Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The iron tomb failed.

When Khasalana received the news—battered, patterned, watched by the Aeon he loathed more than any wretched thing—he felt the hellish exhaustion waver.

33,550,336 cycles. Thirty million lifetimes spent clawing, cursing, hoping for an end.

Not a single moment in all that eternity could compare to the relief pouring through him now, unstoppable as a flood.

The next instant—when he finally dared open his eyes—he saw them.

His savior, Gray hair, a gaze harboring more worry and care than he had deserved in a long time.

“Friend—”

The word tumbled out, raw and unsteady.

But his voice—oh, by the gods—his voice sounded normal . No more rasping hollowness, no echoes of entropy threading his every syllable.

His body was hot—searing, even—but for once it was the heat of life , not decay.

And gods above…he felt normal .

He realized dimly that tears were falling—boiling away into steam as they slid down his cheeks—but it didn’t matter. Let them scald. Let them mark him.

Because his face—he knew it, he felt it—was smiling.

“Truly,” he whispered, voice breaking under the weight of it, “is it done? Am I…finished?”

-

There was always a separation—an unhealed fracture—between the Phainons and the Khasalanas .

In every cycle, every rebirth, he was still him , despite all ruin and recomposition. Despite every Aeon’s attempt to overwrite his shape and thought.

But the issue persisted: he could feel himself split in two. Even now. Even here .

And yet—

When the Trailblazer arrived at his side—offering not pity but a hand steady as the turning spheres—and dragged him into the newborn dawn, he saw it.

The Worldbearing Coreflame.

In every cycle, he had seized the Twelve Coreflames and forced them together within himself, welding them into a singular power that no star or aeon could deny.

And yet, he realized, the truth he had never spoken aloud—never dared whisper—was this:

He had never truly ushered in the real Era Nova .

The Iron Tomb had never been completed.

He had only ever built a mausoleum of false beginnings.

But standing here, with them—this impossible companion who crossed destinies as if they were stepping stones—he reached out.

And he took it in his hand.

The Coreflame pulsed, vast and unshadowed.

Light engulfed the trial of suffering.

And for the first time across thirty million lifetimes—

He could finally breathe.

“Welcome, to tomorrow”

-

“—non? Phainon! ”

His eyes fluttered open.

What greeted him this time was not the expanse of the golden field of his hometown- but instead the expanse of a night like sky, a cold stone beneath him. More importantly, the man in his face, signature red marks, furrowed brow, so worried—or maybe annoyed— but more importantly…

his Mydeimos —he could tell. He could always tell.

His voice refused him. His mouth would not move. But when the cold brush of a tear slipped down his cheek—no steam—he knew. Is it truly done?

And that, along with seeing him , broke something loose inside him.

“Finally—”

The word was strangled in his throat, cracking as it escaped. His face curled into something he hadn’t managed in nearly a millennium: a smile .

“Mydei—”

He half expected the other man’s confusion—Mydeimos never exactly knew what was happening in these impossible moments. But instead—

Instead, he was met with a warm, crushing embrace.

“Phainon… you idiot —” Mydeimos’s voice trembled. His arms, strong and shaking, pulled him in so tightly it made Phainon’s chest ache in a way he’d forgotten was possible.

After millions of cycles—he shook, too. His whole body clung to this.

Is this what he deserved?
Is this the true Era Nova?
Is this the end of the Flame-Chase Journey?
Is this—

“ YOU STABBED ME, YOU—YOU HKS— ”

Mydeimos bit him.

“OW—owowow—Mydeimos— stop —!”

Another bite. Then another. Phainon had to gather the last scraps of his cosmic strength just to pry the man off.

“Hey—I didn’t even—oh, I guess—well, I mean I did, but he didn’t, but—gods, he’s me but—”

SLAP.

“You…” Mydeimos sighed, exasperation softening into something helpless. His arms never really left Phainon’s shoulders.

“Mydei,” Phainon rasped, voice at last steady, though everything inside him felt newly unmoored, “pray tell… what …what is going on?”

He looked around—awake, awake in truth this time. New emotions stirred behind his eyes. The rage he had worn like a mantle for eons finally sputtered out.

This was real .

He saw it: the sky was… beautiful, their quiet bloom on the stars. The gentle curve of the horizon.

They were in… Ohkema? The Vortex?

Phainon lifted his gaze. The symbols that had always haunted the sky—Titanic glyphs, spinning sigils of damnation—were gone.

In their place: an endless canopy of stars. The calm expense of a true night sky.

“Phainon.”

He twisted, startled.

Aglaea.
Tribios.
Anaxa.
Cas—

“ Phainon, ” Aglaea said softly, her eyes luminous,  “are you all right?”

He couldn’t even muster words.

The relief—genuine, oceanic—crashed over him, carrying with it the old guilt he’d tried to bury for uncounted ages.

He lifted a hand to wipe his tears—such a small gesture, yet it felt alien. An oddity now.

Perhaps Khaslana could not cry. Perhaps Khaslana’s endless suffering had always drowned out his will as Phainon.

Either way, the tears felt… wrong .

Wrong, and achingly human .

He looked at them. Aglaea, Tribios, Anaxa, Cas—all of them, alive .

What mattered more than this? What in all the spiral of cycles could ever eclipse this moment?

“I—”

His voice hurt. Really hurt. Like a rusted hinge forced to turn after centuries.

It was as though a great lump had formed in his throat, iron and salt and flame.

He tried again, but what came out wasn’t a word at all—a ragged, broken sound, ugly and raw.

His face was wet. His chest heaved.

Oh.

He had almost forgotten this was what crying felt like.

He was thankful for their care—more thankful than he could ever put into words.

He felt Tribios’s hand resting steady on his back, grounding him. Mydeimos’s hand never left his own—warm, callused, real. When had he even laced their fingers together? He couldn’t remember, only that the contact was the only thing keeping him tethered.

He didn’t notice when more people slipped into the chamber. But he felt them—the familiar warmth of the Trailblaze. He heard low voices, soft explanations drifting over him, half-understood.

And for once, Khaslana allowed this.

Allowed him to feel.
Allowed him to cry.
Allowed him to claim his suffering as his , not just some punishment written into his bones by an Aeon’s cruelty.

And in that quiet surrender, he knew:

He was ready now.

Ready to leave, destiny fulfilled at last.

“Phainon.”

The Trailblazer’s voice cut through the blur—gentle, steady.

“Welcome back, my friend.”

-

It took a few hours—maybe more—to gather themselves.

When they finally stepped outside the Genesis, and found their way to the garden that overlooked Ohkema.
The sky there was…endlessly beautiful. A dawn so soft, so real, Amphoreous had never seen a dawn like this.
Phainon thought he might weep again, he could feel the pull of the rising sun—bright and warm against the last shadows in his chest.

And Khaslana—silent now—couldn’t help but feel the finality.

Even so, the phantom pain lingered. The memory of a body that had rotted, rebuilt itself, and rotted again. The echo of endless cycles of agony.

But he was ready.

Ready to go.

Ready to say his final goodbye.

Ready to see his dearest friends take their first steps into a life unburdened.

When he turned, he saw all of them—gathered in the dawn’s light.

And he smiled.

“This should be goodbye,” he said softly. His voice was low, weighted with all the emotion he’d kept locked away for ages. It must have been Phainon rising to the surface again—his memories still too fresh, too bright to ignore.

“ Goodbye? ”

Castorice tilted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder. Her hands fidgeted restlessly, unaccustomed to being free now that her curse had finally lifted.

Anaxa narrowed his eyes, arms folding across his chest.

“I may not have the memories of the previous cycles,” he said, his voice clipped but not unkind, “but even I know you’re not about to stand here and tell us you’re going to burn out and fade away.”

He went quiet.

“I finished what I set out to do,” he said at last. His voice was almost peaceful—like something hollowed out at the core. “Everything is finally in place. The Deliverer has ushered in a new dawn for Amphoreous.”

He felt that terrible, gentle smile pull at his lips—unabashedly adoring as he looked at them all, alive and whole in the dawnlight.

“I have burned, and killed, and hurt, and now…I’m ready. Under the gaze of Nanook, I know my life is better off—”

“ Do not finish that sentence, Phainon. ”

The voice was sharp as a blade.

He startled, turning.

Cyrene emerged from behind the others, her silhouette framed by the rising sun. The Trailblazer was at her side, their expression stricken.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” she said, her voice breaking as she stepped closer. “You don’t get to stand here and decide you’re finished. You don’t get to erase yourself just because you think it makes things tidy.”

Her eyes were shining—angry and afraid all at once.

He stared at Cyrene, stunned into silence.

Tribbie was crying—openly, unashamedly. Sobs shaking their shoulders as they wiped at their eyes.

And Hyacine—gods, Hyacine’s face was dark with an anger he had never seen in any cycle, not even the worst ones. It was something fierce and unyielding— protective , he realized dimly.

Cyrene kept walking toward him, slow and deliberate, her steps crunching over the dew-slick grass.

“Deliverer Khaslana,” she said, her voice gentler now but no less firm, “my Phainon…it’s alright.”

He tried to look away. He had spent so many lives convincing himself this was the only ending worthy of him. That he had to be the final sacrifice, the last flame to gutter out so the others could live unburdened.

But Cyrene didn’t let him.

She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek.

“You don’t have to die,” she whispered, and the words hit him harder than any blade. “You don’t have to be the sacrificial lamb anymore. You don’t have to pay for cycles that are already over .”

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

“You don’t see it yet, do you?” Her thumb brushed the tears off his skin—tears that didn’t burn, didn’t steam. “Look around you. Really look.”

And he did.

He saw Tribbie’s tear-streaked face, the way Anaxa was gripping Castorice’s hand so tightly their knuckles were white. The way Hyacine’s glare softened as he met Phainon’s gaze. The way the Trailblazer watched him with quiet, aching hope.

He realized—finally, viscerally—that there was nothing left hunting them. No aeon’s curse. No iron tomb waiting to reset it all.

The cycles were done .

He didn’t have to die.

He didn’t have to vanish to prove anything.

He could choose something else.

He can wish for himself?

“Phainon.”

Cyrene’s voice pulled him back, soft as a prayer.

“We can finally wish for ourselves.”

He felt something in his chest—some ancient, splintered thing—begin to knit together.

He could breathe.

Really, truly breathe .

And for the first time in all the millions of lifetimes he’d endured, he let himself believe he might stay.

Chapter Text

Settling had always been something relegated to the very back of Phainon’s mind—an impossible indulgence he never allowed himself to consider for more than a heartbeat.

Even now, even standing here in the soft hush of the garden with dawn creeping over the horizon, he couldn’t quite stop the old compulsion from resurfacing.

He wanted—needed—to solve the rest of the affairs within Ohkema. To see the last archives catalogued, the final fragments of the shattered codes sealed away, the governance of Amphoreous set to rights.

Just one more thing.
One more loose end.
One more cycle’s worth of duty.

Admittedly—he had to concede—he probably wasn’t the most sane person anymore.

Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror or the polished curve of a starmetal plate, he almost believed in the gentler illusion.

Phainon.

The bright-eyed, half-laughing hero. Filled with love and carefree wishes.
The Worldbearing Demigod who had promised everyone he would lead them into a new era.

And other times—most times—he saw the truth.

Khaslana.

The man who had walked through thirty million cycles, barefoot in the ashes of every friend he ever loved. The man who had burned as a placeholder for a destiny he never asked for.

The man who had killed his own companions—again and again—just to steal the Coreflames before the black tide could.

Until all that was left inside him was rage, brittle and white-hot, etched so deep it had become part of his core.

Even now, in the quiet, with the promise of peace glimmering so close he could taste it, he felt the old fear tightening around his ribs:

What if I can’t stop?
What if I don’t know how to be anything else?

And yet—

He looked up.

Cyrene was still watching him, steady as gravity. The Trailblazer stood beside her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder, as if to remind them both that no one had to stand alone anymore.

And for the first time in all the eras he could remember, he felt something shift—small, tentative, but real.

A wondering, fragile hope.

Maybe…maybe I don’t have to keep going. Maybe this time, I get to learn how to stay.

It was fragile, this thing inside him—so fragile he was afraid to touch it too hard, in case it shattered.

He wasn’t even truly sure what he was made for anymore.

What was the purpose of a Deliverer with no apocalypse to avert? A Khaslana with no cycles left to break?

What was his goal, if not to keep moving forward until he burned himself away?

But if yesterday’s miracle meant anything at all—if their voices, their hands, their stubborn refusal to let him go meant anything—then he had to stay.

For some reason he couldn’t name yet.

So he wandered.

He told himself he was looking for someone who needed help, some task he could throw himself into—anything to avoid the quiet.

And somehow, without quite realizing how, he found himself standing in front of Mydeimos.

He wasn’t sure when his feet had carried him here. He only knew they had.

“Mydei—” he began, but stopped when the man turned.
“Phainon?”

(Weird. No more Deliverer. No title, no mantle between them.)

Part of him missed it.

Most of him didn’t.

They stood there in silence. The morning light pooled over the stones, painting everything in soft gold.

He didn’t speak. Neither did Mydeimos.

Finally, Mydeimos let out a long, tired sigh.

“You’re hopeless,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t unkind—just resigned, laced with a fondness that made Phainon’s chest ache.

“You don’t even know how to rest, do you?”

Phainon swallowed, unsure what to say. His hands hung useless at his sides, as if they’d forgotten the purpose of touch altogether.

“I…”

But no words followed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to ask for. Didn’t know what to do if he wasn’t mending, fighting, or breaking something.

Mydeimos pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You…”

He sighed, eyes narrowing in exasperation.

“Sit.”

Phainon blinked.

“…Sit?”

“ Sit. ”

The command left no room for argument.

So he obeyed. He lowered himself stiffly onto the low stone bench as if it might collapse under the absurdity of him simply sitting down .

Apparently, to the passerby drifting through the city, this scene seemed perfectly ordinary—just two old rivals or companions, locked in another of their strange rituals.

Ah. Right.

They probably thought they were competing.

Does Mydeimos want to compete? he wondered hazily. Was this some new contest he didn’t understand? Whoever sat the longest without combusting won?

His thoughts shattered when something heavy settled in his lap.

A plate.

Food.

Simple bread, fruit, a small dish of something savory and warm.

He stared down at it as though it might bite him.

Mydeimos folded his arms and scowled, though his voice came out softer than his face.

“Start with this,” he said, tilting his head toward the plate. “Then maybe your head will be screwed on a little straighter.”

Phainon glanced up, searching for a trace of mockery. But there was none.

Just tired affection.

And—maybe—hope.

He obeyed.

He picked up a piece of bread and took a small bite.

The taste—simple, warm, real—startled him more than any vision or memory ever had.

He chewed slowly, trying to place why it felt so… foreign .

How long had it been since he ate anything that wasn’t conjured from necessity?

How long had he been fighting the Black Tide, drifting in that cold hinterland where the Iron Tomb’s walls were his only shelter?

Or maybe it wasn’t time eroding his senses.

Maybe he had just missed Mydeimos’s cooking.

He swallowed, the bread scratching a throat unaccustomed to anything but fire and smoke.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice rough.

When he glanced up, Mydeimos’s expression was caught somewhere between a scowl and something like raw, raging worry.

For a long moment, neither of them looked away.

Then Mydeimos exhaled, rubbing the heel of his palm against his brow.

“Did you mean it, yesterday?”

Phainon stopped mid-bite.

“…Hm?”

He tilted his head, confusion softening his features.

“Mean what?”

Mydeimos’s jaw tightened. He looked like he was working very hard not to let the worry in his eyes swallow up all the irritation in his voice.

“When you said you were ready to burn out.”

Phainon went still. The piece of bread rested, half-eaten, in his hand.

Mydeimos didn’t look away.

“Did you mean it?” he asked again, more quietly now. “Did you really think…after everything—you could just…go?”

For a moment, Phainon tried to speak. He searched for something clever, something dismissive. A way to soften it for Mydeimos, because gods knew he didn’t deserve the burden of Phainon’s exhaustion.

But nothing came.

Instead, his shoulders sagged.

“…I thought it was the only way to make it right,” he admitted. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “I’ve been the end of so many cycles, Mydei. The final hand. The last flame. I thought…if I finished it with me, you could all be—”

“Happy?” Mydeimos interrupted, his voice sharpening. “That’s what you think we’d be? You think we’d be happy ?”

Phainon’s mouth worked soundlessly.

Mydeimos leaned closer, his hands braced on either side of the bench. For an instant, his face was carved in fury, but his eyes were damp, shining in the dawn light.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered fiercely. “And you’re still not listening.”

He drew in a ragged breath.

“None of us want you to go. None of us ever wanted you to go. That’s not how this ends.”

Silence.

Phainon’s heart thudded so loudly he was sure Mydeimos could hear it.

“…I don’t know how to stay,” he said at last, voice so small it hardly sounded like his own. “I don’t know how to be anything but the ending.”

Mydeimos’s expression cracked then—something soft breaking loose beneath the scowl.

“Then learn,” he murmured.

And, more gently:

“Let us teach you.”




-




Mydeimos had never been someone particularly gifted at speaking—or at showing emotion, at least not the kind that didn’t end in arguing or witty comebacks.

When he was pulled from Thanatos’s cold embrace—torn away from the field of pale flowers Castorice had watched over—he had expected nothing.

Certainly not this.

He came back to himself slowly, like a diver rising from the deep. The first thing he registered was the thudding of his own heartbeat. The second was the hush of the air around him, neither warm nor cold—strangely still.

Alive.

He was… alive .

In the Vortex.

He wasn’t the first to “wake up,” per se.

When he cracked open his eyes fully and looked around, the first thing he saw nearly made him laugh outright.

Anaxa and Aglaea—standing there, unironically hugging each other.

“Maybe I’m still dead,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

He pressed a hand to his chest.

It felt tight, as though something had cinched around his ribs—but it wasn’t pierced through anymore. The memory flashed, unbidden: the uncanny way that flame reaver had moved, the shape of its stance, the tilt of its head.

His face– it was one he knew too well.

He shuddered and forced the thought back into the dark where it belonged.

Instead, he looked around, taking in the strange quiet.

Was this…Era Nova?

Or was this simply death in a prettier disguise?

He didn’t know.

And Titans help him—he didn’t know which answer he wanted it to be.

When he heard a shriek—high, startled—and then maniacal laughter echoing off the marble walls, Mydeimos turned instinctively.

Cipher was standing over Castorice, grinning ear to ear as she poked her repeatedly in the shoulder.

“Wow, Ms. Princess Homebody—you’re actually pretty normal now!”

Cipher’s laughter rang out, bright and jarring in the stillness.

When Aglaea turned to look at them, she—gods above— she smiled.

Mydeimos felt something in his chest twist.

This really wasn’t Thanatos.

He took one more slow look around, cataloging every impossible detail—the way the dawn spilled across the floor in warm gold, the quiet way Anaxa watched them all as if trying to memorize their faces.

Then he saw it.

A figure, crumpled but somehow still impossibly dignified, steam curling around him like a living shroud.

Golden hair fizzled and gave way to locks pale as fresh snow.

Phainon.

Even unconscious—gods, especially unconscious—his face was contorted with pain so deep it looked etched into the bones beneath.

Broken fragments littered the floor beside him. Wings, or what was left of them, shattered into curling pieces that glimmered faintly as they disintegrated.

And yet, slowly—so agonizingly slowly—his body was knitting itself back together. White coat reforming around him like frost reclaiming bare earth.

Mydeimos moved before he could think, before he could ask himself what he was doing.

He dropped to his knees at Phainon’s side.

And when their eyes met—those dull, half-lidded eyes glowing with that strange molten gold—his heart sank straight through the floor.

He wanted to tear the gauntlets from his hands and reach for him. So he did.

For exactly a heartbeat.

The sheer heat rolling off Phainon’s skin seared his palms so violently he had to wrench back, hissing through his teeth.

He winced, pressing the burn to his chest.

Only then did he notice Tribbie’s small, trembling silhouette beside him.

“S-Snowy…?”

Her voice was tiny, breaking on the second syllable.

And Titans help him—looking down at his Deliverer in his arms, Mydeimos felt more than he wanted to admit.

More relief. More fear. More impossible, unnameable something than he could ever have prepared himself to feel.

Phainon’s body twitched faintly in sleep, his chest shuddering with each ragged, uneven breath.

The steam slowly began to thin, dissipating into the dawn. His temperature cooled, bit by bit, until Mydeimos could finally—gingerly—rest a hand against the curve of his shoulder.

Even the unnatural glow in those dull golden eyes was fading back to that familiar, weary blue.

“This…what is this?”

Anaxa’s voice cut through the low hush as he stepped up beside Mydeimos, crouching to examine Phainon’s limp form.

He reached out—steady, unflinching—and lightly grazed the superheated skin with his gloved fingertips. His expression remained unreadable, but Mydeimos didn’t miss the way his brow furrowed, just slightly.

Then, all at once, every teleslate in the room pinged in unison.

Hyacine was the first to snatch hers up.

“Ah! It’s from Grayie!”

Her voice lifted, bright with relief so pure it almost didn’t sound like her.

Mydeimos tore his eyes away from Phainon long enough to look around.

Tribbie was cradling Castorice’s hand in both of her own, murmuring something he couldn’t hear. Castorice, proud and silent as ever, had tears rolling down her cheeks at the contact.

Hyacine was speaking quickly to Anaxa now, her head tilted close to his as if afraid the moment would vanish if she looked away. Anaxa was already tapping through data, trying to figure out what in the name of every Titan had just happened to them all— didn’t we just come back alive?

And Aglaea—

When Mydeimos glanced her way, he nearly forgot to breathe.

The look on her face—quiet, luminous tenderness—was something he had never seen her wear.

He turned back to Phainon just in time to hear a low, strained noise—more a ragged exhale than any proper sound.

“Phainon?”

His own voice cracked under the weight of dread he couldn’t pretend not to feel anymore. He was tired of hiding it—tired of pretending he didn’t care.

“Nngh—ah—”

Phainon’s face twisted in pain, jaw clenched tight. His arms jerked up, seizing at the fabric along Mydei's back, fists knotting in the crimson color like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“Phainon,” Mydeimos whispered again, louder, his hands moving on instinct to steady him. “Hey—hey, you’re alright, you hear me?”

“Nan–nook—”

His voice tore out of him, raw and ragged, laced with fury so old it felt carved into every syllable.

“Damn— you —”

Mydeimos’s heart was hammering so hard he thought it might break his ribs. He was mad, frustrated (maybe afraid).

He tightened his grip on Phainon’s shoulders, trying—failing—to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Phainon,” he said again, sharper this time. “Hey. Look at me—”

But Phainon didn’t look. His jaw locked, teeth bared, breath rattling between broken words.

“haah—”

“ Phainon. ”

He shook him.

At first, it was gentle—more a plea than anything else.

When there was no response, no flicker of recognition, he shook him again, harder this time, his patience buckling under the sheer weight of confusion and dread.

“God damn it, you— HKS —Phainon!”

The shout cracked through the hush like a bolt of lightning.

Everyone turned.

Hyacine’s hand flew to her mouth. Tribbie flinched and reached for Castorice, whose tears were drying on her cheeks as her eyes widened in stricken sympathy.

Anaxa didn’t move—just stood there, silent, gaze fixed on Phainon with an intensity that made Mydeimos’s chest hurt.

Even Aglaea—so composed, so infuriatingly steady—looked shaken, her lips parted as if she were about to step forward.

Mydeimos wasn’t sure how long he knelt there—how long he clung to Phainon’s shoulders like he was trying to anchor him to the living world by force.

Then, all at once, Phainon’s eyes snapped open.

A short, choked gasp tore out of him, followed by a series of shallow, ragged breaths that sounded too thin, too brittle.

His gaze darted wildly around the hall as if he didn’t know where he was—who he was.

And then, at last, it settled on Mydeimos.

The confusion ebbed.

In its place—slowly, impossibly—rose something tender.

Something that looked so much like relief Mydeimos felt his throat close around it.

“Finally…”

Phainon’s voice was a rough whisper, but it held a softness that nearly broke him.

“…Mydei.”

The sound of it—so raw, so honest—punched straight through every defense Mydeimos had ever built.

His hands were still trembling where they held Phainon.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice unsteady, “yeah. I’m here.”

Around them, no one spoke. No one dared to interrupt.

Because for the first time in countless lifetimes, Phainon looked like he had come home.

“Hey—I didn’t even—oh, I guess—well, I mean I did, but he didn’t, but—gods, he’s me but—”

SLAP.

Mydei slapped him. He's gonna have to do... so much work. (on himself, and on the man in front of him)

-

When the Trailblazer finally finished explaining—after hours of patient, impossible stories—and Cyrene added her own memories, Mydeimos felt like his skull might split open.

Apparently, Phainon’s childhood friend had also been there all along— Mem , the ridiculous pink animal he’d seen in passing once or twice.

(How was he supposed to process that?)

Cyrene and the Trailblazer had woven together the fractured remnants of Oronyx’s power and something older—something belonging to a greater god whose name Mydeimos couldn’t even pronounce—to show them pieces of the truth.

Thirty million cycles.

The original cycle that had started it all.

The Iron Tomb—almost complete.

Their lives—torn and respliced so many times they were no longer single threads but entire braids of memory and code, wrapped tight around what Amphoreous had become.

A place that was no longer merely digital, no longer just a simulation under an Aeon’s scrutiny.

“Amphoreous,” Dan Heng said calmly, as if he were explaining the weather, “under the gaze of multiple Aeons, has…transcended being just data. It’s thanks to Phainon that the Iron Tomb was paused right before completion. We’re lucky we were able to drag him out of it at all.”

The other Trailblazer—gray-haired, kind-eyed—came to lean next to where Mydeimos and Phainon sat together.

Their voice dropped to a soft murmur.

“Hey, friend,” they whispered, fingertips brushing over the faint bite marks still etched into Phainon’s shoulder.

Ah, shit.

He’d done that. Whoops.
Although upon further inspection it seemed to ground the other man; he doesn't regret anything either way.

Phainon’s face was a wreck— eyes red-rimmed, expression turned somewhere inward where none of them could follow.

The Trailblazer only smiled, warm and patient.

“Welcome back, my friend.”

Mydeimos’s throat tightened.

He looked down at their joined hands—his own calloused fingers wrapped around Phainon’s, still too warm, still trembling faintly as if his body wasn’t quite convinced it was safe.

And Titans help him—he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

The cycles.

The code.

The Iron Tomb.

The fact that somehow, somehow , this was so much bigger than anything he’d ever imagined.

But as he looked at Phainon, breathing—alive—and the dawn spilling across the courtyard in gentle gold, he realized the only thing that mattered.

The peace that might finally come after.

Phainon was so out of it he barely seemed to register the conversation around him anymore.

But the way his hand clung to Mydeimos’s—fingers laced tight, palm pressed to palm—spoke more clearly than any words could.

Even when that golden weaver—Aglaea—shot him a long, knowing look that said she saw everything in the way he held on, Mydeimos didn’t let go.

For once, he didn’t care if it looked undignified.

He’d given up too much to pretend he didn’t need this.

Tribbie settled carefully at Phainon’s other side, her small hands smoothing over the white coat that had reformed around his shoulders.

“Hey,” she murmured softly, like she was talking to a child fresh from a nightmare. “Snowy. You hear me?”

Phainon didn’t answer at first—his gaze unfocused, drifting across the courtyard where dawn slowly turned to morning.

Tribbie tried again, voice a little firmer.

“You can rest now. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself anymore.”

A shiver worked through him. His breath caught, and for a moment Mydeimos thought he might slip back into that place beyond reach.

Mydeimos swallowed. His free hand lifted, hesitated, and then came to rest against the side of Phainon’s neck—careful of the burns still healing there.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

Phainon blinked, tears brimming again, but this time they fell without shame. He looked like he wanted to speak but the way he could see himself second guessing saying anything. 

Tribbie reached up to brush them away, her own eyes bright.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she murmured. “None of us are.”

For a long while, no one spoke.

They only sat there—Mydeimos, Tribbie, Phainon—pressed close in the soft hush that came after the catastrophe.

And though Mydeimos still didn’t understand everything—the codes, the cycles, the godlike machinery of it all—he knew this much:

He wasn’t going to let go again.

Even if the whole damn universe tried to tear them apart.

He squeezed Phainon’s hand one last time as the light crested over the walls, painting every broken fragment of this place in a new, gentler light.

Chapter Text

Tribbie was confused when she woke up. Her wish—or maybe one of her many wishes—had been to see Trianne again. And when she saw the small girl there beside her, she nearly screamed- or choked– or… maybe both?

To her left was Trinnon, when she turned to the right it was trianne, all together at last… and yet she couldn't help but wonder… how– and why?

But what truly puzzled her was the pull of Janus’ power. She could feel it again—surging back into her fingertips, coiling through her veins—yet her form remained small.

What in Kephale was going on?

When she had first opened her eyes, it was only her. Just herself, her two other parts still sleeping peacefully at her side. Aglaea lay next to her, her expression so serene that Tribbie’s heart clenched.

Wait– Agy??

She had missed her student so much—and Aglaea looked impossibly young again– she recognized the expression she wore, it was one she thought had been lost to time. She easily reached over, brushing a stray golden hair away, her breathing even– she seemed okay– no injury present. 

She looked around the room: Hyacine, Mydei, Cipher…everyone was here. Even—

Her gaze fell to a figure who wasn’t quite human, divinity practically steaming from their body.

Golden hair, a body straining to contain its own brilliance—divinity leaking through cracks that looked like fresh wounds. Enormous wings crumpled around him. For a moment, fear fluttered through her chest, until she noticed his eyes: slightly open but unseeing. Those golden irises were slowly draining to a familiar shade of blue, the golden hair fading back to white in drifting wisps.

“Phainon—?”

She nearly rushed to him, but a soft groan pulled her back.

“Teacher…?” Aglaea’s voice was so small that Tribbie dropped to her knees to steady her.

“Agy! Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere—?” Tears welled up. She had missed her—missed her so badly—and here she was, still young in her eyes, still hers.

Aglaea stirred with a strained look, her body weak. Tribbie barely remembered—some fragmented conversation with each other. Perhaps it had been a dream. Perhaps a memory. Either way, her mind felt as splintered as her body had once been. The last thing she remembered was the Century Gate—power tearing through her existence until she fractured into nothingness.

And then—

The warm embrace of the afterlife, filled with flowers, no doubt thanks to the demigod of death.

Speaking of which—

Tribbie blinked across the space and saw her, curled peacefully in the arms of none other than Anaxagoras—alive, impossibly alive. Not just returned from death, but seemingly untouched by Castorice’s cursed hands. The man had this tender look on his face that he only ever had with his students– Its something Tribbie herself knew well, the pride and almost parental like feeling you have for your students, Anaxa was no different than her. 

She heard the ragged voice as she woke up, and Tribbie turned her attention back to Aglaea.

“Teacher…?”

Ah, she knew very well how Anaxagoras was likely feeling. 

“Easy now, Agy. It’s okay—I’m here,” she whispered. Her small hands could only steady Aglaea so much.

Aglaea took a long, shaky breath before managing to sit up. “Is this…the Era Nova?” Her voice was so uncertain. After years of Aglaea’s cold, composed demeanor, Tribbie felt her heart ache. She wanted to cry, hearing that vulnerability again.

“No,” came Anaxa’s dry reply as he helped Castorice to her feet. “This is—something else entirely.” His hand lingered in castorices for a moment longer, his expression asking if its alright for him to let go, her expression seemed hesitant but she allowed him to walk towards the two of them. 

Tribbie barely heard the rest of Anaxa and Aglaea talking. She was more focused on the other Chrysos Heirs as they began to stir. Cipher and Hyacine were still unconscious, but De was awake now, looking around with a wary look, groaning as he sat up. He seemed… alive and well too, thank goodness.

When she approached Castorice, the woman’s eyes went wide with shock. “Ah, Lady Tribbie!” tears pricked at her eyes seeing her there in front of her.

If Anaxa could reach her, then maybe—

Tribbie reached out her small hand. Castorice instinctively flinched back, but she didn’t stop. Her childlike fingers brushed against Castorice’s warm, trembling ones.

“…Cas—! Your curse is..!”

Castorice’s face crumpled with tears and relief.

“I—I…Lady Tribbie—” She tried so hard to keep her composure, but as she leaned into the touch, all the dignity in the world couldn’t mask her need.

She allowed Castorice to cry into her. It felt surreal—this moment she had imagined so many thousands of times, when all of them might stand together again. Castorice’s shoulders trembled against her small frame, her breath hitching in shallow sobs she was clearly fighting to suppress. For so long, Castorice had been lonely, she had never had the ability to care or be cared for how she knew the girl craved for.

But now she clung to Tribbie like a lost child, fingers twisting in her dress as though she feared she might vanish if she let go. Each ragged breath against her neck reminded Tribbie how long it had been since any of them had felt safe enough to weep without shame.

She swallowed, feeling her own tears threaten. Was this it? Was this what she had wished for—what she had prayed for across countless lifetimes and fracturing eras?

She wished for tomorrow. And perhaps…perhaps her wish had finally been fulfilled.

Everything blurred around them after that. Cipher had woken up at some point, now bothering herself with poking at Castorice who… actually was soaking up the physical attention happily, though awkwardly and Hyacine who had shakily stood up, again aided by Anaxa who made sure the girl was alright.

Tribbie could feel her other two halves– Trinnon, Trianne… Were they waking up? Either way the dread she felt now drawing her attention to Mydei, who had not acknowledged any of them yet in favor for kneeling by… Probably Phainons side.

“Snowy…?”

Phainon’s enormous form began to shrink, golden brilliance dimming back into that familiar shape she knew so well. Mydei reached him first, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him awake—The scene was so heartwarming, Phainon awake, Mydei and him embracing- and then, in typical Mydei had promptly bit his face until he yelped. Tribbie laughed, the sound bubbling up helpless and disbelieving. 

The Trailblazers returned soon after, followed by the humanized version of– mem—Cyrene, she’d caught the name. Every explanation layered over the last until her mind spun in circles, and she finally had to sit down, cradling Castorice’s hand in both of her own.

In the background, she could feel her other halves stirring. Trianne and Trinon… finally awake.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the quiet relief.

They were alive. She was alive.

And after everything—the centuries of loss, of splintered memories and scattered prayers—here they all were.

Together.

Her small hand squeezed Castorice’s fingers, the touch grounding her in the present.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, voice thick. “I’m so glad we all made it.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she truly believed they had.

-

She needed to rest more than anything, after hearing and…seeing memories replay in her head. The human Mems power was incredibly strong. It felt as though she’d been standing inside Snowy’s memories themselves, not merely observing them.

Despite that wonder, her heart weighed heavy.

One memory in particular clung to her, vivid and aching: the way he had once cradled her tiny doll form in his hands at the vortex. The way his voice had trembled as he spoke to her, eyes dimmed, tears unshed. That raw grief—so stark and so genuine—haunted her to her core.

She had to be sure to give Snowy as much space and peace as he needed now. He deserved it—deserved to finally relax, to rest after eons of suffering.

And yet, the knowledge of it all—the memories, the realizations, the sweeping overview of what they truly were, what they had been preventing this entire time—it rattled her more deeply than anything before.

Life was…precious. And yet so terribly fragile.

They weren’t in a simulation anymore. They were more than code now—more than data on some grand cosmic server. They were real . Flesh and will, pain and hope. Somehow, that made it all so much scarier.

Existential crisis aside—she wondered, they wondered, if they would ever merge back into Their true form again. If Trianne, Trinnon, and she could become whole- be Her .

And yet…Tribbie found herself oddly at peace with it.

She could feel it, in the quiet hum of power returning to all three of them. They were growing. They were alive.

Maybe one day, they would truly become one again.

But that was another existential crisis she simply wasn’t willing to put that much brainpower into.

Not today.

Today, she was just grateful they were all here, still together, and—finally—free.

She wondered how the others were doing.

The last time she’d seen Hyacine…well, she hadn’t been in the best state. Maybe she should check on her. She was sure everyone was still in the city, and truthfully she wasn't quite sure if she could even hold a long conversation with Agy and Anaxa right now– and finding cipher would take… well maybe she would run into the girl. 

Tribbie glanced around, wondering where everyone had scattered off to—and in her search, she spotted them: Mydei and Phainon.

Phainon wore an expression she couldn’t quite decipher—not a smile, not contentment, but something tight and wary, like he was bracing for everything to collapse around him. Mydei watched him with that gentle steadiness that only he could offer, his presence like a quiet promise that nothing would break if he could help it.

Phainon was carefully maneuvering through a small plate of food. He was…oddly picky, lifting each morsel as though he didn’t entirely trust it. He took small bites, his face contorting just slightly each time, as if the taste was almost repulsive. Mydei leaned in, murmuring something she couldn’t hear, probably encouraging him to slow down or try something else. And when Phainon sighed with his encouragement and carefully ate another bite– she felt like maybe she was intruding?

Tribbie decided not to bother them.

Instead, she turned and continued her search until she finally found Hyacine.

The girl was perched on the ledge of Ohkema, pink hair tied neatly back into her signature look, though her face wore a scorn so sharp and foreign that it startled Tribbie. Beside her, her small unicorn lay sprawled on its back, giant belly facing the sky in total, heedless abandon.

Tribbie paused, taking in the scene.

She felt that familiar ache again—relief that they were all alive, tangled up with sorrow for how much each of them had endured to make it here.

Maybe…she could sit with Hyacine for a while. Just to be sure she wasn’t alone.

When she sat down beside the girl without a word, Hyacine’s face lifted ever so slightly.

“Lady Tribbie.”

Her voice was a little raw, like she’d been crying for hours and hadn’t yet found her way back to calm.

“Is something bothering you…?” Tribbie asked gently.

Hyacine took a slow, shaking breath. When she looked up, her smile was genuine but so very sad it made Tribbie’s chest tighten.

“Everything…truthfully,” she whispered. “My heart is…aching. I—I know I have an empathy problem sometimes, but…this…” She trailed off, her fingers curling up over her heart as though trying to hold the pain in place.

Tribbie watched her closely, watched the way her expression twisted—grief, confusion, some deeper sorrow that even she couldn’t quite name.

“Lord Phainon…” Hyacine began again, her voice breaking on the name. “Did he truly—or…is it Lord Khaslana…?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. She pressed her palm harder against her chest, as if she could still feel the echoes of it there.

“Either way– He had to endure that,” she choked out, tears gathering in her eyes. “He had to…to hurt us. Over and over…just to keep the world safe.”

She closed her eyes, and the tears slipped free, tracing silent lines down her cheeks.

Tribbie reached out, resting her small hand over Hyacine’s. She didn’t have any words that would make sense of it all.

So she just held on, quietly, and let Hyacine cry.

“I was so upset at him,” she whispered, her voice trembling like something brittle on the verge of breaking. “Just when we had finished…just when the dawn showed up overhead, and it finally— finally felt like it was over…”

She swallowed, her breath hitching.

“He…he said he was done. That he didn’t want to live anymore. As if this was all just…some big sacrifice.”

Her fingers dug into her own palm, knuckles paling.

“As if he wasn’t allowed to see the new dawn.”

She sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath and shook her head.

“I hated him for that. I hated him for wanting to throw it away, after everything—after we crawled out of that darkness together.”

Her eyes lifted, searching Tribbie’s face as though begging her to understand.

“And now…now I know. Thirty million cycles. Thirty million lives he spent carrying that same burden, over and over. Watching everyone die. Killing us himself sometimes, because there was no other choice.”

Her tears fell faster.

“How do you forgive that? How do you forgive him for…for giving up at the end—when I know now he was just…so tired?”

Her voice broke completely. She drew in another ragged breath, pressing her hand flat against her ribs as if she could feel her heart tearing under her palm.

“I thought he would be happy… but that look he- he was just so tired , Lady Tribbie. He was so tired he couldn’t even imagine what it felt like to keep going.”

She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, though more tears came as soon as she tried to clear them away.

“I just… I want him to live, I want us all to be happy,”

Her shoulders slumped.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel now,” she whispered. “But all I can think about is how long he was alone.”
Her words were honest, as always.

Tribbie couldn’t even begin to fathom the depth of it—what it must feel like to love someone that fiercely, only to learn the truth of their suffering far too late. Her love for her friends ran deeper than anyones– and her love for the world held steady above all.

Hyacine and Phainon had always been so close. Their bright demeanors, their hopefulness—those two had kept the Chrysos Heirs tethered to something like sanity more times than anyone could count. Even when everything fell apart, they were the ones who laughed first, who found a way to smile.

And now here they both were—tear-streaked and hollow-eyed.

It hurt.

But Tribbie was their elder. She was the first demigod. She had watched them all grow, watched them fracture, watched them come back together in a thousand iterations.

And by the Titans, if there was ever a time she could help—it was now.

She felt it, that strange completeness in her chest. Even regressed to a child’s form, even split into three selves, she felt more whole than she had in countless years. As if every shard of her purpose was finally aligned again.

She squeezed Hyacine’s hand gently, her small fingers warm against the other’s warm skin. If she was blessed with this feeling of wholeness, with her wishes fulfilled– surely everyone else's tomorrow also has been granted. 

“How about,” she said softly, voice steady in a way she hoped would be comforting, “we start with just…talking to him?”

Hyacine blinked at her, wide-eyed, as if the idea had never even occurred to her.

“Nothing complicated,” Tribbie went on. “No big confrontations. No trying to fix everything in one conversation. Just…tell him what’s in your heart. Even if it’s messy.”

She offered a small, earnest smile, the kind she hoped would remind Hyacine that no one was carrying this alone anymore.

“That seems like a good place to start, doesn’t it?”

Hyacine sniffed, wiping her eyes, she was a sensitive soul, but even this– even bearing this knowledge, this responsibility, with everything she would persist. That's who Hyacine simply was. The kindest soul among all of them.
“I'm going to force him to let me finally take a look at his wounds… even the ones he hides,” she sniffs again, mustering a smile. Tribbie can only smile back. “That's the spirit! Lets go Cinnie!”

-

She found Mydei and Phainon exactly where she’d seen them an hour ago.

Phainon hadn’t moved much at all. His plate was still only half-finished, pushed away as though the very thought of eating turned his stomach. He sat hunched over, one hand braced against the table, a grimace twisting his features.

Mydei, to his credit, hadn’t left his side once. That part didn’t surprise her— nothing could pry those two apart when it mattered.

Hyacine slowed as she took in the sight, alarm flickering across her face.

“Lord Phainon?” she called gently, voice catching on the name.

Both men turned to look at them.

Phainon’s dull golden eyes—still not quite the bright blue she remembered—lifted to meet hers. He tried to straighten up, but instead he lifted a trembling hand to cover his mouth, as if he might be sick right there in front of them.

“Hyacinthia,” he rasped. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.

Mydei’s hand came up immediately to steady him, a steady pressure against his back. He didn’t say a word, only watched Phainon with that same quiet, resolute care.

“Sorry,” Phainon murmured after a moment, drawing a slow, ragged breath and lowering his hand. He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. It broke her heart—just watching him try to breathe, try to exist, as though even that was more than he deserved.

“What…did you need?” he asked finally, lifting his gaze again.

