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Chapter Text

Prologue. The Ash of a Single Name

Eight years ago.

The scent of damp straw and sweat was sweeter to him than any floral perfume. The thud of a wooden sword against a tightly stuffed dummy was music that drowned out the chirping of birds and the distant lowing of cattle. Here, in a tiny clearing hidden behind the old barn, he was himself. Not a friend, not a neighbor, not an omega whose destiny was the home and family. Here, he was a warrior.

The youth with platinum-blond hair splayed across his damp forehead took a step back, catching his breath. His chest heaved under a coarse linen shirt, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning with a pleasant ache. His crystal-blue eyes, which the village girls found so dreamy, were now focused and cold, assessing his 'opponent'. He gripped the hilt more firmly. A movement, a lunge, a sidestep, a block. Again and again, until his legs began to tremble and his vision swam with fatigue.

His name was █████. And he hated his name almost as much as he hated his predetermined nature.

He was born an omega in the quiet, peaceful village of Aedes Elysiae, lost among endless fields and hills, far from the noise of the great city-states. Here, life flowed slowly, like a river in a drought, governed by age-old traditions. Alphas worked the fields and protected the village, betas managed households and trade, and omegas... omegas were the heart of the home. They were taught to weave, cook, heal with herbs, and create comfort. They were prepared to become someone's mate, to bear children, and to continue the family line.

█████ would sneak away from these lessons. He would hide to overhear the stories of rare traveling merchants about the battles on the borders of the Withered Lands. He traded two baskets of choice berries for a worn book on tactical diagrams, which he didn't fully understand but memorized nonetheless. He had carved this sword himself from sturdy oak while other omegas his age learned to embroider patterns on wedding towels.

His dreams were not of a warm hearth, but of cold steel. Not of a strong alpha to protect him, but of standing in the front lines himself, protecting others.

It was his shameful, desperate secret. A secret he shared with only one person.

"█████!" A familiar, slightly breathless voice cut through his concentration. "The elders are summoning you! Urgently!"

He flinched, and the world snapped back into focus. At the edge of the clearing stood Cyrene, his best friend. Strands of hair had escaped her braid, and her cheeks were flushed from her hurried walk. Her gaze flickered to the sword in his hand, and a flash of worry - not surprise - crossed her eyes. She was the only one who knew.

"What do they want?" he asked, quickly hiding the weapon under a pile of old straw. His voice was steady, but his heart had already begun to pound a nervous rhythm.

"I don't know. But they looked... official," she lowered her voice. "A scroll arrived. With a seal from Castrum Kremnos. Red, like blood."

His heart plummeted. Scrolls with red seals never brought good news. Usually, they meant higher taxes or a recruitment levy for alphas. But why would they summon him? An eighteen-year-old omega who had only recently passed the rite of adulthood. Cyrene looked at him with unconcealed anxiety, and he knew she feared the same thing he did.

He walked through the village, and the familiar sights suddenly felt alien. The neat houses with their smoking chimneys, the smell of fresh bread, the laughter of children chasing geese - everything that made up his world was now veiled in dread. People watched him go. News in Aedes Elysiae spread faster than the wind. The entire settlement already knew that the elders had received a message and had summoned █████.

The council of elders convened in the largest and oldest house in the village. It smelled of dried herbs, wax, and ancient dust. Three old men and two venerable matrons sat at a massive wooden table, their faces as impassive as stone carvings. Before them on the table lay the scroll. Thick parchment, bound with a crimson wax seal bearing the crest of a lion's head. The seal of Castrum Kremnos.

The city of barbarians. The city of warriors. The city of the mad king and his immortal son.

"█████," began the head elder, Erebos, his voice as dry as an autumn leaf. "You know that eighteen years ago, after the gods showed us a miracle in the form of the surviving Prince Mydeimos, a tradition was established?"

█████ nodded silently. He knew. Every city-state, every village, all of Amphoreus was obligated to send samples of the scents of all omegas who came of age to Castrum Kremnos. A lock of hair, a scrap of cloth - something that carried their unique scent. It was a desperate lottery, a bet on a miracle. The world hoped to find a true mate for the immortal prince, believing such a union would bolster the spirit of Kremnos's warriors and give everyone hope in the fight against the Black Tide. A foolish, empty hope, as he had often told Cyrene.

"When you turned eighteen, we, as required, took a lock of your hair and sent it with a caravan," continued Elder Thea, her eyes studying him. "We didn't hold out much hope. Thousands of samples are sent there every year. The chance was negligible."

A heavy silence, thick as molasses, filled the room. █████ could feel a cold sweat trickling down his back. He already understood. He refused to believe it, but he already understood everything.

Erebos slowly, with the solemnity of a priest, unrolled the scroll.

"Today, we received a reply. Whether it was the Titans or fate itself, we do not know, but they have smiled upon our humble village. █████ of Aedes Elysiae..." The elder paused, and a hint of a smile touched his wrinkled face for the first time. "Your scent was deemed a perfect match. You have been named the true mate of His Highness, Crown Prince Mydeimos."

The words weren't a shout, but in █████'s mind, they were a deafening explosion that turned everything inside to ash. The world narrowed to the red seal on the parchment. The lion seemed to be mocking him directly.

True mate.

Of the Prince.

The immortal prince from the city of barbarians.

His dreams. His training. His secret hope of becoming someone else, someone significant on his own terms. All of it was trampled, annihilated by a few lines on a piece of parchment. He was being offered not a life, but a gilded cage. To be a pretty toy for a prince of whom the most terrifying rumors were told. Mydeimos, the Prince of Discord, son of a mad tyrant. The legends about him were each more frightening than the last. They said he felt no pain. They said death itself had rejected him. They said his heart was as cold as the depths of the Sea of Souls in which he had been reborn.

"It is... a great honor for our village," he stammered, his voice sounding foreign. He could feel five pairs of eyes on him, expecting joy, tears of happiness, reverent awe. He could give them none of it. Inside him was only a ringing, icy void.

"An honor? It's our salvation!" exclaimed another elder, rubbing his hands together. "Gifts! The patronage of Kremnos! Our village will become famous! Important!"

"The Royal Guard has already been dispatched to escort you to the capital," Thea added, her tone softening, almost motherly. "They will be here in two days. You need to prepare, boy. Pack your finest things. We will help you. You will be our light, our pride."

Pride. Light. A sacrificial lamb.

He didn't remember how he left the elders' house. He wandered through the village as if in a dream, not seeing the path. The news had already spread to everyone. People came out of their houses, looking at him with a mixture of awe and envy. Someone tried to congratulate him, to touch his shoulder. He flinched away from their touch as if from fire. They saw a stroke of luck, a winning lottery ticket. No one saw him. The real him.

His feet carried him on their own to a house on the edge of the village. To Cyrene's house. The only person in the entire world who knew his real secret. It was she who had covered for him when he skipped his lessons on domestic arts and the craft of being pleasing. It was she who brought him water at their secret training spot and watched with admiration as his initially clumsy sword movements became more confident and deadly.

She opened the door before he could knock and immediately pulled him inside, away from prying eyes. Her warm eyes were so full of sharp anxiety that he knew - she knew everything too.

"Is it true?" her whisper was barely audible.

Instead of answering, he just gave a convulsive nod, and all the composure he had so painstakingly maintained in front of the elders and the village crumbled. He sank onto a stool by the hearth, clutching his head in his hands. It hurt to breathe.

"They're going to take me, Cyrene," his voice was hollow and broken. "They'll lock me in a palace. I'll just be... the prince's omega. His thing. All my life, I wanted to get out of here. But not like this. Not into another cage, even if it's gilded."

Cyrene knelt before him, taking his cold hands in hers. Her touch was the only thing that felt real in this nightmare.

"Then don't let them," she said with a fierce tenderness. "Run."

He looked up at her, his eyes full of despair. "Where? How? They'll find me. The king's guard..."

"They will be looking for an omega from Aedes Elysiae," her voice turned hard as steel. "And you won't be him. You'll become someone else. Remember everything we talked about. Remember what you trained for. You are a warrior, █████. You are not a victim. Run to the border. To the Black Tide. New people are born there, on the front lines. There, no one gives a damn who your parents were or what your second gender is. All that matters is if you can hold a sword when a Creature of the Tide charges at you."

Her words were a spark landing on the dry tinder of his despair. A plan. Insane, deadly dangerous, but it was a plan. A chance.

"I... I'm scared, Cyrene."

"I know," she squeezed his hands tighter. "But you should be more afraid of staying here. Go now. Under the cover of night. And the sword... your father's claymore. Is it still in the attic of your old house?"

He nodded. The house had been empty for years, ever since his parents had died during one of the rare but fierce raids by the Tide Creatures on the outer fields. The village had taken him in, an orphan, but the house remained, a silent monument to his lost childhood.

"Then we'll go there together," Cyrene said decisively, pulling herself and him to their feet. "You won't go alone. Not tonight."

They gathered a few supplies for him and, waiting for darkness to fall, slipped out of her warm, mint-scented house into the cold night's gloom. The village was already asleep. The moon, a thin sliver like a sickle's blade, hid behind the clouds, and they had to navigate by memory, along the dark silhouettes of houses and fences. Every rustle, every crunch of gravel underfoot, echoed in their ears like a thunderclap. This was their first conspiracy, their first battle together - not against monsters, but against fate.

His old house greeted them with cold and desolation. The door gave way with a pitiful creak. Inside, it smelled of dust, the past, and loneliness. Moonlight, filtering through the grimy windows, picked out the ghostly outlines of furniture under white shrouds of cloth. Here, he had once laughed, cried, learned to walk. Now, it was merely the threshold to his new, unknown life.

"It's in the attic," █████ whispered, and his voice was swallowed by the echoing silence.

A creaky staircase led up. Cyrene followed him, her presence the only spot of warmth in this realm of cold and shadows. And there it was - the claymore. Wrapped in old, tarred cloth, it lay in a far corner, among broken chairs and old chests.

When █████ unwrapped the bundle, moonlight fell on the dull steel. The sword was heavy. This was no longer the forgiving, light weight of the training weapon he had danced with in the clearing. This was the true, ruthless weight of steel, made to take a life. He ran his fingers over the leather-wrapped hilt, feeling the power and responsibility of the weapon flow into him. In that moment, the boy who dreamed of battles died. A warrior was being born.

He slung the baldric over his shoulder. The sword settled on his back, unfamiliar but right. As if it were a missing part of himself he had just found.

They stood in silence in the middle of the dusty attic, and it was here, surrounded by the ghosts of the past, that he asked the most important question.

"When they arrive," his voice was even, devoid of all emotion, "what will you say? What will the elders say?"

Cyrene looked at him, and her eyes, glistening in the moonlight, held all the bitterness of the world.

"The elders will save their own skins," she said with a bitter smile. "And I... I will mourn my best friend. I'll tell them I saw you walking towards the Misty Cliff. I'll say you were pale and said you couldn't bear such an honor. They'll find a scrap of your shirt there, which I'll leave behind. And everyone will believe you threw yourself from the cliffs in despair. To all of Amphoreus, to everyone, including the prince's guards and the prince himself, you will be dead."

He hugged her. Tightly, desperately, one last time. He breathed in the familiar scent of her hair, trying to memorize this feeling of warmth, friendship, and absolute trust to carry with him through the coming years of darkness and solitude.

"I'll be waiting for news," she whispered into his shoulder, her voice trembling. "Not of a princess in a castle. Of a great hero from the front lines. Promise me you'll become him. Promise me, █████."

"I promise," he breathed, and the words became an oath.

Together, they walked to the very edge of the village, where the well-trodden path gave way to a wild, overgrown road leading north, toward the border. Ahead, the abyss of night yawned black.

He didn't say any long goodbyes. Everything had already been said. He just gave her a nod, turned, and stepped into the darkness without looking back.

On that starless night, the youth named █████ died. And from that darkness, step by step, began the journey of the one who would one day be called Phainon, the Deliverer.

Chapter Text

Prologue. A Flame in the Shadow of Pillars

Two months ago.

The audience hall in Castrum Kremnos was not made for comfort. It was built to inspire awe and to crush. Colossal pillars of black marble supported a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into the gloom, far beyond the reach of a dozen bronze braziers where flames roared with fury. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of heated metal, incense, and ancient power. It was a place where victories were celebrated and death sentences were passed, and the line between the two was always dangerously thin.

At the center of the hall, on a throne of hewn basalt that looked more like a sacrificial altar than a ruler's seat, sat King Eurypon. With each passing year, his mighty physique stood in starker contrast to the madness that clouded his gaze. Today, that madness burned with a particular brightness.

"...They hide behind our backs!" his voice, amplified by the hall's booming echo, thundered like a rolling storm. "The other city-states! These so-called allies! They send us pathetic handouts of provisions and useless militiamen while the warriors of Kremnos spill their blood to hold back the Black Tide! They are waiting for us to bleed out, so they can then, like scavengers, pick apart what remains of our world!"

He leaped from his throne, pacing before it like a caged beast. His crimson, gold-embroidered toga swept behind him like a trail of blood. The courtiers - battle-hardened veterans whose faces and bodies were maps of scars - stood motionless, their eyes downcast. No one dared to object. No one but a single person.

"Eurypon," Queen Gorgo's voice was calm, but it rang with steel. She stood beside the throne, straight and proud in her white peplos, the only spot of light in this kingdom of shadows and fury. "Our true enemy is the Darkness that devours our lands. Not the people who fight alongside us. Disunity is precisely what the Tide is waiting for."

"Fight?" The king let out a hoarse, barking laugh. "They scuttle underfoot like roaches! Their fear and weakness only feed the Creatures! No! The time has come to restore order. To remind Amphoreus who the true masters are! We must subjugate them, Gorgo! Unite them under the banner of Kremnos - by force! It is the only way we will survive!"

