managed.
Her teleslate pings again.

--

Chrysos Heirs

Tribbie: what happened yesterday ? :(

Castorice: Ah, just some minor issues with the citizens, please pay it no mind Lady Tribbie.

Hyacine: Agy, sorry to bother... but Phainon hasnt eaten anything for the past days except for what you sent him and im pretty worried but its busy today...
Hyacine: AhhhH!11! Wrong chat i am so sorry!
Hyacine: oh... is snowy not feeling well...? would someone check in on him? He really needs to eat!

Aglaea: I will check on him. 

--

She needed to be sure he was all right.

Half because of the prophecy—those whispered warnings she could never quite ignore—and half because, despite everything, she simply worried for him.

When Aglaea made her way to his house—tucked near the outskirts of the city, away from the noise—she expected to find signs of trouble.

Instead, she found him lying in the sun like some overgrown housecat, dressed in his usual attire as if he was ready to go out, and yet she could see parts of his intricate outfit that seemed sloppily thrown off.

His teleslate sat abandoned in the grass nearby, still faintly glowing with a half-finished message.

“…Phainon?”

Her voice snapped him out of whatever quiet reverie he’d slipped into.

He jolted upright, eyes wide. “L—Lady Aglaea? Did something happen?”

She almost laughed at how quickly he went from drowsy to battle-ready. Even now, he was scanning the horizon like he expected enemies to materialize out of the air.

She lifted a hand in a calming gesture.

“No. Nothing has happened,” Aglaea said softly. “I’m simply…checking on you.”

Phainon’s shoulders loosened instantly, the taut line of his spine easing as he exhaled a slow, surprised breath.

“Oh,” he murmured, blinking as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m fine. Really.”

He tried to smile, and for an instant, it almost looked genuine.

Almost.

Aglaea stepped closer, her expression gentle but unyielding.

“You always say that,” she said quietly.

His mouth opened—probably to offer the same tired reassurance—but then he hesitated. His gaze dropped to his hands, resting listless in his lap.

“…I know,” he admitted after a moment, voice so low it was nearly lost to the breeze.

“Is something bothering you?” she asked, a little more firmly. “Phainon?”

He didn’t answer right away. She took that as invitation enough and sank down onto the soft grass beside him, careful to give him room but close enough that he wouldn’t feel alone.

“Nothing of consequence,” he said eventually, though he didn’t sound convinced even to his own ears. “Truly.”

“Even if it’s nothing,” Aglaea countered gently, “it’s still affecting you now.”

He went quiet, breath caught in his throat, as though weighing whether he dared to let the words out.

“I see…” he murmured at last. He drew in a slow breath, then lifted his eyes to hers, uncertain but searching. “In that case…if you don’t mind me talking,”

“I never do,” she assured him, her voice steady, kind. “Please—speak your mind, Phainon.”

“Alright…I’ve been having this dream,” Phainon starts.

He sounds hesitant—like every word tastes uncertain on his tongue.

“It has all of you in it—all my friends, my family, everyone…” He pauses, pressing a palm against his chest. “Sometimes even people I’m very sure I’ve never spoken to in my life.”

He draws in a shaky breath, his eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“In it…there is no Era Nova. There’s only me, standing alone, staring at myself. There's golden blood everywhere, I can see corpses, I don't even know who's they are. And All I can do is stare at the man in front of me, even though it looks like me I don't even know. And honestly…it’s scaring me.”

His voice wavers.

“And then that song starts again. Im humming it- as if I need comfort after watching me hurt everyone and… im all alone. Bearing a mask I don't even recognize. The taste of ash on my tongue”

Phainon glances down. Staring at his hands, as if they were cursed.

“What if I– really am not fit for this? I've been a mess, Lady Aglaea…” He doesn't look at her, opting instead to curl his knees into himself, sitting and staring up at the sky. 

“Even eating has been…difficult lately,” he admitted, almost in a whisper. “Everything I try—sometimes the aftertaste just…reeks of ash. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Aglaea opened her mouth to respond, but Phainon pressed on, as if he couldn’t stop the words now that they’d started to spill out.

“And sleep is difficult,” he continued, his voice tightening. “Eating is difficult. Being around anyone but you all is difficult, Hell—I can’t even get on my own teleslate without someone asking a million questions or some council member bothering me about everything…or just some random fan —”

His mouth twisted in frustration, eyes glinting with something raw.

“—objectifying me or someone else,” he finished hoarsely. “It’s…not the biggest problem in the world, I know that. But it’s exhausting, Aglaea. Truly exhausting. I don't know how to stop them from hurting the others either, no matter what I say somehow it's never enough,”

His hands clenched in his lap, knuckles pale.

“I don’t want to turn anyone away,” he said, softer now. “But turning people down has never been easy for me. I want—I need —to be better. To be the Deliverer everyone expects me to be. The person they need me to be.”

He drew a shaky breath, looking down as if ashamed of the admission.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “But lately…it feels like I’m failing.”

Aglaea paused, searching for the right words.

For a moment, she simply watched him—this bright, bewildering soul who carried so much weight on shoulders that were never meant to bear it alone.

She thought of the others—Hyacine’s patient wisdom, Castorice’s quiet devotion, even Cipher’s irreverent loyalty—and of Mydei, who she suspected understood far more than he ever let himself admit.

When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady.

“You aren’t alone in this sentiment, Phainon,” she said. “Even if it feels that way.”

He looked up, hesitant, as if daring to hope she meant it.

“It’s never an issue to lean on others,” she continued gently. “Not when you’ve already given so much of yourself.”

Her gaze held his, calm and unflinching.

“I’m sure Mydeimos, in particular, would be well acquainted with some of the struggles you’ve described,” she added. “And I don’t believe— for a moment —that he would mind helping you carry them.”

Phainon swallowed, the faintest tremor in his hands.

“…Ah. And Mydei,” he scoffs, though it doesn’t sound convincing. “He doesn’t even like me.”

Aglaea coughed, so startled she nearly lost her composure. “ What? ”

Phainon didn’t look up. His voice dropped lower, as though he was confessing something he’d never dared to say aloud.

“He’s a kind person,” he went on softly. “So kind he would indulge me in little whims. He’d sit with me while I rambled about something no one else cared about. He’d cook just to make sure I remembered to eat. He’d…pretend he wasn’t tired, even when he was. Fight and quip with me, Spar endlessly,”

His hand lifted, palm outstretched toward the sun, as if he could reach past the sky and close his fingers around the distant edge of the sun itself.

“I know he’s busy,” he murmured. “He has a thousand responsibilities, all so much more important than me. But still…I stubbornly refuse to let him go.”

Aglaea could only stare.

All this time, she’d known Mydei simply enjoyed Phainon’s bright, endless affection—just as everyone did. She’d assumed Phainon believed it, too. That he knew how much he was loved, that he understood he was cherished, even if he didn’t always say so.

But now…watching the way his hand trembled in the air before it slowly fell back to his lap—she realized how wrong she’d been.

He truly didn’t see it.

He thought Mydei’s quiet care was obligation. That the rest of them only tolerated his presence out of pity or habit.

“Sorry, Lady Aglaea,” he murmured, drawing her back. He managed a tired, apologetic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been…emotional recently. Despite everything, I still don’t understand why you all indulge me so much.”

Aglaea opened her mouth to tell him he was wrong—that no one humored him, that none of their kindness was pity—but before she could speak, he shook his head, like he couldn’t bear to hear it.

“I’ll do my best to eat better,” he said quietly. “To get stronger. To be the face you all need me to be. I promise.”

He drew in one last deep breath, as if steadying himself for the weight of everything waiting outside this moment.

“…I hope you don’t mind if you indulge me one more time,” he finished, his voice so soft she almost didn’t catch it. “I just…I needed some rest. To be away from the expectations. Not that they’re bad…just…a day.”

His eyes lifted to hers, searching, hopeful in the way only Phainon could be—so open it almost hurt to look at him.

“…Just a day was all I needed.”

And Aglaea felt…off, unsettled in a way she hadn’t expected.

Even as she sat there, she was already thinking through how she would tell the others—how she could make them see that of all the burdens Phainon carried, the heaviest was simply believing he wasn’t worth the gentleness everyone offered him.

What a difficult moment to navigate.

Quietly, she moved closer to him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders in a slow, careful embrace.

“Take the rest you need,” she murmured. “I will take care of everything else. And you mustn’t think so little of yourself.”

For a heartbeat, he was very still. Then he leaned into her—slowly, almost shyly—and it reminded her of when he’d been much younger, before he’d perfected that bright, carefree mask he wore so well.

She remembered the boy he’d been then—quieter, watchful, calculating in ways that were painfully obvious to anyone who looked closely. Passionate to everything, in awe of the sights yet that melancholic undertone that lingered with him everywhere he went.

“You mean more to me than you realize,” she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt. “My senses may be dulled, but even so—everything you’ve just told me couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Phainon drew in a shaky breath, his head resting lightly against her shoulder.

“You carry a weight I can only wish to dull,” Aglaea went on. “And while we all do our best to share the burden of this prophecy…you mustn’t let it destroy you.”

Her hand lifted to brush his hair back from his face, a gesture she hadn’t done in years.

“You are a special case,” she said, her voice gentling. “Not like me, Phainon. Others love you. They flock to you because you are you . Because you are kind. Because you are generous. Because you know exactly when to be composed and when to be open.”

She paused, letting the words settle between them.

“I can’t say I’ve ever seen a soul grow to be quite like you in my entire lifetime,” she finished quietly. “And I don’t think I ever will again.”

For a moment, Phainon didn’t move.

The words settled around him like a warm cloak, and yet he looked…stricken, as if he didn’t know whether to accept them or to fold in on himself to hide from them.

Aglaea took a slow breath, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder.

“My greatest despair,” she went on, voice soft but unshakable, “is that you aren’t able to see how much you mean to this journey. To this city. To the Chrysos heirs, this flame chase journey, and your very own companions.”

Phainon swallowed, his throat bobbing. His gaze dropped to his hands, turning them over as if he could read something in the lines of his palms that would tell him how to feel.

When he finally looked up, the bright, practiced ease he usually carried had fallen away completely. What was left was something smaller, rawer—a quiet, sorrowful expression he rarely let anyone see.

“…I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Aglaea murmured, her voice all the more tender for its certainty.

She drew him in, wrapping both arms around his shoulders like a mother would, careful not to crowd him but refusing to let him drift away either.

He didn’t resist.

His head dropped, forehead resting lightly against her collarbone. His hands lifted, hovering for a heartbeat before they pressed—light, uncertain—against her sleeves as though he still wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort.

“I never meant to…to make you all worry,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it.

“You’ve never been a burden,” she promised, feeling her own throat tighten. “Not once. Not to me. Not to any of us.”

Phainon’s breath hitched. He didn’t cry—he never did—despite all the theatrics or passion he never did or could cry truthfully. But the way he leaned into her, silent and small, spoke more than any tears ever could.

Aglaea closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his hair.

She remembered when he had been little more than a boy, newly arrived, carrying the same tired sadness in his eyes every time he thought of the home he’d left behind.

Some part of her had never stopped seeing that boy. The one who tried so hard to be what everyone needed that he’d forgotten he was allowed to be cared for, too.

So she simply held him, her arms steady and unshakable, and let the silence speak for them both.

“…I’m sorry, Lady Aglaea,” Phainon murmured at last, his voice small against her shoulder. “The burden you bear is much greater than mine, and yet you’re here comforting me…like I’m a small child.”

“It’s quite alright,” she said gently. “You fail to see the significance you hold to the people around you.”

He was quiet a moment, gathering the courage to speak.

“…I hope it’s not a bad kind,” he whispered. “If it were, I’d rather be told straight to my face.”

Aglaea huffed, a soft exhale that ruffled his hair.

“The only people who dislike you are fools,” she said firmly. “And you would be wise to remember—I don’t call any of our companions fools.”

A pause.

“…What about Professor Anaxa?” he ventured, his voice tentative but edged with a hopeful little humor.

She drew back just enough to look him in the eye, one brow arching in dignified reproach.

“Hold your tongue,” she sighed. “Who influenced you to quip at me in your moment of self-pity?”

He managed a tiny, tired smile. “…You did, my lady.”

Aglaea pressed a hand to her forehead, her expression the perfect picture of long-suffering grace.

“Alas,” she muttered, though her mouth twitched in spite of herself, “I am suffering the consequences of my own student.”

Phainon’s shoulders shook with a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so weary. And for the first time all day, she felt the weight in the air lighten.

“You don’t have to keep—” he began, trying to pull back.

“On the contrary,” she interrupted calmly, tightening her arms just enough to hold him in place. “Your warmth is quite comfortable.”

“…Must you read my mind?” he mumbled, though there was no real heat in it.

“I simply have known you for the greater portion of your life now,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s not a particularly difficult deduction.”

She felt his breath catch—a small, quiet surrender—and eased her hand up to rest lightly at the back of his neck the way she had when he was much younger.

“You’ve always tried so hard to hide these thoughts,” she murmured, her voice softer now. “Even when you were little, you believed you had to be perfect for everyone around you. As though you were only allowed to be loved if you earned it.”

His shoulders tensed, and she could almost feel the old shame behind it.

“Phainon,” she went on gently, “I will ask you this plainly: why do you think Mydei dislikes you?”

He went utterly still.

“…It’s not important,” he avoids her gaze.

“It is,” she countered. “To you, it clearly is.”

Her hand shifted, brushing against his hair in a slow, reassuring gesture.

“I know you would rather swallow your feelings than risk making anyone uncomfortable,” she said. “But you deserve to be honest with yourself. Just this once—say it aloud.”

He drew in a slow, uneven breath, and she felt his head dip slightly as if he were ashamed to let the words out.

“…Because he never…asks me for anything,” he said finally, his voice ragged. “He never relies on me. He never…needs me.”

The confession hovered between them, fragile as spun glass.

“And you think that means he doesn’t care,” Aglaea said quietly.

Phainon swallowed, unable to lift his head. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” she said at once, without hesitation. “Because you are not something to be used up, Phainon. You don’t measure your worth by what you can give. And neither does he.”

He was quiet now, in that small, helpless way he’d never quite grown out of.

“You’ve built so much of yourself around being needed,” Aglaea continued, her voice calm and steady, “that you can’t see when someone simply wants you. No conditions. No obligations. Just…you.”

Her arms tightened around him again.

“You are not alone. Not in this feeling. Not in this fear. But I promise you—whatever you believe you lack, Mydei does not see you that way.”

Phainon was quiet for a long time. His hands fidgeted restlessly against the edge of her sleeve, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“…How?” he whispered at last, his voice hoarse. “How could he possibly…?”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Mydei is…” He drew in a shaky breath. “He’s a friend. A…a kindred spirit I will probably admire until the end of my days. And yet—”

He pressed his palm over his heart as if to steady the uneven beat beneath.

“I don’t know why I act like a fool whenever he’s near,” he admitted, frustration thickening his voice. “Every time, I tell myself I’ll be composed. I’ll be… perfect. But then—”

His fingers curled in the fabric of her sleeve.

“Then he looks at me,” he whispered, “and it’s like every carefully arranged part of me falls apart. And afterward—I feel so ridiculous. It's stupidly easy to fall into quips and teasing–.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes glinting with something too raw to name.

“I hate that I can’t be perfect or at least like how I should be around him, He would much prefer if I was dignified or… maybe less talkative” he finished. “I hate that I’m… less, somehow.”

Aglaea could only describe what she could feel as fierce, protective tenderness. Something she typically held exclusively to Phainon now.  

How badly she wanted to just say the word— love. To place it in his hands like a key he’d been searching for without knowing it.

But she knew this was something he needed to understand on his own. To grow into it at his own pace, without her spelling it out too soon.

So she only lifted her hand and rested it over his where it trembled against her sleeve.

“You aren’t less,” she said, steady and sure. “You’re simply… yourself. That's not wrong Phainon, you're just experiencing how it feels to not have to pretend to be… what others push onto you.”

And though she didn’t say the word aloud, she hoped he could hear it anyway—bright and inevitable in the quiet space between them.

You love him.

Phainon sighed, his shoulders rising and falling with the sound.

“You’re…you’re right,” he murmured, voice hushed. “I’m sorry again. I’ve been a mess for some reason. That dream…”

He shivered under her hand, as if the memory alone was enough to chill him.

“It’s…unnerving my very core,”

Aglaea only hummed softly, resting her chin against the crown of his hair.

“Then rest easier knowing it is simply a dream,” she said gently.

He was quiet, though his breath stayed uneven.

“Hyacine mentioned you haven’t eaten in a while,” she ventured after a moment.

Phainon hesitated, thinking.

“…I suppose I haven’t,” he admitted. “My stomach has been…unsettled for a while now.”

Aglaea nodded, as if this didn’t surprise her.

“Perhaps some actual sleep will help, Once you awaken we will figure out why your taste has been struggling.” she suggested.

“I—”

He looked up at her then, and for the first time, seemed to realize how they’d ended up: curled together in the grass, her arms around him as if he were her son and she was simply holding him after a nightmare.

He flushed, about to pull away, but she only smoothed his hair back and shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured. “Enjoy the warmth of the Dawn Device. I will keep you safe. No eyes will wander here.”

He stilled, her quiet reassurance seeming to reach the place all his fears were coiled. Slowly, he relaxed again, his head settling back against her chest.

And because she knew he needed more than silence, Aglaea took a small, careful gamble.

Out from her lips slipped that solemn melody he’d hummed once—back when she had first known this nightmare truly started. 

If Phainon noticed, he didn’t show it. He only curled closer, pressing his cheek against her shoulder, and let out a long breath.

Gently, she drew his cape that had been abandoned beside them around him like a makeshift blanket. It would have to do.

The sun was warm but not sweltering, the breeze threading cool fingers through the grass.

She hummed and hummed, and within minutes, she felt his breathing slow.

Even out.

Settle at last.

When she looked down, he was already asleep, face smoothed free of fear.

Aglaea closed her eyes, letting the quiet wrap around them both.

Just a day, she thought, brushing her thumb against his temple.

That was all he had needed.

Chapter Text

"I'm really hungry."

“Doot doot!”

“See? A kindred spirit!”

Phainon beamed, gesturing dramatically to the small—yet undeniably round—unicorn sitting happily in his lap. Little Ica, as Hyacine had named him, was… suspiciously light for something that consumed three times its weight in snacks. Phainon had questions about the laws of mass and gravity when it came to the creature, but for now, he chose peace.

He was babysitting—for a few hours, maybe longer—while Hyacine ran an errand with Trinan for reasons Phainon hadn’t fully understood but nodded along to anyway. With Aglaea granting him a few days’ reprieve from any duties, Phainon figured this was as good a use of his time as any. He wasn’t one to sit still, but a break was a break—and he’d take it, even if it meant being temporarily demoted to unicorn wrangler.

