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Chapter Text

Grey dust - the dust of the lands bordering the Black Tide - covered his boots and settled on the hem of his cloak. Mydei crossed the threshold of his quarters, and the sound of the heavy door closing behind him cut off the noise of the outside world. Three days on a solo mission. Three days filled with the scrape of claws on stone and the taste of metal in his mouth.

He froze for a moment in the middle of the room. Here, under the steady light of the Dawn Device, the dust on his armor seemed particularly alien, dead. It was a visible imprint of the darkness he had brought with him into this sanctuary. And it needed to be purged. But now, in the safety of Okhema's eternal day, it didn't feel so urgent. Here, he could allow himself a moment to... regroup.

His report to Aglaea had been brief and to the point. The threat from the eastern front was stabilized. Several nests had been cleared. Nothing he couldn't handle. The blind leader of the Chrysos Heirs only nodded, her unseeing eyes seeming to perceive more than his own. She dismissed him with the words, "Rest, Mydeimos. You've earned it."

Rest. The word felt foreign.

His quarters, provided by the city, were spacious and could have been considered luxurious, but he had furnished them with spartan simplicity. Besides a bed, a table, and a few chairs, the only decorations were the weapons hanging on the walls - relics of his fallen kingdom, Castrum Kremnos. No paintings, no trinkets. Only stone, steel, and order.

He walked out onto the balcony and sank into a chair. Exhaustion settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His thoughts flowed slowly. He could go to the bathhouse now, wash away the road's filth and the tension. And then...

And then he could go find the Deliverer.

The thought arose on its own, intrusive and stubborn. He immediately chided himself. He wasn't missing him. It was simply... reasonable to check on the condition of his sparring partner after a solo mission. To make sure he hadn't gotten into any trouble. Phainon was strong, but his bright head wasn't always filled with sound ideas. Yes, that was it. A simple check-up.

Mydei realized with faint surprise that his phone was silent. Usually, upon his return, Phainon was the first to flood him with messages: "You're back?", "How did it go?", "Did you beat your last score?", "Castorice said I'm annoying her. Well, she didn't say it. But she has that look! You always have that look!", "Let's get food after you're done with Aglaea!". The silence was unusual, even a little unsettling.

He reached for the smooth metal rectangle on the table. Perhaps he had missed the notification. But the screen was dark. Mydei unlocked it. In that same instant, the phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Three short buzzes. Messages from Phainon.

Mydei felt a prickle of something vaguely resembling relief, but it vanished as he read the first line.

The Deliverer: Hey, Stelle, this 'sugar baby' idea sounds interesting!

Mydei froze. 'Sugar baby'. A strange, foreign term that felt... sticky. He didn't know its precise meaning, but a sense of foreboding settled in his gut.

The Deliverer: I even know a couple of people who'd be very interested in this offer. And they're not even completely disgusting old men!

The words 'old men' hit him like a punch to the gut. A picture was beginning to form, and it was ugly.

The Deliverer: I just really hope that pulling their sad little pods out of their pants isn't part of the evening's mandatory program!

The world stopped. Mydei was no fool. He knew how life worked. And he understood the crude insinuation perfectly. The thought of Phainon - bright, radiant, the one who managed to get flustered by a simple compliment - and this... disgusting, humiliating image was not just unthinkable. It was sacrilegious.

Rage, cold and sharp as the crystals he summoned in battle, pierced through him. He knew his own feelings. He buried them deep, under layers of duty, self-control, and silence. He thought he was protecting Phainon from the darkness within himself. He could never have imagined the threat would come from the outside, in such a grotesque form. Why?! What could possibly drive the Deliverer, the one meant to be this world's hope, to even consider such a thing?

At that moment, the messages vanished, replaced by a short system notice of their deletion. Then, two new notifications.

The Deliverer: Oops, sorry, wrong chat!

The Deliverer: Hope you didn't have time to read that, ha-ha!!!

His right eye twitched.

That 'ha-ha!!!' felt like a slap in the face.

Mydei slowly lowered the phone. His face was an impenetrable stone mask. But a fire raged within him. He didn't know what a 'sugar baby' was, but it didn't matter now. He understood the essence of it. And he would find whoever put this rot into Phainon's head.

He stood up silently. His fatigue vanished as if it had never been, replaced by an icy, deadly resolve. He knew who to see. 'Hey, Stelle...'

He needed answers. And he would get them.

The spacious hall was carved from light-colored stone and bathed in the eternal, soft light of the Dawn Device. Hot steam rose from several large pools set directly into the polished floor. Its plumes drifted lazily in the still, warm air, softening the outlines of distant columns and making the reflections on the water dance. The silence was broken only by the steady drip of condensation and the quiet splash of water. The hall was nearly empty. At the far end, a few relaxed figures could be seen in one of the pools, their muffled voices barely audible, lost in the echoing space. The atmosphere was steeped in a tranquility that stood in stark contrast to the storm brewing in Mydei's soul.

It was in this almost sleepy silence that he spotted her. A member of the Astral Express crew, a Trailblazer, was currently half-reclining on one of the divans, her legs thrown over the armrest, poking at her phone with a focused expression. Cheerful, beeping sounds emanated from it. Next to her was a plate of some strange purple chips.

Mydei entered the hall without a sound. His shadow fell over Stelle before she could look up. The music from her phone cut off abruptly.

"Mydei! You scared me," she said, sitting up and brushing purple crumbs from her fingers. "Welcome back! How was the mission? March 7th was just asking if you brought her back a 'cute skull'."

He ignored her chatter. He didn't sit. He simply stood before her - an unbreachable wall of murderous calm and ill omen.

"What is a 'sugar baby'?" he asked into the silence. His voice was even, almost lifeless, which only made it more terrifying.

Stelle blinked. A look of genuine confusion mixed with a hint of panic crossed her face.