Crown Prince Mydeimos stood at the foot of the throne, his stillness more deafening than his father's shouts. He wasn't looking at the king, but at the play of flames in one of the braziers. It was a familiar, nauseating performance. With each year, his father's fits of paranoia and rage grew more severe. The prophecy that had once driven Eurypon to cast his own son from a cliff was now poisoning his mind from within, making him see enemies in anyone who did not show absolute, blind obedience.

Mydei clenched his fists. The sharp metal claws of his battle gauntlets nearly tore through the thick armor. He could feel a powerless rage simmering inside him. He was the heir, a celebrated warrior, the 'Hope of Kremnos'. But he was powerless against his own father's madness. To openly challenge the king would be to split Castrum Kremnos in two, to unleash a civil war on the very brink of the apocalypse. He could not allow that.

'They are weak. They can do nothing without us,' his father repeated, again and again.

But what if it was true? What if, beyond their city-state, total chaos reigned, and the desperate attempts of other nations to contain the Black Tide were truly futile? He had only seen the sectors of the front his father had sent him to. He had fought where he was commanded. He had never seen the whole picture. He relied on reports that passed through the king's hands. And could those reports be trusted?

In that very moment, under the roars of his crazed father and the quiet, futile admonishments of his mother, he made a decision. He could not win in this hall, arguing with a madman. So, he would act differently. He would acquire a weapon against which Eurypon would have no argument. The truth.

"Enough wasting the strength of our finest warriors on these rotten borders!" the king proclaimed, stopping to survey the hall with a burning gaze. "I order preparations to begin for a campaign against Okhema! We will force them to kneel! They will fall, the others will see, and they will submit!"

That was the final straw. To declare war on the sacred city. Mydei raised his eyes.

"As you command, my king," his voice was as level and dispassionate as the clash of a sword against a shield.

Eurypon grunted in satisfaction, taking his son's obedience at face value. With a gesture, he dismissed him.

Mydeimos turned and walked from the hall without looking back. Each of his steps on the marble floor echoed in the silence with a heavy, leaden tread. He no longer heard his father's screams or his mother's sighs. He headed straight for the training arena - empty and cold at this hour. There, in solitude, he tore off his tunic and unleashed all his fury and powerlessness on the reinforced, iron-clad dummies, the only ones that could withstand more than a couple of his blows.

He moved in a deadly dance, summoning scarlet crystals that slammed into the metal with a deafening screech. He fought against ghosts - his father's madness, his own curse, the lies that shrouded their palace like the Black Tide shrouded the world. Only when his breath grew ragged and his anger had burned away, leaving nothing but a cold, icy resolve, did he stop.

In the evening, as the shadows grew long and the fortress-city lit its fires, Mydei made his way to his mother's chambers.

Her wing of the palace was like another country. There was none of the oppressive monumentality or the smell of burning from the braziers. The air was clean, with a subtle, complex scent. It was the scent of his mother, Queen Gorgo. Not the sweet, floral fragrance of a submissive omega as described in books, but something far deeper and more real: the scent of a coming storm and bitter steppe herbs. It was the scent of strength and wisdom, and it calmed Mydei as no healer ever could.

Her chambers were a reflection of her essence. The walls were not draped with silks but adorned with skillfully woven tapestries depicting maps of the front and tactical diagrams of great battles past. In a corner, on a special stand, rested her spear and shield - not ceremonial, but battle-worn, made of blackened steel, perfectly cleaned and oiled. Instead of divans for idle chatter, there was a low, dark wood table cluttered with scrolls and books on history and strategy. The omega queen of Castrum Kremnos was no trophy, but one of the finest minds in the state, and every object in her rooms spoke to that fact.

He found her at that very table. Bent over a map, she was moving small, carved figures - black ones for the Creatures of the Tide, and scarlet ones for the warriors of Kremnos. She did not look up when he entered.

"You have vented your rage," she said quietly. "Now you are ready to speak."

He walked over and stood opposite her, watching as her slender fingers confidently moved a scarlet piece, cutting off the path of the black tokens.

"I must see it for myself, Mother. I am going to the front."

Gorgo finally raised her head. In the soft lamplight, her face, still beautiful, looked weary, but her eyes were sharp and clear, the eyes of someone who had seen too many battles and palace intrigues.

"See it for yourself..." she repeated his words, her voice holding not surprise, but contemplation. "And how does the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, whose face is known to every captain, intend to do that without drawing the attention of the entire front? Your arrival at any garrison is an event."

"I will not go as a prince," Mydei replied, knowing she was already guiding him through the labyrinth of his own plan, testing every turn.

"Fine," she nodded. "But even without your regalia, your power... it can be felt. Who will you be? A nameless alpha, appearing from nowhere? That would raise more questions and suspicion than your real name."

Only now did he voice the riskiest part. "A beta. A beta mercenary. One of the hundreds seeking coin and glory on the border. I will hide my scent."

She leaned back in her carved chair, her gaze growing even more piercing.

"Hide it," she repeated, and the words carried the full weight of the problem. "You speak of it so simply. You are not just an alpha, Mydeimos. You are a true alpha, a descendant of the Titans. Your scent is a beacon that draws everyone to you. How do you intend to extinguish it?"

Mydei fell silent for a moment. This was the weakest link in his plan.

"I thought of alchemical suppressants. The kind mercenaries use."

"Topical ones?" Gorgo gave a joyless smile. "Mydei, those are salves that merely mask one scent with another, sharper one. You will reek of herbs and bitterness. A beta who reeks of suppressants? Any omega at the front, any experienced alpha, will know you are hiding something. That is not a disguise; it is an invitation to be exposed."

Gorgo fell silent, carefully studying her son's determined face. Then she rose, walked to a locked, dark wood chest that always stood by her table, and retrieved a small, unassuming vial of black glass. A thick, oily liquid swirled within.

"There is another way," she said, placing the vial on the table between them. "Rare, dangerous, and almost never used. This is not a 'suppressant'. It is a 'Neutralizer'. It is taken internally. A few drops a day completely mutes the internal sources of scent, making an alpha indistinguishable from a beta. It is used by the best spies... and assassins."

Mydei took the vial. The glass was cold.

"What's the catch?" he asked.

"The catch is that it's a poison," Gorgo answered directly, her voice becoming hard and merciless. "It slowly poisons the blood. It causes fever, aching bones, weakness. A normal alpha couldn't withstand constant use for more than a few weeks before their body began to fail. Your immortality... your regeneration... they will be fighting the poison around the clock. You will endure. But it will be a constant battle. You will always be on the edge. Weakened. And no one knows what the long-term consequences would be, even for you."

She looked at her son, and her gaze held all of a mother's pain. She was offering him not salvation, but an instrument of torture.

"Every day you drink this, you will feel your body at war with itself. Are you prepared to pay such a price for the truth?"

Mydei gripped the vial tightly. This was worse than he had expected. But if it was the only way?

"I am," he answered.

Gorgo simply nodded, not questioning his decision. She paused, this time looking over his entire figure.

"Your armor shines with the gold of Kremnos. Your gauntlets are your signature. What will you wear? What will you fight with?"

"Simple leather armor. Plain cestuses. I'll buy them on the way."

"And arouse suspicion from the first merchant who sees a warrior with the bearing of a prince and hands that have never known the calluses of a sword's hilt," she shook her head. "No. I will handle that. The palace cellars hold many things your father prefers not to remember. I will get you armor - old, worn, without a crest. And cestuses. Simple, but reliable."

She spoke calmly, but Mydei could see a deeply buried anxiety in her eyes. She stepped closer, her palm resting on his cheek. Her thumb gently caressed a small scarlet rhombus beneath his eye - one of the many marks that covered his body. It was an old gesture, from a time when he was just her boy, not the cursed immortal prince whose skin had become parchment for the signs of his power.

But now, her touch also held apprehension. "And this," she whispered, "how do you plan to hide this? All warriors of Kremnos wear their marks with pride. But your marks... they don't just reveal a warrior of Kremnos, they reveal you."

"An alchemical salve," Mydei answered, not looking away. "It should handle what's on my face. The rest will be under the armor."

Her finger froze on his cheek.

"Mydei, do you understand what will happen if your father finds out? If he suspects that your 'mission' is an escape?" her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "He will not send a squad to bring you home. He will send assassins. In his inflamed mind, it will mean only one thing: you have finally decided to fulfill the prophecy. That you are gathering an army to move against him. And not even your immortality will help you then. Because you can simply... disappear."

"I know," his voice was hollow.

"No, you don't," she clenched her fingers, her gaze becoming desperate. "I failed to protect you once. I stood on that cliff, held back by a ring of arms, and watched as he... I still hear your scream. Your cursed immortality - it did not spare you from pain. I know you feel every blow, every wound, even as they heal right away."

Her eyes filled with moisture. "I once hoped... that fate would grant you some comfort. Someone who could share your burden. But the gods took even that chance from you eight years ago..."

She was speaking of his true mate. Of the tragedy that was never mentioned in the palace. Of a phantom hope that had turned to ash. The words caused something inside Mydei to clench painfully - a phantom pain for a loss he had long since buried.

He gently covered her hand with his.

"That is why I must go," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "So that others might have the chance I never did. So that Kremnos does not become the cause of Amphoreus's ruin because of one man's madness. I cannot stand by and watch any longer."

In his gaze was the steel of duty, but also a desperate plea for understanding. And Gorgo understood. She took a step back, straightening up and becoming a queen once more. The pain in her eyes was replaced by an unshakeable resolve.

"Very well," she said. "I will prepare everything. While you seek your truth, I will hold this fortress. I will be his shadow, his conscience, his cage if I must. I swear it, Eurypon will not start a war before you return. I will not let him."

This was her blessing. Not the words of a prayer, but the promise of a battle. She would fight her war here, in the palace, while he fought his - out there, in the darkness. It was the vow of a mother who had already lost her child once and had no intention of doing so a second time.

He bowed his head low, accepting her gift.

"Be careful, Mydeimos," she whispered as he stood in the doorway.

"And you, Mother," he replied, without turning back.

He left her chambers, trusting his most reliable ally to cover his back. Ahead of him lay the road.

He would cross the front, see everything with his own eyes. He would find out if the other nations were truly so worthless, or if they were fighting and dying heroically, slandered by his father's madness.

And one more thing... he would check the rumors. Vague, contradictory stories that had trickled even to the impregnable walls of Castrum Kremnos. Legends of a new hero who had appeared on the border of the Black Tide. Of a warrior who brought light and hope where only darkness remained. They called him the Deliverer.

Mydei had to find out who this was - another hollow hope born of desperation, or a true hero worthy of the name. He had to know the truth. At any cost.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1. The Sun Tattoo

The silence of the Withered Lands was absolute. Not the peaceful silence of a forest or a field before dawn, but the heavy, oppressive silence of a necropolis. No birds sang here, no leaves rustled, no insects buzzed. Even the wind seemed to die the moment it crossed the invisible border of this cursed region.

The mercenary Midos - a name he had almost grown accustomed to over the past two months - moved across the cracked, black earth with caution but confidence. The dry, charcoal-like soil crunched under his boots. This dead landscape was nauseatingly familiar to him. The twisted, lifeless trunks of trees reached for a sky perpetually veiled in leaden clouds, like the hands of drowning men. The only source of light in this eternal twilight came from the sickly, phosphorescent fungi and lichens that grew on rocks and deadwood. They glowed with a morbid, rotten-orange light, snatching grotesque shapes from the gloom and creating sinister, dancing shadows. He had been here dozens of times at the head of Kremnos's forces, a radiant and invincible prince, carving his way through hordes of darkness.

But now, everything was different. There was no roar of war horns, no scarlet banner at his back, no all-consuming flame of his own power that had once made him invulnerable. Now, in worn leather armor, with simple combat cestuses on his hands instead of golden claws, with a dull, aching pain in his bones from the poison he drank every day, he felt this land differently. The silence was more oppressive. The darkness seemed thicker. The danger he had once met with an arrogant smile now felt real, something capable of wounding him.

The Neutralizer was working. Perhaps too well. His immortal, vibrant body fought the poison furiously, demanding a larger and larger dose to suppress his true alpha nature. Sometimes, during a particularly long journey or after a hard fight, a wave of unaccustomed weakness, a slight fever, would wash over him, forcing him to wait it out with clenched teeth. His regeneration, his greatest gift and curse, had also slowed. Wounds no longer healed before his eyes but over agonizingly long minutes or hours. This was the price he paid for anonymity. For the right to be just Midos, a beta mercenary, one of hundreds seeking work on the bloody border of Amphoreus.

In these two months, he had already seen much. He had seen small garrisons holding the line with their last ounce of strength, with a desperation and courage his father would never mention in his speeches. He had seen villages sharing their last bread with refugees. He had not found the 'cowardly roaches' Eurypon had screamed about. He had found people who fought and died with honor. The discovery was a bitter one, and it filled him with a grim resolve.

His current mission was simple and dirty - to retrieve the nerve cluster of a Shrieker Creature. An alchemist in the border town of Phobos paid handsomely for such ingredients. For Midos's cover story, it was the perfect job.

He froze, listening to the silence. Something had changed. The silence had deepened, as if the darkness itself was holding its breath. He slowly dropped to one knee behind a large, orange-moss-covered boulder, his gaze scanning the shadows ahead. And then he saw it.

A Creature of the Tide slithered out of a deep fissure in the ground. It was a nightmarish creation of gleaming black chitin and wrong angles. It couldn't be called an insect or a beast - it was a hybrid born from the sick imagination of the Black Tide. Several pairs of asymmetrical, razor-sharp legs carried its segmented body forward in a macabre, gliding rhythm. It had no head or eyes in the conventional sense, but its entire front section twitched, 'tasting' the space around it, searching for warmth, for life to consume.