Not that he minded.

He wasn’t exactly embarrassed that Lady Aglaea had recently found him curled up like an overtired child and soothed him with a mother’s touch—but it wasn’t something he planned to speak about out loud. Ever. Even so, he’d carry her kindness quietly like a secret medal pinned beneath his chestplate. Her presence always seemed to unmake the weight in his lungs.

“Come on, little one,” Phainon said, giving Ica a light pat. “Let’s go for a run. Or a waddle. Something to get our limbs moving.”

Ica floated just slightly off the ground, lowering himself like a bloated balloon slowly deflating.

“Wait... can you run?” Phainon tilted his head. “Your legs are awfully stubby…”

“ Doot! ” Ica trilled indignantly, plopping his tiny hooves on the floor with defiant effort. Unfortunately, his belly reached it first. Phainon giggled.

“You’re adorable,” he cooed. “Do you think you can keep up?”

“...Doot. Doot.” Flat, resigned.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Phainon chuckled. “Alright, how about a nice walk instead? Best to let your food settle anyway.”

“ Doot… doot! ”

“Oh, me too. I’m still hungry, but I’m supposed to stick to Hyacine’s meal plan. She made one for both of us. Look.” He held up the laminated schedule like a sacred relic. “Color-coded and everything.”

“ Doot… ”

“Hey!” Phainon gasped. “Don’t say that. You’ll hurt her feelings!”

A pause.

“Deliverer. Are you speaking to the creature?”

Phainon nearly screamed. He jumped so violently that Ica yelped and tumbled off his lap with a squeaky, startled boomp .

“Mydei?!” Phainon gasped, clutching his chest. “By Kephale, you scared me!”

Mydei stood in the doorway with a half-lidded stare, arms crossed loosely as if debating internally whether to sigh, smile, or drag Phainon back to bedrest by the collar. His eyes flicked from the startled unicorn (now upside down like a toppled loaf of bread) to the meal plan Phainon was still clutching like scripture.

"...You’re actually talking to it," Mydei said, finally. His voice was flat, but his lip twitched. “Like... full conversation. Back and forth.”

“He talks first! ” Phainon protested, gesturing wildly to Ica, who gave an innocent little “doot!” from the floor.

Mydei blinked slowly. “...That’s not a language, Phainon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s one sound. Repeated. Dramatically.”

“So is ‘hmph’.’ But you don’t see me questioning your syntax.”

A pause. Mydei stared at him for two full seconds. Then three. Then four.

"...What are you?” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

Phainon grinned, pleased with himself, and bent to scoop Ica back up like a proud father retrieving his wayward child. “Just a man trying to get his steps in and follow the meal plan. Is that a crime?”

“It’s not a crime ,” Mydei said, finally stepping into the room and pinching the bridge of his nose. “But it might be a symptom.”

“A symptom of what?”

Mydei gave him a long look. “Terminal idiot disease.”

Phainon gasped, mock-offended. “How dare —”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Mydei muttered under his breath. Then, louder: “And I mean that in the medical sense. Like— clinically small animal cute. Like him.” He pointed at Ica, who had promptly rolled back onto his belly and was gnawing on the edge of Phainon’s sleeve like a carrot.

Phainon opened his mouth, paused, then smiled faintly. “I’ll take it.”

Ha. He called me cute. By Mnestia keep me calm. 

Mydei looked at him like he was a math problem with no solution—and unfortunately, one he kind of enjoyed solving anyway. “I genuinely don’t know if I’m supposed to scold you or sit down and help you both count macros.”

“Well,” Phainon offered brightly, “Hyacine did make enough quinoa to share.”

Mydei exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

“…Gods help me,” he muttered. “Fine. Scoot over. But if that thing starts dooting in my direction again, I’m leaving.”

“ Doot! ”

“...This was a mistake.”

-

“Deliverer, I thought you knew those had no calories—”

“Oh, they don’t?” Phainon blinked innocently, already holding a fourth one between his fingers. “So hypothetically—”

“No. You can’t eat fifty of them.”

“But they’re flavorless and tiny. That’s like... eating air.”

“That’s not how digestion works.”

“But if it was—”

Mydei lunged and snatched the snack from his hand, tossing it back in the container with a look that said you absolute child. Phainon stared at the loss with the tragedy of a man who had just watched a dream die in real time.

“You’re being cruel,” he muttered. “I’m an injured man, you know.”

“You stubbed your toe on the table leg,” Mydei said flatly.

“Violently. With force.”

“...It was loud.”

“See? I almost died. This is how you treat a man in his final hours?”

Mydei groaned and flopped down onto the nearby couch, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re going to be the end of me,” he mumbled.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Phainon murmured, casually. Too casually.

The air shifted.

Mydei looked up, and their eyes met for just a second too long. It wasn’t flirtatious—it wasn’t anything that clean. It was accidental. A slip in the weave. Like brushing hands in the dark and realizing you hadn’t let go.

Phainon cleared his throat first. “Anyway. Macros.”

“Yeah.” Mydei blinked. “Macros.”

They both turned away. Ica made a noise that might’ve been a snort.

“...I’m starting to think Hyacine knew exactly what she was doing when she asked me to stop by” Mydei said after a beat, staring into the quinoa bowl like it held ancient prophecy.

“Oh, she did,” Phainon replied. “She’s terrifying like that. But also sweet. Terrifying and sweet. Like a fruit knife.”

“You compare your friends to cutlery? ”

“Only the ones I trust.”

Mydei let out a quiet laugh despite himself—just a breath, but warm. He leaned back, tossing one leg over the other, relaxed now in a way that was rare. His gaze flicked toward Phainon again—lingering, curious, as if he were still trying to decode what this strange, bright man was made of.

Phainon caught the look out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. Just let the quiet settle between them, soft and almost comfortable.

Then: “You should stay.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Here?”

“Yeah.” Phainon looked down at Ica, who had nestled himself halfway under Mydei’s boot like a pillow. “He’s already claimed you. I think that counts as an invitation.”

Mydei hesitated. The room buzzed faintly with a kind of anticipation. Slow burn again—cautious. Like someone inching closer to a cliff they weren’t sure they wanted to fall from yet.

“...Just for a bit,” he said.

Phainon smiled to himself.

“Just for a bit,” he echoed.

But neither of them moved.

The hours passed quietly, the sun drifting lazily across the sky as if it too had decided to take a day off.

After the chaos of quinoa and phantom snack calories, Phainon had sprawled across the floor with Ica dozing on his chest, flipping through his notebook—his actual one, not the planner Hyacine gave him that beeped aggressively whenever he deviated from schedule. He had a list of tasks, appointments, logistics to coordinate once he returned to the city. Council meetings, transport networks, Titan-borne evaluations. He should’ve felt anxious just looking at it.

But Mydei was beside him. Sitting with one leg bent, back propped against the couch, slowly turning a pen over between his fingers as he read over the notes with that casual, half-curious expression of his. He wasn’t trying to fix anything—he just liked to know. To understand.

“You’re still skipping the week five check-ins with the council,” Mydei pointed out, quiet. Not accusatory.

“They talk in riddles,” Phainon mumbled. “And the youngest one made me cry last time.”

“You’re a Chrysos heir.”

“I was unprepared! ”

Mydei gave him a look that was all dry amusement. Then: “I could go with you.”

That made Phainon pause.

“You’d… come along?”

“I’ve dealt with council people before. They get weirdly respectful around me. As if im royalty”

Phainon snorted. “You are royalty”

“Exactly. They understand that.” A beat. “I’ll help. If you want.”

Phainon stared at him for a long moment. Then gave a short nod.

“…Yeah. I’d like that.”

They moved through the rest of the day with an ease that shouldn’t have come so naturally. Phainon worked through the last of his schedule. Mydei helped him cross-reference comms. They organized Hyacine’s pantry (and Phainon only dropped one jar of spice, when he tried avoiding stepping on Ica). And later, when the time stated it had well passed the sleeping hour, they stepped outside onto the training platform and sparred.

It wasn’t serious—nothing close to how they fought when they first met, when Mydei stood between him and demanded they duel. That had been ten days and nights of relentless battle, of Phainon refusing to fall, of Mydei never once hesitating. Of wounds and grit and silent understanding.

This was quieter.

Softer.

They traded blows in rhythm, the kind that only forms after years of knowing someone’s movements down to the breath. And when Phainon tripped, Mydei caught him—not harshly, not smugly, but gently, like he always would.

When they broke apart, panting in the amber dusk, Phainon glanced sideways and caught the faint curve of a smile tugging at Mydei’s lips. Barely there. But it stayed.

And it settled something in him.

Because truthfully, the feelings had always been there. Ever since the day he saw Mydei. Since they’d fought like mirror images. Since Mydei became a constant in a world that always felt like it was shifting out from under his feet. Since he realized that no matter how far or high or divine he rose—Mydei was always there. Quiet. Steady. Bracing him like gravity.

They sat later on the steps together, side by side. Phainon didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Mydei didn’t either.

But the silence was full of something else—warm, slow-burning.
Not absence, but presence. Tangible.
And for the first time in weeks, Phainon felt like the world could wait.

I want him to rely on me, he thought. I wish he would rely on me…

The thought ached more than he expected it to.

Mydei had sat beside him again, close enough that Phainon could feel the shift in the air when he moved—quiet, deliberate, like always. He didn’t look, but he could feel Mydei’s eyes on the side of his neck.

“…Something wrong?” Phainon asked, careful not to press too hard.

Mydei’s gaze darted away. “No.”

“You sure?”

A beat. A muscle jumped in Mydei’s jaw.

“You can talk to me,” Phainon said softly. “Always.”

“…I can. ”

“So…?”

“It’s…” Mydei’s shoulders rose and fell, almost imperceptibly. “It’s nothing important.”

Phainon didn’t look away. “I don’t mind.”

Silence stretched between them again—but this time, it had weight. Something unsaid pushing against the edges of it.

“Even if it’s to do with Kremnoan politics?” Mydei asked, finally, almost like a challenge.

Phainon blinked. “Do you know what Aglaea and I do all day?”

That startled a short laugh out of him. Mydei looked down, half-smiling despite himself. “Okay, Deliverer.”

“There it is,” Phainon murmured, a little too fondly.

“…What?”

“You always call me that when you're trying not to let something slip. Though you also call me that most days anyway,”

Mydei didn’t respond to that. But he didn’t deny it, either.

A breeze moved through the space between them. The kind that smelled like summer moss and faint ozone. The kind that felt like something was about to happen.

Phainon turned to look at him—really look—and this close, Mydei’s expression was unreadable. His eyes always were. But his hands had gone still. And for Mydei, that was saying everything.

“…Is it something you need help with?” Phainon asked, voice low now, gentle. “Because I want to help.”

Mydei opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Then, finally, looked at him—not past, not through. At.

“I don’t know if I can let you,” he said, and the words came out quiet. Raw. Like a thread unraveling at the edge.

Phainon’s breath caught.

“…Then let me stay,” he said. “Even if you don’t tell me anything yet. Just—let me be here.”

Mydei didn’t answer at first. The silence between them stretched, warm and heavy. The kind that held too much meaning for words to survive in.

But then—softly, like it cost him something—

“Okay, Phainon.”

The quiet after that wasn’t awkward. If anything, it deepened. Became a hush reserved for sacred things.

For a while, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, Mydei shifted—exhaled—and said, “I’ve been trying to get my people to settle.”

Phainon blinked, startled by the sudden honesty, but didn’t interrupt.

Mydei’s voice was low, rough at the edges. “They’re not like the others. Our people… we don’t build. Not really. We conquer. We take. The idea of cooperation with other regions—Okhema, Janusopolis—it grates on them. Even now.”

He glanced down at his hands. “They want war. Battle. A show of strength. And I’ve the only one who can even command them.”

Phainon nodded slowly. “Because they respect you.”

“They respect that I win, and that I'm their king, ” Mydei said flatly. “But I’m trying to teach them how to not win by force. How to stand beside people without drawing swords first. And it’s... exhausting.”

Phainon watched him quietly, brows furrowed—not in judgment, but in focus. He didn’t speak. Just listened.

Mydei went on. “Aglaea offered to collaborate on some treaty that would help with Okhema's perception of Kremnoans. I was this close to accepting. But Krateros—” he sighed sharply. “He still sees me as a student. Thinks I’m compromising our roots.”

“Krateros is the one who taught you, right?”

Mydei nodded. “He trained me. Sometimes unprompted advice, but always wisdom carried behind his words. He’s the reason I can be the one standing at the table now. But the moment I say something he doesn’t like, he sees betrayal. Like Im not representing Kremnos enough”

Phainon finally spoke. “That sounds lonely.”

It caught Mydei off guard. His gaze flicked to Phainon—sharp at first, defensive out of habit—but it softened just as quickly. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it.

Phainon’s voice was gentler now. “You’re trying to be everything for everyone—warrior, diplomat, heir, peacemaker. But where in that list do you go?”

A pause. Long and weighty. Mydei opened his mouth once, then closed it again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Phainon gave a small smile. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

“…And how would you do that?” Mydei asked. Not a jab—just… genuinely curious. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with a kind of tentative hope, like he wasn’t used to being offered something that wasn’t a demand or a duty.

Phainon hummed. “Your people are warriors. Fierce, loyal. Yet they follow you with precision, obedience. Their restraint and discipline are among the best in all of Amphoreous. They listen to you more than they would Krateros, no?”

Mydei didn’t immediately answer. But his silence wasn’t denial.

“…Your point?” he said eventually.

Phainon shifted, leaning just a little closer.

“Whatever you told them to do—they would. If you said march, they’d march. If you said hold your blade, they’d hold it. And if you said: make peace— ”

“...They would,” Mydei finished, softly.

“Exactly.”

Mydei looked down at his hands. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is. But the first step’s always communication,” Phainon said. “Just—language they respect. Language they understand. A little wordplay. Make it sound noble. Honorable. Regal.”

“You want me to manipulate them?”

“I want you to stop lying awake at night wondering if your people are going to erupt the second you turn your back. They can still be warriors. But that doesn’t have to mean dying on a battlefield anymore. Not for every generation.”

Mydei exhaled—slow, steady. Like he was releasing something he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“…You remind me of someone,” he said after a moment. “An old friend. He used to talk like that.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Is that good?”

“I’ll let you decide, Phainon.”

Phainon grinned, soft and amused. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

That quiet stretched again. But this time, something pulsed underneath it.

“…Thank you,” Mydei murmured.

Phainon blinked. “Hm? I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“...I’m not repeating myself.”

Phainon grinned, leaning just a little closer, chin practically nudging Mydei’s shoulder. “Awhhh, you’re welcome, Mydei. Don’t be shy about it.”

“I’m not,” Mydei replied flatly. “You’re just being annoying.”

“I thought you liked it when I talked?”

“Do I?” Mydei arched an eyebrow. “My ears seem to ache.”

“In a good way, though.”

“No. Not really.”

Phainon clicked his tongue. “You like it when I talk during our spars.”

“That’s solely so I have an advantage. ”

“Liar! I win more when I talk.”

“You keeping count now?”

“No—”

“Exactly.”

Phainon made an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded. “You wound me, Mydei. After everything we’ve shared?”

“You mean the bruises?”

“The bonding! ”

“Oh, that’s what you call getting kicked in the ribs?”

“Only when you do it lovingly, ” Phainon chirped.

Before Mydei could retort, Phainon suddenly lunged forward, grabbing at something in Mydei’s lap—the teleslate, half-forgotten between them.

“Hey—! Phainon! ” Mydei barked as the slate was snatched away.

Phainon danced back with it held high above his head, grinning. “What’s this? Ooooh, military correspondence? Ohhh, a confidential note from Krateros? ‘Dear Mydei, why do you keep ignoring me—’”

“Give it back. ” Mydei stood.

“No! I’m reading it for diplomatic insight! ”

“Phainon.”

“You can’t stop me!”

“Oh, I can. ”

That was the only warning.

Mydei lunged—Phainon yelped and spun on his heel, bolting across the room like a child who had just stolen the last cookie. Mydei chased him with grim determination and the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re fast for a diplomat! ” Phainon called, vaulting over the low couch.

“Diplomat?! Keep talking. I’ll pin you face-first into the floor.”

“Oh, promises, promises —AH!”

Mydei caught him by the waist mid-dodge, dragging him down with a dramatic thud. The teleslate slipped from Phainon’s hand and clattered to the floor, forgotten, as they rolled across the rug in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

“Yield,” Mydei muttered, pinning Phainon beneath him.

“Never,” Phainon breathed, eyes bright with defiance and something else—something quieter, warmer. “Not even if you beg.”

“I don’t beg,” Mydei said, leaning down slightly.

Their faces were close now. Breath mingling. Chests rising and falling in sync. A beat passed. Then another. Something charged rippled between them like static. Phainon’s laughter faded. His fingers curled around Mydei’s wrist, gentle.

Neither of them moved.
Not yet.

Mydei hovered over him, one knee pressed into the floor, the other braced beside Phainon’s hip. His hands were planted on either side of Phainon’s head, holding himself just inches above. Their breaths were still shallow from laughing, but now something heavier coiled between them.

Then—slowly, uncertain—Mydei shifted one hand, letting his fingers hover. Just above Phainon’s. A single finger brushed against his knuckles. A question.

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He turned his hand over, gently curling his fingers around Mydei’s.

Their breathing slowed. Matched. Without trying. Their bodies stayed close—pressed together more from accident than intent, but now neither seemed willing to shift away. Their foreheads drifted closer. Just a breath apart. Close enough that Phainon could feel the warmth of Mydei’s skin, the quiet exhale that ghosted across his mouth.

His heart thudded—steady, certain. He didn’t know who leaned in first. Only that he was about to. And that Mydei wasn’t pulling away.

That it was about to happen—

Knock knock knock!

“Lord Phainon!”

They flinched so violently it might’ve startled the stars. Mydei all but vaulted off him, retreating back like the floor had erupted in flame. Phainon sat up fast, tousled and blinking like he’d just surfaced from deep underwater.

Ica, previously snoring upside-down on a cushion, popped upright with a sharp “doot!” of indignation.

Phainon dragged a hand over his face, trying to remember how to breathe properly.

Mydei had turned away, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the other awkwardly bracing against his knee. He stared very intently at a spot on the far wall, as though it might save him.

“…Well,” Phainon managed, voice cracking in the middle. “I guess the world’s done waiting.”

Mydei didn’t answer.

But the blush creeping over the tips of his ears said more than words ever could.

That was… what was that…?

Phainon opened the door, still a little dazed and definitely not fully recovered. His hair was a bit mussed, his tunic slightly askew. He tried to straighten both without drawing attention to himself.

Standing there was a neatly dressed young man with tousled dark hair and a pleasant—if too eager—smile.

“Ah! Lord Phainon!” the man beamed.