"Uh, what?"

"He made a mistake and sent it to me first," he stated, with the full confidence that she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Explain."

The realization seemed to dawn on Stelle. Her lips formed a silent 'o', and she blinked slowly. Then she quickly looked away, fidgeting on the divan, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on a cushion.

"Oh, uh, that... Listen, it was just a joke. We were just talking, and..."

"Explain," Mydei repeated. He didn't raise his voice, but each word landed between them like a stone.

Stelle sighed and gave up. She looked up at him and paused for a moment. She had the expression of someone about to explain quantum physics to a very angry cat.

"Well... it's when one person, usually older and wealthier, a 'sugar daddy', financially supports another, younger person, a 'sugar baby', in exchange for..." she faltered, searching for the right word, "...company."

Mydei was silent, processing the information. His golden eyes stared at Stelle without blinking. His mind, accustomed to direct and honest concepts - enemy, ally, order, duty - struggled to find a place for this ugly concept. Company. He connected it to the words 'old men' and 'sad little pods'.

"Are you saying he's selling himself?" The words escaped him before he could stop them. He spat the word 'selling' with such icy contempt, as if it burned his tongue.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, not always!" Stelle waved her hands, completely flustered. "It's... complicated! It can just be dinners, gifts, trips together... Nothing like that! Just... a way for people with money to not feel lonely, and for others to, well, get a little financial stability."

She looked at him hopefully, but Mydei's face remained impassive. He saw in her words only pathetic attempts to embellish a deal that was repulsive at its core. Humiliation wrapped in a pretty package.

Stelle realized she was losing. But then, suddenly... she froze and gave Mydei a new, appraising look.

Before Mydei could even frown, Stelle jumped to her feet and beckoned him closer with a finger.

"Mydei, this is actually a secret," she began in a very serious, though slightly loud, whisper. "But if you promise you won't tell anyone, I can tell you. Only you! And you tell no one else. Not a word! Promise?"

He gave a silent, slightly impatient nod.

"Phainon... he's in deep financial trouble," she continued with the same gravity. "He'd never tell you; his pride wouldn't allow it. He's a village boy, he's never had any savings. And everything he gets from Aglaea for missions, he... he spends it on his hobby, yes!"

"A hobby?" Mydei repeated.

"He buys up all sorts of junk that he considers 'antiques'," Stelle explained, nodding several times. "Last week, he spent almost all his money on a 'fossilized sky-lizard egg' that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be just a round rock painted grey. He's trying to preserve the history of this world, you see? But he gets scammed constantly. As a result, he often doesn't have enough money to even buy those peaches at the market he's always talking about. If it weren't for the common mess hall and these quarters, he'd be sleeping on the street, hugging his collection of fakes."

She fell silent, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. And in that silence, Mydei finally understood.

The picture was complete. And it was even worse than he had imagined. Phainon wasn't corrupted. He was desperate. The naive, pure, ridiculously noble Deliverer was willing to enter a humiliating deal not for luxury, but for the chance to eat fruit and save a fake piece of history from oblivion.

The thought was an insult. To him. To Phainon. To their mission. To this whole damned world, whose last hope was forced to consider offers from 'not even completely disgusting old men'.

His other eye twitched.

Stelle watched his face intently. She saw the barely perceptible tic.

"Mydei? Are you..."

He didn't answer. Without another word, he turned sharply and left the hall as swiftly and silently as he had entered. His shoulders were tense, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white.

Stelle was left standing in the silence. She tapped a finger on her chin and glanced at the phone she had left on the divan.

"Well, Phainon..." she muttered into the void. "You're going to owe me one."

She didn't know what exactly the quiet Kremnosian prince had in mind, but she was sure of one thing: Okhema's market was about to have one more customer. And he definitely wouldn't be haggling.

Chapter Text

Mydeimos wasn't looking for Phainon. Not in the literal sense. He was conducting reconnaissance in hostile territory, which for him was the bustling central square of Okhema. He moved through the crowd with a predator's grace, his tall frame and regal bearing creating an invisible field around him, forcing people to instinctively part ways. The scents of fried flatbread and sweet fruit mingled with the hubbub of dozens of voices, but Mydei filtered it all out, his golden eyes methodically scanning the market stalls. He ignored the vendors' cries and the vibrant displays of exotic goods. He was searching for one specific spot of white in the bustling palette.

And he found him.

Phainon was standing at a stall overflowing with pyramids of ripe, velvety peaches that exuded an intoxicating aroma. The light of Okhema's eternal day, reflecting off the white walls, made his platinum hair almost luminous. He was fully engrossed in a tactical maneuver known as 'charming the merchant'.

"My good sir, just look at this beauty! Kephale himself must be smiling down from the heavens at your peaches!" Phainon said with a disarming smile, tilting his head slightly. "But alas, a humble warrior has but a few coins jingling in his pocket. Couldn't you spare a small discount for the savior of the world?"

The merchant, a portly, stern-looking man with a magnificent mustache, was already beginning to melt under the assault of pure charm. He scratched the back of his neck and grunted, "Well, if it's for the Deliverer himself... I suppose I could..."

It was at that exact moment that a shadow materialized silently behind Phainon.

"How much?"

Mydei's voice was low, devoid of any emotion, and it cut through the warm atmosphere of the bargaining ritual like a blade of ice. Phainon flinched and spun around, his blue eyes widening in surprise. The merchant looked up and immediately straightened, as if he'd swallowed a spear shaft. All his swagger vanished upon recognizing the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos.

"Prince Mydeimos..." he mumbled, bowing his head respectfully.

Mydei didn't even grant him a glance. His attention was fixed on the peaches. "I asked how much for the entire basket."

The merchant blinked, processing the question. Then, his eyes gleamed with greed. "The entire basket, my lord? Well... that would be..."