Mydei didn't move. He waited. The creature, as if sensing something, began to move in his direction. He assessed the distance, his position. And there was no one else around. Convenient.

When the creature was ten meters away, it emitted its signature sound - and Mydei heard it not with his ears, but directly in his mind. A high, piercing shriek capable of paralyzing an unprepared fighter with fear. Mydei gritted his teeth, ignoring the mental assault, and the moment the creature lunged, becoming a black, spiky whirlwind, he broke from cover.

His fighting style was direct and merciless. He didn't dodge but stepped forward to meet it, taking the blow of a razor-sharp chitinous blade on his forearm, protected by a thick bracer. A deafening screech of metal on chitin rang out, and he was thrown a step back. The pain was unusually sharp, and he knew a deep gash had been left beneath the leather. Ignoring it, he closed the distance. His right hand, encased in a cestus, slammed into a joint in the chitinous plates with a dull, cracking sound.

The creature shrieked again, its torso blooming open like a grotesque flower, releasing several more blades. He moved quickly, parrying the attacks, blocking, and striking back. It was a raw, furious dance. The dance of a simple mercenary. He could have won this way, by wearing the creature down, but it would have taken too much time and energy, of which he had less than usual due to the poison.

But there was no one near him. No one would see anything. That freed his hands.

With a sharp lunge, he forced the creature to recoil, and for a single, fleeting moment, his left hand, which he had kept slightly back, opened. The tips of his fingers flashed with a ghostly scarlet light for a fraction of a second. It wasn't the all-consuming power he usually wielded. It was just a tiny, controlled pulse.

A single, needle-thin shard of crimson crystal shot from his palm. It pierced the air with a barely audible whistle and entered precisely into the gap between the plates of its carapace, where Mydei knew a major nerve cluster was located.

The shriek in his head cut off abruptly. The creature froze, its limbs twitching convulsively, and then its entire body shattered into dozens of pieces of obsidian-black chitin with a deafening crack. A few seconds later, only a pile of sharp-angled fragments remained on the ground.

Mydei walked over and, finding the right piece among them, pried out the quivering, cloudy-opal-like node with his knife. Wrapping it in a piece of tarred cloth, he stored his prize in his pouch. Then he looked at his left arm. The deep cut on his forearm was bleeding. He could see the edges of the wound slowly, with visible effort, beginning to knit together. Slower than they should have. This delayed reaction from his own body was more irritating than the pain itself.

He straightened up, brushing the black dust from his clothes, and looked toward the horizon where the world of the living remained. Another job done. A few more coins to maintain the legend. And another opportunity to listen for fresh rumors in a tavern.

Rumors of the Deliverer. Of a hero in white who appeared where hope had all but died. Of a warrior who wielded a claymore with masterful skill and whose mere presence could rally entire garrisons. The stories were too perfect, too much like a fairy tale. But he had heard them again and again, in different towns, from different people. And the professional skepticism of the mercenary Midos was beginning to clash with the desperate hope of Prince Mydeimos.

He had to know the truth. And for some reason, he felt that his path was leading him precisely to where the whispers of this shining hero were last heard.

The town of Phobos was like hundreds of other border settlements - a scar of packed mud, wood, and stone on the body of the living lands. The alchemist, a wrinkled old man who smelled perpetually of sulfur, silently took the node, weighed it in his palm, and counted out the agreed-upon payment. All business, no unnecessary words - Mydei liked that.

The tavern, ironically named 'The Last Stand', was the heart of this town. Noisy, stuffy, smelling of sour ale, roasted meat, sweat, and wet leather. Mydei found a free table in the darkest corner, from where he had a good view of the entire room. It was a habit now, a mercenary's second nature. He ordered a mug of cheap beer and a piece of bread with stew, playing his part: a weary warrior relaxing after a foray. He leaned back in his rickety chair, letting the hum of voices wash over him, catching snippets of conversation, assessing the scene.

His attention was drawn to three young guards at the central table. They were mere boys, barely-fledged alphas, their faces a mixture of bravado and the still-fresh fear of their first battles. They were laughing loudly, drinking, clanking their weapons, and trying to impress a bored-looking waitress.

"They trusted us with the patrol at the Shadow Gorge itself!" one of them, the loudest, boasted. "They say even the Deliverer himself has been seen there a few times! But he must not be doing his job very well if Tide Creatures are still crawling around. That's why they sent us!"

"Oh, come on, the Deliverer!" the second chimed in with a cynical smirk. "Just some lucky mercenary. Was in the right place, swung his sword a couple of times, and now he's a legend. Just stories for soft omegas to help them sleep at night."

"Exactly! And maybe the reason he wears white is 'cause he's never actually gotten dirty?" concluded the third, and all three erupted in coarse laughter. "Blood, you know, it doesn't wash out easily. Not like on us!" He proudly slapped his stained and dented breastplate.

Mydei took an indifferent sip of his beer. He had heard similar talk before. Common soldier's envy from those who wished they could be such a 'legend for soft omegas'. The bravado of untested youth. Nothing new. He was about to retreat into his own thoughts when a quiet but firm voice cut through their laughter.

"It's not your place to judge him."

The voice belonged to a thin, haggard man sitting alone at a table by the hearth. His clothes hung on him like a sack, and his sunken eyes held nothing but exhaustion. A refugee.

The loudmouth guard turned around. "What did you say, old man?"

"I said you should hold your tongues," the refugee repeated, not raising his voice. He didn't even look at them, continuing to turn an empty wooden mug in his hands. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, and you do, I suppose? Seen your hero, have you?" the guard asked venomously.

The man slowly lifted his gaze to them, and something flickered in his eyes that made the guards suddenly quiet down, their smirks vanishing.

"I have," he nodded. "At the outpost before our village. There were forty-three of us in the militia. Old men and boys. And we knew they were coming. A whole wave. We were just... waiting for the end. Mending spears that were going to break anyway and trying not to look at each other."

He paused, swallowing hard. "And then he came. Just walked into the camp. Alone. In a white and blue cloak, with a huge sword on his back. No one knew who he was. We thought he was another madman seeking death. Or a preacher. But he didn't make any speeches. He just walked up to our flimsy palisade, pushed one of the posts, and said, 'This won't hold.' Then he asked for an axe and got to work. Showed us how to reinforce it properly. How to dig wolf pits. How to position the archers."

The story was mundane, devoid of any theatricality, which made it all the more real.

"He didn't promise us victory. He didn't shout that we were heroes. He just went from one man to the next. Showed my neighbor how to better hold his spear to avoid dislocating his shoulder. Shared his jerky stew with us. And somehow... without us noticing... the fear was gone. Hope remained. He made us feel that standing our ground and fighting wasn't a meaningless way to die. It was a worthy one."

The refugee fell silent, staring into the fire. "And when they came... he was at the front. His claymore... it didn't shine. It just worked. Methodical, merciless, efficient. And watching him, we worked too."

The tavern had grown quieter. Mydei froze, his fingers tightening around his mug. This was something new. Not a fairy tale. This was tactics. Leadership.

The guards, shamed and a little angry at being made to look like fools, decided to take another tack.

"Maybe so," the first one sneered. "But there are rumors, old man. They say your shining hero... is an omega."

He spat the word out like an insult, like something dirty and incompatible with the image of a warrior. Mydei, who had been only a passive observer until now, tensed internally. He knew this tactic - the lowest and most cowardly of all. When you can't diminish the deeds, you try to diminish the one who did them.

The refugee sighed wearily, as if utterly exhausted by the topic. "Yes. An omega. So what?"

"What do you mean, 'so what'?" the second one smirked lewdly. "He's a hero, not just some village bumpkin. Must have a scent sweeter and sharper than most, eh? I'd love to get a whiff, right where it's sweetest - between his legs."

His cronies supported him with obscene grins and whistles.

A cold wave of disgust washed over Mydei. He had seen plenty of coarse soldiers and heard countless barracks jokes, but this was different. In Castrum Kremnos, harsh and brutal as it was, even the newest recruit knew you judged a warrior by their sword and their honor, not their nature. The thought of his mother, the omega queen whose strategic mind was valued as highly as the strength of the best generals, made the pups' words even more vile. They weren't just making a crude joke. They were showing the ultimate disrespect to a warrior who, according to this refugee, was fighting for their worthless lives too. It wasn't just foolish. It was low. Dishonorable.

The refugee just looked at them like they were idiots, ignoring the vulgarity. "Are you complete fools? Do you think anyone in their right mind would walk around the Withered Lands with an omega's scent? The Creatures would swarm him like flies to honey. He smells of common suppressants. Herbs and bitterness."

Something clicked inside Mydei. Herbs and bitterness. The same cheap salve most mercenaries on the front used? The very same one he himself had considered using when he set out? This was a very specific, real detail that fairy tales usually lacked.

"Then how did you know he was an omega, if he's hiding it so well?" the third guard pressed, not letting it go.

The refugee hesitated, as if reluctantly giving away someone else's secret. "He wears a choker. A simple leather one. Like unbound omegas often do."

He fell silent, but as if he had left something unsaid. The guards hissed at him impatiently, and then, lowering his voice, he added the final detail.

"And his tattoo..." he unconsciously touched his own neck. "On the left side of his neck. A bright yellow, almost white sun. Right on the spot where an alpha's mating bite should be. As if he burned a symbol onto his own skin for all to see... to declare to everyone that he belongs only to himself."

In that moment, everything changed for Mydei. The legend of the shining hero took on flesh. And that flesh was far more impressive than any fairy tale. He pictured the image: an omega, forced to hide his nature not only from monsters but also from the contempt of 'allies' like these. A warrior who not only fought but wore a defiant symbol of independence on his skin. This Deliverer wasn't just fighting Creatures of the Tide. He was fighting a constant war on another front - against the smirks and lewd jokes from those who would hide behind his back at the first sign of danger. And Mydei, prince of a nation of warriors, couldn't help but feel a deep, involuntary respect for this unseen man.

"Well, where is your hero now?" the loudmouth guard asked, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. "Did he dissolve in the first rays of sunlight again?"

A grimace of pain twisted the refugee's face, as if he'd been struck.

"People like him don't report to people like you," he retorted, and a quiet, hard-won contempt laced his voice. "He goes where things are worst. Where the last hope is about to collapse. That's all I know. Now leave me alone."

He turned away, pointedly staring into the fire. The conversation was over.

Mydei slowly finished his beer, but he no longer tasted it. In his mind, he was replaying the details, fitting them into a single picture. The image of the omega warrior, his methods, his defiant tattoo... and the name of the place. The outpost at Dead Creek.

Midos might be a simple mercenary, but Mydeimos was a prince who carefully maintained contact with his mother. The pressure from the Black Tide had been building in the northern foothills for weeks. And according to the latest reports, there had been a breakthrough at Dead Creek. If the wave had pushed further north... then the next and only point where a serious defense could be mounted to stop its advance toward the populous valleys was the Garnet Pass. A natural fortress, a narrow gorge.

The refugee didn't know where his savior might be. But Mydei did. A hero who appears where things are worst would undoubtedly have gone there.

He rose, leaving a few coins on the table. His path led to the exit, and it took him past the guards' table. The very same alpha who had made the lewd jokes about a 'sweet scent' was just leaning back on the two rear legs of his chair, smirking smugly.

And then Mydei, as he walked past, accidentally brushed against him. His heavy, steel-toed boot connected with the chair leg supporting the guard's entire weight with a dull thud.

There was a crash. The chair flew sideways, and the insolent alpha, with a humiliating yelp, tumbled onto the filthy floor, his armor clattering for the whole tavern to hear. His friends froze in shock.

"Hey, what the hell?! Watch where you're going!" the fallen guard shrieked, trying to scramble up and retain some shred of dignity.

Mydei stopped and slowly turned his head. He didn't say a word. He just looked at the guard. Not entirely understanding what had compelled him to do it - disgust at the dishonor, the image of his queen-mother, or something else, deep and irrational - he just acted.

He gave the fallen alpha a dead calm look, devoid of anger or regret. Only a cold, bottomless void that promised nothing good for anyone who disturbed it.

"Problem?" His voice was quiet, almost indifferent, which made it sound even more threatening.

The guard met his gaze, and all his bravado instantly evaporated. He swallowed hard and quickly shook his head, looking away. His friends suddenly found the patterns on their mugs fascinating.

Mydei stood for another second, making sure he was understood. Then he turned and walked out of the tavern into the cold night's gloom.

He was no longer collecting scattered rumors about a mythical hero. He was on the trail of a warrior. And now he didn't just have a direction. He had a target.

His path lay north. To the Garnet Pass.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2. Almost Impossible

Garnet Pass was nature's final bastion against the Black Tide's advance toward the fertile northern valleys. It was a place of harsh, wild beauty, where the wind sang funeral dirges as it swept between giant rocks the color of dried blood. The air here was thin and cold, smelling of pine needles and fear.

It was here, after several days of travel, that Mydei arrived. He did not rush. He entered the camp, pitched at the narrowest point of the pass, not as a savior, but as another vulture, drawn by the scent of a coming battle.

The garrison was a motley crew of remnants from shattered squads, local militia, and a dozen mercenaries just like him. They were commanded by Captain Kaelan - a gray-haired veteran with a scarred face and eyes where exhaustion warred with stubbornness. He gave Mydei a heavy look, assessing his broad shoulders, worn but quality armor, and the deadly cestuses on his hands.

"Heard there's a brawl brewing here," Mydei's voice was low and rough, like grinding stones. "And that you pay those who can take a punch."

"We pay, if we survive," Kaelan answered bluntly. "We need the hands. Can you work with a shovel as well as you can with your fists?"

Mydei gave a silent nod.

"Then grab that one and help fortify the western slope. And try not to die before the real fun begins."