“Icarus,” Phainon greeted, offering a sheepish smile. “Hey. Sorry, I’m watching little Ica for Miss Hyacine.”

“Ah, of course!” Icarus gave a short bow. “No trouble at all. I was just asked by Lady Aglaea to deliver this to you.”

He held out a sealed scroll, the wax glinting with the silver sigil of the council.

Phainon accepted it. “Thank you.”

There was a short pause as Icarus lingered just a second too long. Then his brows knit in mild concern. “Forgive me for asking, my lord, but… are you feeling alright? You look rather flushed.”

“O-oh! No, I’m okay,” Phainon said quickly, waving a hand. “Just—uh. Been sparring. Little cardio. Floor wrestling.”

“…Right,” Icarus said, smile growing faintly strained. “Well. If you ever need anything, Lord Phainon—anything—I’m always happy to assist. Really. No trouble at all.”

Before Phainon could respond, a slow, quiet sound came from behind him.

Footsteps.

Then an arm.

Mydei appeared at his side like a shadow out of nowhere, one arm slinking over Phainon’s shoulder and pulling him back against his chest with practiced ease—calm, casual, entirely deliberate.

“You get everything?” Mydei asked, low and almost lazy, his breath brushing near Phainon’s ear.

Phainon blinked. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

Icarus’s smile faltered, just for a second. “Ah. Lord Mydei. I didn’t realize you were here as well.”

“Mm,” Mydei replied, not bothering to move his arm. “Well. I am.”

Icarus nodded stiffly, eyes darting to Phainon, then to the hand still very much resting along his chest. “Right. Then—I’ll take my leave. Please give Lady Aglaea my regards when you reply.”

“Will do. Thanks again,” Phainon said, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature.

As the door closed, Mydei finally let his arm fall, stepping back without comment.

“…Did you really have to do that?” Phainon asked, looking over his shoulder.

“He was annoying me,” Mydei said simply.

“He was being polite.”

“He was flirting.”

Phainon blinked. “Was he?”

Mydei stared at him.

Phainon tilted his head. “Wait. Seriously?”

“You’re so unaware it’s a miracle you’ve survived courtship attempts at all.”

“…Attempts?”

Mydei sighed, already walking away. “Finish reading your scroll, Deliverer. Before your fan club grows a second head.”

Phainon stood frozen in the entryway, scroll in one hand, Ica clinging to his ankle, and his thoughts very much not on politics anymore. He was morse focused on the breath that Mydei had breathed against his neck.

“Hey—” Phainon called as he followed Mydei into the next room, scroll still in hand. “I’m aware of fans. They bother me all the time, remember? Besides, I know about the videos Ms. Cipher posted.”

Mydei paused mid-step, turning to squint at him. “And… are you doing anything to prevent them?”

“No.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Seriously?”

Phainon shrugged. “Why should I? For some reason it helps keep people entertained.”

“It feels like a breach of privacy,” Mydei said, tone flattening. “You’re the “destined Deliverer of Okhema. You shouldn’t be reduced to—whatever that was— flexing while eating melon in a field. ”

Phainon groaned dramatically. “Okay, first of all, I didn't even know people cared about how my body looked.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is, actually,” Phainon muttered. Then his expression softened, more tired than annoyed. “Look… yes, it does feel like a breach. Of course it does. But—”

He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair.

“If people freaking out over me picking up heavy crates, or breaking fruit between my thighs, or... gods forbid, smiling too warmly in an interview—if that helps keep people on the side of the Flame Chase? Then I don’t care what they say about me.”

Mydei studied him. Quiet, still.

Phainon didn’t back down, though his voice lowered a little. “It’s not ideal. But politics isn’t ideal. And I’ve seen what happens when people don’t believe in the movement. I’ll take being their favorite poster boy if it means they don’t question the cause behind me.”

Mydei’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable.

“…You really don’t care what they see you as?”

“I care,” Phainon said, honestly. “But I care more about what happens to the world if this fails.”

Mydei didn’t reply right away. Instead, he crossed his arms, jaw tight.

“…Still don’t like it,” he muttered finally. “Feels like they’re looking at something they haven’t earned the right to see.”
Phainon blinked. His heart stuttered, but his smile was soft.

“…Are you worried?”

“No.”

Phainon leaned a little closer, teasing. “Protective, then?”

“Just annoyed,” Mydei said, not looking at him. “Especially if more people start bothering you at your door.”

“So you're jealous .”

“I will throw you into the courtyard.”

Phainon laughed, light and easy.

But something inside him warmed.

Because even if Mydei wouldn’t say it—he was starting to see it in the way he hovered. In the way he always noticed. In the way he said they haven’t earned it.

And maybe, just maybe… could it be Phainon had really grown on him?

The thought lit something inside him. Soft. Giddy. He tried to bury it, but it curled into his ribs and refused to let go.

He was happy. Really, genuinely happy that Mydei had opened up today— relied on him, even if just a little. That he’d spent hours beside him, trained with him, teased him, listened. That Mydei gave him so much attention, even if half of it came with a glare or a sarcastic jab.

Even if it was only because Hyacine had likely coaxed him into sticking around.

Still.

Phainon’s heart clung to it like moss on stone. He wanted to believe it was more than obligation. That Mydei had chosen to stay longer than he had to. That he liked being here.

He replayed the image again in his mind—Mydei above him, hand brushing his breath, mingling with his own. That impossible closeness. The kind that didn’t happen by accident.

Was that real? Phainon wondered. Was it just the moment? Just the quiet?

Or did Mydei mean to lean in too?

He touched his fingers absently, remembering the warmth of Mydei’s hand over his. The calm in his eyes. That stillness that didn’t feel like hesitation—more like restraint. Like something held back.

The knock had interrupted everything.

But it hadn’t erased it.

And now Phainon was left in the quiet again, heartbeat a little faster than it should be, eyes fixed on the scroll in his hand, but mind wandering miles away.

I want him to want to stay, he thought. Not because he’s asked to. Just… because I’m here. Is it wrong I want him to stay just for me? Is that selfish?

He closed his eyes.

That closeness—they’d nearly touched.

And by Kephale, he wanted to know what would’ve happened if they had.

Chapter Text

“I'm hungry,”

Phainon blinked at the sterile lighting of the lab, the polished counters, the quiet hum of alchemical machinery. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier. The scroll from Aglaea was tucked into his pocket, mostly unread. His mind was still very much in the previous room.

He had kissed Mydei.

No— almost kissed. Nearly. So close. But not quite.

He sighed, a little dazed.

“I can curb your hunger process altogether,” came the flat reply.

Phainon jolted slightly. “Um—no thank you, Professor.”

Professor Anaxa didn’t look up from his work. He was hunched over a glowing beaker of something gently hissing, recording numbers on a data-slate with surgical precision. Phainon had come along under the technical excuse of assisting with low-tier enchantment testing, but really… he just wanted a moment away. And Anaxa was always a good source of steady logic and detached analysis. His lectures were still some of Phainon’s favorites.

He just hadn’t expected the professor to speak first.

“Phainon,” Anaxa said, voice even. “Are you aware of the effect you've been having on some of my current students?”

Phainon blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. I… wasn’t aware I had any? I mean—not since I graduated.”

Anaxa tapped his teleslate once, something like mild disapproval tightening the corners of his eyes. “Through that woman's threads— Cipher, I believe—had been enabling videos and commentary about you have been spreading indecently.”

Phainon froze. “Indecently?”

“In tone. Not in visual,” Anaxa added dryly. “Though some of it borders on both. Are you aware there's just videos of you eating now? People seem to care a lot about how many apples and pears you eat in one day.”

Phainon flushed. “I didn’t realize people cared about what I ate. ”

“They apparently do. There is currently a debate thread about your ‘caloric intake’ and whether your musculature requires modified nourishment plans. I’ve seen diagrams.”

“…Diagrams?”

“Yes. Most of them are incorrect. You should care more about what you eat.”

“You sound like Mydei,” Phainon muttered before he could stop himself.

Anaxa paused.

“Mydei this, Mydei that,” the professor said flatly. “Answer me honestly, Phainon. What is your relationship with that Man?”

Phainon turned red on instinct. “Ah—well—he’s a kindred spirit?”

“Mm.” Anaxa jotted a number down. “That’s a vague diplomatic answer.”

“Well, I am technically a diplomat.”

“Are you two… doing anything?” Anaxa asked, still not looking up.

Phainon sputtered. “Wha—doing anything?? Like— fighting? No, no! We only spar. Occasionally. Or argue. Like friendly disputes among comrades—”

“ Mm-hm. ”

“Really!”

“Good,” Anaxa said, calm as ever, not looking up from his notes. “As long as he isn’t muddling your brain.”

Phainon blinked. “That’s… dramatic.”

Anaxa didn’t acknowledge the remark. “That day you came to the Grove, after that insomnia episode. Do you remember?”

Phainon stiffened slightly. He did. He’d woken from a dream soaked in blood and ruin—panicked, shaken. He hadn’t known where to go, only that his feet had carried him here. To Anaxa.

“You wanted to go to Mydeimos,” Anaxa continued, voice matter-of-fact. “But you came here instead. Why?”

Phainon stared. “Wait—how did you know that?”

“You said it. In your sleep.”

Phainon flushed. “Ah. Well. I just… didn’t want to bother him.”

“So you came to me instead.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone, really.”

Anaxa set his pen down and finally looked at him. “If you were less self-deprecating… would you have gone to him?”

Phainon hesitated.

Then quietly: “Well– if the matter was… an issue or larger than me losing sleep then I suppose...Yes.”

Anaxa didn’t react. He simply tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating an equation.

“Do you care for him?” he asked. “Do you wish for him to be a constant at your side?”

Phainon blinked again, caught off guard. “Okay—where is this coming from?”

“Answer.”

Phainon shifted in place. “I mean… I want him to be by my side. At least until we bring about Era Nova.”

Anaxa raised an eyebrow. “That is a political statement, not a personal one.”

Phainon looked away, ears reddening. “...I want him there. Longer than that.”

There was a long pause. Then—

“...Again,” Anaxa said slowly, “is he affecting your brain?”

Phainon sputtered. “ Professor! ”

“Just checking.”

Phainon went still.

He thought about Mydei’s hand brushing his. The way their breaths had matched. The way his chest still fluttered when he remembered how close they’d been.

“…He might be,” Phainon admitted, his voice quieter now—almost hesitant.

Anaxa glanced up, just once, then returned to his notes with the same precise, measured movements. “Hmm.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re not going to warn me off?”

“I could,” Anaxa replied evenly. “But you wouldn’t listen.”

“I might.”

“You wouldn’t agree. Which would render the conversation both distracting and unproductive. And I dislike wasting time.”

Phainon blinked, thrown off by the cold logic.

Anaxa didn’t look up. “If your judgment falters, you’ll realize it on your own. Preferably not mid-crisis.”

“…So that’s a no?”

“It’s a neutral observation,” Anaxa said pointedly. “One made with the hope that you will not allow someone else’s orbit to pull you off-course.”

Phainon blinked again.

“You think it’s subtle,” Anaxa added without changing tone. “It’s not.”

Phainon let out a long breath, the edges of a smile tugging at his lips. “I think you just enjoy watching me suffer.”

“That’s true,” Anaxa replied without inflection. “Now hand me those laced reagents. After we're done here, perhaps, go eat something before your adoring public assumes you’re fasting for divine clarity.”

Phainon snorted. “Yes, Professor.”

A beat passed. The room settled into motion again—vials clinking faintly, the sound of scribbled numbers, the faint fizz of contained reactions.

“By the way, Professor,” Phainon said after a moment, moving toward the inventory cabinet, “Mydei’s actually quite smart.”

“He is,” Anaxa replied without looking up. “Until it comes to math.”

Phainon blinked. “What? He’s great at math.”

“Not at the kind I taught you.”

There was a pause.

“…Well, not many people like the kind of hypothetical math you teach,” Phainon defended, a touch sheepish.

“And yet you do. And you seem to be the only person in all of Amphoreous who does.”

Phainon grinned. “The math department in the Grove—”

“Cares far too much about what Cerces thinks. And most of them couldn’t define an imaginary number if it hit them in the face.”

Phainon huffed a laugh. “I still think calling them imaginary numbers is kind of… I don’t know. Disheartening.”

“I called them what they are,” Anaxa said, tapping his pen sharply against the edge of the data-slate. “If people are afraid of abstract concepts, that’s not my fault. The equations using I-numbers are proving foundational for alchemical stability testing. Especially in dimensional solvents.”

Phainon tilted his head, watching the man scribble an elegant arc across a chalkboard covered in nested equations and unstable sigil theory.

“I see…” he murmured, stepping closer. “What are you working on?”

“A dilated reaction matrix. Trying to freeze half a formula without disrupting the other half’s transformation.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Sounds impossible.”

“Yes.” Anaxa’s tone didn’t waver. “That’s why it’s interesting.”

Phainon leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, watching him work. For a moment, the air quieted—settled. There was something oddly comforting about it. Anaxa’s presence was never loud, but it filled the space like carved stone: immovable, dependable.

Anaxa moved with the same crisp efficiency he always did—measured steps, precise notes, gestures honed by years of repetition. He never wasted motion, never spoke more than necessary, and yet somehow Phainon always felt... safe here.

The lab was quiet now. Just the faint hum of enchanted equipment, the occasional clink of glass, the soft scratch of chalk against slate.

Phainon glanced over at the professor, watching the way his hand glided across the board without hesitation. Always so steady. So sure.

“You know, Professor,” Phainon said softly, “you kind of remind me of someone.”

Anaxa paused mid-sentence. His pen hovered a millimeter above the slate. His shoulders stiffened—just slightly.

Phainon didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, but went on anyway.

“Not in voice. Or height. But in how you move through the world. Steady. Like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone else. You never look surprised. And you always leave the room making everyone believe we’ll figure it out—even if no one else does.”

There was a stillness after that. Not uncomfortable. Just… thoughtful.

Anaxa’s fingers didn’t move right away. He stood like that—halfway through writing—caught in place not by shock, but by something heavier.

Phainon smiled faintly, almost wistfully. “He was like that too.”

Anaxa didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to.

Phainon didn’t need to say the word father —it hung there anyway, unspoken but unmistakable.

And for once, Anaxa didn’t correct him. Didn’t redirect the conversation. He simply let the silence settle.

Because deep down, he had always treated Phainon a little differently than the others.

He answered questions he normally would’ve dismissed. Offered rare encouragement. Let Phainon linger after class long past the time others were dismissed. He never said anything about it—but he remembered the way Phainon lit up when solving impossibly abstract formulas, the way he poured himself into work not for praise, but for understanding.

And when Phainon returned to visit, he never turned him away. Even now.

Anaxa’s grip shifted faintly on the pen. Something flickered in his eyes—restraint, maybe. Or recognition. Maybe something closer to worry, soft and fleeting before it vanished behind his usual unreadable calm.

“He sounds like a caring person,” he said after a beat. “Not quite like me.”

Phainon blinked. The silence that followed was filled with the soft hiss of the lab’s arc burners and the low thrum of ambient enchantment fields.

“...You are quite caring, Professor,” Phainon said, with a small smile. “Just very… Anaxa about it.”

Anaxa clicked his pen back into place with a quiet snap, as if the sound alone could shift the mood.

“Your stomach just made a noise loud enough to register on seismic arrays,” he said dryly.

Phainon flinched, hand instinctively over his gut. “Oh—sorry. I’ve been on a meal plan, technically. But with how busy things have been lately, I haven’t really followed it too well.”

“Hm.”

“But Mydei’s been helping,” Phainon added offhandedly. “Sometimes he reminds me, or brings food if I forget.”

Anaxa narrowed his eyes slightly. “Mydei again?”

“Oh! And Cas helped too,” Phainon continued cheerfully, missing the tone entirely. “The two of them helped me sort a whole box of old appraisal pieces the other day. It was way faster with them around!”

“Appraisal?”

“Yeah,” Phainon said, already rifling through his satchel. “They even streamed it! I think Cas posted the recording somewhere. They were so helpful—I got through so much backlog. Honestly, it saved me a whole afternoon.”

Anaxa let out a quiet, barely audible hm, which somehow managed to contain a paragraph of disapproval, skepticism, and I will be investigating this later.

Phainon finally pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle and offered it. “Here—some of the pieces I didn’t use. A few rare compounds in the binding metals. I figured they might be more useful in your research than my little hobby.”

Anaxa accepted the bundle with a gloved hand, careful, yet deliberate.

“…Useful,” he said slowly, inspecting the weight of it. “And correctly categorized, shockingly.”

“I do still remember what you taught me,” Phainon said, puffing up a little.

“Hm,” Anaxa replied, but his tone had softened again. Just a touch. “Good. At least something is sticking.”

He turned to set the bundle aside in the alchemy drawer reserved for rare, difficult-to-classify materials. As he did, he paused again.

“Mydei,” he said after a moment, not looking up, “may be helpful. But be cautious about leaning too far in.”

Phainon looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Anaxa said, very calmly, “that helpful people aren’t always consistent people. Nor are they always thinking about your wellbeing as much as you might be thinking about theirs.”

Phainon frowned slightly. “He’s not like that.”

“Perhaps not. But you trust easily. And that is a strength—but also a vulnerability.”

Phainon blinked. Then smiled. “You are quite caring, Professor.”

Anaxa turned sharply back to the chalkboard, muttering something about “emotional diversions” under his breath.

Phainon was smiling again—soft and bright, like he always was. Even with chalk dust on his hands and his hair slightly mussed from leaning over too many workbenches, there was something easy and glowing about him.

They had finally wrapped up the last set of calculations, the vials cleaned, the readings logged, the samples cataloged. For most, it would have been a tedious afternoon—but for Phainon, it had been oddly grounding. Comforting. Anaxa’s quiet rhythm had steadied something in him.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching slightly, then turned toward the professor with that same light in his eyes.

“You know,” Phainon said cheerfully, “we should go out. Just for a bit. I’ll treat you to dinner.”

Anaxa scowled like he’d been personally insulted.

“You must forget how much I detest the Holy City,” he replied.

Phainon laughed. “One visit wouldn’t hurt.”

“That golden weaver’s threads are a threat to my privacy. And my peace,” Anaxa muttered darkly. “Besides. Mydeimos is here.”

Phainon blinked. “Wait—what? Really? How can you tell—?”

“I just can.”

“…What does that mean? ”

“It means he’s here. In the grove likely intimidating every person that walks by without realizing.”

Phainon opened his mouth, paused, then grinned helplessly. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like him.”

Anaxa sighed, then reached to set his data-slate into its case with finality.

“Go eat with him,” he said, voice lower now. “Take care of yourself, Phainon.”

Phainon blinked at the shift in tone—subtle, but there.

Then, softer: “I will. Thank you, Professor.”

