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Chapter Text

There is talk, as there always is, within the drawing rooms and parlors of Amphoreus.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos has returned.

Fresh from the battlefield and crowned in victory, the duke has brought with him news that the empire’s enemies have been soundly defeated. The war, it seems, is over. And in celebration of this long-awaited triumph, Her Imperial Majesty—Empress Cerydra—has decreed a week of celebration, set to begin at the dawn of next month. And at the heart of it all: a grand ball stretching across three nights, with the final evening dedicated entirely to the duke and his loyal knights.

The capital is positively alive with excitement. Commoners cheer in the streets, and nobles raise their glasses, toasting the name of the man who has brought them peace—and, of course, the excuse to dress in their finest.

Which brings everyone, quite naturally, to The Garmentmaker—the most exclusive tailor in all the empire. Known for its impeccable designs and unreachable waitlists, it is the place where only the most elite come to prepare for such splendid affairs. The shop is run by none other than your closest friend, the clever and stylish Countess Aglaea.

And while you are merely the daughter of a baron, Aglaea insists you are far above such titles. In her eyes, you are the elite. And so, with needle, thread, and unwavering warmth, she has sworn that no other noble lady, herself included, shall shine brighter than you at the ball.

You think it absurd—Aglaea’s insistence on dressing you like royalty—especially when she could be amassing much more fortune by focusing her attention on far more influential clients. And yet, here she is, adjusting the fall of velvet over your shoulders with a sigh that suggests the fate of the empire rests upon your hemline.

“My dear,” she begins, voice honeyed with fond exasperation as she takes your measurements, “you may only be the daughter of a baron, but you are a noble all the same. You are an important figure.”

Then she pauses, lips curled into a secretive smile. “And perhaps,” she says lightly, “this festival may offer the famed matchmaker of Amphoreus a chance to meet her own match.”

The matchmaker of Amphoreus. Right.

A title given with reverence by the court. You and Aglaea have long been known as the blessed daughters of Mnestia, the Titan of Romance. Aglaea, radiant and sophisticated, was said to have inherited Their beauty. With it, she crafted garments so exquisite they seemed kissed by gold itself, earning her the moniker Lady Goldweaver.

You, on the other hand, were marked by Mnestia’s love. There was something in your words and your intuition that seemed to nudge hearts closer. You turned chance encounters into lifelong partnerships, your reputation swelling with every successful courtship. Thus, they began to call you Lady Heartstring—a name whispered fondly behind fans and across ballroom floors, as if you alone held the threads of love in your hands.

And yet, for all the pairings you’ve orchestrated… your own heart remains untouched.

You let out a soft huff. “Instead of me, how about we talk about your romantic pursuits, hm? You and Lord Anaxagoras have quite the chemistry.”

Aglaea doesn’t even glance up as she scribbles something onto her notepad, her tone dry. “If by chemistry you mean our mutual disdain, then yes—we do have quite the chemistry.”

You stifle a giggle. “Your heart may be immune to my touch, but I daresay even Mnestia would raise a brow at the tension between you two.”

“My heart,” she says, matter-of-factly, “is quite content without meddling fingers trying to pair it off with a man who once insulted my embroidery technique.”

“Unforgivable,” you declare dramatically, placing a hand over your chest as though wounded on her behalf.

“Precisely.”

You sigh with no small flourish, your voice dipping into mock melancholy. “How tragic. As your dearest friend, I only wish to see you happy and madly in love. And yet, you insist on shooing me away every time I attempt to intervene.”

“Because you are relentless,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And because I am happy. My days are full, my dresses are perfect, and I sleep peacefully knowing I am not being plagued by any man’s poetic nonsense.”

You give her a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps. But even you must admit that somewhere deep in that heart of yours lies a wish for someone who sees you—not just Lady Goldweaver of Amphoreus, but Aglaea, as she is.”

For a moment, she pauses. Her pencil hovers in the air, and something unreadable flickers in her eyes. But then, with the skill of someone well-practiced in deflection, she turns the inquiry right back at you.

“And what of you, Lady Heartstring?” she asks. “You long for love just as much as anyone else, though you pretend not to.”

You smile softly, gaze lowering. “Indeed. It is the great irony of my life, is it not? That the blessing given to me by Mnestia—to see the threads of others—should fail to reveal my own.”

“Perhaps your thread is waiting to be pulled.”

You give a wistful laugh. “Or perhaps it’s been tied in a knot so stubborn, even the gods can’t undo it.”

She looks at you then—truly looked—and for a breath, the room falls quiet beneath the weight of unspoken longing. Then, just as swiftly, the moment passes. Aglaea flicks her pencil against the page with a smile.

“Well, we’d best dress you beautifully then, in case your knot begins to loosen at the ball.”

You grin. “Make it red. So if my fate appears, they won’t miss me.”

Marquis Phainon is worried for his best friend.

Though the Duke of Castrum Kremnos has returned from war unscathed—body intact, reputation elevated—Phainon is far more concerned about the man’s heart… or rather, the complete absence of anyone occupying it.

At present, he is pacing the study of Mydeimos’ estate, tucked deep within the northern reaches of Amphoreus. One might assume the dukedom mirrors its master—cold, brooding, perhaps a little bleak—but in truth, it is far from it. The lands are lush with wheat fields that sway like golden tides beneath the sun. Greenery clings to the foothills of towering mountains, and the sky stretches wide and blue, just as it does in the capital.

The only thing that leaves something to be desired is the garden, which appears to be designed more for tactical ambushes than floral admiration—but then again, Phainon reminds himself, this is a territory devoted to the Titan of Strife. Aestheticness is, perhaps, not a priority.

What is a priority, however, is dragging the Duke of Castrum Kremnos to the ball being held in his honor.

“The Empress herself is hosting a ball in your name,” Phainon says, arms crossed as he leans against a heavy bookshelf. “And you’re planning not to attend? You might as well have stayed on the battlefield—that’s practically blasphemy.”

Mydeimos, seated in his armchair,  lets out a grunt—low and noncommital. In the language of Castrum Kremnos, it roughly translates to I don’t want to, and I hope you stop talking.

Naturally, Phainon does not stop talking.

“In fact,” he continues, brightening as though struck by divine inspiration, “perhaps what you need is proper incentive. Someone to make the ball worth attending.”

Mydeimos raises a brow, and Phainon recognizes it for what it is: the most enthusiasm the man is capable of showing when not actively at war.

“I could introduce you to someone,” Phainon offers lightly, circling the room now with purposeful intent. “Not just anyone, mind you. Someone exceptional. Beautiful, of course—but more importantly, intelligent. Skilled in the matters of the heart.”

The duke doesn’t speak, but his silence is the sort that asks, Who?

Phainon grins.

“Lady Heartstring.”

That earns him an actual sound—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “That court woman who arranges marriages like playing cards?”

“She is nothing like that,” Phainon says, offended on your behalf. “She is discerning. Elegant. And, I dare say, quite impossible to fool. If there is anyone in Amphoreus who could help you—both on the dance floor and in the pursuit of something more permanent—it would be her.”

Mydeimos closes his eyes like a man praying for strength. “I am not in pursuit of anything permanent,” he mutters.

Phainon waves a hand. “Of course you aren’t. That’s exactly why you need her.”