Without waiting for an answer, Mydei pulled several heavy gold coins from a pouch at his belt and dropped them onto the counter with a loud, decisive clatter. The sum was obviously enough to buy the entire stall, not just a single basket.

"Pack it up," he clipped out.

Phainon stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "Mydei? What are you doing? Why do you need a whole basket of peaches?"

Mydei ignored him. The merchant, bustling and bowing, quickly transferred the best, juiciest fruits into a large woven crate. Mydei took it, turned, and without a word, thrust it into the astonished Phainon's hands. The crate was heavy.

"Mydei, wait! You didn't have to! I was just..." Phainon began, completely thrown by the royal gesture.

"Let's go," Mydeimos interrupted, placing a heavy, gloved hand on Phainon's back and gently but firmly steering him away from the stall. The authoritative gesture left no room for argument. "Aglaea was looking for us. Urgent business."

"Aglaea? But she didn't say anything..." Phainon stumbled, trying to keep his balance while holding the crate.

"She's saying it now," Mydei stated flatly, leading him deeper into the market rows, leaving the bowing merchant behind.

A week passed. A week during which Phainon was quite literally besieged by peaches. He ate them for breakfast, carried them on missions as rations, and offered them to all the Chrysos Heirs until Aglaea dryly remarked that if she saw another peach pit in the council hall, she would use it as a projectile.

Mydeimos, for his part, acted as if nothing had happened. He was, as usual, taciturn, stern, and focused. But now, his silence felt... watchful to Phainon. As if he were constantly on alert, as if his golden eyes were following him just a little more intently than usual, waiting for something.

The training ground was drenched in the light of the eternal day. The air was thick with kicked-up dust and the smell of sweat. The dull thud of wood striking metal echoed across the empty yard.

"Your swing is too wide," Mydei growled, effortlessly blocking another of Phainon's strikes with his training gauntlet.

"And you're too predictable!" Phainon retorted, breathing hard as he leaped back. His face was gleaming with sweat, his light hair stuck to his forehead, but a competitive spark danced in his blue eyes.

Their friendly spars were a ritual. For Phainon, it was a chance to hone his skills against the strongest warrior he knew. For Mydeimos, it was the only way to interact with Phainon in a language he understood - the language of force and reaction, where words were not required.

Phainon lunged forward in a feint, his wooden sword tracing a complex arc aimed at Mydei's unprotected side. It was a good, clever move. But Mydei was faster. Instead of retreating, he stepped into the attack, his body twisting in a fluid, predatory motion. One hand deflected the wooden blade aside while his other, unprotected hand shot out and clamped around Phainon's wrist. A sharp tug, and Phainon, thrown off balance, found himself pinned with his back against Mydei's rock-solid chest. The wooden sword fell to the ground with a soft clatter.

Mydei held him fast, his hot breath ghosting over the nape of Phainon's neck. For a few seconds, they stood like that, panting heavily. Phainon could feel his own heart hammering and the steady, powerful beat of Mydeimos's heart against his back, the heat of the other man's body seeping through the thin fabric of his training shirt.

"You're getting faster," Mydei finally said, his voice a low rumble right by Phainon's ear. He released his grip and took a step back.

Phainon turned around, his cheeks flushed - from the exertion, of course. "I'll get you next time."

"We'll see," a corner of Mydei's mouth twitched, which was his equivalent of a broad smile. He pulled the heavy training gauntlets off his hands. "Let's go to a restaurant. Get something cold to drink."

The offer sounded casual. Too casual. And Phainon's stomach did a flip from a strange mix of delight and panic. Mydei was inviting him out. Just the two of them. The thought made his heart beat faster. But it was immediately followed by a more pragmatic one: money. It wasn't that he was broke, but he was trying to save up for a very expensive 'antique' he had his eye on. Spending his savings on drinks seemed like a waste. His brain refused to reconcile that frugality with the sudden, disarming intimacy of Mydei's gesture. He immediately started searching for an excuse.

"Oh, no, thanks, I'm good," he said, too quickly and nervously. He bent down to pick up his sword, avoiding Mydeimos's gaze. "I need to... clean my sword, and then... then help Veldan with the supplies."

Mydei stared at the back of his head, at the reddening tips of his ears. He saw the panic, the clumsy, desperate lie. And his mind, already poisoned by Stelle's story, helpfully supplied him with the only possible explanation: shame. The shame of being poor. And it infuriated him. The situation, the need for lies, his own past blindness - it all infuriated him.

He let out a low, irritated growl, making Phainon startle and look up at him.

"Let's go," Mydei repeated, a new steel edge to his voice. Phainon opened his mouth for another protest, but Mydei cut him off, enunciating every word. "You almost won today. I'm paying."

Phainon froze, his mouth half-open. The argument was unassailable. It didn't sound like charity. It sounded like an acknowledgment of his strength, a warrior's reward for a warrior. To refuse would be disrespectful. An insult to the honor being offered.

Mydeimos didn't wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked towards the exit of the training ground, confident that Phainon would follow.

And Phainon followed. He trailed behind, clutching his wooden sword, his mind desperately trying to piece the puzzle together. What, in the name of all the Titans, was going on with Mydei? And why, despite the strangeness of it all, was there a treacherous warmth spreading through his chest?

It was one of Okhema's most questionable establishments - Old Man Elias's antique shop. A cluttered nook that smelled of dust, old wood, and secrets. Here, genuine artifacts could sit next to blatant forgeries, and the owner himself was a master of weaving captivating stories for every trinket. Phainon adored the place.

Right now, he was holding his breath as he examined an item Elias called the 'Resonating Compass of the Sunken Polis'. It was a complex bronze mechanism, green with the patina of age, covered in fine engravings of sea monsters and celestial constellations.

