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"I don't really get him," Phainon said with an easy laugh, though the mirth didn't quite reach his eyes as he raked his fingers through his rough, grit-stiff hair.
The Marmoreal Market pulsed with restless, chaotic energy that clashed sharply with his fatigue. The square was packed with stalls of vendors shouting and gesturing, selling everything from rare antiques to mouthwatering dromas steaks. People laughed, bargained, and squeezed past one another in the crowded passageways, breathing in the rough scent of ambrosia mixed with the sweetness of golden honeycake.
After his arduous journey, the market's vitality during Lucid Hour almost felt like a pointed mockery. Phainon had only just returned to the city—fresh from an almost disastrous expedition.
The outskirts of Okhema had seen an unusual resurgence of attacks, prompting Aglaea to send him alongside a unit of soldiers to deal with the monsters and ensure that the black tide wouldn’t spread.
Despite Phainon's normally reliable presence, they had been unexpectedly overwhelmed, and the situation had nearly spiraled out of control.
Nearly.
For better or for worse, someone had arrived just in time to turn the tide.
Upon returning from the mission, Phainon had immediately reached out to Hyacine for help with the wounded. With the monster groups eradicated and Hyacine tending to the injured in Okhema, the immediate crisis had been contained. Had they not managed to push back the black tide and deliver immediate care, the losses would have been unimaginable.
He didn't like admitting it, but this outcome was largely thanks to that man's interference.
Phainon himself escaped with minor injuries. Fatigue aside, a numb shoulder and a sprained ankle served as the only physical reminders of how close they had come to disaster.
Castorice leaned against the balcony railing, gazing over the city. She said nothing, but, sensing her mild concern, he took her silence as a quiet invitation.
"We've practically been crossing blades since the moment we met." Phainon's typically cheery voice had grown thick. "I have to keep a close eye on him because of Aglaea's orders. If you spent as much time around him as I do you would know he can be..."
He trailed off with a sigh, rolling his head until his neck cracked in satisfaction. "He gives single word responses whenever he doesn't feel like engaging—which, now that I think about it, is most of the time," he added lightly, a faint tightness still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Taciturnity—a quality Castorice likely understood better than he did, and one she could perhaps shed more light on.
"Sounds challenging," Castorice said at last, and Phainon answered with a small affirmative sound.
The young man from Aedes Elysiae made a habit of helping others. Aglaea often told him he possessed a natural intuition for people and a keen sense of how to navigate all kinds of situations. At times, he liked to believe he had even gotten through to someone like Professor Anaxa, something he would gladly add to his hypothetical resume.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Deliverer of Okhema.
Qualifications: one of the few people Professor Anaxa has sent dromas pictures to. Twice.
(Strictly speaking, Phainon is certain that both instances must have been either accidental, or a calculated attempt at convincing him that dromases are superior to Titans.)
As the Deliverer, those traits came easily as an indispensable part of his duty, but there were always exceptions. Most notably: Castrum Kremnos' war machine of a prince who, for some reason, he couldn't seem to get a good grasp on.
It wasn't that Phainon shared Aglaea's degree of caution. While he was more than capable of such meticulousness himself, he wasn't a distant person. His impasse simply stemmed from the other man's eccentric personality.
Castorice hummed in acknowledgement. She was not as familiar with the Flame-Chase's new addition as Phainon was, but he knew that observing others from a distance was second nature to her. The prince struck him as withdrawn, but whatever was lurking beyond that was something Phainon struggled to ascertain on his own.
"Lord Phainon, what is it that confuses you exactly?" She asked softly, hoping to unknot the tangle of his thoughts. It was unusual of him to rant to her about someone this way, which piqued her curiosity.
Phainon let out a heavy exhale and rested an arm on the ledge of the balcony. He stared up at Kephale's looming form, as if the Titan themself might provide him with the answers he sought.
"In the midst of the battle, he shoved me aside," he said quietly, vaguely gesturing behind him with his thumb. "I was supposed to have an arrow through my spine right now."
Castorice stiffened.
“And then he just muttered 'Watch your back'."