He pauses, then leans in, lowering his voice with a glint in his eyes. “And if nothing else, you’ll be able to tell the Empress you were personally escorted into society by the finest matchmaker Amphoreus has ever seen. That should keep her satisfied.”

At that, Mydeimos opens one eye, stares at him, and sighs.

Phainon grins wider. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s not,” Mydeimos says flatly, brows furrowed in that trademark expression of his. “I have no time for such… things. I went to war for Amphoreus, not for attention or entertainment.”

Phainon pouts. “Is ‘having fun’ not in the Kremnoan dictionary, too?”

That earns him a scathing glare, sharp enough to make a lesser man shrivel. But Phainon, being well-acquainted with such looks, only grins wider.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, strolling toward the window with the casual arrogance of a man who knows he’s right, “this place could use a delicate touch. Your roses are withering. The garden looks like it’s preparing for another war. Even your people would be delighted at the sight of a paramour gracing these halls.”

Mydeimos doesn’t even blink. “Why are you so invested in my romantic life? Shouldn’t you worry about your own?”

Phainon laughs, rich and unbothered. “Oh, I’m not worried about mine at all. I can go out whenever and wherever I wish. The capital adores me. But you—you don’t even leave your estate unless summoned by duty or bloodshed. If someone is in love with you, they’ll have to scale these cliffs and write sonnets on your gates just to get your attention.”

Mydeimos doesn’t respond immediately. He just looks at Phainon with the tired sort of exasperation only a best friend could summon.

“Perhaps,” Phainon continues, more seriously now, “you should stay in the capital. At least until the festival ends. I wouldn’t mind housing you. Mother is still in the south, and the manor is far too quiet with just me and the staff.”

Mydeimos raises an eyebrow. “And what would I do in the capital? Be paraded around like a prized stallion? Act friendly toward my so-called romantic prospects?”

“Exactly!” Phainon claps his hands, delighted. “You’re getting me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are! And besides, it’s not parading. It’s mingling. Courting. Possibly dancing.”

“Titans, no.”

Phainon grins. “Just imagine it—you, the gruff and brooding war hero, waltzing with a lady—or a lord— under the chandeliers while the court looks on in awe. A tale for the bards!”

Mydeimos looks as if he’d rather return to the battlefield.

Phainon claps him on the shoulder. “It’s settled, then. I’ll have the staff prepare your room.”

Mydeimos doesn’t respond, only sighs. At least he didn’t say no.

You never imagined you’d be having tea with the Marquis of Aedes Elysiae—and yet, here you are, seated across from him, teacup in hand.

There had been no letter. No advance notice. So yes, you were surprised—and mildly panicked—when he arrived without warning at your estate this morning, dressed impeccably and smiling as though he were dropping by a friend’s home rather than a baron’s daughter he barely knew.

Marquis Phainon is, after all, a regular topic of court gossip. There is hardly a tea party where his name is not mentioned, usually alongside words like charming, eligible, or unfairly handsome. He is easily one of the most sought-after bachelors in all of Amphoreus. A friend of Aglaea’s, yes—and while you’ve exchanged pleasantries in passing, you wouldn’t go so far as to call him your own.

Still, here he is—sitting in your family’s garden and drinking tea.

You watch him over the rim of your cup as he surveys the flowerbeds with animated curiosity. He reminds you faintly of a dog—bright-eyed, endlessly energetic, and unbothered by unfamiliar places. Aglaea once told you as much. He’s like a well-trained retriever, she said, Loyal and far too friendly for his own good.

“You have a wonderful garden, Lady [Name],” he says, grinning as he finally stops scanning the roses. “Your roses, in particular, are a sight to see. You’ve managed to grow multiple colors of them! You only see that kind of variation in the Marmoreal Palace.”

You laugh softly at his delight. Like a dog, indeed.

“Thank you, Lord Phainon. It is with Her Imperial Majesty’s generosity that it was made possible. I once admired them during a visit to her gardens, and she gifted me the seeds not long after.”

Phainon’s grin softens into something more sincere. “Please—just Phainon. A friend of Aglaea is a friend of mine.”

“Of course, Phainon,” you say, offering a small smile. “Then you may call me by just my name as well.”

He inclines his head in agreement, then gestures toward the blooms again. “Did you grow them yourself?”

You nod. “Yes. Though not without the help of our gardener, naturally. But I do enjoy gardening—it’s one of my many hobbies, alongside matchmaking.”

At that, Phainon hums, his gloved finger tracing the rim of his teacup in idle circles. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—purpose, perhaps—and then he sets the cup down with a gentle clink.

“That,” he says, “is precisely why I’ve come here unannounced.”

You tilt your head at his words, brow arched in mild amusement. “To talk about gardening?”

Phainon laughs—warm, rich, and entirely unoffended. “Beautiful, intelligent, and funny—you certainly possess all the qualities a man would deeply appreciate.” He lifts his teacup towards his lips, before continuing, “But no, I’m here for your matchmaking services.”

You blink, caught genuinely off guard.

Of all the reasons the Marquis of Aedes Elysiae might show up unannounced on your estate, this had not crossed your mind.

“You’re seeking help with courtship?” you ask, gently.

He laughs again—this time with a hand pressed over his chest, as if the very idea tickles him. “Oh no, no. You misunderstand, my lady. I’m not here for myself.”

You lean back slightly, still trying to make sense of it. “Then…?”

“I come on behalf of a dear friend,” he explains. “Someone who I believe could greatly benefit from a little guidance. He’s attending the upcoming ball, and I would like to see him matched with someone who might help… thaw out his heart, so to speak.”

You smile, intrigued now. “Ah. So it’s a rescue mission.”

“You could say that,” he replies, grin widening. “He’s terribly stubborn, entirely uninterested in court gossip, and woefully inexperienced in the language of love. But he is noble, loyal, and deserving of happiness—even if he refuses to admit it.”

“May I know who this friend of yours is?”

Phainon sits up straighter, as though proud of what he’s about to reveal. “Oh! It’s Duke Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos.”

You nearly spill your tea.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos? The infamous war hero? The brooding recluse who is spoken of in court with a mixture of reverence and mild fear?

“I see,” you manage, carefully setting down your cup. “That is… quite the assignment.”

“Indeed,” Phainon says, entirely unfazed. “Which is why I’ve come to the best.”

You look at him, still not fully convinced he isn’t joking. But there’s no jest in his gaze—only hope, and a hint of mischief.

“You wish for me to find the Duke of Castrum Kremnos a… romantic partner,” you say slowly.

He beams. “Or at the very least, introduce him to the possibility that love is not the enemy.”

You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips past your lips. “And you believe I am the one to do that?”

“I know you are,” Phainon replies, confident on your behalf. “After all, who else aside from Aglaea has the blessing of Mnestia pulsing in their very soul?”

“You sure have a way with words.” You shake your head, smiling with restrained amusement. “Now I understand why there are so many noble ladies at your feet.”

An awkward laugh slips from Phainon’s lips, and for once, his confidence falters—just slightly. “I didn’t mean to sound as though I was simply flattering you.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, chuckling. “I’m not offended. Flattery, when well-delivered, is always appreciated.”