And when he tried to smile—gods, it was almost worse than if he’d started crying.

His brow furrowed in apology. His eyes stayed clouded, unfocused, but still he managed.

That small, hollow smile seemed to say: I’m still here. Even if it hurts.

“Please rest,” Hyacine said softly, her voice already shifting into something gentle and instinctive. “You should lie down. Let me check your physical state…it’s…odd for you not to eat as much.”

Whatever she’d planned to say—her questions, her anger, her hurt—it all seemed to vanish the moment she saw how unwell he was.

It was as if a switch flipped inside her.

Hyacine had always been so terribly efficient when it came to caring for others. No matter how upset she was, no matter what burden she carried, something in her heart simply refused to stand by when someone needed help.

And maybe…maybe that was exactly what everyone needed right now.

Tribbie knew all too well how Hyacine longed to do something— anything —to ease the ache in the people she loved.
Maybe being able to help, even in these small ways, would be the first step to healing them all.

“I’m alright, Hyacine,” Phainon murmured, though it sounded like he barely believed it himself.

“Clearly not,” Mydei countered, his tone calm but edged with something sharp and unyielding.

Phainon tried to scoff, as if to dismiss them, but the moment Mydei’s hand lifted from his shoulder, he swayed—his whole body tipping sideways like a marionette with its strings cut.

Without missing a beat, Mydei caught him around the ribs, steadying him before he could slide to the ground.

“See?” Mydei said quietly, not bothering to disguise the worry in his voice. “Don’t pretend.”

“Don’t make that face, Deliverer—”

Phainon stuck his tongue out at him.

“HKS.”

“Haiyikuhsuh,” Phainon mimicked albeit poorly.

“You are insufferable, and that was the worst pronunciation I’ve ever heard.”

“Is there a word for insufferable in the Kremonan language?” Phainon asked, leaning just slightly to the side, like he was genuinely curious– though that smile that shone through his pained expression gave him away. 

Mydei didn’t miss a beat.

“It starts with P and ends with N.”

“…?”

“It’s pronounced Phainon. ”

Phainon’s mouth dropped open in mock offense, but the faint, exasperated smile tugging at Mydei’s lips betrayed him.

Tribbie almost laughed– or maybe cried seeing their banter seemed to stay the same. Either way she watched them both with quiet concern, but soon her attention drifted to Hyacine as the girl stepped closer. Hyacine lifted her hands, and a gentle glow—warm, steady—washed over Phainon’s body. Mydei’s eyes widened as Hyacine closed her eyes with a gentle hand over Phainons chest.

All of them seemed surprised.

Hyacine had always had some healing capacity, but never this potent. Never anything that felt quite so…whole. Her breath was steady; certain parts of Phainon’s body glowed more vividly– Tribbie could only assume it was areas where the man was injured. 

Phainon drew a shaky breath, his posture easing as the glow faded.

“…I actually feel ... better,” he murmured, sounding faintly disbelieving.

Tribbie looked up and caught the change in his eyes—finally, blessedly, that clear bright blue. She wondered, not for the first time, what caused it to shift so often. But in the end, it didn’t matter nearly as much as the relief softening his face.

Hyacine lowered her hands and fixed him with a stern look—one that was almost motherly in its exasperation.

“You’re still quite injured,” she scolded gently. “Please don’t try to hide these things from us again.”

Phainon let out a quiet laugh, the sound frayed around the edges but genuine.

“Of course, Hyacine,” he said, managing the smallest of smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

They stood there a moment, the hush settling over them like a shared exhale.

Then Phainon sighed, voice low and almost raw with honesty.

“I—I’m sorry, Hyacine,” Phainon managed, voice rough and unsteady. He leaned further into Mydei, almost instinctively, like a tree bending toward the only thing holding it upright. Mydei didn’t move away. He just shifted his hand to Phainon’s shoulder, steady and unflinching.

“For…for saying all that yesterday,” Phainon continued, his words trailing off as if he were searching for something else he wanted to confess. His mouth opened—then he seemed to think better of it, retreating into himself again.

Hyacine’s smile was soft but tremulous, her eyes shining.

“It’s alright,” she told him, voice gentle. “I just want you to know how much we—how much I care about you. We’re comrades…and friends.”

She paused, drawing in a steadying breath.

“I just want you to be able to wish for yourself now.”

Phainon’s breath hitched, an audible little gasp that slipped out before he could stop it.

“I—”

He grimaced suddenly, pressing his hand to his temple as if something inside his head had wrenched painfully.

“Phai—”

“I’m alright,” he insisted quickly, though the way he winced said otherwise.

He closed his eyes, centering himself in a long, ragged breath. When he looked up again, that faint shimmer of gold had returned to his gaze, swirling behind the blue like something he couldn’t hold back for long.

“Thank you, Hyacine,” he said, quieter this time—so quiet it almost sounded like a prayer. “Really.”

Her expression softened, though the worry never left.

“Alright,” she murmured, her shoulders relaxing as she let out a long sigh. She turned her eyes to Mydei, giving him a look that spoke volumes without words: Please—make sure to look after him.

Mydei inclined his head just slightly, his hand still steady on Phainon’s back, as if to say I already am.

“Lord Phainon—also…” Hyacine hesitated, studying the half-finished plate at his side. “Is…your appetite okay?”

He blinked at her, looking almost sheepish, as though he’d been caught sneaking out of chores.

“Um. Not…really,” he admitted softly, dropping his gaze to the table.

Mydei let out a tired sigh. He looked ready to answer before Phainon even managed another word.

“Apparently nothing has any taste right now,” Mydei supplied, his voice dry as old parchment.

Phainon shot him a look—somewhere between pleading and embarrassed, as if he’d hoped he wouldn’t say it out loud. Though it was good he said something instead of Phainon playing it off as if it didn't matter.

Mydei ignored the silent protest and pressed on.

“He says it’s like eating mush and burnt crusts, apparently,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Phainon as if daring him to deny it. “Unfortunately, this guy usually eats like three people put together, so it’s no wonder he’s exhausted when his body’s not getting anything. ”

Phainon nodded, glancing up again with an apologetic tilt to his mouth.

“It’s…hard to explain,” he murmured. “I know I should try, but…it just…” He trailed off, making a vague, frustrated motion with his hand, like the words were dissolving before he could grab them.

Hyacine’s expression softened, her worry deepening.

“Well,” she said gently, “if you can manage even a little, I’ll help however I can. Maybe there’s something we can make you that won’t taste so…awful.”

Phainon looked like he might argue, but Mydei gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Just let people help you for once,” Mydei said quietly, with the tired fondness of someone who’d had this conversation a thousand times.

Phainon sighed, closing his eyes in resignation.

“…Alright,” he said at last, his voice small. “I’ll…try.”

Chapter Text

“...Phainon.”

The voice came from somewhere to his left—measured, resonant, undeniably familiar. Phainon turned, blinking at the tall figure standing near the doorway.

Anaxa regarded him with an inscrutable expression, brows drawn together just slightly. It wasn’t anger—more the look of a physician observing a patient who refused treatment.

“Professor?” Phainon rubbed at his eyes, certain he must be imagining things. He’d seen Anaxa turn up in plenty of improbable places—lecture halls he didn’t belong to, research labs sealed to everyone else, entire cities he was sure the man had no business visiting—but somehow this felt…different.

“You seem unwell,” Anaxa continued, tone calm as ever, though something faintly exasperated tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought I taught you better than to deprive yourself. You’re better off alive than you are dead.”

The words floated into the quiet room, too ordinary for how strange the moment felt.

Phainon’s gaze drifted around, belatedly taking in the surroundings—familiar walls, familiar shelves lined with half-finished books and a row of little figurines. The blanket half-falling off the back of the couch was the one he’d stolen from the grove months ago. The place smelled like old books and that stupid cinnamon tea he was always drinking.

His confusion grew, a queasy weight curling low in his stomach.

Anaxa simply watched him, as though nothing about this was out of place. As though this were perfectly normal—that he’d be standing there, offering unsolicited advice in the dead of night.

Phainon opened his mouth, closed it again. He tried to think of anything clever to say, but nothing stuck.

He cleared his throat, voice catching on the dryness that came from too many sleepless hours.

“Um… Professor,” he managed, gesturing vaguely to the room, to the undeniable proof that he wasn’t hallucinating. “Ah… I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

He paused, searching the other man’s face for some hint, some explanation for this bizarre intrusion. But Anaxa only lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

A beat passed. Then another.

“…Why,” Phainon finally blurted, “are you in my house?”

Silence settled between them like a heavy cloth.

Anaxa didn’t move. He just stood there, framed by the doorway, regarding Phainon with the unbothered patience of someone who truly believed he was doing the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Go back to bed,” he said at last, as though that would resolve all questions.

Phainon blinked at him. Once. Twice.

“…Professor, you didn’t answer my question.” His voice was thin, wavering somewhere between incredulous and tired.

Anaxa’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, the corners of his mouth tightening into something almost offended. “Must I say it again?”

He tilted his head slightly, the soft glow from the hallway catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “Aren’t I a god now? Questioning a demigod of reason is incredulous.” 

The words fell into the room like a stone into still water.

“Um… well—” Phainon stammered, struggling to process whether that somehow justified any of this.

“Professor Anaxa,” he began again, more desperate now, “you—”

“Stop,” Anaxa said with finality, raising a hand as though that settled the matter.

A muffled groan came from somewhere deeper in the house—then, suddenly, another voice cut through the bizarre standoff, exasperated and half-laughing:

“Professor Anaxa, stop , you’re freaking him out!”

Hyacine emerged from behind the kitchen doorway, arms folded, looking like she’d been listening for a while. She shot Phainon with a sympathetic look that did nothing to make him feel saner.

“Honestly,” she huffed, “and– just because you’re a god doesn’t mean you get to break into people’s houses and loom over them like some judgmental Dromas!”

Anaxa’s eyes lit with amusement. A slow smile curved across his face, unsettlingly pleased.

“Hmm… I like the sound of that,” he mused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Judgmental Dromas.”

“No!” Hyacine groaned, pressing a hand over her face. “Absolutely not, we are not making that a thing.”

She looked at Phainon with a sigh that bordered on apology. “Sorry, Phai. We were just…checking in. You’ve been asleep all day, and De was getting worried.”

“Mydei? Is he here?” Phainon asked, rubbing at his temple as though that might help the situation make sense. Either way he got up at the mention. 

Anaxas mouth twisted. “…Oh, I see what you mean.”

“RIGHT—” Hyacine said loudly, cutting off any further commentary. “Ahem. Anyway, yes. We came to check on you. It’s… pretty late now.”

Phainon blinked, belatedly realizing the sky outside the window had long since darkened. He exhaled, feeling the last of his confusion settle into something closer to resignation.

“I see…” He glanced between them, voice softer. “Thank you both. I’m alright—I just…slept in by accident. Did you need anything specifically?”

Hyacine smiled faintly, her tone gentler. “Just for you to rest, Phai. That’s all.”

Anaxa, meanwhile, surveyed the room with the air of someone conducting an appraisal. His nose wrinkled in mild disgust.

“You have no food in here,” he observed blandly, “and your taste in furniture is tragic.”

“Professor Anaxa—” Phainon began, already defeated.

“Anaxagoras,” he corrected serenely, as if that were the most pressing concern in the world.

“That’s so mean, prof…” Phainon mumbled, staring at the floor as Hyacine let out another long-suffering sigh.

“Castorice might stop by,” Hyacine added, glancing back at the hall. “Ms. Cipher and she said they’d drop by later to check on you.”

Anaxa inclined his head in agreement, folding his hands behind his back. “They did mention as much,” he said evenly.

He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the cluttered shelves and stacks of papers as though he was internally cataloguing every flaw in Phainon’s domestic habits.

“I also came to drop some things off for you,” he continued, tone casual—though the neat stack he held looked anything but casual. “It appears you may require a few more days of recuperation before you’re able to review it properly.”

He placed the bundle of scrolls and meticulously annotated papers on the table with a deliberateness that made it feel almost ceremonial.

“And—” he added, with a faint sigh as though this next part cost him some effort of principle—“I brought a few additional supplies.”

He stepped aside, revealing a small crate he’d set discreetly by the door. Inside were several sealed meal packets—nutrient-dense, clearly chosen more for practicality than taste—and a fresh kettle wrapped in cloth. A folded list sat on top in Anaxa’s precise handwriting: Eat. Hydrate. Rest. Reorganize your notes.

“I noted your cabinet was nearly empty of anything remotely sustaining,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You’ll find these sufficient for the next few days. The kettle is a replacement. Yours was… in a deplorable state.”

He reached over, and with two precise gestures, adjusted the stack of papers on the table so none of the edges stuck out unevenly. Satisfied, he brushed an invisible speck of dust from the surface.

“Look over them when you have the chance,” he went on, fixing Phainon with a look that managed to be both expectant and mildly disappointed, as though he already anticipated the possibility of neglect. “And take better care of yourself in the meantime.”

His gaze softened by a fraction, though he’d never admit it aloud. “It would be rather inconvenient,” he added quietly, “to have to reassign these materials should you expire from neglect.”

Hyacine rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “That’s his way of saying he cares, Phai.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Anaxa replied, but he didn’t bother correcting her further.
Phainon smiled faintly, though the expression trembled at the edges.

A memory stirred—distant and sharp, like a shard of glass in his mind. Another cycle, another lifetime. A moment when Anaxa had been one of the only ones to truly understand. The only one willing to set aside “duty”. The only one who had chosen, however grudgingly, to stand beside him rather than against him.

It was easier now, these days—easier to hold onto who he was.

Most mornings, he woke up as Phainon, the name feeling almost natural on his tongue, the shape of it something he could carry without flinching.

But there were days—quiet, treacherous days—when he looked at Anaxa or Hyacine, or simply caught his own reflection in the glass, and he wasn’t sure what face he was seeing.

On those days, it wasn’t Phainon looking back. It was Khaslana—burning, wrathful, the flames of a thousand ruined worlds still licking at the edges of memory.

The worst part wasn’t the violence of it. It wasn’t even the rage.

The worst part was that, in all that chaos—those fractured, searing recollections—he still felt like himself.

No matter how many lives he’d worn, how many names he’d abandoned or reclaimed, in the end he was always just… him.

And somehow, that was both a comfort and a burden he hadn’t yet learned how to set down.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

He found himself repeating it, over and over, as though it might eventually feel like enough. As though it might cover the countless things he couldn’t find the words to say.

He wasn’t even sure what he was thanking them for , exactly. For worrying? For showing up? For acting like all this—his fractured memory, his strange, shapeless grief—wasn’t something to be afraid of?

They were his friends. His teacher. His mentors. The people who, in different cycles and different worlds, had shaped him into something he could almost recognize as a person.

But standing there now, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with any of it.

What did someone like him do with a life that kept refusing to end? A life he’d promised himself he would use for something better—and yet, most days, he could barely manage to be someone at all.

Living was… harder than he’d imagined, all at once.

Harder because sometimes it felt like he was a million different people, stacked like paper dolls in the same fragile skin.

And harder still because even then—under all the names, all the memories—he was still just him.

And he had no idea if that would ever feel like enough.

He forgot what he was doing.

At some point, the threads of thought had tangled themselves into something soft and unmoored, and he must have drifted off without realizing.

When he woke again, it was to the sound of voices—low, familiar, and threaded with a warmth that made something in his chest ache.

He lay still for a moment, eyes closed, letting the quiet chatter wash over him.

“…you should have seen the state of it,” came a voice, bright with exasperated fondness. Cipher. “Honestly, you’d think he’d never learned how to clean.”

A softer reply, gentle and steady, followed. “Be kind. He’s been…carrying a lot.” Castorice.

Phainon frowned faintly, not yet opening his eyes. That made sense—of course they were here. Anaxa had mentioned they would stop by…

…but—

His eyes blinked open slowly.

Wait.

How exactly were they… in his house?

He sat up too quickly, the motion sending a throb of pain skittering behind his eyes and down into his chest. For a moment he just pressed a palm to his forehead, breathing carefully through the dizziness.

When the haze cleared, he looked up—only to find both Castorice and Cipher standing in the doorway, mid-conversation, watching him with matching expressions of faint concern.

“Ah—” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.

“Morning, little deliverer~” Cipher beamed, and before he could even attempt to protest, she was already at his side, her hands ruffling through his hair with gentle familiarity. “Awhhh, you had little Cassie so worried—but look at you! Snoozing like a chimera in the sun.”

He blinked up at her, completely bewildered.

“…you were just as worried, Lady Cipher,” Castorice sighed, stepping closer. Her expression was gentler, tinged with something shy as she hesitated—then finally set her hand lightly over his. “Are you…doing better?”

Phainon stared at her hand resting on his. It was so warm. Solid. He wasn’t dead, then. That was…good. Probably.

He swallowed, voice small. “…your curse…?”

“Huh?” Cipher blinked.

“...Huh?” Castorice echoed, glancing at Cipher in confusion.

The two girls exchanged a look that made him feel like he’d said something particularly dense.

“You must be really, really out of it,” Cipher sighed, exasperation softened by a note of fondness. She tapped the side of his head lightly with one finger. “We established this days ago.”

“…it’s gone?”

Phainon’s voice was so quiet it nearly vanished into the hush of the room. He blinked at Castorice, the shock slowly melting into something softer—something bright and unguarded.

“I’m so happy for you, Castorice,” he murmured, the words tumbling out before he could think to temper them.

Castorice’s eyes went wide, her mouth parting in surprise. A flush rose in her cheeks as she looked down at their joined hands, but her expression cooled after seeing Phainon's smile. The touch was addicting, Phainon had long since wanted to show how much he appreciated the girl– she was one of his closest companions after all. 

Cipher watched them both, her expression unreadable for a moment—then she smiled, wide and luminous, and slipped her nimble fingers back into Phainon’s hair, gently untangling a lock that had curled around his ear.

“Look at you,” she said, her voice warm with something almost maternal, “finally back in the land of the living.”

She paused, glancing sidelong at Castorice. “Well—both of you.”

Her eyes flicked thoughtfully to the window, then back to him. “Hmmm…actually, all of us.”

Her grin turned teasing as she leaned closer, ruffling his hair until he made a small sound of protest.

“And you ,” she went on, tapping his forehead with one finger before giving it a gentle bonk for emphasis. “To think that the little kid I dragged to Okhema all those years ago would end up the destined deliverer…”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her expression softening again into something like pride.

“And look at you now,” she murmured. “Still here.”

Her smile turned sly, her fingers pausing at a stubborn tangle in his hair. “Still a brat,” she added, giving the knot a pointed little tug that made him wince.

“…ow.”

“Mmhm.” Cipher didn’t look the least bit sorry. “Little Hyacine said you haven’t been eating properly.”

She reached into the pocket of her coat, rummaging around until she found what she was looking for.

“Which means,” she continued, her voice lilting with theatrical importance, “you clearly need a reward for surviving your own negligence.”

With a triumphant flourish, she pressed something into his palm—a small, foil-wrapped candy, the bright wrapper a color he hadn’t seen in…he didn’t even know how long.

She leaned back, grinning wide. “Supriiiiiise~”

Phainon blinked down at it, momentarily speechless.

He turned it over once, twice, then froze as recognition clicked into place.

“…you—you found one?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

It was the same limited edition flavor he’d used to hoard obsessively during that stretch of months when Cipher had dragged him all across half the continent. He’d practically lived on these stupid things in between fights with the black tide and the journey to okhema. 

Cipher’s smile softened, almost shy around the edges.

“Of course I did,” she said quietly. “What do you take me for?”

Phainon smiled—really smiled—and carefully unwrapped the little candy with a reverence that would have been absurd to anyone who hadn’t known how much it used to matter to him.

He popped it into his mouth before he could second-guess himself.

At first, it was exactly as he remembered: the warm, mellow hint of honey blooming across his tongue, soft and nostalgic.

But a moment later, something darker crept in—an acrid taste, like burned ash and the sharp tang of blood.

He grimaced, eyes squeezing shut as the flavor twisted unpleasantly in his mouth.

“…my taste buds hate me,” he muttered, voice small and pitiful.

Cipher blinked. “What? Not good?”

“No—it’s great, Ms. Cipher—” he hurried to reassure her, though he sounded decidedly unconvinced. “I just…I think my tongue’s been burnt or something.”

Despite the taste flipping unpredictably between sweet honey and scorched ash, he kept eating it anyway. Some stubborn part of him refused to waste it.

Cipher only sighed, ruffling his hair again. “Honestly, you’re hopeless.”

He tried to smile back, but before he could reply, a sharper voice cut clean through the fragile warmth in the room:

“You need to eat actual food, Phainon,” Anaxa interjected crisply, his tone somehow both scolding and weary. “Or did you already forget?”

Phainon choked on the last bit of candy, nearly swallowing it whole.

He looked up—eyes wide, hair mussed, expression caught halfway between alarm and resignation.

For one stunned second, he could only gape.

Why is Anaxa still in my house…?

Not that it was bad , exactly—Anaxa had a way of making even the worst days feel like someone was quietly watching out for him, whether he liked it or not. Besides, he didn't mind the professor's earlier appearance either so of course he doesn't mind him being here–

But stars above, he wished he wouldn’t materialize out of nowhere like that. He was going to give him a heart attack.

“…Sorry, Prof,” Phainon mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

His heart was still thrumming painfully in his chest, like it couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or grateful.

Castorice giggled softly, the sound light and kind. She shifted closer, offering a gentle brace against his back as though she sensed he needed the grounding.

“Apologies for all of us breaking in like this, Lord Phainon,” she teased, her tone warm enough to take the sting out of the words.

“Ah—” he started, blinking hard as he tried to gather himself. He smiled, genuine, raw, it felt odd against his cheeks as if he hadn't smiled in days. “I don’t mind. I… I enjoy you all…”

The words trailed off as something unfamiliar and familiar all at once coiled deep in his chest.

A gut-wrenching sense of déjà vu unfolded behind his eyes—so vivid it almost hurt.

He remembered, all at once, another evening that felt just like this one.

He’d been sick after a brutal heat wave. They’d gathered in his home, fussing over him, bickering gently, filling the rooms with laughter and the quiet reassurance that he wasn’t alone.

He remembered the joy of it. The sweetness of belonging.

And he remembered, too, the cold, gnawing dread that always waited at the edges of moments like this:

This can’t last forever.

What cycle was that?
Right. He remembered for some reason.

Twenty-eight million six hundred eight thousand four hundred.

He remembers watching Phainon laughing, deciding to wait til the next day to take the coreflame of strife. Just one night. He would grace himself for one night. Then the burden of all Twenty-eight million six hundred eight thousand four hundred cycles would crash down onto this Phainon's shoulders. 

His throat closed around the thought, and he felt the first prickle of tears as steam—light and shimmering—began to cloud his vision.

“…at…all?” he whispered, as if he needed to hear it out loud—just once more, before it all slipped away again.

Castorice hissed, her hand jerking back as though she’d touched something scalding.

“Hey, kid, you doing alRIG— OWOwooww —” Cipher started, but her voice cracked into a yelp as she jumped back, shaking out her fingers. The air around him had grown stifling, shimmering with a heat that seemed to radiate from the very core of him.

His tears never made it past his cheeks. They evaporated into curling wisps of steam before they could fall.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even raise a hand to wipe his face.

All he could feel was the weight—vast and unrelenting—of a thousand lifetimes pressing against his ribs.

Kaslana was crying.

Somewhere beneath the skin and the names and the memories, Kaslana was still here—still breaking.

Burning. Burning until nothing remains.

“Phainon.”

Anaxa’s voice cut through the haze—low, steady, unshaken.

A cool hand closed over his, and the heat seemed to shudder and retreat, as if the simple touch carved out a pocket of air where he could breathe again.

“Don’t do that,” Anaxa said quietly. “You’re going to get burned.”

Phainon tried to look at him, but the room was a blur of wavering heat and dissolving shapes.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

His name landed in his chest like an anchor.

“Burning,” he whispered. His voice sounded so small—so terribly, terribly tired. “Professor…aren’t you burning?”

Anaxa’s grip only tightened, the chill of his hand soothing against the feverish flush of Phainon’s skin.

“Stop thinking about that,” Anaxa said, voice impossibly gentle. “What do you want?”

“…What…do I want?”

He echoed the question like a lost child, the words tasting of ash and honey and something he was too afraid to name.

“…What…do I want?”

He echoed it again, voice threadbare, eyes unfocused.

The question hovered between them like something alive.

He felt it—the heat gathering behind his ribs, pressing outward as if some ancient, buried instinct meant to cauterize every fragile thing in reach. His vision swam with that golden light, harsh and searing, swallowing the room.

But Anaxa didn’t let go.

Even as the blistering heat climbed up his wrist, even as fine cracks of bright, molten light raced across Phainon’s skin, Anaxa only shifted closer, his free hand bracing Phainon’s shoulder as if to keep him tethered to the present.

“Look at me.”

Phainon tried, blinking through the haze. Golden fire flickered in his vision, staining everything in the colors of memory and ruin.

“Focus,” Anaxa said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the rising tide of panic. “You are here. You are not just Kaslana. You are not the sum of every life you’ve lost. You are Phainon.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, unwavering.

The heat surged again, a last desperate wave of something ancient and grieving—and for a moment, he could feel the outline of it, the truth of all he had been, roaring behind his ribs.

Anaxa’s thumb pressed gently over the inside of his wrist, a grounding pressure that almost hurt in its certainty.

“Yes,” Anaxa went on, patient in a way that was nearly uncharacteristic for the man. “I’ve taught you everything you need to know. You simply have to reach out and take control of it.”

His voice softened, though the words still carried the quiet authority that had once made even the most stubborn students fall silent.

“You know how.”

Phainon gasped, his throat raw, and clenched his hand around Anaxa’s.

The light pulsed once—furious and bright—and then, with a sound like a breath being released, it began to fade.

Golden hair dulled back to pale white. His eyes dimmed to the familiar soft blue.

The air cooled.

His shoulders slumped forward, and for a long moment, he simply sat there, shaking.

Finally, tears began to fall—cold this time, trailing down his cheeks in quiet relief.

He realized distantly that Anaxa’s hands were burned—red and blistered where they’d touched him—but the professor didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

He only sat beside him, steady as ever, as if this had always been inevitable.

Phainon lifted a trembling hand, trying to speak, but Anaxa shook his head once, expression composed despite the damage.

“Don’t apologize,” Anaxa murmured. “Not when you’re trying.”

He didn’t say it was all right—because it wasn’t. But he said it in the way that mattered most:

I will stay.

–

Phainon fell asleep after that.

No one dared to wake him.

And no one dared to tell him how long it had truly been since he’d first closed his eyes. 

“…This is the eighth day he's been nonstop sleeping, I'm surprised he was even awake today,” Cipher muttered under her breath, arms folded. “This is only the second time he's woken up. It's a miracle our deliverer is…” She eyed the half-empty shelves like they were about to leap up and scold her. “I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t devoured everything in this place by now. That boy is usually starving.”

Across the room, Anaxa was already arranging a small, gleaming array of tools—some delicate tubing, a set of vials filled with a pale nutrient solution, and a device that looked unsettlingly like it belonged in a medical facility that the trailblazers had shown them. 

“…You’re going to hook that into his blood?” Castorice asked warily.

Anaxa didn’t look up. “He hasn’t taken in enough sustenance to survive another three days of this. The form he was holding is incredibly unstable. Not only that—”

He set the last vial down with a clipped motion and finally glanced at them, his expression darkening.

“His mental state deteriorates further every time he assumes that state of divinity. If we don’t intervene, it will become nearly impossible for him to find his way back. The cracks are already forming every time he ‘glows.’ Not to even mention that Alchemy can only do so much against millions of dormant coreflames.”

He exhaled, the line of his mouth tightening.

“He only feels like himself when he’s adequately fed, rested, and…well. Need I explain more? We should continue trying to get him to eat actual food whenever he does wake up.” He winced while picking up some kind of mechanism.

Castorice’s eyes softened, and she reached for his burned hand, gently uncapping a small jar of balm. “Professor…please don’t hurt yourself anymore. You’ve already done so much.”

He scowled, though his hand twitched minutely as she began to smooth the cool salve over blistered skin. “It’s not about him.”

“Sure,” Cipher drawled, smirking behind one hand.

Anaxa’s jaw tightened. “It isn’t. It’s about my pride as a scholar. I’m not going to sit here and watch my student—”

“Crazy way of saying you care, Prof Nax,” Cipher interrupted sweetly.

“ Anaxagoras . Cifera.”

Cipher blinked at him innocently. “Cifera?” She corrected primly. “You know, considering you insist on correct names, it’s funny you can’t manage mine. I’ve been going by Cipher for what, two hundred years? Three?”

“Cifera,” he repeated flatly, as if that settled it.

Castorice bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Anaxa grimaced when her fingers brushed over a particularly raw spot on his palm. He bore it without complaint, but his gaze drifted back to the still form on the bed, his eyes narrowing with the quiet focus of someone cataloguing every detail.

“Mydeimos mentioned something,” he said at last, voice low. “He said it was like he was talking to two different people sometimes.”

He exhaled, as though admitting it out loud made it more real.

“I think he’s developing a psychosis state—some protective split to keep his mind from fracturing any further.”

Cipher’s smile faded. The quiet settled again, heavy as a closing door.

And for a moment, even Anaxa looked tired.

“…Lord Mydei should be stopping by within the hour,” Castorice said softly, smoothing the blanket over Phainon’s shoulder one more time, though he hadn’t stirred in hours. “It’s a shame he wasn’t here while Lord Phainon was awake.”

Cipher glanced over from where she’d been collecting stray wrappers and papers into a neat pile. “He’ll be glad Phainon at least managed to wake up,” she murmured. “That’s more than he expected.”

Castorice sighed, her hand lingering in Phainon’s hair. “Professor Anaxa…you can head back if you’d like. You’ve been here for days already. I don’t mind staying until Lord Mydei gets here.”

Anaxa didn’t immediately reply. He finished inspecting the tubing of the nutrient line, making sure the slow drip was steady and unbroken. His burned hand trembled minutely before he tucked it behind his back, out of sight.

“…It’s alright,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I don’t trust the care of this situation to anyone but myself.”

Castorice looked down, her expression softening. “...Thank you, Professor.”

Cipher stepped up beside her, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll get going for now—before he wakes up again and you two start your little lectures in the middle of everything,” she teased, though her voice was gentle.

Anaxa ignored the jibe, focused instead on checking Phainon’s pulse with the backs of his cool fingers.

Castorice adjusted her cloak around her shoulders, giving Phainon one last quiet look. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

The door closed softly behind them.

Silence settled over the room again, broken only by the rhythmic drip of the nutrient line and the slow, steady sound of Phainon’s breathing.

Anaxa remained standing for a long moment, studying the young man’s face—paler than it should have been, framed by the familiar fall of white hair.

He allowed himself a single quiet exhale, as though releasing a weight he couldn’t name.

“…You never do anything the simple way,” he murmured, so quietly no one could have heard.

He eased into the chair at Phainon’s side, folding his burned hand over the armrest, and simply waited.

Waited for Mydei.

Waited for the moment the boy opened his eyes again.

Waited for a sign that all the pieces of who he was hadn’t slipped too far away to ever fit back together.

He hated this.

The softness he held for his students was…admittedly, sometimes an oversight. An inconvenience he would never have admitted aloud.

But for the ones who had walked the long road of the flame chase—the ones who had come out the other side still themselves, still burning bright—he could never quite pretend he didn’t have his bias.

Castorice had already become everything she once whispered she wished she could be. A woman unafraid to guide souls when they needed it, yet brave enough to love the living without fear. To touch others without damning them to the nether realm. He remembered the first time she’d reached for a hand without flinching. The way her face had lit with astonishment when nothing terrible happened.

Hyacine—she had always been so much the same. So determined to bear the burden of her skyfolk heritage, to be better, to heal, to care. She was happier now—anyone with eyes could see it.

And yet somehow…that left Phainon.

Anaxa’s gaze drifted to the still figure curled beneath the blanket. Pale hair falling over his eyes, lashes beaded with the last remnants of tears that had finally cooled.

He would never say it aloud. Would never so much as hint at it.

But there was something about the boy—something in the way he wrote, the way he thought, the way he absorbed every lesson as though he couldn’t help but catalogue it in that unfathomably vast mind—and never, ever truly forgot.

It impressed him, more than nearly any feat of magic he had witnessed in all his long years.

And that, more than anything, was why he hated this.

He hated sitting here, powerless to do anything except wait for Phainon to open his eyes again.

He exhaled, quiet and weary, and let his burned hand rest against the edge of the blanket, as if the simple contact might somehow remind the boy that he wasn’t alone.

“…Stubborn child,” he murmured, so softly that only the walls could have heard.

But he didn’t move away.

He simply waited.

Chapter Text

Phainon was tired. He was so tired, in fact, that he was beginning to feel exhausted by the very sensation of being tired. There was something hollow in his memory, something that refused to slot into place no matter how he turned it over in his mind. Perhaps it was simply the weight of countless millions of cycles pressing down on him—but for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt strangely… present in his own skin today.

Maybe Khaslana was sparing him this once. But that couldn’t be right, could it? After all, he was Khaslana, and Khaslana was him. It was a circular thought, and the more he tried to untangle it, the more his head throbbed in dull protest. Actually, his head was starting to hurt just from thinking at all.

When Phainon finally drifted back to consciousness, he half-expected to see Anaxa leaning in the doorway, patient as ever. Instead, when he pried his eyes open, he found Mydeimos—King of Kremnos himself—seated at his bedside, holding his hand with a tender, unshakable grip, as though it was the only thing anchoring them both to this world.

Phainon blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the softness in front of him. Mydeimos was asleep, golden lashes brushing the gentle smudges beneath his eyes. He looked impossibly tired, yet so peaceful that Phainon’s chest squeezed in a way he couldn’t define.

Carefully, he shifted, turning onto his side so he could face Mydeimos fully.

Oh, he thought distantly. Why is he next to my bed…?

A flicker of amusement tried to surface, but it was washed out by something deeper, heavier. Not that I’m complaining.

Tentative, he reached out again, fingertips brushing over Mydeimos’s knuckles. He was afraid the touch would stir him, that the moment would dissolve and he’d wake up alone after all—but he was even more afraid to let go of that simple, human warmth.

Phainon shut his eyes again, willing himself to stay still, to savor it for as long as it would last.

Is this real? he wondered, feeling the familiar ache in his chest. Or have I conjured up another dream to keep myself company?

“Mm…”

Mydeimos made a soft, unguarded sound in his sleep, the kind of noise that tugged at something vulnerable in Phainon’s chest. He hesitated, then began to slowly pull his hand away, trying not to wake him.

But before he could retreat, warm fingers closed firmly around his own.

Phainon stilled, glancing up—only to find Mydeimos’s golden eyes open, bright and startling in the low light. They fixed on him with a quiet intensity that made his breath catch.

“You’re awake,” Mydeimos murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Phainon swallowed, feeling the dryness in his throat. “Was I…asleep long?”

“…No.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying the shadows shifting across Mydeimos’s face. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“…So what if I am?”

“How long?” Phainon asked again, more gently this time.

Mydeimos exhaled, as if the words themselves weighed something. “It’s been a week and a half since you last woke up.”

Phainon blinked, once—twice—trying to process it. A week and a half? A whole week? Like…an entire week?

“Yes,” Mydeimos said, as if reading the disbelief on his face. His voice turned quieter, the edge of irritation softening into something else. “I was starting to think you were dead.”

He muttered the last part under his breath, but in a space so still and close, Phainon heard every word. It made something deep in his chest twist, too raw to name. Such an intimate space, he can hear every word, every breath the other makes. 

Phainon braced a hand against the mattress and began to push himself upright, ignoring the soft noise of dismay that escaped Mydeimos. The world tilted at the edges, a wave of dizziness washing over him from so many days spent unmoving. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing carefully until the vertigo faded.

When he looked down, he noticed the fine tubing threaded delicately into the skin of his arm. It glimmered faintly, almost beautiful in its precision.

“What is this…?” he asked, voice low with suspicion as he lifted the line experimentally between his fingers.

Mydeimos reached out and covered his hand, steady but gentle. “Anaxa made it. Don’t pull on it until he gets here.”

“Anaxa’s coming back?” Phainon glanced up, blinking as though he still wasn’t quite convinced he was awake.

“He comes here every day,” Mydeimos said simply.

Phainon frowned faintly, trying to imagine it. “How did he get into my house?”

“I let him in,” Mydeimos replied, almost offended by the question.

“Oh.” A pause. “Do you…come here every day, too?”

Mydeimos didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted down, thumb brushing absently over the back of Phainon’s hand.

“…Does it matter?” he asked finally, so soft it might have been a thought aloud.

“…Yes,” Phainon said, quieter still.

“…Then yes,” Mydeimos admitted. “I do.”

Something in Phainon’s chest gave a small, startled lurch. He wouldn’t have called it his heart—he wasn’t even sure if it was still working the way it was meant to.

“Mydeimos,” he said softly, almost afraid of the sound of his own voice. “Do you…hate me?”

The silence that followed was so complete, so heavy, it pressed against his eardrums until he wished he hadn’t spoken at all.

Phainon’s gaze dropped to the sheets gathered around his waist. He wished he could swallow the question back down, bury it where all the other things he’d never dared to ask still lived.

Because how could Mydeimos forgive him?

How could anyone, after all these cycles—after lifetimes spent killing his best friend, his partner, his… his Mydeimos? Over and over, by his own hand.

He didn’t protest the monitoring. He knew he probably deserved it. He knew he wasn’t stable, and he didn’t blame them if they felt they had to keep watch, to make sure he wouldn’t do something unforgivable again.

If anything, it was almost comforting. A silent acknowledgment of the truth he couldn’t pretend away: that he had failed them.

All he could hope—perhaps foolishly—was that one day they might find it in themselves to forgive him.

Forgive him for carrying the world the way he had.

For hurting them in the process.

For making them suffer when all he’d ever wanted was to keep them safe.

He held too much hate for the world, yet too much love for the people to let go.

Mydeimos reached out and swatted him—lightly, almost playfully—across the shoulder. It was such a strange, gentle gesture coming from the King of Kremnos that Phainon almost forgot how to breathe.

“Stop crying,” Mydeimos said, exasperation soft around the edges. “I don’t hate you, idiot.”

“I’m not crying,” Phainon protested automatically.

He lifted a hand to his face, frowning when his skin felt dry.

“You are,” Mydeimos insisted.

“What?”

“Crybaby.”

“I am not crying, Mydei.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Are—are you gaslighting me right now?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope.”

“Mydei.”

“Phainon.”

Their eyes met across the quiet space between them. For a moment, it felt like everything else—the cycles, the guilt, the ache—had been set aside, just long enough to let in something that almost felt like peace. Mydei smiled then— that smile. The one that could end worlds and mend them in the same breath, the one that tugged at something deep in Phainon’s chest every time he was lucky enough to see it. A smile he’d only ever glimpsed in rare, private moments.

“You’re being mean,” Phainon mumbled, voice small.

“I’m trying to get you out of your own head, Deliverer,” Mydei said, his thumb brushing lightly over Phainon’s knuckles. “What kind of question is that? After everything we’ve been doing to help you recover, you think I’d just sit here hating you?”

He tilted his head, studying Phainon with a look equal parts fond and exasperated.

“Where did your brain go?”

Phainon snorted, unable to help himself. “Probably lost it back in cycle eight million.”

“If you can joke,” Mydeimos said, raising an eyebrow, “you can eat.”

“…What is it with everyone trying to get me to eat?”

“I thought you liked food.”

“I do!” Phainon protested, gesturing weakly with his free hand. “I’m just… it’s surprising.”

“Well, don’t complain about blessings, Deliverer.”

“I’m not! It was a question!”

“A bad question!”

Phainon narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re difficult,” Mydeimos shot back, though the corner of his mouth was twitching up into another traitorous smile.

They fell into an easy sort of morning—or maybe afternoon, judging by the way sunlight was streaming hot and bright through every window when Phainon finally ventured out of his room.

He wobbled a little as he stepped into the hall, legs protesting under the weight of his own body. Apparently, sleeping for over a week did that to you.

When he passed the mirror hanging near the doorway, he paused, then wished he hadn’t looked.

He cringed at the reflection staring back.

He looked…tired. Not just the ordinary weariness of too many late nights, but something deeper, hollower. His skin was pale, drawn tight over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. The faint glow he used to carry like an afterthought was all but gone.

A husk, he thought distantly.

A husk of the full-cheeked, warm-eyed man he was supposed to be.

When Mydeimos eventually emerged with a tray of food, Phainon’s stomach lurched so hard he had to clutch the back of a chair to steady himself. Gods, he was hungry .

Though he couldn’t deny that the experience of using his tastebuds lately had been…demotivating, to say the least. Everything tasted muted, as if the world itself had dulled around the edges. Not to mention the taste of ash that stayed burned into his tongue.

While he was gathering the will to actually sit down and eat, he heard Mydeimos’s voice drifting from the kitchen. He was speaking into his teleslate, the words low and edged with irritation.

“No, he’s—Titans, will you let me finish—no! He’s fine.”

A pause, followed by a sharp exhale.

“You’re all so dramatic—”

Phainon leaned a little closer to the doorway, trying and failing to catch the other voice on the line.

“What? I’m doing fine—”

Another pause.

“No.”

A longer beat.

“No.”

His tone was turning incredulous now.

“ No. ”

Phainon almost smiled. It was comforting in a strange way, how Mydeimos sounded exactly the same as he always had—exasperated, stubborn, refusing to let anyone else get a word in once he’d made up his mind.
Phainon chuckled quietly to himself, though the sound felt thin in his throat. Mydeimos sounded stressed— was stressed—and he hated the thought of burdening him any more than he already had.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the food. For the first three seconds, it actually tasted…pleasant. Almost normal.

Then the familiar, hellish ash crept in, coating his tongue and chasing every hint of flavor away.

He grimaced but forced himself to keep going. One bite after another, determined to be a little less of a problem if he could help it.

By the time he finished the plate, a hollow, unsatisfied taste was all that remained, clinging stubbornly to the back of his mouth.

But at least it was done.
…even if he felt like he was about to throw up.
When Mydei finally returned from the kitchen, still scowling faintly at whoever he’d been arguing with, he froze mid-step. His gaze dropped to the empty plate in front of Phainon.

“You—you finished it?” he asked, sounding genuinely startled.

Phainon pressed his lips together, swallowing hard against the awful, churning sensation rising in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. Not when it felt like every bite he’d forced down was threatening to come back up.

Instead, he made a noncommittal sound, something between a hum and a sigh.

“…mhm.”

Mydeimos glanced between the plate and Phainon’s face, brow furrowing deeper with every second.

“You ate so fast,” he said slowly, as if he were still trying to piece together what had possessed him. “Was it—were you actually hungry?”

Phainon clenched his jaw tighter, breathing carefully through his nose. If he moved or spoke or even thought too hard about it, he was almost certain he’d be sick right there at the table.

Mydeimos took a cautious step closer, eyes narrowing. “Are you…okay?”

Another strangled hum was all Phainon could manage. He shut his eyes, willing the dizziness to pass, willing the taste to fade.