She cast her eyes down to where Phainon gestured, the image of golden blood blooming through her friend's armor unsettling her deeply. She shook the thought away.
"I fail to see what's strange about that."
He grimaced, as if the reason behind his confusion should be obvious.
"It's..." His brows furrowed. Castorice rarely ever saw him struggling for words. "It was fine, I had everything under control, but—" he murmured, voice faltering as uncertainty gave way to weariness.
Studying him, she followed his line of sight and peered up at Kephale, the Worldbearer. Phainon raised an eyebrow at the sudden lack of response.
"Is something wrong?"
"...Did you?"
His eyes widened momentarily.
He wheeled around, even as his ankle protested. "It was nothing I couldn't handle," he insisted, a practiced grin settling over his face.
He had opted not to see Hyacine. Others needed her more than he did.
Castorice's gaze shifted back to the distant horizon, her expression unreadable. "He's a seasoned Kremnoan warrior, right?"
Phainon mentally agreed—albeit reluctantly.
"Perhaps he noticed something you didn't."
He begrudgingly considered it, but the explanation failed to satisfy him. "Even so," he muttered, "I should have seen it coming."
Castorice's fingers drummed against the railing in thought. Before she could think of a reply, her teleslate buzzed in her hand. She hastily excused herself as she checked the notification. It was from Aglaea, requesting her assistance. Castorice sent a brief response, informing the Goldweaver that she would arrive shortly, before facing her troubled friend again.
"How about talking to him?" She suggested.
Phainon narrowed his eyes at her.
"Me?"
Castorice nodded.
A soft chuckle escaped him. "Believe me, I've tried. You can barely get something that isn't a sigh out of him, much less hold an actual conversation. I don't really think he likes talking."
She probably understood what he left unspoken.
He doesn't like talking to me, Phainon thought.
Her lips twitched, like she had picked up on something Phainon had missed. She chose her next words carefully.
"I don't believe he dislikes you."
Phainon blinked, caught off guard.
"People tend to say that the Kremnoans aren't known for their warmth or friendliness," she continued, before he could comment. "But Lord Mydei... that he stepped in for someone who isn't even his own, doesn't that prove... something?"
Phainon stared at her, his mouth half-open like a fish gasping for water on Aedes Elysiae's dry wheat fields. The words hung in the air between them, simple, yet they struck him harder than any arrow ever could.
'Doesn't that prove... something?'
Prove what, exactly? That the man wasn't as haughty as presumed? He snapped his jaw shut, a faint heat creeping up his neck despite the cool breeze whispering across the balcony.
"Prove something?" he echoed, pushing off the railing. "I would say it proves his immense pride."
Castorice stared at him in quiet concentration, which made Phainon a little self-conscious—as though she were unraveling a carefully woven garment thread by thread. It reminded him uncomfortably of being scrutinized by Aglaea, though in a less distant way.
She pocketed her teleslate, the glow of its screen fading as she folded one hand over the other. "Pride..." she repeated thoughtfully, testing the word.
'Whose pride?~'
The question surfaced in a melodic tone he hadn't heard in years. It was the just two of them atop the balcony. Castorice hadn't spoken—and yet the present faded as the thought formed in Cyrene's voice.
The unmistakable cadence of someone he hadn't seen in a long time—a childhood friend lost to flames and destruction. In truth, she had never left him. She persistently lingered in the back of his mind; that scar would never fade away.
A gust of wind tugged at his disheveled hair, scattering dust across his vision—and suddenly he was back in Aedes Elysiae. The lively city of Okhema sprawled below him, yet all he could envision was his home engulfed in flames.
His parents.
His friends.
Cyrene.
His once beautiful, now forgotten village.
That dark, oppressive figure—that executioner.
The memory twisted, reshaping itself into the clamor of the battlefield.
The stomps of black tide creatures. Phainon rushing to aid others. The whistle of an arrow traveling through the air.
The sudden shove.
A broad shoulder slamming into him without warning, pushing him out of the arrow's path before he could even react. The other figure barely flinched, merely letting out a short, shaky breath as the shaft buried itself into his flesh.