He relaxes at that, and you tilt your head, growing more serious. “So then… how will I be meeting His Grace?”

At once, he perks up. “Mydei will be staying in the capital for the duration of the festival. He’s agreed—albeit begrudgingly—to reside at my manor while he’s here.”

You raise your hand, stopping him before he gets too far ahead.

“I couldn’t possibly meet him at your home, Phainon. Even if I am well-regarded within the court, it would still risk my reputation. A lady calling at a gentleman’s residence—unaccompanied. You do understand the implications.”

Phainon immediately sobers. “Of course. Forgive me. That was thoughtless of me. I was only eager. The idea of my dear friend finally experiencing courtship… well, it made me forget myself.”

You soften at his sincerity and offer a warm smile. “I understand. Your intentions are kind, and your enthusiasm is admirable.”

He nods, watching you with quiet attention as you tap a thoughtful finger against the porcelain of your teacup.

“Perhaps,” you say slowly, “we could arrange our meetings somewhere more discreet. The Garmentmaker, for instance. Aglaea and I are already close, and her shop has that lovely little parlor tucked behind the fitting rooms. It would allow for some measure of privacy without raising suspicion.”

Phainon’s eyes brighten again, now with genuine relief. “Brilliant. Aglaea would make a marvelous co-conspirator. I imagine she’ll be delighted to assist.”

“She’ll protest, of course,” you say, tone dry. “But only once, for formality’s sake.”

The two of you share a laugh.

“I’ll speak with her,” you continue, smoothing the fabric of your skirts. “And once the space is ready… we’ll begin.”

Phainon grins, the mischief returning. “He has no idea what he’s walking into.”

“No,” you say, sipping your tea with a knowing smile. “But I do hope he comes out of it better than he went in.”

That draws another laugh from Phainon—louder this time, full of boyish amusement. “Indeed. Hopefully, your efforts will not be in vain.”

You smile in response, ever poised. But inwardly, something in you wavers.

The Duke of Castrum Kremnos. A man of war, not words. A figure steeped in discipline, silence, and the sort of solitude few choose and even fewer understand.

You’ve helped stubborn nobles find their sweethearts, healed the wounds of shattered courtships, and even convinced a viscount to marry for love rather than land—but this?

This feels different. This feels like walking into a storm with no umbrella, only purpose.

Still, you lift your cup again with grace, masking your hesitation behind porcelain and poise.

How ambitious.

Mydei does not like the capital.

From the moment he arrived in Okhema two days ago, he could feel eyes on him. Whispers chased his footsteps through the plaza and lingered at the edges of shopfronts. Though hushed, they weren’t quiet enough.

“Who is he?”

“Is he a noble?”

“How handsome!”

“Could he be a prince from another country?”

“His clothes are a bit outdated, are they not?”

It had taken every shred of discipline honed on the battlefield not to turn on his heel and ride back to Castrum Kremnos immediately.

The capital also demands too much of a person. Every expression must be curated, every gesture deliberate. And the clothing—layered, tight, gilded with excess—makes him feel more like a mannequin than a man. In Kremnos, he could walk freely in his open robes, adorned in ceremonial armor and loose fabrics, and no one would question him. There, he is a duke and a warrior. Here, he is little more than a curiosity dressed in yesterday’s fashion.

And yet here he is in Okhema, enduring the chatter and the fabric and the expectation.

All because of Phainon.

He had left the duchy in the hands of Krateros, his old teacher and most trusted advisor, while he wasted his time trying to appear civil and compliant in the capital.

Now, he waits inside a finely perfumed parlor, being fussed over by the famous Countess Aglaea as she murmurs critiques about his current ensemble.

“Outdated,” she says again, as if he hasn’t heard it three times already. “Entirely too militant. You’ll frighten the nobles before you even greet them.”

He’s not sure whether she means to insult him or simply state facts. Either way, he endures it with his usual stoic silence.

Phainon had said this place was the most sought-after tailor shop in all of Okhema. That only the most elite of nobles could even step inside without an appointment. And now, the marquis’s grand plan is in motion: Mydei, standing atop a small raised platform, awaiting the arrival of a woman he has never met—Lady Heartstring.

The name is already enough to make him wary.

According to Phainon, she is capable, intuitive, beloved, and adept at matters of the heart. Mydei doesn’t know what he’s meant to do with a woman like that—other than waste both of their time.

Still, he remains.

Because Phainon wouldn’t stop talking. Because Krateros encouraged him to go. Because, despite everything, something—some foolish, fleeting part of him—is curious.

So he waits, being measured in silence by Lady Goldweaver, in a parlor laced with soft music and lavender, dressed like a man forced into a cage of silk, and wonders what this Lady Heartstring is like—this woman who dares to meddle with hearts not her own.

Then the door to the parlor opens, and Mydei’s eyes instinctively follow the motion.

You step into the room with a kind of grace that cannot be taught—measured, effortless, not a single thread out of place. Your gown is modest in cut but striking in color, tailored to accentuate without demanding attention.

Poised, certainly. Composed and beautiful in the way all noblewomen of Okhema are: refined like porcelain and framed in light.

And yet, there’s something behind your eyes that makes him pause.

Not softness. Something keener. A clarity that reads the room without a word. You do not immediately speak, nor rush to fill the room with polite chatter. You simply assess him with the same calm efficiency he’s used to seeing on the battlefield.

It unsettles him.

And Mydei is never unsettled. Not even on a battlefield.

“[Name],” Countess Aglaea says, turning toward you as you close the door behind you with careful gentleness. The frown that had long been etched into her face while critiquing his outdated attire is now gone, replaced with something far softer. There’s no smile, but her eyes carry warmth. “You’ve arrived. May I present His Grace, Duke Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos.”

You curtsy, elegant as expected, a smile blooming across your face like spring unfurling as you near them. “It’s good to finally meet you, Your Grace. I hope Okhema has been kind to you so far.”

So this is the infamous Lady Heartstring—the woman Phainon swears can untangle hearts with the ease of slipping ribbon through a needle’s eye.

“Kind is a strong word,” Mydei says flatly. “But at the very least, no one’s tried to kill me yet. So I suppose that counts as hospitality.”

Your smile remains, unfazed.

“The capital is a different kind of battlefield,” you say lightly. “In war, enemies reveal themselves by the sword. In court, they do so with a compliment and a smile. I imagine you’ll find Okhema more treacherous in that regard.”

Mydei blinks.

He hadn’t expected you to meet his sarcasm so easily—let alone turn it on its head with such poise. No fluttering lashes, no nervous laughter. Just calm, composed insight. The kind that cuts cleaner than a blade.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but he’s impressed.

“Where’s the marquis?” you ask, letting the subject slip away with practiced ease. “I assumed he’d be here. He seemed very invested in our meeting.”

Mydei exhales through his nose—an attempt at a sigh, perhaps, though it comes out more like a scoff.

“Phainon had other things to do today,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like it’s of more interest than the conversation. “But he told me to extend his regards.”

You hum. “I see. Well, I appreciate the message nonetheless.”

Countess Aglaea, who has been quiet—no doubt trying not to interrupt the first impression—speaks up with brisk efficiency. “I’ll leave you two for a while. Help yourselves to the refreshments while I tend to the main room. If you need anything, simply ring the bell.”