He turned toward the door, hesitated for just a heartbeat, then flashed a smile over his shoulder. “Next time, we’ll go out somewhere quiet. No Holy City. No Weavemaker. Just you, me, and your carefully maintained misanthropy.”

Anaxa didn’t answer.

But as the door clicked shut behind Phainon, his scowl softened.

Just slightly.

After Phainon ensured the door was properly closed, Phainon ran.

Not in a panic, not in urgency—but in that strange, breathless way where the body moves before the mind fully understands why. The familiar twists of the Grove’s living pathways unfolded around him—thick vines of bark-woven stone, ancient roots that had shaped themselves into archways and stairwells, pulsing faintly with old, stored magic. The scent of moss and pollen clung to the air like a memory.

He moved faster, down through the belly of the Grove toward the main library.

Somehow, he knew .

Mydeimos would gravitate there.

He couldn’t explain how—there was no spell, no tether, no logic—but something in his chest pulled like gravity, like orbit. His heartbeat thudded louder with every step, echoing down the hollow-root halls. Not just from exertion. Something else. Something warmer. Wilder.

Last night played like a dream just beneath his skin—the feel of Mydei’s breath brushing against his lips, the way their hands had found each other without effort. How close they’d been.

How close he had wanted to be.

His stomach fluttered at the memory, and it struck him just how much he remembered.

Not just last night.

But all of it.

The time Mydei had quietly brought him food, unasked. The way he’d chopped fruit with surgical precision and then pretended it wasn’t for Phainon’s sake—despite the way he glanced over every few minutes, checking if Phainon had eaten enough.

The expression Mydei made after he cracked that watermelon—somewhere between scandalized and short-circuited—and then the very intentional way he’d looked away, as if not looking would undo how hard he’d stared.

And then the livestream.

Phainon had tried not to think too hard about that one.

Mydei’s hands, careful and steady as they sorted relics beside him. The soft, almost tender commentary. How he’d leaned closer without realizing it. How he hadn’t pulled away when their arms touched.

Phainon stumbled slightly as the memory flared again—realizing, just now, how obvious it had been. Not just from Mydei.

From him.

Had he been pushing this down the whole time? Had he been smiling his way around it, letting himself believe the warmth in his chest was just admiration, or comfort, or the thrill of partnership?

But it wasn’t.

It was something else.

And the truth of it was blooming now—rising in his throat like a tide he couldn’t stop.

He reached the final stairwell, breathless in more ways than one. The doors to the Grove’s main library loomed ahead—carved wood and woven bark, inscribed with shifting sigils that whispered as he passed.

Phainon placed a hand on the door.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

Only that he needed to see Mydei.

He reached the final stairwell and stopped.

Just… stopped.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and tree-bark varnish. A quiet breeze stirred through the upper branches of the Grove, whispering across the carved wooden banisters. His fingers gripped the edge of the staircase railing, steadying himself.

But… does he feel the same?

The thought cut in, soft but sharp. A whisper of fear threaded through the warmth in his chest, cooling it with doubt.

He’s simply a kind person, Phainon told himself. He’s thoughtful. Steady. He does things like that for others too. Right?

He stared down at the long descent to the library door.

But even as he tried to rationalize it, his heart wouldn’t let go. It kept replaying things.

Little things.

Everything.

The way Mydei looked at him. Not passively. Not politely. But like something ancient inside him had gone still just to listen.

Like when Phainon hummed that soft, half-forgotten lament at the edge of the city, and Mydei didn’t speak. He just… watched. Not with judgment. With reverence . As if he understood that it wasn’t just a song—it was something sacred Phainon didn’t even know he was giving.

He remembered the way Mydei had pulled him close after that nightmare. No questions. No comments. Just a quiet, grounding presence. A hand on his back, the weight of a wordless promise unspoken.

And Phainon… he remembered how he reacted.

How his words always tumbled out too fast around Mydei. How his jokes got louder, his smiles a little too wide. How his carefully managed persona—the cheerful golden boy of the Flame Chase, ever diplomatic, ever composed—cracked at the seams when Mydei was nearby.

He couldn’t lie around him. Not well.

And food. Of all things— food .

He had always struggled with it. The act of eating never came easy, not with the expectations placed on his body, his presence, his image. A meal was something to endure, not enjoy. He lost the privilege after his home burned under the black tide's cruelty. After Cipher, while bringing him to the city, spent so much money, scourged up everything she could just to help feed him on their way to the Okehma. 

He had never wanted to go out much, never wanted to linger at a table—until Mydei started offering food. Until he had a reason to sit. To stay. To share something warm.

He started saying “We should get lunch” more and more, without realizing it was becoming a habit. A ritual. After every spar, before baths, sometimes after missions or just after a day of working.

And only now— now —did he realize that what he really wanted was just to share that moment. To see Mydei look up and ask if he liked the seasoning. To watch him pretend not to care.

Now he knew why.

He didn’t want the food.

He wanted him.

The warmth in his chest twisted tighter—full and painful and real.

“…By Mnestia,” Phainon whispered, breath catching. “I’m…”

His voice failed. His pulse roared in his ears.

He gripped the banister tighter, as if bracing himself against the truth now rising in his chest.

“I’m in love,” he said again, quieter. Stunned. “No… No—there’s no way.”

But the words hung there. Real. Heavy. Irrefutable.

And as they settled, something else began to unravel in his mind—thread by thread.

The signs.

They’d always been there.

He thought back to what Aglaea had told him, weeks ago—how some truths are not spoken aloud, but seen in the way we look at someone we can’t lie to. She had said it after she had been checking in on him, to him it was just a joke laced with self-doubt—“Mydei probably hates me anyway.” He remembered how quickly she had turned serious, how her gaze sharpened with something quiet and knowing.

She’d reassured him gently, yet firmly, in a way that confused him at the time—pressed the point harder than he thought it warranted. 

He thought about how Castorice would pause when she walked in on the two of them talking—just a beat too long—her expression just a little too knowing. How her eyes always flicked between them like she was watching a scene play out, waiting for the inevitable.

Or maybe how Cipher had teased them more than once—jokes about “sparring tension” and “getting a room,” which Phainon had waved off with laughter. But now, replaying them, they didn’t sound like baseless teasing.

They sounded like an observation .

And now remembering how Hyacine had always, gently , guided their paths to overlap. Inviting them to the same dinners. Seating them beside each other. Always “conveniently” leaving one seat open next to Mydei, always saying “just ask him.”

At the time, it had felt like a coincidence.

Now… It felt like orchestration.

And slowly, he began to realize—it wasn’t just them.

Tribbie, with her quiet glances and that knowing little smile when they shared a moment too long. Aglaea, always assigning them to missions together, saying they “worked well in tandem,” like she was trying to normalize something they hadn’t even admitted yet.

Even Anaxa—so detached, so carefully neutral—had looked him straight in the eye and said, “As long as he isn’t muddling your brain.”

Phainon swallowed hard. Anaxa had basically just given them his blessing—

Had they all seen it?

Had Mydei ?

And if he had…

Had he been waiting for Phainon to catch up?

By Mnestia, he thought, stunned.

I’m in love? I know I love him but not like– not like this.

No… there’s no way. It's always just admiration. Just… just…?

But the thought didn’t leave.

And the warmth didn’t fade.

But the truth was a stone in his hands now. Solid. Heavy. Irrefutable.

And it terrified him.

Because if it was true… What if Mydei didn’t feel the same?

What if everything he thought he saw was just hope reflected back at him?

What if he ruined it—this gentle, impossible rhythm they’d built together?

He stood there, frozen, breath unsteady, heart thundering in his chest, his mind racing with the weight of this revelation.

And all the same… he still wanted to see him.

Phainon took a steady breath.

He reached for the library door, heartbeat still thrumming in his chest. This was it. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he needed to see him.

He pushed the door open.

And there he was.

Mydeimos, standing near the long center table, arms crossed. Beside him was Castorice, perched on the edge of the table with her usual unimpressed stare. The quiet scent of parchment and warmed spiced tea clung to the air. Phainon’s mouth opened—

But then Mydei spoke.

“—And that?”

His voice was low, flat. Tired in a way Phainon hadn’t expected.

“…It’s just a distraction,” Mydei said. “I only wanted to make sure the Deliverer could play his part.”

Castorice blinked slowly.

“Mhm,” she said, unimpressed. “ Sure , Lord Mydei.”

Phainon froze in the doorway.

His breath caught, stuck somewhere in his throat.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t speak .

Mydei kept going, like he was doubling down. Like if he just buried the truth deep enough, it wouldn’t betray him.

“Bringing food was because Hyacine asked.”

“Right,” Castorice drawled. “And the sparring?”

“I enjoy them because the Deliverer does.”

“Not because you like it,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“It keeps him focused,” Mydei replied, too quickly. “That’s all.”

Even Castorice looked at him now with an expression that said: You’re not fooling anyone, and you sound like an idiot.

But Phainon had already taken a step back.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Something cold settled behind his ribs.

Of course. Of course it was just a role to play. Of course it was just for his benefit. A distraction. A sparring partner. A well-timed meal. Something tidy and strategic. Something that fit Mydei’s endless calculations.

He turned.

Quietly. Quickly.

The door never quite shut behind him—but the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall was louder than the slam ever could’ve been.

Inside, Mydei finally glanced toward the door.

Castorice froze.

Her eyes widened.

Very slowly, she lowered the hand that had been supporting her chin and covered her mouth instead, like that would somehow rewind time.

OH MY TITANS. HE WAS HERE?
DID HE—?
HE HEARD.
HE DEFINITELY HEARD.

She whipped her teleslate out so fast she nearly dropped it. Her fingers flew across the screen.

I MADE A MISTAKE.
Sent. Immediately. To the group chat. The group chat—without Mydei or Phainon in it.

A beat passed.

Cipher’s typing bubble popped up instantly.

Cipher: oh?

Hyacine: what did you do.

Tribbie: Castorice. Please tell me you didn’t.

Cas: I WAS TALKING TO LORD MYDEI. LORD PHAINON OVERHEARD SOME THINGS… I DIDN’T MEAN TO I THOUGHT HE WASN’T THERE

Cas: HE WAS THERE. HE HEARD EVERYTHING.

Cas: IM GOING TO DIE

Lady Aglaea’s bubble appeared.

Cas’s soul left her body.

Chapter Text

“Oh, sorry im not hungry”
Tribbie and Trianne both froze mid-step, identical expressions of theatrical shock spreading across their faces as they slowly lowered the bag of food between them.

“Wait— really? ” Tribbie asked first, peering at him like he’d just announced he was moving to Styxia.

Phainon offered a bright smile, carefully practiced. “I’m a little busy, admittedly. I already ate. But thank you for the offer!”

It was a lie.

By Kephale, he couldn’t believe he was lying to them.

He hadn’t eaten at all—not since the awful weight of dread had lodged itself in his stomach after leaving the Grove. The taste of despair clung to his tongue like smoke. Even when he’d tried to eat, it had felt like chewing ash. Everything sat wrong. Empty.

His hunger, once so large and consuming, had vanished into nothing.

“Snowy… is something bothering you?” Trianne asked gently, her tone shifting as she leaned in.

“Hm? Oh—no, not at all,” Phainon replied too quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear as if that would distract from the hollowness in his voice. “But I apologize, Lady Tribbie, Lady Trianne—I do have a meeting I need to run to…”

Another lie.

His own heart twisted at the sound of it, beating in a rhythm too fast, too shallow. He bowed slightly, excused himself, and turned away—hoping they wouldn’t see how tightly his hands were clenched at his sides.

Phainon was… upset.

No—that wasn’t even the right word. It didn’t feel sharp enough. Heavy enough.

Because he hadn’t even been rejected.

He hadn’t confessed. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t said anything.

He was just… high off the hope. Off the possibility. Off the look in Mydei’s eyes, the warmth in shared moments, the touches that lingered too long. He’d let himself believe—just for a moment—that it might mean something more.

And maybe it was all just delusion.

Maybe he had misread everything.

But then why did it hurt like this?

Why did the weight in his chest feel like it was dragging him under?

I still love him.

The thought slammed into him with unbearable clarity.

Phainon swallowed hard, his breath catching.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Not from heartbreak. But from the ache of everything unsaid.

From loving someone who might never see him the same way.

From daring to believe he might have been loved back.

Even just a little.

"… What am I doing…?"

Phainon's voice was barely above a whisper, muttered to himself as he walked aimlessly down into the lower stretch of the city. His footsteps were slow, dragging with each corner he turned. A painfully sad look had worked itself into his face—creased into his brows, settled in his eyes like a storm cloud that refused to pass.

“Anaxa was right. Anaxa’s always right…I can't let this bother me”

His tone wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Worn thin.

He didn’t know where he was walking—only that being in motion felt better than standing still. If he stopped, the thoughts might catch up. The feelings might overtake him.

He barely registered the shop bell jingling overhead as he passed under a wooden awning, until a soft voice called out:

“Lord Phainon? Oh—hello! I didn’t expect— I-Is everything alright?”

He turned slowly. A shopkeeper—gods, what was her name? Phainon couldn’t remember. Her face was familiar in that kind, daily way: always here, always smiling.

But her smile faded when she really looked at him.

His heart sank a little deeper.

Get it together, Phainon. C’mon. Be better.

He straightened just slightly, forcing a small, apologetic smile to his lips. “Ah—sorry. Just had a long morning, that’s all. Is everything alright? Do you need help with anything?”

She hesitated, frowning. “Oh… I see. No, no, Lord Phainon—please, you should get some rest.”

“I insist,” he said quickly. “Really. Let me help. It might… help clear my mind.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Helping people had always been how he anchored himself—when everything else felt out of control.

The woman studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small sigh. “Well… if that’s the case… I do have a small delivery.”

She ducked behind the counter, rummaging briefly before returning with a cloth-wrapped parcel.

“It’s just for my sister—she lives in a small village just past the east grove path. There’s no rush. Just whenever you find yourself headed that way.”

Phainon took it gently, nodding. “Of course. I’ll make sure it gets there.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “And… please take care of yourself, alright?”

Phainon smiled again—smaller this time. Tighter.

“I’ll try.”

But deep down, he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

Phainon wandered longer than he usually did that day.

Long past when the sun began to dip. Long past when his duties might have reasonably excused him to rest.

“Lord Phainon! Thank you for repairing my roof—”

“Of course! Do you need any more help?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

The day unfolded like that. One task to the next. One call to the next.

“Lord Phainon, could you help me with—”

“Phainon, it’s good to see you. Would you mind helping—”

“Phainon.”

“Lord Phainon—”

He smiled through it all. Worked through it all. Polished, helpful, glowing like always.

And it worked.

Almost.

Getting his mind off of that —of Mydei—was supposed to be as simple as keeping busy.

He wished.

But every single task, every smile he offered, every gesture of service somehow twisted back around. A flicker of blonde hair. A low voice in his memory. Mydei holding a ladder. Mydei lifting crates. Mydei adjusting his stance when they’d sparred. By the Titans there was so many thing Mydei did for him just to make his life easier.

Everything returned to him.

As if the ache in his chest had quietly made a home there.

“Lord Phainon? You seem down. Is something bothering you?”

He turned slightly, lips already preparing another gentle brush-off—until he saw the dark-brown hair, the neatly pinned robe, the soft gold clasp.

“Icarus.”

He kept his voice polite. “Ah, no. I’m quite alright. Thank you for bringing me those writings before—they were helpful.”

“Don’t mention it,” Icarus said, smiling easily.

He sat down beside Phainon on the carved stone bench.

Too close.

A little too close for comfort. For what Phainon liked.

He stiffened just slightly, shoulders straightening, but didn’t move away yet. Just folded his hands in his lap and let his eyes wander elsewhere—anywhere.

He didn’t want to talk.

He didn’t want to be seen.

And more than anything, he didn’t want anyone else filling the space that Mydei had always been in.

Icarus lingered beside him a moment too long—his knee brushing Phainon’s, a hand lightly ghosting the edge of his sleeve.

Phainon didn’t move, but he did exhale—long and tired, like someone surrendering to a storm they didn’t have the strength to push away.

Icarus tilted his head, watching Phainon closely. His tone, just moments ago catering more on lighthearted and teasing, softened into something gentler. “You’re always very kind to others, you know,” he said, his hand resting lightly near Phainon’s. “You’re welcome to lean on someone else for a change.”

Phainon pursed his lips, eyes flicking down to where their sleeves nearly brushed. Even through layers of fabric, the closeness felt… off. Not bad. Just—wrong. His breath stuttered in his throat.

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “Just… been looking for things to do.”

Icarus gave a small smile, but didn’t move away. “You say that, but you’ve been out all day. Fixing things. Helping people. Walking in circles.”

“…It’s about Mydeimos,” Phainon said before he could stop himself.

The name slipped out like a bruise. Raw and aching.

Icarus blinked, immediately straightening. Expression vanished like a blown candle. “What did he do?” he asked, voice low. “Did he hurt you?”

Phainon froze. Mydei? Hurt him? Never. 

“No, no,” he said quickly, hands rising, face going pale with panic. “No—nothing like that. I—he just—he said something, and I thought—” He stumbled over his words, voice cracking beneath the weight of something unspoken. “Ah. No, I just misunderstood. I think I’ve just been… a lot, lately.”

He paused, fingers twitching against the edge of his coat.

“My apologies, Icarus,” he added, quieter. “I’m not sure why my words aren’t clicking today.”

Icarus placed a hand on his arm—this time, steady and warm. “Hey. Hey, it’s alright, Lord Phainon. Just take a breath. No pressure. You don’t have to explain anything.”

Phainon smiled, brittle and sharp at the edges. “No, no. I’m fine. I think I’ve just been… busy. Or maybe not busy enough?” A laugh—small, humorless—escaped him. “Either way, I think it’s catching up to me.”

Icarus nodded slowly, but his eyes remained on Phainon’s face, watching how his gaze darted, unfocused, how his throat tightened with every unfinished word.

The silence stretched, until Phainon let out a trembling breath and looked away. “I should go,” he said. “Really. It’s nothing.”

“Phainon—”

“I’ll be fine, Work calls and I want to answer!” he lied, with the same gentle smile he always wore. And then he stood, not running but retreating, his movements practiced and smooth like someone used to leaving before they fall apart.

Icarus sat there, stunned.

Then, with a slow exhale, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his teleslate.

GROVE COMMUNITY CHAT
(aka Absolutely Not Gossip )

Icarus : red alert. I think Mydeimos did something to Lord Phainon.

Lemi : He just helped fix the wheel on my produce cart! But he did keep sighing.

Samwell : Yeah I saw him walking near the east bridge—his shoulders looked so tense?? He seemed… off.

Jorie : He was smiling when he helped with the bees but the moment he left, his whole face just dropped. Like a sad puppy.

Icarus : he literally said it was about Mydeimos.

???: Mydeimos better not have broken our golden boy or so help me—

Moderator Aglaea has joined the thread.

