Chapter Text
Phainon — crown prince and the one destined to be king. But he never truly believed he deserved such a grand title. A king must be flawless. Untainted. Unbroken.
The curse began with the death of his mother. Seven days after her funeral, he whispered to his father:
“I miss Mother…”
But instead of comforting him, the king merely cast a cold glance his way and walked away. Phainon cried quietly after and that was the first time — a soft white petal fell from the corner of his eye. His personal advisor a woman with blonde hair and gentle eyes watched him from afar, slowly approaching.
“What’s wrong with me…? Lady Aglaea, why do my tears… hurts?” Without answering, the advisor embraced the grieving boy.
After summoning the palace healer and observing him for two weeks, the diagnosis was clear:
It was a curse.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. Curses typically stem from dark magic… but this one holds no magical energy, It’s new and Undiscovered.”
“What I’ve learned is this: whenever the Crown Prince speaks the truth from the deepest part of his heart… his body rejects it. But when he lies… it causes no pain.”
Aglaea looked at Phainon with pity. Her eyes filled with sorrow. She wanted to comfort him somehow.
“Listen, my Prince… You can still write things down, Nod, Shake your head or you can… use the opposite of what you mean.”
“Do you want to eat something warm?” she asked softly.
Phainon hesitated, then replied:
“N-no.”
Yet he nodded.
Aglaea smiled warmly. “Alright then, i’ll inform the chef.”
Seventeen years have passed since that moment. Now 24, Phainon still lives under the weight of that curse. The “opposites” Aglaea once suggested… were lies all along. He could nod to help others and he loved doing so. But he couldn’t refuse what he hated. He couldn’t say “no” if it came from his heart. No one knew about the curse except for a few trusted souls. Not even his own father.
Phainon was breathtakingly handsome — a sharp jawline, summer-sky-blue eyes, and snow-white hair untouched by time or sin.
While walking through the palace halls, he stumbled upon the training grounds, where soldiers were drilling.
He approached the commander, who was shouting orders at the cadets.
“Mydeimos,” he called to the tattooed, blonde-haired man. His comrade and closest friend.
“Oh? Crown Prince. What brings you here?”
“Nothing. I was simply passing by,” Phainon replied with a faint smile.
“Hmm… If you're that free, how about a quick spar?”
“No need. I’ll probably lose like last time,” he answered, even as he picked up a wooden sword and readied his stance.
“Hah… Your words never match your actions.”
It wasn’t that Phainon wanted to reveal his curse. But this very curse made him vulnerable around his friends. They’d long noticed how strange his words and behavior could be.
He had no choice.
Someday, he had to speak.
The clash of wooden swords filled the air.
The cadets stepped aside, watching the two men duel for pride.
“Next year, you’ll ascend the throne,” Mydei said, never once lowering his blade.
“What’s your plan to get rid of the curse?
You know damn well you can’t lead a kingdom like this.”
“Black magic.”
Mydei froze for a second but quickly regained his rhythm.
“Black magic must be met with black magic. That’s what Cas told me. No harm in trying.”
Castorice — their old friend, from House Polyxia, a family of politicians loyal to the king. She and Her twin ran a flower shop and a library.
“Today, I’ll leave to meet a dark sorcerer at the edge of the Grove of Epiphany.”
“Alone? Isn’t Hyacine coming with you?”
“No. Hyacine is coming.”
“You serious?! You’re not bringing Aglaea or Tribios?”
“…”
Silence.
That silence… marked the end of their spar.
To reach the Grove of Epiphany, he had to pass through several towns. To leave the kingdom, he told his father that he was going to check on the situation in the Grove, where there had been reports of people attacked by monsters. Conveniently, the King also ordered Phainon to slay a few of those monsters.
The King wasn’t cruel—quite the opposite. He wished for his people to live in peace, but his methods were... strict. Moreover, there were some politicians attempting to sabotage the royal authority.
In disguise—yes, he had to disguise himself. His dazzling white hair was far too attention-grabbing. Phainon had studied a little magic—he truly did. He’d asked Hyacine to teach him some basic sky spells, and though he only grasped the fundamentals, that was enough. After all, he wasn’t made for this.
When evening came, he decided to stop by the Memorial Market to get some food. Though his blond hair was still bright, it didn’t arouse much suspicion from the townspeople.
Without uttering a word, he bought everything he wanted Soup, meatballs, grilled chicken skewers...
All the food disappeared into his stomach at alarming speed. He sat on a bench, mulling over what he should say to the sorcerer. He hadn’t made an appointment or anything, so maybe the sorcerer would be surprised to see him. Or... had they already foreseen it?
Phainon was clever. He had visited the libraries of the Polyxia family, Gorgo, even the Sky Priests. But none of them had any useful information regarding his curse. Even though the palace healers said the curse carried no magical energy at all, Phainon was convinced it was born from dark magic.