You incline your head. “Thank you, Aglaea.”

With that, she exits quietly, leaving behind the soft click of the door and a silence that settles between you like a held breath.

Now, it’s just the two of you.

Mydei doesn’t move, still standing stiffly on the small platform where he’d been measured. His arms remain loosely folded behind his back, shoulders straight, posture perfect. A soldier at rest, but never off guard.

“Please, take a seat, Your Grace,” you say, gesturing gracefully to the empty chair across from you. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you note how stiffly he holds himself.

“Mydeimos is fine,” he mutters as he lowers himself into the chair. You sit across from him.

“Very well. Lord Mydeimos, then.”

He grunts.

Okhema and their damned formalities.

“Would you like sugar with your tea?” you ask, already reaching for the porcelain set on the table. “I believe Aglaea left us a brew of white tea.”

“Sure. Two cubes is fine.”

You nod, wordless, and begin preparing his cup.

One hand steadies the teapot while the other drops in the sugar with a quiet plink, plink. A quick stir with a silver spoon, and you slide it across to him with the ease of someone long practiced in hospitality.

He accepts it with a nod of thanks, lifting the delicate cup but not drinking yet. The silence stretches between you tautly, accompanied only by the soft clink of spoon on porcelain and the faint strains of music echoing from the shop’s main room.

Still, he sits rigid as ever. He takes a sip. Maybe the tea will help him relax.

And then—

“Are you certain you’re comfortable with me meddling in your romantic affairs?” you ask. “I understand this wasn’t your idea, and I don’t intend to press if you’d rather not proceed. It would be inconsiderate of me to continue just because Lord Phainon requested it.”

Mydei looks up.

Your tone is soft, and your gaze is kind. You remind him, in a fleeting way, of his mother.

He exhales.

“It’s an inconvenience,” he admits. “But I’d like to see it through.”

You raise a brow, curious.

“I’m not fond of wasting time,” he adds, setting his cup down. “But I am curious. I want to see how this goes. A warrior doesn’t back down from a fight.”

“A warrior doesn’t back down from a fight,” you echo softly, a smile blossoming on your lips. “Then consider this a different kind of battle.”

He gives you a look, cautious and skeptical.

“Then,” you say at last, setting your cup down and folding your hands neatly on your lap, “let’s begin with something simple: what kind of partner do you prefer?”

“I don’t have one.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“I don’t have a preference,” he replies, tone flat but not unkind. “I don’t think about that sort of thing.”

You hum, tilting your head ever so slightly, as though he’s a riddle you’ve just been challenged to solve. “You mean to say you’ve lived this long without ever once considering what you might want in a partner?”

“I’ve been at war since I was nine,” he says, not as an excuse but as a plain fact. “I was taught to use a sword before I was taught to dance. The battlefield doesn’t leave much room for thoughts of courtship.”

“How tragic,” you say, your voice light, but the sentiment underneath is sincere. “All this time and not even one moment spared for romance? Not even a fleeting interest?”

“I’ve had proposals,” he concedes, lifting his cup once more. “Mostly from ambitious houses looking for an alliance. I turned them all down.”

Your brow arches. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to marry someone I don’t know. Or worse—someone who only sees the title.”

A soft sound of amusement escapes you as you rest your cheek on your hand. “So you do have standards, then. That sounds suspiciously like a preference to me.”

The cup stills mid-air. He eyes you from behind the rim, the faintest flicker of thought moving across his expression. He doesn’t argue. Instead, he exhales. The sound is closer to a sigh than a laugh.

“…Perhaps.”

“That’s a start,” you murmur. “But no preferences is still a preference—it tells me what not to expect.”

“And what exactly do you expect?” he asks, brow raised.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you lean back slightly, tilting your head again—just like when you first entered the room and measured him up with your gaze.

“I expect you to be difficult,” you reply with a certainty that nearly makes him smile.

His mouth twitches at the corner, but you catch it. As if you’ve struck a nerve he didn’t expect to find, and what’s even more surprising is: it’s not entirely unpleasant.

“Difficult,” he echoes, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You say it like it’s a challenge.”

“Only because it is.”

You reach for the teapot again, refilling both cups with practiced grace. The scent of warm white tea and softened sugar wafts through the air between you. Outside the window, the city bells of Okhema toll the hour—late afternoon already.

Time in the capital always flows faster when the mind is engaged.

“Usually,” you say, as you set the pot down, “people come to me because they want help. They’re eager, open—even desperate, sometimes. But Lord Mydeimos is… different.”

He arches an eyebrow at your words.

“You’re only here because Lord Phainon asked it of you,” you add, lifting your teacup to your lips.

“And yet it was my own decision to stay,” he replies evenly, “to see where this would lead me.”

That makes you smile. “Indeed. You’re quite easy to persuade, aren’t you? You say no at first, but come around on the second attempt.”

He squints at you. “How would you know that?”

“You remind me of Aglaea. She’s the same—proud at first, but always gives in when she sees something that might be worth her time.”

Mydei scoffs, half amused. “Then I suppose you and Phainon are one and the same. Persuasive.”

“In that regard,” you concede with a small shrug, “yes, I suppose we are.”

A short beat of quiet passes between you before he says, “Then tell me, Lady Heartstring… How does one persuade a man who doesn’t know what he wants?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “You start by giving him choices.”

Mydei shifts in his seat. His spine straightens, shoulders drawing slightly back, as if bracing for something unseen. There’s a stillness to him now, like a warrior pausing on the edge of a battlefield—not to strike, but to study.

It’s the posture of someone trained to read the terrain before the clash, who knows that knowledge, too, is a kind of weapon.

“Alright,” he says. “Then give me one.”

You tilt your head. “One…?”

“Choice,” he clarifies. “Let’s say I was looking for someone. What would you suggest?”

Your fingers pause just briefly around the handle of your teacup, his question settling in the air like a challenge.

“Your options depend on what it is you value,” you start, “but since you have no clear idea of what it is yet, then the best way forward is to broaden your exposure. Meet more nobles. Attend more gatherings.”

Mydei raises a brow. “You’re suggesting I mingle with the nobles.”

You nod, clearly pleased he caught on. “Precisely. The more people you meet, the better you’ll understand what does and doesn't resonate with you. Experience creates clarity.”

Then, a smile begins to blossom on your face. “In fact, what say you attend a gathering hosted by yours truly? My family holds small soirees from time to time. Nothing too grand—just a little evening of music, good food, and conversation. People often attend to meet new acquaintances, and occasionally, a potential match. Perhaps you may find someone who may pique your interest.”

Mydei hesitates.

He doesn’t like gatherings—especially in Okhema.

The nobles here are… different. Too demanding. Too sensitive. Too loud in their silences and too subtle in their cruelty. They’re sharp and flashy—always watching, always speaking in half-truths. In Kremnos, gatherings are relaxed, often around a fire or a shared meal after a long day’s work. No posturing, no performance. It’s a celebration—people drink, sing, and dance. No one would care about what you wear or who you’re seen with.

But here in the capital, it’s all masks and maneuvering. One wrong word—one misplaced glance—and the hounds of gossip begin to circle. The next thing you know, your name is already on someone’s tongue, twisted into a tale you never gave them permission to tell.