He paused.
Then came those stark words.
'Watch your back.'
The man glanced briefly at Phainon before refocusing ahead, scanning for the enemy as he unceremoniously pulled the arrow from his flank and wiped his golden-stained hand. The entire field was already mapped in his mind.
One moment he stood there.
The next, monsters had been reduced to dust like they were nothing.
That invincibility emanating from his solitary presence—Phainon caught a glimpse of a scorching sun in the man's gaze. Looking back on it now, it hadn't felt like pride alone, it had been something more grounded, something intense. Honed and deliberate, yet wholly intrinsic.
The reflection of his own faltering expression in those eyes stirred Phainon with a feeling he recognized all too well, and desperately wished he didn’t:
Inadequacy.
He released a light, airy laugh, turning his back to Kephale and rubbing his eyes as the fight drained from his body. The Titan's looming form was just a constant reminder of the world's weight—of burdens carried in silence.
"It is unbecoming of you to give up that easily," Castorice said.
"You almost sounded like Aglaea." He gave her an amused smile. "If only it were that simple. Miss Castorice, the last time someone tried talking to him about something unrelated to the battlefield, he just looked at them like they were speaking another language.”
She giggled—a rare sound that lightened the tension coiling in his chest. "Then use that to your advantage." Her voice softened, understanding flickering in her eyes, "I'm not certain if these words will be of any reassurance, but—" There was a small twitch in her hand, a slight lift toward him, though it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"You're... good with people, Lord Phainon."
Opening his mouth to protest—he isn't just people, he's a fortress, much like Kremnos itself—the words stalled on the tip of his tongue.
Battle. Maybe... maybe it wasn't impossible.
Right as he was about to respond, Castorice stepped away. "I have to go. Lady Aglaea is waiting."
She paused, hand on the railing. "Good luck."
He chuckled in amusement. "...Thank you." She gave him a final reassuring smile before leaving him alone with his racing thoughts.
Phainon loitered a moment longer, replaying their conversation in his head. Then, with determination that surprised even himself, he straightened and started limping down the stairs. He'd figure him out. And if he failed? Well—this was not the time to worry about that.
A small, ridiculous part of him wondered what it would be like standing shoulder to shoulder with Mydei.
Back to back.
A few hours later, far more sweat-streaked than he cared to admit after unwittingly getting caught up in some of Theodoros' affairs, he finally reached the camp where Hyacine was still tending to the remaining casualties. The pervasive scent of blood hit him before the sight of bandaged soldiers did.
As it was Parting Hour, citizens' activities had long started to come to rest—wrapping up their work, bidding goodbye to friends—simple things for everyone else. As for Phainon?
Phainon still had to confront someone he could barely manage a normal conversation with. In theory, there should be no problem.
Only... there was one, small problem.
Absolutely no one had seen Mydei.
Not even Hyacine.
"What do you mean he never showed up?" Phainon, asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
That was, in fact, a huge problem.
Hyacine finished tending to an Okheman soldier before glancing up, concern evident on her face. “Lord Mydei hasn't come by," she said gently. "Actually, I don't think anyone's heard from him since you returned."
Great. He still had to report to Aglaea, and he would have to worry about the missing half-naked warrior as well.
Phainon scanned the camp, the stench of battle hung over rows of weary young recruits burdened with grievous injuries. It was hard to picture Mydei's towering, near-invincible frame in this grim environment. Something about it made Phainon feel that Mydei simply didn't belong here.
If he hadn't visited Hyacine, then he must have gone somewhere more private to tend to his wounds. Phainon's best shot was inquiring Mydei's people.
"Sorry for disturbing you, Hyacine," he said with a quick nod. "I think I know where I might find him. But, if he shows, let me know." Phainon waved at her, stifling a grunt as his arm throbbed, and turned to leave.
Hyacine's voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Lord Phainon, your arm—" She always had a talent for reading body language. It was near impossible to hide any injury, no matter how small, from her.