And so, Mydei became part of the defense of Garnet Pass. He worked in silence, methodically, surpassing even the hardiest fighters in stamina. He carried stones for barricades, dug wolf pits, and set up tripwires. He offered no advice, but if he saw a weak spot in the fortifications, he would simply walk over and start rebuilding it, compelling others to follow his silent example. The internal pain from the poison had become a familiar background noise, a dull reminder of who he truly was and why he was here.

He waited. And with him, the entire garrison waited. Hope was as fragile as morning ice, and it was all tied to a single name, whispered from one campfire to the next.

"He will come."

"They say he's already on his way."

"If only he makes it in time..."

And then, on the third day of his stay, in that predawn hour when darkness still reluctantly yielded to the first cold light, he came.

Mydei was reinforcing the base of a palisade with rocks when a wave washed over the camp. It wasn't a shout or a command. It was a sudden, almost tangible shift in the air. Voices fell silent, work slowed. All heads turned in one direction - toward the southern entrance of the gorge.

A lone figure emerged from the misty haze that shrouded the foot of the pass.

He walked with a deliberate but steady pace, and his every step on the gravel-strewn path seemed to echo in the tense silence. He wore a long white cloak with blue and gold patterns, no longer new, spattered in places with mud and something dark that looked like blood. The hilt of a massive claymore was visible over his shoulder. Platinum-blond hair, short and tousled, caught the dim light, creating the effect of a ghostly halo.

Mydei froze, his hands, which were gripping a heavy boulder, momentarily slackening. It was him. The Deliverer. Phainon.

The legend had become flesh. But what Mydei saw was both everything they had said and something entirely different. The hero, upon inspection, was not the monumental figure Mydei had envisioned. Though just as tall, his build was lean and elegant, lacking the raw, imposing mass of a Kremnos warrior. And most importantly - he looked deathly weary. This exhaustion wasn't in his gait, but in the subtle tension of his shoulders and the way he held his head - with dignity, but without a single wasted emotion. This was not a shining god descended from the heavens. This was a soldier, returning from another battle. A soldier who hadn't slept for far too long.

As Phainon drew closer, he was met by Captain Kaelan. The Deliverer gave him a short nod, and a smile appeared on his face. A light, warm smile, directed at the captain and the soldiers standing nearby. And Mydei, watching the scene from a distance, saw what no one else seemed to see. He saw the almost imperceptible tremble at the corners of his lips. He saw the incredible effort that smile cost. It was genuine, but born from the last remnants of strength, like the flame of a candle that flares brightly just before it goes out.

And in that moment, a feeling so strong and unexpected shot through Mydei that he almost dropped the stone. It was a blow. A blow of admiration mixed with a strange, sharp pain in his chest. He wasn't just seeing the hero he'd heard about in a tavern. He was seeing the embodiment of resilience. He saw a man who was broken with fatigue but refused to fall, continuing to offer light and warmth to others. And the sight... it was frightening. Frightening in its power and in the sudden, irrational wave of emotion that rose in the soul of a prince accustomed to control.

What was it? Respect? Yes, but not only that. There was something else. A deep, almost possessive urge to shelter this exhausted flame from the wind, to let it rest. The thought was so alien and wild that he cut it off immediately.

He dropped the boulder to the ground with a deafening crash, making several nearby soldiers jump. And before anyone could pay him any mind, before Phainon got close enough for their eyes to meet, Mydei turned and walked away. He dissolved into the shadows by the rocks, heading for the opposite end of the camp where other mercenaries were digging a trench. His heart was pounding like a war hammer on an anvil. He had to be further away. Further away from him. He needed time to regain his composure.

Phainon, just as the refugee had said, did not rest. Leaving his sword by the captain's tent, he walked along the fortifications. He encouraged the soldiers with a quiet word and that same tired but sincere smile. He clapped a young recruit on the shoulder, who was so scared he could barely hold his shovel, and showed a group of militiamen how to more effectively distribute their strength when defending a barricade.

Mydei watched him from afar, hiding in the shadow of his work. He saw Phainon head toward the group setting spikes at the bottom of the trench. And as soon as the Deliverer came within twenty paces, Mydei, leaving his shovel, silently went to the storage tent for a new batch of ropes, choosing the longest possible route.

An hour later, he noticed Phainon helping to distribute the scarce supplies of drinking water. Mydei, sensing that their paths might cross again, turned sharply and climbed a watchtower under the pretext of checking the fastenings.

He couldn't risk it. Not now. Phainon's presence was too powerful a stimulus. Mydei wasn't afraid of being discovered. He was afraid of himself. Afraid of the feelings this tired omega in a white cloak stirred in him - a prince, accustomed to battles, but utterly unprepared for such a quiet and all-consuming surrender to another's strength of spirit.

This silent game continued until evening. And Phainon, a natural-born leader and strategist, could not have failed to notice. Several times, Mydei caught his gaze on him. Not hostile, not suspicious. Curious. A gaze from crystal-blue eyes that seemed to ask, 'Why are you running from me, sullen mercenary?'

Each time he met that gaze, Mydei felt a prick of something hot under his ribs and would immediately turn away, finding himself a new, urgent task at the opposite end of the camp.

This silent game of cat and mouse could not last forever. And Mydei knew it.

Twilight descended upon Garnet Pass, painting the blood-red rocks in deep, violet hues. The wind died down, and in the ensuing silence, only the crackle of distant campfires and the quiet clink of sentries' armor could be heard. Mydei stood on a half-finished wall, gazing down at the Withered Lands that stretched out below like a sea of ink. He was trying to sort out his thoughts, but they kept returning, again and again, to the figure in the white cloak.

"You know, despite what anyone might say about me, I don't bite."

The voice came from right beside him - quiet, a little weary, but with distinct notes of amusement. Mydei flinched in surprise. He hadn't even heard him approach. Phainon stood next to him, leaning on the parapet, and also fixed his gaze on the darkness.

Mydei tensed, ready to leave at any moment, but something in the Deliverer's calm presence kept him rooted to the spot.

"But if you have your doubts, I can promise you personally," Phainon continued in the same tone, then turned to Mydei, that same genuine, disarming smile blooming on his face.

Phainon leaned in slightly, entering his peripheral vision, and Mydei made a mistake. He turned his head and looked at him. Up close, in the soft twilight, Phainon was even more... real. Mydei saw the fine, almost invisible lines around his eyes, left by fatigue and frequent smiles. He saw a sprinkle of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. He saw mischievous sparks dancing in his crystal-blue eyes.

His gaze involuntarily slid lower. A simple leather choker, worn and soft from long use, fit snugly around his neck. And beneath it, just as the refugee had said, the edges of a tattoo were visible. Bright yellow, almost luminous rays of a sun, tattooed on the pale skin with a defiance that was tantamount to a declaration. Phainon smelled of herbs and bitterness - the scent of cheap suppressants that should have masked, but only emphasized what lay beneath.

Suddenly, Mydei realized he had been staring for too long, that his thoughts had drifted in a dangerous direction. He turned away sharply, his jaw clenched, and stared back out at the dead lands.

Phainon's smile faltered. He sighed, and his voice became serious, stripped of all amusement. "I'm sorry, if my company is so unpleasant to you," he said quietly. "I'll leave."

He actually turned to go. And in that instant, something inside Mydei snapped. A primal, irrational impulse, stronger than any logic or caution. For some reason, he couldn't let him leave.

"No!" he shot out, whirling around.

The word sounded too loud, too desperate in the falling silence. Phainon froze and looked at him in surprise. Catching himself in this outburst, Mydei forced himself to soften his tone. His voice came out raspy, like the screech of unoiled hinges.

"Your company isn't unpleasant. I just... don't know what we have to talk about. I came here to fight - and I will fight. I don't need your... encouragement."

Phainon looked at him for a moment, studying his face, and then smiled again, wider this time, and returned to his spot beside him.

"I can see that."

They were silent for a moment. The silence was no longer tense; it had become... attentive.

"By the way," Phainon broke it, "I don't often see these weapons used as a primary."

And before Mydei could react, Phainon reached out. His fingers - long, elegant, but calloused from a sword - slid lightly and carelessly over the metal of his cestus, between the sharp plates designed to tear flesh and crush bone.

Mydei froze as if struck by lightning.

Something cracked in his mind. This was more than a breach of warrior etiquette. This was unthinkable. Not a single living soul - not even his own mother - had ever touched his weapon without his direct, unequivocal permission. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a symbol. A part of himself, the crown prince, cursed and untouchable.

He expected to be engulfed in an icy rage, familiar and understandable. But it wasn't there. There was only a deafening, bewildering shock. This incredible person, this hero, was touching his weapon with such an innocent, almost childlike curiosity, as if it were an interesting toy and not an instrument of murder.

And the most astounding thing was that Mydei... didn't mind. His instincts screamed that he should be furious, but he wasn't. He just watched as another's fingers explored his steel, feeling only a strange, intoxicating jolt of electricity, not the desire to kill. He looked at this unthinkable violation of all rules and realized he didn't want it to stop.

"I use them," he said thickly, unable to force out another word.

"I can see that," Phainon repeated softly. He withdrew his hand, and Mydei felt a phantom cold where his fingers had just been, as if he could truly feel their warmth through the metal. Phainon suddenly moved a little closer, and his voice became quiet, almost conspiratorial. "Listen, can I ask you a favor?"

Mydei blinked and suddenly felt a light panic rise in his throat. He realized with terrifying clarity that he probably just couldn't refuse this man.

"What favor?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

"Spar with me. A friendly match."

"What?" Mydei was sure he had misheard.

"A friendly sparring match," Phainon repeated, completely serious, though little devils were already dancing in his eyes. "You see, the men here are too tense. Fear is a poor advisor in battle. This way, we can give everyone a little break, remind them that we're still alive. I can even go easy on you, it's no problem."

He winked. And that was the last straw. Go easy. On him. The heir of Castrum Kremnos. A warrior born in battle. Rage, pure and primal, flooded his consciousness, pushing out all other feelings.

"If you wish to deal me a mortal insult that can only be washed away with blood," Mydei growled, turning on him, "then yes, you will go easy on me."

A wide, satisfied smile spread across Phainon's face. Mydei realized he had just swallowed the bait - hook, line, and sinker - with a deafening snap.

News of the sparring match between the sullen mercenary and the Deliverer himself spread through the camp like wildfire. A dense circle of soldiers formed in the center of the garrison. They sat on crates, on the ground, or stood leaning on spears, their faces full of lively, eager curiosity. The air, which had recently been heavy with the premonition of battle, was now buzzing with excited whispers.

Phainon had taken off his white cloak, leaving him in a black tunic. He held a wooden training sword in his hands. Mydei shed the top part of his armor and removed the metal plates from his combat cestuses, turning them into simple, thick leather gloves.

"The winner is the one who knocks his opponent off his feet!" Captain Kaelan announced loudly, having taken on the role of referee.

The fight began. It was a dance of two opposites. Phainon was like the wind - light, elusive, fluid. He didn't attack head-on; he circled Mydei, his wooden sword whistling through the air, delivering swift, precise strikes to his shoulders and arms, testing his defense.

Mydei was a rock. He barely moved from his spot, meeting the blows on his armored bracers. Every lunge he made was short, brutal, and filled with crushing power. He didn't try to fence. He struck to break. The air crackled with their energy. The soldiers roared with delight, cheering for one, then the other.

Mydei could see that Phainon wasn't going easy on him, and it elicited a grim respect. But he also saw that with each passing minute, the Deliverer's movements became slightly less sharp, that sweat had broken out on his forehead. The fatigue he had so carefully concealed was making itself known.

And Mydei waited for his chance. After another series of feints, Phainon stepped back to catch his breath, and for a split second, his concentration wavered. That was enough.

Mydei lunged forward, ducking under his sword and knocking it from his hands with a single move. At the same time, he swept his leg out. Phainon lost his balance, his eyes widening in surprise for a moment, and he began to fall backward.

And then instinct, ancient and uncontrollable, overrode the warrior's will. Before Mydei could realize what he was doing, his body moved on its own. He didn't let Phainon fall. He stepped forward and caught him, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other steadying his shoulder.

For one short, deafening moment, the world froze.

Phainon was in his arms, almost in an embrace. He was light, which was not at all surprising given Mydei's superior strength, but... alive. His heated body was pressed against Mydei's torso, covered only by a thin undershirt. Mydei could feel his ragged breath on his neck. He inhaled the scent of his skin - not herbs and bitterness, but something real that broke through them: the scent of sweat and something elusive, phantomly sweet, like dawn and the morning sun.

A searing, awkward, impossible closeness.

Phainon pushed against his arms and immediately regained his balance, taking a step back. Something unreadable flashed in his eyes - surprise, confusion - but he quickly hid it behind his signature smile.

He raised his hands to the roaring crowd. "Well then, it's a draw!"

Mydei's Kremnosian pride, barely pacified, roared again. "What do you mean, a draw?! I won!" he growled.

"No," Phainon shook his head cheerfully, his eyes laughing. "You would have won if I had hit the ground. And I didn't!"

He ignored the fact that Mydei himself was the reason he had remained on his feet.

The soldiers around them exploded with laughter, supporting their hero. And then, looking at Phainon's laughing face, at the relaxed, smiling faces of the soldiers he had seen just that morning, gray with fear, it hit Mydei.

And it was, perhaps, the most powerful and stunning realization of the entire day.

He suddenly understood what had just happened. Phainon hadn't just arranged a sparring match. He had made the garrison forget their fear. He had shown them that their hero wasn't an untouchable deity, but a living person just like them, someone they could laugh with. And he had found a way to reach even the most sullen and unsociable mercenary who had been running from him all day. With this single act, he had united them all, turning a gathering of frightened people into a brotherhood of arms.

Phainon... he wasn't just incredible.

He was almost impossible.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3. May I Call You by Your Name?