Not that Mydei personally cares for what they say about him, but Krateros does. Phainon, too. And truth be told, it is exhausting.

You must sense his reluctance because you speak again. “Of course, there’s no pressure. You’re not obligated to accept.”

He frowns, thoughtful, then exhales through his nose. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Your eyes light up in surprise. “Truly?”

He gives a gruff nod. “Truly.”

You clasp your hands in delight. “That’s wonderful to hear! I’ll have invitations sent to both you and Lord Phainon. I imagine he’ll enjoy the excuse to escape his duties for a night.”

“Good,” Mydei says. “He’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. He might as well suffer with me.”

“I think he’d find the suffering enjoyable,” you tease lightly. “Especially if it means getting to meddle.”

Mydei lets out an undignified snort.

“I’ll help you ease into it,” you offer kindly. “I can introduce you to a few people. Maybe you’ll even find it hard to say no once the wine is poured and the music starts.”

“I already said yes,” he says. “No need to market it like a festival.”

“I only meant to be thorough,” you respond. “Besides, I’d like for you to enjoy yourself. Even if you don't meet someone of interest, at least you’ll leave with something to say you tried.”

“I doubt I’ll enjoy myself,” Mydei mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

Your smile softens and you nod, as if you knew he’d say just that. “If you find that you’ve had enough, you may excuse yourself early. While I would like to help you find a match, your comfort matters more.”

He doesn’t answer.

The tea between you has gone lukewarm, and the city beyond the windows is dipped in late afternoon gold. Whatever resistance remains in Mydei’s shoulders eases just slightly, just enough to count.

And you, gracious as ever, pour him one last cup.

Chapter Text

To His Grace, The Duke of Castrum Kremnos and To The Most Honorable, The Marquis of Aedes Elysiae

My Lords,

To celebrate the advent of the Month of Joy, I am requesting the honor of your company at a gathering to be held at Erotas estate on the evening of the tenth of this month.

It is a time when the heaviest toils behind us, and the air is alive with the murmurs of festivity; when even the most industrious may wake at leisure, and smile at the prospect of yet another day’s merriment.

Pray grant me the pleasure of seeing both Your Grace and Your Lordship among the company on that evening, that we might raise a glass to the season.

With the highest respect and anticipation,

Miss [Name]

Mydei adjusts his cravat for the third time as Phainon’s carriage rolls up the cobblestone drive of your family’s estate.

Phainon swats his hand away. “Stop fidgeting,” he chides. “You look perfectly presentable. Aglaea’s work is flawless.”

“I look like a peacock,” Mydei mutters, though he reluctantly drops his hands. The stiff collar and tailored cut feel foreign against his skin.

Through the carriage window, he catches sight of the estate. It’s smaller than his and Phainon’s sprawling manor, but there’s something about it that feels different. Almost inviting.

It’s exactly the sort of place one would expect the Lady Heartstring to belong to.

The carriage slows to a smooth halt. Phainon gives him a grin that’s infuriatingly encouraging.

“Remember to smile occasionally. Try to make conversation and don’t terrify anyone with your stare.”

Mydei, in return, gives him an unimpressed look. “I make no promises.”

Inside, the change hits him at once. The air smells faintly of roses—fresh, not the cloying perfume some nobles overuse—and the source is obvious. Flowers are everywhere: twined into wreaths on the walls, arranged in vases on narrow tables, and even spilling from porcelain bowls.

They’re mostly roses; in shades of red so deep they look black, pale ones with petals the color of cream, and soft blush tones that make him think of spring.

It’s not at all like his home in Kremnos, where everything is stone and dark wood. His halls are quiet, sometimes oppressively so. The kind of silence that settles like dust and lingers for months.

Here, there’s warmth in the way the space is used. Chairs are pulled close enough for conversation instead of standing stiff against the walls. Paintings hang without worrying about symmetry; chosen because they mean something, not because they complete a perfect set.

It’s smaller than both his and Phainon’s, but it feels lived in. Well-loved.

He remembers Phainon’s remark a while ago—that his own manor could use “a delicate touch”. At the time, Mydei dismissed it as just an empty comment. Now he wonders if this was what he had meant.

Speaking of the marquis, he is already making himself at home, striding into the main hall with the easy confidence of a man who has never once been unwelcome anywhere.

Mydei follows at a slower pace, taking in more than he intends to. Still, his gaze keeps drifting back to the flowers.

The sound of conversation and music drifts from the next room. Mydei steps into the archway behind Phainon and lets his eyes adjust to the warm light.

The salon is modest in size compared to the cavernous reception room he’s accustomed to—the kind where the wind itself seems to echo. The Marmoreal Palace, in particular, comes to mind: vast as a parade ground, marble floors so polished they threaten to throw back your reflection, and ceilings painted with scenes no one looks at for long. He’s been summoned there more times than he’d like—always alone, always at the Empress’s request.

Here, the crowd fills the room comfortably. Not shoulder to shoulder; there’s enough room to breathe and for dancing, but close enough for voices to blend in the air.

Then he sees you.

You’re standing among a small group of guests near the center of the room, speaking to a woman in emerald and a man whose mustache looks like it’s been meticulously groomed into existence each morning. Your posture is easy, neither stiff nor overly familiar, as though you’ve spent your life balancing the two.

It’s only when you turn your head that the rest of the room blurs a little.

Your eyes find his first, even before Phainon’s, though perhaps that’s only because he’s too busy greeting an older gentleman on the way in. You don’t falter in your sentence, but the corner of your mouth lifts almost imperceptibly.

You excuse yourself from the group gracefully and cross the short distance to where he stands with Phainon. The music fills the pause before you speak.

“Lord Mydeimos. Phainon.” You incline your head to both of them, and though your smile is even, Mydei can’t quite decide if it’s warmer when it turns in his direction.

“[Name],” Phainon says brightly, bowing enough just to be proper. “A pleasure, as always. I must say, I’m relieved to finally see the inside of your family’s estate. My last visit was regrettably confined to the garden.”

“That’s your own fault,” you say lightly. “Had you not been in such a rush, you would have seen more of it then.”

Phainon laughs as if you’ve made a clever joke at his expense—which, Mydei supposes, you have.

“I’ll admit,” Phainon continues, glancing around, “it’s a remarkable home. And your arrangements—roses everywhere. I imagine they don’t look half as fine during winter, yet you’ve managed to make them flourish indoors.”

“My mother insists,” you reply, the fondness in your tone slipping past your more formal demeanor. “She says a house without flowers is a house without breath. And you must know by now that I love flowers.”

Then your gaze turns toward Mydei. It lingers, enough that he notices before you speak, “Lord Mydeimos, you look dashing this evening. The color suits you.”

He resists the urge to tug at his cravat again. “Lady Aglaea’s work,” he says simply.

Your smile softens. “Then she did well. It suits you in more ways than one.”

The words settle in his chest like they’ve found a place to sit. He doesn’t know if you mean the color, the cut, or something else entirely, but the thought keeps looping back as you speak to Phainon.

Mydei tells himself it’s nothing—just a polite remark. You’ve probably said something similar to half a dozen guests tonight. But it was the way you said it—the warmth behind it—that makes it stick.