"They say its needle never points north," Elias whispered, his eyes twinkling slyly from under his grey brows. "It shivers and points to a place of great tragedy or great power. An invaluable tool for an explorer..."

"Incredible," Phainon breathed, his fingers hovering reverently over the artifact, not daring to touch. He could already imagine using it beyond the city walls, how it could lead him to forgotten ruins... He didn't even ask the price. He knew it would be astronomical. With a sigh, he looked at the compass with longing.

It was this very look, full of pure, almost childlike wonder that gave way to quiet sadness, that Mydeimos walked in on.

He was leaning against a dusty shelf by the entrance, arms crossed over his chest. No one had noticed him come in. He observed the scene with an impassive expression, but his golden eyes held a cold, analytical glint. He saw the longing on Phainon's face. And in his mind, that feeling connected directly to Stelle's words: 'He's trying to preserve the history of this world, you see?'

There it was. Another reason for desperation. Another thing the Deliverer wanted but couldn't afford.

Mydei pushed himself off the shelf and approached the counter.

"How much?"

Phainon and Elias turned simultaneously.

"Prince Mydeimos!" Elias beamed, a sycophantic smile spreading across his face. "Are you interested? This is a unique artifact, its history..."

"I didn't ask for its history," Mydei cut him off, his gaze locked on the compass. "I asked for the price."

Elias named an absurd sum. Phainon flinched internally. That kind of money could feed a small squad for a month.

Without blinking, Mydei took a heavy pouch of coins from his belt and dropped it onto the counter with a dull, hefty thud. Then he picked up the compass, walked around the counter, and placed it in the dumbstruck Phainon's hands.

Phainon recoiled as if from a hot iron.

"What? Mydei, no! Are you insane?!" his voice dropped to a whisper. "It hasn't even been appraised, what if it's a fake?! That's just a pile of money!"

He tried to push the compass back into Mydei's hands, but he didn't even raise them. Instead, his gloved hand once again came to rest on Phainon's back in that familiar, authoritative gesture.

"Castorice was looking for you," he said in an even tone, gently nudging the bewildered Deliverer towards the exit. "Let's go see what she needs."

"But... the money! The compass!" Phainon stammered, being literally escorted out of the shop.

"It's your compass now," Mydei stated, not looking back at the gleeful Old Man Elias, who was already hastily stashing the pouch away. "And your problem. Now let's go. Don't keep Castorice waiting."

They stepped out into the steady light of the eternal day. Phainon looked from the heavy, cool metal in his hands to the broad back of Mydeimos walking ahead of him. Aggressive generosity. Unexpected gifts. Authoritative gestures disguised as concern. This no longer felt like a strange series of coincidences. It felt like... a plan.

But a plan for what? And why did this authoritative, non-negotiable interference make his heart flutter so strangely?

Chapter Text

Mydei was not following him. Of course not. He just... happened to be in the same part of the city. A complete coincidence. He was on his way back from the armorer and chose a route through a small, quiet square planted with short trees and beds of bright flowers.

And that's where he saw him.

Phainon was standing by a fountain, talking to a man. The man was dressed with ostentatious luxury - too much gold embroidery on his doublet, too many rings on his manicured fingers. He wasn't old, but he was already running to fat, and his smile was unctuous and unpleasant. Mydei instinctively classified him as one of those minor aristocrats or wealthy merchants who buzzed around the Council of Elders, looking for profit even on the verge of the apocalypse.

Mydei slowed his pace, melting into the shadows of a colonnade, and began to watch.

It was clear that Phainon was uncomfortable. His smile was strained, his posture too rigid. He was clearly trying to be polite, as befitting the Deliverer, but his fingers were nervously fiddling with the hem of his cloak.

"...so if our valiant Deliverer should require any... support," the man was saying, utterly failing to sound kind or compassionate, "my home and my resources are always at your service."

And then he did it. He placed his ring-laden hand on Phainon's forearm.

In the shadow of the colonnade, Mydei froze. His entire body went taut like a drawn bowstring. He saw Phainon flinch almost imperceptibly but not remove the hand, still desperately clinging to politeness.

The man obviously took this as encouragement. His smile grew wider, more self-satisfied. Phainon said something in response, trying to make a joke of it, and even forced out a laugh that sounded false even from a distance.

And in the next second, the gentleman made his final, fatal mistake. He reached with his other hand toward Phainon's neck. His target was the sun tattoo - the symbol of his destiny, his very essence. He clearly wanted to touch it.

Mydei didn't run. He simply ceased to be there and appeared here. One moment he was ten paces away, in the shadows. The next, he was standing beside Phainon, the sound of his step lost in the quiet splash of the fountain.

The air crackled with tension.

Before the man's fingers could touch Phainon's skin, Mydei's hand, sheathed in its metal gauntlet, shot forward. The movement was fluid, effortless, and lethally fast. Steel fingers closed around the gentleman's wrist with a quiet but ominous clank.

"Don't touch."

The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they held more menace than the most furious battle cry. Mydei stared, unblinking, directly into the eyes of the man, whose face contorted first in surprise, then in pain. He tried to pull his hand away, but Mydeimos's steel grip was like a shackle. It didn't budge.

Phainon, snapping out of his stupor, immediately rushed to de-escalate the situation.

"Mydei! Haha, it's alright!" he laughed unnaturally, his voice trembling. "The gentleman was just... joking!"

He grabbed Mydeimos's metal-clad fingers with his own bare ones, trying to pry the grip open, but his efforts were futile - he might as well have been trying to move a wall. Mydei's fingers didn't move a millimeter.

"Mydei, please," Phainon gave up, moving closer, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper as he saw their 'companion's' face begin to turn white. "Mydei, Aglaea will kill us for giving her more paperwork. He's some kind of councilor... or a sponsor..."

