Archive of Our Own

Nobody expected Mydeimos to lose. She looked like she had been built specifically to win drinking competitions.

Broad shoulders made broader by the golden armor resting over them, black trousers tucked into heavy and flat war boots, and a dark cloak thrown over her arms like a cape. Bandages crossed her chest beneath it all, because delicate Okhemans made a fuss about female nudity. Her blonde and red-tipped hair was chopped like a mane around her face, so most assumed she’d cut it herself with a sword and called the result good enough.

Then there was Phainon. A skirt fell beneath her armor, carefully arranged in the way Lady Aglaea preferred the Deliverer, perfect heroine of Okhema, to look. Her heeled boots made her appear taller than she actually was, and usually she took the time to style the bangs around her face even though her busywork always produced flyaways and a cowlick. There was even a faint trace of lipstick and darkened lashes on her, most days.

Phainon looked like someone’s beloved courtly doll. Mydei looked more like she could break a spear over her knee.

So when the drinking contest was proposed, nobody questioned who would win. Least of all Mydei. “Don’t look so worried,” she told Phainon, settling into her seat, relaxing her tense muscles. “I’ll make sure they give you something gentle.”

Phainon looked down at the cup placed before her. It was more of a chalice, really. “I am not worried.”

“Of course you aren’t. You must have walked into this tavern prematurely anticipating your loss.”

There was enough confidence in Mydei’s voice to make the surrounding table of her soldiers laugh. Cifera had already begun taking bets, coins passing from palm to palm as the spectators arranged themselves around them. Phainon paid them little attention. Her gaze was fixed on Mydei, who sat entirely at ease now that the rules had been established. Her fingers drummed once against the tabletop.

“The rules are simple,” Stelle explained. She’d been the one to initiate the idea, after bearing witness to competition after competition between the two Chrysos Heirs. “You just drink until one of you can’t. Whoever remains standing wins. The loser obeys the winner for the whole of tomorrow.”

Mydei grinned. “The loser obeys… anything?”

“Within reason, but that’s really up to the two of you.”

“Then you should have said that before we started.” Phainon said it mildly, but there was a glimmer in her eyes that made Stelle feel a bit bad for her. Everyone had placed bets in Mydei’s favour.

The truth was that this had been coming for some time. Stelle had watched them compete with weary fascination. It had begun with the Titankin. Mydei had killed one more than Phainon that day, and had carried the victory around with her for nearly a week, despite the fact that the difference between them had been so small as to be practically theoretical. Phainon, who had never been particularly gracious about losing, had eventually beaten her in a race across Okhema by two seconds.

Still, neither had been satisfied. They had endured the warm baths until their skin went pink and the steam blurred the edges of their sight, each refusing to be the first to climb out. They had repeated the challenge in the cold baths, which had been considerably less pleasant for Stelle to witness, and sat in the water with the grim expressions of prisoners.

Their sparring matches were worse. There was no victory to be had there at all. One would gain the advantage, then the other; a blade would be caught, a foot swept out, a shoulder driven back, until at last they were both exhausted and neither willing to call the other truly defeated. Impenetrable stasis.

Even the cooking competition had failed them. Lady Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon had been placed in the position of judging between them, and had eaten their way through two separate meals while Mydei and Phainon watched with grave attention, awaiting a report. In the end, each judge had preferred different dishes for different reasons, and no verdict could be reached without offending at least one of the cooks.

It was becoming embarrassing to be around them. There was always another contest waiting behind the last one, another narrow margin to argue over, another technicality to invoke. Mydei had killed one more Titankin. Phainon had crossed the finish line one or two seconds sooner. One had held out a smidge longer in the cold, the other longer in the heat. Their victories, when they existed at all, were so slender that they seemed less like triumphs than accusations.

And so, eventually, Stelle had proposed the obvious solution.

“If you really want to know who is better,” she had said, voice growing conspiratorial, “why don’t you just see who can drink the other under the table?”

They had both agreed before she had finished the sentence.

Mydei was particularly confident about this one, as she had already grown up around warriors. Drinking was not exactly unfamiliar territory, and there had been nights in her youth when the Kremnoan detachment had possessed little in the way of comfort beyond a fire, a bottle, and a will to keep passing it around. She knew how to drink heavily. More importantly, she knew how to keep drinking after the point at which other people began making poor decisions.

Her size helped. She was tall, broad, and heavily muscled, and it took more liquor to affect her than it did most people.