Mydeimos exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, you stubborn idiot.”

But the words came out quiet, almost affectionate, as he reached over to rest a steadying hand on Phainon’s shoulder.

Phainon swallowed again, grateful for the grounding touch—and hoping, more than anything, that he could keep the meal where it belonged.

Phainon gasped softly, trying to get enough air in his lungs to convince his body everything was fine.

“It…it was great, Mydeimos,” he managed, voice raw but earnest.

Mydeimos didn’t say anything right away. He just studied him, eyes moving over the pinched lines in Phainon’s expression, the way he was bracing both hands against the edge of the table like he’d collapse without it.

Very slowly, Mydeimos pulled out his teleslate again. He kept it angled away as he typed, each tap measured and silent.

Mydei: He ate but something’s wrong. He looks like he’s going to be sick. What do I do?

He didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to corner Phainon with more questions when he was already strung taut as wire. But he couldn’t pretend nothing was off, either.

Phainon’s breathing evened out just enough that he risked glancing up. His eyes were glassy, but his mouth twisted into a faint, apologetic smile.

“You know,” he began, voice hoarse, “you really…you don’t have to keep watching me.”

Mydeimos blinked. “What?”

“I mean—I know you’re tired. You deserve a break. You can…you can go do something else. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

He tried to laugh but it came out brittle, like dry leaves breaking apart. “I’m really fine. You don’t have to keep monitoring me”

Mydeimos went still, the words hitting him like a slow, spreading bruise.

“…Monitoring you?” he echoed, quiet.

Phainon nodded, gaze drifting back to the table. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, as if trying to smooth it over. “I understand. After everything, you all probably don’t trust me. That’s fair. I don’t—I don’t blame you.”

Mydeimos stared at him, realization dawning in pieces. Gods. He really believed that. That this was all some elaborate system of watchfulness. Not care. Not concern. Just containment.

Very deliberately, Mydeimos set his teleslate down.

“Phainon,” he said, voice low but steady. “That’s not what this is.”

Phainon didn’t look up, shoulders curling inward as if he was bracing for a reprimand he thought he deserved.

Mydeimos exhaled, the ache in his chest deepening. He reached out and covered Phainon’s hand with his own, warm and grounding… not entirely unfamiliar. 

“You’re not a burden,” he said. “And I’m not here because I’m obligated to watch you. I’m here because I want to be.”

Phainon looked up at him, and for a moment, all Mydeimos saw was how tired he was. How worn down. Even the confusion in his eyes looked exhausted, as though he no longer had the energy to hope.

“You don’t have to lie, Mydeimos,” he said quietly, voice so thin it almost broke. “It’s okay.”

The words slipped out with a resigned softness that made Mydeimos’s throat tighten.

“I’m not lying,” he said firmly.

Phainon’s gaze dropped again, as if he couldn’t bear to hold it. “It’s fine. Really. I understand why you’d need to be here. I know what I am. I know I’m…” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “…dangerous.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Phainon insisted, still in that terrible, gentle tone, like he was trying to make it easier for Mydeimos to confirm every worst thing he believed about himself. “It’s better if you don’t. I am made out of hate Mydei.”

“You’re not dangerous, who cares if you hate” Mydeimos said again, voice rising despite himself.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Gods, will you listen to me for once?” Mydeimos snapped, though his hand never left Phainon’s. “I’m not saying it because I think you want to hear it. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Phainon looked up again, blinking slowly, as if it was difficult to process the words.

“I’m here because I want to be here,” Mydeimos said, softer now, trying to steady his own breathing. “Because I care. Because I…because I still believe you are you, even if you don’t.”

He tightened his grip around Phainon’s hand, refusing to let him look away this time.

“You think I’m watching you to keep you contained,” he went on, voice low but unflinching. “But I’m here because I remember the man you were. The man you are . And because I know—titans help me—I know there’s still so much of him left.”

Phainon’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You’re allowed to be cared for,” Mydeimos finished, more gently. “You don’t have to earn it by being something you’re not. Or by punishing yourself.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Phainon’s ragged breathing. He shook his head once, slow and disbelieving, like he couldn’t make himself accept any of it.

“You don’t have to believe me right now,” Mydeimos said, quieter still. “But I’ll keep saying it until you do.”

Phainon didn’t respond.

He just sat there, staring down at their joined hands like he couldn’t quite remember how to move.

Mydeimos was a terrible liar. He always had been—transparently, embarrassingly bad at it. So why did he sound so convincing now?

Phainon’s thoughts churned in slow, suffocating circles.

He had been created of hate. Shaped by it. Molded into something that could never be anything else. His love—whatever echo of it he’d once carried—had long since burned out, leaving only the cold embers of resentment behind.

All he could do was hate.

Hate Nanook, the aeon he was created after,

Hate the Iron Tomb that had swallowed so many of them whole and trapped him and cyrene in these endless cycles,

Hate the Lord Ravagers, who spoke of deliverance and left nothing but ruin.

Hate the very path of Destruction he’d been born to walk—hate it enough that the line between himself and that path had blurred until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

And above all, he hated himself.

He had never loved himself. Not once in any of the endless cycles. Not in the quiet moments before sleep, or in the hollow aftermath of victory, or in the lingering stillness after every inevitable loss.

Not even when he tried to pretend otherwise.

How could anyone love a vessel of hate?

How could anyone look at him—a being whose entire existence had been built on destruction—and still see something worth staying for?

His breath shuddered out of him, thin and unsteady.

He didn’t understand.

And some wounded, fragile part of him didn’t dare to try.
He would just sit there.

Sit, and let the fragile, blissful ignorance he used to wrap around himself—the mask he’d worn as Phainon—try to settle over him again. Pretend he could be that person. The selfless Deliverer. The figure everyone asked—no, begged —him to be.

The one who looked unbreakable. Who smiled like the burden was never too much.
It never was. His blissful optimism allowed him.

He could try to live like that, for their sake if not his own.

But the truth—the ugly, unmovable truth—was that if he were ever given the chance to act on the wish he kept buried so deep it almost didn’t feel real, he wouldn’t wish for peace. Or redemption.

He would wish he had never been born at all.

He would wish that whatever hand had pulled him from the dark and called him necessary had simply let him fade, left him unformed and silent.

That he could fizzle out—just quietly cease—and finally, finally give the universe back the space he had stolen by existing.

That this sun, this star he had clung to so desperately through every cycle—this lonely, dying ember—could be set on its final course to go out.

And that when it did, no one would ever have to grieve its passing.

Mydeimos just stared at him.

No words—only that same worried expression Phainon had become so familiar with since the day they’d first awoken together in the vortex, battered and unsure and bound by something neither of them could name.

The silence stretched between them, heavy as a storm that refused to break.

Then Mydeimos’s teleslate chimed, a soft, bright sound that felt jarringly out of place. They both looked down at it.

Anaxagoras: I’m coming over.

Phainon closed his eyes, willing the tension in his chest to ease, willing his thoughts to drift somewhere else—anywhere else. Maybe if he just let himself fall asleep again, he could escape the heaviness in the air, the ache in his own mind.

But Mydeimos’s hand was still over his. Solid. Warm. Unmoving.

That touch alone was enough to tether him to the moment, to keep him from sliding into the fragile darkness he wanted so badly to disappear into.

After a moment, Mydeimos’s voice broke the quiet.

“Anaxa is coming,” he said, gentle but resolute. “Stay awake until then.”

Phainon opened his eyes again, lids heavy. He swallowed and nodded once, though it felt like every part of him was trying to drift away.

He didn’t know if he could hold on for much longer.

Whatever desire he’d once had to fulfill everyone’s wishes—to be what they needed, to carry their hopes—had burned out long ago. Maybe it had died the moment their wishes were granted, when the Era Nova dawned and he’d watched a future unfold that no longer needed him in it.

His will to stay was sputtering now, flickering like the last ember of a dying fire. Fizzling into nothingness.

And the outcome seemed so obvious it almost felt like a relief.

Phainon couldn’t be left alive.

He was dangerous—he had always been dangerous. He was dying in a way no healing could reverse. Every coreflame that had once made him strong had also hollowed him out from the inside, burning him alive within the Iron Tomb while the universe watched.

It didn’t matter that it had been stopped in the end.

The damage was done.
What was left now was nothing.
Nothing but a husk, a shell that looked like a man but wasn’t.

Khaslana—the Deliverer who had once been so certain of his purpose—should be dead.

The knock on the door startled him, kicking his thoughts sharply out of their slow, spiraling descent.

When Mydeimos stood, Phainon mourned the sudden loss of his warmth.

“I’ll be rig—”

BANG.

The door slammed open with a deafening crack.

Anaxa swept in like a storm given human shape, the flickering outline of his conjured gun dissipating from his hand as he crossed the threshold. He nodded once at Mydeimos—brisk, businesslike—and then he was at Phainon’s side in an instant, fingers closing around his face with a grip that could have cracked stone.

“P-Professor—!”

Phainon winced as Anaxa tilted his head up higher, thumb pressing under his chin.

“Stop thinking,” Anaxa ordered, scowling as though Phainon had committed some grave offense by merely existing.

Phainon’s cheeks ached under the iron grip—gods, for someone so small, he had terrifying strength.

“Ow—ow—okay…?” he wheezed.

“You’re not trying,” Anaxa snapped.

“I am trying!”

Anaxa’s one sharp eye locked onto him, unblinking and severe. Phainon tried—truly tried—to do as he was told, but how was he supposed to fulfill an order like “stop thinking”? Just turn off his entire brain on command?

He kept blinking, willing his mind to go blank, but all he could manage was a faint buzzing behind his eyes and a mounting desire to flee.

Another long, silent moment passed before Anaxa finally eased his hold. His hands smoothed over Phainon’s cheeks, thumb brushing lightly as if to apologize for nearly snapping his jaw off.

“Good job,” Anaxa muttered at last, the faintest trace of reluctant approval in his tone. “You contained it this time.”

“…That hurt, Professor,” Phainon mumbled, rubbing his sore face.

“Sometimes,” Anaxa said crisply, “activating pain receptors in areas that likely haven’t been stimulated before or as much can interrupt your habit of overthinking yourself into self-destruction.”

Phainon blinked at him, still rubbing his throbbing cheek.

“I’m not even going to pretend I know what that means.”

Behind them, Mydeimos let out a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It means,” he said, voice calm in that dangerous way it got when he was trying not to yell, “you were about to turn into the embodiment of the sun.”

“ What??? ”

Phainon gaped at him, then looked helplessly back at Anaxa, who simply nodded once, expression as flat as ever.

“Do you not realize,” Mydeimos continued, exasperation edging back in, “how quickly you transform when you’re…like this?”

“Transform…?” Phainon echoed weakly, as though the word itself was foreign.

Anaxa clicked his tongue. “Into… what to call it… your demigod state?. Did you think all this heat was coming from your feelings ?”

Phainon opened his mouth, then closed it again, making a small, strangled noise somewhere between a question and a protest.

“I—I just thought I was…anxious,” he tried.

“You were about to burn a hole into your clothes,” Mydeimos corrected, rubbing at his temple. “Again.”

Phainon shrank a little under their combined stares. “…Oh.”

Anaxa sighed, his hand returning—more gently this time—to rest against the side of Phainon’s face.

“You can’t afford to drift off into your head anymore,” he said, quieter but no less firm. “You don’t have the reserves you used to. If you let yourself spiral, you’ll burn everything down inside of you without even realizing it.”

Phainon swallowed. “I…didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Mydeimos said, and despite the grimness in his tone, he reached over to rest a reassuring hand on Phainon’s shoulder.

“So,” Anaxa added briskly, “you will listen when I tell you to stop thinking.”

“…Okay,” Phainon mumbled, still a little dazed. “I’ll…try.”

“Good.” Anaxa exhaled, eye narrowing in that calculating way that meant he was already assessing the next problem. “Now. What did you eat already?”

“Oh…um.” Phainon glanced at the empty plate on the table as if it might offer him an escape. “The food Mydei gave me?”

“Did it taste?”

Phainon hesitated. “Um. Yes.”

“For how long?”

“…Long enough.”

Anaxa’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Phainon.”

He shifted his weight, immediately regretting the attempt to lie. “…A few seconds.”

“ Phainon. ”

“Don’t play this game with me,” Anaxa said, voice as flat and inexorable as an avalanche.

Phainon grimaced, shoulders hunching. “It’s not a game, Professor. It’s just…everything tastes like ash lately.”

“That’s because you are metabolically unstable and your neural pathways are still reconnecting. That and your body temperature is… unstable high, your taste has probably been affected by the sheer heat of your body.”

“…I don’t know what that means,” he mumbled.

“It means,” Anaxa said, tone clipped with that familiar irritation that was almost certainly concealing worry, “that you’re going to eat again. Slowly. And after you take this.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small glass vial, sliding it across the table until it bumped gently against Phainon’s wrist.

Phainon eyed it warily. The liquid inside shimmered with an iridescent sheen he did not trust in the slightest. “What is this…?”

“An experimental metabolic stabilizer,” Anaxa said briskly, as if it were no more concerning than offering someone a cup of tea.

Mydeimos shifted beside him. When Phainon looked up, he was staring down at the vial with an expression Phainon couldn’t quite decipher—part disbelief, part resentment, part something softer.

“You…finished it?” Mydeimos asked, voice lower, almost begrudging.

“Yes,” Anaxa replied without looking at him, though the corner of his mouth tightened. “Don’t worry. It’s stable now.”

He hesitated, just a fraction, before adding, “And Hyacinthia’s taste has returned as well, so we know it’s effective.”

Phainon blinked, glancing between them. “…Hyacinthia’s taste?”

Mydeimos finally looked up, meeting his eyes with a tired sort of resignation. “They were testing things after Cipher said you lost your taste,”

“And she volunteered to test this,” Anaxa finished, voice flat but a little softer than before.

Phainon’s gaze fell to the vial again. He lifted it carefully, turning it between his fingers as the liquid caught the light.

“Oh,” he said, because it was all he could think to say.

Anaxa’s hand closed gently over his, steadying the vial. “You’re going to drink it,” he said, voice leaving no room for argument. “And then you’re going to eat. And you’re going to try—just try —to let it help.”

Phainon swallowed. “…Okay.”

When Phainon uncapped the vial, the scent that drifted up was surprisingly…floral. Not the acrid chemical tang he’d braced for, but something delicate, like crushed petals.

He sniffed it cautiously, then tilted his head back and drank the whole thing in a single swallow.

The taste was…nothing. Just a fleeting coolness before the familiar ash settled stubbornly back over his tongue.

He grimaced anyway, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Anaxa was watching him like a hawk. “Does it not taste bad?”

“Um.” Phainon hesitated, searching for any other sensation. “Not really?”

Mydeimos, who had folded his arms across his chest, lifted his brows. “When I tried it, it tasted like shit.”

“You tried it?” Phainon blurted, blinking at him in surprise.

Anaxa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I said we were testing.”

Phainon looked between them, something almost like amusement tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“Yes, we did,” Mydeimos interrupted flatly, as if he were already tired of the argument.

Anaxa just nodded, expression severe as ever. “Now. Wait five minutes. Then eat.”

Phainon sighed, leaning back in his chair, the vial still turning idly in his fingers.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if I spontaneously combust, I’m haunting you both.”

“You already do,” Mydeimos said under his breath.
Once the five minutes passed—marked by Anaxa glancing at the clock every thirty seconds—they filled the wait with small, idle conversation.

Phainon mostly listened, but when he could manage the words, he asked after the others. How everyone had been. What he’d missed.

Anaxa and Mydeimos, to their credit, answered every question earnestly.

“Aglaea wants you to visit as soon as you’re up to it,” Anaxa said at one point, folding his arms as if to disguise how gentle his voice had gone. “She’s been quite upset she can’t see you in person.”

Phainon nodded, something warm and unsteady flickering in his chest. “I definitely will,” he promised, voice rough.

Mydeimos glanced at his teleslate to check the time before slipping a hand into his coat pocket. When he drew it out, he was holding a small, brightly wrapped candy.

Phainon blinked at it, surprised.

“Cipher said to give you this once your taste was back,” Mydeimos said, offering it out on his palm.

“…Might be back,” Anaxa muttered, eye fixed intently on Phainon’s face as if he could divine the answer there.

Phainon took the candy gingerly, turning the wrapper between his fingers. The paper shimmered faintly golden, a trademark he used to adore before his eyes were constantly tainted by the golden blood.

For a second, he felt something ache behind his ribs—something like longing and gratitude all tangled together.

“Should I…try it now?” he asked softly, looking up.

Mydeimos nodded. “Try it.”

Phainon swallowed, carefully unwrapping the sweet. He hesitated, then slipped it into his mouth, bracing for the usual dull burn of ash.

But instead—

He froze.

It was faint, but unmistakable. A tiny, delicate burst of honeyed citrus.

Phainon’s eyes went wide.

“…Oh,” he breathed.

Mydeimos let out a shaky laugh, more relief than humor, the sound of it loosening something in the air that had been tight for hours.

Anaxa’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, though he still made a valiant effort to look unimpressed.

“Good,” he muttered, voice softer than it had been all day. “Then it’s working.”

Phainon glanced up, and for a heartbeat, he almost didn’t recognize the expression on Anaxa’s face. His usual scowl had smoothed into something gentler, the furrow in his brow creasing in a way that was…almost endearing.

“There it is,” Anaxa whispered, so quietly it felt like a secret.

For the barest instant, Phainon could have sworn he saw a glimmer in that single sharp eye—a shimmer of something that might have been tears.

“Did I…do something?” he asked, blinking, head tilting in confusion.

Mydeimos shook his head, his mouth curling in a small, tired smile. “Nope. Just keep smiling like that, Deliverer.”

Smiling?

Oh.

He was.

His cheeks still ached a little from where Anaxa had gripped them so fiercely, but the expression didn’t feel foreign right now.

For the first time in so many cycles, it felt—if only for this moment—like something that belonged to him. Not to anyone else, but him.

He hated it (himself) for this.

Chapter Text

“Something is wrong,” Aglaea sighed as her eyes flicked over the text lighting up their group chat—one that, rather pointedly, did not include Phainon himself.

Snowy Support Group. That was what their teacher had decided to call it.

They’d created it after Phainon had slipped into his strange, half-conscious coma. No one had expected him to rest for so long. At first, Hyacine had blamed herself, convinced her healing magic must have triggered some hidden side effect. She spent hours poring over old notes and records, searching for any sign she’d made it worse.

But in truth, Aglaea suspected Hyacine’s magic had simply given Phainon something he’d never allowed himself before: the luxury of real rest. Even so, the way he slept—so deeply he sometimes forgot to breathe, his pulse stuttering like a candle’s last flicker—left everyone unsettled. If they hadn’t taken turns watching him, he probably would have hurt himself just by dreaming the days away.

So Hyacine and Tribbie had founded the Snowy Support Group, a rotation of care so he would never be alone for long. It was an absurd little system, full of lists and color-coded reminders, but somehow it helped.

Aglaea never would have guessed Anaxagoras would be the most invested of all of them. Though he rarely typed more than the barest updates in the chat, he appeared at Phainon’s estate almost as often as Mydeimos or Hyacine. Castorice visited whenever she could slip away from her own responsibilities, bringing the quiet warmth of her presence like a balm to the heavy air of the house.

Aglaea herself regretted how little she managed to be there. Between her own work and the limitations of her recovering vision, she spent more time wishing she could be at his side than actually sitting by his bed.

Even so, there was a kind of comfort in knowing Phainon was never truly alone. That someone was always there to watch over him—someone who would notice if he stirred, or if the old shadows started to surface again.

He had been through enough, more than any of them could ever fully understand.

And if it took a small army of friends to make sure he could finally rest without fear, then so be it.

Either way, she opened her teleslate again, the messages sent previously still not updated.
--

SNOWY SUPPORT

Hyacine: Sorry! De you’ll have to refill the station on your own today!

Mydei: It’s alright. I’ll let you all know if he wakes up today.

Tribbie: Thank you for always watching him, De 😢

Mydei:👍
Mydei: Oh.
Mydei: He’s awake.

Cipher: !!!
Cipher: How long’s it been then?

Aglaea: 3 days since he last has, bedridden for nearly 2 weeks now, yes?

Mydei: He ate but something’s wrong. He looks like he’s going to be sick. What do I do?

Anaxa: I’m coming over.

Tribbie: Be nice to him, Anaxa!

Hyacine: Ah… Professor ran out already, I’m sure he will be. Professor has been worried sick...

Hyacine: De, update us!

Aglaea: Please make sure he knows we are all here if he needs it.

--
Somehow, she found herself…anxious.

It wasn’t a feeling she often had, at least not before. But lately, her emotions seemed to scatter in all directions, impossible to contain. Nothing—not centuries of discipline, nor the thousands of years of slow erosion that immortality had etched into her mind—could fully erase what she was. And yet, the simple experience of feeling anything so vividly—anxiousness, worry, tenderness—felt almost like a luxury she hadn’t realized she missed.

Maybe that was how she ended up here, standing on Phainon’s doorstep.

She could hear voices drifting from inside—more than just Mydei and Anaxa today. It sounded like nearly everyone had come. Soft laughter mixed with low murmurs, and the familiar hush that always settled when Phainon was asleep.

Usually, she planned her visits well in advance, careful to keep her schedule predictable. Today, though, she had simply…come. No warning. No tidy explanation. Just the ache in her chest and the need to see him with her own eyes.

Something in her—some old, tired part that had survived too many endings—needed to be reminded he was still here. Still breathing. Still theirs.

And if that meant standing here for a moment longer to steady herself before she knocked, so be it.

The door opened—and a shriek immediately split the air.

Cipher stood in the doorway, blinking at her like she’d just stepped out of legend. She did a double take—then another—her mouth hanging open in shock.

“Aglaea?!” she yelped.

Aglaea had to press her lips together to keep from laughing outright. With deliberate gentleness, she reached up and closed Cipher’s mouth with two fingers. “Surprise,” she said, voice warm.

From deeper inside the little house, Tribbie and Trinon both peeked around the corner, bright-eyed and delighted.

“Agy!” Tribbie called, waving her over with both hands. “You’re here today! C’mere, snowy just woke up!”

Her heart clenched at that. Snowy. Their Phainon.

She stepped inside on quiet feet, letting the door shut behind her, and felt the warmth of the house wrap around her—voices, familiar scents, the soft clutter of too many people making themselves at home.
She glanced around the room, taking in the quiet little gathering.

Tribbie and Trinon were tucked together on the floor, sorting through what looked like a small mountain of folded linens. Cipher had retreated back to the low couch, her long legs dangling over the armrest as she rummaged through her box of treasures.

Near the kitchen threshold, Hyacine stood close to Anaxa, speaking in a voice just low enough that Aglaea couldn’t catch every word. The girl had offered her a bright, fluttering wave, but Anaxa hadn’t looked up to see it. His gaze was fixed on whatever Hyacine was showing him, brow furrowed in tired concentration.

Castorice and Mydei must have slipped into Phainon’s room, she realized—judging by the hush that seemed to have settled over the rest of the house, as if everyone were subconsciously making space for them to work.

A part of her felt hesitant to intrude. She hadn’t planned to stay long, only to reassure herself that he was all right. But something in her—something old and unquiet—urged her forward anyway.

As if sensing her uncertainty, Hyacine looked up from her quiet discussion and caught her eye. She gave a small, encouraging nod, and gestured gently down the hall.

“He’s awake,” Hyacine said softly. “If you’d like to see him.”

Aglaea swallowed past the tightness in her throat. For all the centuries she had lived, moments like this still made her feel as tentative as a child.

She moved past the others, trailing her fingers lightly over the edge of the little kitchen table, feeling the worn grooves in the wood. Tribbie’s voice faded behind her, replaced by the softer sounds coming from the back room—a low murmur she recognized as Mydei’s, the rustle of blankets, and Phainon’s voice answering in a hoarse whisper.

At the doorway, she paused, hand braced on the frame.

Inside, Castorice was perched at the bedside, checking something in a small ledger balanced on her knee. Mydei sat at Phainon’s side, his palm pressed lightly to his cheek. 

She exhaled and stepped inside, feeling the old ache in her chest loosen by just a fraction.

Phainon—her Phainon. The little deliverer boy she had practically raised from his first days, whose hair she had combed and whose nightmares she had soothed. He looked worse than she could have imagined. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused with exhaustion, but when he turned toward her, a flicker of recognition lit the haze.

“Aglaea…?” he murmured. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “What’s the occasion today? Did I…miss someone’s birthday…?”

He trailed off, distracted as Mydei—perched loyally at his side as always—lifted a spoonful of something thick and unappealing toward his lips.

“If you don’t eat this right now—” Mydei warned.

Phainon grimaced but obediently bit down on the spoon, chewing with theatrical suffering. “But Mydei,” he mumbled around the mouthful, “this stuff seriously tastes…”

“I know,” Mydei interrupted with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d repeated this argument a hundred times. “But Professor Anaxa insisted you finish this before you get any real food.”

He reached up to rub Phainon’s neck in slow, soothing circles—an absent, intimate gesture that made Aglaea’s heart twist even more.

“The trailblazers should be stopping by too—” Castorice began, her voice drifting from the corner. From the open door now Tribbie marched over with a handful of linens that aglaea could have sworn she made for Phainon when he was much younger. 

Cipher had flopped onto the far end of the couch, rummaging through a wooden box of antiques she’d apparently claimed as her own. Looking over through the now open door facing the open area.

“Mmm, Gray Mysteries is coming too?” she drawled, grinning over the edge of the box. “We’ve got a full house today, huh, little deliverer boy?”

Phainon let out a soft, breathless laugh—tired but genuine. “I know I’ve been sleeping for so long,” Phainon murmured, his voice going quiet as he finally swallowed the last of whatever nutrient slop Mydei had insisted he eat. “But I’m…really sleepy.”

“…It’s no surprise,” Anaxa said, glancing up from where he was carefully re-wrapping his burned hand in fresh bandages. His tone was gentle, even if his expression stayed stern. “You can rest longer if you need to.” he leaned against the doorframe, and while He tried to keep the injury out of Phainon’s line of sight, it was no use. Phainon’s gaze drifted down anyway, and the moment he caught sight of the angry red burns, his tired eyes went glassy with guilt.

“I’m sorry again, Professor Anaxa,” he whispered. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Anaxa interrupted, shaking his head firmly. “No need to do all this, Phainon. You don’t have to apologize. Not for that.”

Phainon looked like he might protest, but all that came out was a soft, wavering exhale. His eyelids drooped, and for a moment, it seemed like he might fall asleep right there mid-sentence.

Mydei reached over to smooth his hair back, voice low. “It’s alright. Just close your eyes a while, Phainon. We’re all here.”

Cipher’s voice drifted lazily from her place on the couch, muffled as she inspected something from the box. “Yeah, dreamy, just nap it off. We’ll keep watch.”

Aglaea, who had found her way by his side, squeezed Phainon’s hand, feeling the fragile warmth of him in her palm, and thought—once again—how precious it was that he was still here to feel tired at all.

And as his breathing evened out, she knew, for today, that was all any of them needed.

-

When the Trailblazers finally arrived, everyone had shuffled themselves quietly out of Phainon’s room to give them space.

All except Mydei, who had accidentally drifted to sleep in the chair at Phainon’s side. None of them had the heart to wake him—not when he looked so bone-deep exhausted. The so-called King of Castrum Kremonos had been wearing himself thin for weeks, running from duty to duty, and maybe even avoiding sleep altogether just to keep watch over Phainon’s fragile peace.

Castorice lingered a moment in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of Phainon’s chest, before she eased the door shut with careful hands. When she turned, she found herself face to face with the gray-haired Trailblazer, who was already smiling in relief at the sight of her.

“It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?” Castorice said softly, her voice warm with genuine affection.

Before she could say anything more, the Trailblazer threw their arms around her with such force that she nearly squeaked in surprise. She caught herself just in time, closing her eyes as she let herself lean into the hug. For a moment, she allowed herself the rare luxury of simply feeling the warmth of another person, and the quiet reassurance that they were all here—still together, still trying.

A little farther down the hall, Dan Heng sat cross-legged beside Hyacine, who was patiently catching him up on everything that had happened since they’d last seen each other. The measured rhythm of her voice was a balm in the tense house, each detail a small piece of proof that no matter how strange or frightening Phainon’s condition became, none of them intended to leave him behind.

“He sure did a number on you, Prof,” the Trailblazer muttered eventually, pulling back from Castorice and stepping over to Anaxa. They leaned in to study the bandaged hand with a faint wince.

Anaxa scowled but didn’t bother pulling away. “It’s fine,” he said, though the words sounded tired. “I’ve had worse.”

And though none of them said it out loud, they all knew he would have let it happen a thousand times over if it meant Phainon would stay.

Anaxa scowled, as if daring anyone to pity him. “It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice low and clipped. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing when that happens.”

A hush settled over the room as a small glow began to pool over the burns, Hyacine’s healing magic growing brighter as she concentrated. She’d improved a lot in the last few days—her technique steadier, her touch more confident—but the injury refused to yield, the edges still charred an ugly mottled shade that no light could quite erase.

“I don’t think it’s just that he doesn’t know,” Hyacine said softly, without looking up. “It feels…different. Like something is leaking through him when he gets upset. Something...old.”

Aglaea closed her eyes, exhaling as she rested her phone on her knee. “I know. And it’s happening more often.”

“Have you tried talking to him?” the Trailblazer asked, glancing between them.

Anaxa’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t answer right away. The glow dimmed on his palm, but the burn remained stubborn.

“He’s trying so hard to be…normal,” Aglaea murmured after a moment. Her gaze drifted to the little window above the kitchen sink, the half-finished pot of tea still steaming. “I don’t think he even realizes he’s coming apart at the seams.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than before—like the air itself had thickened around them, waiting for someone to admit what they were all thinking: that whatever Phainon was, whatever he carried inside, was starting to outpace even his best intentions.

“Don’t worry about it, Hyacynthia,” Anaxa whispered, his good hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he felt her posture slump.

“But, Professor—the burn,”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice softer this time, though it carried an unyielding edge. “Focus your efforts elsewhere. I will be fine.”

Hyacynthia hesitated, her lips parting as if she might argue again, but Anaxa gently guided her to the nearest chair and eased her down, as though she were the one who needed tending.

Aglaea watched the small exchange with a weary smile. Her own sight had returned, though slowly, and never completely. It was easier, these days, to see through her threads—those fine, golden filaments that stitched the world together in her mind’s eye. But when she dared to open her real eyes, the world was fractured and uncertain.

On the worst days, all she saw was a grainy wash of darkness, restless as a cloud of ash. On others, the brightness was so harsh it felt like needles behind her eyelids. But today, it didn’t matter. Today, none of it was as important as the state of their deliverer. Who was sleeping soundly in the room over.

She won't be able to get the image out of her head. Phainons breathing came shallow, each exhale tremoring just enough that she felt it in her chest. Tear stains shone silver on his cheeks, cutting through the faint smudges of old scars. She hated seeing those tears—but some quiet, guilty part of her was grateful to see him here at all, safe enough to shed them.

As long as he was here, as long as he was alive, she could help guide him back to himself.

“Agy, everything okay?”

The small voice tugged her from her thoughts, and she glanced down. Tribbie stood by her knee, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her dress, her round eyes sharp with concern far older than her years.

“Yes, teacher. I’m alright,” Aglaea murmured, reaching to smooth the girl’s hair back. Her hand trembled faintly. “I just… I worry for his well-being, when—”

She stopped herself, voice catching on a feeling she didn’t know how to name. When he gets like this, she thought. When the old wounds open. When something in him comes unstitched and none of them know how to close it again.

She swallowed, her gaze drifting back to the couch.

“When he forgets how to come back,” she finished softly, almost to herself.

“Please don’t worry. He will come back.”

The words fell into the quiet like a stone into water.

Everyone went still. That voice—raspy, low, each word measured like it cost something to speak—was Phainon’s. And yet…

“It’s not worth it,” he went on, his tone almost detached. “Worrying.”

Slowly, Aglaea turned to look at him. He was awake now, standing in the doorway of his room, Mydei seemed to still be asleep inside. Phainon's gaze fixed somewhere past all of them, unfocused. The familiar light in his eyes—the soft, searching warmth that never seemed to leave—was gone. In its place, something colder flickered.

The golden pigment had overtaken nearly all of the irises, turning them a dull, murky yellow. Only the thinnest ring of sky-colored blue clung to the edges, like a memory of who he was supposed to be.

“Phainon?” Hyacynthia whispered, her hand lifting halfway to him before falling back to her lap.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t even seem to see her.

“Don’t…trouble yourselves,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “This happens. It will pass.”

But no one spoke to agree. Because all of them could feel it in the room—the way the air had shifted, the way something old and heavy had settled into his bones, wearing his shape.

And for the first time, Aglaea realized she didn’t know if it was really him speaking at all.

“…Are you not Phainon?” she asked, her voice unsteady as she pressed a hand to her chest. The heat gathering in her palms startled her—some strange reaction to being near him in this state.

His gaze turned toward her, unblinking. “Please be careful not to burn yourself,” he murmured, as though reading her mind. “I apologize for earlier, Professor. I was only trying to take over so he wouldn’t suffer.”

The sound of his voice—so familiar in timbre, so alien in spirit—felt like a cauterizing blade pressed to her heart. Gentle and searing all at once, and somehow unbearably sad.

“Khaslana,” Anaxa muttered under his breath, his expression darkening. “Is this who you are now?”

For a moment, the figure on the couch looked as if he might smile, but all that escaped was a thin, ragged exhale of air so hot it shimmered in front of his mouth.

“It’s temporary,” he said, in that calm, hollow tone. “I will bear the burden of the million cycles until he is ready to let me go.”

Castoice shifted where he stood, uneasy. The Trailblazer had already crossed the room, crouching at the edge of the couch as though bracing for a fight—or a confession. Their brows were knit, confusion and something like anger warring across their face.

“You say that like he’s the one keeping you here,” the Trailblazer said tightly. “But you’re the one in control right now, aren’t you?”

Khaslana—if that was truly what he was—turned that dulled, yellow gaze to them. “Control,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “No. There is no control left. Only duty.”

His eyes flickered then, the faint ring of sky blue pulsing once, as though Phainon himself were trying to surface beneath the weight of the other. But just as quickly, it faded back to gold.

And in the hush that followed, Aglaea realized that for all her faith, all her determination to guide him home—she had never truly understood just how far he had drifted.

“Your Phainon will be back,” Khaslana murmured, the words softer now, almost regretful. “I just…take a lot of his energy. And for this, I apologize. But he wanted you all to know—please, don’t worry about him.”

He didn’t even glance at their confused, stricken faces, didn’t acknowledge the questions that trembled on their lips. Instead, he turned and walked unhurriedly back toward Phainon’s narrow bed, his steps slow and deliberate, like a man fulfilling the last duty he would ever be asked to carry.

His eyes faded gradually, the gold receding like ink draining back into a hidden well. The heat that had pressed against their skin with every word softened and then vanished, leaving the air cool and thin in its absence.

In the space of a single breath, Khaslana was gone—leaving only Phainon’s body behind, slumped against the cushions in that same uneasy sleep as before.

For a long moment, no one moved. It felt as if they were all standing in the echo of something too vast to comprehend, something that had looked out through their friend’s eyes and still, somehow, spoken gently.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The room felt emptier than it had before he’d awakened.

“…What was that,” Dan heng finally said, his voice brittle with uncertainty.

“This is…perhaps some kind of dissociative state,” Anaxa offered, though even he sounded unsure. He rubbed his good hand across the burn still etched into his skin. “His mental state is fragile, but this—”

“He is technically millions of people in one,” the Trailblazer cut in, more blunt than anyone else seemed ready to be.

Aglaea let out a shaky hum, pressing her fingertips over her mouth. The thought of it—millions of lives crushed into a single vessel—made her heart ache in a way she didn’t have words for. Or whatever was left of her heart to ache at all.

“So this…‘Khaslana’ has assumed the majority of the damage?” she asked carefully.

“Something like that,” the Trailblazer said, their brows knitting as they gestured vaguely. “If you think of it like…like two sides of the same coin, then—”

Suddenly, they snapped their fingers, the sharp crack startling everyone.

“Ah! I got it!” they exclaimed, leaning forward with an almost manic intensity. “So he’s both. Phainon—our Phainon—and Khaslana, the one carrying all the previous Phainons and Khaslanas from before.”

“But Phainon still remembers all of it,” Hyacynthia said, her voice hesitant. “He talks about the cycles sometimes—he knows.”

“Yeah, but think about it,” the Trailblazer pressed, eyes bright. “Khaslana is the one actually holding all the pain from them. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? You told me every time he starts talking about past lives, or the cycles, he—”

“He scalds,” Aglaea finished quietly, feeling her throat tighten.

“Burns,” Anaxa corrected, glancing at the red mark along his wrist.

“Right—burns,” the Trailblazer agreed, nodding quickly. “That’s Khaslana trying to take the damage before it reaches Phainon. To keep him intact.”

Silence fell again, heavier than before.

And this time, when Aglaea looked at Phainon’s sleeping face—so peaceful, so heartbreakingly young—she finally understood why that fragile peace always felt borrowed. Because someone else was paying the price for it, over and over, so he didn’t have to.

“That was…surprisingly put together,” Dan Heng said at last, breaking the long silence. He nudged his gray-haired companion lightly with an almost impressed look.

“Well,” the Trailblazer muttered, rubbing the back of their neck with a tired, bitter smile, “I went through and saw a bunch of cycles with him. You pick up a few things after watching someone go through all that a thousand times.”

Their eyes softened as they glanced toward the closed door. “I just want him to be okay again too. We’re friends, after all.”

Such a sentiment was shared in every corner of the room. It shimmered unspoken in the air—something fierce and unbreakable, even in the face of all this strangeness.

Castorice stepped forward and quietly pulled the door shut again, the soft click echoing like a punctuation mark on everything none of them could say out loud. A sigh slipped from her lips, heavy with things she’d carried for longer than she could name.

“…Do you remember the cycle you told me about?” she asked, her voice low and almost reluctant. “The one where I…” Her words trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

The Trailblazer was at her side in an instant, their expression gentle and steady as they reached to rest a comforting hand on her arm.

“Hey,” they said quietly, “don’t blame yourself. There were millions of recurrences. Millions of chances to make mistakes, to regret things. But none of it matters as much as you think.”

Castorice swallowed, her gaze falling to the worn floorboards between them.

“My partner,” the Trailblazer continued, voice growing softer, “loves you all more than he loves anything. Every single Phainon, in every single lifetime, dedicated himself to saving everyone else first. And that…that has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

Castorice’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging as she closed them against the memory of a hundred different endings.

“…It does,” she whispered finally. “It means everything, to bear a fate worse than death...” Tears finally fell, silent, but her face trembled. Aglaea turned away. She couldn't bear to feel this heaviness anymore. Seeing Castorice cry would stir something within her she wasn't ready to feel again after years of indifference. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Hyacine and Tribbie cross the room, their steps quiet as they knelt to comfort Castorice. Soft voices blurred into a hush, a fragile attempt to reassure her that she hadn’t been alone in any of it.

A little farther off, Cipher sat slouched over her box of keepsakes, her hands buried up to the wrists in its contents. But she wasn’t really looking at anything. She was only stirring the old trinkets around, over and over, as though hoping she might find some hidden answer at the bottom.

The box had her name carefully written across the lid—Antiques. Of course. Aglaea recognized the way Cipher’s shoulders hunched forward, the restless tremor in her hands. She knew the signs all too well: Cipher was a breath away from breaking down completely.

But now wasn’t the moment to offer comfort—not here, not in front of everyone. So she looked away and folded her hands neatly in front of her.

“…I should take my leave,” Aglaea said at last, her voice steady even as sorrow threaded through every word. “We can reconvene elsewhere to discuss this in more detail.”

She let her gaze pass over each of them, from the Trailblazer’s searching eyes to Dan Heng’s thoughtful quiet, to the bowed heads of Hyacine and Tribbie still gathered around Castorice.

“Let’s all continue to do our best,” she said softly. “And work through this together.”

No one spoke to argue. There was nothing to argue about in the first place.

-

Phainon dreamed of speaking to himself.

Not just the hero within—he was used to those quiet conversations with the cycle’s echo that waited in the marrow of his spirit—but all of them. Every incarnation. Every version that had come before.

And at the center of them stood the first. The origin.

The original Phainon looked impossibly tired. Deathly so. His skin was pallid, his eyes washed-out and dull, as if whatever spark had once animated them had long since guttered out.

“Do you think this is the Era Nova ?” The original Phainon– Khaslana– asked quietly. His own voice felt thinner here, stretched across lifetimes. “Truly?”

Phainon shifted where he sat, folding frail hands in his lap. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice dry as old paper.

“…It is,” he said. “And it’s all right if we need to rest now. But I have to return to them.”

He paused, studying his own gaunt face across the space between them.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why don’t they hate us?”

Phainon’s breath caught. He looked down, searching for an answer he’d never managed to find.

“I—I can’t answer that question,” he said at last. “But it’s their wish. For me…for us…to live.”

Khaslana closed his colorless eyes, a shudder running through his thin shoulders.

“Phainon,” he murmured, “they want Phainon to live. So why can’t I die?”

The silence stretched between them, fragile and vast.

“…You are Phainon,” he said finally, his voice breaking. “You are me.”

And for a moment, it felt like all the cycles—all the endless recurrences—hung suspended on that single truth neither of them could ever escape.
“You should let go of me,” Khaslana said softly. His eyes were almost gentle in their emptiness. “I’ve long overstayed my mental worth. Your body will break and die if you keep trying to house millions of cycles of memory here.”

Phainon swallowed hard. The dream felt too real, like the walls of his mind were closing in around him.

“…But—you’re me,” he protested, voice catching. “Don’t you—don’t we deserve this? Some part of us should remain.”

The first incarnation tilted his head, studying him with an expression that was both pitying and impossibly tired.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say, ‘I deserve this.’ Just once.”

Phainon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat closed around the words like they were poison.

“Ah—well—I…”

“See?” Khaslana whispered. “You can’t. Because we have never loved ourselves.”

The silence that followed felt absolute—like the air itself had been stripped away, leaving only the truth neither of them had ever dared to name.

“Our foundation was created on the very existence of hate,” Khaslana murmured, his voice almost mournful. “Of destruction—of erasure. That is what we are.”

“So what?” Phainon shot back, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’ve loved people. I’ve saved them, over and over, for millions of cycles. You’ve housed every coreflame, carried every burden, held on when no one else could. Why—why don’t we deserve this?”

The first incarnation’s hollow eyes flickered with something like sorrow.

“Convince yourself you deserve it, then,” he said quietly. “Go ahead.”

Phainon’s breath shuddered. “I—I do deserve this!” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I—”

“You aren’t being honest with yourself,” Khaslana interrupted, his tone so calm it felt like a blade. “For all the genius you claim—for all the knowledge and clarity—you still don’t understand.”

He raised a hand, frail and translucent, gesturing at the empty space between them.

“We hate ourselves,” he whispered. “Every version. Every recurrence. We are the embodiment of hate—hate turned inward until it became all we knew. And for every second I stay alive inside you, your body burns under the pressure of carrying it. You hate me.”