Only then did Mydei slowly, very slowly, turn his burning golden gaze from the man to Phainon. But he did not loosen his grip.

His stare was heavier than lead. He didn't hear the words about 'paperwork' or 'sponsors'. He saw only one thing: Phainon's face, twisted in fear and pleading. Pleading to protect this worthless slug from his, Mydei's, wrath.

Phainon realized logic was useless here. He took another step closer, invading Mydei's personal space, and placed his palm on Mydei's arm, just above the gauntlet. Phainon's hand was warm and desperate.

"Mydei, I'm asking you," his voice was quiet, meant only for him. "Let go. For my sake."

It worked. The argument 'for my sake' broke through the wall of his fury. Mydei's jaw clenched so tight his teeth audibly ground together. He shot the aristocrat a look of such contempt that the man instinctively recoiled. Then, slowly, with offensive reluctance, Mydei uncurled his steel fingers.

The man immediately scrambled back several steps, rubbing his wrist, where deep red indentations from the gauntlet were already forming. His face went from white to purple with humiliation and rage.

Phainon immediately turned to him, putting on the most polite and apologetic smile he could muster.

"My apologies, sir! My sincerest apologies! My friend... he is very... temperamental! A Kremnosian upbringing, you understand," he stammered, bowing slightly. "He meant you no harm, he simply misinterpreted your... friendly gesture!"

Freed from the physical threat, the man regained his arrogance.

"Meant no harm?! That was barbarism! Savagery!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Mydeimos. "The Council of Elders will hear of this unprovoked assault! You will regret this, you savage!"

Mydei, who had just begun to cool down, tensed again. A low, menacing rumble started in his chest. He took half a step forward, his lips parting to unleash a promise of a very long and painful reprisal.

"One more word..."

But before he could finish, Phainon reacted. He grabbed Mydei's forearm with both hands, giving the gentleman one last, maximally strained smile.

"Well, good day to you, sir! We really must be going, so much to do for the defenders of the city!"

And with those words, he literally dragged Mydei away. Mydei clearly didn't want to leave, but Phainon's panicked tug, reinforced by his pleading eyes, finally got him to move.

He allowed himself to be led away, but he never took his burning eyes off the figure by the fountain until they had rounded a corner.

The moment they were out of sight, Phainon dropped his arm as if it were red-hot. He was breathing heavily, leaning against a wall. The fake smile was gone, leaving behind a mixture of relief, anger, and profound exhaustion.

"Are you out of your mind?!" he finally gasped, looking at Mydei's impassive face. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?! Aglaea will find out! She'll find out and have my head for scaring off one of her sponsors..."

Mydei remained silent. He looked at Phainon, at his flushed face, at the way he nervously ran a hand over his neck - the exact spot that bastard had been reaching for. And in his mind, there was only one, deafening question.

And you think that's a reason to let them touch you?

But he didn't say a word out loud, of course.

It was one of those rare, quiet days when Aglaea wasn't sending them to the edge of the world to fight monstrosities. Mydeimos had been summoned to some tedious meeting with the Council, and Phainon, left to his own devices for the first time in a long while, was aimlessly wandering the streets of Okhema, simply enjoying a moment of peace. He wasn't looking for company or entertainment; it was enough just to walk wherever his feet took him and not think about the next mission.

It was in this relaxed state that Darian found him - a young and cheerful spearman from the wall guard whom he'd crossed paths with on several excursions. Tall and lean, as a spearman should be, he moved with a light, almost dancing gait. His brown hair was tousled by the wind, and a spray of freckles dotted his nose and cheeks - a rare sight for those who grew up under Okhema's eternal light. But his main feature was his smile - wide, open, and utterly sincere, crinkling the corners of his brown eyes. He was the embodiment of simple, unadulterated friendliness, and Phainon, without realizing it, smiled back at him.

"Deliverer! Enjoying the day off?" he called out cheerfully in a small square. "I was just about to grab a drink at the tavern. Care to join? My treat! For covering our retreat beyond the walls last week."

Phainon happily agreed. The offer was simple, friendly, and completely without strings. Soon, they were seated at a table by the tavern window. The company was pleasant. Darian was easy to talk to, and they quickly found common ground, discussing recent patrols and funny mishaps during training. Darian, as promised, ordered them both a bright blue, fizzy cocktail with a slice of exotic fruit on the rim of the glass.

Phainon accepted the drink gratefully. They were laughing, Darian was telling some amusing story about a recruit who had mixed up the provisions storage with the armory, and Phainon, for a moment forgetting all his strange new problems, felt light and normal.

It was this very scene that Mydeimos walked in on.

He froze in the doorway. He saw Phainon laughing. Genuinely, carefree. He saw someone else sitting across from him, someone else making him laugh like that. And he saw the drink in front of Phainon - bright, garish, foreign.

Something inside Mydei snapped.

He didn't make a scene. He walked silently to the bar. "Two pomegranate juices," he told the bartender, paying in advance. Taking the two ceramic cups filled with a dark red, almost black liquid, he headed straight for their table.

His approach was silent, but Darian felt the atmosphere at the table suddenly shift and looked up. Phainon followed his gaze and froze mid-smile.

Mydei unceremoniously pulled up a chair and sat down next to Phainon, so close their knees were almost touching. He placed one cup in front of himself. He placed the second one directly in front of Phainon. And then, with one short, deliberate motion, he pushed the blue cocktail Darian had bought to the side, as if it were a piece of trash.

Darian watched, stunned.

Mydei didn't even look at Phainon. All his attention was fixed on the 'newcomer'.

He introduced himself, and his voice was calm, but there was steel ringing in that calm. "Mydeimos. Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos."

He didn't offer his hand. He just stared. An unblinking, heavy gaze from his golden eyes.

"Uh... Darian," the spearman managed to say, all his cheerfulness gone.