Phainon was sitting opposite her in a skirt and heeled boots. Mydei looked at her and felt, with complete sincerity, that the matter had already been settled.

“Anything?” Mydei asked again.

Phainon’s mouth twitched. A little flush had risen beneath Phainon’s makeup, too, just visible beneath the faint dusting of colour. The sight pleased Mydei more than it ought to have.

Mydei settled further into her chair. She spread her legs beneath the table and propped her cheek into her palm, looking at Phainon with lazy satisfaction. She could almost imagine herself back in Kremnos, seated high above the rest of the court atop her throne, with warriors and supplicants gathered below her and this peculiar little prize delivered neatly into her hands.

At least Aglaea had done a fine job wrapping the gift.

Phainon’s skirt was short enough that the polished armor above it did little to conceal the toned length of her thighs. The long black boots disappeared beneath the table, though Mydei knew perfectly well what was beneath them. She had seen Phainon emerge from the baths often enough to know that those deceptively delicate-looking legs were built with rather more muscle than the rest of her appearance suggested. Her calves in particular were ridiculous.

Phainon noticed where she was looking. Her expression tightened into neutrality. “Are you already planning what sort of requests you’ll make tomorrow, Mydei?”

There was a peculiar chirpy brightness in her voice.

Mydei’s grin returned. “Of course. I have the whole day to make use of you.”

That finally made Phainon look away. She pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze to the table, shaking her head as though Mydei had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. That was it, then. That expression must’ve meant Phainon was nervous, already regretting the wager.

Someone came by with the first round. Mydei steeled herself.

Two hours later, Cipher was lying half across the table between two empty plates, laughing so hard that she had tears in her eyes. Every few moments she kicked her legs merrily beneath the bench, nearly knocking somebody’s drink over, only to dissolve into another fit of helpless giggling. Nobody knew what she was laughing about anymore.

She had pointed at a candle and declared it the best tribute to Zagreus she had ever seen, and when Stelle had looked at it and agreed, Cipher had laughed even harder.

Stelle herself, meanwhile, had a curiosity that was limitless. She was leaning heavily against Dan Heng’s side, her eyes narrowed with intense concentration.

“Cold Dragon Young. Transform,” she demanded for perhaps the seventh time, pointing at him.

“No,” Dan Heng replied, with endless patience.

Stelle squinted at him suspiciously. “Just a little.”

“No.”

“Into anything.”

“No.”

“A dragon?”

Dan Heng closed his eyes.

Stelle’s expression immediately brightened with drunken revelation. “I know you can. You really can. Can you lay an egg?”

Cipher started laughing again from across the table, kicking her feet against the bench.

Mydei was having a considerably less amusing time. Her soldiers had mostly collapsed around their table. Some were sleeping against one another, heads resting on shoulders or folded arms, while a handful remained stubbornly committed to their card game despite having apparently forgotten how cards worked.

One had been staring at the same card for so long that another soldier finally reached over and shook his arm. “Your turn.”

“I went.”

“You haven’t. You’re holding the deck.”

There was a long, drunken silence before the soldier looked down at his hand. “Oh.”

Mydei watched them all with disappointment. Only Phagousa would be proud of the scene. Normally Mydei would have barked at them to straighten themselves up, but tonight even lifting her voice seemed like an unreasonable amount of effort. Her fingers had tightened around the armrest of the booth some time ago, and she had not dared let go since.

She was drunk.

Very drunk.

Her cheeks felt hot, and there was a pleasant heaviness throughout her body that made everything seem just slightly slower than it should have been, like Oronyx playing with her. Her shoulders had finally lost their usual tension.

Her thoughts, which she kept usually arranged in favour of efficiency, had begun wandering wherever they pleased. Most troubling of all, her mouth had stopped asking permission before saying things. But she was still conscious. She was still sitting upright.

And, most importantly, she was still drinking. Which meant she was still on the path to winning.

At least, that was what she had been telling herself until she looked across the booth. Phainon was doing fine. She sat comfortably with one arm resting against the back of the booth, her cup loose in her hand. Her hair had become a little messier over the course of the evening, and there was a faint warmth in her cheeks now, but otherwise she looked almost exactly as she had when the contest began. Her blue eyes were clear. When she noticed Mydei staring, she merely raised an eyebrow and took another calm sip, smiling into the golden rim.

Mydei's grip tightened around the armrest. “How are you doing that?” she demanded, her voice slurred, though she was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t.