"Hyacine," he interrupted her with a tight smile. "You don't have to worry about me. You already have your hands full."
She hesitated, lips parting to argue, but a soldier's groan pulled her attention away. Chewing on her bottom lip, she nodded reluctantly. "If either of you need me, just, please—" She stopped herself, then called out to him more brightly.
"Come by, alright?"
Phainon had scoured the Marmoreal Palace high and low. No Mydei. Not at any of the steaming baths, not with any of his own men—nowhere. His people didn't seem to have the slightest idea of his current whereabouts, offering nothing but shrugs.
"Brother Mydei often takes time for himself," one of the kids said. "Sometimes his highness prefers to be left alone."
Atleast Mydei's disappearance wasn't an odd phenomenon.
Phainon's shoulders sagged. Starving, filthy, aching for a warm bath, he wanted nothing more but to remove the dirt and sweat from his skin, and then finally collapse.
Yet the thought of soaking in therapeutic water while Mydei might be untreated somewhere else kept him rooted.
Out of sheer impatience—and something else he was reluctant to acknowledge—he impulsively tried messaging him. With a pained expression, his thumb hovered over Mydei's contact.
A long pause. Phainon's gaze lingered on the prince's profile and something inside his chest twinged.
No.
His eyelids shuttered. Not happening. He couldn't casually reach out to him about something like this.
What would I even say?
'Hey! Just wanted to make sure, the renowned prince of Kremnos didn't die that easily, did he?'
He snorted and shoved his teleslate back into his pocket. Maybe he and the prince just weren't fated to do more than trade punches.
Still, he planted himself a few feet away from Janus' Steed outside the baths' most inconspicuous entrance, stubbornly set on waiting before going in himself. As reckless as the man was, if there was anything Phainon had gotten to know about him, it was that he wasn't a fool. Not by any means. He had to show up of his own accord, sooner or later.
As minutes ticked by, his mind wandered.
What if he just wasn't injured enough to need Hyacine or come to the baths?
Unlikely.
Ηe seemed susceptible enough to the black tide, which meant even he needed external help sometimes.
Despite his immortality and martial prowess, he still wasn't incorruptible. Phainon had seen him in battle, fighting against it.
Sure he was powerful, relentless and—yes—shirtless, something he actually found rather strange. His red-marked, muscular frame was, admittedly, hard to ignore, especially when he was parading around. He shook his head and unconsciously let out a huff:
Showoff.
The point was, Phainon had seen what most people considered impossible. He had seen Mydei bleed.
Speaking of the man, a movement caught his eye. The showoff himself had finally graced him with his presence. Phainon squinted, hoping the blur in his vision simply came from exhaustion rather than failing eyesight.
No, that was undoubtedly Mydei.
Why is he standing by that column?
Phainon observed, waiting in silence. Mydei stood there, allowing him a moment to take him in. The prince typically carried himself in a dignified way, with an air of innate assuredness that either caused fear or made heads turn. However, in this instance, it almost seemed like he wanted to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Phainon had long figured he had a social edge over the prince.
His stomach tightened as Mydei slowly emerged from the column's shadow, like a child testing the waters, and started heading his way toward the entrance. Phainon intercepted, clearing his throat and putting on a friendly tone.
"So you really did sneak in after all, Mydei. I don't know about anywhere else, but that conspicuous physique of yours is bound to be noticed in Marmoreal Palace."
Should be a decent ice-breaker, he figured.
He didn't get to take a good look at his overall condition, but the prince seemed relatively unruffled, if his composure was anything to judge by. However, unruffled never inherently meant unscathed.
Mydei's face remained impassive, almost as if he had expected to run into him.
"Is there something you need?" he asked flatly.
Phainon suppressed a noise.
He couldn't believe this guy.
Aversion would be a strong word to describe Phainon's feelings. If anything, Mydei's unrefined manners were almost humorous.
"It's nothing. I just feared you wouldn't be preparing to "bathe" with that immortal body of yours." Phainon pointedly avoided searching the man for any wounds, a smidge of guilt already seeping in. Mydei might've managed to get hit at a less vital spot than Phainon would have, but that didn't put Phainon's mind at ease.