Mydei was silent. Just staring.

"Um... I was just telling Phainon about the last patrol," Darian tried to explain, feeling as if he were being interrogated.

"Yeah," Mydei said. And again, silence, broken only by the tavern's hum, which now seemed to come from far away.

It wasn't an empty silence. It was dense, palpable, ringing with the unsaid. Darian felt a chill run down his spine and instinctively glanced from one man to the other, trying to understand what, in the name of all the Titans, had just happened. The Kremnosian prince's golden eyes were boring into him, and the cold radiating from them seemed to freeze the air. It was the look of a predator that had spotted a trespasser in its territory. And Phainon... the Deliverer sat perfectly still, having forgotten both his cocktail and Darian himself. His gaze was fixed on Mydeimos's profile with such an intense, almost hypnotic focus, as if he were trying to read the answer to some vital question in the line of his jaw.

And in that moment, it dawned on Darian. He wasn't just an unwelcome guest. He was an intrusion. A trespasser on someone else's carefully guarded territory. The survival instinct honed on the walls of Okhema screamed a deafening siren in his head: "Flee!" He didn't know what his sin was - though the pushed-aside drink was a pretty big clue - but he was certain the punishment for it would be swift and extremely unpleasant.

"Um... I should probably get going?" Darian cautiously glanced at Phainon for support, but he was still paying attention to no one but the prince.

"Yeah," Mydeimos repeated, his gaze unwavering.

Darian hastily stood up, mumbled something like 'it was nice chatting', and retreated as fast as decorum would allow.

Phainon was silent the entire time. He watched Mydei's profile as he continued to ignore him, slowly sipping his juice. The silence at the table became deafening.

And then, it all clicked into place in Phainon's head.

The basket of peaches, bought so he wouldn't have to haggle for a discount.

The drink paid for after a spar, so he wouldn't have to make excuses.

The ancient compass, bought so he wouldn't look at it with longing.

The gauntleted hand on the wrist of the jerk by the fountain.

That man hadn't just been a jerk. He was old and unpleasant. But Darian... Darian was a good guy. His age. A friend. And Mydei had driven him away with the same icy fury. This wasn't protection. This was jealousy.

And then his memory helpfully supplied him with an image - a phone screen and three messages he had so hastily deleted. The messages that had started this whole strange chain of events.

Hey, Stelle, this 'sugar baby' idea sounds interesting!

Suddenly, the stupid joke wasn't funny anymore. It was the key. Mydei wasn't just jealous. He was acting on information he was never supposed to see. He thought... Oh, Titans. He thought Phainon was desperate and looking for a patron. A 'sugar daddy'.

The realization hit Phainon with the force of a shockwave. Mydei wasn't trying to be his sponsor out of pure pity. He was trying to compete. He was eliminating any reason Phainon might need anyone else. He bought peaches so Phainon wouldn't have to haggle. He paid for drinks so Phainon wouldn't feel awkward. He bought artifacts so Phainon wouldn't desire anything he couldn't provide. He chased away anyone - both a sleazy aristocrat and a nice guy - who might offer Phainon 'support'.

Mydei thought he was at a market. At an auction. And he was determined to outbid everyone.

Phainon didn't take his eyes off his friend's inscrutable profile. A hysterical, silent laugh caught in his throat. The entire chaos of the past weeks, all this aggressive, confusing concern - it all suddenly made absurd and ridiculously simple sense. Something warm and heavy turned over in his chest and refused to right itself, replacing weeks of anxiety with an irrational, boundless relief. He looked again, as if seeing his friend for the first time.

And finally, behind the mask of the Kremnosian prince, he saw something else entirely. Something possessive, furious, and desperately in love.

Chapter Text

Phainon didn't remember leaving the tavern. He didn't remember crossing the square. His feet carried him on their own to the only place he might find some answer to the whirlwind in his head - the quarters occupied by the Astral Express crew.

He all but burst into the common area, finding Stelle alone. She was sitting on the sofa, cleaning some kind of lens, but she immediately looked up at his disheveled and dumbfounded appearance.

"Phainon? What happened?"

He breathed out a single word: "Mydei."

A switch seemed to flip in her voice, which was suddenly laced with alarm. "Mydei? Did he... do something?" A flicker of something that looked oddly like guilt crossed her eyes, but it could have just been a trick of the light.

Phainon didn't notice anyway, his mind was elsewhere. He began to pace the small space in front of the sofa, waving his arms.

"He... I... we were at the tavern..." he started, stammering. "Darian was there. Just Darian! We were talking. And then he shows up. Mydei. And he... he just... chased him off!"

Stelle frowned. "Chased him off? How?"

"Silently!" Phainon stopped and looked at her in desperation. "He just sat down, put a different drink in front of me, pushed aside the one Darian had bought me, and just... stared at him until he fled! And I get it now. Stelle, I get everything."

He moved closer and collapsed onto the sofa next to her, his voice dropping to a strangled whisper. "All of it. The peaches. The compass. And that incident by the fountain. It wasn't because the guy was unpleasant. It was because he was touching me."

He paused, gathering the courage to say aloud the incredible theory that both terrified him and made his heart flutter.

"I think... I think this whole story about the money... I think he read that 'sugar baby' message back then... And he misunderstood everything. Or rather, he understood it all too well," he looked away, feeling a hot blush creep up his neck. "Stelle... I think Mydei is... uh... interested."

He said the last word as if it were in a foreign language. "And the worst part is... I think I am too. Have been for a long time. I just tried to ignore it for the sake of our friendship, but..."

Stelle had been silent the whole time. She watched him, her face unreadable. Then, slowly, very slowly, her expression began to shift. The alarm vanished. In its place came understanding. Then, a spark. And then her eyes lit up with a pure, unadulterated, utterly diabolical glee.