Phainon lowered her cup and looked at her with mild confusion. “Doing what?”

“That.” Mydei gestured at her with one hand, immediately regretted releasing the armrest, and grabbed it again when the room seemed to shift sideways. “You’re supposed to be drunk.”

Phainon's mouth twitched. “I am drunk.”

“No, you’re not. You’re sitting straight,” Mydei complained, and she really hoped that the only straight thing about Phainon was how she was sitting. “And you’re not even red.”

Phainon looked at her for a moment before the corners of her mouth curled upward. “You sure are.”

Mydei went silent to spare herself more embarrassment. The heat in her cheeks suddenly felt considerably worse. “That's not relevant,” she muttered.

Phainon’s shoulders shook as she tried to contain her laughter, and Mydei's expression darkened with offended suspicion. “You’re enjoying this when you shouldn’t. You’re cheating.”

Phainon blinked. “That’s a big accusation. How?”

Mydei stared at her with drunken determination. “I… don’t know yet.”

That only made Phainon laugh harder.

Mydei released the armrest and pushed herself upright. The booth tilted. Or perhaps she did. Either way, she caught herself against the table before she could fall outright onto her ass. Someone nearby shouted when she knocked into a cup, and Cifera, still lying across the table in a state of drunken bliss, pointed at her.

“Little lion, you fell.”

“I did not,” Mydei said, with what she believed was great dignity. “I was testing the floor. Okhemans cannot construct anything.”

She ignored Cipher’s laughter and took a step toward Phainon’s side of the booth. The first went reasonably well. The second required her to catch herself against the back of a chair. By the time she reached Phainon, she had decided that going around the booth and cramming her legs into it was too much work, so she simply leaned over the back of it and draped herself across Phainon’s shoulder.

Phainon startled and turned slightly beneath her weight. “Princess?”

Mydei rested her chin near Phainon’s shoulder, squinting at her angrily. “You’re suspicious.”

“Why am I suspicious?”

“Because you’re still fine. Did you take… a supplement?”

Phainon turned her head enough to look at her. Their faces were suddenly much closer, and for a moment Mydei forgot what she had intended to say. Then she remembered and leaned around Phainon's other shoulder to peer down at her curiosity.

Phainon had, over the past few weeks, developed a habit of wearing increasingly low-cut tops beneath her armor. The public seemed to think the Deliverer ought to look radiant at all times, and Phainon, whether knowingly or not, had become comfortable with the city’s adoration. Mydei privately thought it was ridiculous. More importantly, she thought it was irritating that the entire city got to look. Her eyes lingered.

“Mydei,” she said, amusement already creeping into her voice, “are you glaring at my outfit?”

“It’s suspicious too.”

Phainon glanced down at herself and then back at Mydei. “It’s a shirt. You’re welcome to inspect it as you please.”

“It’s barely a shirt. How d’you… Why do you call me half-naked all the time…” Mydei frowned and leaned farther over her shoulder, unconcerned with how thoroughly she was invading the Deliverer’s personal space.

“It’s comfortable to wear, when you insist on sparring with me constantly,” Phainon smiled. “I think you’re drunk, princess.”

“Mm… But I have excellent eyesight.”

“Really? You’re currently only looking at my collarbone.” Phainon covered her mouth, but it was already too late. Her shoulders began shaking with laughter.

“You’re doing this to spite my honour. I shouldn’t have come to Okhema.”

“I promise I am not!” Phainon laughed again, and Mydei’s expression became increasingly aggrieved. She leaned farther over the bench until she was practically hanging from Phainon’s shoulder, her face inches from the side of the Deliverer’s.

“Why are you still fine?” she demanded.

Phainon’s laughter softened into something fond. She reached up and patted Mydei’s cheek, which only made Mydei blink at her in confusion.

“Mydei,” she said, “Did you forget? I grew up on a farm.”

Mydei stared. “So?”

Phainon continued, amused by the dawning realization on Mydei’s face. “My family made our own alcohol. We weren’t exactly measuring it into delicate little cups. If there was a celebration of a good harvest, somebody brought out a bottle. Or if there was hard work to be done, somebody brought out a bottle. And if somebody in the village got married… well, it was important to bring out several barrels.”

Mydei slowly looked toward the collection of empty cups surrounding them. “You’ve been drinking farm liquor.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts, and seemed to realize that she had failed to articulate the point that had existed in her head. “You look so delicate,” she finally said.