The excitement that had boiled through the camp faded slowly, like the heat of a great bonfire. Loud shouts and laughter gave way to a lively buzz, which then softened into quiet, respectful whispers. The scent of sweat and adrenaline was replaced by the familiar smells of wood, smoke, and cold stone. The soldiers, having received their share of spectacle and hope, returned to their posts, to sharpening their weapons and mending their armor. But something had subtly changed. Their movements were more confident, their gazes firmer.

Mydei was one of the first to leave. He no longer wanted to be at the center of this shared attention. He found shelter in the deep shadow cast by a cliff, sat on a cold boulder, and began to readjust the leather straps on his cestuses. It was a senseless task - the straps were perfectly fine - but his hands needed something to do to quell the tremor within.

He replayed the final moments of the fight in his mind. The touch of Phainon's fingers on his cestus. His weight in his arms. His laughter. And most importantly - that stunning realization at the end. He had come here to assess the strength and tactics of the legendary Deliverer. Instead, he had received a lesson in a subject that didn't even exist in Kremnosian military doctrine: the command of morale. And that lesson frightened him far more than any enemy.

He was so lost in thought that he once again barely heard him approach. He only saw a deeper shadow fall upon the stone next to him. Lifting his head, he met Phainon's gaze.

This time, there was no mischief or amusement in his eyes. Only a calm, serious weariness. In his hands, he held two coarse, chipped clay mugs, from which steam rose into the cold air. Without a word, Phainon offered one to Mydei.

Mydei hesitated for a second, then reached out and silently accepted the mug. Its rough, warm clay warmed his fingers through his glove. A thick aroma of pine needles, thyme, and something else, tart and soothing, emanated from the drink.

Phainon sat down beside him, at a distance that was neither an invasion of personal space nor a display of detachment. They sat in silence, watching the distant flames of the campfires, and the silence was surprisingly comfortable.

"You are very strong. Truly," Phainon broke the quiet. His voice was low, stripped of all theatricality. It wasn't flattery. It was a statement of fact from one warrior to another. "There's a rage in your style... an honest rage. I haven't seen its like in a long time."

Mydei just grunted in response, not knowing what to say. He wasn't used to compliments that weren't colored by fear or sycophancy.

He took a sip. The hot, bitter brew warmed him from the inside. His gaze fell to Phainon's hands, which were clutching the other mug. And he noticed it. A faint, almost invisible tremor in his fingers. Not from the cold. It was the tremor of utter exhaustion, when the body has already begun to give out, but the will still forces it to move.

And, obeying a sudden impulse, he asked a direct, blunt question to which he had no right.

"Why are you doing this?"

Phainon slowly turned his head, his eyebrows arching slightly in a silent question.

"Why do you push yourself to this state?" Mydei clarified, nodding at his trembling hands. "This sparring match. This whole... performance. You can barely stand. Anyone who knows where to look can see it."

Phainon followed his gaze, looking at his own hands as if seeing them for the first time, and gave a mirthless smile. He took a sip from his mug, gathering his thoughts.

"Because they can barely stand, either," he finally answered, looking at the soldiers bustling in the firelight. "And if they see me standing, then they find the strength to stand, too. They see me smile, and they find reasons to smile. Steel can kill the creature right in front of you. But hope... hope can keep a man from becoming a creature himself out of despair."

He looked at Mydei again, and now there was a hardness in his gaze.

"Hope is a weapon, just like your cestus. Sometimes, a much more important one. It's an armor you can't see, but one that's almost impossible to break. Today, I spent a little of my strength, but I 'sharpened' the armor of this entire garrison. It was a fair trade."

Mydei was silent, stunned. He - who was called the son of the Titan of Discord, the heir to a people where weakness was the worst of sins, where strength was measured only by the number of vanquished foes. His entire life had been built on the principles of crushing, dominating, and unquestionable power.

And this tired omega was speaking to him of a strength born from self-sacrifice. Of a victory achieved not through suppression, but through inspiration. It was so alien to his world, to his nature, that it felt like heresy. A dangerous, tempting heresy.

He had come here to find the truth about the war, expecting to see either incompetence or heroism as he understood it. He had not been prepared to find an entirely different philosophy of battle.

He finished his brew and placed the empty mug on the ground. He had nothing more to say. But for the first time in a long while, he also had no desire to leave.

He looked at Phainon's profile, illuminated by the reflections of a distant fire, and began to understand. The greatest danger in this cold pass was not the horde of Tide Creatures gathering in the darkness.

It was the quiet, exhausted man sitting next to him, armed with nothing but a chipped clay mug and a philosophy that could shatter Mydei's entire world.

They were still sitting in that quiet, almost comfortable shadow when the world split in two.

It wasn't the scream of a man or the roar of a beast. It was a sound born to kill hope. The piercing, desperate wail of a signal horn that cut through the evening air like a knife and plunged straight into the heart of the camp. One long, agonizing blast. An attack. Sudden. Full-scale.

The instant the horn sounded, the man beside Mydei disappeared. The weary philosopher who had shared bitter tea evaporated, and in his place stood a commander. Phainon shot to his feet in a single, fluid, practiced motion, his eyes, which a second ago had been gazing at the embers, now turning into two shards of cold ice. They were already scanning the camp, assessing the turmoil, searching for panic.

"To the walls! Archers, to the battlements!" his voice, just moments ago quiet and thoughtful, now rang like taut steel, cutting through the rising cries of panic. "Heavy infantry - form a shield wall at the central pass! Do not break formation!"

Mydei was on his feet too, his body acting before his mind could give the command. He saw Captain Kaelan already running toward them, his face a grim mask.

"Breach on the northern side! They got past the sentries!" he yelled, running up to Phainon.

"I'll take the center," Phainon answered without hesitation, already shrugging on the white cloak that had been lying beside him. "That will be the main thrust."

"You!" Kaelan pointed a finger at Mydei. His gaze was heavy, appraising. He had seen Mydei's strength in the spar. "You take the eastern flank! It's a narrow pass, but if they break through, they'll hit our rear. Hold it. Hold it at any cost!"

Mydei gave a silent nod. The order was logical. Place a powerful but unknown loner on an important but secondary sector. He threw a final glance at Phainon. He was already taking his claymore from a young squire who had run up, his face completely focused. Their eyes did not meet. They were not companions by the fire now. They were cogs in a single defensive machine.

Mydei ran. He tore through the chaos of the camp, dodging scurrying soldiers, leaping over abandoned crates. When he reached the eastern pass - a narrow cleft between two rocks, barely blocked by a barricade - he saw a handful of militiamen with pale, frightened faces.

And then he saw the enemy.

They poured out of the darkness like a black, hissing river. Dozens of Tide Creatures - swift, spider-like slashers and slower, armored chitinous monstrosities.

Mydei didn't wait. He shoved aside one of the militiamen who had frozen in terror before the barricade and took his place in the pass.

"Back," he growled at them. "Use your bows. Finish off any that get through. Stay out of my way."

And he took the first charge.

On his flank, Mydei wasn't a warrior. He was a force of nature. He didn't fence; he crushed. His cestuses broke through chitinous carapaces with a dull, sickening crack. He moved with a minimal, animalistic efficiency, turning the narrow pass into a meat grinder. The soldiers behind him, seeing this silent machine of destruction, came to their senses and began to send arrows into the horde, finishing off those Mydei only maimed.

But even in the heat of battle, his consciousness was split. Part of him was here, in this narrow pass, and the other part was there, at the center, where a white cloak flashed in the thick of the fight. He heard screams, roars, the clash of steel. And he saw from afar that Phainon was exactly what they said he was. A beacon. He didn't just cut down enemies with his enormous sword; he was the heart of the defense. His voice directed, his figure inspired courage. He was everywhere at once - repelling a breach in one section, helping a fallen soldier to his feet in another, and his white cloak, fluttering in the bloody chaos, was a rallying point for all, a symbol that they had not yet lost.

And Mydei, crushing another enemy, felt a pang of an unfamiliar, burning admiration.

And then everything went wrong.

The ground shook. From the very heart of the advancing horde, tossing smaller creatures aside, rose something enormous. A Chitinous Leviathan. A colossal monster on six legs as thick as columns, with a massive armored body and a pair of giant pincers capable of snapping a tree trunk in two.

It let out a deafening roar and moved forward, ignoring the arrows that bounced harmlessly off its carapace. It was heading straight for the center of the defense. Straight for the white cloak.

Phainon saw it. He yelled a command to fall back, to regroup. The soldiers backed away in horror from the advancing mountain of chitin and rage. Phainon remained in the monster's path, trying to draw its attention, to buy his men time. He had just parried a lunge from a nimble slasher when the Leviathan struck. One of its giant pincers whistled down from above - in a blow that would have turned a man into a bloody pulp.

Mydei saw it.

He saw Phainon, distracted for a split second, barely notice the blow in time. He heard the cries of terror that rippled through the defenders' ranks.

And in that moment, the captain's order, the eastern flank, the strategy - all of it ceased to exist. The order was clear.

But instinct was clearer.

"Hold the pass!" he roared at the stunned militiamen behind him.

And he abandoned his post.

Disobeyed an order.

He charged forward, not choosing a path. He forged one, straight ahead. His gaze was locked on a single point - on the giant pincer descending upon the figure in white.

Red on white. The thought seared his brain. He would not let it happen.

The distance was too great. He wouldn't make it. But he had to make it.

The pincer descended. Phainon leaped back, but not far enough. The blow would still hit him, break him, crush him.

And then the mercenary, Midos, did the impossible.

A deafening crash echoed - not of breaking bones, but of shattering stone.

Mydei saw that he wouldn't make it in time. He wouldn't reach Phainon to push him away. He wouldn't reach him to take the blow himself. The distance was too great, and time was measured in heartbeats.

So, obeying an instinct older than any tactical calculation, he did the only thing he could. A few steps from his target, seeing the giant pincer begin its deadly downward arc, he didn't attack the monster.

He attacked the ground.

Gathering all his hidden rage, all the supernatural power he had so carefully concealed, he brought his cestus-clad fist down on the rocky soil of the pass.

The impact was dull, but monstrous. The ground beneath his fist cracked, a web of fissures spreading out. And from the point of impact, a shockwave erupted in all directions - not magic, but pure, concentrated kinetic energy. A visible distortion in the air, a wave of dust and small stones that shot forward.

That wave slammed into Phainon's legs with the force of a raging bull. He wasn't pushed - he was literally knocked off his feet as if he were a rag doll. With a startled cry, he flew a couple of meters to the side and landed hard, rolling several times.

In the next instant, the Leviathan's giant pincer crashed down with a deafening roar onto the very spot where he had just been standing, blasting a fountain of rock shards from the ground.

Phainon was alive. Stunned, bruised, but alive.

Mydei now stood directly in the path of the enraged monster. And he took the full brunt of its fury.

Phainon was already on his feet. The shock in his eyes was replaced by an icy, lethal fury. He didn't ask questions. Not yet. He saw that the nameless mercenary had just done the impossible to save him. And he wasn't about to let that gift go to waste.

As the Leviathan slowly raised its pincer for another strike, Phainon acted. His claymore whistled in a wide arc, severing one of the monster's front legs at the base. The beast roared in pain, its attention shifting completely to the defiant warrior before it.

That moment was all Mydei needed. He stepped forward, his shoulder bumping against the shoulder of the Deliverer who had just rejoined the fight.

Shoulder to shoulder.

They exchanged no words, no glances. They didn't need to. In that moment, in the center of the bloody chaos, they became one, two sides of the same flame. Their dance began.

It was a perfect synergy, born of desperation and combat instinct. Phainon was the wind and the wave. His claymore moved in wide, graceful, yet deadly arcs, lopping off the limbs of smaller creatures that tried to get close and dealing deep, cutting blows to the giant, forcing it to retreat, to shift its weight. He created space. He created opportunities.

Mydei was the hammer. Every strike he made was short, brutal, and aimed at a single point. His cestuses didn't cut; they crushed. With each blow to the Leviathan's joints, there was a sickening crack, and fissures spread across its thick carapace. He was the destroyer, the battering ram that broke through the impenetrable armor.

They moved as a single organism. Phainon forced the monster to turn - Mydei struck its unprotected side. Mydei took a blow from one of the pincers - Phainon, at the same time, sliced the tendons on its legs on the other side. Several times, smaller creatures broke through the wide swings of the claymore, only to hit a steel wall in Mydei. Several times, the Leviathan tried to crush Mydei, but was forced to retreat under a hail of precise and painful blows from Phainon.

Captain Kaelan and the other soldiers, seeing this incredible duo, came to their senses. Inspired by their example, they fell upon the remaining creatures with renewed vigor, pushing them back, giving their two heroes space to fight the main enemy.

"The legs!" Phainon yelled, parrying another blow.

Mydei understood without further explanation. The next time Phainon's sword forced the giant to take a clumsy step, Mydei brought all his might down on one of the monster's knee joints.

There was a deafening crunch. The leg gave way. The monster's enormous body listed, and with a roar, it collapsed onto one knee, exposing for a few seconds a vulnerable spot - the joint between its head and torso.

"Now!" It was no longer Phainon's cry, but their shared thought.

Phainon drove his claymore into the gap between the chitinous plates. Mydei, pushing off the ground, leaped and brought both his fists down on the hilt of the sword, driving it deeper.

The roar cut off, replaced by a gurgling rattle. The giant body shuddered in its final agony and, with a crash that shook the earth, toppled onto its side.

Dead.

The death of their leader threw the rest of the horde into chaos. Deprived of a unified will, they faltered and began to retreat, pursued by the furious cries and arrows of the pass's defenders.

The battle was won.

A relative quiet settled over the scene, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the heavy breathing of the survivors. Mydei and Phainon stood amidst a field of corpses and shattered chitin. The adrenaline receded, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness and an all-consuming exhaustion.