Aglaea : Please refrain from spreading baseless gossip.


-


Phainon had to walk. If he sat for too long his head would hurt. He already decided to steer clear of the market around the palace, so he wandered even further.

He told himself it was just to clear his head, but every step only tangled the threads tighter.

Everything—everything—reminded him of Mydei.

A flash of red silk in a vendor’s stall caught his eye, and for a second he swore it was Mydei’s cloak, the one lined in gold. His breath hitched.

Chartonus, the old blacksmith, was swinging his hammer against hot metal—strong, precise, methodical. It echoed like a memory, like the sound of Mydei’s sparring strikes, those quiet, merciless blows that never missed. Phainon stood and watched too long, heat prickling under his collar.

Even a chimera cub darting through the alley—a scrappy little thing with mismatched horns and too much attitude—reminded him of the way Mydei used to charge into conversations like he was already ten steps ahead. Feisty. Beautifully unpredictable.

Then there was the scent of roasted spices wafting from a nearby kitchen. Phainon flinched.

That same spice—smoky, sweet, with a bitter kick—was the one Mydei always used when he cooked fish. It clung to his clothes sometimes. His skin. His hair.

It used to make Phainon hungry. Now, it made him nauseous.

His mind refused to slow down.

His face. So striking, always half-shadowed like a painting caught between dusk and firelight. Those lashes—too long for someone who fought like he did. His eyes, dark and cutting, but never cruel. Just… observant. Like they saw more than they let on.

His voice. Quiet. Low. Not unkind, but precise. Like every word had been sharpened before it left his lips.

And those markings—gods, the markings.

Etched into his skin like ancient sigils, curling and twisting along muscle and bone, accentuating the strength in his arms and the way he moved. Every motion deliberate. Regal. Powerful.

Phainon stumbled to a stop in the middle of the street, heart pounding.

He clutched his own coat like it could anchor him, like it might ground the spiral he was caught in. But it didn’t. His mind was unraveling, unraveling with a single name—

Mydei.

Mydei, Mydei, Mydei.

He was everywhere and nowhere. In every sound and scent. Every heartbeat and hesitation. Every part of Phainon’s soul that used to be still was now aching with it.

Was this love? Was this what it felt like when it was too late?

He pressed a hand to his chest, as if that could stop the way it ached.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered to himself, half-laughing, half-crumbling. “I can’t—by Kephale, I’ve completely lost my mind.”

And yet, he kept walking. Kept looking. Kept hoping—

That maybe Mydei would appear again. That maybe, somehow, this wasn’t all just one-sided delusion.

That maybe he hadn’t heard right.

The next few days blurred together—Phainon kept moving.

Avoidance had become second nature, masked under a smile and the same practiced cheer everyone had come to expect from him.

“Ah! Sorry—I promised the shopkeeper down the road I’d help mend some crates—” he said too quickly when Hyacine waved him down.

“Oh, I need to run a few deliveries today, actually,” he told Trianne when she offered to catch up over tea.

Even when Hyacine brought up the meal plan she’d been working on with Mydei, asking if he’d kept track of what he ate—

“Oh! I’ve been eating, yeah—just forgot to write it down! Sorry about that. I’ll try to remember tonight!”

He hadn’t eaten well at all. Unless you count 32 granola bars as healthy. 

When Castorice messaged him about their reading meetup, he replied with a smiley face and a vague, “Something came up! Can we reschedule?”

Cipher asked if he was free. He nearly said he was looking for things to do, but caught himself just in time.

“Totally booked,” he replied. “Rain check?”

Thankfully, Okhema never ran out of problems to fix.

He leaned into every request—carrying lumber, sorting supplies, helping patch roofs, organizing ledgers. If someone even looked like they needed assistance, he was already there.

And when he saw that flash of crimson and gold—Mydei’s cloak, his familiar presence—it was like instinct kicked in. He ducked behind stalls. He turned corners too fast. Once, he even slipped out the back of a café when he spotted Mydei’s reflection in the window.

Once or twice, Mydei caught him.

“Phainon—hey. Do you have a moment?”

“Ah—sorry, Mydei! I’ve gotta finish this before tonight. Can we talk later?”

“…Sure.”

The way Mydei had said it—quiet, almost unreadable—haunted him. But he didn’t turn back.

Phainon kept running. Kept moving. Kept piling more onto his plate until it all blurred into exhaustion. Because if he stopped… if he paused…

He might have to face how much it hurt.

So when Aglaea mentioned sending aid to a nearby village, he stepped forward before she could finish the sentence.

“I can go! Don’t worry—I’ve been to that town before.”

She opened her mouth, likely to assign Mydei as his partner.

But Phainon was already halfway down the hall.

“I’ll go alone, Aglaea! I’ll head out now!”

He didn’t wait for her response. He just grabbed his satchel and walked faster, gripping the strap like it could hold back the ache in his chest.

At first, he told himself he was simply running errands. He delivered the small trinket and letter from the kindly shopkeeper—who, embarrassingly, still escaped his memory. Something like Raya? Nira? Regardless, she had smiled brightly when he handed it off to her sister at the village's edge.

Then, of course, he went farther. There were reports of minor Black Tide disturbances in the fields bordering the village, and Phainon made quick work of clearing out a few lingering titankin. It was easy—too easy, maybe. No room to think. No room to feel .

And after that, when he should’ve rested, he found himself drawn toward the northern quarter, where an older group of villagers struggled to lift lumber onto a frame for a stable. His hands were already on the beams before they could ask. When they offered coin, he smiled politely and shook his head.

The longer he stayed, the more tasks emerged. Hauling. Lifting. Fixing fences. Untangling stuck carts. He fixed someone’s stove. He played with a young child and soothed a fussy baby while their parents ran errands.

In truth, being outside the city, away from the pressure of Okhema’s walls and whispers, reminded him of home. No grand halls or divine summons. Just people. Just quiet, simple living.

Though this village lacked the golden wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, it had the same warmth. Cracked cobblestone paths. The soft scent of woodsmoke in the evening. The sound of wind passing through rows of drying herbs. He craved that. Deeply. Quietly.

By the third night, he’d made camp outside under the same old elm tree near the well. But as he was stretching out his blanket again, a gentle voice cut across the dark.

“Now what kind of prince sleeps on the ground after building half our roofs?”

Phainon startled slightly, looking up to see two older women—one with long silver hair braided over her shoulder, and the other wrapped in a mossy green shawl that trailed behind her like a cape. They stood like a unit, hands on their hips, unimpressed with his setup.

“Huh– Prince? Oh me– ah well, I—I’m alright, truly,” he assured, smiling with a soft edge of exhaustion.

“Nonsense,” the braided one said. “Our couch folds out. The hearth is warm. And we bake. ”

“She made carrot bread,” the other added, nodding sagely.

That’s what did it. Not the warmth, not the offer of safety. The carrot bread… he was starving.

“…Okay,” he said, softly.

They beamed.

—

Later, inside their cozy home, Phainon found himself curled in a knitted blanket, sipping something warm and spiced from a chipped mug. The cottage smelled of herbs and cinnamon, and the gentle crackle of the fire made him ache in a way he didn’t expect.

“Something’s weighing on you,” the mossy-shawl woman said, not unkindly.

Phainon hesitated. “no, I just—”

“Dearheart,” said the other. “We’ve had three children, twelve grandchildren, and one very dramatic pet goose between us. We know what heartache looks like.”

He stared into the mug for a long time. Then, barely above a whisper:

“…It’s about someone.”

A quiet nod. “Go on.”

“He’s… my friend,” Phainon said softly. “Or at least I think so. He’s been there through everything. And I’ve always admired him.”

He paused—just for a moment—but the words didn’t stop.

“He’s strong,” he continued, his voice quiet and unsure, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to say it aloud. “But not just in the way he fights. It’s the way he stands. The way he holds things. People. Pressure. He carries so much and never lets it show.”

The silver-haired woman leaned forward slightly, a smile beginning to tug at the corner of her mouth. The other woman merely nodded, gently stirring the contents of her mug like it could keep the moment grounded.

Phainon didn’t even notice. He was staring into the fire now.

“He’s clever. Gods, he’s so clever. The way he sees battlefields like puzzles. Like stories. He makes decisions in seconds that would take anyone else hours, and he’s always thinking three steps ahead. Even in conversation sometimes—he doesn’t speak unless he means it, unless he’s already decided what it should lead to.”

He laughed under his breath—small, fond, and exhausted. “Sometimes I think I could watch him read a map for hours. I have.”

That got a smile from the mossy-shawl woman. But she didn’t interrupt.

“And he’s… beautiful,” Phainon admitted, his voice almost cracking. “In a way that feels unfair. Not just because of how he looks—though, titans, you should see him!—but the way he moves. Like he’s always in control of himself. Like the air bends around him.”

He rubbed his palm nervously against his thigh, his eyes glassy again. “He’s protective, too. Not in a loud way, but in the little things. He walks on the outside of the road when we're in town. He notices when I’m not eating. He always leaves space for me to say no, even when I don’t know I want to. But he never treated me like I was delicate, only like I’m his equal.”

There was a long, weighted pause.

“…He’s the only one who can ever really talk me down. Not because he coddles me. But because he sees me. And he knows what to say. Sometimes it’s just a few words. Sometimes it’s just... being there. He makes me feel like I’m supposed to have someone catch me.”

Phainon blinked, his cheeks suddenly burning. He looked up, as if just now remembering he was not alone.

“I’m—sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble—gods, that’s so much, I didn’t mean to—”

“Sweetheart,” the green-shawl woman interrupted gently, “That’s not just admiration.”

The silver-haired woman laughed behind her hand. “That’s the sound of someone in love.”

Phainon’s mouth wobbled at the corners, and he looked like he might say something—then stopped. His fingers curled around the teacup he hadn’t touched.

“I thought maybe… maybe he felt the same. But I overheard something and now—” his voice cracked, fragile and breaking at the edges. “I don’t know anymore.”

The women exchanged a glance—soft, knowing. Then, without a word, they each reached for one of his hands across the table. Their touch was gentle. Steady.

“Did he say he didn’t love you?” asked the one in green, her voice careful.

Phainon’s throat worked. “No,” he admitted after a long pause. “He just… he said it wasn’t about me. That it was all a distraction. That he only did those things to keep me on track.”

The silver-haired woman raised an eyebrow. “And do you believe that?”

“Well…I don't know,” he said. “But I heard it.”

His voice hitched like it physically hurt to say it. “And hearing it—that version of things—it’s all I can hear now. Every time I try to remember a good moment… that sentence plays louder. Like it’s proof I made it all up.”

The woman in green squeezed his hand a little. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. We all have a way of convincing ourselves we’re harder to love than we really are.”

He let out a quiet laugh—humorless. “I’ve… I’ve been through worse. Much worse. But this? This hurts. And I feel so stupid for letting it.”

The other woman gave him a look. “You’re not stupid. You’re in love. That’s not a failure. That’s… that’s living.”

Phainon looked away, ashamed. “I thought maybe—if I just worked harder, helped more people, kept my mind busy—I’d stop thinking about it. But everything reminds me of him. The smell of food. Every time I see red fabric or hear someone speak calmly while holding a sword, I think of him. I’m haunted by someone who’s still alive.”

Phainon sighed deeply, setting his cup down and running his hands over his face. 

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Sweetheart,” said the green-shawl woman softly, “Do you think he’s hurting too?”

“I don’t know,” Phainon whispered. “But… part of me hopes he is. Is that horrible?”

“No,” said the silver-haired woman, without hesitation. “It means you want it to have meant something. That it wasn’t just you holding all that weight.”

Phainon blinked hard, his eyes burning again. “I always loved him. I just sort of ignored it and hoped maybe just maybe– one day he’d reach for it.”

The green-shawl woman let out a long, soft sigh. “Then maybe it’s time he learns what he’s holding.”

“But what if he doesn’t want it?” Phainon asked. “What if it ruins everything?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” she said. “And you won’t have to keep bleeding for someone who never realized they were breaking your heart.”

The silver-haired woman tilted her head. “Or—maybe you’ll find out he’s been waiting just as long. Scared to reach for something he thought he’d break.”

Phainon was quiet again.

Then finally, with a strained smile and a voice barely more than a breath:

“…I don’t think I can hide from him much longer.”

Phainon admitted, his chest ached. He missed everyone, but he missed Mydei. He missed the man so badly all he could think about when he heard his name was Mydei saying it, Mydei's hands, Mydei’s voice. Everything.

The woman in the green shawl leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup with both hands. “We never introduced ourselves, did we?” she said, with a small chuckle. “I’m Leta.”

“And I’m Nyra,” said the other woman, adjusting the thin silver braid that trailed over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with quiet mischief. “We’ve lived out here for a long time.”

“Long enough to know when someone’s running,” Leta added, nudging Phainon gently with her toe. “And long enough to know when someone’s in love.”

Phainon huffed a laugh, still fragile, but it came easier this time. “You’re both very kind.”

“Oh, darling, we’re old,” Nyra said. “We’ve done our fair share of running and loving. We just hope to save the next generation a little trouble.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow curiously. “You said you’ve lived here a long time?”

Nyra’s smile softened, something older and quieter flickering behind her gaze. “I have. Though I wasn’t born here. I’m… Kremnoan. Or was.”

Phainon blinked, surprised. “You…?”

“Kremnos hasn’t claimed me in decades. I was exiled, long ago.” Her voice held no bitterness, only the weight of memory. “I refused a marriage my family arranged. I wasn’t interested in the life they wanted for me—and I wasn’t subtle about it.”

Leta reached over and gently clasped her hand. “They called her dishonorable. But I call her the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

Nyra smiled at that. “It was a bad time. I didn’t know what I was doing. I would have died out there… if not for a stranger.”

Phainon leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “A stranger?”

“A woman,” Nyra said. “Tall. Striking blonde hair. Markings all along her arms like ribbons of fire. She carried herself like a god—but laughed like a mortal. She found me near the border, bleeding and too stubborn to cry.”

Phainon’s breath caught.

“She was pregnant,” Nyra added, almost fondly. “Can you imagine? Still traveling alone, still terrifyingly capable. I asked her why she helped me, and she told me to keep quiet and threw me over into safety.”

Phainon let out a laugh. It was soft at first, but it grew fuller—happier than he’d sounded in days. “You know,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, “it’s strange. That story… it reminded me of the person I’ve been pursuing.”

Leta raised a brow with a knowing smirk. “Is that so?”

Nyra tilted her head. “A brave man, is he? Especially for causing such a Handsome and caring Chrysos heir so much distress!”

Phainon laughed again. “Well, Mydeimos isn't exactly one to let others in in the first place, I'm not surprised if he simply views everything thus far as a friendship between us still,”

Nyra dropped her teacup into the saucer with a clatter. “Mydeimos?”

Leta blinked. “That name sounds familiar…”

Phainon winced sheepishly. “Um… the Crowned Prince—?”

“The King,” Nyra corrected without missing a beat, her eyes wide.

“Oh—right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “King. Yes. That makes it sound… worse, somehow.”

Nyra was frozen, hand halfway to her mouth, her expression locked in a stunned, horrified smile. Leta blinked at her, concerned. “Nyra, dear? Is everything alright?”

Nyra slowly turned her wide eyes to her wife. “Leta. He just said Mydeimos.”

Leta tilted her head. “Yes?”

“ That Mydeimos. The young son who killed the former king who had gone mad and not to mention he was unreasonably pretty—”

“Yes, that’s him!” Phainon chimed innocently. “That’s the one I—uh—like.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…What exactly has he been doing for you, sweetheart?” Nyra asked, voice trembling between awe and disbelief.

Phainon blinked. “Um. Cooking, mostly. Well—he insists he only cooks when Hyacine makes him, but I know he keeps track of what I eat. He always adjusts the meals for me. And he spars with me a lot. Said he enjoys it because I do. Sometimes he gives me assignments that pair us up together, and once I got injured and he stayed by my bedside the whole time even though he claimed he was just waiting for a report—”

Leta’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Nyra dropped her jaw fully open now, looking halfway between astonished and scandalized. “Dear Phainon,” she said, almost breathless, “he’s been courting you .”

Phainon’s expression faltered. “What?”

Leta leaned in, clearly enjoying this. “Oh yes. That’s courtship. Kremnoan style, even! Food, combat, honor, proximity—gods, Nyra used to bring me deer legs and bruises.”

“They were trophies of devotion,” Nyra said proudly. “But your boy’s approach is… elegant.”

Phainon flushed furiously. “Wait—he never said anything—he told Castorice that everything he did was to keep me ‘on track’—he called it a distraction —”

Leta rolled her eyes. “Sweetie, that’s just a man trying to sound like he’s not desperately in love.”

Nyra nodded, still stunned. “And he’s Kremnoan. He probably thought he was being obvious . The food, the care, the quiet loyalty? That’s a full proposal in some cases!”

Phainon looked utterly overwhelmed. His face flushed so much badly he could feel the sweat behind his ears. Was he always this stupid? How on earth did he let something so obviously untrue bother him so bad. Of course Mydei wasn't serious before– and he should have been able to tell from Castorice's facial expressions alone.

Nyra leaned forward again, gentler this time. “Have you told him how you feel?”

“…I was going to. But I heard that conversation, and I thought—I thought maybe I was wrong.”

“You weren’t,” Leta said firmly.

“You very much weren’t,” Nyra added. “And if he’s anything like all us other Kremnoans, then he’s probably sitting somewhere right now wondering if he messed everything up by saying the wrong thing.”

Phainon looked down at his hands, heart pounding.

“…Thank you for talking and… I really need to talk to him when I get back”

“Of course sweetie, and make sure your blunt,”

-

Aglaea hated this.

Days passed slow.

And soon enough It had been three days since Phainon had last come home.

Not technically missing. Not in danger. Just… gone.

Agleaea stared down at the latest reports, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew he was fine— physically , at least. The messages he sent were polite, casual, full of exclamation marks and sunny remarks.

But something was wrong.

He’d taken her assignment and pushed it further than she ever asked—clearing more Black Tide creatures, repairing more infrastructure, traveling farther out. He was stalling. That much was obvious.

"What's with him…?" Mydei exhaled, sharp and tired, his thumb tapping restlessly against his cup. The edge in his voice hadn’t dulled for hours. His usual calm veneer had thinned since Phainon began ducking out of sight like he was afraid to breathe the same air.

Mydei had tried to catch him—corner him even, gently, without force. But Phainon always found a way out. A perfectly timed task. A new obligation. A polite excuse and a tight smile.

And now Mydei was pacing.

The table by the heroes bath within Aglaeas overseeing area sat most of them today, the tension sticking like humidity.

Hyacine leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, worry etching lines into her usually serene face. “He’s avoiding all of us, not just Mydei. Even Cipher. Even Castorice…”

She trailed off meaningfully.
Her voice trailed off, the implication clear as her eyes flicked toward Castorice’s silent form.