"Interested?" she repeated, her lips curling into a wide, predatory smile. "Phainon, my dear, naive, slightly dense friend. 'Interested' is the single greatest understatement in the history of this dying world. That man is practically branding your name onto his heart. He's not just interested; he's on the verge of declaring you a sovereign territory of Castrum Kremnos!"

She leaped to her feet, buzzing with energy.

"Right! This changes everything. This is perfect! That stubborn, emotionally constipated, sealed-tomb-of-a-prince will never confess on his own. He'll just silently buy you antiques and incinerate everyone who looks at you with his glare until you both die of old age - or less cheerful alternatives - and unspoken feelings."

She stopped and looked at Phainon decisively. "So... we need a plan!"

Before Phainon could say anything, she whipped out her phone.

"And for a plan of this magnitude, we need the heavy artillery," she declared, her fingers flying across the screen. "I'm calling March 7th!"

She began to type, narrating her message aloud. "March! Drop everything! Code Pink. We're having a slumber party. Urgent!"

Phainon stared at her in a complete stupor. "A slumber party...?"

Stelle turned to him, her eyes shining with battle-lust. "The most important slumber party of your life. Operation: Ice Prince is a go!"

Phainon covered his face with one hand. "I have a very bad feeling about this."

"I don't understand the purpose of the pillows," Phainon said doubtfully, looking around Stelle's quarters, which Aglaea had assigned to her.

They had been transformed. The sofa was buried under pillows of all shapes and sizes. On the table, where star charts and reports usually lay, there was now a daunting collection of shiny tubes, jars, and brushes. It looked like the command center for the strangest battle of his life. And, apparently, he was the main combat unit.

At Stelle and March 7th's insistence, he himself was dressed in comfortable pants and a simple light tunic - his version of 'pajamas'.

"Pillows create an atmosphere of coziness and conspiracy!" March 7th announced cheerfully, adjusting a pink headband with cat ears on her head. "It's a scientific fact!"

"Okay, down to business," Stelle clapped her hands, adopting the air of a general before a decisive battle. She paced back and forth in front of them in a bunny kigurumi, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Operation: Ice Prince. Objective: to force Mydei to show his feelings so obviously that even he can't deny them. Method: a controlled provocation using jealousy."

She gave Phainon a critical look. "The problem is, you're naturally charming. On a basic level. Like a puppy. But that's passive charm. We need active charm. We need... seduction!"

Phainon froze, torn between being offended and flustered by the compliment. Either way, he felt his ears start to burn.

"Step one: the smile," Stelle announced. "Show us how you're going to seductively smile at our designated 'rival'."

Phainon, resigned to his fate, took a deep breath and tried. He thought for a moment, swallowed, and then curved his lips into what he believed was a seductive smile.

March 7th snorted. "Oh, no. Not at all."

"Agreed," Stelle nodded. "That's not a seductive smile. That's the smile of a man whose stomach is cramping and is about to be sick."

"But I don't know how!" Phainon exclaimed in desperation. "I usually just... smile!"

"Exactly! But a smile should be a promise! A secret that only you know!" March 7th chimed in enthusiastically, jumping to her feet and striking a dramatic pose. "Your eyes should say 'come closer', not 'don't even try it, you know how long my sword is'."

"Second attempt," Stelle declared. "Smile mysteriously, smoothly, slowly. And at the very end, just barely bite the corner of your lip. Just a little!"

Phainon took another deep breath and tried again. He dutifully began to smile. The process was agonizingly slow, as if he were demonstrating the workings of a poorly lubricated machine. His lips stretched slowly, revealing his teeth one by one. And when this horrifying construction reached its apex, he attempted the grand finale - a light bite on the corner of his lip.

March 7th let out a strangled squeak, clamped a hand over her mouth, and turned away to tactfully avoid laughing in his face.

Stelle placed a finger on her chin, maintaining the seriousness of a surgeon in consultation. "Questionable," she delivered her verdict. "Now you look like a squirrel. A very hungry squirrel that has eaten something foul."

Phainon's smile dropped instantly, and he gave them a look that screamed, 'Seriously?'

"Alright, new approach!" Stelle clapped her hands. "Don't try to be someone you're not! Just do your basic smile. The one you know. But do it slowly and squint your eyes just a little, it makes the expression softer."

After another heavy sigh, he made a third attempt. It was still awkward, but it was an improvement.

"It'll have to do for now," March 7th approved grudgingly. "Now - external enhancements! My turn!"

She dashed to the table and returned with two items. "No eyeliner, it's too dark for your face. We need weapons of light!"

She picked up a brush and something shimmery. "Highlighter! Just one touch on the cheekbones. So that when you turn your head, the light from the Dawn Device catches the gleam. It subconsciously draws attention."

She deftly swept the brush across his cheek. Then she opened a small tube. "And lip gloss. Just a tiny drop. No color. Just to make them look... more alive. It completes the look."

Phainon looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his phone. He looked... shiny.

"I look like a festive fish," he stated grimly.

"You look like bait," Stelle corrected him with a satisfied smile. "And now for the final touch. The plan of action."

She became serious again. As serious as one can be in a bunny kigurumi. "We've found the perfect candidate for our little play. Lord Valerius. The same guy who's constantly pestering Aglaea with his 'suggestions' for optimizing the Chrysos Heirs's expenses. I may have hinted to Aglaea that Valerius might find himself in an 'awkward situation' involving a certain Kremnosian prince, and she... she didn't say 'no'! I think she even smiled. So we have her unspoken blessing!"

Phainon shuddered.

"Tomorrow, in the main square. March and I will strategically place Mydei in the line of sight. Your job is to laugh at Valerius's jokes, smile your new seductive smile, and let him get closer. He's vain; he'll mistake your friendliness for genuine interest and get bolder. And when he makes the final move..."