Mydei leaned on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was drained, but whole. Phainon stood beside him, leaning heavily on his sword, which he had struggled to pull from the vanquished foe. His white cloak was spattered with the black blood of the creatures.

Their eyes met.

This time, there was no curiosity, no game in them. Only pure, unadulterated respect. The understanding of what they had just done. It was a bond forged in the crucible of battle, stronger than any steel.

Phainon tried to smile, but it was only a weak, weary grimace. He took a step, swayed, and likely would have fallen if not for the sword he was leaning on.

And then, breaking the heavy silence, he suddenly let out a quiet laugh. The laugh of a man who had looked death in the face and found it absurdly comical. He raised his crystal-blue eyes to Mydei, and a mischievous spark lit up in them again.

"By the way, my name is Phainon," he said, as simply as if they had just met over a mug of ale, not in the middle of a slaughterhouse.

Mydei froze. A name. He had offered him his real name.

Suddenly, a realization flared in his mind. He remembered the refugee's story in the tavern, the soldiers' whispers in the pass, even Captain Kaelan's formal tone. The legends and rumors mentioned his name - Phainon. But in real life... Mydei realized that in all this time, he had never once heard anyone address him so directly. Never. It was always with reverence, respect, almost prayerfully - 'the Deliverer'.

And now this man, this hero, was offering his real name to him. To the simple mercenary, Midos. It wasn't just a sign of introduction. It was... personal.

And in return for this gift, he had to offer a lie.

The thought burned him from the inside, like a brand of dishonor. He, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, raised on a code of honor that was harder than any steel, now felt like the lowest of liars. He could not accept this gift. Not like this.

One who lies is unworthy of speaking another's true name. He, Midos, was unworthy. He would call him what everyone else did. The Deliverer. That would be his tribute. And his eternal, bitter reminder of his own lie.

He straightened up, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, and forced himself to answer. His lips didn't want to say it, but he had no choice. His voice came out hollow and foreign.

"Midos."

Chapter Text

Chapter 4. I Didn't Ask for Your Permission

Victory didn't smell like triumph. It smelled of blood, smoke, and burnt flesh. Its sound was the groans of the wounded, the sharp commands of the captain, and the quiet sobs of a young militiaman who sat on the ground, hugging the body of a fallen friend. The adrenaline that had roared in Mydei's ears like a firestorm had receded, leaving behind only a dull, leaden exhaustion and an aching pain in every muscle.

He stood, leaning heavily on his knees, and stared at the cracks that spiderwebbed out from the spot where his fist had met the ground. It had been reckless. Foolish. He had shown too much. He had allowed instinct to overpower the cold calculation of a spy, and now he would have to pay the price.

"Midos."

He didn't flinch, but his muscles tensed. He slowly straightened up and turned. Phainon stood a few paces away. His clothes and armor were spattered with black ichor, a scratch on his cheek had dried to a crust, but his gaze was clear and sharp as a shard of ice. There was no gratitude in it, no relief. Only a single, all-consuming, demanding curiosity.

He took a step forward, gesturing with his chin at the fractured earth.

"What was that?" he asked quietly, but every word was as hard as stone. "I've seen warriors break through shields. I've seen mages shatter rocks. But I've never seen someone... just do that. It wasn't magic. It was... pure force."

Mydei had been expecting this question. He forced himself to take a heavy, ragged breath, wincing as if from a collapsing internal pain. He looked down at his cestus-clad hands with an expression of grim disgust, as if they belonged to someone else.

"The 'Final Argument' technique," he rasped. His voice sounded cracked and weary - in that, at least, there was not a shred of a lie.

He saw Phainon tilt his head slightly, indicating that he was waiting for him to continue.

"You pour all your stamina... all your life force into a single blow," Mydei continued, looking away. "It breaks the enemy, but it almost breaks you from the inside, too." He clenched and unclenched his fist, a deliberate demonstration of how difficult even that simple movement was for him. "You can't use it often. If at all. A Kremnosian legacy."

It was a good lie. Vague enough, heroic enough, plausible enough for a warrior from a people known for their brutal and self-destructive strength.

He had expected any reaction - surprise, admiration, even disbelief. But he was not prepared for what happened.

The moment he said the word "Kremnosian," something in Phainon shifted. It was barely perceptible, like the shadow of a cloud passing over a sunlit meadow. The warmth in his crystal-blue eyes vanished, replaced by a detached, almost sterile emptiness. The faint smile that had still been playing on his lips didn't just fade - it seemed to shatter. For one brief, endless moment, the hero of the frontier was gone, and in his place was someone else - wary, withdrawn, touched by an old, cold shadow.

He was looking at Mydei, but it was as if he were seeing a ghost from the past.

Mydei felt the change with his entire being. It was like a wall of ice had suddenly slammed down between them. He realized that with a single word, he had touched something deeply personal, some old, raw nerve.

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the expression was gone. Phainon blinked, as if shaking off a trance. The professional soldier, the leader, took control once more. The ice in his eyes melted, but it was not replaced by the former warmth, but by a more distant, measured respect.

"Well..." he said slowly, and his tone was different, more formal. "That explains a great deal. And once again... thank you. You saved my life."

"You would have done the same," Mydei grunted, feeling awkward under this new, appraising gaze.

"Perhaps," Phainon agreed. "But you were the one who did."

They were interrupted by Captain Kaelan, whose face was gray with exhaustion and bad news.

"Deliverer! Midos!" he shouted, running up to them. "To my tent. Immediately. We have big problems."

Phainon nodded, his face once again a commander's mask. He cast one last, long look at Mydei, a look that held a mixture of the battle just survived, the shock of his abilities, and a new, incomprehensible wariness tied to a single word.

Then he turned and followed the captain. Mydei, after a moment's hesitation, followed him.

The physical battle was over. But he could feel that the real battle - the battle for the trust of this almost impossible man - had just become immeasurably more difficult.

Captain Kaelan's tent was an island of order in an ocean of chaos. It was cramped inside and smelled of old leather, maps, and spilled ale. A single lamp cast a dim, flickering light on a large table where a map of Garnet Pass and the adjacent Withered Lands was spread out.

Kaelan, Phainon, and Mydei stood around the table. The heavy silence was broken only by the crackle of the lamp's wick.

"They've retreated, but that means nothing," Kaelan began, poking a calloused finger at a point north of their position. His hand was trembling slightly. "The scouts I sent on a flanking route have returned. Or rather, one has. The rest are dead. What we fought off was just a wave, an advance guard. The main horde... it's here."

He circled a new, much larger area on the map. The red ink marking the enemy now spread like an ominous stain, threatening to completely engulf their tiny island of defense.

"They've changed their route. They're coming straight for us. The scout estimates there are five times as many. And they're being led by something... different. Not just a Leviathan. Something ancient." Kaelan wearily ran a hand over his face. "The fortifications won't hold. We have a few days, maybe. Then we'll just be washed away."

The tent grew even quieter. Mydei stared at the map, and something cold rose in his chest. It was a hopeless situation. A strategic dead end.

"So, sitting here and waiting isn't an option," Phainon's voice was calm, almost detached, as if he were solving a tactical problem on a training field and not signing all their death warrants. He leaned over the map, his crystal-blue eyes quickly scanning the terrain.

"The only chance is to behead the snake while it's still slithering toward us," he continued, his finger stopping on a point deep in enemy territory. "Something is controlling the horde. A 'Chieftain', a 'Matriarch', a 'Hive Heart' - it doesn't matter what you call it. If we destroy it, the horde will lose coordination. They'll turn from an army into an uncontrollable mob. And then we'll have a chance to fight them off."

"That's suicide, Deliverer," Kaelan breathed. "To break through that entire mass..."

"It's our only chance," Phainon corrected him, gently but firmly. He straightened up and looked first at Kaelan, and then at Mydei. There was no fear or doubt on his face. Only the deep, endless weariness of a man accustomed to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I'll go."

One word. I. Not we.

Mydei had been silent until that moment, just listening. But that short word made something inside him tighten to its breaking point. He watched as Phainon prepared to take on this impossible mission alone, and he felt a dull, irrational resistance rising within him. An unfamiliar, almost painful urge to protect this stranger from his own heroism.

"Your plan is garbage."

Mydei's voice was low and flat, like the scrape of stone on steel. The other two men stared at him in surprise.

Phainon frowned. "What did you say?"

"Your plan is garbage if you go alone," Mydei repeated, meeting his gaze. He took a step toward the table, looming over the map. "You're a good tactician, but right now you're thinking like a hero, not a warrior. Who's going to cover your back while you search for the target? Who's going to draw the attention of the smaller creatures while you fight your way to the big ones? You can't fight, navigate unfamiliar terrain, and watch six directions at once. You'll be killed before you even get close."

He spoke bluntly, without any respect for the Deliverer's status. He was analyzing, dissecting his heroic impulse with the cold cruelty of a Kremnosian general.

"A sortie like this needs two," he concluded, raising his eyes to Phainon. "A hammer to break through walls. And a scalpel to make the precise cut. One is useless without the other."

Phainon was stunned by such a direct and almost insulting critique. He was clearly not used to being spoken to in such a tone.

"That's my risk to take, Midos," he replied, a new steel in his voice. "I can't ask someone to walk with me to certain death."

"And I didn't ask for your permission."

Mydei stepped forward, coming to a stop directly in front of Phainon. He didn't shout. He spoke quietly, but his voice held such an unbreakable, commanding certainty that even the air in the tent seemed to grow thick. It was the will of a true alpha, threatening to tear through the beta's mask.

"I'm going with you."

It wasn't an offer. It wasn't a request. It was a fact. An ultimatum.

Phainon froze. He looked into the golden eyes opposite him, and his own surprise was replaced by something else. The same cold glint he'd had at the mention of Kremnos flashed in his eyes, but it was followed by a new, deep curiosity. He looked at Midos as if trying to see what, or who, was truly hiding behind the mask of this sullen, strange mercenary who first saved his life and then, with the audacity of a tyrant, inserted himself into his suicide mission.

Kaelan looked from one to the other, witnessing this clash of two unbreakable wills, and didn't dare to interfere.

Finally, Phainon gave a slow, almost reluctant nod.

"Fine," he said, and that single word sounded both like a defeat and the beginning of something new. "A hammer and a scalpel. We go together."

The decision was made. The partnership was forged. Not on a foundation of friendship or trust, but forged from pure strength, stubbornness, and a shared gaze into the face of inevitable death.

The decision made in the stuffy silence of the captain's tent hung in the cold morning air like a heavy, invisible shroud. The battle had been won, but the pass did not celebrate. It was licking its wounds. The ashen light of dawn was merciless; it did not hide, but rather highlighted the price of their victory: bodies covered with rough cloaks; the wounded, whose groans mixed with the commands of healers; and the living, whose faces were gray with fatigue and a quiet, settled horror.

Mydei had expected Phainon, having agreed to the suicide mission, to finally allow himself to rest. To gather his strength. To prepare. He was wrong.

Barely had he left the tent, leaving his sword there as he had the day before, the Deliverer once again immersed himself in his work. As if the short break for a war council had never happened. He moved through the camp like a ghost, driven by nothing but a sense of duty. Mydei watched him from a distance, leaning against a cold stone wall. He saw Phainon kneel beside a wounded soldier, helping a healer hold the man still while he was being stitched up. He saw him, after that, get up and go to help others carry the bodies of the fallen to the place set aside for a funeral pyre.

Every one of his movements was slow, deliberate, but devoid of all energy. He could barely stay on his feet. And he didn't stop.

Mydei watched this, and a dull, heavy irritation began to simmer inside him. It wasn't anger. It was something more complex. He was looking at the most perfect and the most useless mechanism of self-destruction. This hero was going to burn himself to ashes before they even set out. This idiot was going to die of exhaustion, not from the claws of creatures.

A heavy, grating sigh escaped his chest. Enough.

He pushed himself off the wall and strode across the camp with a determined, swift pace. No one stopped him. After what he had done in the battle, mercenaries and soldiers alike stepped aside for him with silent respect.

He found Phainon near the field infirmary. He was trying to help a young healer restrain a soldier thrashing in a fever. There was already another helper present, but Phainon was there anyway, his face as pale as parchment, sweat glistening on his brow.

Mydei didn't say a word. He just walked up, decisively and authoritatively wrapped a hand around Phainon's bicep, and pulled him to his feet. This time, the Deliverer was surprisingly pliable, his body yielding without the slightest resistance.

The healer, stunned by the sudden movement, looked up. Mydei glanced at him and the others.

"I'm taking this half-dead hero," he announced, his voice rough and allowing no argument. "Before he collapses next to them."

A few soldiers who saw the scene exchanged knowing glances; one even allowed himself a faint smirk. It seemed they were finally beginning to see what Mydei saw.

Phainon, dangling in Mydei's grip, blinked in surprise. He tried to pull free, but it was more for show; besides, the grip on his arm was like a steel band - not rough, but utterly unyielding.

"You know, that's not very polite," he managed to say, a shadow of his usual wry warmth in his voice.

Mydei ignored him. Without letting go of his arm, trying not to look into those crystal-blue eyes, he turned him and led him away from the infirmary. He himself didn't fully understand this irrational, domineering impulse, and that only made him angrier - at Phainon, at himself, at this whole damned world.

"Idiot," he growled, so quietly that only Phainon could hear. "You can barely stand. And we have to leave by nightfall. So right now, you are going to sleep."

Mydei didn't lead him to the noisy communal tents. He found what he was looking for at the very edge of the camp - a small, empty equipment tent, sheltered from the wind by an overhanging cliff. He unceremoniously brought him to the entrance.

"In here."

Phainon didn't argue anymore. He gave Mydei a long, strange look, in which there was neither offense nor anger. Only a deep, bottomless exhaustion and something else... something like surprised trust.