Phainon is still talking when you turn back to Mydei, but the marquis’s words barely register. Mydei finds himself straightening his posture without meaning to, as if to see whether the coat truly fits him as well as you claimed.

“I’m glad the both of you could come. I’d like to introduce Lord Mydeimos to a few acquaintances of mine—if, of course, that’s alright with you, Phainon.”

Phainon waves a hand in assent. “It’s more than alright with me. I think it would do him good to make a few more allies. Perhaps even meet his future spouse.”

The marquis gives Mydei a sidelong glance, but he keeps his expression flat.

“If you’ll excuse us, then,” you say to Phainon, who bows theatrically in response, smirking.

You lead the way through the throng, moving effortlessly between clusters of conversation. Mydei follows, noting how the crowd seems to accommodate you the way a river makes way for something cutting through its current.

You lead him toward a small circle of women. The moment they see you approaching, their conversation quiets and their gaze shift to the man at your side.

“Ladies,” you begin warmly, “allow me to introduce the Duke of Castrum Kremnos, Lord Mydeimos.”

One of them lets out the softest gasp, and another tilts her head, appraising him like one might appraise a rare jewel suddenly to light.

“The Duke of Kremnos?” the tallest of them breathes, her fan fluttering faintly against her cheeks. “You are reputable as a warrior as you are known for never being seen in court.”

“There are rumors you only ever leave Kremnos when Her Majesty herself summons you,” another one says.

“And it is true,” Mydei says, curt.

The women share a laugh, seemingly entertained by his short reply.

“And yet here you are in Okhema, attending a gathering,” another presses. “What led to your change of heart?”

He glances at you, but your attention is on the group, not on him. “I was invited along the Marquis of Aedes Elysiae,” he replies.

At once, they break into excited chatters at the mention of Phainon.

“Oh, the marquis,” one speaks, tone laced with admiration.

“A charming man,” another adds, fanning herself lightly.

“I saw him at the last party. He was the life of the ballroom!” A third gushes, eyes briefly sparking with memory.

Their chatter lingers on Phainon for a moment longer, and Mydei stands where he is, enduring the chorus of admiration aimed at his friend. He might have already turned on his heel and left them to swoon in peace—if not for the way their conversation inevitably curved back toward him.

“Well, Your Grace,” one says, looking him over with open appraisal, “you may give the marquis competition tonight. That coat suits you perfectly.”

Another chimes in, “Yes, it gives you such presence. You must have dozens of tailors clamoring for your patronage.”

It’s all very polished, very capital—the kind of praise meant to flatter, to curry favor, to be remembered later when debts and alliances are tallied. And Mydei has heard enough of it before to know when it’s hollow.

But for a fraction of a second, he recalls the earlier moment when you’d said much the same thing. And somehow, that sticks far more than their honeyed words ever will.

“It was made by Lady Aglaea,” he says.

“Oh, then no wonder it’s flawless work!”

“Her craft really is unmatched!”

The women all nod, voices overlapping in praise for Lady Goldweaver’s work, the conversation flowing on as though his mind isn’t still caught on the sound of your voice.

You quietly excuse yourself when the noblewomen you’ve introduced Mydeimos to start circling him like hawks. Their smiles are all pearls and politeness, their words laced with just enough intrigue to invite his, though they say seem entirely oblivious—or willfully ignorant—of the fact that the Duke of Castrum Kremnos is as socially adept as a brick wall.

With a small sigh, you drift toward the refreshments table. The air smells faintly of roses and wine, the way it always does during your family’s gathering.

The noblewomen of Okhema are a different breed altogether.

In the capital, conversation is a game and every word is a wager. Compliments are rarely without intention, and invitations often come with invisible strings. They thrive on appearance, rivalries, and alliances.

Carmitis, in contrast, moves at a gentler pace. Your home does not measure worth by one’s ability to manuever court politics. It is the land of Mnestia, the Titan of Romance, where festivals are held in Their name and love is celebrated openly.

You were marked as one of Mnestia’s daughters long before you even learned how the capital worked, and Aglaea, too, had been marked—a sister in name, not by blood—and you’ve always shared the same distaste for the capital’s particular brand of charm.

You pour yourself a glass of cordial, letting the hum of conversation fade into the background.

You take a sip from your glass, gaze drifting instinctively toward the corner of the room where you’d left Mydeimos. The small circle of women has not dispersed; if anything, it’s only grown tighter.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have left him alone. You only did so because you wanted to give him space—an opportunity to connect, to perhaps find one face among them he might want to see again. That was the plan. But another part of you wonders if you’ve just left him in the middle of a crowd that will pick at him until he shuts himself away.

It’s not that the women mean harm, but their kind of attention can be exhausting. And while he is a man used to command, you know Mydeimos is not the kind to enjoy being treated like a trophy.

You set your glass down with a small, decisive sound, already angling yourself back toward him—only to find your path blocked.

“[Name].” Aglaea’s voice lilts like the pluck of a harp string, warm and timed. She and Phainon approach from the other side of refreshments table. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

“I’ve been making sure our guests are comfortable,” you say.”

Phainon accepts a glass of cordial from a servant, swirling it idly. “I think you’ve stationed Mydei quite well. He seems to be the subject of considerable admiration already.”

“Admiration is one thing,” you say, resisting the urge to glance over the duke’s direction again, “but I’d prefer it doesn’t turn into a siege.”

Aglaea’s brows lift in mirth while Phainon lets out a guffaw.

“How curious!” he muses. “I never thought I’d see the day where the Lady Heartstring frets over whether her guest is being too admired.”

“It isn’t fretting,” you deny with a huff, though the faint defensiveness in your tone betrays you. “It’s simply consideration. Lord Mydeimos isn’t used to these kinds of gatherings. I wouldn't want him to feel overwhelmed.”

An amused smile tugs at the marquis’s lips. “Overwhelmed… by a few smiles and questions? From where I stand—” He takes a quick glance towards Mydeimos’s direction, “—the duke hardly looks besieged. Stoic, perhaps, but not overwhelmed.”

“You must empathize, Phainon,” you chide him. “Surely you know what it’s like to be the object of many noblewomen’s affections. If anyone should understand, it is you.”

Phainon clicks his tongue, but you know he doesn’t mean anything by it.

With a smile, you continue, softly, “And besides, you are his closest friend. If nothing else, you should sympathize with him.”

Before the man can volley another remark, the faint plucking of strings and the swell of instruments rise from the musicians in the hall. The melody coaxes the guests from conversation to the open space at the center of the room.

“Well then,” Phainon starts, extending his hand toward Aglaea with a flourish, “will you give me the honor of a dance with you, Lady Goldweaver?”

Aglaea smiles with a shake of her head, brushing his hand away. “Not tonight, my friend. But if you truly must dance, why not ask our dear Lady Heartstring instead? She has far more grace on the floor than I.”

Her eyes flick toward you, playful. Then Phainon turns, his grin irrepressible as his hand swivels smoothly from Aglaea to you.

“Then the honor is mine. Just one dance—unless, of course, you fear I’ll tread on your hem?” His tone takes on a lighthearted tone.

You blink, caught off guard, though Aglaea’s smile leaves you little room to refuse. “Well— I…”

“Come now,” Phainon pouts. “Don’t leave me to the mercy of strangers. Save your friend the humiliation.”