His gaze softened, just for a moment.

“Let me go, Phainon,” he said. “Please.”

Phainon was shaking. He looked down into Khaslana’s eyes—the same eyes he’d seen in every reflection—but tonight, the symbol of the world burned gold instead of his own soft blue.

This was him. He knew it.

Only he could be this self-deprecating, this ruthlessly honest, this willing to cast himself away to protect everyone else. And yet—despite all of it, despite the crushing guilt and the centuries of exhaustion—he wanted to stay.

He wanted to see this era through. He wanted to feel the warmth of the people he loved, to bask in the victory that all these long cycles had fought so desperately to reach.

Khaslana was him. And he knew himself better than anyone.

“I won’t,” Phainon whispered, his voice low but unwavering. “I’ll find a way—I’ll stabilize you. I’ll fuse with you again if I have to—”

“Don’t.”

Khaslana’s tone was a warning, sharper than any blade.

“You’ll destroy yourself faster,” he said. “Must I remind you how the ‘Flame Reaver’ ended up a husk? Must I list every life where we tried and failed to hold all of it alone?”

“I don’t care,” Phainon snapped, and for once, there was no tremor in his voice. “I am a demigod. I looked Nanook in the eyes—the very embodiment of annihilation— of destruction—and I spat in his face. I fought countless times, hurt my friends, hurt the world over and over again for this future—”

His breath came ragged, but he held Khaslana’s gaze with fierce determination.

“I did whatever it took to carry everyone’s wishes into the new world,” he whispered. His fingers curled into shaking fists at his sides.

“Even if it breaks me apart—I will save us. I will save myself—no matter the cost,” Phainon said, voice trembling with something fierce and bright. “And if convincing you is my first roadblock—then consider this a challenge to myself.”

His eyes burned, alive with purpose.

“Even if I have to burn all this hate away into something new—something worthy of the people who still believe in me—I will do it.”

For a long moment, Khaslana didn’t speak.

His worn, hollow face shifted, brows knitting together. Slowly, something almost like exasperated wonder flickered across his expression—an echo of humor Phainon hadn’t seen in centuries.

“By the Titans…” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “Was I always this stubborn?”

Phainon didn’t even realize how heavily he was breathing until the words finally left him. His chest ached with the effort of speaking it out loud.

“Well,” he managed, his voice softer now, almost unsteady, “we are the same, after all.”

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand. The air shimmered around it with the heat radiating off Khaslana’s presence, like standing too close to a living furnace. But he didn’t flinch.

“Let’s go visit tomorrow,” he said, meeting Khaslana’s gaze head-on. “For real this time.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes flicked down to the offered hand. For a moment, it looked as though he might refuse—might dissolve again into memory and ash.

But then he sighed, weary but almost resigned, and reached out.

Their palms met—his own skin already stinging from the scalding heat—but he held on.

Blonde hair fell across Khaslana’s brow as he finally lifted his chin to face him fully, golden eyes searching Phainon’s for something he hadn’t dared to hope for in countless lifetimes.

“…Let’s,” he said at last, voice low and unsteady.

And for the first time in ages, Phainon felt something like hope.

Bright white enveloped his vision, a searing clarity that burned behind his eyes until—

Darkness.

Heavy, familiar darkness flooded his senses.

It took several long seconds for Phainon to even begin to piece himself back together. The sound of his own heartbeat thudded in his ears, too loud, too close. His breath stuttered in and out in uneven drags.

The air smelled like home—like old wood and the faint herbal sharpness of Hyacine’s tea that never quite left the walls. The warmth pressed against his skin, heavy and grounding. His blanket, tucked up to his shoulders.

And—

His mind snagged on the next realization.

There was something wrapped tightly around his waist.

Something solid, warm, undeniably alive.

Slowly, as though he were emerging from some deep ocean trench, Phainon forced his eyes open. Blurred shapes resolved into the familiar low ceiling, the cluttered shelves in the corner of the room, the pale rectangle of his bedside table.

And Mydei.

Mydei was in his bed.

Arms curled snug around Phainon’s torso, chin tucked loosely against his shoulder, breathing slow and steady against his hair as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Phainon blinked once.

Twice.

A third time, as if he could will this vision to make any sense.

Oh Titans, he thought, panic flickering beneath the exhaustion. What did I do this time?

His mouth was dry—achingly, painfully dry, as if he hadn’t had water in days. Grateful for something concrete to focus on, he reached a shaky hand toward the bedside table—only to find it empty. No water waiting where it always was.

He swallowed hard, trying to remember—anything.

The Era Nova.

His declaration to die—or maybe that had been Khaslana’s voice speaking through him.

Hyacine’s power burning bright in his veins.

Mydei sitting at his side, refusing to leave.

Anaxa breaking into his home.

Castorice’s soft voice, Cipher rummaging through the antiques.

Even Aglaea, standing in the doorway with her eyes bright and wet.

Was that…yesterday?

He had no idea how long he’d been here, how long he’d drifted in and out of himself. How long since he’d felt this whole—and yet this fragile.

His gaze flicked toward the teleslate on the far shelf, dark and silent, and he felt a pang of dread low in his chest.

He almost didn’t dare look.

Phainon’s head ached—deep and throbbing, like something was pressing against the inside of his skull.

Every time he tried to think about the cycles—about the conversation he’d just had, about the endless recurrences and all the selves he’d carried—pain bloomed behind his eyes, sudden and sharp.

He winced, one hand lifting to press against his temple.

Focus, he thought desperately. Just remember—

A spike of agony stabbed straight through his skull, so fierce his vision went white for an instant.

And then—

Stop it.

The voice cut across his thoughts, calm and weary and utterly unmistakable.

His own voice.

Khaslana.

You’ll tear us apart again if you keep digging, the voice continued, softer now, almost resigned. Let it rest. Just for a little while.

Phainon swallowed hard, breathing ragged, his hand trembling where it rested against his forehead.

For once, he obeyed.

Phainon drew in a careful breath and forced his thoughts away from the cycles, back to the present—back to the sleeping man clinging so unselfconsciously to him.

Mydei.

He lifted one trembling hand and brushed a lock of hair from Mydei’s face. In the dim light, he looked impossibly peaceful, long lashes resting against his cheek, lips parted in a soft, even rhythm of sleep.

Stupidly handsome, Phainon thought, his chest giving a faint, bewildered ache. Stupidly beautiful.

There were days—more than he’d ever admit—when he was genuinely jealous of how effortlessly extraordinary Mydei was. How he could be so composed, so warm, so unflinching in the face of things that would have broken any normal person a thousand times over.

But jealousy wasn’t really the right word, not exactly. It was something closer to reverence, or awe, or the quiet wish that maybe, if he stayed close enough, some of that strength might rub off on him.

Mydei must have been so exhausted. Phainon felt it, the deep bone-weariness in the other man’s hold, the little shivers that betrayed just how little rest he’d allowed himself while tending to someone else.

His heart twisted at the thought—how his own existence had probably caused Mydei endless stress, endless hours of worry and vigilance he hadn’t earned.

He swallowed and leaned in just enough to let his lips hover near Mydei’s hair.

“I’m of little consequence, Mydeimos,” he whispered, voice so faint it barely stirred the air. “Please…rest easier. I’m okay now.”

He knew the sleeping man couldn’t hear him. But somehow, it felt necessary to say it.

Phainon closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how he’d ever earned the care of people like this—people whose devotion was as fierce as it was gentle.

But one way or another, he decided, he would repay them. Somehow.

Either way, Phainon’s body felt light.

Not in the peaceful, rested way he might have hoped for—but in the restless, electric way that made it impossible to sit still any longer.

Carefully, he worked himself free of Mydei’s arms. The movement earned him a soft, drowsy whine of protest that nearly made him laugh outright.

By the Titans, did he love Mydei.

Of course, it wasn’t something he’d ever be able to act on—never something he could have. Every version of himself, in every cycle, would agree on that much. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve him.

“….”

His thoughts must have stirred something deeper, some old scar Khaslana still carried. Best not to dwell on it—not if he wanted to keep the fragile truce between them from fracturing all over again.

He stood, stretching until his spine popped in several places, each crack embarrassingly loud in the hush of the room.

With one last glance back at Mydei’s sleeping form, he slipped out and closed the door behind him.

His home was cleaner than he remembered—immaculately so. The floors swept, the clutter sorted, and the faint herbal scent of Hyacine’s cleaning spray lingering in the air.

He caught sight of his teleslate abandoned on the bedside table but decided, wisely, that he didn’t really want to know how long he’d been unconscious. Not yet.

Instead, he wandered through the small rooms, taking quiet inventory of everything that had changed while he’d been…elsewhere.

A few boxes had been neatly stacked near the corner—some labeled in Castorice’s tidy script, others marked in Anaxa’s blunt hand. Papers and pens he didn’t remember owning were stacked beside a half-finished ledger. The antique box he’d saved for Cipher looked as though it had been rummaged through—no doubt in one of her restless moments.

When he reached the kitchen, he stopped short.

Every cabinet had been stocked to bursting. Jars lined the shelves in careful rows. Fresh produce filled the baskets. There was even a small stack of neatly folded linens on the counter.

Goodness.

This must have cost a fortune—and more time and worry than he could ever repay.

He rubbed at his eyes, equal parts overwhelmed and grateful.

Then he cracked his knuckles and squared his shoulders.

“…Let’s make do with it,” he murmured to himself, voice steadier than he felt.

And with that, he set about making something warm, determined that whoever woke first would be greeted by a kitchen that smelled of food.

He moved easily, almost automatically, though he wasn’t usually the one doing the cooking these days. Hyacine had long ago taken it upon herself to assign him a precise meal plan—one he’d dutifully followed, if only to keep her from worrying. Mydei had somehow been convinced to cook for him a lot of the days, something he was eternally grateful for. 

But maybe…maybe neither of them wouldn’t mind if he made something a little different this time. Something comforting. Something real. Especially after…

He shivered, grimacing at the memory of Mydei patiently feeding him that thick, chalky nutritional slop Anaxa had forced into his hands. The taste still haunted him, an experience he sincerely hoped never to repeat.

No—with Khaslana seemingly keeping the memory of millions of lifetimes he could spoil himself if it's for… well him. 

He set about gathering ingredients. Rice—something close enough to the grain he’d grown up with that it made his chest ache with nostalgia. A few cuts of fish, fresh and easy to season. Whatever vegetables he could scavenge from the impressively stocked cabinets.

He moved slowly, methodically, letting the simple act of preparing a meal steady his thoughts.

It wasn’t much. Just rice, fish, and a handful of side dishes. But it was honest. He could do this—this small, ordinary thing.

He had never really had the time to cook before. Not when every day was survival, every hour another crisis. But today, he thought, he could allow himself this one moment to just…be.

To take things slow.

To start repaying the debt he owed to everyone who had stayed—everyone who had believed he was worth saving.

He had to believe he was.

For Khaslana.

For himself.

Heavy thoughts crowded at the edges of his mind, clinging like thorns no matter how hard he tried to push them aside. He kept his hands busy, focusing on the soft scrape of the spoon against the pot, the quiet bubbling of rice, the hiss of the fish searing in the pan.

If he let himself think—really think—about what he was, what he had done, what he had cost them all…

He might just break apart.

I hate myself.

The words repeated with every measured movement, every small task.

Don't be such a burden.

He picked up a jar of seasoning, fingers trembling.

My existence is tearing people apart.

He set it down a little too hard, the glass clinking sharply.

Why won’t they just use me?

Phainon.

The voice was quiet. Steady. His own, and not his own.

Shall I step in?

No !

His breath caught in his throat.

No. It’s fine. I can do this.

He pressed a hand over his eyes, forcing himself to breathe—to feel the solid, ordinary weight of the kitchen around him. The faint heat of the stove. The cool counter beneath his palm.

When he opened his eyes again, the pot was steaming gently, the rice nearly done.

Slowly, he looked down at the small dish he’d set aside to serve first—a quiet promise to himself that he would eat, too. That he would not keep punishing the body that had survived so much.

His voice came out ragged but determined, almost too soft to hear over the simmering.

“…I can do this,” he whispered.

Maybe it was only to himself. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, he had to.

“…Deliverer.”

Phainon jumped, nearly dropping the wooden spoon in his hand. His heart gave a painful thump against his ribs as he spun around.

Mydei stood in the doorway to the kitchen, blinking slowly. His hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, and he looked like he’d only just managed to wrestle himself out of sleep.

“You’re…awake,” Phainon stammered, voice thinner than he meant it to be.

Mydei rubbed a hand over his face, blinking again as if to be sure he was really seeing him standing there.

“I am,” he mumbled, his voice deep and rough with sleep. He let his hand fall to the doorframe, steadying himself. “You were gone when I woke up.”

“Oh,” Phainon said lamely. He looked down at the pot, the fish, anywhere but Mydei’s eyes. “Good morning.”

He swallowed and tried for a smile, though it came out small and uncertain.

“…Sorry if I worried you.”

Mydei didn’t respond right away.

Phainon felt a prickle of unease run through him, a low thrum of uncertainty he couldn’t shake. They’d talked about this before—about how Mydei was here because he wanted to be, because he cared.

And yet, somehow, knowing it didn’t make it easier. If anything, it almost made it worse.

“S'fine,” Mydei said finally, his voice softer now. “What did you make?”

“Just…uh.” Phainon cleared his throat, studiously stirring the rice to avoid meeting his gaze. “Some things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Um. It’s for…anyone. If you would be okay eating my cooking—”

“Phainon,” Mydei interrupted, tone so flat it nearly startled him, “you’re not a bad cook.”

“Oh.”

Phainon blinked, glancing up before quickly looking away again.

“Did you—” Mydei tilted his head, squinting at him in the morning light. “Did you think I thought you were?”

“Well—” Phainon fumbled, his ears going pink. “You’re just…you’re a really great cook, Mydei. I didn’t want you to think—”

“Okay?” Mydei sighed, his expression somewhere between exasperation and fondness. “I still eat that slop down near the Marmoreal Palace. We go there all the time.”

“It’s not slop,” Phainon muttered, scandalized. His brows drew together, his mouth pulling into a small, indignant frown. “It’s good. Plus the owners is nice...”

Mydei stared at him for a beat.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he said, and for the first time that morning, his mouth curved into the beginnings of a smile.
They sat together in the little kitchen, the quiet broken only by the soft clink of spoons against ceramic.

Mydei ate with that same measured elegance he always had—like even something as simple as breakfast deserved his full attention.

“This is good,” he said, before Phainon could even open his mouth to ask. His tone was calm, matter-of-fact.

Phainon felt himself smile, small and a little shy. “Thanks,” he murmured. The warm, savory taste of the fish made his chest ache. Gods, he missed Aedes Elysiae—missed the terraces and the river air and the old trees whose names he still remembered.

“Have you…been staying long?” he asked, carefully casual. “I’m sure you’ve been busy.”

“…No,” Mydei replied after a pause. He took another bite of rice, unhurried. “It’s been manageable.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Haven’t we already talked about this, Phainon?”

He looked up, startled to see Mydei blinking at him, expression dry as the desert.

“Oh—well. Yes,” Phainon admitted, slumping a little in his seat.

Mydei shook his head and let the matter drop.

A few heartbeats passed in comfortable silence before he spoke again, voice softer.

“How are you feeling after…waking up?”

“Oh!” Phainon straightened, almost too quickly. “I’m alright!”

“…You’re oddly bubbly today,” Mydei observed, eyeing him over the rim of his bowl.

“Am…Am I not normally?”

“Well, not recent—” Mydei stopped himself with a quiet exhale, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to scold or laugh. “Never mind. Just eat.”

Phainon ducked his head, but the smile lingered all the same.

They ate in unhurried silence for a while, the kitchen bright with early light filtering through the curtains. Every now and then, Phainon would catch Mydei watching him—steady, thoughtful, like he was cataloguing every little detail to tuck away for later.

It made something flutter behind Phainon’s ribs. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

At one point, his hand drifted over the table between them, reaching almost unconsciously toward Mydei’s. He paused halfway, fingers hovering in the space just shy of contact. Mydei looked down, watching his hand with that same impossible patience.

For a moment, it felt like the whole world had gone quiet.

He could almost feel it—the warmth of Mydei’s skin, the way it would feel to close that last inch of space, to let himself be selfish for once. To take comfort he hadn’t earned.

Phainon swallowed. His throat felt too tight.

Mydei didn’t look away.

His voice, when it came, was soft enough that it didn’t feel like a reprimand—just a reminder.

“You don’t have to apologize for being here,” he said. “Or for being yourself.”

Phainon’s breath caught. His hand trembled, fingers curling in on themselves before he could stop it.

“I—” He wet his lips, gaze fixed on the polished wood grain of the table. “I know. I’m…trying.”

“I know,” Mydei murmured.

The quiet stretched between them, heavy and tender all at once.

Then—slowly—Mydei reached out. His fingertips brushed the back of Phainon’s knuckles, just a whisper of contact. The warmth of it felt like a promise he didn’t dare believe.

Phainon’s chest ached.

He looked up, eyes meeting Mydei’s.

And just when it felt like he might close that last bit of distance—might give in to the yearning that lived somewhere deep in his bones—he drew back.

Cleared his throat.

Stood abruptly to gather their dishes.

“I’ll—um—I’ll clean up,” he said, voice pitched too bright, too fast.

Mydei didn’t protest. He only lowered his hand back to the table, watching him with that same steady, unreadable expression.

Phainon carried the bowls to the sink, his heart beating too hard in his chest.

Maybe next time, he thought. Maybe he’d be brave enough to stay.

But for now, this was all he could give.

Chapter Text

Phainon was not someone built for stillness.

After discovering he’d been asleep— unconscious , more like—for well over a week, he seemed almost possessed by the need to move, to do . The shift was jarring. He’d gone from barely coherent, held together by soft blankets and softer words, to pacing the hallway like a caged animal with nowhere to go but somewhere .

Mydei watched him carefully, arms folded, one brow faintly raised in suspicion as Phainon pulled on boots with far too much enthusiasm.

“Is something… wrong?” Mydei asked, voice low.

Phainon blinked up, lacing his boots tighter. “What could you mean?”

“I mean—” Mydei’s eyes narrowed slightly. “ You want to go out? After… everything?”

Phainon paused, fingers still on the laces. He could guess what Mydei meant. His collapse, the days of fevered sleep, the shaking hands that couldn’t hold a spoon without help. The things he could only half remember, but Mydei had surely endured all of.

Maybe he should apologize. Maybe he should sit back down and say thank you a hundred times. But instead, he offered a cheerful, deflecting smile. “I want to see if Aglaea’s opened that tailor shop.”

“She hasn’t.”

“Then I’ll go see if she needs help setting up.”

“You’re moving a little fast, Phainon,” Mydei said, a note of warning creeping in. “We only just—”

“It’s been almost a month ! A month, Mydeimos!” Phainon stood now, flinging his arms wide like he could stretch the time itself. “I can’t stay here forever. I’ll rot!”

“Have you no respect for your body?” Mydei’s voice sharpened. “You haven’t even regained full strength. Eat. Walk. Then work.”

“I have been eating!” Phainon whined, indignantly.

“You have the energy to whine, so clearly you’re well enough to walk,” Mydei replied dryly.

Phainon gasped. “That’s entrapment !”

“That's logic .”

“Fine! Let’s walk then! Outside! Sunlight!”

“Hks…” Mydei pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting all his life choices. “Fine. But only to the corner and back.”

“To the corner and a little beyond!”

“To the corner,” Mydei said firmly.

Phainon grinned and practically bounced toward the door. “You’re the worst nurse.”

“I’m not a nurse,” Mydei muttered, grabbing his coat. “I’m your warden .”

“ Affectionate warden,” Phainon chirped.

“…Jury’s out.”

When they finally stepped outside, the sun blazed high overhead, sharp and golden and real . Phainon lifted a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the light like it might burn straight through him.

Khaslana stirred faintly in the back of his mind, a shiver of something cold and bitter. A memory, maybe. One that didn’t belong to this moment. Phainon pushed it aside. He wasn’t about to let a whim of the moment hurt Khaslana right now. 

It had been ages since he felt like this— himself , or something close to it. Awake. Alive. Not drowning in static or silence. He wanted to move, to help, to do . Even if it was just a step. Just to see if he could.

Mydei stayed close, walking beside him with that quiet awareness of someone always ready to catch him if he stumbled. It was a comfort Phainon clung to, unashamed. He’d take the warmth for as long as he was allowed. Until Mydei found something more important to do than babysit a glorified mess like him.

“My… the real sun sure is…” Phainon trailed off, his breath catching unexpectedly.

The real sun .

Didn’t he help create—

No. Ow . Don’t think, Phainon. Just walk.

He gave a too-cheerful shake of his head and forced a grin. “Anyways! Where to first, Mr. Warden?”

“Don’t call me that,” Mydei sighed. “But… where do you want to go?”

“Oh? You’re letting me roam ?” Phainon gasped theatrically.

“If you fall, I’m dragging you home and telling Anaxa you fainted in public,” Mydei deadpanned.

“Oh, how you wound me, Mydeimos…”

Phainon rocked on his heels, half in jest, half because he really wasn’t quite steady. He blinked around at the street, brow furrowing faintly. “Where’s Aglaea staying these days?”

“She’s still at the heroes baths,” Mydei replied. “There’s… still a lot of political nonsense to sort through. She’s safer there.”

“I see. That’s… a little far, no?”

Mydei raised a brow. “Worried you’ll fall on the way there?”

“Nono! Of course not!” Phainon said quickly.

We will though, Khaslana whispered.

Shush, Phainon thought back, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“It’s just… very hot,” he amended, waving vaguely at the air. “Sweltering, really. Sun’s got something to prove today.”

“Castorice might still be in town,” Mydei offered after a beat.

Phainon brightened instantly. “Perfect! Let’s go see her! If I faint, you can blame her instead.”

“I look forward to it,” Mydei said dryly.

And just like that, they started walking—slowly, side by side. One step at a time.

They walked side by side at first—or rather, Phainon tried to.

But it didn’t take long for Mydei to begin drifting just slightly behind him, his steps deliberate. Always hovering a pace back, always just close enough to catch him if he swayed. It was quiet, practiced. The kind of attentiveness that should’ve gone unnoticed. Should have.

Phainon noticed.

And it made something twist.

At first, he tried to ignore it. Focus on the cobblestones, the scattered market voices, the smell of bread wafting from a distant stall. But every time his foot slipped a fraction on uneven ground, Mydei’s hand hovered. Not touching—never touching—but there . A silent offer. A net beneath a tightrope walk.

He didn’t deserve that kind of gentleness.

“You’re walking as if you were herding an animal,” Phainon muttered, trying for levity.

Mydei gave him a glance, unreadable as always. “You’re walking like a glass I’m trying to keep from shattering.”

Phainon laughed. It sounded a little wrong in his own throat. “That’s poetic. Tragic. I’ll cry.”

“You won’t,” Mydei said, with maddening certainty. “You’ll crack jokes until your legs give out.”

Phainon opened his mouth to retort—but closed it again. Because he was right. Of course he was.

Khaslana stirred again, faint and cold, like a ripple across still water. The kind of presence that made Phainon reflexively tense his shoulders, unsure if the thought was his or not. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way Mydei's actions must have stirred some part of him. 

You’re not like him, is that why you're anxious? he tried to say, inwardly.

No, Khaslana answered, low and tired. But I could be. And so could you.

Phainon flinched.

Mydei, perceptive as ever, said nothing. But he shifted their path ever so slightly, leading them down a quieter lane lined with high stone walls and soft shade. The temperature dropped a little. So did Phainon’s guard.

“…You keep steering us into the shadows,” Phainon said after a while, voice too light to be casual.

“You overheat easily,” Mydei replied simply.

“Do I? I thought it was the opposite.”

Mydei didn’t respond right away. When he did, his tone was almost too soft to hear over the rustle of wind in the trees. “I’m trying to make it easier for you.”

That stopped Phainon in his tracks.

Just for a moment.

He looked at Mydei, sunlight caught in his lashes, jaw tight like he regretted saying it. But the words hung there, warm and aching.

Phainon glanced away, swallowing against the sudden knot in his throat. “You're…too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Caring.” The word slipped out like a splinter. “You’re good at it. And I keep wondering when you’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble.”

“You say that like I haven’t already decided otherwise,” Mydei said, resuming his steps like nothing had shifted between them.

But everything had.

And Phainon followed, quieter now. A little steadier.

He still didn’t quite believe he deserved this. But maybe, just maybe… he could walk in the shade a little longer. He could be a little selfish here and there.

By the time they reached the market square, most of the morning rush had passed. The cobblestones were sun-warmed and dappled with shade from canvas stalls fluttering lazily in the breeze. It should’ve been peaceful—quiet, even.

But the moment someone spotted him, the quiet was shattered.

“ Lord Phainon! ”

The cry came from an elderly man behind a spice cart. Before Phainon could blink, the man had rounded the corner and clutched his hands, eyes wide with emotion.

“You’re alright ! Praise the stars, we thought—”

“—No one had seen you in weeks—”

“—there were rumors—”

“—my sister swore you were taken by a TitanKin—”

“ I told her it was just a retreat for the soul—”

“Lord Phainon, are you eating enough?”

More voices joined in, overlapping, until he was surrounded by a loose circle of shopkeepers, weavers, bakers, and stall owners—all talking at once, concern etched into every face. Some reached out to touch his sleeve or shoulder, hesitant but reverent, like he might vanish if they blinked.

Phainon blinked instead, stunned by the sudden crush of affection.

“I—uh—yes? I am alright?” he said, voice pitching slightly upward like he wasn’t sure of the answer himself. “Really. I just… needed some time.”

“He’s still regaining strength,” Mydei interjected from just behind him, stepping in like a protective shadow. Not cold—just firm. “No crowding.”

The citizens shifted back a little, chagrined but still visibly relieved. A few bowed their heads. One older woman pressed a wrapped parcel into his hand without a word and walked away.

Phainon stared at the bundle.

“…That’s three loaves of sweetbread,” he muttered to himself.

“You’re beloved,” Mydei said simply.

Phainon flushed.

“I—I didn’t expect this.”

“You’ve always been kind to them, in fact you're always too insistent that you must help every citizen and give them your full attention," Mydei replied. “They don’t forget that.” he added. 

Phainon’s throat tightened. His gaze drifted over the people around him—weather-worn, smiling, familiar. The same hands that once waved to him in the rain, that handed him flowers after long speeches, that listened to him when he didn’t think anyone would.

They’d noticed he was gone. He assumed after the Era Nova most would simply… not care.

And now they welcomed him back, like he hadn’t fallen apart at all.

“I missed this,” he said softly, mostly to himself.

Mydei gave him a quiet look—something unreadable tucked just behind his lashes—but didn’t say anything. Instead, he lifted a hand and waved someone over from across the square.

Phainon followed the motion, blinking against the light until—

“ Lord Phainon! ”

That voice.

Familiar, bright.

A flash of lavender hair and soft, woven patterns came into view. Castorice.

She was already weaving through the light crowd toward them, her smile shining so openly that for a second, Phainon forgot how to breathe.

She’s smiling, Khaslana murmured in his head, the tone so heartbreakingly tender it made his chest seize. You didn’t ruin her, see what we were able to protect?

Castorice's eyes sparkled like dusk-stained amethyst. Flowers—fresh, vivid things—were braided neatly into her hair, trailing delicately along one shoulder. Her dress shimmered with new embroidery, subtle gold threading through soft purples and ivory whites. She looked almost like royalty, like something soft and whole and untouched .

Goodness, Phainon thought, awe curling around the corners of his mouth. Era Nova’s been kind to her.

And before he could stop himself—before he even thought —he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

She flinched, just for a heartbeat, her body stiff with surprise.

Then she sank into it.

Her arms came up around him, slow and careful, her cheek pressing lightly against his shoulder. “You’re up,” she whispered. “And awake. Thank goodness.”

Phainon held her tighter. It was ridiculous, how solid she felt. How warm.

She used to say her hands were always cold. But here she was—bright, real, and warm enough to burn straight through the lingering fog that clung to his edges.

“I missed you,” he said before he could think better of it. His voice cracked softly with the weight of it.

She only nodded against him. “We were all so worried.”

Phainon swallowed hard, eyes closing for a brief moment.

They wandered the market with no real destination, just following the soft sprawl of cobblestones and shaded stalls, voices drifting in the breeze like music. Phainon stuck close—too close, probably. But he couldn’t help it.

His arm brushed against Castorice’s more than once, and eventually he gave up trying to pretend it was accidental. He bumped shoulders with her lightly as they passed a flower vendor, then looped their arms together without asking. She blinked, startled—but didn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Is this okay?”

“It’s… fine,” Castorice said, her voice soft with surprise. “You’re always like this, aren’t you?”

“Touchy?”

“Mmh.” Her eyes crinkled slightly. “Like a very needy puppy.”

“Oddly enough this isn't the first time I've heard that.”

She laughed quietly, and something in Phainon loosened.

He had always wanted to be this way—casual, affectionate, soft. There hadn’t been room for it before. Now, with the sun shining through linen canopies and Castorice’s arm warm against his, it felt like maybe the world was giving him permission.

Still, he felt her glancing at him, as if trying to read the reason behind the closeness. And for once, there wasn’t one. He just… missed this. Missed her . He always wanted to be close, give her comfort when she needed it. 

They stopped near a stall selling delicate glass charms, the sun catching in each one like captured stars. Castorice studied them absently, her voice quieter now. “It’s strange,” she said. “Being back. Touching things. People.”

Phainon looked at her, the joy in him still humming faintly but softening.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just thoughtful.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up,” she continued. “That all of this—warmth, sunlight, the freedom to return to my duties without stripping life away from others —will vanish. That I’ll be dragged back into the dark again.”

Phainon’s hand squeezed hers without thinking.

“This is the future we fought for,” he said gently. “The one you helped lead us into. You deserve to walk in it.”

Castorice looked down at their hands. “It feels like it's too good to be true, sometimes.”

“It’s yours,” Phainon said firmly. “We made it yours.”

She exhaled, not quite agreeing. Then: “But what about you ? What do you want now, Phainon?”

His heart stuttered.

He offered a smile instead of an answer, turning his gaze back toward the path ahead. “I want to finish this walk without faceplanting in front of the fruit vendor.”

“Phainon.”

“Maybe pet a cat. Hug a few more friends. Help someone cross a street.”

She stopped walking. “That’s not what I meant.”

There was a long pause. Phainon didn't know what to say, how to avoid this matter she kept pushing and wasn't able to come up with anything before she replied, quiet as the breeze. “You’re still afraid.”

“Of course I am.”

He turned to her again, face open, smiling a little crooked just as he always has. “ But I think I’ll keep walking anyway.”

Castorice nodded, the tension in her shoulders softening again. She didn’t push further. Just took his hand this time as they walked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Phainon leaned his head against Castorice’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed fabric.

Small things. Quiet things.

He just needed to start small. Couldn’t rush this, after all there was so many things he had to repay the others for. It would take time. 

Still, as they rounded the next bend of the market path, he felt the familiar weight of Mydei’s presence trailing just a step behind—steady, silent, watching. Just being there as a comforting presence. 

Phainon glanced over his shoulder, catching Mydei’s eyes for just a second. There was no judgment there. No teasing. Just that same unreadable calm, like he was memorizing the way Phainon leaned, the way his shoulders had started to slope again with the creeping edge of exhaustion.

“Mydei,” Phainon said, slowing his steps until they almost stopped. “You’re hovering like a ghost.”

“I am your warden, remember?” Mydei replied mildly, though his gaze didn’t waver.

“Well,” Phainon said, turning and offering his hand with mock formality, “then walk beside your prisoner.”

Mydei hesitated—not long, but enough for Phainon to notice—before taking his hand.

It felt… different.

Warm, yes. But heavier. Like there was more behind the touch than just comfort. Castorice’s hand had felt like sunlight and memory—familiar, safe. Mydei’s felt like the edge of something unknown. A weight balanced between gravity and intention. Phainon’s fingers tightened slightly without thinking.

He could feel his heartbeat stutter. Once. Then twice.

He didn’t look at Mydei.

Instead, he looked ahead.

They found a shaded bench tucked between two empty stalls, and Phainon all but collapsed onto it with a breathless laugh.

“Victory,” he murmured. “I have survived the journey.”

“You look like you fought a war,” Castorice teased as she sat beside him.

“I did . A war with gravity.”

Mydei took the other side, and the moment he did, Phainon leaned slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his sleeve, hand still ghosting against his own.

He didn’t speak again for a while. He just sat there between them, eyes fluttering half-shut, the warmth of their presence easing the dull ache that had begun to settle into his limbs.

His body was catching up. The dizziness from too many days asleep. The buzzing behind his eyes. But even as fatigue crept in, he found himself quietly grateful.

Not for the bench. Not for the market.

But for this—for their closeness. For the way neither of them had pulled away.

Castorice, calm and steady at his side.

Mydei, silent and solid, their hands still barely touching.

Phainon didn’t say a word. He just sat there, caught between warmth and exhaustion, the weight of presence wrapping around him gentler than any blanket. The breeze ruffled his hair. The world was still.

And in the quiet space carved between three beating hearts, his thoughts unfurled like breath:

Thank you for staying.

I’m sorry I’m so pathetic.

I promise… I’ll do better. I’ll get stronger. I’ll live long enough to repay you both.

His hand twitched slightly in Mydei’s. Whether it was from fatigue or emotion, even Phainon wasn’t sure. But he didn’t pull away.

He let himself rest, just a little—his head lolling sideways until it landed lightly against Mydei’s shoulder. He didn’t even realize he’d done it until Mydei shifted the tiniest bit to steady him.

No complaint. No sigh. Just… there.

Phainon closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep—not fully. But he let himself be still, just for now.

Phainon drifted for a while—caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, where everything was soft and blurred around the edges.

He didn’t dream. Not really. Just floated.

He could hear Mydei’s breathing, steady and close against his ear. A quiet, grounding rhythm that anchored him more than any magic could. Somewhere beyond that, Castorice’s voice threaded through the stillness, speaking gently—probably recounting something mundane, something easy.

Phainon couldn’t make out the words. He wasn’t trying to.

Instead, he listened to the way Mydei’s breath caught when something she said amused him. The barely-there exhale. The hum in his chest. The warmth of it spread through Phainon’s shoulder like sunlight through glass.

Mydei murmured a reply, low and slow—careful not to disturb him. The words themselves dissolved before Phainon could catch them, but the sound—the inflection—settled somewhere deep. A gentle vibration through bone and breath. It was a comfort he couldn’t name.

He stayed like that longer than he meant to.

Still. Listening.

When his eyes fluttered open, everything was tinted gold from the waning light. He found himself nose to collarbone, curled slightly into the dip of Mydei’s shoulder. The steady rise and fall of Mydei’s chest was the first thing he saw—solid, warm, rhythmic. He could smell the scent of metal against his intricate necklace-like piece, along with the distinct pomegranate smell from the other man's breath. 

Then—

Weight.

Castorice had shifted at some point, apparently deciding that the best place to rest was half-draped over him, one arm thrown lazily across his waist, head resting along his leg. Breathing gently as if there were no worries in the world.

Phainon blinked, slowly.

They must look like a pile of sleeping chimeras.

A tangle of limbs and closeness, bodies collapsed under the weight of too many quiet promises and not enough rest.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Something in his chest ached with it—this, this fragile, ridiculous closeness. How easily he could break it. How much it terrified him that maybe it was real.

He closed his eyes again.

Just a few more minutes. He was warm, comfortable, and goodness did the smell of pomegranates feel addictive at this moment. 

Half-asleep, half-aware, clinging to the warmth of their shared stillness like it might vanish if he breathed too hard.

Then—

Fingers in his hair.

He stirred at the first touch, barely more than a shift in breath, but didn’t open his eyes.

Mydei’s hand moved slowly, carefully—threading through his curls like the motion had always been second nature. Not possessive. Not thoughtless. Just… soft.

Each stroke sent a quiet jolt through Phainon’s chest, electricity humming along every nerve ending. It wasn’t the touch itself—it was the way it meant something. The way it lingered . The way Mydei let it linger.

Phainon’s eyes blinked open, unfocused at first. His cheek still rested lightly against Mydei’s shoulder, and Castorice’s arm lay heavy across his stomach. But all he could feel was that hand , combing through his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His heart beat too fast.

He swallowed, willing his voice to work. It didn’t.

There was a fondness in the motion that felt ancient , familiar , earned .

But tangled in that warmth was a sharp ache Phainon couldn’t name. It curled beneath his ribs, made his throat feel too tight. A longing, maybe. Or a grief he hadn’t caught up to.

He finally found his voice, barely above a whisper. “That tickles.”

Mydei didn’t stop. “Good.”

Phainon let out a breathless laugh—quiet, almost strained, like he wasn’t sure if his chest could hold the weight of it. “You’re cruel.”

“Am I?” Mydei’s voice was low, rough with amusement. “I think you’re enjoying this.”

Phainon hummed, eyes slipping shut again as those fingers traced another slow path through his hair.

“I guess I am,” he murmured.

And it was true—more than he wanted to admit.

How long has it been since someone touched us like this? Since someone stayed this long.
It's been so long since someone held us like we were fragile and worth holding.

Careful.
I know…

Every careful brush of Mydei’s fingers through his curls was another quiet reminder that he hadn’t been abandoned. That even now—worn down, healing, half-scattered—he was still wanted in some quiet, wordless way.

So he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t speak again.

He just leaned a little closer, let his hand slip over Mydei’s where it rested against his head, and whispered to the quiet:

“Don’t stop.”

Chapter Text

When Cyrene first suggested they visit Aedes Elysiae, Aglaea faltered. Her breath caught, just slightly.

“I’m not sure… that doesn’t seem like…”
Her voice trailed off before she could shape the doubt into words.

“I understand,” Cyrene said gently, nodding. “It sounds a little far-fetched. But Phainon needs something—anything. Just getting him away might help. And really, what’s more comforting than Aedes Elysiae? It’s only a memory now, of course—restored through the power of remembrance. There won’t be anyone there.”

Aglaea stood in silence. The name— Aedes Elysiae —settled heavy in her chest, like old gold weighing down the breath. It was beautiful once, according to Phainon who always spoke of it with such reverence. Sacred. Now it was a place stitched together by memory, by longing. Still, something in her ached at the thought of stepping through it again.

“I see…” she murmured at last. “I’ll consider it. Thank you, Cyrene.”

Later, when Mydei told her that Phainon had gotten out of bed—bright, laughing, almost too bright—her stomach twisted. That kind of cheer wasn’t healing. It was armor.

She watched Mydei trying to smile, trying to act like things were fine, but the truth was written all over him—sleepless eyes, a voice too careful. He was burning himself hollow to keep Phainon afloat. And she knew: he wouldn’t rest, couldn’t rest, until he was sure the other was safe. Not pretending, not performing—but really safe. Happy. Alive.

Aglaea wished she could do more. She wanted to cradle them both in something warmer than time, softer than memory. But she knew—recovery wasn’t something you could force. It had to be chosen. It had to be wanted.

Phainon had to reach for the light himself.

And maybe… just maybe… walking through an old dream would remind him of why he once did.

So she folded the thought gently into her heart, and let it settle.

Perhaps visiting the memory wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

So, she decided to ask.

SNOWY SUPPORT GROUP

Aglaea: Everyone, would you all be free to accompany Phainon and me somewhere?

Castorice: I may. He’s outside right now. 🙂

Anaxa: I trust you and Mydei are with him?

Castorice: Of course, Professor. It’s as you said—his physical state is still quite fragile.

Hyacine: Where are you thinking, Lady Aglaea?

Aglaea: Cyrene has offered that we visit Aedes Elysiae. It’s been restructured as a visitable memory through her efforts. She believes it might help with his recovery.

Hyacine: Isn’t that his hometown? Are you sure it would help? His mental state is…

Anaxa: This doesn’t seem like a well-thought-out suggestion.

Aglaea: I assure you—it is.

Cyrene: Sorry to butt in~ Don’t worry, no one else will be there. But he’s always wanted to show you all our home. I think helping him feel peace and normalcy is good for him.

Castorice: I must agree. He seemed much better today just from walking and talking in the market. He’s asleep now.

Castorice sends a photo: Mydei’s eyes are lidded, watching quietly while Phainon sleeps against him, curled into his side. You can see Castorice’s dress draped protectively over them both.

Hyacine: Aww! You’re all cuddled up! So cute!

Tribbie: Snowy looks better already— Wait, why is he in his armor???

Castorice: Lord Mydei is too.

Tribbie: …Isn’t that heavy??? He’s still recovering!

Castorice: Um.
Castorice : I don’t know.
Castorice: Anyways—Lady Aglaea, I’d be happy to accompany you.

Hyacine: Me too!

Anaxa: I will.

Aglaea: ??

Tribbie: ??

Hyacine: ??

Castorice: ??

Mydei: 👍

–

While Aglaea recovered from the chaos that was their group chat, she found herself drifting toward the garden. The air was crisp with the scent of lavender and dew, sunlight spilling through the trellises in dappled, golden beams. Somewhere to the left, a chimera cooed softly at another, their murmurs layered over the distant rustle of wind-kissed leaves. The quiet felt earned.

She hadn’t expected them to leave today—not really. She had only meant to offer the idea, to let it rest and settle in everyone’s minds. But as she stood among the gentle hum of life, she could sense the shift. One by one, she felt their presence drawing near.

Hyacine arrived first, sunlight clinging to her hair like it belonged there. Anaxa was beside her, polite today, maybe for Hyacine's sake, though Aglaea could read the tension in his shoulders—the silent, academic kind of disapproval that didn’t need to be voiced. Still, he was here. 

Then came Mydei, steady as ever, with Castorice just behind him—her fingers idly fussing with the folds of her dress. Phainon was between them, holding onto both. One arm draped over Mydei’s shoulder, the other curled around Castorice’s arm. At first glance, he looked composed, almost normal. But with every step, the truth showed—his movements were slow, uneven, his balance delicate. Mydei’s hand stayed firm at his back, steadying him with quiet, constant support.

He looked better than before. Not well, but better. Color in his cheeks, even if his breaths were shallow. His armor, unnecessary and clearly too heavy, clinked with every step.

Aglaea watched quietly as they approached. Phainon was the one to break the silence first.

“Oh! Everyone’s here?” His voice was light—too light—but not hollow. It held the weariness of someone trying to keep pace with the world again. Tired, but sincere.

“…So, Cyrene recreated our home,” he said softly, the words slipping from him like a remembered lullaby. His gaze dropped, almost shy. “Aedes Elysiae.”

The name hung in the air.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see it again,” he admitted, eyes distant. “Though… I always did want to show you all my home.”

Hyacine stepped closer, her voice warm with certainty. “Well, we don't always get this chance, and it'll be good too visit,.”

Anaxa didn’t speak, but his fingers curled slightly behind his back—a rare, subtle gesture. His silence wasn’t disapproval anymore. Though it was still difficult to tell what exactly he was thinking at the moment. 

Castorice nodded. “We’ll walk at your pace.”