He nodded silently. Just at the entrance to the tent, he paused for a moment. His hands fumbled, almost listlessly, with the clasps, and he took off his famous white cloak, which was heavy with dirt and caked blood. For a moment, Phainon looked it over with a shadow of annoyance - no doubt, if he had even an ounce of strength, he would have started cleaning it. But he had no strength.

Instead of just dropping it, he carefully folded it several times and placed it on a large, flat stone by the tent's entrance. Then, without looking back, he ducked under the flap and almost immediately collapsed onto a pile of blankets that had been tossed inside.

Mydei stood at the entrance for a few more seconds, listening. Not a sound came from the tent. Phainon had fallen asleep the instant his head found a surface.

Making sure he was asleep, Mydei turned. His gaze caught on the white bundle of fabric. The Deliverer's cloak. A symbol of hope for hundreds of soldiers, now just a dirty, crumpled thing.

Mydei looked at the dark stains - the blood of creatures, the soil of the pass, and, as he knew, his own crimson blood, left over from the battle. And something about the sight... about this forced neglect for the sake of simple, human sleep... resonated somewhere deep in his soul.

Prince Mydeimos, heir of Castrum Kremnos, took a few steps. But he didn't leave. He found a spot near the tent, in the shadow of the same cliff, sat down, leaned his back against the cold stone, and took out a whetstone.

He was not a sentry. He had not been given an order.

But while the hero of this world was lost in a restless, exhausted sleep, his silent, sullen partner sat outside. His eyes were fixed on the camp, occasionally returning to the discarded cloak, while his ears caught every rustle. He methodically sharpened his cestuses, and the rhythmic, grating sound of his work was the only thing that broke the silence around the small tent. He was its silent guardian.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5. Midos, Are You Sure You're Just a Mercenary?

Mydei didn't know how long he had sat in the shadow of the cliff. Time had lost its usual flow, dissolving into the methodical scrape of whetstone on metal and the sparse, intermittent sounds of a camp licking its wounds. He didn't sleep. He felt no need for it. His body, spurred on by poison and duty, was a taut string, and his mind was as cold and clear as the winter air.

When the shadows on the ground grew long and violet, and the sun vanished behind the blood-red peaks of the pass, he rose. It was time.

He walked to the small tent, pushed aside the heavy flap, and looked inside.

"Get up."

His voice was hoarse and rough, but not loud.

Phainon awoke instantly. There were no groans, no sleepy murmurs. One moment he was asleep, the next he was sitting up, his crystal-blue eyes perfectly lucid. He looked at Mydei, and there was no surprise or fear in his gaze. Only a calm awareness.

Several hours of uninterrupted, deep sleep had worked a miracle. Phainon's pale, almost parchment-like skin had regained a healthy hue, and the exhausted tremor in his hands had vanished. The fatigue hadn't disappeared completely - it lurked in the dark circles under his eyes like an old scar - but it was now outweighed by a focused, cold resolve.

He gave a silent nod and climbed out of the tent. Mydei took a step back, giving him space.

He saw Phainon squint, adjusting to the evening light. Then his gaze darted to the flat stone by the entrance where he had left his cloak. Mydei noticed Phainon's shoulders tense for a moment when he saw the stone was empty.

The confusion lasted only an instant. Phainon's gaze traveled further, to the base of the cliff where Mydei stood. And he saw it. His cloak - now clean and neatly folded.

The dark stains of blood and mud were gone, leaving behind only faint, damp patches on the fabric, which smelled of freshness and cold spring water. Next to the cloak, on a stone, lay a small whetstone, worn smooth and shiny. Beside it was an empty waterskin. The evidence of a long, motionless vigil.

The picture came together instantly, without a single word. He hadn't just stood guard. He had worked. Cleaned his cloak, sharpened his weapon, waited. All day.

Phainon's gaze slowly moved from these objects to Mydei's face. And a deep, quiet understanding flickered in his eyes. There was no longer any wariness, no formal courtesy. Only a calm, unadulterated acknowledgment of fact and something else, something much warmer and more complex.

And Mydei, to his own surprise, did not look away this time. He held that gaze. No words were needed.

They prepared for their journey in this new, silent harmony, their actions speaking more about them than any words could.

Phainon was the embodiment of professionalism. He moved methodically, without a single wasted motion. He checked every buckle on his armor, replaced the leather wrapping on the hilt of his claymore, carefully inspecting the steel for the smallest nicks. Then he laid out his meager gear on a stone: a flint and steel, a coil of strong rope, a knife, a small medical pouch that smelled of dried herbs, and several tightly wrapped parcels of jerky. He was a man for whom survival was a science.

Mydei was his complete opposite. His preparation was minimalist and brutal in its simplicity. He didn't check his armor - he knew it would hold. His weapon was a part of him. He only clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, testing the fit of his cestuses, and threw a well-worn cloak over his shoulders. He was not a survivalist. He was a weapon that needed nothing but a target.

Having finished with his own things, Phainon hesitated, then walked over to Mydei. In his hands was a small, crudely stitched leather pouch.

"Take this."

Mydei looked first at the pouch, then into Phainon's eyes. His entire Kremnosian nature rebelled against the gesture. In Castrum Kremnos, accepting help, especially help you hadn't openly needed, was tantamount to admitting your own weakness. It was a debt that weighed on your honor.

Phainon seemed to read this in his tense posture. He tilted his head slightly, a shadow of an understanding smile on his lips.

"Not even from a partner?" he asked quietly.

And that simple phrase disarmed Mydei. It wasn't a taunt. It was an acknowledgment of their new status, a subtle reminder that the rules of lone wolves no longer applied here.

"It's not charity," Phainon continued, his tone more serious. "It's resources for the mission. You'll need more energy if you're going to keep punching the ground. I can't let my 'hammer' break down halfway."

He offered the pouch again. Mydei hesitated for another long moment. Then, with a barely perceptible, irritated sigh, he took it. He didn't open it. He just fastened it to his belt, avoiding Phainon's gaze.

This simple act was something more than just a transfer of supplies for both of them. It was a silent agreement. An acknowledgment that they were no longer two lone wolves. They were a unit.

Their first, conscious step toward partnership had been taken.

The improvised war council was held not in the captain's tent, but outside, in the gathering evening twilight. The cold air was already growing sharp, and the shadows of the cliffs and temporary structures stretched and darkened in the light of the campfires being lit throughout the camp. To separate themselves from the general bustle, they settled off to the side, near an overturned supply crate that served as a temporary table. On it, spread over a piece of leather, lay the same map. The single dim lamp placed beside it carved a small circle of light out of the gloom, forcing them to lean over the plan for their desperate mission.

Phainon, as the man who had traversed these dead lands time and again, took the lead. He was a pragmatist to the core, a solo hero whose life depended on knowing every path, every gorge, every spring.

"We can't go straight through," he began, his finger gliding confidently across the map. "Too many patrols. But I know a way. Here, by the Dead Creek, the rocks form a labyrinth. The paths are narrow, but I know them. If we move quietly, we can bypass the main forces. Then we'll emerge onto this plateau. It's open, dangerous, but it's the fastest route to the Chieftain's suspected lair. By my calculations, if there are no surprises, we'll be there in a day and a half."

He spoke like an experienced tracker, a survivalist who trusted his knowledge of the terrain and his ability to remain unseen. It was a lone wolf's plan - fast, risky, relying on speed and stealth.

Mydei listened in silence, his gaze fixed on the map. And the longer he looked, the tighter his jaw clenched. He didn't see paths. He saw front lines. He didn't see a labyrinth. He saw a tactical trap. He didn't see a solo sortie. He saw a military operation in which the most important and most vulnerable unit was the man standing next to him.

And Mydeimos, the general accustomed to moving armies, could not allow Midos, the mercenary, to remain silent.

"This plan is no good."

Mydei's voice was flat, cold, and utterly final. Phainon looked up from the map and stared at him in surprise.

"What?"

"This plan is based on the assumption that we won't meet serious resistance," Mydei continued, his finger authoritatively descending onto the map, covering the route Phainon had drawn. "It doesn't account for patrols, for chance encounters, for enemy maneuvers. This isn't a plan. It's a bet on luck. I don't bet on luck when it comes to survival."

Phainon was visibly and justifiably stunned. Not so much by the words, but by the tone. There was no longer the gruff brevity of a mercenary in Midos's voice. There was the steel of a strategist, accustomed to his decisions determining the outcome of battles.

"I know these lands, Midos," Phainon replied, a note of irritation in his voice. "I've been through here dozens of times."

"You went through alone," Mydei cut him off. "Now there are two of us. That changes everything. Doubles the noise. Doubles the tracks. And halves the options for retreat. Your experience fighting alone won't help here. What's needed here is strategy."

He pushed Phainon's hand aside and began to draw his own route on the map.

"We won't go through the labyrinth. We'll go over it. Along the tops of the cliffs. It's longer, but it gives us a tactical advantage: we see them, they don't see us. We'll only reach the plateau at night. And we won't move in a straight line, but in short sprints from cover to cover. Our goal isn't speed. Our goal is to approach the lair undetected and at full strength."

He spoke clearly, curtly, giving orders, not offering suggestions. He broke the entire operation down into phases. He designated rally points in case they were separated. He assigned signals. He thought through a plan of action for every possible threat he had mentioned earlier.

Phainon listened, and the initial irritation in his eyes was replaced by astonishment. As if he were no longer looking at a mercenary. He was looking at a general. This sullen warrior wasn't thinking like a lone wolf saving his own skin. He was thinking like a strategist, leading a valuable asset into battle and doing everything to deliver it to the target intact.

When Mydei finished, there was a completely new plan on the map - slower, more complex, but an order of magnitude safer and more thought-out.

Phainon was silent for a long time, looking from the map to Mydei's face, as if trying to solve a riddle. He was clearly used to being the leader. Used to his decisions being law. But now, he obviously couldn't deny that the plan of this strange, domineering Kremnosian was... better. Militarily flawless.

"Alright," he finally said, his voice a mixture of wounded pride and grudging admiration. "We'll do it your way. But I have one question, Midos."

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you're just a mercenary?" Phainon asked directly, looking him in the eye.

Mydei froze for a moment, realizing he had overplayed his hand and shown too much. But it was too late to back down.

"I'm just a mercenary who wants to survive," he answered hollowly. "And who wants his partner to survive, too."

He wasn't lying. At least, not about the second part.

Phainon continued to look at him for a few more seconds, then nodded, accepting the answer. But it was foolish to hope that the seeds of doubt, sown earlier, had not just yielded a plentiful harvest.

The night was on their side. Thick, moonless, it covered the pass in a dense shroud, in which the campfires and stars burned brighter than usual. The camp had fallen quiet in anxious anticipation. All preparations were complete. All words had been said. All that was left was to take the first step.

Mydei and Phainon stood at the very edge of the camp, where the last timid light of a campfire drowned in the absolute, impenetrable darkness of the Withered Lands. Behind them was life - noise, warmth, camaraderie. Ahead, only a cold, silent nothingness.

They were ready. Their armor was fitted, their weapons at the ready. Their meager supplies hung from their belts. Two silhouettes, one dark and one light, on the border between two worlds.

Captain Kaelan approached them. In the flickering, uneven light, his face seemed carved from stone. He didn't offer any parting words or wish them luck. Such words would have been empty and out of place.

He simply walked up and placed his heavy, calloused hand on Phainon's shoulder.

"We'll hold the pass for as long as we can," he said quietly.

Then he shifted his gaze to Mydei. For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes, an attempt to understand this strange, domineering warrior. But he pushed it aside. It didn't matter now. He reached out and, after an almost imperceptible hesitation, clasped Mydei's shoulder just as firmly.

"Let us know when the job is done."

Kaelan stepped back, melting into the shadows of the camp, and they were left alone.

In the ensuing silence, Phainon turned to Mydei. A light, weary, but warm smile was on his face. A smile not meant for a crowd, but for a single partner.

And looking at that smile, at the man standing before him, a sudden, crystal-clear realization pierced Mydei.

His mission was accomplished.

He had traveled the front lines and seen that the warriors of Amphoreus were not cowards, as his father had screamed. He had met the Deliverer and confirmed that he was not an empty title, but a true hero, woven from steel and self-sacrifice. He had gathered enough truth to return to Castrum Kremnos and throw it in the king's face. His duty was there, in the palace, beside his mother, who was single-handedly holding the line against encroaching madness. He should be going back.

But he couldn't.

At some point over the last few days, everything had changed. When, exactly? When he heard the refugee's story in the tavern? When he saw Phainon smile through his last reserves of strength? When he caught him in his arms after the spar? Or when he had charged to save him, disregarding a direct order?

He didn't know. But he knew one thing: his mission was no longer a matter of state importance. Because of this man, standing beside him and looking at him with such disarming trust, it had become an order of magnitude more personal.

In the palace, there was the threat of war. His mother. His duty. But here... here was something Mydei could not walk away from. Not now.

And perhaps, not ever again.

He looked into Phainon's crystal-blue eyes and understood that his new, unplanned mission had just taken a clear shape. Not to save the pass. Not to stop the horde.

To save him.

Mydei answered Phainon's smile with a short, firm nod. It was his silent, conscious decision. His new oath.

They turned simultaneously, leaving the last island of light and life behind them.

And took their first step into the darkness.

Their boots made no sound on the dead, cracked earth. The cold of the Withered Lands enveloped them instantly, seeping even through their armor. They didn't look back. Their gazes were fixed ahead, into the gloom, where among the twisted, lifeless trees and phosphorescent fungi, a horde of monsters and its unknown master awaited them.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, two lone wolves, by a twist of fate, made one. The hammer and the scalpel. The general and the hero. Two figures, one dark and one light, heading into the very heart of the darkness to try and ignite a tiny, desperate spark of dawn.