Castorice, for her part, looked like she wanted to melt into her seat.

Agleaea’s gaze flicked up briefly from the small stack of reports in front of her. She didn’t speak, but she was watching. Closely.

Hyacine hesitated, then turned toward the pacing kremonan. “Mydei… do you—do you like Lord Phainon?”

The words landed in the air like a dropped glass.

Mydei stopped mid-step.

He turned to face them, eyes sharp—and sighed.

“Yes. Titans, yes —”

Even Aglaea blinked at the force behind it, surprised by how openly he said it. Mydei’s brows furrowed, his jaw clenched not in shame, but frustration.

“Is that what you needed to hear right now?” he snapped, not at them, but toward the universe. “That I’m completely and utterly taken with him? Because I am. And while I’ve been trying to figure out how to not make it weird, our Deliverer has been avoiding everyone like we’re infected. He’s overworking himself, stretching out into territory no one even assigned him to—and not to mention how insufferable his avoidance tactics are!”

His hand swept the air, exasperated. “And I can’t even catch him to ask what’s wrong!”

Castorice made a small, pained noise and dropped her head into her hands.

“I’m sorry, Lord Mydei…” she groaned. “This is all my fault.”

Mydei turned to her, confused. The sheer intensity in him seemed to ebb, replaced by a blinking pause. “...How? He’s doing this to himself. That idiot—”

She winced. “It’s not what you said. It’s what he heard .”

Mydei frowned deeper, his tone dropping. “What he heard ?”

Castorice nodded miserably. “He overheard you and me in the Grove. When you were saying the food was Hyacine’s request, the sparring was because he liked it... You made it sound like you were just humoring him.”

Mydei froze.

And then—wide eyes. A flash of memory.

“That day in the Grove,” he murmured, breath leaving him like a blow. “He was at the door…?”

Castorice nodded quickly. “I thought you knew ! I saw him behind you when you said it, and then he—he just walked off. I didn’t think he’d take it that way…”

Mydei’s jaw tensed. His throat worked silently for a moment. And then, slowly, he sat down.

“…Of course he did.”

There was something raw in his voice now. A quiet sort of grief, an ache hidden just beneath the surface. He let his fingers rest against his lips, like they’d betrayed him.

Aglaea finally broke the silence, her gaze sharp but not unkind as it settled on Mydei.
“If you like the man,” she said simply, “why not just tell him?”

Mydei paused mid-step. The words hit harder than they should have, like an arrow catching just beneath his armor. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening before he glanced away.

“In Kremnos…” he began, voice tight, “we do things differently. Love is fleeting. Sacred. All in the same breath. Battle is how we live, and battle is where we die. But even in Kremnos—we have our own version of courtship. ”

Castorice blinked. “Courtship? That’s… a little archaic, isn’t it?”

Mydei gave a tired, almost self-conscious laugh. “Well…” he looked away again, fingers tugging at his sleeve. For once, he seemed unsure of his words.

Aglaea tilted her head slightly, her expression knowing. “Ah. So you have been courting him.”

A long breath. Then Mydei nodded, slow and deliberate.
“Yes,” he said, quietly but without shame. “I’ve been courting him.”

Hyacine sat up straighter in her seat, brows raised in surprise. Mydei continued before anyone could interrupt.

“In my own way. Small things. Meals cooked just for him. Sparring sessions because he enjoys them. Assignments where I could keep us partnered—just to have more time near him. I didn’t want to push. I didn’t want him to feel like I wanted something from him.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking toward the window as if he could see Phainon through it. “I thought… if I gave him space. If I gave him steadiness. He might feel safe choosing me. If he wanted to.”

A beat of silence followed, heavier than the last.

“Mydei,” Hyacine said softly, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

His voice dropped, stripped of its usual dry humor and sharp command.

“I know he doubts his worth, even now. That he still wonders if love— real love—is something he can even be allowed to have.” He inhaled, eyes hardening slightly. “I didn’t want to demand anything of him. I didn’t want to ruin what we already have. I thought if I stayed patient… he’d see it. That I meant it. That I’m his , if he’ll have me.”

Mydei’s hands tightened at his sides. “But what if he doesn’t want that? What if he enjoys the idea of me beside him, but not in that way? I can handle sparring. I can handle being needed. But I don’t want him to force himself to love me just because I do.”

Aglaea watched him for a moment longer.

“And yet,” Aglaea said, tone even, “you’re hurting him by holding back. You think you’re waiting for him… but Phainon? He didn’t even know there was something to wait for. ”

That struck true.

Mydei flinched almost imperceptibly. His shoulders dropped, as if all his carefully worn composure were settling onto him like heavy armor forged from guilt and failed clarity.

Hyacine’s eyes softened.
Castorice looked like she might cry.  Even Aglaea—ever the composed overseer—set her papers aside with quiet finality.

“You thought he knew,” Hyacine said, gentle but firm.

Mydei gave a shallow nod. “I thought I was being obvious. Apparently not enough.”

There was a stillness then, the kind that forms just before something begins. And in that hush, Castorice spoke.

“…He’s in love with you too, you know.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I could see it. The way he looks at you. The way he lights up.”

Mydei stared at her, stunned. Like he’d never let himself even imagine it.

Hyacine nodded. “We all could. It’s painfully obvious.”

He let out a breathless, hollow laugh, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “Then why is he running?”

Castorice gave a sad smile. “Because he thinks you don’t. ”

Aglaea leaned forward, her eyes glinting with something far more determined than pity. “So. What are we going to do about that?”

Mydei straightened, expression sharpening with resolve. “I’ll just tell him.”

“No,” Hyacine said quickly, shaking her head.

Mydei blinked. “Why not?”

“Because Snowy is… well, he’s going to think he’s imagining it. He’ll assume you’re only saying it out of guilt, or obligation, or because he’s been acting off. He’ll convince himself it’s pity. You know he will.”

Mydei ran a hand through his hair. “...So don’t tell him? You’re all giving me deeply confusing advice.”

Castorice looked to Aglaea. Then to Hyacine. The three women exchanged a look—a wordless conversation forged from years of experience and just a touch of chaos.

“I’ll call Cipher and Tribbie,” Castorice said decisively, pulling out her teleslate.

“Wait. What? ” Mydei blinked. “What are you calling them for?”

Aglaea, uncharacteristically smug, folded her hands with a graceful nod. “Mydeimos~” Her voice lilted with mischief rarely seen on her usually impassive face. “As the demigod of romance, I am officially invoking my domain.”

“Wait, no—”

“Oh yes,” Hyacine said, grinning now. “If Snowy can’t see the truth through words… then we’ll have to show him.”

“A proper gesture,” Aglaea added. “A setting where all doubt can melt away.”

Mydei stared at the three of them like they had sprouted horns and wings. “You’re plotting something. You’re all plotting something.”

“Yes,” Castorice said brightly. “And it’s going to work.”

-

Cipher arrived in record time.

Truly—no one had ever seen her actually come by so fast. She practically teleported into Aglaea’s courtyard, breathless and buzzing with excitement. “Where’s the crisis?! Is it a confessional meltdown? A betrayal? A new romantic arc? Don’t tell me— Phainon’s dying of heartbreak and you finally noticed. ”

Mydei pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s… complicated.”

Tribbie waddled in behind her, followed by Trianne and Trinnon, the three of them in a neat (if chaotic) line. “We brought snacks,” Trinnon offered cheerfully, balancing a tray. “And contingency plans.”

They all sat and the girls all started talking in a way that made Mydeis' head spin as they caught Cipher and The Tribios up to speed. 

Cipher leaned forward immediately, eyes gleaming. “Alright. So. We fake an emergency—Phainon has to save Mydei from a cave-in or magical malfunction. Classic proximity, emotional stakes, the adrenaline does the rest.”

“No,” Mydei cut in. “He’s too self-sacrificing. He’ll throw himself into danger.”

“Fine, fine,” Cipher huffed. “Then we lock them in a room together.”

“That’s just kidnapping,” Mydei deadpanned.

Tribbie perked up. “What if we don’t lock them in, but like… strongly encourage them to be trapped? Like, send them on a joint mission to a remote location with no easy way back.”

“Still sounds like kidnapping, in a different font” Hyacine murmured.

Trinnon raised his hand. “Double-book them for the same healing assignment. Pretend it was a mix-up. Then they have to talk.”

“Phainon will apologize and vanish again,” Castorice sighed. “He’s been doing it for days.”

“Okay okay, what if—” Trianne grinned, “—we throw a party in his honor. Phainon shows up because he’s too polite to say no. Then we create a moment where Mydei gives a toast. All heartfelt. No running.”

“A speech?” Mydei groaned. “You want me to give a speech ? I would rather fight a Titan.”

Cipher leaned over the table. “Look, if we can’t trap him, distract him, or fake danger… we’re gonna have to go full rom-com.” She turned to Aglaea. “Any divine threads you can pull? Maybe a gentle push of fate?”

Aglaea smiled mildly, a rare spark of amusement in her expression. “Divine nudges are like weather patterns, Cipher. Subtle, not storms.”

Hyacine tapped her chin. “Then we do what we do best. Something warm. Something obvious, but deniable.”

Castorice lit up. “Cooking!”

Everyone paused.

“…Cooking?” Mydei repeated, uncertain.

Tribbie beamed. “A shared dinner! He’s been avoiding meals, right? What if we frame it as a community event to bring people together? Something nostalgic. A shared kitchen space.”

Hyacine nodded slowly, her eyes flicking toward Mydei. “It makes sense. Food is safe. Familiar. And honestly? That’s always been your inroad with him, hasn’t it?”

Castorice’s voice was quiet, but clear. “You always made sure he ate after missions, Mydei. You’d drop off plates without saying anything. Then he started asking you to stay… then to help… then to try your dishes.”

“And don’t forget the melon,” Cipher muttered with a smirk.

“De nearly combusted,” Trinnon said cheerfully.

Mydei sighed, but the way he glanced down at his hands betrayed how deeply it had stayed with him. “…It’s how we bond in Kremnos. Cooking is communal.”

“Exactly!” Tribbie chirped. “So what if this dinner isn’t just about feeding people—it’s about reconnecting. Reminding him of the quiet ways you’ve always shown up.”

“And food brought all of us together,” Castorice added, voice warming. “From the first welcome meal at Okhema. The fish stew. The cold fruit slices in summer. That massive potluck Cipher tried to spike.”

“ Tried? ” Cipher gasped. “Rude.”

Trianne leaned forward. “Okay. So we make it a full event. Everyone brings something. A food memory. Something warm. He’ll come—he won’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“But,” Trinnon said, lifting a finger, “we make sure you two are on the same kitchen team.”

“…That feels manipulative,” Mydei muttered.

“It is manipulative,” Cipher replied. “But with love. Think of it as divine matchmaking.”

Hyacine tilted her head, thoughtful. “We’ll tell him you’re just wanting help with cooking dishes from kremnos. He’ll want to help, of course. And you’ve both shared food before—it’ll feel familiar. Safe.”

“And then,” Tribbie said, grinning, “when he tastes something only you could’ve made—something spicy or over-flavored and totally you—he’ll get it.”

“I still say someone should fake choking so he does mouth-to-mouth,” Cipher whispered.

“No,” everyone said in unison.

Castorice sighed fondly. “This can work. Just… keep it natural. Let him remember that you’ve always been beside him when it mattered.”

“And don’t try to confess during the cooking,” Hyacine warned. “He’ll drop a knife or explode the rice pot.”

“So when do I confess?” Mydei asked, already dreading the answer.

“End of the night,” Aglaea said simply. “Once he’s warm, full, and reminded of how much love he has.”

Tribbie folded her hands over her heart. “A full belly is the gateway to the soul.”

“That’s not a saying,” Cipher said.

“It is now.”

Mydei groaned into his hands. “If this fails, I’m going to flee into the northern peaks and live among the mountainfolk.”

“Great!” Trinnon chirped. “You can cook for them too!”

Chapter Text

“Sweetie, are you hungry?”

By morning, Phainon was once again seated at the small, worn kitchen table while Leta spooned a generous helping of some kind of spiced grain porridge into his bowl and Nyra insisted he take an extra side of grilled vegetables. He tried to protest—gods, he did—but they both shot him identical try it and see what happens looks, so he ate.

Somewhere between bites, he spoke through a soft breath, like the thought had clung to him all night.
“…He’s spoken about a ring,” Phainon said. “From his mother.”

Nyra paused, spoon midair. Leta’s brow arched slightly, attentive.

“He said he lost it—years ago. It was one of the only things he told me about her. He said she wore it during every battle she fought. He never described it much, just that it had a detailed engraving and was made of some rare golden material. Said it hurt more than most wounds to lose it.”

“Oh?” Leta hummed, sipping her tea. “You know, in some cultures, gifting another a ring is considered a marriage proposal.”

Phainon choked. “ What? That’s not—I didn’t mean—!” His whole face flushed, hands fluttering in uncertainty. “I mean if I found it… would that even be a good gift?”

Nyra leaned in across the table, chin in hand and grin devilish. “That depends. Are you trying to propose?”

“Wh—no! I mean. Not right now —I don’t know what we are , or if we’re anything —” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m not good at this.”

Leta reached over and patted his arm gently. “Sweetheart, you’re better at it than you think.”

“I just thought… it’s the one thing he ever opened up about. One of the only things that made him look truly vulnerable. He doesn’t share often, not like that. If I found it… I think it might show him how much I’ve been listening. How much I care.”

Nyra and Leta shared a glance across the table. Their expressions had softened, no longer teasing—now tender, touched by how genuine his voice had become.

“That sounds like love to me,” Nyra said.

“…The issue,” Phainon added after a pause, “is that the ring was lost by the Sea of Souls.”

Leta gasped softly while Nyra, undeterred, smirked. “Pfft. Thirty minutes and a well-timed search, easy.”

Leta swatted her with the back of her spoon. “Nyra, don’t encourage him.”

Phainon chuckled under his breath. “I’m not diving in yet. I just… I’ll look for it someday. Maybe. If I ever feel brave enough.”

Nyra nudged her plate toward him and winked. “You already sound braver than half the war-saints I’ve ever met.”

Leta smiled, eyes kind. “And if you do find it—”

“You could propose with it,” Nyra finished smoothly.

Phainon sputtered again. “I’m not—I mean—am I thinking too far ahead?”

Both women shook their heads in sync, completely serious.
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Not at all, sweetie.”

Nyra elbowed Leta with a grin. “In fact, if you ever want help searching, stop by here first. We’re not far from the southern edge of the cliffs.”

Leta sighed, but she smiled despite herself. “We’ll have dinner waiting.”

Phainon smiled down at his bowl, cheeks still pink. The thought stayed with him—warm and quiet.

Maybe someday.
But first, he had to go home.

When Phainon returned to the city, the ache in his limbs was only outmatched by the lightness in his chest. He was still tired— gods , he was tired—but for the first time in days, his mind felt clear. Centered. Like a storm had finally passed.

“ Lord Phainon! You’ve returned! ”

He blinked toward the sound of footsteps quickly approaching, only to find a familiar face weaving through the crowd.

“Icarus?” Phainon straightened, offering a warm if weary smile. “Good day. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I knew you'd bounce back!” Icarus beamed. “You look much better! Come, let me treat you to a meal—you’ve clearly earned it!”

Phainon hesitated. Part of him had come back with every intention of finding Mydei—of fixing the thread between them that had stretched far too thin. He missed his other companions too, and he owed them all some answers.

But then his stomach gave a very audible growl.

He winced.

Icarus laughed brightly, hands on his hips. “Is that a yes?”

“Well…” Phainon started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before I left, you did lend an ear when I needed one. The least I can do is return the kindness.”

Icarus’s grin widened. “Then it’s settled!”

“Let me just drop off my things first,” Phainon added, shouldering his pack. “I’ll meet you back here in a little bit?”

“Of course, Lord Phainon!” Icarus gave a dramatic little bow, clearly pleased. “I’ll even pick a place I know you’ll love.”

Phainon chuckled softly as he walked away. He told himself it was just a short meal. Just a way to fill his stomach before facing the real conversation he’d been avoiding. But still… his steps slowed slightly, just a little unsure.

Phainon greeted the familiar cobblestone paths and merchant stalls with a smile more genuine than any he’d worn in days. The air was warm with spice and steam, laughter laced through the crowd, and someone called his name with fondness. It grounded him. This grounded him. For the first time since he left, the city felt like home again.

He arrived at his quarters with a sigh, dropped his satchel, and headed to clean himself up. Aglaea had left a new set of clothes for him—woven in soft shades of deep silver and quiet blue, a fabric that reminded him faintly of ocean mists. He dressed slowly, thoughtfully. He ran his fingers over the fabric at his wrists before tying them neatly… Though he couldn't help but add bits and pieces of his armor overtop it anyways. 

His teleslate blinked wildly on his desk—dozens of unread messages, pings from Aglaea, Castorice, Cipher, Hyacine… even Mydeimos.

I'll answer later, he promised himself. Tonight. Once he felt a little more like himself.

When he stepped out again, the city greeted him warmly, like it had been waiting. He followed the path back toward the plaza where he’d agreed to meet Icarus. And when he saw him, he blinked.

“…You changed?”

Icarus turned at his voice and smiled brightly, arms open like he’d been waiting an eternity. His outfit had changed into something far more tailored than Phainon expected—crisp, expensive fabric, and a long overcoat that draped with an elegance he definitely hadn’t worn in the grove.

“I figured it was a special occasion,” Icarus said easily. “You’re back, after all.”

Phainon flushed faintly. “It’s not that special…I tend to go off often do I not?”

“Sure it is.” Icarus bumped his shoulder with a grin. “You vanished for days. I was starting to think you’d taken up farming or something.”

Phainon laughed. “Tempting, truly. But Fields don’t talk to me and I tend to quite enjoy interaction.”

They walked together, conversation falling into something easy and familiar. They weren’t close friends, but there was a comfort there—something built from the camaraderie of surviving battle courses and a mix of Professor Anaxa’s lectures at the grove a couple years back. Even if Phainon couldn’t quite remember why Icarus always seemed to hover at the edges of his orbit, it was still… nice.

“This place,” Icarus said, gesturing proudly to the little shop tucked at the end of the stone-paved road, “has the best skewers in all of Okhema. Trust me.”

Phainon looked up—and paused.

He recognized it.

It was one of the older eateries in the district, a little cramped, always busy, with a chef known for being a culinary perfectionist… and for disliking Castorice with an almost cartoonish passion.

Phainon hesitated, lips parting. But then he saw Icarus’s hopeful grin, the way he held the door open expectantly.

For a friend’s sake, he stepped in.

“…Alright. Lead the way.”