Phainon blinked, and for a moment, his expression softened into something vulnerable, almost childlike. “Okay… Okay. I wonder how much is there.” He didn’t ask for more. He didn’t need to.

Aglaea exhaled slowly and reached into the folds of her robes, retrieving a delicate fragment—small and translucent, like crystallized starlight. The moment her fingers brushed it, it shimmered faintly with stored memory, responding to her divine touch.

“This is what Cyrene gave me,” she said. “A condensed anchor, tied to the remembrance. We’ll only see what Cyrene has built and what it allows us to.”

She stepped to the center of the garden, the others instinctively making space. With both hands, she lifted the memory shard and pressed it gently into the air before her. It didn’t fall—it hung, suspended, trembling slightly.

A pulse echoed through the garden.

The air rippled outward like a drop into still water. Sunlight bent and refracted. And then—quietly, beautifully—the veil began to open.

The scent hit first. Wheat. Salt. Wildflowers. A breeze carried it to them, warm and sweet. Golden light bled in from beyond, soft and nostalgic.

And through that veil, they saw it.

Aedes Elysiae.

Not the ruins. Not the version left behind in the physical world.

But a memory of it—whole, vivid, impossibly serene. Rolling fields stretching into the distance. Dirt paths winding between whitewashed homes. Shimmering lakes reflecting the sun. And most beautifully, a winding field of golden wheat, blowing serenely in the breeze.

Aglaea marveled at the sight, it was so… quaint. Nothing like the bustling city, and not even similar to the smaller villages in the surrounding area– Aedes Elysiae had a certain tinge of nostalgia seemingly built in despite it being her first time seeing it. 

She turned to look over at everyone else, Phainon’s breath hitched. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand tightening around Mydei’s sleeve for the briefest moment—grounding himself.

“Well… this is my home,” he said with a small smile, the tone almost rehearsed, like he was introducing an old friend. Slowly, he loosened his grip on both Mydei and Castorice, stepping out in front of the group.

“I—I did want to say something before we go any further,” he added, turning slightly to face them all. “I’m… sorry. For causing you so much trouble.”

The words hung awkwardly for a beat, as if they surprised even him.

“For worrying you. For not being around. For shutting down, I guess. I know you all kept showing up even when I didn’t.” He let out a soft, breathy laugh, more sorrow than humor. “I don’t really know how to make that up to you. But I want to try.”

His eyes flickered across their faces—Hyacine’s gentleness, Anaxa’s calm intensity, Castorice’s softness, Mydei’s unreadable gaze. Aglaea hoped her expression came across as understanding.

“I want to focus on getting better,” he continued, voice steadier now. “Not for me, really. But… for you all. You deserve someone who can stand beside you.”

The silence that followed was full—aching, warm, full of things none of them quite knew how to say. Mydei shifted slightly, lips parting as if to speak. Aglaea almost mourned that he would speak before her,

But before she could, Phainon turned suddenly, his head tilting slightly toward the air.

“…You hear those chimes?” he asked, already smiling again—gentler this time, a flicker of brightness in his eyes. “I helped put up most of them. Come on, let me show you.”

And before anyone could answer, he was already moving—his pace slow but steady, guiding them along a worn stone path that wound between flower-draped fences and quiet, glowing windows. The soft ringing of glass and metal charms stirred in the breeze, catching the sunlight as they passed.

The village, though empty, felt alive through him.

Phainon’s steps were slow, careful, but his voice—his voice was steady. More alive than any of them had heard in weeks. He gestured softly as he walked, eyes flicking toward familiar rooftops, shaded alleys, and gently swinging signs.

“Ah—this is where I was taught,” Phainon said, coming to a gentle stop near a low stone building nestled in the embrace of ivy and soft blue flowers. The windows were clouded by time, but the wood frame still stood firm, etched with years of memory. His smile, touched with warmth, flickered into something quietly fond. “My old teacher was strict. The kind who’d glare at you just for breathing too loud during lessons—but she was gentle about everything else. Kind of like you, Professor Anaxa.”

A beat.

Anaxa, walking a pace behind, narrowed his eyes. “Do you wish to lose your tongue, Phainon?”

Castorice giggled behind her hand. “What a beautiful place,” she said, looking around with wide eyes. “It’s so quiet, but not in a bad way. It feels like the silence is watching over us.”

Phainon nodded slightly, and Aglaea could see how he relaxed when she said it—how some invisible burden across his shoulders seemed to ease, even just a little.

From her place near the front, Aglaea let her gaze drift behind them.

Hyacine and Mydei trailed a little further back, their heads bent together in soft conversation. Mydei’s expression was unreadable, but Hyacine was smiling gently, her hands moving as she spoke—explaining something, perhaps.

Aglaea turned her eyes forward once more.

Phainon had already stepped onto the path ahead, his fingers brushing lightly over the stone wall as he passed. The flowers caught in the light, petals glowing faintly in response to his presence.

He spoke again, almost to himself. “We used to bury things out here. Little secrets. Notes, candy, dumb things we thought were too important to lose. Even I don’t remember where all of them are anymore.”

It was Anaxa, surprisingly, who broke the spell of Phainon’s wandering nostalgia.

“Do you wish to find them?” he asked, his voice calm, clinical—but not unkind. “Cyrene’s memory likely has them all stored. Every hidden trinket, every badly buried stash.”

Phainon blinked, pulled from his reverie like a thread cut loose. “Oh? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Anaxa crossed his arms, the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, after that last comment—about your very gracious and forgiving teacher—consider this your new assignment. Post-graduation.”

Phainon’s mouth fell open. “What?! Am I being graded on this?”

“Yes.”

Castorice laughed openly this time, nearly stumbling as she caught herself on a garden post. “Professor! That’s cruel!”

Anaxa didn’t respond, but Aglaea caught the tiniest glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The kind he only ever showed when his students were flustered and trying very hard not to smile.

Phainon groaned theatrically. “Do I get extra credit if I find a candy wrapper?”

“No,” Anaxa said flatly. Then, after a pause, “Only if it’s yours and still has something in it.”

That made even Mydei let out a short breath of a laugh from the back. Hyacine glanced toward him, smiling softly again, and Aglaea caught a glimpse of what this trip was becoming—not just a memory, but a breath of life. A strange, flickering kind of healing.

And Phainon—still walking, still tired—looked back at all of them and grinned.

“I guess I better start digging, then.”

“Individually scored,” Anaxa added without missing a beat.

Phainon turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. “...Mydei, don’t you dare—”

But it was already too late. Mydei had that glint in his eye—the one that only ever appeared when someone said the word competition. He adjusted his gauntlet as if preparing for battle. “What do I get if I beat him?”

“Anything,” Anaxa replied, far too casually.

Phainon gaped. “Professor?!”

“Oh, then I shall participate as well,” Castorice declared with a dramatic flourish, already slipping from Phainon’s side with a mischievous smile blooming across her face. “I want my prize in poetry.”

She was off a moment later, vanishing down the path with surprising speed.

Phainon’s arms dropped to his sides in disbelief. “ You’re all abandoning me?! I thought I was supposed to be looked after!”

“Better dig faster,” Mydei muttered as he strolled past him, entirely unbothered.

Hyacine let out a delighted squeak of laughter. “Wait— do we get extra points for being emotionally supportive while beating him?”

Aglaea stood off to the side, watching it unfold like a gentle storm. A ridiculous, affectionate storm. Phainon sputtering, Mydei calmly striding ahead, Castorice skipping like she already knew where to dig, Hyacine bouncing after her.

They all scattered quickly after that—off into fields and gardens like children released from study. Phainon, to Aglaea’s surprise, moved with more energy than she remembered seeing in weeks. His laughter rang light through the air as he dodged Mydei, the weight on his shoulders seeming to lift with every step.

Somehow, Anaxa and Aglaea had found themselves sitting quietly in each other’s company beneath a large, weathered tree. The shade fell gently over them, dappled in warm light. Above, a wind chime clinked lazily in the breeze—hung far too high, no doubt by a child determined to prove they could reach the impossible. It swayed with a kind of proud defiance.

Neither of them spoke at first.

There was no need to.

The sounds of the memory drifted around them—laughter in the distance, water lapping at the lakeshore, the faint sound of Castorice yelling something gleeful just before a splash followed. The world felt… still. Not frozen, but suspended. Safe.

Anaxa broke the silence, his voice quiet, thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s the effects within this memory,” he murmured, mostly to himself, though his gaze didn’t leave Phainon in the distance. “My body feels light. Phainon’s likely does too. Cyrene must have designed this place to ease the physical strain—to help facilitate his recovery.”

Aglaea hummed in quiet agreement, arms loosely crossed as she stood beside him. The two of them remained at the edge of the garden, watching as the others barreled through the tall grass, kicking up blooms and dirt alike. Phainon had just flung a clump of dry earth directly into Mydei’s face.

Mydei paused, blinked slowly through the mess, and then took off in pursuit, chasing Phainon with the kind of restrained vengeance that made Castorice scream-laugh and duck behind a tree. Hyacine, trying to play peacemaker, was laughing too hard to intervene.

It was, objectively, chaos.

But Aglaea couldn’t remember the last time it felt this good.

“And the real reason? For this I mean, sending them on a chase?” she asked softly, glancing over at Anaxa from the corner of her eye.

He adjusted the fabric over his eye slightly, his tone steady. “It will slowly improve control in his weakened muscles. He’s moving without realizing it. Running, throwing, bracing himself. The body relearns faster when it doesn’t know it’s being taught.”

“Steady hands first,” he added, voice quiet. “Then he can steady the rest of himself.”

Aglaea let out a breath. Not quite a sigh. “I hadn’t expected you to be quite so caring.”

There was a pause.

Anaxa didn’t answer.

But she didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened faintly. Or the way his eyes, for just a heartbeat, softened as Phainon shrieked and ducked behind Mydei again—grinning like a fool and alive like never before.

Aglaea’s gaze drifted downward, almost unintentionally.

Anaxa, as always, was dressed immaculately. But from this angle, with the sun filtering just right and his sleeve shifted ever so slightly, she noticed his hand—wrapped, as it always was, but now with more care. Beneath the cloth, she caught the faintest shimmer of something unnatural. A crack—fine, like splintered glass running across porcelain—cut across his skin.

She frowned.

“…Anaxagoras,” she said softly, careful not to startle him, “forgive me for prying, but… are you alright?”

He glanced toward her, eyes unreadable for a moment. There was always a pause with Anaxa, as if every word had to be measured and weighed before being spoken. But this time, he didn’t deflect.

“I’ll be fine,” he said at last, his voice quiet—and surprisingly sincere. “Thank you.”

It caught her off guard a little, the way his tone shifted at the end. Less clinical, less distant. Gentle, in a way that seemed rarely afforded to anyone, let alone her.

“I see…” she murmured, watching him just a moment longer before they both turned, drawn back by the noise ahead.

Hyacine let out a high-pitched squeal of laughter—Mydei had hoisted her over his shoulder effortlessly.

“ That’s cheating! ” she shrieked.

“ It’s strategy! ” Phainon yelled back, grinning as he snatched the item she’d just dug up and bolted, dirt flying with each step.

“ That was mine! ”

“You dropped it!”

“Because I was airborne!! I thought you were on my side De!”

Castorice was doubled over laughing. Mydei hoisted her up as if she was weightless, the ghost of a smile he couldn't suppress on his face, Hyacine kicking her legs wildly in protest.

Aglaea shook her head with a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“They're ridiculous,” she said.

“Unquestionably,” Anaxa agreed, voice dry as ever. But something in his posture—always taut, always formal—had eased. Just slightly. And for a moment, the distant ache that usually lingered behind his eyes… faded.

Aglaea watched him more closely now.

She could see it clearly, clearer than she had before. Anaxa looked exhausted. Not in the way someone looks after a night without rest—but in the way that spoke of something deeper. Hollowed. Drained. As if the life had been steadily bleeding out of him for a long, long time.

It reminded her, too vividly, of before. Of that last moment she’d seen him before the ritual—before he’d reached into himself and ripped his own coreflame free.

She said nothing.

Not yet.

Anaxa was many things. Difficult. Detached. Unapologetically sharp. But foolish was not one of them. He was, without question, one of the most brilliant minds Amphoreus had ever seen—unfortunately for them all.

Whatever he was doing now… she had to believe it was part of some plan. That it had purpose. That the cost, whatever it was, had been weighed in full.

Even so, her eyes lingered on the faint crack across his hand.

And her worry did not leave her.

They lingered for a moment longer—just enough for Aglaea to settle into the rarest of sensations: peace. Warm sun on her skin, laughter in the distance, the familiar presence of her comrades nearby. She let herself breathe, for once, without bracing for the world to fall apart.

She never expected the two of them to sit together—much less enjoy it. Yet here they were, side by side in the quiet lull of a world that wasn’t real but felt real enough.

It was a rare reprieve. For both of them.

A moment to indulge in something as strangely domestic as lying around without a care in the world. No war. No divine crises. Just stillness.

And laughter.

In the distance, the people they had raised—watched over, worried for—were running and playing like children. Laughing without fear. Doing the things they should have been allowed to do years ago.

A calm breeze swept through.

Though soundless, it carried weight—a gentleness that settled like a melody just barely brushing her ears. Laughter echoed in the distance, footsteps crunching on soft grass, water lapping at the edge of the world. The whole memory sang with life. Even the faint, barely audible sound of the man beside her breathing could be heard—measured, steady.

When Aglaea glanced to the side, her eyes felt unusually heavy, as though the moment itself asked her to move more slowly.

Anaxa’s eyes were closed.

His posture remained upright, controlled as always, but his breathing had slowed. Not quite asleep—no, she doubted he ever truly rested—but he was present. Inhaling the peace this place offered like a man tasting something long denied.

She had always wondered if he could find joy in stillness. Even now, she wasn’t sure if he truly was.

Then, a voice—light, echoing gently in her mind.

“Aglaea, how is it?”

Cyrene.

“Can you hear me okay?”

“I can,” she answered, mentally threading her words back.

“Good~ How’s Phainon and everyone?”

“They’re by the lake,” Aglaea replied, letting her gaze drift toward the shimmering water in the distance. “I just watched Castorice push Mydei in.”

Cyrene giggled, the sound blooming like wind chimes through her thoughts.
“The memory is quite powerful. It took a lot of time and effort to get it just right.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

There was a pause, a warm pulse of pride.

“Please enjoy it. The wheat fields are what I’m most proud of~”

“I’ll be sure to visit them,” Aglaea murmured aloud, her voice little more than a breath in the golden light.

She closed her eyes for a moment too—just a moment. Letting herself believe, if only briefly, that nothing beyond this memory could touch them.

The breeze was warm. The quiet soft. And for once, her body didn’t brace itself against the weight of unseen threats. Somehow she found herself lying down, back braced against the trunk of the shaded tree. 

When Aglaea opened her eyes again, she blinked—realizing she'd shifted without noticing. She had turned fully toward Anaxa, and now they were nearly face to face, so close she could see the faint shimmer of golden thread caught in his hair.

Their eyes met.

He didn’t flinch.

"were you talking to someone?" Anaxa asked, somehow he knew, of course. 

Aglaea tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging in something that almost resembled a smirk. “And if I was? Would you still look at me with such an expression?” she returned.

"I can look at whatever I please."

“Though I wasn’t aware you were so interested in my face.”

Her tone was smooth, almost teasing—cool but not cruel. The kind of remark she might’ve once used as a blade, now dulled into something closer to habit than hostility.

Anaxa didn’t rise to it.

He didn’t snap back. Instead, he simply turned his gaze away—measured, composed. Not with annoyance. Not with shame. He huffed a soft noise, his gaze turning back to watch the others.

Aglaea studied him for a moment longer, catching the way his fingers rested lightly over his knee, motionless. She had once imagined him as a man who couldn't sit still without unraveling something or dismantling it—either a machine, a conversation, or a person.

And whether or not he was at peace, he had chosen to remain here—with her.

A small thing.

But in their shared history, it meant everything.

Though Aglaea couldn’t seem to turn away, she told herself she was simply observing the scene—the breeze, the way the late golden light filtered through the high branches, the soft tint of leaves drifting lazily down around them.

But her gaze kept drifting back to him.

To the way Anaxa sat—still, composed, and yet somehow softer than she’d ever seen him. A man always wound tight, now unwinding in quiet degrees. And there, just beside his temple, a small curled leaf had landed and caught in his hair, clinging stubbornly despite the wind.

Aglaea stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to. Then, without fully thinking, her hand moved—slowly. Carefully. As if reaching for something sacred.

She brushed the leaf away with a feather-light touch. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, the strands of his hair softer than she'd expected.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t turn.

But he watched her—every motion—his eyes tracking her hand like it held a secret he hadn’t yet been given.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Blunt. Effortless. As if stating the time of day.

There was no softness in the delivery, no pretense of romance or seduction. It wasn’t flirtation—it was a fact. Plain. Undeniable. Spoken the way only a man like him could.

Aglaea blinked, but her expression didn’t shift. Her voice, when it came, was dry. “You have a remarkable way of making words sound like analysis.”

“If anyone else said that,” he noted, eyes returning to the canopy above, “you’d be rolling your eyes.”

“Against what most think, I do often hear that I am quite aesthetic to the eye,” she returned calmly, though she couldn't prove it she swore she heard the start of a snicker come from the other man.

Anaxa looked out toward the lake, where laughter still echoed. “This place is uncannily calm.”

“Terribly fitting for a man like Phainon, no?” Aglaea said, letting her shoulder brush lightly against his as she leaned back.

“And Cyrene,” he added. “Somehow… it just makes sense those two optimists came from a place like this.”

“Optimists…” she echoed, tasting the word. “I hope the world hasn’t destroyed the last of their inner child.”

Anaxa said nothing.

But for a moment, his eyes closed again—just briefly—and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, a part of his own hadn’t been entirely lost either.

“…Apparently going about it for 33,550,336 cycles does that to a person,” Anaxa said quietly, his voice more dry than bitter.

Aglaea stilled, her gaze flicking toward him. “I know we were able to witness a multitude of those cycles through the Trailblazer and Cyrene… but aren’t you curious about them?”

There was a pause. The wind stirred the chimes again.

“…I am,” Anaxa admitted. “I didn’t think you would be at all.”

“The idea of it intrigues me,” she said, voice softer now, laced with thought. “Somehow I imagined… if I saw enough of them, some version of my past self—some sliver of memory—might surface. And yet…” She glanced down at her hands. “Are those versions truly lost? Are those lives just gone?”

Anaxa didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened.

“No,” he said at last. “Cyrene must have witnessed—or at the very least kept —every single memory from every single cycle. It’s just…” He trailed off for a breath. “It’s unfortunate Phainon has to bear them. While those memories are the reason we’re alive, the reason we were pulled into this greater picture...”

He looked away, toward the lake.

“A part of me wishes they’d stayed gone. Forgotten.”

Aglaea studied him. “Why is that?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just watched the trees sway.

“Despite how little I understood from the glimpses we saw, the heaviness of the unknown still lingers,” he said finally. “Had I not seen what that weight does to a person—what it’s done to him —I would’ve tried to retrieve it all myself. Every cycle. Every outcome. Just to know.”

A beat passed.

“Do you think he remembers?” Aglaea asked, quieter now. “All of it?”

Anaxa exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the wheat shimmered under the false sun. “Yes. And no.”

He leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest. “I think he houses millions of memories. But that part of him… it’s sealed away. Or at least, that’s my hypothesis.”

Aglaea listened, watching the way his voice turned clinical—not out of coldness, but necessity. It was how he processed pain. How he protected himself from caring too deeply.

“You remember what the Trailblazer said?” Anaxa continued. “I believe a fracture has formed somewhere inside him, frustrating but significant. Whether or not that’s a good thing… I’ve yet to figure it out.”

“Fracture,” she echoed softly, tasting the word.

“Yes. A split between what he was and what he chose to become. Maybe even between who he is now and the version of himself that bore all those lifetimes.” He paused. “That kind of burden… it couldn’t survive intact.”

Aglaea looked down at her hands again. “So he’s broken?”

“No,” Anaxa said immediately. “He’s fragmented. There’s a difference. Fractures can heal. Or become something new.”

She nodded, quiet. Thoughtful. A wind passed between them again, this time gentler. And in the golden distance, Phainon laughed—just once—light and unguarded, like someone who had forgotten he was ever supposed to be anything else.

“I see,” was all she could muster.

Both of their eyes drifted toward the golden light of the wheat fields, where the others had begun walking. Castorice’s laughter carried on the wind, and Mydei was now chasing Hyacine—who was teasing him with a stolen ribbon. Ahead of them, Phainon ran, slightly ahead of the group, arms half-stretched as if trying to feel the air.

The light caught in his hair. Reflecting that tinge of gold that he’s somehow adopted into his very soul.

“He remembers enough,” Anaxa said finally. “He had the will to carry Amphoreous to a new dawn. He has the strength to live in it, too.”

Aglaea let the words settle. The breeze picked up slightly, rustling the grass like a hush passing through the world.

“He’s quite stubborn,” she murmured. “Do you think he’ll realize we’re all trying to help him recover?”

Anaxa let out a low sound that might have been a scoff, but there was no edge to it. “He’s not just stubborn. He’s an idiot. You could tell him to his face, with perfect clarity, and he’d find some elaborate mental gymnastics to twist your words into a challenge.”

Aglaea smiled faintly, eyes still watching the field. “And yet we still help him.”

“Unfortunately,” Anaxa replied. “He inspires… loyalty. Somehow.”

“Possibly out of pity.”

“He does grow on you, like some clingy Chimera.”

They both fell quiet again.

Ahead of them, the others were vanishing into the wheat, their laughter swallowed by gold. The chimes above shifted gently with the breeze, catching the fading light, their song delicate and irregular—like memories brushing against the present.

Neither of them moved.

They didn’t need to.

There was no urgency here. No ticking clock. No divine threat just out of sight. Only the soft hum of a recreated past and the quiet companionship of two people who had spent lifetimes on opposite sides of every debate—now, simply resting.

The air was warm. The light held steady. Even the breeze, passing gently through the chime-strung branches above, seemed to move slower in this place.

It would’ve been easy to believe they could stay like this forever.

And yet—Aglaea’s shoulders tensed, just slightly.
The silence… shifted. Not in volume, but in pressure.

Something subtle. Like the air held its breath.

A faint static buzz whispered at the edge of her hearing, so light she might’ve dismissed it—if not for the way the wind stilled entirely. The chimes above stopped moving.

And then she heard it.

A high, cracking voice—fractured, broken, distorted through the seams of the memory like glass shattering underwater.

“Ag—la—ea—c—can—y—ou—hea—r—m—e?!??”

High-pitched. Warped. Cyrene?

Anaxa turned sharply, alarm flaring across his face as he reached instinctively for something unseen. “Did you hear that—?” he started.

The answer came before she could respond.

A portal tore open behind them—black, jagged, unnatural. Not part of the memory. Not part of anything that belonged here. It churned like rotting ink, edges pulsing with a hellish glow, and the stench of voided space rushed in.

“Some—someone is—trying—to get in— watch— ”

Cyrene’s voice was barely comprehensible now, glitching out entirely. Aglaea’s threads pulsed violently against her ribs.

Anaxa didn’t hesitate. He drew his gun—appearing from seemingly nowhere—and fired directly into the portal.

There was a thud.

A wet, unfamiliar sound. Something did fall.

But the threads told her what the sound didn’t.

Something was already inside.

“Anaxa—” she started, then froze. That presence.

She felt it now.

Her breath caught, the air in her lungs turning to ice. That presence—she knew it. She had felt it once before, at the end. In her final moments. When her threads had snapped like string beneath the weight of divine judgment.

No. No, it couldn't be.

Era Nova had already come. Phainon had fought through it, shattered the old world and brought them into dawn.

And yet.

The air curled.

No, she told herself, hand tightening. It couldn’t be Caenis. Caenis had died. Her body had been reduced to memory, her soul cut clean by—

But then again… after the Era-Nova, nothing was impossible.

Aglaea’s hands reached behind her, tugging at the golden threads at her waist. A seam unspooled across her back, and in a shimmer of woven light, the Garmentmaker stepped out—silent, ethereal, she pulled the sword from its chest without a word.

She whispered it inwardly like a curse. Could it truly be them? That fractured guild of assassins, handpicked by the Council of Elders to eliminate the Chrysos Heirs one by one. 

They were thought dismantled. Forgotten.

She had felt her final breath against one of them. Though she only knew so much after she woke up within that sea of flowers.

What purpose could they possibly have now? After all this—after everything.

A gunshot rang out.

Another.

Anaxa’s bullets cut through the stillness, ricocheting with sharp, surgical rhythm—each shot methodical, precise.

“Where—?” he muttered, scanning the now-distorted edge of the field. His head turned sharply. “Aglaea—”

He reached for her, but he was too late.

She felt it.

Her thread went taut , drawn tight by something unseen—and she moved , slicing forward with her blade. Though it looked like nothing—just air—she felt the horrible resistance of skin meeting steel. And then: a thud.

A body hit the ground. Female. The uniform unmistakable.

Cleaners.

The sickening silence afterward was heavier than the blow itself. Her eyes narrowed at the corpse, already dissolving into static at the edges—like it didn’t belong here.

“What were they doing?” she whispered, not to Anaxa, not even to herself—just to the memory. “Why infiltrate a memokeeper’s dreamspace?”

What were they after?

And more importantly—

Who had sent them this time?

After a moment, she saw it.

Blood—slow and deliberate—seeping into the ground. It curled between blades of golden grass, staining the perfect soil of this memory. The illusion of peace twisted around it, struggling to hold.

This place wasn’t supposed to bleed.

“…We should leave.”
Anaxa’s voice was low but resolute, already moving toward the wheatfields. His stride was sharp, controlled.

Aglaea followed, only a step behind.

“Castorice! Hyacine!” he called first, voice carrying through the breeze—but no response came. Aglaea scanned the horizon. Nothing. No movement. The wheat stretched out, too tall, too golden. Endless.

“Mydei! Phainon!” she shouted alongside him, her voice growing hoarse with urgency.

Their footsteps quickened, crunching through the soil that no longer felt safe. The wheat brushed against their arms and faces—too high, too thick, too much.

Where were they?

Aglaea’s heart pounded. This place had shifted. She could feel it now—reality buckling, threads unraveling around them, the seams of the memory starting to tear at the edges.

“We need to leave—now!” Anaxa yelled, louder this time, more force behind it. “All of you—”

But the silence that followed was deafening.

No laughter. No chimes. No breeze.

Just the slow, sinking weight of something wrong settling over them like dust.

Aglaea tightened her grip on her blade. Something is wrong– 

And then it happened. It was quiet at first. Too quiet. The air in front of her didn’t shift—it warped. Like the wheat itself exhaled, revealing the wrongness hidden just beneath the surface.

Anaxa was a step ahead of her, and she swore—swore—she saw him flinch. He must have felt it, too. The change. The presence. That telltale tensing of someone who knew death was a breath away. But his reaction was slow.

Too slow.

Not the Anaxa she knew—the man who once disarmed a demigod mid-sentence, though he posed to be frail he was by no means incapable. No. This was hesitation. Fatigue. Maybe something deeper– could it be related to the crack in his hand she saw?

And in that pause, it struck.

A blur from the left. Aglaea’s voice caught in her throat as she reached for him—but the blade was faster. Not a clean strike, not fatal, but brutal—a dagger across his arm, slicing through cloth, thread, and skin in one sharp arc.

Anaxa staggered.

But his aim didn’t falter.

Bang.

The gunshot split the silence, deafening and final. A head snapped back in the wheat. The assassin crumpled into the earth, faceless, featureless, and already beginning to dissolve into static ash.

Aglaea lunged forward to pull him aside—too late.

The wheat dulled her senses. Sight, sound, even her footing. She saw motion at her side—wrong, too fast, too deliberate—but her stance was off, her focus blurred by the chaos of trying to reach him.

A blade caught the edge of her ribs—burning, not deep, but enough to jolt her.

She hissed and turned, blade flashing in a clean arc, cutting through the wheat and into flesh. Another assailant dropped, their body twisting as they hit the ground, eyes already glassy.

Two.

There were more.

The wheatfields rippled now—less like a memory, more like a battlefield, stalks swaying as something moved beneath them. Fast. Coordinated.

Aglaea stepped back to Anaxa’s side, catching his weight as he staggered, his breath unsteady. He leaned against a crooked patch of wheat, and she could see it now— gold blood trailing from his arm, soaking into the soil of a memory that was never meant to know pain.

She tightened her grip on him, her blade still in the other hand, her senses sharp. Her mind raced— She needed to get back. To the others. To make sure Hyacine and Castorice hadn’t been separated. To ensure Cyrene’s memory core hadn’t been corrupted. That Phainon— gods, Phainon—

And then, in the distance, she felt it.

A shift in temperature. Burning heat curling through the memory like fire licking at the edge of parchment.

“ Aglaea?!? Anaxa—? ”

Hyacine.

The voice pierced the silence like a flare in the fog. Relief rushed through her, edged with urgency.

Aglaea turned sharply toward the sound and finally caught sight of them.

In the distance, near a break in the wheat, she saw Castorice kneeling beside a fallen body—one of the Cleaners. Her movements were slow, reverent. Aglaea didn’t need to hear it—she had seen it a thousand times.

“ May the afterlife grant you peace, ” Castorice murmured, her lips forming the familiar rite with aching clarity.

Mydei and Phainon stood close by. Alert, but steady. Weapons drawn, but unwounded. Together. Alive.

A breath of relief hit her chest—but only for a moment.

Because when Phainon’s eyes found hers—when he looked past the wheat and saw Aglaea, saw Anaxa wounded and pale against her shoulder—

He froze.

Mid-step. Mid-breath.

His entire expression shifted, not with fear—but something older. Deeper. Ancient and terrible. His body stilled as if struck by memory—or something he couldn’t name.

Aglaea’s stomach twisted.

She felt it again—that low, humming thread of fate pulling taut.

Anaxa nearly collapsed.

Aglaea caught him by instinct, her knees dipping under his sudden weight—but she swore she heard it. A sound, faint and brittle. Like porcelain cracking.

Her heart lurched.

“ Wait—don’t let him see, ” Anaxa hissed under his breath, pain threading through his voice. “He’s too fragile—someone calm him down. ”

His eyes weren’t on his injury. They were locked, glassy and sharp, on the boy in the distance.

Phainon.

Before Aglaea could react, Mydei was already moving. His hand clamped onto Phainon’s arm with quiet urgency—steady, grounding. The movement was calm but firm, as if he’d done this before. Maybe he had.

Phainon’s expression didn’t change at first, still frozen in that wide-eyed silence, but Aglaea could see it— the trembling behind his gaze. Something in him recognized the pattern. The shape of pain. The aftermath. The cost.

And then—

“ Hyacine—don’t! ”

Aglaea and Anaxa shouted it at once, voices sharp with warning.

She was still running toward them, pink hair flashing as she pushed through the tall wheat, concern written across her face—but they could feel it.

Something was hiding.

Something was waiting.

And before the blade could pierce through Hyacine’s heart—

It burned.

A flash of radiant heat erupted mid-air— searing, divine. The wheat caught the fire but didn’t char—it turned to light, as if memory itself rejected the violence. Aglaea barely saw the glint of metal before it melted in mid-strike, disintegrating just inches from Hyacine’s back.

Hyacine screamed—not in pain, but in shock, stumbling forward into Anaxa’s waiting arm, the three of them stumbled together, barely keeping each other up.
Aglaea’s threads surged violently in response. Her hands moved in sharp, instinctive gestures—contain, control, make a net, anything —something to cradle the others, to hold this broken world together.

And then she looked at him.

Phainon.

She turned—just in time to see gold.

Not his usual glow. Not the soft shimmer of remembrance he carried like a lantern in the dark.

No.

This gold was too bright.

It blazed in his eyes like a sun preparing to split apart.

His mouth was slightly open, chest rising with uneven breath, and for a moment— one impossible moment —the wind itself halted around him.

In the next moment, the heat was unbearable– and all she could see was ash and in that second the world had tilted.

–


Golden blood shimmered bright.

It always had that cursed, eyecatching glimmer when it caught the light. Reverent. Regal. Beautiful, some would say.

Maybe that was why they idolized it so much.

Why they reached toward it like moths to a flame.

Khaslana despised it.

He hated the sight of gold.

Not because it was rare.

Because it was proof.

Proof that they still bled.

Proof that even divinity could be desecrated.

While Phainon had retreated—half out of trauma, half from the unbearable weight of watching this happen again — Khaslana surged forward, pulled to the surface by divine reflex and burning necessity.

The divinity still coursed through them—unsteady, strained, but present. And when Mydei’s hand fell away, recoiling from the heat, Khaslana moved.

Just this once.

Just this once, he told himself.

Because how could he stand idle and watch everything they had fought for—everything he had forged—be stolen by some petty assassin acting on the whims of a dead order?

It was not Khaslana’s first encounter with Cleaners.
Far from it.

He remembered them across cycles. Names lost to time, faces blurred by memory, but the pain, the cost, was always the same. Over and over, they crept from the shadows like rot, silencing those he loved, unmaking progress with cruelty.

And always under the same banner.

“For the balance,” they’d say.

As if balance could justify murder.

As if order was worth watching others die.

The wheat groaned beneath his steps. The memory winced with each footfall, rippling like silk pulled too tight. The sunlight bent away from him now, as if even this golden peace understood it had no claim on him.

Gold no longer shimmered.

It trembled.

Why…?

The voice echoed in his chest—cracked, unsure.

Why did they hurt them?

Isn’t it over?

Why can’t I stop it—why?

Phainon.

Khaslana tightened his grip. Not on the sword, not on the ground—but on reality itself.

He didn’t answer the voice. There was no need to speak aloud. Phainon had retreated, cradling that fragile flicker of hope somewhere safe and unreachable. All that remained was the guardian.

The destroyer.

Khaslana raised his hand, and the air rippled as if afraid to touch him.

He would only need a moment.

Just one breath, one blink, one flex of divine will—

— to destroy this memory
—and everything that had dared to stain it.

The memory could no longer contain him.

It warped. Buckled. Fractured.

Khaslana exhaled once—and the fields burned.

The golden stalks of wheat, once soft with warmth and nostalgia, ignited in ripples of flame. Not charred. Not destroyed. Unmade. The illusion of peace fell away like a skin peeled back too suddenly. Aedes Elysiae…his once-sacred home, was nothing now but a skeletal ruin wrapped in smoke and light. An apocalyptic wasteland.

He surged.

Power flowed through him not like blood, but like a thousand voices calling forward, divine will pooling behind his ribs. The sky above twisted, threads of memory snapping into coiling arcs of crimson and gold.

And in that instant, they were revealed.

A dozen more— Cleaners. Hidden like rats in the fields. Watching. Waiting. Preparing for another kill.

But before Khaslana could even look at them—
They burned.

Their bodies lit like parchment. No scream. No resistance. Just erasure.

Khaslana had not come to speak. He had not come to ask.

He had come to burn the very skin off their backs.

He was used to this scene.
Used to the sound of screaming so loud it echoed inside the bones. Used to the copper tang of blood thick in the air. It never comforted him. Never made him proud.

But it was what remained when mercy was spent.

The Cleaner in front of him stumbled—too slow, too human. Khaslana stepped forward, and the very earth beneath his feet flaked into ash.

This one would die a painful, fiery death.

And Khaslana could only mourn— not the body, not the mission—but the possibility. The person they might have been. The soul they could have become if not molded into something cruel.

A voice screamed behind him. High. Frantic. Agony laced with fury. Hyacine? Castorice? He didn’t turn. He couldn’t. He hadn’t heard someone scream with that kind of disgust in a long, long time. But he blocked it out.

Threads, tight and braced. Divine. Measured. Aglaea.
They pulsed against the edge of his awareness, a quiet net she had begun weaving— not to stop him, no. But to protect what she could from the inevitable. A stark contrast. A painful contrast.

And the thrumm.

Oh, the thrumm .

He had millions of romance coreflames—fragments of what love once was. They sang through his spine like pulled harpstrings. And they obeyed him now. The threads shivered. Not in adoration.

In fear. Humming in uncertainty, for who should they obey? Their creator, or the one housing a million versions of her.

His silhouette towered— monolithic.

Wings cracked outward like splintered marble, barely containing the energy writhing beneath his skin. His body ached—not with pain, but with pressure. Divine muscle and memory fused, blood curdling under the weight of his own form.

The sword in his hand felt small. Insultingly so.

Until it responded to him—
A pulse of calamity —and it lengthened, widened, reshaped into something fitting. A weapon worthy of a being who no longer whispered mercy into the hearts of men.

They were unfortunate.
Unlucky.

Because they weren’t within the confines of Okhema, where law and balance might have stayed his hand.

Here, in Aedes Elysiae— His land, His ruin—there were no laws. Only reckoning.

And this place… it had always burned. Beneath all its beauty, Aedes Elysiae was a graveyard paved in memory— in golden wheat turned to ash, in homes long swallowed by flame, in promises broken beneath divine feet.

When he stabbed his sword forward—burning through the last man, searing his form into oblivion—he didn’t look away. He watched . A cold, daring stare. Not cruel. Not triumphant.

Final.

There would be no reincarnation for this one. No memory preserved. No trace left behind. And more importantly—
They would never harm Aglaea again.

He exhaled slowly. The air around him pulsed. He could feel it— dormant power stirring in the corners of the false sky. The gaze of a higher being—not watching, not judging, but witnessing.

He would not return it. He would NEVER return it.

He closed his eyes, chest rising with deliberate slowness.

One deep breath.

As the fires of Aedes Elysiae burned around him once more.

Khaslana.

Do not bow your head.

It's okay.

Do not let this simulation finish…!

Calm down, It's over.

Continue the cycle. At all costs.

The cycles are finished, Khaslana. We're okay. I'm okay. Everyone is okay. Look… see?

Ah.

So that’s why his body had moved so carefully.

Phainon must have interfered—guided him just enough to prevent the worst. There were no bodies left behind him. No smoldering piles. Only ash, scattered and quiet.

He wondered when that had happened.

Aglaea was still standing—her white dress torn at the hem, streaked with red and gold across her side. Alive. Breathing. Hyacine knelt beside her, glowing softly. That light—more vivid now, pulsing just beneath her skin. Her hair was down, loose in the wind. Strange. Unfamiliar.

But see? She’s okay.

Castorice had wrapped herself around Anaxa, though the man was shouting—furious. Mouth open, eyes sharp. Words likely sharp enough to cut through steel.

But Khaslana couldn’t hear him.

Not clearly. He rarely heard anything in this state. His senses had long since begun to dissolve. The burn of simply existing begun to fray his awareness. Every breath felt like a countdown. And then—he saw him.

Standing just a few steps away.

Mydei.

There was a growl on his lips, low and guttural, rage coiled in his shoulders. He moved with intention—furious, tired, alive. He threw the limp body of a Cleaner at Khaslana in defiance, but the corpse fizzled into ash before it could even touch him.

Khaslana didn’t move. Just watched.

Mydei was drenched in sweat, hair disheveled, knuckles raw. His chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. A blade still dangled from his grip, slick with something black that he must have disarmed from a cleaner. 

And yet—

He still looked beautiful.

Khaslana blinked slowly.

What a horrible thought.

He’d burned worlds for less–

I’m taking over! Brace yourself Khas!

What?

It felt like something pierced his stomach, or maybe his head? Nono, their entire body burned.
Phainon felt the ground slam into him. His feet, unsteady. Knees buckling. His weight folded into itself as he fell forward—

But Mydei was there. Arms catching him before the impact could finish what the burn had started. “I thought you were gonna burn me,” Mydei muttered against his shoulder, voice strained, breath catching like his lungs couldn’t decide whether to speak or scream.

Their breathing slowly found each other, syncing together like an old rhythm. 

Phainon laughed. Weak. Worn. “And yet you still came close… how dangerous, Mydeimos. ”

The name rolled out of him like a half-drunk smile. He didn’t know if he was mocking or melting. Maybe both.

His body ached. Not sore— scorched. Everything hurt in sharp, conflicting ways—like every sense had been stripped, silenced, and violently switched back on. Sound crackled. Light stabbed. Every breeze across his skin felt like it might peel it away.

If he were to strip off his skin now, there’d be nothing left but a puddle of golden blood on the floor—thick, metallic, divine, and still steaming. The pain deepened, not as a spike, but a split. It grew. Expanded. Bloomed.

His chest cracked first— A searing pulse radiating from his sternum outward. Then his shoulders— splintering, like something inside him had tried to escape. Then his spine. Each vertebrae flared, fire licking through the nerves like silk threads being burned mid-weave.

He was breaking apart.

His skin felt like it was tearing. Searing. Stretching too thin to hold the pressure building beneath. His breath came in ragged pulls, his fingers twitching against Mydei’s sleeve.

His body cracked.

His back arched sharply—
Like something had snapped from inside, and now he was just holding onto the shell.

“...It’s okay,” Phainon whispered hoarsely. “I—I’ve got it…”

But the tears on his face weren’t from emotion.

They were from the heat.

Not sorrow. Not fear.

Just pain—pure, radiating, unstoppable pain.

Phainon felt like he was boiling from the inside out, his blood no longer fluid but molten, thick with gold and grief. His nerves screamed silently beneath his skin, each one flaring, searing, like they were being peeled back by flame. No words existed for this kind of agony—not in any language he’d ever learned.

It was the kind of pain that stole your breath and gave nothing back. The kind of pain that made you forget where the body ended and the fire began. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Every twitch was a gamble. Every breath a risk.

And through it all, Mydei’s arms stayed around him—firm, grounding, present. Even if Phainon could hardly feel them. Even if everything felt like too much.

The world blurred—light too sharp, sound too distant, skin too raw.
The heat hadn’t faded. It lingered like punishment. Like penance.

“Phainon,” Mydei murmured, quiet but steady, one hand cupping the back of his head, pulling him in closer, “You still with me? You’re here. You’re safe. You did what you had to.”

But Phainon didn’t answer. His lips parted. He didn’t know what would come out—if anything. But something broke free, trembling and small:

“Home,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked. “Let’s go home… please?”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a question. It was a plea.

And in that moment, beneath the divine wreckage of a half-burned memory, it was the most human thing Phainon had left. Mydei's grip tightened, just enough to feel grounding.

“I’ll take you there,” he said softly. “I’ll walk you all the way back, even if you can’t stand. You don’t have to do anything else. Not right now. Not ever again, if you don’t want to.”

Phainon’s breathing hitched. The pain didn’t stop—but Mydei’s voice softened it, made it bearable, like salve to a burn. His fingers curled weakly into Mydei’s shirt, clinging. Trembling. As if Mydei’s touch was the only thread holding his body together.

Maybe it was.

Maybe it always had been.

“Just keep talking,” Phainon rasped, barely audible. “Don’t… stop.”

“I won’t,” Mydei said, leaning his forehead to Phainon’s. “Not now. Not ever.”

Chapter Text

When ash falls, it leaves a bitter taste clinging to every sense.
It clogs the nose, burns the eyes, scratches at the ears, and sears the skin of your fingers.
But worse than the pain—ash lingers. It floats. It endures.

And Khaslana could feel it. Feel everything.