Phainon smiled. “You’ve seen me fight. You’ve even lost to me.”

“Technicalities.”

“You lost the race.”

“It was two seconds, because a chimera was in fro—”

“You lost in the cold bath.”

"By an insig— insignif…” she struggled to pronounce the word in the common tongue. “By a small margin.”

“Mhm, mhm, and now—” Phainon lifted her cup and gave Mydei a maddeningly serene smile. “I’m winning this one too. And you have to listen to me tomorrow.”

Mydei closed her eyes and tightened her hold around Phainon’s shoulder. She had decided that, if she was going to lose, she might as well make herself comfortable about it.

“Dan Heng?” Phainon called out, the last thing Mydei registered as she started to feel sleepy, “Should we call it a day—”

The next day, Mydei woke to the unpleasant taste of alcohol coating her mouth and the distinct sensation that her lips had been left out in a distant desert overnight.

She swallowed, and her throat felt terribly dry. Her stomach rolled almost immediately afterward, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut and breathe slowly through her nose.

With a quiet groan, she tried to sit up. That was another mistake. Her shoulder protested sharply, stiff and sore from being held at some terrible angle for far too long. Mydei froze halfway upright, grimacing, before slowly lowering herself back down.

“…Ow.” She lay there for a moment, staring blearily at the ceiling. Her entire body felt heavy and sluggish.

And something was wrapped tightly around her. Mydei frowned and looked down.

A thick blue fabric covered her from her shoulders nearly to her ankles. It was tucked around her sides and underneath her in a way that left her looking less like a warrior and more like someone had decided to bundle her up for safekeeping.

Mydei tugged experimentally at the edge, and she realized that she knew that gold trim. Her eyes narrowed. She was practically swaddled in Phainon’s cape.

“…What?”

She carefully removed the cape and set it aside, before she carried herself to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, searching for anything she could stuff her face with. When she was halfway through a small loaf of bread, there came a knock at the front door. Mydei stopped chewing.

She stared toward the entrance, the remaining half of the loaf still clutched in one hand. Another knock followed.

With a quiet, mournful sigh, she set the food aside. Her stomach immediately objected to the executive decision, but she ignored it and wiped the crumbs from her fingers and mouth before pushing herself upright.

She was still dressed only in the loose trousers she’d apparently gone to sleep in. The effort required to find a shirt was too much for her. Whoever was knocking insistently at the door would simply have to reckon with her bare chest.

She made her way across the room, one hand occasionally brushing against the wall whenever her stiff shoulder complained too loudly. Her head still felt heavy, and every step carried the faint, lingering sway of the previous night’s merriment. Mydei rubbed one eye, sighed, and pulled the door open.

Phainon was already smiling on the other side. “Morning, princess—” Her eyes dropped and widened. “—Oh my Titans.”

Mydei leveled an utterly uninterested look at her. “If it’s just you, can I go back to my kitchen now?”

Phainon laughed. She both stepped closer to Mydei, blocking the sight of the princess from anyone passing by, and then glanced off to the side herself as though finding the wall very interesting.

“Silly, did you forget? You’re under my command today! I won our competition.”

Mydei groaned loudly enough that she thought her stomach might have joined in on her behalf. Did Phainon have to be so talkative all the time?

“Can it wait until tomorrow when I don’t feel like I’ve been trampled by Kokopo?”

“Nope!” Phainon placed both hands on Mydei’s shoulders and pushed her back inside before quickly shutting the door behind them. “My first order is—you put on a shirt!”

Mydei gritted her teeth.

Phainon waited outside Mydei’s bedroom with her hands folded neatly behind her back. The princess had gone back inside to put on a shirt, which Phainon considered an important first step toward fulfilling the terms of their wager.

She had not yet decided what her second order would be. There were, admittedly, quite a few possibilities, and Mydei had been unusually compliant so far. Phainon smiled faintly at the thought.

Last night, Mydei had been almost unbearably amusing. The princess had spent most of the final hour of the competition glaring at her as though Phainon had personally invented the concept of alcohol just to inconvenience her. Then, after declaring that Phainon was suspicious, cheating, and somehow violating her honour by wearing a shirt with a low neckline, Mydei had fallen asleep right atop her shoulder.

Phainon had carried her home. She was heavy, but it was still the best night of Phainon’s life for it.

The cape had been necessary because Mydei had fallen asleep without covering herself properly, and Phainon had not been willing to let her wake up freezing. She had tucked it around her as carefully as she could, though Mydei had apparently slept through the entire process.