Lost in his thoughts, he was suddenly jolted by the voice of a man.
“Don’t space out. Want one? I’ve got an apple.”
Before Phainon could shake his head, the guy casually pulled out an apple from his grocery bag and tossed it to him.
“This apple’s really good. At least try it once in your life,” he said, chewing on one himself.
They ate together in silence, surrounded by the soft chaos of people coming and going. The young man had a strikingly androgynous appearance. If one didn’t hear his voice, they might’ve mistaken him for a woman. His hair was mint-colored, tied into a loose low ponytail draped forward. He wore a simple navy cloak, and an eyepatch added to his eccentric look. The eye that remained uncovered held a strange heterochromia—half sky blue, half magenta pink.
“Is this your first time here?” Phainon asked, trying to make conversation.
“Hm... Not really. I just rarely leave the house. How about you, Crown Prince?”
“Huh—?!” Phainon choked on his apple.
Before he could even grab a drink, the calm murmur of the market burst into sudden chaos.
"EVERYONE RUN!! THAT CHILD IS CURSED WITH DARK MAGIC!"
"Get away before the infection spreads!"
"That’s what happens when you mess with forbidden spells!"
Phainon looked toward the commotion. A mother was shielding her child, who was howling like a beast. People were shouting, some trying to attack the child, others calling for the royal guards.
“Looks like that kid got hit with some dark spell,” the man beside Phainon muttered casually, still chewing.
Without hesitation, Phainon dashed forward, blocking the crowd’s assault.
“Hey! What are you doing?! Move before the disease spreads!”
“Please, my child did not use any dark magic! He’s not sick! Please don’t hurt him!” the mother cried out.
“Leave. This mother knows more than you do. The child isn’t cursed,” Phainon said, his golden eyes burning like fire as he faced the hostile villagers.
“W-what the... I’m out of here! Get the guards!” That men stumbled away in panic.
Pain throbbed in his wrist. A flower petal unfurled just beneath the skin, slicing through muscle like a whispering thorn. He winced, covering it with his dark cloak and when he turned back, the mint-haired stranger was suddenly beside them.
“I’ll help. Just hold still. It won’t take long, bear with the pain,” he said, slicing his own fingertip and pressing the blood to the boy’s wrist.
The boy screamed, tears running down his cheeks. Then slowly, the tension in his body eased. The black veins on his face faded. Within a minute, he looked like a child peacefully asleep.
“Don’t tell anyone I helped you. Just say he did it,” that guy said, pointing directly at Phainon.
“E—eh?! ME??” Phainon gasped, pointing at himself in disbelief.
“Heh. See you around.”
With that, the guy picked up his paper bag and disappeared into a narrow alley, leaving nothing but a faint scent of apple and blood behind. Phainon sat frozen, the weight of everything crashing down at once. The child in his arms. The flower on his skin. The mystery of that man with sky and rose eyes.
A soft voice brought him back.
“Thank you... Sir, really.”
The mother bowed. Phainon wanted to speak but he couldn’t.
To speak honestly would be to invite the curse again.
So he nodded.
And a single, ghost-white petal bloom emerged beneath his sleeve, wilting slow and sweet against his skin.
After several hours of travel, he finally arrived at the Grove of Epiphany. A few villagers lived here alongside forest spirits and fairies who helped with agriculture. As Phainon walked further in, he spotted an old man passing by and decided to ask for directions.
“Excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you, but do you know where the tall tower of the black sorcerer is?”
“Ohoho! Such a handsome young man!” the old man chuckled heartily. “Are you planning to propose? It’s been years since she’s had company. That lady’s a real beauty. Come now, I’ll take you to her.”
Phainon blinked.
Wait—she?
He hadn’t expected the sorcerer to be a woman.
“Oh, she might look a bit fierce, but she’s always helping the townsfolk. Teaching the village kids, blessing the fields, healing the sick... and never once asking for payment. A dream bride, if you ask me!”
Phainon let out a soft laugh.
He most certainly hadn’t come here to propose.
It didn’t take long to reach the tower. The old man knocked enthusiastically on the door.
“Naxy, sweetheart! I think your suitor's here!”
“I told you, my name is Anaxagoras—”
The door opened.
Standing there was the man from earlier that afternoon. His long mint hair had fallen loosely over his shoulders, and he was dressed in a pale cream poet shirt that fluttered with every subtle movement. Lace framed the cuffs of his sleeves like ivy, and the fabric of his shirt rippled gently, as if he had stepped out of an old poem.
“Oh.”
…Awkward.
The silence between them was thick until the old man laughed and stepped back.
“Well then! I’ll take my leave. Naxy, be a gracious host, alright?”
The man—Anaxagoras—sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping aside.
“…Come in.”
Phainon’s first impression: Is this man depressed or something?
Cloth was strewn all over the floor. Books lay open in careless disarray, some stacked atop each other like fallen ruins. A strange scent of herbs and ash lingered in the air.