Which, somehow, was worse than dormancy. Worse than motion. Worse than anything at all.

Because even though he wasn’t fully present—wasn’t fully there —he could still feel , and that terrified him more than the abyss of silence ever had.

He had long accepted the divide between himself and Phainon—his true self.
He was just the husk. A broken flame. Something temporary. Something meant to flicker out when Phainon was finally ready to let go.

So why?

Why could he feel what Phainon was feeling?

Why now, when before it had only ever been the aftermath—shadows of grief, the weight of consequences left behind for him to carry. That was the pattern. That was the role.

Khaslana existed to bear the hurt so Phainon didn’t have to.
But this—this was different.

This wasn’t the dull ache of a borrowed wound. This was raw. Immediate. His.

He could feel the hope. The horror. The dread. Even—gods help him—the love. Love that wasn’t his, and yet it coursed through him all the same. And though Khaslana had felt these things once, in lives long past— it had been a very long time since he had felt them this vividly.

And it burned.

It burned hotter than he was ready for, like a flame flaring too high in a cracked vessel.
It seared through the hollow places in him, the ones he thought long emptied.
He thought he had made peace with being nothing more than a container for what Phainon couldn’t process. But this wasn’t just Phainon. Not this time.

This wasn’t just dissociation—wasn’t a boundary blurring between alters.

This was bleedover.

Anaxa’s divine presence had wrapped around Phainon so tightly, so desperately, it was bleeding through the soul itself— and Khaslana, nestled in the same body, the same core, could feel it all.

Not just echoes. Not the soft, haunting traces of old memory— But sharp, living grief. Fresh. Immediate. Real. This wasn’t the ache of a hundred thousand cycles past. This wasn’t some recycled sadness Phainon had buried.

This was new, it was deeper... and it hurt.

“...Anaxa—”
Phainon’s voice trembled through the shared space, and as Khaslana caught glimpses of what he was seeing, the dread bloomed like wildfire between them.

Blood. So much blood. Golden, shimmering, pouring heavy down his arm—across his chest, over his abdomen.
And above them, Anaxa was shaking.

“Anaxa—what are you doing?!”
Distressed. Panicked.
That was Hyacine’s voice—muffled but clear through the haze.

What is happening?
Why can’t we move?

“Stay still, Phainon,” Anaxa’s voice rasped.
Rough. Strained. Weaker than Khaslana had ever heard it.

Fuck– Khaslana whats going on? I can't move–
Is he… restraining us?

A crack split across Anaxa’s face like shattered porcelain—and from beneath it, gold leaked. Bright, sickly, divine.

And then suddenly—Everything stopped.
The pain.
The fire.
The pressure.
The heat.

It all vanished. And with it, they were torn out of the memory— dragged, breathless, back into the present from the memory.

When Phainon opened his eyes again, the first thing he registered was warmth.
Not from his own arms—but from something around him.

He blinked slowly, groaning as a dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. His head throbbed, but his body—
His body felt… okay?

Oh. That’s new.

He hadn’t even formed the thought before Khaslana murmured in quiet amusement, somewhere in the back of his mind.

Phainon furrowed his brow— What are you so amused by? —but the answer revealed itself before he could finish the thought.

Two large wings—sleek, dark, and unmistakably Khaslana’s—had burst through the remnants of his tattered shirt, arching around the group in a protective shield.

He froze.

The wings curled around them instinctively, still. Still holding . Still protecting.

Aglaea stirred faintly, looking better—her wound was closed, the jagged tear along her side now a thin scar. Hyacine sat nearby, face drained and eyes glassy with exhaustion. Castorice and Mydei looked relatively unharmed, save for a few deep bruises blooming under their skin, stark against their natural coloring.

And when Phainon finally looked down at the weight against his arm—he stilled.

Anaxa.

He was slumped, pale—paler than usual. His breath was shallow, but there.
His eye cover had come loose, skewed just enough to show the delicate gold veins spider-webbing beneath his skin, now faintly cracked like dried lacquer. Golden blood had dried in delicate lines across his temple and down the curve of his cheek.

Phainon didn’t know whether to speak or stay silent.
The quiet around them felt sacred—like something broken and beautiful trying desperately to hold its shape.

His wings—Khaslana’s wings—tightened slightly.

Neither of them tried to pull away. Not Phainon, Not Khaslana.

“Hey! Are you all okay?!”

Cyrene’s voice cut through the silence like water in a desert—clear, sudden, alive . Phainon turned, barely lifting his head as her footsteps rushed toward them.

And then she was there. Her arms curled around him—mindful of Anaxa still slumped in his hold, but firm enough to anchor him all the same.
“Oh my Titans…” she breathed out, her voice cracking. “Phainon… you’re okay…”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just let his head drop gently against her shoulder, the weight of the moment catching up to him.

“I’m okay…” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if the words were for her or for himself. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

When they finally pulled apart, Phainon’s gaze swept the room again—until it landed on Mydei. While Cyrene was already checking on the others, Mydei was already there, the slightest glimpse of a limp not stopping him from making his way to Phainon.

Mydei knelt beside him, expression unreadable, and lifted a hand to gently brush his thumb along Phainon’s cheek. There must’ve been ash or blood there—Phainon didn’t know, didn’t care. The touch was warm, grounding.

Their eyes met.

A breath passed between them.

“…You alright?” Mydei asked, voice quiet. Not pressing. Just there.

Phainon hesitated. His throat tightened—but he nodded, barely. “No,” he admitted, soft and hoarse. “But… we can talk about it later.”

Mydei gave the faintest smile. Not one of joy, but understanding. His thumb lingered just a second longer. “As long as you’re aware,” he murmured. “I’ll wait.”

No judgment. No pity. Just a promise—quiet and patient.

…ha…. He's always like this.

Something in Phainon felt so strongly, like his heart might burst from the sheer force of it. The ache wasn’t from the wounds or the exhaustion…it was the way Mydei looked at him. Saw him. Accepted him. Again and again.

Mydei leaned in, his hand dropping only to scan Phainon’s side, then his arm, then his ribs. The gentleness turned clinical, focused, but no less caring.

“You already said you weren’t okay,” he muttered. “So let me do this, hks,” he added—cursing under his breath in his native tongue, though there was no malice in it. Just a frustrated kind of fondness.

Phainon huffed a laugh, tired. “I didn’t realize you knew how to curse that sweetly.”

“Don’t test me,” Mydei shot back, still inspecting him for hidden injuries. A small spot against his side ached when Mydei pressed against it, he watched as the other man took a mental note as he continued to search his body. 

Meanwhile, just beyond the protective curve of Khaslana’s wings, Aglaea stirred with a soft groan. She braced herself upright, one hand to her ribs as she winced—but she was moving. Next to her, Hyacine followed, slower, a hand rubbing at the side of her head. She looked like she’d been pulled through a storm, but her eyes were sharp again. “Owowow…. That…. Could have gone better,” she muttered, flashing a dejected looking smile their way. 

They both made their way to Anaxa’s side—Aglaea immediately dropping to her knees beside him, checking for signs of breathing. Hyacine sat close behind, her gaze fixed on his still form. “Professor–”
“He’s alive,” Aglaea confirmed quietly, glancing up at Phainon and Mydei with a tight nod. “Are you two alright?”

Both of them murmured some form of yes. Not full words. Just enough to acknowledge they were here, they were conscious.

The group had instinctively gathered close—huddled by instinct more than thought. Only Castorice remained apart, still pushing herself upright, blinking through the last haze of disorientation.

“I called some others to come help,” Cyrene added gently, her voice soft—meant to soothe, not startle. “They should be on their way.”

“Thank you,” Hyacine exhaled, her tone dipped with weariness. She blinked hard. “Do we… know what happened?”

Cyrene’s face paled, and she shivered. “There were… these people. In the dreamscape memory. I’d learned to create and shape dreams from the Trailblazer, but I thought—” her voice caught, “—I thought I was the only one on the planet who knew how to even navigate through them...”

The implications hung heavy in the air, thick with a weight no one wanted to name.
Phainon clenched his jaw, already simmering with quiet anger that anyone would dare launch an attack—especially there , in a memory of his beloved home. Of them .

And then—

Anaxa stirred.

It was faint. Broken. Barely more than a shiver. But it wasn’t the kind of movement they'd ever seen from him before. Not graceful. Not composed.
It was vulnerable. Painful. 

Aglaea gasped and immediately steadied him. “By Mnestia—Anaxa, breathe. You’re safe, we’re here.”

His face twisted, only for a moment. Just long enough for them all to see the truth:

He was hurting. Badly.

Phainon’s hands trembled beneath him. And thankfully Mydei’s did not, holding a firm hand over Phainon. “He’ll be fine. That man is more resilient than he looks,” he reassured, Phainon just nodded, “your right, we should get him some help though,” he muttered.

A small ways away from them, Castorice let out a breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I’m sorry, Lord Phainon.”

She sat slouched against the curve of Khaslana’s wing, legs pulled in, expression shadowed by guilt.

Phainon turned to her, brow furrowing. “For what? You hadn’t anything to do with what happened.”

“I know,” she said softly, eyes flicking down. “Still… I wanted to see your home a little longer.”

Phainon blinked, surprised by the quiet sincerity in her voice. Though seeing her, he smiled, just a little. “Maybe another time?” Castorice nodded once, a bit of warmth returning to her face.

Cyrene straightened, brushing dust from her shoulder. “Yes, of course. I’ll be able to repair the dreamscape eventually, but first we need to figure out what happened. ” She looked toward Phainon, then the others. “What attacked you in there?”

Phainon’s jaw tightened slightly. Such an Unpleasant Memory.
One moment he was showing Castorice some of the windchimes and the next he was dodging a blade aimed for his neck. Castorice moved swiftly, scythe manifesting into her arms so quickly he barely even had time to summon his own weapon to his call when he thrust dawnmaker into the attacker behind her.

After that it was a blur, and then when he saw Aglaea and Anaxa bleeding he just…
It was me too. I… I was being hasty for taking over like that, I apologize. Khaslana’s voice echoed, sounding dejected.
It's okay. I'm glad you stepped in, else Hyacine could have been… injured.

Phainon shook his head, though thankfully Aglaea spoke first.
“…A group of assassins,” she said, “that target Chrysos Heirs.”

There was a pause. “Huh?” Cyrene tilted her head. “Isn’t the Flame Chase… well, over ?”

Aglaea sat up straighter, still holding Anaxa’s wrist to check his pulse again. “That’s what we believed.” Her voice was quiet but sharp. “I can’t think of any current faction that would benefit from targeting us—unless it’s personal. A grudge against one of us.”

She paused, then added dryly, “Likely me.”

“No offense Agy, but fair guess,” Hyacine muttered, wincing as she touched a bruise blooming along her ribs.

Cyrene folded her arms, thinking aloud. “Normally, even if you feel pain in a dreamscape, it’s not fatal . The Trailblazer explained it once—something about the boundaries of consciousness and dream logic overlapping. It’s confusing.”

She rubbed at her temple. “But this place… It wasn’t just a dream, I don’t have the power of Harmony like the Trailblazer did—I can shape memories, yes, but Dreamscapes? that’s another level.”

There was a beat of silence. Everyone seemed to be processing that. And at the center of them all, Anaxa lay still, golden cracks webbing across his cheek like fragile ceramic. His breathing was shallow, but steady now.

Phainon twitched slightly when he felt Castorice lean her weight against his wing. “Ah-” he blinked, it wasn't painful, but admittedly he was starting to be oddly very conscious of the feeling in the extra appendages now. 

“Ah—sorry again—!” she blurted, cheeks flushing pink as she scooted away.

He shook his head quickly, the movement gentle. “It’s fine, really. Just… wasn’t expecting it.”

A pause.

“…Um,” he added, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder at the large, dark wings still arched protectively around the group.

How do I… get rid of these?

It was less a thought and more a plea—directed at Khaslana who was likely in charge of wings suddenly appearing through his clothes.

Mydei, sitting quietly at his side, opened his mouth—clearly about to ask that very question.
But then—Anaxa stirred. A sharp breath. A groan of pain.
“Ugh—” His eye cracked open, squinting harshly against the sunlight. Instinctively, his hand shot up to block the glare.

Before anyone else could move, Phainon shifted forward, one wing sweeping gracefully overhead to cast a wide shadow across Anaxa’s face and over all of them in general. 

Anaxa blinked, dazed, as the world softened around him.

“Professor!” Hyacine gasped, already helping to brace his back as he pushed up on shaky elbows. Her hands moved quickly, gently steadying him.

Aglaea let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’re awake,” she whispered, half in disbelief. Relief bloomed across her features like sunlight after a storm.

Anaxa didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed, trying to focus through the haze.

Anaxa opened his mouth as if to speak—

—but no words came. Just a ragged wheeze.

His eyes widened, hand flying to his throat as a rasp tore free—dry, shallow, broken. It wasn’t even a sound, not really. Just the attempt at one.

“Professor?” Hyacine’s voice pitched, sharp with alarm. She steadied him as he tried again—another breathless wheeze, followed by a faint, guttural click in his throat like something straining to work and failing. “What… did you do , Professor?”

Aglaea moved closer, gaze locked on him. “Can you not speak? What… what happened, I hadn't seen any injuries that would have caused this…?”

Even Cyrene, usually the calm in every storm, looked unsettled. “I don’t understand. Even in a memory dreamscape, nothing should hurt someone this badly—pain, yes, confusion, fatigue—but this…”

Her voice faltered as Anaxa leaned forward, trying desperately to form a sound. His fingers dug into his neck, as if trying to feel why it wouldn’t work—what was broken, what was gone.

A small, pained sound—something like a whimper—escaped him. Not from fear. From frustration.

Phainon’s stomach turned. He sat up straighter, wing still casting shade over Anaxa, but now every inch of him was tense. Cold. His heart slammed behind his ribs as a flicker of something from before returned.

Had Anaxa… done something ? Something to stabilize him—Phainon—while they were trapped inside?

Because he remembered it now. The splitting pain. The golden light. The rush of clarity that had come just before everything had gone numb.

Khaslana stirred within him, a faint thrum of discomfort and warning.
He did something.
Phainon blinked hard. What did he do?

I’m not sure , Khaslana replied, quieter now. But I’ve felt different since then too. Lighter. Like something shifted. He must’ve anchored us. Stabilized us somehow.

Phainon’s eyes drifted back to the golden cracks spiderwebbing across Anaxa’s skin.

Those fractures… they don’t just appear. Not unless you’re holding too much of divinity. They’re like the ones that form in vessels we… I …would burn through at the end of a cycle.

He paused.
That’s… disturbing. But not unlike him… But why would he..?

Anaxa shook his head—small, strained, as if to say don’t ask .
Then, slowly, he tried to gather himself. His spine straightened just slightly, jaw tightening with the same composure he always wore like armor, even now.

And then he reached for his teleslate.

Hyacine moved instantly, alarm flashing in her eyes. “Wait—Professor, don’t—your body’s still—”

But he ignored her.

His fingers, though steady in intent, trembled with effort. And as his hand moved across the screen, a thin line cracked along the skin near his wrist.

Not just bleeding— fracturing . Like a vessel straining under pressure it was never built to hold.

Phainon inhaled sharply. Hyacine swore under her breath, turning to Aglaea for guidance, though the older woman just stared with a look he couldn't even comprehend. 

Still, Anaxa finished typing.

He turned the slate and showed it to Phainon.
Just two words:

“You okay?”

Phainon nearly collapsed.

His breath caught in his throat, a sob he didn’t let out clenching behind his ribs. His eyes stung—too full, too fast.

You’re fracturing, he wanted to scream. And you’re asking me if I’m okay?

Within him, Khaslana recoiled—A grief so deep it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like drowning.

This is the worst kind, Khaslana whispered.
The kind where someone loves you enough to suffer for you—and won’t even let you say anything.

Phainon nodded, his voice soft—barely holding together.

“I am, thank you… and please go rest, Anaxa. Please…?”

Anaxa didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Not with the way Phainon looked at him—raw, pleading, guilt-ridden. He gave a faint nod in return, and when Hyacine moved to support him, he didn’t resist. With the help of the medical team that had finally arrived and Hyacine—Anaxa was gently guided away.

Aglaea watched them go, standing off to the side with arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Only when they vanished beyond the shelter of Khaslana’s wings did she speak.

“...Please excuse me. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

She was already moving, her pace purposeful—heading toward where a fractured piece of Tribios would likely be. Probably Tribbie was Phainon's guess.
“Please allow me to accompany you, Lady Aglaea?” Castorice called after her. Though, truthfully, she was already at her side. Aglaea glanced down, one brow raised.

“You feel I’m not recovered enough to go alone?”

Castorice dipped her head respectfully. “With all due respect—no. I don’t.”

A beat passed. Then, to Castorice’s surprise, Aglaea chuckled—quiet, but sincere.

“Then please,” she said, her voice softening, “do accompany me.” And like that they left, hopefully to go recover from all that happened. 

Mydei remained. 

Phainon didn’t look at him at first. But he felt it—the warmth of Mydei’s hand finding him, steady. Quiet. But not calm.

There was tension in his fingers, a tightness behind the softness. Mydei’s jaw was relaxed, but the grip in his hand betrayed him—subtle, but there.

Worry. Frustration. Fear.

Phainon brushed his thumb gently across the back of Mydei’s hand—once, twice.
A small motion. Barely anything. But it said what Phainon decided to not voice aloud. 

You're exhausted out of your mind.

He squeezed Mydei’s hand, firm but comforting. Not to fix it—just to remind him he wasn’t alone, that Phainon could still be of use to him in any way he needed.

“We should head back,” he said quietly. “Rest… then we can regroup.”

Mydei didn’t answer right away. But his grip softened. The tension ebbed, just a little.

“Yeah,” he finally murmured. “Alright.”
When they finally stood, Phainon nearly collapsed again—his legs wobbling beneath him. Mydei reached out instinctively, steadying him with a firm grip.

"Can you stand?" Mydei asked, brows furrowed.

Phainon nodded, then paused as Mydei's gaze shifted—eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.

"...So, these wings—"

"Um. Khaslana’s," Phainon interrupted quickly, glancing over his shoulder at the massive dark wings still fanned out behind him.

"Khaslana," Mydei repeated, slow and skeptical. "So that's like…"

"Not here, Mydei," Phainon muttered.

"..."
"..."

"...Are you going to retract them?" Mydei tilted his head in that endearing genuinely asking kind of way Phainon adored. His heart aside, he was starting to also doubt his own abilities.

"Um—yeah! Yeah…?"

How do I even…?—Khaslana.

???

How do I retract these?

There was a long pause.

...

Oh my Titans, Phainon thought, horror dawning. You don’t know either.

It’s just a feeling, Khaslana replied, maddeningly casual . Just do it.

You should be in a motivational ad.

...I should be. But okay.

I was being sarcastic.

I know. We’re the same person.

Then help me!

Just do it.

You are NOT HELPING. How do I turn off the wings?!

Astonishing. Never in my thirty-three million cycles has this ever been a problem—

Phainon huffed aloud, cutting the connection with a sharp internal nope, tuning Khaslana out like static.

He turned to Mydei with a defeated expression.

“I have zero idea how to get rid of these,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely to the massive wings still shadowing them both.

Mydei blinked. Then blinked again.

“Ok…Noted.”
Mydei stared at the wings a moment longer, clearly assessing the situation like it was a practical puzzle.

“So…Want me to try folding them?” he offered, cautiously. “These seem hardly easy to walk around with,”

Phainon blinked. “I—uh—sure? Maybe just… gently?”

“Always, What do you take me for?” Mydei said, already stepping around to the back.

He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the base of the wing—just beneath the joint where the wings met skin—Phainon jolted.

“Oh—!”
His entire back tensed, knees nearly buckling.

Mydei froze. “Is it really that bad?”

Phainon’s voice pitched slightly. “ Very sensitive. That’s— really sensitive.”

“Noted,” Mydei said again, this time more amused than anything.

He tried a different approach, using the backs of his fingers to lightly guide one wing inward. The wing twitched—visibly—and Phainon made a strangled noise that might’ve been a gasp or a laugh or some dying hybrid of both.

“Okay,” Mydei murmured, voice unusually dry, “I’m beginning to think these aren't exactly like arms anymore.”

Phainon groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Arms??? Ugh–This is mortifying. ”

“Want me to keep going?” Mydei asked, not unkindly. “I mean, I’m learning things.” Phainon could practically feel the grin on his face. 

“I’m not sure I want to learn things!” Phainon hissed, wings twitching again in protest. “Just—maybe don’t touch the joint— oh titans not there—!”

Mydei stepped back immediately, hands raised in surrender. “Alright, alright!”

Phainon glared at him over his shoulder. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”
Though Phainon was happy Mydei seemed to calm down a little, his wing now folded in was easier to control, he could feel every joint, moving them felt foreign but he would just have to make do.

Still… Phainon couldn’t quite bite back a smile.

And strangely, thankfully , Mydei seemed calmer now. The edge of tension that had been laced through his posture since the collapse of the memoryscape had eased, tucked away behind a familiar glint in his eye.

Phainon’s wings—well, wing , singular for now—had at least folded in properly. The other was still resisting, but he could feel it more clearly now. Every joint, every curve. Moving them felt alien, like shifting an extra limb he hadn’t earned. But it was manageable.

He’d figure it out.

By the time they reached Phainon’s home, the sky had dimmed to a soft amber—like the world itself had quieted.

The front door creaked open with a familiar sound, and they stepped into the space together, neither saying a word.

It was instinct, really. Mydei toed off his boots and wandered to the kitchen. Phainon kicked off his own shoes and dropped his coat over the back of the couch. They didn’t need to ask where things were, or what to do.

They just moved around each other—without thinking. Without trying.

Like muscle memory born not of time, but of comfort.

“You want your tea?” Mydei asked over his shoulder.

Phainon gave a soft grunt of approval, already settling into the cushions with a low sigh, the not-yet-folded wing draping awkwardly off the side.

“Mind your wings,” Mydei called, glancing back.

“Mind your face ,” Phainon muttered.

“Flawless, as always,” came the reply.

Phainon chuckled, warm in a way he didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the lingering high of survival. Or maybe it was just Mydei —here, alive, and making tea like it was any other day as if nothing from the past couple hours even happened.

That guilt Phainon felt buried in his chest lingered, but he would just allow it to simmer. Anaxa had to be okay… This was the era nova, the time where everyone would have their wishes fulfilled, the time where they could live without fear. Phainon knew Anaxa well, he was stubborn and genius in a way that made anyone stutter.

And even in his death, when Phainon couldn't bear to watch the man rip the coreflame out of his chest, laughing, as if he had no greater joy than playing this role in the greater scheme of things– and yet after seeing Anaxa in so much pain, frustration… hearing the way his throat closed around his own words… Phainon couldn't help but feel… doubt.

When Mydei returned with two cups, he passed one to Phainon without a word and sat beside him on the couch—not quite touching, but close. Always close. The smell of pomegranate juice lingered from Mydeis cup.
While Phainon normally did keep a stash in his home, he can't remember the last time he went out and bought food for himself. Maybe it was part of the stuff everyone had restocked when they were waiting for him to wake up. 

For a while, they just… existed.

Side by side. Breathing in the same quiet. The low glow of the lamps, the faint scent of ash and citrus still clinging to Phainon’s clothes—it was all muted. Soft.

Normal.

Mydei didn’t say anything. He just hummed, low in his throat. And after a moment, he let his knee brush against Phainon’s—just enough to be felt.

Neither of them pulled away. Phainon let his head fall back against the couch. 

“Do you think… Anaxa will be okay…?”

A moment just to ask. Just to grasp at any kind of reassurance that Phainon could cling to. The anxiety swirling in his stomach sat ugly and painful. Anaxa meant the world to him, everyone did of course, but if he was the cause of something happening to anyone? He doesn't know how he could ever forgive a mistake like himself.

Mydei hesitated, swirling his cup just a little. “Yeah. He has to be."

Phainon turned his head slightly to look at him. Mydei hadn’t changed much from earlier—still composed, still quiet—and his grip on the mug was a touch too tight, his jaw clenched just a little too long between words.

Phainon needed to compose himself. Mydei seemed exhausted, he had a stress that seemed to run much deeper than he let on, and perhaps even Mydei himself didn't realize the downturn on his lips that curved deeper than it normally did. Phainon hated seeing Mydei quiet, reserved, unhappy in any way.

“Mydei,” Phainon said after a beat, “you’re resting properly too, right?”

Mydei took a sip of his juice, not looking at him. “And if I’m not?”

“I’ll drag you to the bathhouse again.”

Mydei huffed. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

It wasn’t flirtation, not really. Just honesty. And for some reason, it made something warm bloom in his chest. Phainon almost laughed, the memory of Phainon dragging him twice a day seared deep into his mind. How Krateros had once saw Phainon carrying Mydei half asleep and chased him with a sword in hand claiming he poisoned their king or something odd– though in reality Mydei just wanted to sleep on the way there. 

He inched closer. Sue him for being indulgent. The world was quiet, and he wanted to be near someone who made it feel safer– for just a moment to stop worrying and focus on what's in front of him. 

He let himself look—really look.

The way Mydei’s breath rose and fell, slow and steady. The subtle motion of the tattoos across his chest, just visible beneath the collar of his toga The way the light caught the side of his face, casting soft gold in the curve of his jaw.

His eyes sparkled—not just with calm, but with something curious. Open.

“I must say again, Thank you,” Phainon said softly. “For always being here. Really.”

Mydei glanced at him, startled at first, but quickly deflected. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. ” Phainon smiled faintly. “Still… I should repay you somehow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But if I insist?”

Mydei looked sideways at him, lips tugging into a teasing smirk. “How much money do you have?”

Phainon snorted, nearly spilling his tea. “That’s extortion.”

“Call it interest,” Mydei said, leaning just a little closer. Their shoulders brushed, casual, but not accidental.

Their laughter faded slowly, tapering into something quieter. The space between them felt smaller now, maybe intentionally, maybe not. 

His eyes always had this distinct look—not just with calm, but with something curious. Open.

Mydei never seemed to be on guard like this.

Not with him .

And Titans, Phainon was so glad for that.

We’re in the Era Nova now…
I wonder... does he still…?

Phainon’s thoughts faltered. He remembered—too vividly—how things were between them in cycles long past. Before the fire, before the titles, before everything that made them who they had to be.

They were more than rivals then. More than comrades. More than friends.

And yet, here in this new life, this strange and fractured era… it was entirely possible that things had changed. That Mydei had changed.

Maybe in this cycle, he didn’t feel the same.
Maybe he wouldn’t want to.
Maybe he had no interest in carrying old echoes into his new life—no desire to be tethered to Phainon for the rest of eternity.

And who could blame him? He was burning out. Slowly, painfully. 

But for now… Phainon could indulge.

Just a little.

He shifted closer, slowly, until he could feel the steady rise and fall of Mydei’s chest beneath his own. His head settled gently against him, tucked into the curve of his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He could hear it—the steady thrum of the Kremnoan’s heartbeat, strong and even.

He let his eyes flutter closed.

Let himself feel the warmth blooming softly in his chest, spreading slowly through him like sunlight after a storm.
The skin-to-skin contact where their arms brushed, the familiar scent that clung to Mydei’s chest, the way his body just fit beside him—it was all maddeningly addictive.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d have this.

If Mydei noticed the way Phainon had curled into him, he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t move away, didn’t tense. If anything… he shifted slightly, letting Phainon fit more comfortably against him.

His voice came soft, low near Phainon’s ear.
“Are you worried?”

Phainon’s eyes opened halfway. “About Anaxa? Yes.”

There was a pause. The air between them held something gentle. Mydei didn’t press.

“And about the attack?” he asked eventually.

Phainon hesitated. “...I don’t doubt any of the other Chrysos Heirs’ strength. And Castorice is with Aglaea. That already makes me feel better.”

Mydei hummed in quiet agreement. “Then they’ll manage. And if they don’t, we’ll fix it.”

It was said so simply—like breathing. Like of course they would. Together. Phainon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Somewhere in the silence, Mydei’s hand moved. Slow. Careful. It lifted just slightly and came to rest lightly against the edge of Phainon’s wing, his real, tangible, still-mostly-uncontrollable wing. The touch was featherlight. Almost reverent.

Phainon shivered.

Not from cold. Not from surprise. But from the sensation itself; it sent a ripple through him, tingling along his spine. His breath hitched, and he hated how obvious it was, but Mydei didn’t comment.

Instead, his fingers grazed lower. Tracing along the curve of the joint with a maddening tenderness, like he was memorizing the texture of every curve.

Phainon nearly melted.

And still— still —somehow, he convinced himself this wasn’t that romantic.

Just friends. Just close friends. Just—

“Don’t tense,” Mydei murmured, not unkindly.

“I’m not—” Phainon started, voice slightly higher than usual. He cleared his throat. “I’m not.”

Mydei’s hand stilled, but didn’t pull away.
It stayed there, resting gently against the dark curve of Phainon’s wing—steady, warm, familiar. Like it belonged there.

And Phainon let it.

How could he not?

Then, Mydei’s fingers began to move again. Slowly. Dragging down along the grain of his wing with delicate, deliberate care. Not teasing, not playful— tender .

He swallowed hard, forcing his breath to stay even, forcing himself to stay still. But his body was betraying him, shoulders tensing, wings twitching with every pass of Mydei’s hand, a faint heat rising in his chest and flooding his skin.

He could barely contain it.

Finally, he turned, just enough to face him, his brow raised, voice breathier than he meant it to be.
“What is with you and these wings?”

Mydei didn’t blink. “They’re interesting.”

Phainon arched his brow. “Oh, really ? I wasn't aware you were interested in such a thing.”

There was a beat. Then Mydei’s eyes flicked up, unflinching, gentle.
“I'm not. I'm just interested because they’re part of you.”

Phainon froze. The words were so simple. So casually said. But the weight of them landed like a meteor in his chest. He huffed, half-laughing, half-exhaling to steady himself. “Ha… you say it like that means something.”

Mydei’s gaze drifted, he stared at his fingers grazing over Phainon's back.  “Maybe it does.”

Phainon couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss him or bury himself deeper in the couch cushions.

The air between them had shifted, quiet, heavy with something unspoken but felt .

Phainon didn’t know when it happened.
When his hand found its way around Mydei’s waist, or when Mydei’s other hand had risen—slowly, gently, to cup his face.

But it was there now. Warm against his cheek. Steady.

His thumb brushed just beneath Phainon’s eye, like he was trying to memorize every line of his expression. Phainon could feel the calluses of his fingertips, the warmth of his palm, the quiet safety of it all.

He leaned into the touch—just slightly, just enough.
And he let his fingers press lightly against Mydei’s side, skin warm under his touch, flesh soft, warm, alive under his hands. 

Golden eyes met his. Calm. Clear. Unafraid. So close he could feel Mydei’s breath ghosting over the bridge of his nose. It was too much.  Too close. Too easy to fall.

“Mydei,” he whispered, voice barely carrying. “Do you still…”

He stopped.

The words caught like a knot in his throat, half-formed, half-said.
He didn’t know if he was afraid of the answer or afraid of finishing the question.

Do you still remember?
Do you still feel it?
Do you still want me?

Mydei’s hand stayed where it was, cupping Phainon’s cheek with a tenderness that burned. His thumb brushed just beneath the eye again, slow, like he didn’t want to forget what it felt like. His other hand still gently over his wing, the sensation making Phainon shiver.

And Phainon…

His arms reached for anything he could touch, over his shoulders, his waist, his chest, one hand found its way over Mydei’s cheek, the warmth so addicting, so loving.

Their foreheads nearly touched. Phainon could smell the tang of juice over his lips, he could feel the breath against his own. His eyes drifted from Mydei’s lips to meet his eyes. Just a tilt forward and they would have kissed.

And still, neither moved. Phainon had to make sure. He had to know what happened in the previous cycle– no the previous cycles… was this right? Was this okay? Was Phainon allowed to love him? To be selfish once more–

Mydeis' breath was hot against his lips, Phainon parting to speak, low, vulnerable, quiet. “Do you still want—”

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. BZZZT.

The sharp buzz of the teleslate shattered the moment. Phainon felt his heart drop.

It rang from the table behind them, far too loud in the quiet, the notification glowing with Castorice’s name.

Neither of them moved right away.

They stayed like that for a breath longer—long enough for Phainon to memorize the shape of Mydei’s gaze, the warmth still cradling his cheek.
Long enough to want it.

But he was the one who moved first.

He blinked, breath catching in his throat, and slowly pulled away—inch by inch.

The loss of warmth was immediate.
Palpable.

His fingers left Mydei’s waist and face with a soft drag that made his skin tingle in their absence.
Mydei’s hand hovered near his face for a second longer before it dropped, carefully, to his lap.

Phainon cleared his throat and reached for the slate. “It’s… Castorice. I should—”

“Yeah.” Mydei’s voice was low. Neutral.

Too neutral.

Phainon hesitated. For just a second, he caught it—the slight downturn of Mydei’s mouth, the way his gaze had dropped, no longer meeting his.

Something inside him twisted.

Mydeimos… He regrets it… doesn't he…?

Phainon turned away, heart thudding just a little harder. Of course he does.

He told himself not to be surprised. Told himself he’d been too indulgent. That he’d leaned in too far. That he’d asked too much.

It was too close. Too much.

And yet, it stung more than he wanted to admit.

Still, he forced a quiet smile onto his face as he tapped the teleslate screen.

Later, he promised himself.
Later, when the timing was better. When the world wasn’t on fire.
When Mydei wasn’t pulling away… 

Unaware, entirely, that Mydei hadn’t been pulling away at all.

The screen lit up with Castorice’s name. Phainon swiped to answer, lifting the slate to his ear with one hand, the other still resting absently where Mydei’s warmth had been.

“Castorice?” he murmured.

There was a faint shuffle of sound—fabric brushing against the receiver, wind maybe, or the hush of someone speaking in a quieter place.

Then her voice came through, hushed.

“Lord Phainon…Lady Aglaea’s been looking into the whole thing,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Honestly… I’ve just been worried about Professor Anaxa.”

Phainon closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Me and you both,” he said, voice low. “Where is he now?”

“With Hyacine. She wouldn’t let anyone else near him. I think he’s sleeping, but it’s hard to tell—he looks…”

There was a pause. A soft breath. Then:

“Phainon… did you… did you see the…”

“The cracks,” he said quietly, finishing for her. “I saw them.”

Silence hung on the other end of the line for a moment.

Then Castorice whispered, “They’re not normal, are they?”

Phainon stared ahead, gaze distant. Mydei hadn’t moved beside him, but he could feel the shift in attention—the quiet way he listened.

“No,” Phainon murmured. “They’re not.”
“I’m sorry,” Castorice whispered after a moment. “I know you’re trying to rest. I just... I didn’t know who else to call.”

Phainon’s expression softened, his hand tightening slightly around the slate.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s always okay to call... I don’t mind.”

There was a small silence, like her shoulders were relaxing on the other end of the line in that way she always did when reassured. 

Then, quieter, Phainon turned slightly toward Mydei, who had remained silent beside him.
“Mydei… what do you think about them– Anaxa I mean?”

Mydei looked down at his hands, thoughtful. The light caught the curve of his brow, the faint tension still lingering around his mouth.

“They… looked different,” he said after a pause. “From the ones you used to have. Or—had. Back then…”

Phainon nodded slowly. “Khaslana thinks it’s from stabilizing us. Pulling something too heavy.”

Mydei’s jaw ticked slightly, but he nodded. “Plausible.”

Phainon turned the teleslate so the speaker faced up, the soft glow lighting the space between them. 

“Castorice, you’re on speaker now, Mydei’s here,” he said gently. “If it’s easier.”

“Oh. Alright… Hello Mydei,” Her voice crackled faintly with the shift in connection. “I can come over, if you need me, but… I don’t want to leave Lady Aglaea. If it really was assassins, and they were targeting Chrysos Heirs, then—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Phainon interrupted. His voice was softer now, but resolute. “I was worried too.”

He glanced toward Mydei, who gave a small nod of agreement.

“It may be best for all of us to stay close,” Phainon continued, “at least until we understand why we were attacked.”

“Agreed,” Mydei said quietly. “We’re safer together. And so is Anaxa.”

There was another pause on the line before Castorice added, “Thank you. I’ll make sure Aglaea stays in the loop. Just… tell me if anything changes.”

“We will,” Phainon said.

“Goodnight, then. Or… try to sleep.”

“You too.”

The call ended. The room fell quiet again.The room had dimmed to a soft glow, lit only by the gentle hum of starlight filtering through the window and the faint glimmer of the teleslate’s sleeping screen. Outside, the world had settled. Inside, the silence was uncomfortable—until Phainon spoke again.

“We should visit Anaxa.”

Mydei, now sitting up on the couch beside him, glanced over. “ We? ”

Phainon gave a lazy shrug, his wing twitching with the motion while ignoring Mydei's comment. “The morning should suffice.”

Mydei sighed, leaning his head back against the cushion. “Don’t you know when to rest?”

“I slept for weeks, Mydei,” Phainon muttered, rubbing his temple. “I should make up for the time I lost. Plus I need to repay you all for taking care of me for so long,”

Mydei rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.
His gaze drifted downward, catching again on Phainon’s back where the large wings rested—still half-unfolded, twitching faintly with each breath.

They didn’t look uncomfortable, but they certainly didn’t look controllable either.

Meanwhile, Phainon’s expression shifted—pinched in the kind of frustration only internal arguments brought.

Khaslana… please tell me you figured out how to put these back.

No .

Can you just like… take over for a second and do it?

Phainon , Khaslana groaned, every time I “take over,” we literally burn with the power of a billion core flames. No.

Just a second won’t hurt?

I’m pretty sure it did hurt. You know, not even a few hours ago?

Phainon sighed audibly.

Mydei raised an eyebrow. “That was dramatic.”

Phainon didn’t reply, slumping back further into the couch as his wings refused to do anything subtle. One of them flicked to the side with the grace of a child swatting at a fly.

Mydei scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “...Ha. And to think Era Nova was supposed to fix all of this.”

“As did I,” Phainon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps I really should’ve let instinct win and jumped from the garden.”

Mydei snorted. “Suicidal is an awful look on you, Deliverer.”

“And yet it was a magnificent look on you apparently”

“Immortal,” Mydei corrected, one brow narrowing. “Not suicidal.”

Phainon turned toward him, half-laughing, half-serious. “Are you still…well—?”

There was a pause. Mydei stared ahead.

“…Likely, yes. Though I haven't died to test it.”

Phainon nodded slowly, thankfully if anything “I see— I don’t see why your immortality would fade now.”

Mydei tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Wanna test it?”

Phainon blinked. “Wha—your immortality? Titans, no!”

Mydei smirked, his finger twitching as if itching to fight, “Scared, Deliverer?”

“I am not killing you!”

“Technically you already ha—”

“Don’t.” Phainon held up a hand, groaning. “Khaslana’s already fragile.”

Bro , Khaslana muttered flatly from the depths of his mind. What? I'm not wrong—

Just— nevermind.

Mydei blinked. “Khaslana? Right. Your… alter ego.”

Phainon frowned. “Alter—what?”

Alter what now

“I’m aware it runs deeper–”

“so you know thats not exactly what it is–”

“I don't care though. It's like your alter ego”

“...thats not even close to what it is”

“Yes it is.” 

Phainon stared at him. “Mydeimos… have you ever heard the term ragebait?”

“No.”

“The Trailblazer taught it to me.” Phainon leaned back with a sigh, feeling a low burn under his skin “I think it fits you. Perfectly.”

Mydei gave the most serene, unbothered smile Phainon had ever seen, tilted gently against his features, his eyes narrowing just a little in the graciously beautiful way Phainon was addicted to. "Then maybe I’m just evolving.” Mydei grinned,

“Into what? A pestilence?”

“Immortal pestilence.”

“Worst title I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet you’re smiling. So that means you find it funny, Deliverer”
Phainon groaned, running a hand down his face. “You are… something else,” he muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

“So I’ve been told,” Mydei replied smoothly, though he thought for a moment before speaking again, “Why not visit Anaxa now,” Mydei challenged, sitting up straighter. “Since you’re so worried.”

“You’re just as worried, Mydei.”

“I am, ” he admitted. “So let’s visit.”

Mydei was already reaching for his boots. Phainon shrugged before sitting up, grabbing his coat. “Then let’s—”

Absolutely not , came Khaslana’s voice, slicing into Phainon’s thoughts with all the exhausted authority of a parent dealing with two reckless children. No.

Phainon blinked. “...Khas–?”

Our body is exhausted , Khaslana said, firmly. Sleep. Both of you. You’re worn down, your wing is still half out, you haven’t processed anything, and if one of you faints on Anaxa’s bedside it will only stress him out more–and if you do that I will personally find a way to hit both of you. 

Phainon rubbed his temples. “That feels dramatic.”

That’s because you’re dramatic.

“‘We’ actually–”

“Who are you talking to?” Mydei asked, raising an eyebrow.

Phainon waved it off. “Just the internal version of me trying to stop us-”

Who is trying to keep us alive , Khas added bitterly.

“Apparently I’m exhausted,” Phainon said aloud, flopping back onto the couch. “Khaslana has spoken.”

Mydei chuckled, sitting back down next to him as well. “Technically I told you to rest.”

“You’re not helping! You told me we should go visit him! Is that rest?”

“Well you would think someone such as yourself would have known your own limits, and know how to say no but here we are.”

Phainon sighed dramatically, hitting the couch again as he felt a wing hit something behind him. Mydei settled back beside him, their knees brushing again. He didn’t admit how heavy his limbs felt until he stopped moving. He didn’t need to. The room had quieted.

Phainon, curled slightly on the couch, his wing finally stilled.
Mydei, beside him, breathing slowly, eyes closed—not asleep, but not far from it. “You wanna move–”
“No.” Phainon muttered out, his eyes closed now.
“I thought you wanted to visit Anaxa?”
“Khaslana was right. Im… exhausted."
“Ha… then sleep easy knowing I'm watching over you.” Mydei rested an arm over the other man. Phainon's hand resting on Mydei's leg now, a short breathy laugh leaving his lips.
“Haha… I always do Mydei,”

The two of them stayed like that, resting, finally.
But Khaslana did not rest.
He couldn’t .

Not when something still itched at the edge of his awareness, like a splinter buried too deep to name.
Not when every time he reached inward, toward the heart of their shared being, he felt a thread—thin, foreign, anchored —still lingering.

Anaxa.

Khaslana closed the space of the mind, folding it around himself like silk.
The quiet there was different. Not silence, but suspended thought—dream-thick, flame-warmed, and old from millions of cycles… This was something he alone could bear. The very same thing that tears Phainon apart when he remembers. 

He turned his attention inward, deeper, searching along their soul for the burn that hadn’t come from them .

It was faint—delicate, but precise. A stabilizing touch. Purposeful.
And wrong.

Not malicious. But reckless. Borrowed from a source too close to shatterpoint.

What did you do, Professor…?

Khaslana narrowed his focus, bracing himself as he reached deeper.

He would find the answer. He had to.

Because even now, as Phainon slept, he could feel the fractures left behind, their body was only stable on borrowed time, and with how Khaslana had acted–he feared having his original plan of dying with the rest of this internal burden would no longer work as he wanted.