When they entered, the restaurant was warm with the scent of grilled meat and savory smoke, the air buzzing with quiet conversation and the clatter of dishes. Phainon immediately recognized a few patrons—veterans from older times, shopkeepers from the mid-plaza, even a pair of scholars who’d once helped him archive documents. He offered polite nods and quiet smiles, settling into the hum of familiarity.

The owner glanced up from the bar counter and gave a curt nod, thankfully saying nothing. Phainon could feel the edge of that disdain still present—directed not exactly at him but the discomfort was still present. What had Castorice even done to him? It curled bitter in his stomach.

He schooled his face quickly, trying not to show anything. She never deserved any hate. Her curse was cruel and ancient, not of her choosing, and it made no sense to hate someone who only ever gave kindness in return. If anyone dared speak ill of her tonight, Phainon wasn’t sure he could keep his temper masked.

They took a small booth near the window, where late sunlight streaked over their plates. Icarus chatted animatedly—he always did, speaking with his hands, eyes wide, jokes flowing. The food was good—spiced well, seared perfectly—and more than one plate was added to their table when others filtered in.

“Lord Phainon!” someone called, sliding into the seat beside them. “It’s been too long—we thought you’d gotten pulled into politics!”

Phainon laughed, shaking his head. “Just work. And wandering. Nothing so permanent, I assure you.”

More joined. He entertained them easily, like he always did—bright smiles, attentive nods, responding with that easy warmth that always drew people to him. And he did enjoy it—he loved them, truly—but a small voice in the back of his mind kept tugging: When dinner ends, go see Mydei. And Castorice. And the others. Gods, you missed them.

A lull came. Icarus said something funny—Phainon didn’t catch it. He laughed anyway, a beat too late.

And then Icarus’s arm slung over his shoulder. Loose, casual.

It felt like a rock dropped into his chest.

His body stiffened before he could stop it. The fabric of Icarus’s sleeve against his neck felt suddenly too warm. Too close. Unwelcome. His stomach turned—not in embarrassment, not quite—but in something sharp and deeply uncomfortable.

I’m just tired. He told himself. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.

His head was starting to hurt too, throbbing dully behind his eyes. His jaw ached from smiling too much.

“I think,” Phainon said softly, still smiling, still performing, “I may need to call it an early night.”

He didn’t mean to sound as strained as he did. But Icarus was still laughing, arm still around him, and Phainon wasn’t sure how to shake him off without making it awkward .

So instead, he waited. Waited for the moment he could slip away. Because tonight… he needed real comfort. Familiar warmth. People who didn’t press into his space without warning. People like—

No.

Not people .

Person.

Gods, he missed Mydei.

He missed the rare smile Mydei gave when no one else was looking—small, but so real. He missed the way his voice dipped low when he was tired, the quiet steadiness of his presence, the firm touch to his shoulder during hard decisions. Mydei didn’t just anchor him—he centered him. Made the noise quiet.

How did I go this long without him?

Phainon reached for his drink, trying to swallow the ache lodged deep in his chest, but the glass felt… oddly heavy. Too solid. He blinked. His eyes… burned?

“You are so—woah hey, Phainon, you okay?”

It wasn’t Icarus. Someone else. A distant voice. A hand tugging gently at Icarus’s shoulder, easing him away from Phainon. The shopkeeper maybe—what was his name? Chris? Chlorin?

“Hey. Hey, are you okay?”

No. The answer was no.

His chest was too tight. His vision felt watery. Light fractured strangely across the wood and plates and bowls and sunlight—so much sunlight. Too much.

“—I’ll take him back—”

“Is he okay?”

“I’m fine!” Phainon managed, trying to sit up straighter, voice wobbling with forced laughter. “Sorry—I didn’t get to sleep last night, haha…”

He blinked hard, desperate to lock eyes with someone—anyone—to prove he could. But when he stood, the world tilted sideways. His stomach churned.

“Apologies,” he said, gripping the edge of the table. “Thank you for the meal, Icarus… but I think I should go back now.”

He vaguely heard Icarus asking if he would be alright heading back alone. Phainon just nodded and left as quickly as he could.

He stepped outside, the brightness slamming into him like a wave. He winced, raising a shaky hand to shield his face.

“Ugh—” he muttered, staggering forward. “Home…”

He wasn’t even sure if he meant the building, or him.

But his feet started moving anyway. Toward safety. Toward something warm and familiar. Toward the only thing that still made sense when everything else spun like fractured glass.

The door clicked open—he swore he had locked it—and the moment he stepped inside, Phainon barely managed to shut it again before collapsing forward onto the couch like a marionette with its strings cut.

The backroads had helped a little. Less sunlight, fewer eyes. But now that he was home, the weight came crashing down in full. Not just fatigue—but something else, knotted tight behind his ribs and throbbing in his skull like a pulse that didn’t belong to him.

He felt sick.

His shirt clung to him, sweat-slick and stifling. With shaking hands, he loosened the fabric, unfastened the choker from around his neck—the one he nearly never took off, more habit than fashion by now—and let it fall onto the side table with a dull clink. It felt like shedding armor.

He dragged a breath into his lungs, deeper than the last, but it did little to steady the spin in his skull.

His eyes fell shut.

Everything throbbed. His legs. His back. His heart.

Thankfully or maybe just a cruel trick from the world, his home smelt disturbingly of Mydeimos. The strong scent of pomegranate lingered heavily, acting as a comfort. 

Just sleep , he told himself. He could fix the rest in the morning.

The world was already fading.

-

When Mydei first heard Phainon was back in the city, his stomach twisted in ways he didn't appreciate. Nervous? Sure—maybe a little. He wouldn't call it panic, but it wasn’t exactly nothing either.

Hyacine and Tribbie had been running around like stormblown birds, pouring all their time and energy into gathering ingredients for… whatever grand plan they were cooking up. He wasn’t even sure what the end goal was—he hadn’t asked. Not out of disinterest, but because asking meant caring, and he wasn’t quite ready to admit he did.

“How about… in 2 days! That gives snowy enough time to unwind, and you enough time to think of what to say De!” Tribbie had beamed. He hadn't the heart to insult or criticize, so he just nodded and thanked them all. 

Mydei wasn't unsupportive , exactly. Maybe just... mildly annoyed. Irritated by the flurry of it all. Irritated that no one had stopped to ask him how he felt. Irritated that he didn’t even know how he felt.

But if he was honest with himself— quietly , brutally honest—he missed Phainon. By Kephale, he missed him.

Would he ever admit that aloud? Absolutely not. Not to Hyacine, not to Tribbie, not even to himself on most days.

But there were moments—small, stupid moments—where he’d hear someone say his name and instinctively expect Phainon’s voice behind it.
He missed the way Phainon would grab his wrist without asking, dragging him off toward whatever absurd thing he’d set his mind on that day.
He missed the casual way Phainon spoke his name like it belonged to him.
He missed the laugh—loud, unrestrained, never as elegant as it should be—but always sincere.

He missed the banter, too. The way they’d spar back and forth with words, never cruel, never taxing. Like two halves of a rhythm they both knew by heart.
It hadn’t taken effort—it had just been .

And now, without it?

Things were a little too quiet.

He told himself it was better this way.
But deep down, even that lie was starting to wear thin.

When Castorice first texted the group that Phainon had returned, and yet he didn't even text everyone he was back, Mydei didn’t know what to think.

Aglaea had typed and untyped a message several times in response—he could see the bubble appear, vanish, then flicker back again. For a moment, he thought, She must be upset.

But then she finally sent it:

Aglaea: "I don't feel him. Where is he?"

That sent a chill down Mydei’s spine.

Castorice: "I heard it from a friend—he said Lord Phainon went out with him for a bit, then rushed home after saying he wasn't feeling well."

Hyacine: "He went out right after a mission? Instead of going to Lady Aglaea?"

Tribbie: "uh oh.... Agy don’t be mad!"

Aglaea: "I am not."

A pause. Then:

Anaxagoras: "I am. Where is he. He's not answering."

Mydei blinked. Anaxa?

Hyacine: "WOAH!? Since when was Professor in here?!"

Castorice: "Apologies, this is the Myphai group chat. I added Mydei after he confessed to all of us."

Confessed?! Mydei choked on air. He supposes he did– but why on earth did they have a whole group chat for it? Also the name– he sighed heavily. 

Cipher: "cats outta the bag~"

Aglaea: "Cipher, are you in the city?"

Cipher: "Nope, too far to help. But good luck. :)"

Tribbie: "Guys... apparently Snowy’s not home. Trianne checked. His door’s still locked, so maybe he’s still out? Or passed out? Or avoiding us?"

Mydei's fingers hovered over his screen. He didn’t type anything.
Not yet.
But his heart had started to race. Phainon was somewhere in the city. And he wasn’t answering. Could he be upset?

No, Mydei told himself. No no, that deliverer was never one to be irked so low by something like this.  

So—then what?
Could it be he’s…

Mydei’s stomach lurched. A slow, crawling dread crept its way through the back of his mind, like water seeping under a sealed door. Quiet. Persistent.

Phainon can take care of himself.
Of course he can. He always did.
But what if this time—

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

His fingers moved before his mind could argue.

Mydeimos: I’ll look for him.

A pause. Then:

Hyacine: I’ll help.

Castorice: As will I.

The chat lit up in a wave of silent understanding. No over-explaining. No panic. Just motion.

And then they were gone—scattered to the corners of the holy city, slipping past modern temples, gardens, alleys, and any alleyway they could.

They searched. And searched.

Every glowing corridor and sacred staircase.
Every place he’d ever wandered, hummed in, lingered just a moment too long.

They split up at first, following their own instincts. Aglaea disappeared into the hero's bath, likely thrumming her security like threads searching, Hyacine sprinted through the upper courts, Tribbie even checked the underground sanctuary kitchens—just in case.

Mydei retraced old footsteps—places he and Phainon used to frequent. A quiet overlook near the southern tower. A shaded courtyard with polished stone where Phainon used to talk to the doves like they were old friends. Even the roofs of homes they frequented often.

But there was nothing.

And then… they started overlapping.

Mydei nearly collided with Hyacine in the outer arcade, both breathless and wide-eyed.

“I already checked this chamber,” Hyacine panted, sweat on his brow. “Nothing.”

“I looked at the sanctum gardens,” Mydei replied, eyes flicking down the corridor. “He’s not there either.”

Moments later, they ran into Castorice at the eastern spiral—the path that led toward the old amphitheater. Her dress was slightly messy and her expression unusually strained.

“No trace,” she said grimly. “And I checked with a few sentries too. No one’s seen him return through the main gates.”

Something cold wrapped its fingers around Mydei’s ribs.

This isn’t right.

They kept going. Running. Scanning. Searching.

Until their group—once scattered—began to reassemble out of necessity, driven by one mutual thought they hadn’t dared say aloud yet:

What if he’s not just avoiding them?
What if he’s hurt?

And still, not a single message from Phainon.
Aglaea’s message lit up their teleslates all at once. They each looked down in sync, eyes flicking to the glowing text:

Aglaea: His teleslate is in his home. Are you sure he’s not there?

Tribbie: I’m sure—I have his extra key in case... When I went in, it was just some of his stuff from the trip thrown on the ground. His coat too!

Mydei narrowed his eyes. His jaw tensed, the gears in his mind already turning.

“He wouldn’t just leave it behind unless he was in a hurry,” he muttered aloud.

Hyacine, still slightly out of breath, nodded beside him. “Yeah, I agree. Snowy’s pretty meticulous… He doesn’t just toss things around.”

Mydei didn’t reply. The pit in his stomach, the one that had been there since Castorice’s first text, was only getting heavier. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like not knowing .

And the silence on Phainon’s end felt too loud.

The coat. The teleslate. The absence.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a prickle of frustration crawled up his spine. It wasn’t just worry now—it was itching , coiling, like something just out of reach was trying to be known.

“…Perhaps we should take a break?” Castorice offered gently, though her eyes stayed sharp, scanning each of their faces for agreement. “Maybe Lord Phainon is still upset? He may just need some time alone after his trip.”

Mydei didn’t respond. He knew her tone—soft, diplomatic, but she wasn’t done searching. Not really. She would keep going until she had answers, same as the rest of them.

But that feeling—the wrongness —never left him.

It lingered .

Hyacine stepped closer and, in a rare show of calm warmth, placed a hand on Mydei’s arm.

“It’s okay, De,” Hyacine said softly, her voice quieter than usual. “We’ll find him. Or he’ll find us. Either way…”

Mydei didn’t finish the thought that hung on the end of that sentence.
He just gave a tight, shallow nod. His throat ached, and not from talking.

“De, come on,” Hyacine said more gently now, “you’ve been up for ages —since before sunrise yesterday.”

Castorice chimed in with that diplomatic calm of hers, though there was a clear edge of guilt in her voice.
“Yes… Lord Mydei, we shouldn’t have kept you so long earlier while setting up. Please, just rest for a little while. We’ll continue the search in the meantime.”

He didn’t want to. Gods, he didn’t want to. Every inch of his body was buzzing with tension, his thoughts clawing for answers, and sleep felt like surrender.

But he was exhausted.

His limbs ached, his vision blurred around the corners, and his thoughts weren’t lining up like they should.

The worry had sharpened into something physical now—like knives thrown at random angles inside his skull, every breath catching somewhere painful.

“I’ll rest for an hour,” he said, his voice rasped from more than just talking. “Then I’ll return.”

It wasn’t a compromise so much as a reluctant truce with his own limits.

Hyacine sighed—tired too, but clearly trying to keep it together. She stepped closer and squeezed his hand once, firm but kind.
“Better than nothing. Rest best you can, De.”

Mydei nodded again, slower this time. And as he turned to walk toward his own home, his thoughts whispered behind him like a prayer.

Please… just let him be somewhere safe.

Safe.
That was all Mydei had asked for.

If Phainon couldn’t be in reach—if he couldn’t be where Mydei could see him, shake him, yell at him —then let him at least be safe.

And—thankfully, for once—it seemed someone was listening.

Because when Mydei returned to his home, his private, unlisted, technically classified to only 4 people estate, tucked into a quiet corner of Okhemas upper sanctum, he noticed something strange.

The front door was… slightly ajar.

He stopped.

No one ever came here—not unless they were expressly invited or trying to die. It was under Aglaea's name, just a place she gifted him for when he needed to be alone. Not even Krateros knew the exact location.

I swear I closed that, he thought, his body going taut.

He approached slowly, red crystals quietly crystalized in his fingertips, just in case. Then, with one gentle push, the door creaked open—

—and the tension shattered in an instant.

Because what greeted him wasn’t a threat.

It was a pile of chaos.

Phainon’s shoes, kicked off haphazardly near the entrance. One sock still stuck halfway inside the left one.

A coat—white and blue—tossed carelessly beside the couch like it had lost the will to exist halfway through the room. Armor scattered in a trail leading to his couch.

And sprawled across said couch, in the most undignified position known to all of Amphoreous, was Phainon himself .

One arm slung lazily over his face.
Mouth slightly open.
Chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged breaths.

He was asleep.

Or—more accurately— passed out .

Mydei stood there, frozen. A thousand thoughts collided at once. Relief. Irritation. Gratitude. Annoyance .

Then his eyes drifted downward.

Phainon’s shirt was half-unbuttoned—more than usual. A golden line shimmered faintly across his chest, the same divine tracework Mydei had only ever seen in private. When they bathed together.

And somehow… seeing it now—
It felt like something intimate he wasn't meant to see, even though he had before. Why… did he look so… exposed??

Mydei swallowed hard.

Phainon looked—vulnerable. Not in the usual, dramatic joking “save me from the council meeting” way.

But truly exposed . And Mydei couldn't place his finger as to why. 

A soft exhale escaped Mydei’s lips. He stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. The sound barely registered over the quiet rise and fall of Phainon’s breath.

Safe.
He was safe.

The familiar space embraced him with its quiet, slightly dusty warmth. It was a modest home—small, spare, tucked away in the older tiers of the Holy City—but it had become a sanctuary of sorts. Castorice visited sometimes. Phainon more often, usually uninvited, always acting like he lived there.

And now, it seemed, he really had made himself at home.

Mydei let out a breath, stepping further in. He still wasn’t sure what in all the realms had possessed Phainon to drag himself here of all places. But as he knelt beside the couch and listened—really listened—to the slow, ragged breaths easing out of him, the tension in his chest finally gave way.

Relief. Sharp and heavy.

He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Phainon’s forehead—and blinked.

He was burning .

“…Deliverer,” Mydei muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes. He could see it now: the pink flush creeping up his cheeks, the sweat at his temples, the way his chest rose just a little too fast.

He moved with practiced care, fingers gliding to Phainon’s wrist.

Pulse: fast. A little erratic.

Fever.

Wonderful.

Phainon stirred beneath his touch. His lashes fluttered, and those stupidly vivid eyes blinked up at him, glassy and unfocused.

“…Cy–rene?” he mumbled first, brows furrowing. Then: “No—My… Mydei?”

He reached out with uncoordinated hands, latching onto Mydei’s fingers like he’d drop off the face of the planet if he let go.

Without hesitation, Mydei clasped his hand tightly in return.

“I’m here,” he said lowly. “You absolute idiot.”

Phainon blinked again. “Ugh—What’re you doing in my house?” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred.

Mydei stared at him. “ Your house?”

“Yeah,” Phainon nodded, albeit in slow, lazy circles. “Sorry. Think I’m sick… or those skewers messed me up… Ugh.” He groaned and turned slightly, head thudding against the armrest. “I think they had mushrooms or something. I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

“You’re not allergic to mushrooms.” Mydei deadpanned. “You literally eat mushroom dumplings all the time”

“…Oh.” Phainon blinked. “Then why do I feel like I got run over by a dromas?”

“Maybe that dumb brain finally caught up with the rest of your body, when's the last time you actually sat down and rested?”

“Pot, kettle, mydei”
“What?”
“Its a saying from my hometown”
“No explanation huh?” Mydei muttered, but his hand never left Phainon’s.

“Phainon, You broke into my house.”

“I did? Well you left the door open.”

“I did not! ”

Phainon cracked a grin. “Well, then your house invited me in.”

“You are delirious,” Mydei muttered, but his voice was losing its edge, softer now. More frayed around the corners.

Phainon’s thumb brushed across the back of Mydei’s hand without thinking, warm and uncoordinated. He let out a sigh, not quite a laugh, not quite a groan.

“Feels nice, though,” he whispered. “Being here. With you.”

Mydei went still.

Phainon’s eyes were fluttering again, halfway to unconscious.

“You’re annoying,” Mydei whispered.

“Mmhm.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You’d have scolded me.”

“I’m scolding you anyway.”

“Exactly,” Phainon hummed. “I missed you.”

He shifted slightly, pulling Mydei’s hand closer to his chest, like he could fall asleep holding it.

And gods help him—Mydei let him.

He sat there, stiff and silently fuming, but his free hand slowly moved up to brush sweat-damp hair off Phainon’s forehead.