Reluctant, but unwilling to be rude, you let your hand rest in his. He sweeps you toward the center of the hall with such practiced ease that the crowd seems to part for him.

The music swells and suddenly, you’re caught in a current of waltzing couples, his palm steady against your back and his steps certain.

“You don’t need to fret for our dear friend Mydei so much, my lady,” Phainon suddenly says as he turns you beneath his arm, his voice kind despite the teasing edge. “Though he avoids gatherings like the plague, he’s capable enough to survive the attention.”

Your skirts flare as he draws you closer again, steps gliding in perfect rhythm. The light catches in his smile, making it seem warmer and even brighter.

“He’s still a noble after all,” Phainon continues. “And not one so easily done by flowery words. He simply doesn’t care for the nobles of the capital, is all.”

You let out a quiet breath, your steps following his with practiced ease. “Capable, yes, but being capable and being comfortable are not the same thing, Phainon. One can endure a storm and still prefer the calm that follows.”

His grin flickers into something softer, more thoughtful, but his steps never falter. “That is true. However, Mydei has weathered more storms than most. Perhaps you should trust him to manage this one without much interference. For now, you only need to watch how he behaves with the other nobles.”

“Perhaps,” you say, though the word lingers between you with a weight he doesn't miss.

The final notes of the melody swell, and he spins you once more before drawing the dance to a close. Polite applause ripples through the hall as couples bow to one another and begin their retreat from the floor.

Phainon offers his arm with a flourish, escorting you back through the crowd. “You see?” he teases. “Not a single tread upon your hem.”

“You’ve earned my commendation,” you reply dryly, though a smile tugs at your lips.

When you reach Aglaea’s side once more, she greets you with an arch of her brow, clearly entertained by your performance. But your attention slips almost at once to the man standing just beside her.

Mydeimos.

He has not moved to join the dance, nor does he speak as you and Phainon approach. He simply watches, gaze fixed on the two of you as though trying to make sense of something unspoken.

“Mydei! You’re here,” Phainon beams, clasping his hands together as if the sight of the man alone has brightened his whole evening. “How was your conversation with the other ladies? Have you gained any valuable knowledge? Met one from the group that you would like to see again? Please, do tell us!”

Mydeimos’s face falls flat and unimpressed as his gaze slides to the marquis. “None of those things. All they did was ask questions about trivial matters. They were more interested in my assets than in who I am.”

Phainon presses a hand over his heart in exaggerated dismay. “How awful! But this is only the beginning of trying to find a match for our dear friend, am I correct, [Name]?”

Both men’s eyes turn toward you, joined by Aglaea’s expectant glance.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard, but quickly recover with a poised nod. “Of course. There’s still plenty of time for Lord Mydeimos to meet his match before the grand ball.”

Aglaea, ever composed, folds her hands lightly before her. “Speaking of matches, are you not going to dance, Your Grace? The floor is lively tonight, and I daresay there’s no better way to become acquainted with a gathering and its people than through music.”

The duke’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly. “No, thank you. The main reason I left that group earlier was because they were all demanding I choose one of them as my partner.”

Before the silence can settle too heavily, Phainon cuts in, grin as sharp as ever. “Or perhaps the real reason is simply that you’ve never learned how to dance.”

At that, Mydeimos’s eyes narrow, but Phainon only chuckles, raising a glass as if to toast the barb he’s just delivered.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes glinting with mischief over the rim of his glass. “Truly, you’d think a man who can command an entire battalion could at least command his feet for the length of a waltz. Or are you just scared of stepping on someone’s toes?”

“Phainon,” Mydeimos warns, voice low enough to silence a lesser man.

But the marquis only laughs, entirely unfazed. “Come now, don’t glare at me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Half the nobles here only know how to dance because their tutors drilled it into them when they were barely taller than a table. But imagine it: the Duke of Kremnos, undone by a few melodies. Just imagine the headlines!”

Before Mydeimos can retort, Aglaea interjects smoothly, “If that’s the case, then perhaps there’s an easy solution.” Her eyes flick toward you once again, her lips curved with a knowing edge. “Why not have [Name] teach him? Right now. The next melody is beginning.”

As if on cue, the musicians strike up a new tune, the swell of strings filling the hall as couples begin to gather once more on the floor.

Phainon’s grin widens as he sweeps his hands toward the dance floor, dramatic as ever. “There! The titans themselves have provided an opportunity. What better moment for our dear duke to learn?”

All eyes turn to Mydeimos. His jaw tightens as though he’d rather face another war than the suggestion hanging in the air. Then, his gaze flicks to you.

You catch the weight of his stare and, before Phainon can goad him any further, you step in gently. “You don’t have to oblige them if you don’t wish to, Lord Mydeimos. No one will fault you for declining.”

The corner of his mouth tenses as though he means to refuse outright—but then, to your surprise, he exhales a slow, resigned sigh. “No. I’ll do it. It may as well come in handy when the grand ball arrives.”

A beat of silence follows.

Aglaea’s brows lift, though she quickly schools her face back into composure. Phainon, on the other hand, lights up like a boy given his favorite sweet.

“That’s the spirit!” he crows, clapping his friend on the shoulder hard enough for you to wince on the duke’s behalf. “At last, you’ve decided to join us mortals on the dance floor!”

Mydeimos shoots him a glare that could kill a man, but Phainon only beams, clearly delighted.

You can’t quite hide your surprise either. After all, this is the same man who had rejected an invitation to dance mere minutes ago—and yet here he is, agreeing. Reluctantly, perhaps, but still agreeing.

Mydeimos extends a hand toward you, stiff yet steady, and his expression is unreadable save for the faintest flicker of resolve in his eyes.

“Shall we?”

For a heartbeat, you hesitate. Then you place your hand in his. His grip is steady, warm, and far more assured than his expression would suggest.

The two of you step onto the floor, the crowd parting to make room as the music swells again. Mydeimos stands before you with the wariness of a man preparing for battle.

“Just follow my lead, Your Grace,” you whisper, arranging his hand at your waist and guiding the other into yours.

His brow furrows. “I thought I told you Mydeimos is just fine.”

You only smile at that, refusing to answer, and take the first step into the waltz. He follows a beat behind, his movements stiff. His eyes flick downward as though determined not to miss a single placement of his boots.

“It’s alright if you step on me,” you say lightly. “This is your first time, after all.”

“I’d rather not,” he mutters, and there’s something so earnest in the reply that it nearly makes you laugh.

So you guide him—soft pressure at his hand, a gentle pull of your arm, small cues he adapts to quicker than you expect. His shoulders loosen; his posture shifts from a soldier’s rigidity into something almost graceful. It is clumsy in the beginning, but already, he is learning.

“I thought Phainon said you’d never learned how to dance,” you tease.

“I haven’t.” His brow furrows as if the very idea confounds him. “But the steps… they remind me of training exercises. They’re all about footwork and balance.”

You laugh softly. “Then think of me as your sparring partner. Only this time, the battlefield is a dance floor.”

That earns you the faintest quirk of his lips—so brief you might have imagined it. But his grip adjusts, more confident now. And then he surprises you again: he begins to lead. Not flawlessly, but enough that you can feel the shift in the control.