And if Anaxa had truly taken the weight meant for them…
Then time was already running out, for him, and for them.
Perhaps Khaslana would need to pull some strings in order for this era nova to be happy, and first he needed to curb his professor's kindness.

Khaslana was destined to fall down, and fall he would.

Chapter Text

Hyacine hates this.
Hate being a strong word—but it’s the only one that feels sharp enough to cut through the gut-wrenching sensation curdling in her stomach. It clings to her bones, this helplessness. She doesn’t know where else to place it, what else to call it.

She presses a compress against a deep bruise forming on Anaxa’s arm. The skin beneath pulses faintly with residual heat, like something still burning out. He doesn’t look at her. He twitches under her touch, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Professor…” Her voice comes out lower than she meant. She winces. She hates sounding like this—small, fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry.”

The silence that answers her makes it worse. She glances up just as she’s dabbing blood away from his shoulder. His eye remained lidded, expression unreadable.

“I–I don’t know why I’m so…” she trails off, taking a shallow breath. Her hands are shaking now, and she tries to steady them. “I thought—” she swallows. “I thought everyone could be happy after Era Nova. So why…?”
The cloth in her hand is soaked red now.
“Why does it feel like this?”

She knows he can’t answer. She already diagnosed the damage—his vocal cords are too raw, his throat bone-dry, and any attempt to speak produces only the sound of thin, broken air.

Still, Anaxa raises one hand, slow and shaky, placing it gently on her shoulder. It nearly undoes her.
The gesture is small, but it carries weight. And for as much as Anaxa is… well him, he always has tried to comfort her in times she needed it most.
When their eyes meet, she falters. There’s softness in his expression, a quiet, almost apologetic sadness carved into the tension of his features. But before she can fall into the comfort of it—before she can cling to it like she wants to—something else catches her eye.

A hairline fracture runs from just beneath his temple to the edge of his cheekbone. Not a scar. Not bruising. Not some kind of alchemical staining..

A crack.

Hyacine goes still.

“...What is this?” she breathes, her fingers already lifting without thinking, tracing along the jagged seam. The skin is ice-cold to the touch. Too cold.
“Professor…?”

Anaxa blinks, mouth parting slightly like he might respond—but the effort flickers out just as quickly. His brow furrows as if only now remembering he can’t speak. There’s a quiet frustration in the way his jaw clenches, like he wants to explain but the language’s been stolen from him.

And that— that —is when Hyacine notices the second one.

Beneath the collarbone. Thinner. Subtler. Like glass under pressure.

She shifts, eyes sweeping his form now—not just to heal but to search. As she works down his arm, she finds another near his wrist. Another curling near the base of his neck.

She stops breathing.

Every time she touches one, it feels like something inside her is cracking too. As if she’s tracing her own helplessness in real time.
Her mind spins—trying to make sense of what these are, what he did, what could have possibly led to this .
Alchemy? Divine exchange?

“Is this… from stabilizing Phainon?” she whispers, even though she knows he can’t answer. “Did you… did you give up pieces of yourself just to—” she cuts off.

He doesn’t react. Or maybe he can’t.

“I hate this,” she says, aloud this time. “I hate this so much.”

She wipes under her eye with the back of her wrist, blinking fast. Her other hand won’t stop trembling.

“I hate not knowing how to fix it. I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you won’t say anything even though you’ve always had the answers. You were always the one who knew what to do.”

A beat of silence. She breaks. Her shoulders slump. Her voice lowers again.

“I don’t want to be the only one talking anymore.”

Anaxa’s hand slips from her shoulder, falling back to the cot.

Hyacine just watches him. The bruises. The fractures. The colorless stillness of a man who once scolded leaders into obedience and stitched lives back together with a few well-placed words.

Now he can’t even speak. It hurts more than she can admit. This overwhelming feeling of helplessness.
She’s about to reposition the compress when Anaxa shifts suddenly, turning and attempting to push himself up.

“Wait—hey, no, no—” Hyacine reacts quickly, both hands rising to brace his shoulders. “You shouldn’t—Professor, you need to rest. Please?” She softens her tone. “Or at least… stay here for a while?”

He looks at her, tired and distant—but the stare is still precise. Calculating. There’s something in it that suggests he’s trying to piece together the right way to communicate without words.

Then, slowly, he exhales. Or tries to—it comes out as a shallow mimicry of a sigh. He lifts one hand and gently nudges Hyacine aside, insistent but not harsh.

She blinks. “Huh? Oh—sorry. Do you need privacy or something?”

He nods once, then reaches down to begin undoing the clasps of his coat. It's stained heavily at the shoulder and lower side, threads soaked through with dried blood. He must want to change—Hyacine remembers he didn't really like being seen like this, unkempt and unraveled.

“I see,” Hyacine murmurs. She rises slowly, reluctant to leave but knowing she’s hovering. “I’m gonna go check on Cassie and Lady Aglaea. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

He doesn’t respond—can’t—but he nods again, slower this time. There’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that might be irritation or might be gratitude. He tries to scowl, but he’s too exhausted for it to land properly.

She turns to go, but pauses at the door, hand hovering over the frame. “Promise to text me if you need anything?” she calls back without turning around.

Another beat.

Then a faint buzz—his phone screen lights up from beside the cot. A single emoji. A thumbs up.

Hyacine smiles despite herself. “Thanks.”

She leaves the room quietly, closing the door behind her. As the lock clicks into place, her chest tightens again—Just keep going… you can help, just keep going.

Hyacine made her way through the quiet upper corridors, following the familiar path toward the Hero’s Bath.

Aglaea usually stayed there—her sanctuary in times of strain—but lately she had been venturing out more often, speaking with light in her voice about opening a tailor shop. Hyacine had supported the idea wholeheartedly, picturing her with soft fabrics and quiet mornings instead of battlefields of words and sharp intentions.

But now, here she was again, back in her spot.

The faint trickle of water reached Hyacine’s ears before the elevator doors opened with a muted chime. She stepped out into the warm, mist-veiled air of the bathhouse’s upper level. Conversation drifted in low tones from scattered visitors, and the water’s surface rippled in lazy circles. The scent of chamomile steam and clean stone filled the air.

At the far side of the pool, she spotted them.

Aglaea sat on the marble edge, her feet skimming just above the waterline, Castorice beside her. The two women were speaking softly, close enough that their heads nearly touched. Aglaea had changed from the blood-streaked gown she wore earlier into a fresh dress of soft white. Her hair was perfectly curled, each strand in place as though nothing had happened—but Hyacine could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself as if bracing for the next strike.

Her hands were outstretched before her, fingers splayed, and from each one extended dozens of fine threads—slender as spider silk, glimmering faintly in the mist. The threads swayed gently in the air, tethered to something unseen beyond the bath’s edge.

Hyacine slowed her steps. She could swear she saw those hands tremble.

Castorice looked better as well, though there was still a shadow in her posture. Her long hair was loose now, falling like ink against a dress in a shade nearly identical to Aglaea’s, the cut tailored to her frame… It must have been made by Aglaea.

“…Even in death, they refuse to speak,” Castorice murmured, voice carrying a quiet weight.

“You are a kind soul, Castorice,” Aglaea replied, her tone low but certain.

“Everyone deserves the embrace of death in their final moments,” Castorice said, her gaze fixed on the pool. “But I worry…” She trailed off, then glanced up—and her expression shifted. “Oh. Hyacine!”

Aglaea turned at once, the threads around her shifting minutely with the movement, as if they too listened when she did. “Is everything alright? How is Anaxa?”

Hyacine felt a flicker of guilt bloom in her chest; she was suddenly aware that Little Ica wasn’t beside her anymore. They must have stayed with Anaxa in the courtyard, and she had left them there—left Anaxa there—while she went to find the others…
He needed privacy, she had to remind herself. Just for a couple minutes.

“Oh, I was just… checking on everyone,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze swept over them, cataloguing every subtle change she could see—the faint way Castorice favored her left side, the stiffness in Aglaea’s stance, the way neither of them seemed quite able to keep their shoulders relaxed. “Are both of your injuries alright?”

The two women exchanged a glance—brief, but heavy enough that Hyacine noticed. She had seen that look before, in soldiers trying to pretend their wounds were shallow when they weren’t.

“Yes,” Aglaea said evenly.

“No—oh, um. Yes,” Castorice corrected quickly, but her smile was too thin, too forced.

Hyacine’s brow knit, her healer’s instincts bristling. She didn’t believe them for a second. “I can help,” she offered, stepping nearer with a quiet urgency in her tone. “Please—just let me at least alleviate any injuries. You shouldn’t be walking around like this.”

Aglaea’s voice was warm, but it had that unyielding edge Hyacine had run into before. “Hyacine, while I appreciate it, please focus your efforts on Anaxa. He needs you most right now.”

“Anaxa is being taken care of,” Hyacine countered before she could stop herself, the words tumbling out sharper than intended. “You’re both pale, your breathing’s heavier than you realize, and Castorice—” her eyes flicked to the slight tremor in the other woman’s fingers—“you can’t even hold your arm steady.”

Castorice stiffened, a faint golden flush rising in her cheeks. “We will be alright. Truly.”

The heat of stubbornness clashed between them, neither side yielding. Hyacine’s hands curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She hated this—their polite refusals, the way people treated their own well-being like it was optional. She could see the fatigue in the lines around their eyes, the way their bodies betrayed them despite their words.

“Alright” meant barely holding together . She knew it. They knew it.

“I could do it in minutes,” she tried again, softer now, as if gentleness might win where persistence failed. “It wouldn’t even take much—”

Aglaea shook her head, still smiling that patient, immovable smile. “Hyacine.”

The sound of her name, spoken like that, made the ache in Hyacine’s throat swell. She looked away before they could see the sting in her eyes. “Oh… okay. Just—” she hesitated, forcing the words through the tightness in her chest. “Just let me know if you need me. Please…”

Her voice faltered on the last word, but she didn’t care. Even if they refused her now, she would be watching. She always did… even if they didn't let her care, she would always care. 

She left before either of them could respond.

On her way back toward the elevator, she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She told herself she shouldn’t be upset. She had no reason to be.

And yet, the question clawed at her.

Why was this happening?

And why—despite all her efforts—did she still feel so helpless?

She took a deep breath. It was okay.
It had to be okay.
She could persevere… right?

Her footsteps carried her back toward the courtyard, the cool air brushing against her cheeks. She was half-lost in thought when a flash of blonde and red caught her eye ahead.

“De?” she called, blinking.

Mydei was crossing the stone path, a large wooden box balanced in his arms. Whatever was inside had to be heavy—the wood bowed faintly under the weight—but he held it as if it weighed nothing, his posture upright and his movements brisk.

“Oh. Hyacine.” He slowed when he saw her. “How are you and Anaxa?”

She managed a small smile despite the fatigue pulling at her. “Anaxa is… doing his best in recovery. His vocal cords are damaged, but I don’t think it will be permanent.”

He nodded. “Good. And what about you?”

She hesitated. “—Anaxa should be better soon. I don’t know what exactly he did to stabilize Phainon, but before all this, he was telling me about a theory—”

“That’s interesting and all,” Mydei cut in, voice quiet but firm, “but you didn’t answer my question.”

Hyacine blinked. “S-sorry… what did you ask?”

“I asked how you were doing.”

“Oh.” She looked away briefly, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “I’m fine. Just… worried about everyone.”

Mydei studied her for a long moment. His eyes were steady, but she noticed the faint twitch beneath one—like a muscle spasm from lack of sleep. His skin looked pale under the golden light, and there were deep shadows under his eyes. Even the way he gripped the box seemed too tight, knuckles paling against the wood. She could see it—he was stretching himself thin, probably worse than she was.

“You should take a break,” he said at last, the silent observations they had on each other breaking as he spoke.

She shook her head. “As should you, Lord Mydei. You look exhausted.”

He flinched, as if the title landed harder than she meant. Maybe she’d let her tone edge a little too sharply.

“I—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I apologize. I should get back either way.”

“Mydei…” She tilted her head, watching him. “You don’t have to run off.”

He shifted the box in his arms, his gaze sliding away toward the far wall of the courtyard. His mouth opened like he was going to say something—something real—but then he shut it again. His jaw tensed.

Hyacine wanted to press. She could feel the words gathering behind his silence, but he was holding them back, the same way she had been holding hers all day.

He exhaled, sharp but quiet. “Hyacine, I…” He trailed off. His eyes met hers for just a moment—tired, conflicted—and then he turned away.

“I’ll… see you later.”

She watched him go, the sound of his footsteps fading toward the inner halls. She didn’t move for a long moment, the quiet settling heavily around her. The air felt colder now.

Hyacine was still watching the path Mydei had taken when movement caught her eye again—three familiar figures rounding the corner at a brisk pace.

“Cinnie!” Tribbie called, her voice bright but edged with urgency. Her boots scuffed the stone as she slowed, Trianne and Trinon close behind.

They looked… concerned. All three of them were scanning the space like they were tracking something.

“Was that Mydei?” Trinon asked, already glancing past her toward the hall.
“Yes,” Hyacine said slowly. “He just left—”

“Figures,” Tribbie muttered, planting her hands on her hips. “We’ve been trying to get him to rest for hours.”

“Days,” Trianne corrected, rubbing the back of her neck. Her eyes looked tired too. “He’s been out and awake for days , Hyacine. Barely stopping to eat. Barely sleeping.”

Trinon folded her arms, frowning. “It’s not just about him. If he burns himself out like this, it’ll only hurt Phainon too… Snowy cares for him so much and he would feel so terrible if he knew De was burning himself out like this…”

Hyacine’s chest tightened. They were right—she’d seen it in Mydei’s face already. The twitch, the exhaustion, the way he wouldn’t look her in the eye.

“I tried to tell him,” she admitted, “but I don’t think he’s going to listen to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Trianne said, “he’s not listening to us either.”

They started to walk with her, conversation drifting between them. It was almost a relief to have company, until Trianne slowed suddenly, her steps faltering. She winced, pressing a hand just below her ribs.

“Trianne?” Hyacine asked, instantly concerned.

“It’s fine,” Trianne said quickly, but there was tension in her voice. “Just… that thing again.”

Trinon’s expression softened, almost guilty. “We don’t know why it happens. Or why we’re still… like this.”

Hyacine tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Split,” Tribbie answered for her. “We thought—after everything—we’d be able to return to being whole again. One self, one mind.”

Trianne lowered her hand, still looking faintly pained. “We could, technically. It’s… possible.”

“But,” Trinon finished for her, “we don’t know if we want to.”

Hyacine frowned gently. “Why not?”

There was a pause between them, as if they were silently debating who should speak. In the end, it was Tribbie who shrugged, her smile faint but wistful.

“Comfort, maybe. We’ve gotten used to… being us. Even if it hurts sometimes.”

“It’s not the same as being whole,” Trianne murmured, “but it’s familiar. And after everything, familiar feels… safer.”

Trinon nodded. “Anaxa once told us becoming whole isn’t the same as being healed. I think he was right.”

Hyacine looked at the three of them—each so distinct, yet each carrying the same quiet thread of weariness. She wanted to tell them it was okay to want what they wanted. That survival didn’t have to look perfect.

Instead, she just said, “Then you should stay as you are. For now. If it’s what you need.”

Their smiles were small, but real. For a moment, the tension eased between them.

Tribbie tilted her head, studying Hyacine more closely now that the conversation had quieted. “What about you, though? You’ve been running around checking on everyone else—how are you and Anaxa holding up?”

Hyacine hesitated. She felt three pairs of eyes on her, waiting. “It's nothing… But Anaxa’s… stable. For now. But—” Her voice faltered before she could stop it. “I just… feel helpless. Like I’m watching everyone splinter and fall apart but i cant even do anything about it… I feel sort of useless.” 

Trianne’s brow furrowed, her earlier pain momentarily forgotten. “That’s not nothing, Hyacine.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, eyes drifting toward the path back to the courtyard. “But it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Before any of them could answer, a sudden doot! pierced the air.

Hyacine blinked and turned just in time to see Little Ica bounding toward her from the direction of the courtyard. Normally his little fanfares were playful, over-the-top theatrics. This one… wasn’t.

He stopped short in front of her, panting slightly, and dooted again—short, sharp, almost urgent. His big eyes darted up at her, and for the first time in a while, she saw it.

Fear.

Hyacine’s stomach dropped. “Ica… what happened?”

He didn’t answer, only pointed frantically back the way he’d come, his tiny hooves gripping onto her like a lifeline.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t know what it was—instinct, maybe—but every nerve in her body screamed that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she told the trio quickly, already moving. “I have to go.”

Without waiting for a response, Hyacine broke into a run, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she rushed back toward the courtyard—toward Anaxa.

The air felt colder the closer she got. The distant chatter of the halls faded beneath the pounding of her heartbeat. Every step seemed to take too long, every turn of the corridor not fast enough. Little Ica hurried alongside her, his short legs scrambling to keep pace, the occasional anxious doot puffing from his mouth keeping her sane.

She rounded the last corner and nearly slammed the door open.

The sight hit her all at once.

Anaxa was still in the cot. Too still.

Her heart seized. She was moving before she realized it, crossing the room in a few long, uneven strides.

She pressed trembling fingers to his wrist, searching for the faint rhythm of life she’d felt before—but her breath quickened when she couldn’t find it. Her hand moved to his neck, desperate, but there was nothing steady there either. No pulse. No warmth.

He was cold. Freezing.

Her chest constricted. Her professor hates the cold. The thought came fast and irrational—like if she just reminded him enough times, he’d start warming up.

She felt beside his neck again, harder this time. Still nothing.

Her breathing went shallow. Her whole body felt numb, as if the world had been flipped upside down.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—absolutely not—”

She leaned down, ear pressed to his chest, searching for any sign—anything. But the only thing that greeted her was the hollow, empty sound of still organs. The sound made her stomach twist.

She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t stop shaking.

Her hand found his, clutching it tight. It was ice against her skin. She hated how burning hot her own fingers felt in comparison.

“Anaxa… please…” Her voice cracked, the words tumbling out faster, more frantic. “Please don’t do this to me. Pleasepleasepleaseplease—” The repetition became a prayer, her forehead pressed to the back of his cold hand.

Her tears slipped down, warm against her cheeks, only to sting all the more for it. The room felt too quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

And she refused to let it end like this.

The fight went out of her all at once.

Her knees hit the floor beside the cot, the sound dull against the quiet of the room. She clung to Anaxa’s hand like it was the last thread tethering her to the world—and maybe it was.

And then the sound came.

It tore from her throat without warning—a broken, sharp cry that scraped the edges of her voice. Once it started, she couldn’t stop. Her sobs grew louder, ragged, uneven gasps shaking her whole body. The kind of crying that stripped you down to the bone, with nothing left to hide behind.

“Please—please, I can’t—” Her words fractured between gulps of air, barely coherent. “I’m trying, I’m trying , but it’s never enough—” She pressed her forehead against his arm, the cold seeping into her skin. “Why can’t I fix this? Why can’t I do anything! ?”

The door burst open.

“Hyacine!”

Tribbie’s voice was sharp with alarm, her boots thudding across the floor, Trianne and Trinon close behind. All three froze for half a heartbeat at the sight before moving toward her in unison.

Tribbie dropped to her knees first, reaching for Hyacine’s shoulder. “Hey—hey, look at me—”

Hyacine latched onto her without thinking, trembling like she might shake apart. “They won’t let me help,” she cried, the words tumbling out between sobs. “No one—Aglaea tells me to focus on Anaxa, Castorice smiles and says she’s fine, Mydei brushes me off—” Her voice broke, louder now, “—and Phainon—gods, Phainon’s still pushing himself when I can see it’s killing him!”

Trianne crouched at her other side, one hand on her back, the other brushing her hair gently from her wet face. “Hyacine—”

“No!” she cut in, shaking her head, her tears falling faster. “I see it. I see all of it. How tired they are. How angry they are. How scared. I can feel how much everyone’s suffering and I can’t—” Her voice cracked, a sob swallowing the rest. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Trinon had moved to check Anaxa, her touch quick but careful, but her gaze softened at Hyacine’s words. “You’re doing more than you think.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Hyacine’s voice hitched, the words harsh and wet with grief. “What’s the point of seeing all these cracks if I can’t fix a single one? All I can do is watch everyone break—and then I’m supposed to smile and pretend it’s fine!”

Tribbie pulled her closer, rocking her gently. “You’re not pretending now.”

“But it doesn’t help ,” Hyacine whispered, her throat raw. “I hate it—I hate how much I can see, how clear it is, and how little I can change. I hate feeling this useless!”

Trianne’s grip on her shoulder tightened, grounding her. “You’re not useless,” she said firmly. “You’re the reason half of US are still standing. You mean more to everyone than you think, Hyacine… cmon… deep breath…”

Hyacine shook her head against Tribbie’s shoulder, still sobbing. She didn’t believe them. Not yet. The helplessness still gnawed at her chest, sharp and unrelenting. But between the three of them—Tribbie’s warmth, Trianne’s steady presence, Trinon’s quiet reassurance—at least she wasn’t drowning alone.

Tribbie’s arms loosened from around her. Hyacine felt the shift, blinking through the blur of tears as Tribbie slowly leaned toward the cot. Her hands hovered for a second—hesitant, as if touching him might make it real—before she pressed trembling fingers against his throat.

She froze.

Her hands began to shake.

When she looked back at Hyacine, her voice was small, almost breaking. “Hyacine… I’m sorry…”

The words tore through her like glass.

She didn’t want to look, but her gaze dragged back to him anyway—Anaxa lying unnaturally still, head turned slightly toward the wall. His eye was shut, lashes resting against skin that had lost its color. His lips were pale, almost grey. The rise and fall of his chest was absent—no breath, no sign of warmth. His skin, when she’d touched it earlier, had been like the marble beneath them—unforgiving, deathly cold.

There was no pulse. No heartbeat.

The sight hollowed her out.

Her throat closed. A violent, ugly sound ripped from her chest, part sob, part scream. She doubled forward, clutching at the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her from collapsing entirely. The tears came harder—hot, stinging, blinding—until her vision blurred so much she could barely see. Her breathing turned into gasping hiccups between wails, the kind of crying that left her shoulders shaking uncontrollably, her face pressed down as if she could hide from it.

She hated how loud she was, but she couldn’t stop. Every sound scraped out of her raw, her chest aching from the force of it, her nose running, her hands clutching at anything she could reach. She choked on her own breath, the grief pressing in like there was no air left in the room.

Somewhere above her, Trianne and Trinon were murmuring something—soft, grounding words she couldn’t process—but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart in her ears and the silence of his.

And still, she sobbed, because it was all she had left to do.

Her sobs finally dulled to a rough, uneven rhythm—her throat raw, her eyes swollen and burning. The sound in the room was nothing but shallow breaths, the faint creak of the cot, and the trio’s quiet presence around her.

‘It doesn't make sense.’ her brain twisted, coherency finally hitting. ‘Why would he just… die…? There were no signs that it was affecting him like… like that. So why? Could this be something Anaxa planned? But why wouldn't he say anything… this isn't right.’

Then, slowly, she pushed herself upright. Her hands left the sheets reluctantly, fingers curling into fists as she stood. Her knees wobbled, but she didn’t let herself sink back down.

She stared at Anaxa for a long moment—at the stillness, the wrongness—and then turned to the three of them.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

Her voice was hoarse, scraped thin, but the weight behind it left no room for argument.

“Not yet. Not until I figure out what is really happening.”

Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinon exchanged a glance—confusion flickering between them, maybe even protest—but they didn’t speak.

Hyacine wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her skin. Her mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile if not for the way it sat wrong on her face—too tight, too cold, all the warmth stripped out of it.

“I—” her voice caught, but she forced it steady, “I can take this… just… please. For now.”

She looked each of them in the eye, and despite the tears still running down her face, there was a hardness there—something controlled, even brittle.

“You’ve seen how shaken everyone is. If they hear about this right now…” she shook her head. “It’ll break them. And I’m not letting that happen.”

The three of them didn’t answer, but Hyacine saw the way they shifted, the silent agreement settling between them.

She turned back toward the cot, her shoulders tense. The tears didn’t stop—but her voice, when she spoke again, was cold enough to frost the air.

“For now, we keep this between us.”

The three of them just nodded.

No arguments. No questions.
But the way their eyes lingered on her—just a fraction too long—said enough. They were a little scared. Maybe not of her, exactly, but of the sharpness in her voice, the cold edge under her tears.

Little Ica had gone utterly still, pressed close to her leg. He didn’t doot , didn’t move—just watched her with those wide, uncertain eyes.

Hyacine drew a slow breath and turned back toward the cot. Each step felt heavier, but her resolve only seemed to harden with the weight.

She stopped at Anaxa’s side again, looking down at him—the stillness, the cold, the wrongness. Her jaw clenched.

Behind her, the trio shifted. Tribbie glanced once toward the door, then to the others. Without a word, they began to move, slipping out one by one until only the soft click of the door latch marked their absence.

Hyacine didn’t look up. Her hands rose, hovering just above his chest, fingers trembling.

The air around her seemed to change—tighter, heavier—like it was leaning in to watch.

She closed her eyes.

And despite everything—despite the exhaustion burning in her muscles, despite the cracks in her own heart—Hyacine moved. Carefully, surgically. She called out to his divinity, her own coreflame shaking within her soul.

Nothing called back.

Chapter Text

“And how are you feeling today?”

The voice made him blink awake. His vision was still blurred from sleep, sunlight cutting across it in sharp, golden bars. He noticed the wings that had before donned his back were gone, though the phantom feeling of the extra appendages felt… odd–he sort of misses them.

He squinted, head tilting toward the sound.

“Cyrene?” he murmured, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “When did you get here?”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “Just now. You were asleep out here, so I figured I’d check in before you caught on fire.”

Phainon exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. He must’ve dozed off again in the yard. After everything that happened yesterday, he couldn’t fault himself for the exhaustion—it was the kind that clung to you, bone-deep. Mydei had already gone out hours ago, and to avoid the inevitable lecture, Phainon had decided to stay home. Or at least, in front of it. The sun was good enough company.

“Wakey wakey~” Cyrene sing-songed, and before he could react, she all but fell into his lap. He caught her out of reflex, grunting as her weight settled against him.

“Ugh… you're heavy—,” he said mildly, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“Hey! That's so mean…! I thought you were strong enough to carry a cute girl like me~” She rested her chin on his shoulder, peering up at him. “So…?”

“So?”

“How are you really feeling?”

He hesitated, fingers tapping idly against her arm. “I’m… doing okay.”

It was the safest answer. Easier than saying tired enough to stop thinking . Easier than admitting he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since the attack. The truth was, everything still felt… off. Like the air hadn’t settled since yesterday.

“…I’m sorry about the memory getting… corrupted,” Cyrene said after a pause, her voice quieter now.

Phainon blinked, turning his head slightly to look at her. “No. It’s alright.” His tone softened, almost reluctant to let her think otherwise. “It was nice… to see home, I mean.”

Something eased in her shoulders, the faintest breath of relief. “You know,” she murmured, “after everything… I’m just happy to have been able to experience it. Even if it didn’t last the way I wanted.”

He didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head, watching the way the light caught on her hair. “You wanted me to see it?”

“I did.” Her eyes crinkled faintly, though her voice stayed steady. “I wanted you to see this world. The life we built here. I’m… proud, you know. That you chose to live in it.”

Phainon’s gaze drifted toward the edge of the yard, where the wind stirred the tall grass. “I didn’t really think about it like that.”

Cyrene shrugged against him, her chin still resting on his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter if you thought about it. You’re here. You stayed. And for someone like you… that’s saying a lot.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “…I guess it is.”

She watched him for a moment longer before nudging him gently. “Besides, if you weren’t here, who else would I annoy in the mornings?”

He huffed, low and unamused. “I’m starting to think you make a schedule for it.”

“Maybe I do,” she said, grinning now.

For the first time all morning, Phainon let out a small, genuine laugh. It faded quickly, but it lingered enough to make the air between them feel less heavy.

Cyrene sighed quietly, her breath warm against his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a while, just letting the soft hum of the day settle around them. The world felt… different now. New, in a way that wasn’t loud or grand, but steady—something built piece by piece, choice by choice.

Phainon could feel the faint burn behind his chest, the kind that never quite left him, but here in the sunlight it didn’t seem to matter. Not as much.

He still worried for Anaxa—of course he did—but the thought of the man recovering was like a promise on the horizon. Once Anaxa was well enough, Phainon could finally get some answers. And maybe… maybe even apologize for all the trouble he’d caused.

“Phainon~” Cyrene’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “We should go visit Anaxa.”

He blinked, glancing at her. “Huh. I was just thinking about that.”

“Call me prophetic~!” She grinned, tapping his chest lightly. “Since I’m here, I’m sure Mydei won’t mind, right?”

Phainon chuckled under his breath. “He will. But… let me text him and let him know his prisoner’s escaping with an accomplice.” He pulled out his teleslate, sending a quick message to the other man;

Phainon: Escaping with Cyrene.
Mydei: Are you now? Breaking out again?
Phainon: Gonna stop me warden?
Mydei: You would like that huh? But no, too busy. Be safe
Phainon: of course
Phainon: Who do you take me for?

Cyrene tilted her head with an amused little smile. “Oh? What a cute roleplay you two have~”

“It’s not like that—”

“You two are still a thing?” she asked, sweet as sugar, but there was a glint in her eye.

Phainon hesitated. His fingers stilled on his phone. “I—” He swallowed. “…I don’t know.”

The words felt heavier than he expected once they were out.

Cyrene’s smile faltered for just a breath. “…I see,” she murmured, her eyes flicking away for a moment before she shook her head. Then, with a little burst of energy, she straightened. “Hey—don’t think about that now. Let’s just get you out and moving again!”

Phainon only nodded, though his gaze drifted toward the street ahead. I never got to ask Mydei… The thought pressed at him, stubborn and persistent. I… I want to know.

Most of his memories of the previous cycles were smudged and unclear, fractured pieces slipping between his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold them. Likely because of the fracture in himself—gaps where whole years should have been.

But there was one thing he remembered clearly.

In every cycle, in every place, he and Mydei somehow… found each other. No matter what the world looked like. No matter who they were.

For now, though, he decided— one thing at a time.

He needed to repay everyone who had stood by him.
He needed to make sure his professor was okay.
And he needed to ask Mydei—really ask—if he still wanted him. If he would have him.

And last of all… he needed to save himself.
…Whatever that meant.

That, he decided, could be thought about another time.

Cyrene hooked her arm through his and all but dragged him down the street, her steps quick and unhesitating. The midday light spilled across the cobblestones, painting the street in soft golds and pale shadows.

The way she spoke left him with a strange kind of warmth. Hope, maybe. Simply in how she loved everything with such fever, as if every ordinary moment was worth memorizing.

For a little while, he let himself get pulled along.

Phainon and Cyrene strolled side by side, their voices low as they pointed out little things around them. The smell of roasted food drifting from a street cart. A stray cat darting between shadows. The hum of shopkeepers calling to customers from their stalls.

“And the running steps of…” Cyrene’s words trailed off, her gaze flicking down the street. “Oh—wait—”

Her hand shot out instinctively, pressing lightly against Phainon in a half-hearted attempt to shield him. She wasn’t tall enough for it to do much, but the motion was protective all the same.

A sudden rush of boots thundered past them—Kremnoan soldiers, their armor clattering, their expressions grim. The line of them cut through the street like a living current, ignoring the startled civilians pressed to the sides.

“What’s—” Phainon began, but Cyrene was already calling out.

“Hey—Krateros!”

An older man at the tail of the commotion slowed, then stopped entirely when his eyes landed on the two of them. His weathered face shifted from surprise to something sharper, more guarded.

“Both of you—come with me.” His voice was clipped, the urgency in his tone unmistakable. It was the kind of urgency he usually reserved for matters he didn’t want overheard.

“Where’s Mydei,” Phainon asked immediately.

Krateros’s mouth tightened into a scowl. “He was attacked. My men says he’s not gravely injured, but I’ve dispatched every resource we need to tear apart whoever was foolish enough to lay a hand on our king—”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly as his gaze swept over Phainon. There was a flicker—wariness? Recognition?—before he stepped back half a pace and schooled his features again.

Cyrene reached up and tugged gently at Phainon’s sleeve, grounding him. “Hey. Phai. Control yourself.” Her voice was softer this time, coaxing, almost like she was pulling him back from a ledge. “Mydei’s gonna be fine. Let’s go check on him, yeah?”

He nodded quickly—too quickly. Of course Mydei would be fine. He was Mydei. He had always been unshakable, immovable. But the thought repeated in Phainon’s head like a prayer he didn’t quite believe: he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine.

They didn’t make it halfway down the hall before Hyacine appeared in their path. Krateros was already striding briskly past her, giving only the briefest of nods before rushing on. Cyrene called out instinctively, halting both of them in their tracks.

Phainon stopped short. Hyacine was smiling—but it was that particular sad smile he’d seen before, the one that never reached her eyes. And this time… her eyes made his stomach drop.

“Hyacine,” he said, the word coming out sharper than he meant. “Is everything okay?”

The question should have sounded gentle. Instead it landed heavy, weighted with the overwhelming worry that coiled in his chest. Because her eyes… goodness, her eyes. Cold. Alive. But empty. The familiar spark that usually danced there, the brightness that anchored her, was dulled—snuffed to a thin glow, as if she could barely stand to be here at all.

Cyrene coughed lightly, her gaze flicking between them. At first she looked confused by Phainon’s sudden urgency, but when she truly looked at Hyacine—really saw her—her expression shifted. The confusion softened into understanding, and then into quiet alarm.

Hyacine gave them both a small, sorrowful smile. “…Are you worried about Lord Mydei? He’s stable. He’s just resting in the—”

“I was asking about you, Hyacine.”

The words cut the air clean in two. Silence pressed down heavy in their wake.

Hyacine froze, the faint smile still etched on her face, though it looked fragile now—like glass ready to splinter.

Cyrene kept glancing between them, her brow furrowing, clearly unsettled. “What’s… happening? Both of you are…” She trailed off, biting back the rest before shaking her head. Her eyes narrowed with resolve. “…You two talk. I’ll go check on De.”

She excused herself quickly, slipping out the door with a purposeful stride. The latch clicked shut behind her, and suddenly the room felt heavier, too still.

Phainon lowered himself without hesitation, kneeling until he was at Hyacine’s eye level. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. She met his gaze, but it was like staring into a reflection without depth—as if she was present and absent all at once.

For a heartbeat, he wondered if she’d even heard him.

“Hyacine.”

She blinked, the curve of a practiced smile rising on her lips. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

Her gaze faltered just slightly. “Lord Mydei is—”

“Stop avoiding the question.” His voice cut in, softer than steel, but with an edge of insistence that left no room to slip away. “Truly, Hyacine. Answer me.”

She shook her head faintly, eyes downcast. “I am fine, Lord Phainon.”

The title struck him like a sting. “…Why are you calling me that?” he asked quietly, brow furrowing. “Are you still injured? Hyacine, please. You need to take care of yourself—you look as if you haven’t slept in days.”

“I’ve slept. I’m alright,”

He exhaled, the sound closer to a sigh of defeat than acceptance. “…Forgive me, but I can’t believe you.”

Her lips parted, the beginnings of protest forming. “Phainon—”

“Is it because of the professor?” he pressed, the question slipping out before he could stop it. “I’m sure he—”

And then he saw it. The moment her composure cracked. Just for an instant, but enough. Her eyes shimmered, a betraying gloss of tears, her lip trembling before she forced it still again. The mask slid back into place, but he had already seen.

“…Hyacine.” His voice gentled, rough with quiet urgency. “You can tell me. I promise—nothing bad will come of sharing your troubles.”

Her answer was soft, but cut sharp as any blade. “You say this… and yet you can’t follow your own advice.”

The words silenced him. For a heartbeat he could only stare at her, stunned by the honesty, by how close she had struck.

“…I can’t,” he admitted finally, the confession raw, “no. But I’m trying. And trying to be better means this: I still want to help. You mean the world to me, Hyacine. I can’t bear to see you suffer.”

She hesitated, her hand lifting almost unconsciously to clutch at the top of her dress, as though steadying herself. “I—I can’t… You just got better—you’re recovering. Any more stress and—”

“ We can handle it,” Phainon interrupted softly, leaning closer. His hands hovered, not touching, but open in offering. “Let me share this burden. Don’t carry it all by yourself.”

For the first time, she drew in a shaky breath. Her chest rose, fell, and rose again, unsteady. The mask trembled at its edges, her composure fragile as glass.

“Then… I—I—”

Her words tangled, breaking apart as she finally tore her gaze from his. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as though she could hold her own shaking frame steady. But Phainon wouldn’t let her retreat into that solitude—not this time.

He reached forward and gathered her into his arms, drawing her close with a gentleness that left no room for doubt. Hyacine froze for only a heartbeat before she melted against him, her face burying into the curve of his shoulder. Her hands trembled, then clung to his sleeves, clutching as though she feared he’d slip away if she loosened her grip.

“Let me think on it…” she whispered, her voice muffled against him, fragile as glass.

“One step at a time,” Phainon murmured, resting his chin lightly against her hair. “I’ll prove to you that you can trust me.”

Her reply was quiet, but firm, almost scolding in its sincerity. “I do trust you.”

He drew back slightly, just enough to meet her damp gaze. His lips curved into something soft, almost boyish despite the weight in his voice. “Then I’ll be the best—for you.”

She let out a long, unsteady sigh, the kind that carried both exhaustion and relief. When she finally pulled back, she was quick to wipe at the tears clinging to her lashes. Phainon noticed, of course, but he didn’t mention it—wouldn’t wound her pride with acknowledgement.

Instead, he watched as she straightened her back, fists clenching close to her chest as if grounding herself with the motion. She took a slow breath, her expression settling into something steadier, though her eyes still glistened faintly.

“Let’s check on De first,” she said at last, her voice steadier now, carrying a quiet resolve. She met his eyes again, this time with determination behind the softness. “And then… we can talk.”

Phainon nodded silently and fell into step beside Hyacine, following her down the hall to where Krateros and Cyrene had gone. The air still felt heavy on his chest, but his steps quickened as soon as he caught sight of him.

Mydei sat with his usual scowl fixed firmly in place, though the sharpness of it was undercut by the faint glow crawling along his arm where a wound was knitting itself closed.

His immortality…

Relief punched through Phainon like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He still has it. Thank goodness.

When Mydei’s eyes lifted and caught his, the edge in Phainon’s chest loosened. Their gazes held for just a moment, enough for his own expression to soften, the corners of his lips tugging upward despite himself. Mydei was alright.

“You’re here too, Phainon?” Mydei said at last, his tone gruff but gentler than his face suggested.

Before Phainon could respond, Cyrene leaned into him with a sly grin, nudging his shoulder. “What did you expect? I’m a great jailbreak~”

Phainon’s eyes widened, his ears betraying him with the faintest flush of pink. Gods above… she really had to say it like that?

Phainon’s ears burned immediately, a flush creeping to the tips. He stiffened, jaw tightening as if he could will the reaction away. Gods above… did she really have to say it like that?

“Don’t say things like that,” he muttered, though it came out weaker than intended.

Cyrene only grinned wider. “What? You’d rather I let you sulk in the yard forever?”

He shot her a look but didn’t answer. The truth was—maybe a part of him would’ve preferred that. Anything but being dragged right into another reminder of how fragile all of this still was.

Mydei’s eyes met Phainon’s, The royal was sat propped against the edge of the bed, the top part of his armor gone and a bandage wrapped hastily around his side while his arm held out with a slow closing wound. Blood had seeped through, staining the linen dark gold. Even with his composure, it was obvious—the wound wasn’t closing the way it should.

Without realizing it, Phainon had crossed the room. His arm reached out, steadying Mydei’s shoulder as his other hand hovered just above the bandage, trying to will the effect there faster. It wasn’t enough. The healing crawled along painfully, the skin knitting too slow.

“When did this happen?” His voice came out low, rougher than he meant.

“A little after you texted,” Mydei replied, his tone even, though his eyes betrayed the frustration behind it.

“But… why?”

Cyrene, quieter now, glanced around the room, tension replacing her earlier mischief. “It’s definitely related to what happened before… right?”

Mydei’s jaw tightened. He glanced down at the sluggishly healing wound, his hand pressing lightly against the bandage as though to hold himself together by force.

“A bold move,” he muttered, voice edged with iron. “To try and attack the demigod of Strife in broad daylight.”

“Bold and stupid,” Krateros added bluntly from where he stood, arms crossed like he was trying to physically anchor the room.

“First the attack on my own memoryscape attempt, and now this…” Cyrene muttered dejectedly, the words slipping out as she sank down beside Mydei. She leaned forward, eyeing the sluggish glow across his arm. “…Why does it have to go deeper…?” If she was talking about the wound or the attacks Phainon didn't know. 

Her voice dropped to a whisper, but Phainon’s ears caught it clearly. “It’s slow.”

Mydei sighed, shoulders heavy. “My focus has been pushed around a lot.”

The admission was low, resigned, but it landed like stone in Phainon’s chest.

The longer Phainon stood there, the more the edges of his vision seemed to tighten. His jaw clenched, nails biting into his palms where his fists curled at his sides. He forced his expression to remain even, but inside—inside burned a storm he didn’t want anyone to glimpse.

After the stunt pulled in the memoryscape– they would still try and do more?

Someone dared.

Someone dared to attack his Mydeimos in broad daylight.

The thought startled him the instant it formed, but it wouldn’t leave, repeating like a drumbeat. They weren’t a couple—Mydei hadn’t promised him anything. They were barely even at a place where Phainon knew what they were to each other. But that didn’t matter. Mydei was his. Not as possession, but as truth, as the constant in his chest that anchored him when everything else threatened to unravel. And for someone— anyone —to think they could touch him, could wound him, could make him bleed?

Phainon’s rage coiled, sharp, and quiet, like fire forming under skin. He would never let it show, never speak it aloud, but the thought lingered: if he found them, if he learned their name, they would never see daylight again.

Has Mydei been targeted before, and I didn’t know? Has he been carrying this alone, just like he carries everything else? Why hasn't he told me yet?

The questions battered his skull. He tried to reel them in, tried to breathe, but the guilt gnawed at him all the same. Mydei had been the one to watch him, always—always making sure Phainon didn’t do anything reckless, always stepping in when he stumbled, when his own weight nearly crushed him. Mydei had taken on worry after worry that should never have been his.

He has a kingdom, a people, an entire world on his shoulders, and still he found the space to shoulder me too. And I let him. Why did I let him…

Not anymore.

Phainon swallowed hard, determination hardening in his chest as he stepped closer. “Mydei,” he said, steady but low, “you should get some rest. We can handle everything.”

Mydei’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. The glare wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp, laced with offense. “They attempted to assassinate the king of Kremnos—”

“And that king,” Phainon interrupted before he could stop himself, voice firmer now, “shouldn’t be worrying about this. It will be handled. A small matter. I can take care of it.”

The words rang harsher than he intended, but he didn’t regret them. His heart beat hard, cold and certain. Mydei didn’t need to lift another sword for this—not when Phainon could bleed in his place.