Phainon had spent several minutes afterward simply watching her sleep. It was a dangerous habit, but she was beginning to realize that she had developed quite a few dangerous habits where Mydei was concerned.

Her gaze drifted toward the closed bedroom door. Perhaps she had always been doomed.

Two months ago, for example, she had been sitting with Cipher when the conversation had first turned in this particular direction. It had started, as about half of her conversations with Cipher did, with complaining. The woman was sprawled across a kline, groaning and burying her face in the cushions.

“I just don’t understand it,” she muttered, tail flailing around. “Why is talking to women so difficult?”

Phainon paused. Women? That sounded less like a complaint about people in general.

Cipher lifted her head, and made some kind of cutting gesture with her hands. “You certainly know what I mean.”

Phainon feigned ignorance. “Hm? I really do not.”

Eventually Cipher sighed dramatically and sat upright. She gestured vaguely with both hands, making more snipping motions. “Dating women.”

Phainon tilted her head.

Cipher slumped back against the kline. “In Dolos, at least, most are a little more straightforward about it. It might be the only honest thing we practiced, actually. If someone is interested in you, they make it obvious. Or they just ask you out. Or they just…” Cipher waved her hand. “Do something direct.”

Phainon listened. “Here, then?”

Cipher groaned. “Okhema is overly complicated.”

That, Phainon understood. Okhema was considerably different from other city states like Dolos and Kremnos in certain cultural matters. There were expectations placed on men and women alike, as there would be anywhere, but they were not distributed equally. Okheman men were expected to initiate courtship, to pursue gently, to gradually make their intentions known. Women were expected to be receptive to those initiations. Or, at least, that was what Phainon had observed.

Cipher continued, increasingly animated now that she had found a person willing to listen to her.

“Because of all of that, women here seem to be waiting all the time. And then when two women like each other, they both stand around, fruitlessly waiting for the other one to act upon it.”

Phainon frowned thoughtfully. “That does sound quite inefficient.”

“Exactly!” Cipher pointed at her triumphantly. “It’s ridiculous. You could already spend months wondering whether a person likes you because nobody wants to be the one who makes a significant move.”

Phainon nodded slowly. “I see. And if both people are women…”

“They’re both wondering!”

Phainon was quiet for a moment. Perhaps Cipher’s theory applied to her own situation. She had, obviously, been thinking about Mydei for months.

It had begun quietly enough that Phainon had initially dismissed it as admiration. Mydei was overly impressive. Proud in that peculiar way that made every compliment sound like an insult and every insult sound suspiciously affectionate.

Phainon liked being around her, liked sparring with her, liked just watching her fight from the sidelines. She liked the way Mydei’s expression softened whenever she spoke about her own people, even when she pretended not to be sentimental. She liked the way Mydei laughed heartily when she played with the chimeras, because it was so rare and so completely unguarded.

She liked—

Well. There were many, many things. And she had, on occasion, attempted to make those things known. Unfortunately Mydeimos was remarkably difficult to flirt with.

Phainon had tried compliments. Mydei had interpreted them as challenges. She had tried lingering touches. Mydei had assumed Phainon was simply being affectionate. She had once told Mydei that she looked beautiful. Mydei had looked at herself, frowned, and asked whether something was wrong with her armor to warrant such a comment.

The click of the latch cut through Phainon’s thoughts, scattering her memories of Cipher’s lecture back into the quiet corners of her mind. The bedroom door swung inward, and Mydei stepped out into the hallway.

True to the wager, she had gotten dressed. She wore her familiar trousers with her armor buckled securely atop them, but beneath the rigid leather and bronze, she had finally added a shirt. It was a simple, breathable linen chiton, exactly the sort of practical layer Phainon had hoped for.

Seeing her like this, a sudden pang of guilt pricked at Phainon’s chest. Mydei looked visibly exhausted, the lingering aftermath of last night’s competition hanging heavy over her shoulders. Her movements were slightly slower than usual, and the bright morning light bleeding through the hallway windows made her wince faintly. Forcing a fiercely proud, hungover princess to fuss with extra layers and buckles felt almost cruel.

But as Phainon looked at her, the guilt dissolved into a quiet, stubborn resolve. No more challenges interpreted as sparring invitations. No more lingering touches dismissed as mere platonic affection. If Okhema’s courting customs were a labyrinth of waiting and missed signals, and if Mydei was going to remain stubbornly oblivious to everything else, then Phainon would simply have to be direct.