He sat himself down on the nearby sofa. As he waited, a black cat padded over and rubbed its back along Phainon’s leg. Of course. Black witches and cats—how cliché. But how could someone manage to care for a pet... yet not care for themselves?
Soon, the sorcerer returned with a cup of tea and handed it to him before taking the wooden chair across from him.
Trying to ease the tension, Phainon asked:
“So… where’s your sister? Or your aunt, maybe? I was hoping to speak with them.”
Anaxagoras furrowed his brows and immediately responded,
“Huh? I live alone.”
“What? But that old man said the sorcerer here was a woman…”
“Haaah…” The sorcerer sighed again, folding his arms across his chest.
“Anaxagoras. That’s me. I’m the one and only black sorcerer of the Grove of Epiphany. That old man’s half-deaf and keeps thinking I’m a woman because of how I look.”
“O-oh… I see…”
“And your glamour spell sucks,” he added bluntly. “There’s a patch of your white hair still showing, Crown Prince.”
Phainon’s eyes widened. He immediately looked around for a mirror, but Anaxagoras waved a hand.
“No need to panic. I reinforced it for you back at the Memorial Market. Covered it with a bit of my magic. So, why are you here?”
Phainon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, handing it to him.
Can you break my curse?
Please cure me.
Anaxagoras looked up at him, a slight frown forming between his brows.
“Can you describe the curse in detail? I can’t just guess. Some curses are beyond my ability and there’s no trace of dark mana on you.”
Anaxa stared at the parchment for a moment, as if reading more than just the words written on it. His gaze slowly lifted, tracing Phainon's face as though searching for cracks between the unsaid.
“If this were a physical wound, I could help. But a curse… it should leave a trace of mana and you’re clean. Too clean, even.”
Phainon bit his lower lip. His hands clenched in his lap. He wanted to speak. But no words came out.
The silence thickened.
Anaxa set down his teacup.
“I could make you a salve to weaken a curse or something close. But I need to know what kind of curse it is. What happens if you try… to speak the truth?”
Phainon remained silent.
Their eyes met.
In that moment, pain bloomed from his chest, like thorns sprouting from within. The agony was silent— bloodless. But real.
He drew a short breath—just enough to make Anaxa look up, alert.
“...So that’s why you can’t answer?” the sorcerer murmured. “The curse reacts when you tell the truth.”
Phainon slowly nodded.
Anaxa rose from his seat, stepped forward, and stopped before Phainon. He leaned slightly, his hand hovering near Phainon’s chest, never touching, just sensing as if trying to feel the heartbeat of the magic itself.
“Something is growing… not arcane. But alive. Organic.”
Phainon let out a bitter chuckle. “Flowers. They grow from inside me. Anything what i desire and try to say it… they bloom. And they hurt.”
Anaxa stared at him. His expression shifted—part mockery, part something dangerously close to a grin.
“Show me your most recent wound.”
Phainon extended his arm and rolled up his sleeve. Wilted white petals clung loosely to his skin, and beneath them, old scars had dried. It was the scars earlier in this afternoon.
“If you pluck the petals, they fall off easily,” Phainon explained. “But where they grow from and that’s where it bleeds.”
Anaxa took one of the petals and examined it closely, then declared, “I’m certain you can recover, but it will take time. And it depends on you. Whether you can do it or not.”
Phainon jolted upright, blurting out, “Really?! Please, tell me how, O Great Sorcerer!”
Anaxa cringed. “Don’t call me that. People already look at me with contempt, and I’ve grown used to it.” He turned back toward Phainon and—oh no, was he hallucinating or did this grown-ass man really look like a kicked puppy?
Anaxa sighed and began, “Listen to me, Crown Prince. If you want to heal from this curse in a year or less, you’ll need discipline.”
Nousie, Anaxa’s cat, leapt onto his lap. He absently stroked its back as he continued with calm authority.
“I know there are things you’ve been dying to say— need to say. You think far too much about others. Since this curse took hold, you’ve never once thought of yourself.”
“I can’t cure you with my magic because your curse didn’t come from magic. It came from you.”
Phainon froze.
The silence returned. Long, deep.
Then Anaxa spoke again.
“Very well. I’ll write down the procedures you must follow. But you must stay disciplined.”
As he turned to leave the room, Phainon suddenly grasped his wrist. His palm had already begun to bloom—white petals of Amaryllis emerging in clusters.
He gripped Anaxa’s arm tightly, petals falling one by one, streaked with blood. And yet, even as they dropped, new ones grew.
“I want to be cured,” Phainon said, voice trembling but full of conviction. “You will come with me and monitor my progress. So my healing remains steady… until the day I ascend the throne.”
Anaxa looked into Phainon’s eyes wide, burning with unwavering resolve.
“Come with me, Sorcerer Anaxagoras.” he plead.