"You're here, and that's all that matters," he admitted, his tone softening.
Mydei's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. Phainon focused on paying attention to the changes in his posture. "It's strange though," he pressed. "Now that I say it... I thought the black tide would have no effect on you."
He swore he could almost see a hint of amusement on Mydei's face. Or maybe it was his wishful thinking.
"Oh," he replied.
Oh?
What kind of response is that?
"It seems that power comes from the "gods" after all," he continued. "If even they themselves are at its mercy, it is only natural that they are unable to protect you."
Even to his own ears, he nearly sounded like he didn't even know what he was going on about. Words were naturally coming out of his mouth before he could even process them. He's rarely ever had to carry a conversation on his own, much less to this extent.
"Yes." Mydei replied, his sharp gaze traced over Phainon's visage in suspicion.
"So... is the black tide your only weakness?" He leaned forward, searching the prince's face for any crack underneath that stoic demeanor.
"No."
Phainon stared in bewilderment. Interesting, yet also incredibly uninformative at the same time. He might have had a better shot at getting more out of squeezing blood from a rock. He could hear Professor Anaxa deducting credits from him for this terrible exchange.
"I see you're trying to get rid of me," he joked, his natural charm taking on an uncharacteristically clumsy edge under the prince's scrutiny.
Perhaps this is all I can do.
He might have truly thought that way, if he hadn't noticed the lack of tension around the man's eyes.
Something flickered in Mydei's piercing gaze, and a realization struck Phainon. Whatever semblance of dismissal he felt wasn't quite there. The armed fortress wasn't firing. The lion wasn't welcoming him with open arms, but it also wasn't baring its teeth. It was observing, almost curiously.
"I'll change the topic." He recollected himself, and thought back to his discussion with Castorice.
Right. Battle.
"There is something that I actually wish to ask you..."
Mydei simply watched him. His stance held in that same, effortless steadiness Phainon had come to recognize. The prince's shove flashed through his mind once again. The way Mydei had looked at him brought back memories of their first encounter.
The air had been heavy with tension.
It was a formal confrontation on the outskirts of the city. Aglaea had summoned Phainon to handle the arriving Kremnoan detachment, whose presence had been deemed an obstacle.
Phainon had arrived expecting chaos.
Instead, he only found a disciplined unit of silent, armored men, a single figure at their head: Mydeimos, crown prince of Castrum Kremnos.
The two men faced each other across a stretch of old ruins. Aglaea’s words echoed in his head, layered with a rare and subtle tone of unease. "Handle this with force if you must, Phainon."
He marched forth as his eyes locked on the prince. Despite the rumors and many stories he had been told, the man's appearance took him by surprise. The figure that stood before him was formidable and seasoned, and yet, he appeared to be no older than Phainon himself. There was a certain ruggedness to him that made his youth feel like an afterthought.
"She sent... you."
Mydei gave him a contemplative once-over. "They do say Lady Goldweaver is daring," he deadpanned. "I was expecting a veteran warrior."
Phainon made a mental note.
The crown prince of Kremnos is a bastard.
He offered a lazy smile. In his opinion, this match-up was a bit unfair, but any hint of intimidation he felt dissolved the moment the prince opened his mouth. He ought to humble this guy.
"Are you scared?" He summoned his greatsword, the familiar weight a comfort. "It's still not too late to run, Kremnoan."
"Hmph."
Mydei didn't wait for Phainon to continue. His eyes narrowed as he observed him; he gave a long, assessing stare that made his taunt feel hollow. Then, without a single word, he raised a gauntleted hand and sliced the air sideways. A dismissal.
He ordered his troops to stand aside—that was the first meeting between hero and prince.
In present time, Phainon looked at the prince with newfound understanding. Though he did not speak, Mydei's stance shifted, a bare adjustment of weight. Sensing an opening, Phainon pushed on, his voice dropping into a touch of earnestness.