Today, Mydeimos was going to get it through her beautiful, thick skull: she was being courted.

Phainon smoothed the front of her own tunic, keeping her hands folded neatly behind her back as she offered a soft, deliberate smile. “An excellent first step,” Phainon said, her voice dropping into a smooth, teasing cadence. “And I must say, the chiton suits you perfectly, Princess.”

Mydei rolled her eyes, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she let out a flat exhale. “Whatever,” she muttered, her voice slightly rougher than usual from the alcohol and the lack of sleep. “What now?”

Phainon didn’t let the sharp tone deter her. Instead, she stepped closer and gently patted Mydei’s shoulder, letting her hand linger for just a fraction of a second too long against the linen of the chiton. “Do not worry about that just yet,” Phainon murmured, her tone infuriatingly calm. “For now, just be good and follow me.”

Mydei’s hands instantly clenched into tight fists at her sides. It was a very good thing she hadn’t put her gauntlets on yet, or the metal would have groaned under the strain.

“You better not be feeling superior to me just because you have a bottomless hole in your stomach for alcohol,” Mydei hissed, narrowing her eyes as she forced herself to keep up with Phainon’s easy stride. She looked fiercely protective of her bruised pride. Cipher’s nickname for her made a lot of sense. “I am only following you today because it would be dishonourable to break the terms of a wager. Do not forget that.”

Phainon hummed, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips as she began leading the princess down the corridor toward the house’s doors. She glanced sideways at Mydei, taking in the tightness around the princess’s eyes and the way she subtly leaned away from the harsh morning glare cutting through the colonnade.

As they neared the exit, Phainon paused, her hand resting near the heavy handle of the door. She looked Mydei up and down one more time, her expression softening.

“On second thought,” Phainon said, turning fully back toward the interior hallways, “I need to get some food in you first.”

The central marketplace was already vibrant with activity, thick with the sharp scent of roasted meats and the earthier aroma of baked dough.

Phainon had been planning for this. She had saved a considerable amount of coins specifically for today, confident well in advance that she would take home the win. She’d definitely have to thank Stelle later; it was her brilliant idea to suggest a drinking contest in the first place, knowing Mydei’s competitive streak would easily blind her to Phainon’s terrifying tolerance. What a great partner.

Navigating the bustling crowds, Phainon steered the grumbling princess toward a cluster of popular food stalls. She quickly bought Mydei a thickly fried flatbread drizzled with wild honey and sprinkled with crushed nuts, alongside a small bowl of savory cracked-wheat porridge cooked in goat’s milk, knowing it worked wonders for a sour stomach.

At first, Mydei ate with a sort of aggressive, stubborn dignity. But as the warm food settled, the tightness around her eyes began to ease. By the time she finished her last bite of a savory chickpea and herb fritter, the morning glare didn’t seem to make her wince.

“Why didn’t you let me pay for any of that?” Mydei demanded, her brow furrowing as she gestured vaguely to the empty ceramic bowls on the stall's counter. “I have more than enough coin. I do not need you spending your measly savings on my breakfast.”

Phainon adjusted the drape of her cloak, offering the princess a serene smile.

“You lost the wager, Mydei. You have to do as I say today anyways. So there is really no point in arguing about it.”

The market square began to thin out as Phainon maneuvered Mydei away from the food vendors and toward the more specialized artisan stalls. Her next stop was a narrow alcove shaded by a deep indigo awning, where the heavy scents of distilled resins and sweet almond base oils hung thick in the air.

Phainon stepped up to the counter, her eyes sweeping over the rows of small, delicately blown glass vessels and polished stone alabastrons.

Mydei trailed a step behind her, crossing her arms and eyeing the tiny bottles with a look of profound skepticism. “What is all this?” she muttered, leaning in slightly, only to wince as a particularly sharp wave of frankincense hit her nose. “What are you buying now?”

“Just a few necessities,” Phainon replied smoothly, tapping the glass of a slender vial filled with a pale, amber-coloured liquid. It was an oil infused with crushed lavender, wild mint, and a hint of warm rockrose, perfectly formulated to soothe tense muscles and ease a thumping headache.

“Necessities,” Mydei repeated, her tone flat. “You must be preparing to embalm someone.”