Phainon watched as Mydei’s expression shifted—confusion flashing first, then tightening into something heavier. He couldn’t place it exactly, but it twisted in his chest to see.

“You are also recovering—” Mydei began, his voice like flint striking.

“I’ll manage.”

“You slept for weeks.”

“And I’m awake now,” Phainon shot back without hesitation, the words clipped, almost too sharp.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Cyrene and Hyacine, both standing aside, their own hushed orbit of concern. Cyrene leaned in, whispering something low that drew the faintest crease into Hyacine’s brow. They didn’t intervene. Not yet.

“…Stubborn fool,” Mydei hissed, the words under his breath but biting all the same. His scowl deepened, jaw tightening. “This was an attempt on my life. I will not simply sit idle and allow—”

“You won’t.”

The words cut through before Mydei could finish. Phainon stepped closer, his voice steady. His eyes did not waver from Mydei’s, not once. “But I’m going to kill whoever keeps orchestrating this. I will burn them alive. ”

The silence that followed was thick, sharp-edged. He didn’t care how brazen it sounded, how presumptuous. The thought of anyone laying another hand on Mydei—on his Mydei—boiled something inside him he didn’t have a name for, something halfway between devotion and fury.

Let them try again. Let them show their face. I’ll tear them from the land with my bare hands if I must.

And yet, beneath the rage, the guilt gnawed deeper. Mydei shouldn’t have to hear such promises from him. He shouldn’t have to think about Phainon’s recklessness when his own safety was already in question. He shouldn’t have to worry for him, not anymore.

“It's… Odd. To see you so upset,” Mydei remarked, voice low, almost unreadable. “Even willing to take a life—”

Phainon’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropped from Mydei’s. He couldn’t meet those eyes, not when the truth lingered so naked in them. He turned away, gaze sinking to the shadows stretching along the walls. His mind betrayed him, dredging up memories he’d buried deep—the endless run-ins with assassins, faces blurred across cycles, the smell of iron and blood and futility.

But one memory cut sharper than all the rest: Aglaea. Her body lying still in the thirty-three millionth cycle. 33,550,336. He could never forget the number, not when it burned behind his eyelids every time he closed them. He had been too slow, too careless, too unguarded, Aglaea was left alone when she needed him. And he had sworn—sworn on everything he was—that he would never let that happen again. Not to her, Not to anyone else.

“…If you’re worried, then don’t be,” he said finally, forcing his voice steady. “No assassin would be able to kill the demigod of strife.” Mydei’s reply came quickly, easily, as if it were a simple fact. He pushed himself to his feet, flexing his arm now fully knit together, the light of immortality still fading from his skin. He looked steady. Strong. Whole.

“I know that,”

And yet Phainon couldn’t unclench his fists.

“Then calm down,” Mydei added, brushing off the moment as if that was all there was to it.

“I am calm.”

“Is burning through the floorboard calm?”

Phainon blinked, startled, before finally glancing down. Heat pulsed faintly under his boots, the wood beneath him blackened in a thin ring where his aura had unconsciously seared through. The air around him wavered, faintly shimmering with gold.

“Phainon, De will be just fine. Don’t worry, everything’s gonna work out in the end,” Cyrene said, her voice light but steady, grounding. She slipped her hand over his, her smaller fingers curling tight around his own. The gentle squeeze made him pause, the tension in his chest loosening just enough for him to take a breath.

…Alright. Maybe he was more exhausted than he realized. Not the good kind of tired—this was the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion that clung since Khaslana had become its own fractured identity. Being awake felt like labor. His body was present, but half of him always drifted elsewhere, like walking with his own shadow peeling away at the seams.

Mydei scoffed and looked aside, mouth parting as if to cut into the silence. But Cyrene didn’t give him the chance.

“Uh-uh,” she interjected sharply, hand lifting from Phainon’s to press against Mydei’s chest in warning. “Tensions have been so high, both of you are strung taut as bowstrings. Let’s all take a minute, okay?”

Her eyes flicked between them, daring either man to argue. Neither did, not really. Mydei bristled, his scowl deepening, but he allowed himself to be steered by her hand tugging his sleeve. With one last glare thrown at Phainon—more exasperated than hostile—he let Cyrene pull him toward the courtyard, muttering under his breath the whole way.

The room felt strangely hollow after their departure, the echo of their clash hanging in the air. Phainon exhaled slowly, pressing his knuckles into his brow.

That was when he noticed her.

Hyacine.

She had been quiet the whole time, almost forgotten at the edge of the conversation, standing as if she’d been carved from stillness. Her eyes weren’t on the others, nor on the door where they’d left. She was staring somewhere far past the walls, distant, unfocused—like she’d slipped entirely into another place.

When his gaze met hers, though, the fog seemed to clear. She blinked once, slowly, and lifted her face toward him.

“…Phainon.” Her voice was soft, as though testing the shape of his name. There was no judgment in it, no edge—only a fragile awareness, as though she was just now stepping back into the room.

“Sorry, Hyacine,” Phainon murmured, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I got a bit worked up.”

The girl shook her head at once. “No. I understand.”

They didn’t need more than that.

Silence fell, not awkward but thick in the way only exhaustion could make it. At some point their steps carried them forward together, slow and unhurried. They didn’t speak, but neither pulled away—just walked side by side, their arms brushing occasionally, their shadows overlapping under the muted glow of the hall’s lamps.

It was strange. Both of them were the sort who usually filled a room with brightness when they entered—Phainon with charm and warmth, Hyacine with her keen optimism and watchful smile. But tonight neither had the energy for it. Tonight they carried themselves quietly, allowing the silence to be enough. And somehow, it was. Just the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the presence of the other was comfortable.

When the looming outline of the twilight courtyard’s building came into view, Hyacine’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. She slowed her pace, as if her body betrayed her even as she forced it forward.

She broke the silence first, her voice barely above a whisper. “…My stress has been everywhere lately,” she admitted. “I’ve been so worried for everyone. I just… feel useless. Helpless. Like I’m always three steps too late.”

Phainon looked at her, really looked, and though the words ached, he reached for steadiness. “You’re not useless. You’ve been holding us all together more than you realize. And you—” he paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself, “you’ve cared for Anaxa better than anyone could have asked.”

That was when she faltered.

Her breath caught, her steps stuttering just slightly. Her eyes darted away, her lips trembling with something unspoken. She tried—oh, she tried—to hold that careful smile, to soften what was coming, to keep the inevitable from crashing down on him too quickly.

But Phainon knew. He could feel the shift before she even opened her mouth.

Hyacine’s hands tightened around the folds of her skirt as she looked at him at last, her eyes damp but steady. “…Phai,” she whispered, voice trembling, “there’s something you need to know… But We–You can't speak of this to anyone else.”

The weight of her words lingered like a storm on the horizon, inevitable and unkind.

The words left Hyacine’s lips like broken glass.

“Anaxa has passed.”

For a moment, she couldn’t even hear her own voice over the thunder in her chest. She braced herself for the crash—Phainon shattering, cursing, demanding. For him to collapse into grief or rage the way she had when the truth first struck her.

But he didn’t.

Phainon’s gaze held hers, steady and unflinching. The storm in his eyes didn’t break—it shifted, darkened, but remained contained. He inhaled slowly, then spoke with a calmness that nearly unraveled her.

“…Show me.”

Hyacine blinked, her throat tightening. “Phainon, I—”

He reached for her, gentle as ever, his hands settling against her shoulders as though she were the one who needed steadying. His touch was grounding, warm. It made her heart ache worse.

“I thought—” her voice cracked, splintering into a sob, “I thought you—”

But she couldn’t finish. The tears rushed faster than the words, breaking through every defense she’d built.

Phainon didn’t flinch at her collapse. Instead, he leaned down, pulling her against him with quiet certainty. Her face pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her back. He didn’t tell her to hush, didn’t ask her to stop—he simply held her through the shaking, through the way her body fought itself to stay upright.

“I’ll believe it when I can feel it,” he murmured into her hair, voice a low vow against her sobs. “You don’t have to shoulder this alone, Hyacine. I’m here.”

Her fists tightened in the fabric of his clothes, clinging like she might drown otherwise. His steadiness was infuriating and comforting all at once—how he could hold such calm when her own heart was tearing open.

But maybe that was why she wept harder. Because someone was finally holding her, not the other way around.

They held each other for a long while, the silence heavy but strangely gentle between them. Phainon’s quiet breaths brushed against her collarbone, steady and unhurried. One of his hands rested firm at her back, the other moving in slow, soothing circles, grounding her in ways words could never manage. Hyacine leaned into him with all the fragility she had been holding back for days, her shaky breaths slowly evening out under the rhythm of his touch.

For the first time since Anaxa’s collapse, she allowed herself to feel the weight ease, if only by a fraction. His steadiness was not loud or dramatic—just warm, present, and certain. She could almost pretend, in that fragile cocoon of an embrace, that everything outside did not exist.

But reality waited, and she knew she couldn’t spare him from it any longer.

“…Come with me,” she whispered once her voice returned.

Phainon didn’t hesitate.

She led him through the twilight courtyard’s narrow corridors, her pace slow and reluctant, her hand brushing the wall as though she needed the support. The building was quiet. Lamps burned low, casting long shadows across the stone, their footsteps echoing faintly as they passed.

When she pushed open the door to the courtyard office, the air shifted.

Phainon stepped inside and saw him.

Anaxa lay upon the low cot, pale as moonlight, hands folded neatly at his chest. His body was perfectly still, his features serene—too serene. If not for the cold absence in the room, it could have been mistaken for sleep. But there was no rise and fall of breath, no warmth in the skin, no spark in the eyes that had once held such sharp brilliance.

Phainon’s chest tightened, but his face betrayed little. He approached slowly, reverently, each step echoing in the quiet chamber until he stood near enough to see every detail. His gaze lingered on the faint hollows under Anaxa’s eyes, the unnatural stillness of his limbs.

“How long?” he asked finally, his voice low, hushed.

Hyacine swallowed hard. “…More than twenty-four hours now.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. He reached out, though stopped short of touching, his eyes narrowing as they swept the man’s form. “He hasn’t… decayed at all—”

“I…” Hyacine’s hands twisted together at her waist, her voice breaking with helplessness. “I don’t understand why.”

The words trembled in the air, filling the space between them with dread.

Phainon’s hand trembled only slightly as he extended it, hovering just above Anaxa’s chest. He expected to feel it—some trace, however faint, of the energy that always lingered in a demigod’s body. That strange hum of color, that flicker of soul-light that pulsed quietly even in stillness.

But there was nothing.

No spark. No tether. Not even the dim afterglow of power that should have remained in death.

It was empty. Black and hollow, like reaching into a void that had swallowed everything whole.

His breath caught. “…his divinity—”

Hyacine’s voice cut in, small and raw, though it carried the weight of someone who had been repeating it to herself for hours. “It’s gone.”

Phainon’s eyes snapped to her. The words rang impossibly wrong in his ears, every instinct in him rejecting them. Gone? Divinity didn’t just vanish. It lingered, fragmented, dispersed into the cycle of eternity itself—but gone?

He looked back down at Anaxa, at the stillness of him, the unnatural preservation of his body, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something colder than grief tightening in his chest.

Gone.

The silence pressed against his ears until another voice, sharp and unyielding, broke through.

He’s not dead.

Phainon stiffened. Khaslana’s words coiled in his head, distinct and absolute.

His soul is somewhere. He is insane for doing something that separates the very matter of his body and soul, but I am telling you—he is not gone.

Phainon’s breath wavered, his hand still hovering over Anaxa’s still chest. His heart knew it, had clung to the possibility even when his eyes told him otherwise. But seeing the pale shell before him, preserved and empty—it hurt in a way he could barely contain.

He nodded faintly, voice low but firm. “He isn’t dead. He’s just… elsewhere.”

Hyacine’s head snapped up, eyes wide, lips parting on a trembling whisper. “Wh–what?”

Phainon drew in a long breath, steadying himself, and then looked at her with quiet certainty. “I’ll bring him back,” he said. “Drag him if I have to. Whatever he’s done, wherever he’s gone, I’ll follow him into it. But you—” his hand found hers, warm and grounding, “please, Hyacine. Rest. Kephale knows you deserve to rest.”

Her shoulders quivered, the tension that had been keeping her upright threatening to break again at the gentleness in his tone. She searched his face as if she wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes—determined, unwavering—stole the words from her tongue.

For the first time since Anaxa’s collapse, a fragile thread of hope stirred against the grief.

Hyacine shook her head, wiping fiercely at her eyes as if she could scrub the tears away. “No, Phai, I can’t—don’t tell me to rest when you —when everything—” Her voice hitched, breaking under the weight of everything she hadn’t said aloud. “I don’t deserve to stop. Not when there’s still so much to do, not when he—” She gestured helplessly toward Anaxa’s still form.

Phainon watched her unravel, and something inside him shifted—firm and immovable. Without warning, he stepped forward, scooping her effortlessly into his arms.

She gasped softly, hands pressing against his chest in reflex—but she didn’t push away. The protest she had been readying caught in her throat, her body betraying how desperately tired she was. For once, she didn’t fight him.

“My strength has all but returned,” he said, his voice steady, resolute. “Consider me recovered enough.” His gaze softened as he looked down at her, the way her lashes trembled, her face still blotched with tears. “You’ve done so much for me, Hyacine. Always watching, always carrying, always giving more of yourself than you should.”

His arms tightened just slightly, protective. “Let me do this for you—for us—for everyone. I will bring our dear professor back. Okay?”

Her lips trembled, the words she might have spoken dissolving into silence. Slowly, her hands curled into his shirt, not resisting, not denying him.

She had carried them all long enough. And if Phainon said he would carry her now—then for the first time in days, she allowed herself to believe him.

Phainon felt it in the shift of her body—the way Hyacine finally leaned into his shoulder, no longer holding herself rigid. Her tension drained slowly, her frame softening against him until she seemed weightless in his arms.

“Okay…” Her voice was fragile, breaking as the word slipped out. Then, quieter still, almost pleading: “Please… bring him back to me.”

His chest tightened, a sharp ache settling beneath his ribs. For a moment he almost answered aloud, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he only nodded, the promise already carved into him like stone.

Hyacine broke again then, the dam of her composure shattering. Her sobs returned, raw and unsteady, wracking her small frame. He stayed close, one arm braced around her shoulders, letting her press her face into him. He didn’t tell her to stop. Didn’t offer platitudes. Just let her cry, steadying her with the quiet weight of his presence.

Her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, warm against his skin, but he didn’t move away. Every shudder of her body seemed to echo in his own chest.

At last, her sobs softened, tapering off into shaky breaths. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. She clung to his sleeve a little longer, as though afraid to let go, until finally even that strength faded.

When he realized she had fallen asleep, his expression softened. Carefully, he shifted his arms and gathered her up. She was lighter than he expected, fragile in the way only someone utterly spent could be.

With a slow breath, he turned back toward the courtyard door. His gaze lingered on Anaxa’s still form—so still it felt wrong. A shadow fell across his features, but he forced himself to move.

Adjusting Hyacine gently against his chest, he freed a hand and pulled the door closed behind them. The muted thud rang louder than it should have, and the click of the lock echoed in the hall like the sealing of a secret only the two of them now carried.

He started down the quiet corridor, his steps deliberate, careful not to jostle her. The torchlight flickered across the stone, stretching their shadow long against the wall. Hyacine stirred once, murmured something incomprehensible, then tucked her head against him again, her breath falling into the slow rhythm of sleep.

He tightened his hold just slightly. For now, she could rest. He would carry her.

Admittedly, he expected whispers, questions, raised brows. But as he walked the narrow passageways toward her quarters, the few people they passed did not stop him. Some gave only a cursory glance before averting their eyes. Others dipped their heads respectfully, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to see him carrying the Sky Demigod in his arms.

And perhaps, in a way, it was. Everyone had seen how tirelessly she worked, how often she gave more of herself than anyone should. Perhaps they all understood what Phainon had come to know: that even pillars could break if not held.

He adjusted his grip slightly, holding her closer, and felt her shift just enough to sigh against his collar.

Rest now, he thought, steadying his breath. I’ll keep this promise. I’ll bring him back to us.

The walk to her quarters was quiet, Hyacine dozing faintly against his shoulder, her breathing soft and steady. When he eased the door open with his foot, the room inside was dim, warmed only by the soft glow of a lantern.

On the bed, Little Ica—the tiny unicorn no larger than a cat—was curled in a perfect crescent, chest rising and falling with tiny, peaceful snores. Its bright mane spilled across the blankets like threads of moonlight.

Phainon’s lips tugged faintly upward despite the heaviness in his chest. The sight was… grounding.

He carried Hyacine over and lowered her gently onto the mattress. She stirred only faintly, murmuring something incomprehensible, before her head settled against the pillow. The shift made Little Ica whinny sleepily, flicking its tail before tucking itself closer against her side.

As Phainon pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, her eyes fluttered open halfway. She blinked at him blearily, lashes heavy with exhaustion.

“…Are you going to leave?” Her voice was soft, frayed at the edges.

He paused, then shook his head. “No. Not tonight.”

Without another word, he pulled a chair close and sank into it at her bedside. His posture was firm, patient, but the small smile he gave her was unguarded. “I’ll stay. Just as you did for me.”

A faint smile curved at her lips, her eyes sliding closed again with the trust of someone finally allowed to rest. Her hand twitched once atop the blanket, and without thinking, Phainon placed his over it until her breathing evened out fully.

The room was quiet save for the steady rhythm of her breaths and Little Ica’s tiny snores.

Phainon finally pulled out his teleslate, the dim light of the screen brushing over his features. He typed quickly:

Phainon: Where are you? Do you happen to be busy, my warden?

The reply came faster than expected.

Mydei: If you’re trying to ask if I’m okay, then yes. I’m fine.

Phainon huffed a breath, lips twitching upward.

Phainon: haha. You caught me.
Phainon: thank goodness. any update on the attacks?

A pause. Then:

Mydei: no.
Mydei: Where are you.

Phainon blinked, glancing at the sleeping form in the bed before typing back:

Phainon: With Hyacine, in her quarters.

The response came quick, clipped.

Mydei: I see. Stay there.

Phainon frowned faintly.

Phainon: ??? okay.

He set the teleslate down on the desk beside him, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. Even when half a world felt like it was collapsing, Mydei’s tone never failed to sound like an order.

Phainon leaned back in the chair, eyes slipping shut for a moment. He wasn’t leaving. Not tonight, and he would always be one to listen.

As Phainon leaned back in the chair, eyes closing, the weight of stillness pressed in. Beneath the silence, though, he could feel Khaslana—like a shadow stitched into his very blood. Not separate. Not other. Just there.

They were thinking the same thing.

Khas… if Anaxa really disconnected his soul, then…

He’s… he has done this before. The memory is hazy. My guess? It was an attempt to scrape his soul into a sort of stabilization—to anchor himself. To stabilize… my form.

Phainon’s breath caught. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a grimace. “I see. So it was…”

Us. It’s our fault.

The thought lodged bitterly in his chest.

“…ugh… where even is he?”

I think his soul is stuck between the limbo of divinity, between death and our own consciousness. His soul is likely clinging to ours.

Phainon groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “So he’s inside me. Great.”

Great choice of words. Sure. Let’s go with that.

He rolled his eyes faintly, though it was more out of habit than humor. “How do we get him out?”

Why are you asking me?

“I’m just thinking. You just happen to be… also me.”

There was a pause, a hesitation like static on the edge of thought.

Phainon frowned. “Khaslana??”

Actually—

The voice sharpened suddenly inside his mind, cutting through the haze like a blade. A pulse of urgency followed, threading through every syllable.
We should wake up. Now. No need to search.

“What—?”

Phainon’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched as the world swam into focus. The dim glow of the lantern burned low in its holder, flickering against the walls and painting the room in long amber shadows.

He lay still, listening. The silence pressed close, thick and heavy, broken only by the quiet sound of sleep nearby.

Hyacine was curled against the bedding, her face slack at last, softened into something almost childlike. A tear-streak still marked her cheek, catching faintly in the light. Little Ica was nestled beside her, trumpet tilted loosely in his arms, his tiny chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of dreams.

For one breath, Phainon allowed himself to feel relief. They were safe. They were—

And then—

A touch.

Warm. Familiar. A hand brushing lightly against his shoulder. Not jarring, not rough, but steady— grounding.

His breath caught. His entire body went rigid, heart pounding in his ears. Every nerve screamed at once, as if afraid to hope.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he turned his head. Afraid to see nothing. Afraid to see something that wasn’t real.

Don't freak out–

Too late, Phainon shot back, his chest tightening.

“You look,” the voice before him said softly, almost dry, “as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Phainon’s breath hitched. His throat felt tight, his pulse unsteady. He swallowed once, forcing words out past the disbelief threatening to choke him.

“I think I am, Professor.”

His eyes lingered on the figure, on the way the hand still rested against his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Too real. Every instinct screamed that it couldn’t be true, that this wasn’t possible, not after—

This is wrong, Khaslana muttered in the back of his mind, though quieter now. Phainon didn’t answer them. Couldn’t. His gaze was locked on the man before him, the name still ringing in his chest like a wound torn back open.

“…Anaxa?”

Chapter Text

The man looked alive.

The color had returned to his skin, no trace of pallor left. His clothes were pristine, every fold and layer impeccable, down to the smallest intricate detail—too perfect, too precise, as if he’d been restored rather than risen.

Phainon’s throat worked. “How are you here?”

Anaxa tilted his head, studying him with unsettling calm. “Your reaction was disappointing.”

“What???” Phainon blurted, his voice pitching sharp with disbelief.

The faintest curl of a smile touched Anaxa’s lips. “How do you expect to get better when you’re split in two, Phainon?”

Phainon froze. “Split… in two?”

Anaxa’s gaze sharpened, unblinking, his tone steady in a way that made the words heavier. “I’m going to fix you. I’ve found it’s easier now—being at the source.”

Phainon’s pulse spiked, unease clawing at his chest. His mouth went dry. “Professor—what is going on—?”

Anaxa raised a hand, palm firm but gentle, pressing against his shoulder to still him. The warmth of it was real. Unmistakably real.

“Stay still.”

The command rippled through him, and for one terrifying moment, Phainon wasn’t sure if he could move even if he wanted to.

At first glance, it wasn’t him.

The man standing there looked too clean, too precise. Every detail was flawless — skin warmed with color, clothes perfectly arranged, not a seam out of place. Too perfect. Too deliberate.

Phainon’s chest clenched. This isn’t him. It can’t be.

And then he saw it.

The faint tremor in his professor’s hands, the furrow of concentration pulling at his brow, the way his breaths came unevenly, too shallow, catching as if the act itself was efort.

Phainon’s heart lurched. That was him. His professor, his dear friend, was afraid…? His ever confident hands shook, betraying the front he put up.

Afraid of what?

Messing up? Failing?

It hit Phainon all at once. His professor was doing something, trying something impossible. Stabilizing him? Fixing him?

Fixing him?

Phainon opened his mouth but no sound came. His voice failed, strangled before it could leave his throat.

The world around him shifted.

He stumbled, or maybe he was pushed—he couldn’t tell. One moment he was in the room, Hyacine sleeping only an arm’s length away. The next—Nowhere.

The walls were gone. The floor beneath him vanished. Darkness pressed in, vast and formless, and his chest seized. He tried to look, tried to move, but nothing obeyed.

All he could feel was warmth.

At first it was gentle, clinging to his skin like sunlight. But then it grew — thicker, heavier, consuming. The warmth became heat. The heat became fire. It seared through him, sharp and merciless, every nerve set alight until he thought he would burn from the inside out.

His lungs dragged for air, but the heat filled them instead, scorching, suffocating. His body convulsed, his mind screamed—

And then.

Calm.

The fire dissolved into stillness, as though smothered in one sudden motion. His pulse slowed. His muscles eased. He floated. Empty. Weightless, the terror ebbed, leaving only quiet.

But it wasn’t peaceful. Not truly. It was the kind of calm that felt placed over him like a hand, forcing him still.

Phainon’s name came to him like a rope thrown through smoke.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, do not fall asleep. Stay with me. Stay awake.”

His eyes were open. The room was real, low lantern light, the muffled hush of the house around them—and yet everything felt doubled, as if he were both inside himself and floating above it. Anaxa’s face hovered over him, close enough that Phainon could see the tiny tension at the corners of the professor’s mouth. For the first time since the attack, Anaxa’s eyes were wide with something that wasn’t the old inscrutable patience but raw worry.

“This is… more difficult than I imagined,” the professor said aloud, then turned away and drew a slow, ragged breath. “Phainon, are you awake?”

He wanted to say yes. He tried to form the word, but his throat betrayed him — empty, useless. No sound came.

What is happening? The thought arrived like a small, frantic bird in a dry room.

He blinked and tried to catalogue: his own body stretched out on the bed while Hyacine curled around him yet still, a tear crusted on her cheek; little Ica’s body half-buried under a blanket. All normal. And not. Around Anaxa a faint, impossible glow pulsed — a halo of light that made the professor look more like some ghost than… well maybe he was a ghost and Phainon was going insane.

Truly it must be the end for him if he's seeing his professor in his head.

“Oh, so you are awake. Did I transmute the wrong— no, you are simply being dense and rude, Phainon.”

His skin prickled. How did he—? He hadn’t said a word aloud. Of course Anaxa would respond. 

Anaxa’s reply came before he could form the question. “I can hear your thoughts. If this is how you think, no wonder you are so dense. Think critically.”

I am thinking critically, Phainon wanted to shout back. The words stayed bottled in him. Frustration blossomed hot and small and useless.

“Listen.” The tone shifted; the scolding softened into something steadier. “I am inside your soul. I’m fixing the fractures from millions of cycles. Do you want to crack apart?”

Pain flared like a live wire beneath his ribs—sudden, white-hot and then spreading. He choked, hands clutching at nothing. It hurt. Deeper than any muscle ache, deeper than the bruises from any fight; it felt like his memories and his bones were being peeled and sewn at the same time.

Anaxa’s voice was quiet now, almost private. “It does hurt. I know. I tested it myself. How you stand to deal with such repeated pain is beyond me.”

Beyond him. The words struck in Phainon like an accusation and a benediction. Through the haze of agony, he felt something else—not exactly comfort but an awareness that he was not entirely unmoored. At least he knew it was Anaxa of all the people in the universe who was doing something intricate and terrible and likely necessary inside him.

He concentrated on that grain of steadiness. On Anaxa’s presence. On Hyacine’s even breathing. He tried, with every thread of will, to say the smallest answer back: I’m trying. 

Anaxa’s silhouette leaned closer, the light at his shoulders dimming and brightening in little waves. “Good. Don’t waste your strength trying to talk. Save it. When you can speak, speak clearly. When you must be still, be still. Just stay here,”

The world narrowed to that instruction and the searing hush that followed—the hard work of being repaired, and the thin, bright truth that someone he trusted had chosen to become the tool for that repair.

“Deliverer—?”

Mydei’s voice cut through the haze. It was soft, easy to focus on.

Anaxa ignored it, his concentration fixed elsewhere, hands still moving through whatever impossible work he was forcing into being. It seemed Mydei couldn't see Anaxa–though it made sense considering Phainon was currently having an out of body experience.

Phainon’s body sat slumped in bed, head tilted slightly, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep While hyacine clung against him. Mydei leaned forward, lowering himself onto one knee so he could look at him closer. His gaze lingered on the still face, quiet and reverent.

“Asleep again…?” His voice was gentle, almost fond. One hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly across Phainon’s cheek, grazing the curve of his jaw. The touch was feather-light, addicting in its tenderness.

Phainon didn’t know if he wanted to cry or scream. To lean into it or push him away. The paradox twisted hard in his chest, leaving him breathless.

Anaxa’s head snapped toward the sight of Mydei kneeling at Phainon’s side. For the first time, Phainon saw something on his professor’s face that was neither calm detachment nor gentle wit but something harsher. Disgust, maybe. Or annoyance. A mix of the two, sharpened into something different entirely.

“Don’t do either Phainon,” Anaxa muttered, eyes narrowing. “You can settle your relationship after I’m done stabilizing you.”

Phainon’s heart skipped. Relationship.

Oh.

They weren’t… were they? Did Mydei even—

Before he could chase the thought, Anaxa turned back to his work, dismissing the moment as irrelevant. Phainon was left staring as Mydei quietly rose and settled himself in the chair beside his sleeping body, hands folding in his lap, as if he could wait forever for Phainon to open his eyes again.

By the Titans… Mydei was so insanely kind. Too kind.

A low groan rumbled from Anaxa as he pressed his hand harder against the threads of light sparking around them. “The faster I get out of your god-forsaken mind, the better.”

-

Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany did not take his projects lightly. He never had. Where others hedged and measured, he burned through equations until they left nothing but an easy understanding—until even the pieces that refused to fit would bend under the heat of his insistence.

The matrix formula he’d been carving at for days–no years–sat between them like a coiled thing: precise, hungry, impossible. He knew what was happening to Phainon. He had felt the slow, catastrophic heat of that boy’s divinity before anyone else had—felt it like a fever beneath the skin—and the solution had glimmered, obscene and obvious, at the edge of his work.

By theory, the split should have been irreparable. Once a soul burned itself to the point of its own combustion, the pieces were forever marred; you might stitch the edges, but the fissure’s scar would always catch light. His fractures were theoretically beyond repair.

Though of course, when has a “theory” ever stopped him?

So, yes—transferring his own soul into Phainon’s fracture was reckless. It was more than reckless: it was sacrificial, obscene. He breathed through the justification anyway. The other option…standing by and watching the Deliverer burn from the inside out? Had no appeal.

He let himself smile once at the thought of how he would spoil Hyacine rotten when this—if this—ended. The girl had held everyone together with little more than a stubborn heart; she’d cradled the world with bandages and prayers. If he came back from this whole, the spoiling could be merciless: food, lectures wrapped in nonsense praise, the freedom to let her rant. She’d earned it, in some small, indulgent corner of his mind.

Now, though, there was only work. The Phainon he was taking through the fracture drifted toward blackness; the pain of being prodded at the level of the soul was merciless, and the shell of the boy’s body slumped in the bed asleep kept Anaxa working through even his own tiredness. But inside—inside the corridor of consciousness—Anaxagoras stood, steady, with the matrix’s light braided about his hands. Face to face with the inner shape the world (and Phainon) had named—

“Khaslana.”

The name resonated like a bell through the inner dark. The voice that replied was not Anaxa’s outward timbre; it was older, threaded through with the echo of a thing that had sat at the root of tides. Sharp, amused. Alive enough to answer.

“Professor, you truly scared us,” Khaslana said. The voice had an old ache through it, like wind over broken things. This was that… split that had allowed Phainon to walk among the living for a while longer.

Anaxagoras didn’t blink. He had expected resistance. He had expected fury, bargaining, perhaps even supplication due to the amount of pain and recklessness of the work he intended to do. He had not expected to feel this—this thin, wary relief that an ancient thing could speak back at all.

“Did I now?”

“In every cycle, your audacity, combined with your insanity, never ceases to amaze me.” There was no malice in the assessment, just a tired appraisal.

“Are you insulting me?” Anaxagoras asked, half amused and half affronted. 

Khaslana made a sound that might have been a laugh. “I apologize. I am not one who typically keeps what he’s thinking to himself after seeing someone inside his head.”

“Understandable,” Anaxagoras said, and his voice softened for a single line. “I’m going to fix you now.”

Phainon—Khaslana’s attention tilted—made a sound like a far-off thing. “Really?” The skepticism was quick, twitching.

“Really.” Anaxagoras’s fingers moved, faster now, hands weaving around alchemy that he had never seen around a soul so broken.

“It’s not simple. Don’t insult me by thinking this is easy—I literally ripped my own soul out of my body to do this.”

That earned a small, incredulous murmur. “You… did not need to go so far—”

“Will you shut your mouth?” Anaxagoras snapped, sharper than he intended. He felt the heat of impatience flare through him—anger at the weakness he perceived in the inner thing’s tone, at the endless tendency of minds to argue in moments that demanded action. “For someone supposedly knowledgeable after millions of cycles you are stubborn when accepting aid.”

There was a pause like a held breath. Khaslana’s reply was softer this time. “You are reckless.”

“And effective,” Anaxagoras countered. He could feel the strain—threads of his soul smoking at the edges where they met Phainon’s. Each stitch cost him something: a memory flaring, a sensation dimming, the small comforts of being merely a man. But the matrix held. The split in the Deliverer’s essence quivered as if exposed to a precise blade and then, tentatively, began to knit.

Inside that place where souls overlapped and bled together, the conversation shifted from barbs to the business of healing. 

“It will hurt,” Khaslana warned, without cruelty. “Many of these fractures are ancient. My soul is held together by the will to resist, to never submit to fate–I am only alive because I am burning innumerable coreflames constantly. So, Professor, you really think you can fix it?”

Anaxagoras’s jaw worked. “I don't know.” The admission tasted like an apology. “I tested it on myself–Those cracks are painful. I know how it aches. I know what I am asking. But I know I can help you live longer, even with my own life.”

“For… me?”

“Save your pity,” Anaxagoras said. “Save your godly scolding. Help me by letting me work on a still subject.”

A long, slow silence answered. Then, finally, the old voice shifted and folded into cooperation. Around them, the knotwork of the matrix tightened its loop. Pain flared through Phainon—a white, stellar flare—then receded like the tide pulling back from the shore. Somewhere in the inner dark, a tremor of recognition passed through the fractured pieces: not whole yet, but less jagged than before.

Anaxagoras’ frame trembled. The price showed in his face: a thinness at the temples, the hollow of early exhaustion. If he had been in his body and not in Phainon’s soul… would it have burned under the pressure?

He thought of Hyacine sleeping in the cot, of the girls’ hands that had stitched up the world while he meddled with its interior. He thought of how Phainon had been unflinchingly calm in front of her. 

Ok…Maybe his interference had nudged that calm. Phainon can deal with it, he’s saving his life. 

When at last the stitching loosened its grip enough for him to step back, Anaxagoras felt hollowed and full at once—the smell of ozone and ligature clinging to him like afterbirth. He breathed, deep and shaking, a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.

“Hold him steady,” he told Khaslana, and his voice was gentle now, human again. “I’m not done yet.”

Khaslana’s answer was a slow, rueful acknowledgement. “Very well. But Professor—this is the last time the world will ever reset, be kinder to the life you can waste, you only have one"

Anaxagoras allowed himself one smile, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Khaslana rolled his eyes, the gesture carrying both centuries of exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “We always knew your life’s study was the study of souls, and yet you never did teach us everything you knew—”

Anaxa’s mouth twitched. “Do you want to learn about this?”

“If you don’t mind talking while you work,” Khaslana answered evenly.

He could have dismissed it. Could have told the man to shut up and let him focus. But the silence pressed heavy, and teaching had always been his sharpest tool. So he indulged him. Why not?

“Nousporism,” Anaxa began, his voice taking on that clipped, professorial cadence that had cowed generations of students, “is not mysticism, as the amateurs like to call it. It is structure. Precision. Everything has a code. Alchemy is merely the discipline of translating that code into matter.”

The threads of light in his hands shifted, folding in on themselves like glyphs rearranging on an invisible page. “Souls,” he continued, “are no different. They are the most intricate equations we know. Each fracture, each scar, each memory burned into them—it all follows rules. And rules can be rewritten.”

Khaslana smiled,  “rules are meant to be broken” he mutters with a small chuckle. “I don't know who put that in your head but I hope you say that to that wicked woman one day and see how her face contorts.”

Khaslana leaned closer, not quite touching, his presence a steady hum at the edge of Anaxa’s awareness. He was listening—intently. “Aglaea would get my reference, though professor,” he said softly, “you’ve never written down the full proof of your research before, I've never seen work like this before.”

Anaxa snorted. “Because no one else could handle it without setting themselves on fire.” His fingers flicked, and a lattice of gold and silver sigils brightened across Phainon’s inner form. “This is alchemy, yes, but alchemy is only the language. Nous—erudition itself—is the source. The cosmos itself was ordered by it. Why should souls be any different?”

He went on, weaving explanations into the rhythm of his work—describing it as code, as numbers that sang when aligned, as a precision that left no room for guesswork. His tone sharpened and softened by turns, drifting into lecture, into pride, into the raw determination of someone who had bet his soul—literally—on his own theory.

And while he spoke, while he worked, he never noticed how close Khaslana had drawn. Not just watching, but moving—quietly, deliberately—threads of his own essence sliding into place alongside the matrix.

And without the smaller man noticing, where Anaxa’s soul frayed, Khaslana smoothed it.
Where cracks ran raw from the reckless tearing, Khaslana sealed them, subtle and careful, hiding his work in the rhythm of Anaxa’s own repairs.

Anaxa didn’t feel a thing. He only noted, with a faint hum of satisfaction, how smoothly the process seemed to be going. Too smoothly.

Khaslana’s expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze lingered—half hidden, unreadable. He said nothing of what he was really doing, of how he refused to leave the professor in pain once Phainon was made whole.

The work continued, Anaxa none the wiser.

–

Anaxa had no idea how long it had really taken. Time inside another soul was slippery, deceptive, measured in pulses of pain and silence instead of hours. He only knew one thing for certain: it had been annoying. Annoying when Khaslana went quiet. Annoying when the fractures dulled into a hush. Annoying when, finally, Phainon’s soul went still enough that the Deliverer collapsed into unconsciousness.

And with the silence came the worst part.

Every stray flicker of Phainon’s body bleeding into his own senses. The faint brush of the prince’s hand against his—if Anaxa had to feel that one more time he was going to shoot it clean off. Experiencing what Phainon experienced was worse than anything he’d ever endured: the raw ache, the stupid fluttering in his chest, the heat in his cheeks that didn’t belong to him. If that was what passed for living as the Deliverer, no thank you.

When he finished he… was oddly satisfied, he assumed the side effects hadn't caught up yet, and he didn't exactly want to be in the soul he so carefully repaired while he broke apart.

So, while Phainon slept, Anaxa simply… took over his body.

The moment he sat up, Hyacine’s eyes widened, her lips parting with a sharp inhale. The look she gave him—like she was staring at something both miraculous and terrifying—he ignored. Mydei’s stare was worse, sharp as a blade, his mouth moving, words spilling out too fast. Anaxa tuned him out as well. Too much chatter. Too many feelings.

He stood, rolling Phainon’s shoulders back as if testing their limits.

Walking in this body was… strange. Oddly heavy. His limbs felt tired, like he’d just finished a marathon he didn’t remember running. Tall, broad, far bulkier than he’d ever been in his life. Annoying was the word he settled on. Yes. Freakishly tall and annoying.

Mydei followed him. Of course he did. Hyacine too, her steps quick to keep pace. He was aware of their voices, their questions, but the scowl on his face must have been enough of an answer—because gods, his cheeks actually hurt from holding it. Did Phainon never scowl? What did he do instead, pout? Smile? Ugh.

At least the walk was short.

He reached the familiar doors and shoved them open.

And there it was. His body. His real one. Laid out lifeless across the table, pale as marble, the faintest shimmer of what he’d left behind clinging around it.

Hyacine’s cry cracked the silence, raw and choked. Mydei’s words followed, sharp with shock, but Anaxa didn’t care. Their voices blurred, meaningless, drowned out by the pounding in his own chest.

Finally!!

He couldn’t wait to feel cloth against his own skin again. To pull on his favorite dromas hoodie, drown in the comfort of something familiar, and blackout his windows because the damned sun was far too bright.

A voice intruded—dry, teasing, from somewhere far too close.

“Oh. You do sleep in a Dromas hoodie.”

Anaxa froze. His jaw clenched.

Yeah, he thought savagely, get me the hell OUT of this man’s body.

The transfer hit like fire drawn through a narrow funnel. Pain lanced across every nerve, a searing pressure that left him shaking. He didn’t care. Not once. Not as long as it meant getting out.

When his eye blinked open—his eye—he almost laughed. Then winced. Gods above, maybe that was why having two eyes was so damned inconvenient; the world was too sharp, too bright, every detail cutting into him all at once.

Still, he sat up, dragging in a rasping breath. His throat burned, parched like sandpaper. The cracks running along his skin sizzled, each one raw with heat, and his muscles screamed as if they’d been left to rot. But it was his pain. His body.

Across the room, Phainon crumpled to the floor the second Anaxa left him. Out cold, folded into a heap like someone had cut his strings.

Anaxa blinked. Then frowned.

That easy?

He rubbed at his brow, scowling. 

Was it seriously that easy??? After everything???

His thoughts could barely get in order before the sound hit him—Hyacine’s screech, half sob, half shout, as she stumbled toward him. Mydei’s voice followed, sharp, cutting, yelling at the limp form of Phainon like fury alone might wake him.

Anaxa groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “A man dies for two chapters…” His mutter was ragged, more complaint than confession.

But the words didn’t have time to sour. Because suddenly Hyacine’s arms were around his waist, her small frame crashing into his side, her face pressed against the burns and cracks without hesitation. Her sobs tore through the room, raw and shaking, clinging to him like she might never let go again.

Anaxa froze for the briefest moment. Then his scowl softened, the bite draining from his expression as he lowered one tired arm to rest around her shoulders.

Hyacine’s voice cut through everything else.

“Professor!” she sobbed, the word breaking on a hiccup. She buried herself against his side, crying so hard she could barely get anything else out. What did come was a mantra, choked and desperate: thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness.

Anaxa lifted his arm—weak, trembling—but managed to rest his hand gently atop her head. His palm moved slowly, reassuringly, the faintest ghost of a pat. “Thank you, Hyacine. For everything you do. For keeping me safe.”

Hearing his own voice again startled him. It rasped, raw, but it was there. He’d expected… more side effects. Something drastic. Why weren’t they worse?

Phainon’s soul took so much out of his own–so why wasn't he feeling all that pain yet?

He thought about it, his hand still steady on Hyacine’s bright hair as she clung tighter. The last thing he remembered was—Khaslana. Talking to Khaslana. Inside.

His soul… felt fine. Stronger, even. The fractures along his hands still burned, but instead of deepening, they felt like they were knitting together, painfully, slowly, but repairing.

Oh. he had explained everything to that bastard. Not only that but the proximity was no coincidence.

Oh, that absolute foolish piece of sh—

The thought broke as a cough tore up his throat. Hyacine jolted, her wet eyes shooting up toward his, panicked. “What do you need, Professor—I—I—I'm here! Please take it easy!”

He shook his head quickly. “Water,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “And then we’re going to rest. Both of us.”

She nodded hard, already scrambling toward the basin to pour him a glass, shoulders shaking with the leftover sobs she tried to swallow down.

Anaxa exhaled and let his head tip back against the chair, every bone aching. And then he looked forward—

—and immediately regretted it.

Mydei was crouched low, one arm looped under Phainon’s shoulders, holding the unconscious man against him with a kind of ease that made Anaxa’s stomach twist. The tenderness in his posture, the way his gaze lingered on Phainon’s face—ugh.

Anaxa scowled and turned away. Nope. Nope. He did not survive tearing his own soul out to witness that. Not after all the free work he’d just done.

If he had to watch them make eyes at each other any longer, he was going to be sick.