"What final move?!" Phainon asked in horror.

"The one that's guaranteed to cause a volcanic eruption," March 7th concluded with the finality of a grand finale.

Phainon looked at his shiny reflection again. At his rehearsed smile. At his two friends, beaming with anticipation for the chaos to come.

"Can I please not participate in this?" he asked forlornly.

Stelle and March 7th exchanged a look.

"Do you want to get this man or not?" Stelle asked sternly.

Phainon sighed heavily and dropped his head into the pillows with a groan.

Luring Mydeimos into position was a task that required surgical precision. The plan had two stages.

Stage one: the bait. Agent: March 7th. Armed with her most innocent smile, she accidentally ran into Mydei near the training grounds. "Oh, Mydei!" she chirped. "I just heard from a merchant that the main armory got a shipment of rare alloys, they say there might even be something made of Kremnosian steel! Can you imagine? I thought you'd want to be the first to take a look!" The calculation was simple: the word 'Kremnosian' was a code word for Mydeimos. He nodded silently and headed straight for the designated target.

Stage two: the positioning. Agent: Stelle. She was already waiting for him at the shop, pretending to browse daggers. When Mydei approached, she put on an expression of great revelation. "Oh, Mydei! What a coincidence! I was just passing by... Look at the inlay on the hilt of this sword. Is this traditional Kremnosian work? Something about it seems... off. You're the expert, after all."

It was a low blow. To question his knowledge of his kingdom's heritage. Mydeimos frowned, his face taking on an expression of utmost concentration. He moved closer to examine the details Stelle was talking about.

And that's when his gaze snagged, sliding across the square before him. Mydei stopped, completely forgetting about swords and steel, all his attention captured by a scene staged especially for him. Which, of course, he didn't know, as the conspirators exchanged a sly glance behind his back.

Phainon was standing in the center of the square, talking to Lord Valerius. Mydei knew the man - a slimy, self-satisfied aristocrat whose wealth was as old as his contempt for those he considered beneath him, including 'village heroes' like Phainon.

Phainon, to his credit, was playing his part with full commitment. He laughed at Valerius's jokes, though Mydei could see the tension in his shoulders. He was smiling - that strange, slow smile Mydei had never seen before. It sent a chill down his spine. Something was wrong. Phainon looked unnatural.

Nearby, pretending to be engrossed in an argument about the quality of daggers, loitered Stelle and March 7th. They shot quick, assessing glances at the scene. Everything was going according to plan.

Lord Valerius, intoxicated by the Deliverer's uncharacteristic friendliness and his own self-importance, grew bolder. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register.

"You know, my young hero, I've always believed that talents such as yours require a suitable frame. And support," he purred.

Phainon, following instructions, didn't retreat. He just smiled his rehearsed smile again.

And then Valerius made the one mistake the conspirators were counting on. The one fatal mistake.

Confident in his own irresistibility, he moved even closer and wrapped an arm around Phainon's waist. But it wasn't just a friendly gesture. It was possessive, intimate. His hand slid under the hem of Phainon's long cloak and rested authoritatively on the belt of his trousers, pulling him closer.

Mydei saw it.

He saw a strange man's hand disappear under Phainon's clothing.

He saw the smile on the Deliverer's face freeze and turn into a grimace of panic.

Mydei saw red.

All plans, all strategy, all logic evaporated in an instant. The world narrowed to a single point - to the hand resting where it did not belong.

A single second.

One second he was at the shop window. The next, he was there. No shout, no warning. Just pure, silent, deadly motion.

His fist, encased in its metal gauntlet, slammed into Lord Valerius's face. The punch was almost neat. Not a wide swing, but a short, brutal jab. But it carried such force that the aristocrat's head snapped back with a sickening crunch. Valerius's body, like a rag doll, flew back a couple of steps and collapsed onto the cobblestones, unconscious.

A deafening silence fell. The crowd froze.

Mydei stood over the fallen body, breathing heavily. An unquenchable fire blazed in his golden eyes. He looked ready to strike again.

"Alright, people, disperse! Nothing to see here! The man slipped, it happens!" Stelle immediately shouted, rushing with March 7th into the crowd, trying to smooth things over and scatter the onlookers who were beginning to gather.

"Ooh, what's this over here? Wow, are those free cookies? Anyone want free cookies?" March 7th's voice rang out from a short distance away.

Phainon, snapping out of his shock, clung to Mydei. He wrapped both arms around him, pressing his whole body close, as if trying to extinguish his rage with his own warmth and protect the already defeated "enemy" from further wrath. He hadn't expected such a destructive, uncontrolled display.

"Wait, wait, wait! Mydei, calm down!" he said quickly, his voice full of panic. "It was just an accident! His hand... it just slipped!"

Mydei, whose free arm had immediately clamped around Phainon's waist like a band of iron the moment he was within reach, unequivocally staking his claim, turned his burning gaze on him.

"Slipped?!" he roared. His entire being, every tense muscle, screamed: 'No one. Has the right. To touch. What. Is. Mine.'

And Phainon, looking into that furious, beloved face, suddenly remembered all his lessons. He gathered all his courage and, just as he'd been taught, smiled slowly, mysteriously, and seductively.

Mydei blinked. The fire in his eyes faltered for a moment, replaced by utter confusion and even concern. He tilted his head, peering intently at Phainon's face.

"Does your stomach hurt?"

Somewhere nearby, a strangled snort of laughter from Stelle was quickly and unsuccessfully turned into a cough, followed by an equally suspicious sob from March 7th.

Phainon rolled his eyes. He buried his forehead in Mydeimos's shoulder, feeling his own body shake with suppressed laughter mixed with absolute relief.

"I hate you all," he whispered into his skin.

But the hand on his waist only tightened its grip. And that was the best answer he could have possibly received.