“Losses are a constant in this journey,” Phainon chuckled darkly, paying the merchant with a few of her saved coins and sliding the small, heavy vial into the pouch at her hip. She cast a long look at the line of Mydei’s shoulders beneath her leather armor, imagining how those stubborn muscles would ultimately soften under her hands. “You will appreciate this purchase later on. I promise.”

Mydei let out a small, suspicious grunt but didn't press further. With the first purchase secured, Phainon led the way deeper into the clothiers’ district, guiding them toward a semi-private boutique draped in fine, translucent silks and sheer linen.

It was a shop explicitly dedicated to intimate wear and sheer chitons meant to be worn in the privacy of a bedchamber. Phainon began browsing the racks, letting her fingers brush against the incredibly soft fabrics. Mydei stood in the center of the shop like a statue accidentally dropped into a garden, utterly bored by the gossamer pieces surrounding her.

To Mydei, clothing was meant to protect against a blade or keep out the cold; she clearly didn’t see the practical utility in a strip of dyed Aidonian purple silk that barely covered anything at all.

Phainon glanced back at her, a wicked little thought crossing her mind. For a fleeting second, she was deeply tempted to pick up a few of the more daring, translucent wraps, duck behind the changing curtain, and ask Mydei to rate how they looked on her.

No, Phainon thought, stopping herself with a silent, sharp intake of breath. Too fast. She’ll just assume I’m being vain or testing her eyes for their symmetry.

Besides, as much as she wanted Mydei to look at her, Phainon found herself far more consumed by a different vision. Her eyes drifted to a beautifully draped, deep crimson strophion and a matching sheer wrap, the fabric so fine it was nearly a shadow. It would contrast spectacularly against Mydei’s sun-kissed skin and the sharp lines of her athletic frame.

Phainon picked it up, stepping back over to the oblivious woman and holding the crimson fabric up against Mydei’s chest, right over her golden armor.

“What are you doing now?” Mydei asked, blinking down at the delicate silk with a perplexed frown.

“I am imagining,” Phainon murmured, her voice dropping an octave. She stepped close, close enough that the scent of the mint-and-lavender oil at her hip drifted between them, close enough that Mydei would have to look down into her eyes. Phainon let her fingers trace the very edge of the silk where it pressed against Mydei’s collarbone. “I think this colour would suit you beautifully, Mydeimos. Don’t you agree?”

Mydei was quick to break the spell, letting out a huff that blew a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. “I already have more than enough pairs of undergarments at home,” she informed her flatly, entirely immune to the heavy, romantic atmosphere Phainon was trying so desperately to cultivate. “I have a full chest of them. I do not need more.”

Phainon’s heart did a sudden, violent flip against her ribs. Her face flushed, a heavy, burning blush creeping rapidly up her neck and flooding her cheeks. Her mind, usually so calculated, completely betrayed her. It instantly filled with the unauthorized image of Mydei standing in her bedchamber, proudly presenting her collection—showing them all off to Phainon one by one to prove her point.

Phainon had to clear her throat tightly just to keep her voice steady. She swallowed down the sudden dry warmth in her throat, forcing her blush to recede as she fought for control. “Haha… is that so?” Phainon managed, her voice a little tighter than before as she turned back to the racks to hide her burning face. She began thumbing through the hanging silks again, desperate for a distraction. “And tell me, Princess... among this vast collection of yours, do you happen to have anything in blue and white?”

Mydei frowned, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “Blue and white? No. Most of mine are dyed the deep reds of my house. Why would I have those?”

“Those are my colours,” Phainon murmured, her composure returning as she turned back around. The blush was gone, replaced by a soft, dangerous spark of confidence in her eyes. She leaned back against the wooden frame of the rack, crossing her arms. “I was simply wondering if you would ever want to wear them.”

Mydei opened her mouth to snap a retort about house allegiances and pride, but Phainon cut her off.

“You looked awfully snug wrapped up in my cape last night, after all. I thought the palette suited you rather well.”

Mydei’s entire face flared a sudden, furious crimson. Her jaw clamped shut and her right hand instantly pulled back, snapping into a rock-solid fist that looked ready to shatter Phainon’s nose right there, in the middle of the boutique.

Phainon simply held Mydei’s gaze, her smirk widening just a fraction as she raised a single, silencing finger.

“I command you not to punch me today.”

Mydei’s fist trembled in mid-air, hovering mere inches from Phainon’s face. She looked like a volatile mixture of pure outrage and a fiercely law-abiding warrior having a massive internal crisis. For a split second, it really looked like she might just take the dishonour.