Phainon’s breathing had just started to settle, soft and shallow beneath Mydei’s touch, when he stirred again—murmuring something low, words catching behind a dry tongue.

“…So warm…” he mumbled, then swallowed thickly. “Do you have… blankets?”

Mydei exhaled sharply, but quietly. “You’re literally on a couch with a blanket.”

“Oh. Right.” Phainon’s hand flexed weakly against his. “Still cold, though…”

He leaned a little toward Mydei, barely perceptible—but enough to draw them closer. Mydei cursed under his breath, then sighed, brushing his free hand once more across Phainon’s flushed forehead.

“Probably chills. Fever’s not breaking yet.”

Phainon made a low, grumbly noise—like he was trying to get comfortable inside his own skin. “M’sorry I worried you.”

“You always worry me.”

“Not always…”

“Always,” Mydei said flatly. “Name one time you didn’t do something reckless or stupid.”

Phainon grinned faintly. “You caught me.”

Mydei groaned softly, not dignifying that with a response. But his thumb did shift slightly, tracing the top of Phainon’s wrist as though checking again for the pulse that had spiked earlier. Still too fast. Still wrong.

“…I was with Icarus,” Phainon said suddenly, almost dreamily. “He asked to go out after I came back. He wanted to try this skewer place.” He laughed lightly, though it faded into a rasp. “I’m weak to free food.”

The moment that name left his mouth— Icarus —Mydei’s expression shifted. Barely.

But it was there.

His whole body tensed, eyes narrowing in a way that could have cut steel.

Icarus. Of all people. again?

He didn’t say anything at first, but his grip on Phainon’s hand subtly tightened. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

“Did he give you the food?” Mydei asked, tone clipped.

“Mm… sorta” Phainon murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Said he got them fresh. I dunno. I ate one. Then I got dizzy after people started talking. Said I needed to head home—must’ve walked straight here instead.”

“…Did he know where you were going?”

“I think so?” Phainon blinked, bleary and confused. “He asked if I’d be okay, I think. I told him I just needed to lie down. Then everything kind of went sideways.”

Mydei’s jaw clenched. His thoughts began racing faster than he could temper them.

Spiked food maybe? Fever. Delirium.
And somehow, Icarus just let him walk off like that?

His gut twisted. Whether it was jealousy, mistrust, or a well-earned instinct honed from watching too many schemes unfold behind pretty faces—he didn’t know.

But something didn’t sit right.

“You should’ve messaged me,” Mydei said quietly. “If you were dizzy. If you didn’t feel safe.”

Phainon stirred. “…Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“You’re never a bother.”

Phainon’s lips parted like he might argue—but didn’t. Instead, he let his head fall slightly to the side, closer to where Mydei sat at the edge of the couch. Their forearms brushed. His fevered skin radiated heat.

“…Your voice’s nice,” Phainon muttered, on the edge of sleep again. “Always sounded like home. Dunno why I didn’t come here first.”

“You did come here first, you idiot.”

“…Oh yeah.”

A breathless laugh fluttered from Phainon’s throat before it dropped into silence again.

Mydei let out a long, careful breath. He reached for the blanket tucked behind the couch, shook it loose, and draped it gently over Phainon’s body. It slipped across the open shirt, hiding that flickering golden line—but not the ache Mydei felt seeing it in the first place.

Mydei saw it then– in its full glory he could see that sun marking across Phaions neck. Ah. That's what it was. His choker was off.
His neck was bare– By kephale Mydei wanted to sink his teeth–

stop it. He's sick. Control yourself

He lingered. Sat beside him. Watching.

Because he couldn’t risk walking away. Not yet.

And because no matter how much Phainon pissed him off, no matter how reckless he was, or how many walls he tore through just by existing—

He needed him close.

Not as a deliverer. Not as a friend.

Just as Phainon.

-

Mydei didn’t even remember falling asleep.

One moment he was sitting on the floor beside the couch, his back aching, eyes heavy but stubbornly alert—watching Phainon breathe, just breathe —and the next, he was somewhere soft.

And warm.

His brows twitched as he stirred, the unmistakable sensation of being held wrapping around him like a blanket someone else had arms.

Warmth curled along his spine, a steady breath pressed gently against his shoulder blades.

Mydei blinked.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Phainon.

Head pressed into the space between Mydei’s shoulder blades like a pillow, arms snugly wrapped around his waist, legs tangled without a care in the world—clinging to him like some sleepy Chimera.

What the hell.

How did they even get here?
He was very sure he hadn’t moved himself. He had passed out on the floor. And Phainon had been too feverish to walk straight, let alone drag a whole grown man to bed.

So why, exactly , was Phainon now in his bed, cuddling him like they were lovers in a cheap romance novel?

“…Phainon.”

Mydei shifted.

Phainon groaned like he’d just been slapped by the sun. His grip tightened instinctively, as if releasing Mydei would doom them both.

But Mydei untangled the limbs—awkwardly, carefully—and finally sat up, scrubbing a hand down his face.

He turned to look down at the man still lazily sprawled across his pillows.

Phainon blinked blearily up at him, then smiled—sleepy, pleased.

“Oh. You’re awake…” he murmured, like Mydei was the late sleeper in question.

Mydei stared at him, unblinking. “You moved me.”

Phainon nodded helpfully. “You looked uncomfortable on the floor, so I carried you here.”

“You had a fever .”

“I think so.”

“You couldn’t even speak properly.”

“I was speaking fine,” Phainon slurred, barely lifting his head. “Just... selectively.”

“You—” Mydei cut himself off and took a deep breath. “I thought you were sick .”

“I was sick.”

“You carried me.”

“Mhm.”

“You… don’t see the problem?”

Phainon blinked again, slow and entirely unconcerned. “You’re in bed. You’re warm. Problem solved.”

“You carried me while feverish and delirious. ”

A pause. Then:

“Strongest Deliverer, remember?” Phainon grinned weakly, voice still thick with sleep. “Lifting one cranky boyfriend-to-be isn’t that hard.”

“ What? ”

“Nothing.”

Mydei choked on air.

Phainon, satisfied with his minor chaos, flopped back into the sheets like a cat claiming territory.

“Also, I get clingy when I’m sleepy,” he added, not bothering to hide the amusement curling at the edge of his voice. “Don’t take it personally.”

Mydei buried his face in his hands. “I can’t with you.”

But he didn’t get up.

Not right away.

Because now that the panic had worn off, and the warmth still lingered… he found that, maybe— maybe —he didn’t mind being held like that.

“…Boyfriend-to-be?”

Mydei blinked.

The words hit him like a spell gone wrong—no, right, but so suddenly, so utterly unexpected, that his brain short-circuited.

He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, feel it stuttering wildly in his chest like it was trying to escape.

Boyfriend.

Phainon had said it so casually. Like it was already true. Like it had always been true.

And now Mydei— rational, high-functioning Mydei—was spiraling like one of the dramatic protagonists from Castorice’s ridiculous paperbacks.

He was mid-stare into nothing when Phainon said his name again, soft and distant:

“Mydeimos.”

Mydei turned.

Phainon was lying on his back now, eyes fixed on the ceiling, that impossibly white hair fanned out around his head like a crown. Like moonlight in the dark. Like a fallen god trying not to fall any further.

Even with only the ambient light of the city filtering through the window, Mydei could see him clearly.

And then, so simply—

“I love you.”

Mydei froze.

Then shattered.
Every emotion he’d shoved into the corners of himself broke loose.

Shock. Relief. Panic. Anger. Something bright and aching and terrifying.

“…”

No words came. His throat locked up.

Phainon didn’t even look at him—his eyes still fixed somewhere else, as though the ceiling might judge him less than Mydei would.

Mydei moved on instinct, crossing the short space between them in a heartbeat.
His hand gripped the front of Phainon’s half-buttoned shirt, trembling just enough to be noticed. His brows drawn in a mixture of rage and something more fragile.

Whatever he looked like, it was enough to make Phainon glance at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his fever-heavy gaze.

“I’m sorry, Myd—”

“Say it.”

Phainon blinked. “…What?”

“Say it again.”

Silence.

Then:

“…I love you, Mydei.”

And that was it.

Mydei surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was everything—desperation, longing, fury at the months wasted in silence.

Phainon made a noise of surprise—caught between a gasp and a laugh—as he tried to catch up, arms instinctively rising to meet him, but Mydei was already bracing his head with one hand, holding him like he’d vanish if he let go.

The shift in weight caused Mydei to half-fall over him, but neither of them cared.

Phainon scrambled to cling back, fists curling into Mydei’s back, holding him just as tightly.

The kiss deepened, uncoordinated and perfect in its mess. A thousand unspoken words passed through the press of lips, the clutch of hands, the quiet, shuddering breaths between them.

When they finally parted, they didn’t move far.

Phainon’s forehead rested against Mydei’s, their breathing tangled together.

Mydei didn’t open his eyes right away. He still felt like he was falling.

But if this was what falling felt like—with Phainon’s hands wrapped around him and those words still ringing in his ears—

Then maybe he didn’t mind the drop.

“ Mydei—mmph— ”

Mydei couldn’t help himself.

He surged forward again, capturing Phainon’s lips with renewed urgency. One hand cradled the side of his face, gentle despite the heat behind the kiss, while the other slipped into that silken mess of white hair—searching for something tangible, real .

His fingers drifted from hair to cheek, then down the curve of Phainon’s neck, trailing reverently like he was mapping holy ground.

The kiss deepened.

He didn’t care that he lacked experience, didn’t care that it was messy or imperfect—Phainon welcomed him anyway.

He parted his lips with a quiet sigh, breath syncing with Mydei’s, like he had been waiting for this. For him.

Their mouths moved together in chaotic rhythm—desperate, clumsy, hungry with every second they’d spent denying this.

Phainon’s hands slid up Mydei’s back, fingers dipping over every nerve, between his shoulderblades, over his spine grasping at anything he could. 

When they finally broke apart for air, Phainon’s head fell back against the pillow, his chest rising with ragged, shuddering breaths.

Mydei stared at him. At the way his throat moved with each inhale, his Adam’s apple bobbing, flushed skin glowing softly in the low light.

He couldn’t stop.

He leaned in again, lips brushing along the slope of Phainon’s neck.

Phainon tensed for a heartbeat—then exhaled, a soft sound escaping his throat. Not a moan exactly, but something sparked and unguarded, like a flame catching.

Mydei kissed gently along the line of his neck, slow and reverent.

He found the edge of that familiar sun tattoo—the one that curled just below Phainon’s collarbone, golden and warm even now.

He kissed over it, again and again, marveling at how it framed him like he was something divine.

Because to Mydei, he was.

Mydei was interrupted by a soft sound—half a laugh, half a sob.

It cut through the heat like a thread of starlight.

He froze. Immediately, his hand returned to Phainon’s face, fingers brushing along his jaw, thumb swiping just beneath his eye.

“Phainon…?” he asked softly, searching his expression.

Phainon let out another breathless sound—lighter now, shaking a little, but not from pain. His smile curled up at the edges, tired and dazzled all at once.

“And here I thought you’d be a terrible kisser,” he murmured, voice hoarse but warm. “Is there anything you’re bad at, Mydei?”

Mydei blinked, stunned silent for a moment.

Then his expression dropped into one of exasperated disbelief. “ Really? That’s what you say right now?”

Phainon’s laugh came again, raw and soft. “You kissed me like the world was ending,” he whispered. “What else was I supposed to do— not fall more in love with you?”

Mydei’s breath hitched, and all he could do was stare at him—this fever-warm idiot beneath him, smiling through the remnants of tears like nothing hurt anymore.

He leaned in again, resting his forehead gently against Phainon’s.

He leaned in again, resting his forehead gently against Phainon’s.

“…Yes,” he said finally, voice barely above a breath. “There are things I’m bad at.”

Phainon smiled against the closeness. “Name one.”

“Letting go of you.”

That silence hung between them again, warm and aching.

Then Phainon chuckled, a little unsteady. “You sap….you know,” he murmured, “I should’ve seen this coming sooner.”

Mydei tilted his head, just enough to meet his eyes.

“I mean, you’re not subtle ,” Phainon continued, eyes flickering down to Mydei’s lips with a teasing lilt. “The way you’d glare at anyone who touched me. The way you always said you were only tolerating me temporarily , but still showed up every single time I needed you.”

“I was trying to be subtle,” Mydei muttered.

“Well, you were bad at it.”

“Says the man who ‘accidentally’ falls asleep on me five times a week.”

Phainon grinned, wide and triumphant. “That was strategy. Can’t seduce you if I’m not physically on you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Am I? I quite thought you enjoyed me.”

Mydei rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. Not even an inch.

A few beats passed, softer now.

Then Phainon shifted slightly beneath him. “When I left for those few days,” he said, voice quieter, “I thought I just needed to clear my head. But I ended up meeting this couple in the southern tiers—one of them was Kremnoan.”

“Oh?”

“She took one look at me mid-rant about you and said, ‘Oh, he’s courting you. Clear as day.’”

Mydei’s entire body stilled.

“…She did not.”

“She did . Her partner just nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world.”

Phainon tilted his head, mock-innocent. “Oh? Are you embarrassed?”

“No.”

“Your ears are red.”

“ No. ”

Phainon laughed again, but this time it was softer—genuine. He shifted his hands to Mydei’s hips, grounding him. “You don’t have to say anything. I mean, you just made out with me like we were in a tragic theatre—”

“I love you.”

Phainon blinked. The words hit like a pulse of heat through him.

He went still.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just—stunned.

“I…” Mydei hesitated, just for a second. Then steadied himself with a breath. “I love you. And I should’ve said it sooner. But I was scared. I didn’t know if you wanted—”

Phainon didn’t let him finish.

He pulled Mydei down into his chest, arms wrapping tight around him like a shield. Like the answer had always been yes.

“I wanted you,” Phainon whispered. “Always.”

And for a long while, neither of them moved.

Just warmth.
Just breathing.
Just them.

Finally, finally, where they’d always wanted to be.

After a long, quiet while—just breath and warmth and fingers idly tracing lines across fabric—Phainon blinked slowly, then looked up at him with the most tragic expression imaginable.

“Mydei…” he whispered.

Mydei glanced down, wary. “What.”

“…Will you still make food for me if you’re not courting me?”

Mydei stared at him. “Yes??? Why—”

“I’m hungry, ” Phainon mumbled, utterly shameless.

A pause.

“Of course you are,” Mydei muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You always have some way to interrupt my peace–”

Phainon grinned, smug and still tangled in his arms like a smug, radiant parasite. “That’s because you love me. And feeding me is your love language.”

“It’s basic care , not a romantic gesture.”

“Mmhm. Denial looks good on you.”

“…You’re lucky I love you,” Mydei muttered, already sitting up.

“I am ,” Phainon beamed, stretching his arms like a cat. “Now make something warm and nourishing before I pass away dramatically in your bed.”

“You were already passed out dramatically in my bed.”

“Exactly. Continuity.”

Mydei shook his head and grumbled all the way to the kitchen—
—but he was already thinking of what soup to make.

Because yes, of course he was going to feed him.

And yes, maybe that was a little romantic after all.

-

Phainon: im sorry everyone, I had some issues i needed to work through, im alright now, but thank you all for your patience.

The relief in the group chat was immediate.

Hyacine: its no problem Lord Phainon, we were all worried about you. Where were you?

Phainon: ah, just at home. well sort of. Im home now!

Castorice: that’s great, Lord Phainon.

Tribbie: by the wayyy~ we’re hosting a little get-together, just to eat and bond~ you’re coming right, Snowy?

Phainon: of course. i’ll be there :)

And just like that, the tension broke.

Over the next few days, things fell back into a familiar rhythm.
Phainon and Mydei returned to their usual pattern—bickering in tandem, walking too close, acting like they hadn’t driven half the group to the brink of emotional chaos just a week ago.

The others were certain nothing had happened.
They hadn’t confessed.
There was no way.

Because surely, if they had , they’d at least stop being so obvious about being oblivious .

Which is why the matchmaking campaign remained fully active.
Only now it was starting to get… complicated.

Because Phainon and Mydei were no longer avoiding each other.
They were closer than ever—seamlessly so. Too seamless. Too casual.
They shared food. They shared space. Mydei refilled Phainon’s water without prompting. Phainon fixed the collar of Mydei’s shirt mid-conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They made it really hard to meddle.

The gathering was a quiet one—just close friends, soft music, a spread of warm food, and the low hum of good company.

Phainon was curled up on the couch, arms lazily sprawled across the backrest.

Right next to him, as always, was Mydei—sharp-eyed, quietly content, drink in hand.

They weren’t touching exactly. But the space between them was a lie.

“Guys…” Phainon sighed dramatically, stretching just enough to bump his shoulder into Mydei’s. “Can we eat now? I’m hungry.”

Across the room, Castorice smiled politely. “Well, Lord Mydei was going to cook, and we thought you could help, Lord Phainon.”

Phainon perked up. “Okay! Sure.”

He seemed better. Open. Present. Still tired, perhaps, but lighter than before.

Earlier that morning, he had pulled each of them aside in his own way—apologizing for his silence. Said he’d had some personal things to work through, and that he was grateful for their concern. That he’d make up for the lost time.

No one pressed further. They were just glad to have him back.

“Suspicious…” she whispered to herself.

“Did you say something?” Hyacine asked, glancing over from the snack table where she was meticulously organizing the juice bottles by hue.

“Nothing at all,” Tribbie replied far too quickly, flashing a grin that was all teeth and conspiracy.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the mood couldn’t have been more different.

Mydei was at the cutting board, sleeves rolled up, already halfway through a pile of vegetables with the kind of precise, focused rhythm only he could make look intimidating.

Phainon padded in behind him barefoot, warm from the couch and glowing with that strange post-confession joy that hadn’t worn off yet—and maybe never would.

He leaned in casually, his chin resting on Mydei’s shoulder, arms loosely encircling his waist for just a second.

“Tell me what to do,” he murmured, voice low, half-sleepy, half-smiling.

Mydei didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.

“You know what to do.”

Phainon closed his eyes for a beat, smiled against the warmth of him. Quiet. Happy.
Already home.
In the other room, the group was trying very hard to act casual.
Too casual.

“Don’t look at them,” Castorice hissed under her breath as she passed Tribbie a bowl of rice.

“I’m not looking!” Tribbie hissed back. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

“I think they’re flirting in the kitchen,” Hyacine said quietly. “Should we interrupt?”

“No,” Castorice and Tribbie said in unison.

Across the room, Cipher was already writing bets in the side chat.

Cipher: Odds on them announcing it during dessert?

No one responded.

Because deep down, they all knew.

It wasn’t about if Mydei and Phainon would finally admit it.

It was just a matter of when.

And as laughter filtered from the kitchen, soft and genuine, no one had the heart to push harder.

Some things—finally—were falling into place.

And for now, it was enough.