"There are few in this city that can match me in battle, and chances to battle non-humans are few and far between in my travels. Because of this, it has been hard for me to observe the weaknesses in my swordmanship... Until I met you." He flashed a cheeky grin.
"When I crossed swords with you before, I lacked endurance and your powerful blows nearly knocked my blade from my hands. If it weren't for my slightly superior technique, I fear you would have defeated me."
Mydei huffed—a dry sound. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was probably the closest to it Phainon had heard. "Technique? You mean your laughable little tricks?"
Phainon's smile widened. "So that's how someone gets a word out of you. Since we have fought before, how about we share some of our insights?"
Mydei's brows furrowed.
"...Huh?" His typically guarded exterior cracked just enough for confusion to show.
"We have battled for all this time, yet I have never seen you fatigued... How do you train?" he hesitated for a moment, the vulnerability of the question settling over him. "Would you consider teaching me?"
The prince quietly pondered for a few seconds. "I fear you will be disappointed, hero. This is not due to my training..." he replied. His tone was straightforward and matter-of-fact, inviting no argument. "I am simply more capable of enduring pain and suffering than you are, that's all."
Phainon blinked, thrown off by the sheer, unadorned arrogance. There was no boastfulness behind his words. It was a resigned statement of truth, as if they were simply discussing bad weather.
'Doesn't that prove... something?'
Phainon wanted to laugh—not really from bitterness, but from the absurdity of it all. He had just received the most arrogant self-assessment imaginable, delivered by a man who paradoxically seemed to lack an ounce of conceit.
He took in a deep breath and shook his head. Phainon’s bemusement slowly drained away, replaced first by a lingering frustration, and then by a quiet, sincere reverence. "So that's it?"
Mydei unconsciously moved a half-step. "That is it."
The air between them thinned. Phainon refused to back away, instead, he inched closer. "Why do I feel like you don't sound so sure."
Mydei made a small, thoughtful noise in his throat. Phainon choked on a short, humorless laugh.
The man was impossible.
The weight of the moment felt strangely heavy. Phainon swiftly straightened himself, shattering the intensity. "Hyacine might seem harmless, but she is going to be furious at you for not even reporting to her."
Mydei turned toward the bath entrance without breaking stride.
"I will remember," he said. "Should I expect a defense?"
"Maybe," Phainon called after him, smiling despite himself. "Depending on your attitude, I'll consider it," he added, falling in step with him.
Without turning to look at him, Mydei asked, "Is there a reason you're still here?"
To anyone else, it would have sounded rude, but to Phainon it sounded like a genuine question. He shrugged in response.
"I was already planning on a bath, and you seem clueless. It's nearing Curtain Fall Hour, you can only enter at a time like this if you made a reservation."
Mydei tilted his head, casting him a perplexed, sidelong glance. It was, surprisingly, cute.
"You're clearly not familiar with Okhema's customs yet," Phainon teased. "It's a good thing I'm a competent host."
The prince didn't comment on that.
Phainon faltered as he stepped forward, his weight favoring his bruising ankle. He quickly adjusted his balance.
Mydei slowed beside him, watching. "You shift your weight too late, Deliverer."
He resumed his pace. "No wonder you nearly blew the mission."
Phainon’s blood rushed hot—half annoyance, half something warmer. As they walked side by side, an idea struck him, and he turned to the crown prince with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Say, how about a competition?" he suggested. "Since you're so convinced of your durability, let's see who can handle the heat of the baths for longer."
Mydei's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched curiously, a hint of intrigue in his expression. The prince crossed his arms and regarded the hero as they waited at the entrance to the baths.
"Don't tell me you're scared," Phainon taunted.
Mydei let out a sharp exhale through his nose. "Hardly."
After a fleeting pause, the corner of Mydei's mouth quirked up into a subtle, almost imperceptible, lopsided smile. "Who's competing?" he said, looking at him expectantly.
Alright, Phainon thought. Maybe he is a little bit funny.
Emphasis on little.
The doorway creaked open. Phainon's pulse quickened as a warm flush spread through his body—surely caused by the steam from the baths. He grinned, eagerly.
"Just you and me."