“Well,” you murmur, amusement threading through your words, “I think you’ve just declared victory over your very first waltz, Lord Mydeimos.”

His gaze flicks down to you, expression unreadable. “Not yet,” he says. “But I will.”

His steps align with yours, surer now, until you are gliding together in time with the melody. The two of you circle slowly, your skirts sweeping the floor as Mydeimos finds his rhythm.

At first, there are a few missteps—his boots scuffing too close, a late turn—but each mistake smooths itself out almost immediately, corrected by his uncanny sense of balance.

“See?” you speak, “You’re already better than half the nobles here.”

“That isn't a very high standard.”

His words make you laugh, the sound warm enough to draw the faintest lift to his mouth.

On the edge of the dance floor, Phainon has not stopped watching. His grin widens at every turn you make, his elbow nudging Aglaea as if she, too, should marvel at the sight of the brooding duke being twirled beneath the chandeliers.

“Look at him,” Phainon murmurs with relish. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s enjoying himself.”

Aglaea, arms folded neatly, tilts her head with a sharp little hum. “Or perhaps [Name] is simply a very skilled instructor.”

“Ah, but you don’t see the way his shoulders have eased. That isn't her teaching—it’s him letting go.”

“Careful,” she replies coolly, though the corner of her lips curves upward. “If you sound any more sentimental, people might mistake you for a matchmaker instead.”

On the floor, you sense none of their chatter, only the press of Mydeimos’s hand at your back and the certainty of his steps as the music carries you both. He turns with you, fluid now, and for a fleeting moment, you forget you are the one teaching at all.

“You’re really leading,” you say, almost in wonder.

He meets your eyes. “You told me to follow. I think I’d rather do this.”

The admission catches you off guard. There’s no arrogance in it—only certainty, as though once he decides to commit to something, he cannot do it halfway.

And so you let him. The melody swells, couples around you spinning in perfect arcs of color and light. Yet the world seems to shrink until it is only him, only you, and only the strange and unfamiliar steadiness between your palms.

The final notes of the melody rise and linger, sweet and fading like the aftertase of wine. Couples begin to slow, drawing apart with graceful bows and polite curtsies.

But Mydeimos does not release you at once.

His hand remains firm at your back, his other still clasping yours as if the song might continue if he refuses to yield to silence. For a moment, the two of you simply stand in the middle of the floor, caught between the last reverberation of strings and the beginning of applause.

You tilt your head, voice lowered so only he hears. “The music has stopped, Lord Mydeimos.”

His gaze lingers on you, as though he hasn’t decided whether to let reality intrude. Then, finally, his fingers loosen from yours—slowly, as though he resents the necessity.

He bows stiffly, more soldier than courtier, yet there’s something earnest in the gesture that softens its rough edges. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?” you ask, curtsying in return.

His eyes flick to the crowd gathering back at the edges of the floor, then return to you. “For not making it unbearable.”

The corner of your lips lift. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

From the edge of the dance floor, Phainon begins applauding far louder than is proper, earning a ripple of laughter from the nearest guests. Aglaea merely shakes her head, though you catch the faintest trace of amusement in her expression.

Mydeimos straightens at the sound, but his eyes—when they linger on you—hold that same reluctance, as if, had the song gone on longer, he would not have minded at all.

The guests dwindle one by one, their goodbyes accompanied by praises and the rustle of clothes as they step into the night. Mydei lingers at the edge of the hall, Phainon at his side, while you receive the last of your guests with grace.

Aglaea is the final to take her leave, her hand lingering warmly in yours as she spoke her thanks. She was halfway through some fond remark when Phainon sweeps forward, with Mydei following just behind.

“Aglaea,” he greets, bowing with flourish. “You may have turned down my offer to dance, but you still outshone every chandelier in the room. I trust your journey home will be just as splendid?”

The woman’s brow arches at his words, amused. “Ever the flatterer, Phainon. But yes, I will manage well enough.”

Phainon grins and offers another word or two of parting, while Mydei only inclines his head, his own farewell clipped and simple, “Safe travels, Lady Aglaea.”

Aglaea’s eyes linger on him briefly, knowing, before nodding her head in return politely and turning back to you. “Rest well, my dear. We’ll speak again soon.” And with that, she departs through the great doors, her carriage waiting beyond.

Silence settles in her absence. Phainon, as always, breaks it at once.

“Well,” he speaks, turning to you, “I must extend my gratitude as well, [Name]. This evening has been truly delightful, and you made it all the more memorable by giving me the honor of sharing your first dance. And our dear duke did not perish from boredom—a feat worth celebrating.”

He winks, drawing a small laugh from you. Then, catching sight of a familiar crest painted on the carriage rolling into place just beyond the doors, his expression shifts.

“Ah—our ride awaits.” He gives you a bow, full of charm and dramatics, before clapping Mydei on the shoulder. “Don’t stay brooding too long, old friend.”

With that, he sweeps out into the night, his cloak trailing behind him as he disappears toward the waiting carriage.

And so, only you and Mydei remain.

He stands a pace closer now, the entry hall suddenly quieter than it had been all evening. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate.

“Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. Your gathering was… tolerable.”

The words fall flat, almost graceless. He sees your lips curve faintly, though whether in amusement or patience, he couldn't tell.

He clears his throat. “What I mean is… I didn’t mind it. Not as much as I thought I would.”

For him, it was as close to praise as the battlefield ever allowed.

You watch him with the same patience you’ve worn all evening, and for a moment, Mydei finds himself searching for words where he usually has none. He settles on the simplest.

“When shall we meet again?”

“I am always at Aglaea’s shop,” you say. “If you find the time, you may visit the parlor there.”

He considers it, then gives a short nod. “Two days, then.”

You blink and tilt your head. “Two days?”

“You’ve hosted enough for one evening,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Rest tomorrow. I will come after.”

Something softens in your expression. He does not dwell on it any longer. He inclines his head, then speaks again, “Then I’ll take my leave.”

His hand moves before he can second-guess it. He reaches for yours, and when your fingers settle on his palm, he bends without hesitation. The brush of his lips against the back of your hand is brief, but it lingers between you all the same.

He hears you draw in a breath, caught off guard, but when your voice comes, it is warm and it is touched with flattered grace. “Goodnight, Lord Mydeimos. Until then.”

“Until then,” he echoes.

He releases you, though not without reluctance, and steps back. His carriage waits for him—the same one Phainon had claimed a moment ago. Mydei inclines his head in farewell one last time, before turning and striding across the threshold.

He doesn’t look back, but his hand tightens once at his side, fingers flexing as though testing the memory of your touch.

When he climbs into the carriage, Phainon is waiting—already sprawled comfortably. His face lights up with a grin at the sight of his friend.

“Well?” he asks at once. “What did you talk about after I left?”

Mydei says nothing. He settles into his seat, gaze fixed on the window as the carriage lurches forward. The estate begins to recede into the night.

Phainon waits, but no answer comes. He huffs at the lack of reply, but decides not to press any further.

Mydei leans his chin into his hand, elbow propped against the carriage frame. It is the same hand that had held yours, the same hand that had lifted to press against your skin.

His thumb shifts subtly, brushing against his lower lip.