Their shared mission had begun. But now, one of them had a secret one of his own. There was no turning back.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6. Sometimes, Running Isn't Cowardice

The darkness of the Withered Lands was alive. It breathed a chill that seeped into the bones. It whispered with a silence so profound and unnatural that the ears began to ache from the strain of trying to catch any sound. There was no life here - only its ugly, twisted echo.

Mydei and Phainon moved through this darkness like two ghosts. Their boots made almost no noise on the cracked, coal-like earth. The only light was the sick, rotten-orange phosphorescence that emanated from parasitic fungi on the trunks of dead trees. It snatched grotesque, distorted shadows from the gloom, making the imagination paint lurking monsters behind every rock.

They didn't speak. Any word spoken here would have been a shout, a beacon that would draw every predator within a league to them. Their communication was a dance - silent, instinctual, honed over years of training and battle.

Phainon, as the one who knew this land, walked ahead. He was their guide. With a slight movement of his hand, he pointed to patches where the soil was loose and might give way. With a nod of his head, to fresh, still-warm creature tracks. He moved fluidly, his body tense but not stiff, as if he were merging with the surrounding landscape, becoming a part of it.

Mydei walked slightly behind and to the side, his shoulders broad, his gaze scanning not the path, but the flanks. He was their guardian. While Phainon read the earth, Mydei read the shadows. His mind, honed by Kremnosian military drills, automatically marked every crevice in the rocks, every grove of dead trees, as a potential ambush site. He calculated escape routes, assessed possible threats, his brain working like a relentless analytical machine.

And at the center of this machine, obsessive thoughts churned.

He's too close to that cliff. If they attack from above, I won't have time to cover him.

He's slowed down. He's tired. I'll have to insist on a rest in an hour, no later. To hell with his stubbornness.

Mydei recognized with cold clarity that this was something more than just concern for a partner. These were pure, undisguised alpha instincts that he was supposed to be suffocating and hiding under the mask of a beta. A primal, almost possessive urge to wrap this omega in cotton wool, lock him in the safest room, and never let him out.

And since that was impossible, he did the only thing he could - he suppressed that internal roar and channeled it into the only useful outlet: calculating and eliminating every conceivable and inconceivable threat to Phainon.

Suddenly, something cold and unpleasant stirred in his soul. Guilt. He was no fool. He understood perfectly the nature of his impulses toward this particular man. But he had no right to them. Not only because he was pretending to be a beta. But also because somewhere, in the past, he'd had... a true mate. A ghostly figure he had never seen, an omega who had thrown themself from a cliff eight years ago. He hadn't known them, hadn't loved them, but the very fact of their existence and their tragic death made these instincts he felt for Phainon... a betrayal. A betrayal of the memory of the one he never even had the chance to know.

He gritted his teeth, pushing the thoughts away. He needed to focus on something else now. On the fact that Phainon, the Deliverer, was an incredibly valuable strategic asset for all of Amphoreus. A hero capable of uniting the scattered city-states under a single banner - the banner of hope. His death here would be a catastrophe not just for the pass, but for the entire alliance. Protecting him was his duty as the Prince of Kremnos. Yes. That was it. It was duty, not instinct. He would repeat that to himself, over and over.

Suddenly, Phainon froze, raising a hand. The signal for 'stop'. They froze behind a large boulder, their bodies instantly coiling like tense springs.

Phainon pointed ahead. Mydei carefully peered out from behind their cover.

Ahead, in a small clearing bathed in the orange glow of the fungi, a patrol was moving. Five Watcher Creatures. Nimble, hound-like beings on four thin limbs, with disproportionately large, multifaceted eyes that swiveled in all directions. Their function wasn't to kill. Their function was to see and to scream. One of their piercing shrieks, and every creature in the area would swarm to this spot.

They were close. Too close.

Mydei's fingers instinctively tensed. A plan had already formed in his head - fast, silent, lethal. One crystalline shard-needle for the one on the left. A thrown knife for the one on the right. And then a charge to snap the necks of the remaining three before they could make a sound. Risky. But doable. His hand had already begun a slow movement toward his belt.

And then he felt it.

A light, but firm touch on his forearm.

He glanced down. Phainon's hand. Gloved, but Mydei could still feel the warmth through the fabric and leather. It was a command. Quiet, but absolute.

'Don't. Wait.'

Mydei's instincts screamed. The alpha within him demanded he eliminate the threat. But he froze. He looked at Phainon's calm profile, at his focused gaze, and... he obeyed. He trusted his knowledge.

The patrol slowly swept the clearing. One of the creatures suddenly stopped. Its huge, ugly head turned in their direction. It had scented something. It took a few steps toward them, its moist nostrils twitching.

Mydei's heart skipped a beat. He tensed again, ready for a fight. But Phainon's hand on his forearm squeezed slightly, reminding him of the order.

The creature stood there, staring at their hiding spot for several infinitely long seconds. Mydei could almost hear it breathing. Then, just as suddenly, it lost interest. It made a low, chittering sound, turned, and trotted after the other members of the patrol, who had already disappeared behind the rocks.

The danger had passed.

Phainon removed his hand. But for several more seconds, Mydei could feel a phantom warmth on his forearm.

He looked at Phainon. He met his gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. In that nod was gratitude. For his trust.

And Mydei realized that this quiet, tense moment without a single word, this short battle with his own instincts, meant far more for their partnership than the entire previous battle, full of screams and the clash of steel.

He wasn't just protecting Phainon. He was beginning to trust him. And that scared him far more than any patrol of Tide Creatures.

By the time the first, painfully gray light began to break on the horizon, they had found what they were looking for. A small, almost invisible cave, hidden in the deep shadow of a cliff. Its entrance was masked by a thicket of dry, thorny bushes that seemed to be part of the rock face. It wasn't a fortress, but it was a harbor. A place where they could afford the luxury of stopping.

They slipped inside. The cave was shallow and smelled of cold dust and stone. There was no wind, and most of the shelter was plunged in shadow. But it wasn't absolute darkness. A faint light from the approaching dawn filtered through the thorny bushes. It didn't illuminate the cave, but merely dispersed the densest darkness, creating an island of dim, ghostly twilight.

Without a word, they sank to the rocky floor, leaning their backs against the wall. The adrenaline that had kept them tense all night receded, leaving behind a hollow, leaden exhaustion. For a few minutes, they just sat, breathing heavily and letting their bodies adjust to a state of rest.

Then Phainon spread a piece of cloth on the ground and laid out their meager supplies: a few strips of jerky, a handful of dried berries, and a waterskin. They ate in silence. Every sound - the crunch of meat, a swallow of water - seemed deafening in the quiet.

Mydei watched his partner. He saw how Phainon, while chewing, discreetly massaged his left shoulder - the same one he had landed on after Mydei's blow. Every movement was restrained, but Mydei could see the shadow of a lingering ache behind it.

Finishing his share, Mydei reached into the very leather pouch Phainon had given him. His fingers brushed against a small, cool jar. He silently took it out and, without looking at Phainon, gently pushed it across the stone floor in his direction.

The jar came to a stop with a clink by Phainon's thigh.

It was a salve for bruises. Mydei knew because he caught its scent. It smelled like the ointments his warriors in Kremnos used to rub on countless bruises and sprains after training in the arena. He, of course, had never needed one, but he remembered the smell well.

Phainon looked first at the jar, then at Mydei. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a warm, faint smile. He said nothing. He simply took the jar, nodding his thanks.

That idiot, Mydei thought with a dull irritation, did he really give me his last jar of salve?

He had saved his life, yes. But this gesture... giving the only supply of medicine to a partner you barely know, while you yourself need it - that wasn't just "heroism". It bordered on reckless.

Phainon put aside the rest of his food. To get to the bruised spot on his left shoulder, he had to unbuckle the straps and remove his heavy pauldron. The piece of armor landed on the stone with a dull thud. Then he pulled at the collar of his black tunic, tugging the fabric down to expose his shoulder, collarbone, and the side of his neck.

Mydei froze.

In that faint, filtered light that barely penetrated the cave, Phainon's pale skin seemed to almost glow against the dark fabric and road dust. Mydei could make out every detail - the smooth texture of his skin, the muscles tensed beneath it, the defiant pattern of the tattoo. In this ghostly twilight, he looked both like a hardened warrior and like something vulnerable and unbearably magnetic. Mydei's throat instantly went dry. His alpha instincts, which he had been so fiercely suppressing, roared, demanding he look, memorize, possess.

And his gaze caught on the tattoo. He could see it in full detail now. It wasn't just a "sun". It was a complex pattern of bright yellow, almost white ink, mimicking a blinding light. And its rays were not arranged randomly. They radiated outwards from the very spot on the neck, from that tender hollow where an alpha left their mating bite. The tattoo didn't just decorate - it protected. It screamed, burning a defiant, unyielding message onto the skin: 'This place belongs only to me.'

Mydei felt a pang of irrational, dark jealousy mixed with grudging admiration.

Realizing he was staring, that his gaze had become too heavy, too long, he sharply turned away. He stared at the opposite wall of the cave as if trying to bore a hole through it with his eyes. His fists clenched.

The movement was too abrupt to go unnoticed.

Phainon, who was applying the cold salve to his bruised shoulder with a slight hiss, froze and looked at him. A surprised, then an openly amused smile touched his lips.

"What's the matter, Midos?" his voice was quiet, but full of mirth. "Never seen a bare shoulder before?"

Mydei didn't turn. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and was grateful for the cave's gloom that hid it. To Phainon, it was a harmless joke. He wasn't shy - why would he be shy around a beta? But the reaction of this stern, battle-hardened mercenary was amusing and unexpected to him.

"Nothing to look at," Mydei growled, trying to make his voice sound as indifferent and gruff as possible.

Phainon didn't reply, but he huffed out a breath, and Mydei could have sworn he was smiling even wider now.

He heard Phainon finish, the rustle of fabric as he adjusted his tunic and put his pauldron back on. For a while, they sat in silence again, but it was different now - filled with a slight embarrassment on Mydei's part and quiet amusement on Phainon's.

And it was in that moment, when the tension seemed to have eased, that Phainon struck.

"You said that technique... was Kremnosian."

Mydei tensed. He didn't answer, hoping Phainon wouldn't pursue the topic. He was wrong.

"But your plan..." Phainon continued, his voice turning serious again. "You don't think like a simple mercenary, Midos. You think like a general. Like a man who's used to moving entire squads, not just saving his own skin. Where did you learn that?"

The question was asked calmly, almost lazily, but it hit its mark precisely.

Mydei was silent. He stared at the stone wall in front of him, his face an impenetrable mask. He could have lied. Made up a story about serving in some backwater garrison, about a captain who mentored him. It would have been easy. But for some reason, he couldn't. Lying to this man, after they had been through battle and shared the silence, felt wrong. Almost insulting.

But he couldn't tell the truth, either.

Phainon looked at his tense back, at his clenched fists, and, interpreting his internal struggle in his own way, he made his own assumption.

"A deserter?" he asked quietly, without judgment, more with sympathy.

Mydei flinched. The word was like a slap in the face. An insult to any warrior of his people. His first reaction was rage. To jump up, to roar a denial... But he forced himself to stay put. He suddenly realized that Phainon, without knowing it, had handed him the perfect, flawless cover. A legend that explained everything: his skills, and his reluctance to talk about the past. But his Kremnosian pride, his honor as a prince, resisted. To accept this lie, even with silence, was disgusting.

This internal battle was written on his face - in his furrowed brow, his tensed jaw, in the flash of anger that flared in his eyes and was just as quickly suppressed.

And Phainon saw it. But it seemed he interpreted it not as resistance to a lie, but as deep, agonizing shame for the truth.

He smiled gently, and his voice became even quieter, almost tender.

"I understand what that means for a Kremnosian. But please, don't think I'll judge you. I'm sure you had your reasons."

Mydei was still silent, stunned. He didn't know how to react. He hadn't accepted the lie, but he hadn't denied it either.

Phainon took his silence as confirmation. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and his gaze became distant, fixed somewhere in the depths of memory rather than on the cave wall.

"Sometimes, running isn't cowardice," he said, so quietly it was like a thought spoken aloud. "Sometimes... it's the only way to stop them from destroying what's truly important to you. Maybe... sometimes it's just what you have to do?"

He froze in that position, as if trying to make himself smaller, to protect himself from the invisible chill of memory.

Mydei listened, and a cold realization washed over him. He understood that Phainon was no longer talking about him. He wasn't excusing his supposed desertion.

He was talking about himself.

And then came a second, much more dangerous realization. He looked at that figure - curled up, hugging his knees, vulnerable. And he understood that this was the first time this proud, independent hero had done something omega-like. It was a purely omega posture. Instinctive, defenseless. And in that same instant, the scent of bitter herbs that always clung to Phainon suddenly became sharper to Mydei, more insistent, as if his senses had heightened to their limit.

An overwhelming wave of primal instinct crashed over him. The desire to move, to go to him, to kneel beside him and just hug this omega, to press him to his chest, was almost physical. To shelter him from the entire world that had dared, even long ago, to cause him pain. To protect. To comfort.

He knew that in another second, he would do something irreparably foolish.

He shot to his feet. The movement was abrupt, almost convulsive.

"I'll... take the first watch," he threw out, his voice surprisingly hoarse.

Phainon flinched, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up in surprise at his suddenly standing partner, seemingly oblivious to the storm raging inside him.

"Oh... alright," was all he said, not even bothering to argue this time.

He settled down on his cloak, curling into a ball, and almost instantly, his breathing became even and deep.

Mydei stood at the entrance of the cave, his back to the sleeping Phainon, and stared at the graying sky ahead. His heart was still hammering against his ribs like a war hammer. He had just won a short but fierce battle with himself. And, gods be damned, he wasn't sure he could win the next one.