Instead, she let out a sharp, snarling breath through her nose, dropping her hand back to her side with an aggressive slap against her thigh armor. “You are a coward,” Mydei hissed, her eyes flashing with dangerous, beautiful heat as she glared down at her. “Hiding behind a wager because you know your jaw wouldn’t survive.”

“Perhaps,” Phainon replied, unbothered as she reached past the furious princess to grab the delicate, ocean-blue silk set she had been eyeing. “But a win is a win, Princess. Come along.”

The walk away from the boutique was filled with Mydei’s low, rhythmic grumbling, though she kept her fists safely tucked at her sides. A cat having lost her claws.

Instead of heading down toward the lower levels where the public bathhouses sat, Phainon steered them up a winding, sun-bleached stone staircase.

They emerged onto a wide, scenic rooftop terrace overlooking the heart of Okhema. Usually, when the two of them came up here, it was during the quiet hours, using the empty stone expanse to trade bruises. But at midday, the rooftop was entirely transformed. It was a well-known spot where couples met to escape and liaise, whispering to one another against the stone balustrades. Today, it was bustling with people soaking in the warmth, lounging on stone benches, and sharing quiet conversations.

Mydei stopped dead in her tracks, looking around the crowded terrace with confusion.

“Why would you bring me here at midday? I am not going to toss you around when there is a chance your body will fly off the edge and hit a civilian. This is completely impractical.”

“Sit down,” Phainon ordered gently, gesturing to an empty stone bench shaded by a spreading olive tree. “We are not here to spar. We are just going to relax today and look at the view for a little bit.”

Mydei let out a long, defeated sigh, but the exhaustion won out. She sank onto the stone bench, her heavy armor clinking as she leaned her back against the wall, shading her eyes from the bright midday sun.

A bright-eyed young vendor weaving through the terrace approached their bench, carrying a flat basket filled with fresh morning clippings. Phainon’s eyes immediately bypassed the dramatic red roses and the traditional myrtle, landing instead on a cluster of tiny, delicate blossoms. Forget-me-nots. 

Phainon tossed a few coins into the vendor’s basket and picked out two of the small blue stems.

She turned back to the bench, stepping right between Mydei’s knees. “Lean close,” Phainon murmured, her voice softening completely as she looked down at the fierce, beautiful line of the Kremnoan’s jaw. “And hold still.”

Mydei blinked up at her. True to her word and the terms of the wager, she leaned forward, her gaze locking onto Phainon as she held perfectly still.

Phainon reached up, her fingers brushing gently past Mydei’s temple. She tucked one blue flower behind Mydei’s left ear, and then she reached around to the other side, her chest brushing Mydei’s shoulder as she tucked the second flower behind her right ear.

“A perfect match.”

Mydei just blinked up at her, looking bewildered. She reached up a hand, her fingertips hovering cautiously.

“What was that for?” she asked, her voice devoid of any romantic revelation. “Is this a traditional Okheman remedy I am unaware of? Because my headache has already subsided.”

To Mydei, flowers were either decorations for a temple or something you stepped on during a march. Phainon stepped closer, reaching out to gently catch Mydei’s chin between her fingers. Her grip was soft but firm, tilting Mydei’s face slightly to the right.

“Look,” Phainon commanded, directing her gaze across the terrace.

A few paces away, a young man was standing before the same flower vendor. He was smiling softly, carefully selecting a bright orange blossom, and then turning to tuck it tenderly behind his partner’s ear. The girl flushed a brilliant pink, leaning into his touch.

Phainon let go of Mydei’s chin, watching the princess’s face. Mydei looked back up at Phainon.

“Oh,” Mydei said, nodding slowly. “They are copying you. Shameless.”

Phainon bit the inside of her cheek so hard she was surprised she didn't draw blood. She prayed Mnestia, or whatever deity presided over hopelessly oblivious princesses, for the strength to survive the rest of the afternoon.

“Yes, Mydei,” Phainon nodded hopelessly. “They saw us from across the terrace and decided to mimic my genius.”

The post-midday heat was beginning to bake the stone streets of Okhema, and Mydei was, frankly, entirely out of her depth.

When Phainon had barged into her home that morning, Mydei had braced herself for the absolute worst of the worst. She had expected grueling physical trials or humiliating displays. Anything involving Dromas waste. So far, Phainon had mostly just used her as a captive audience and a source of entertainment while she went shopping.

It didn’t feel like a punishment at all. Or, at least, not one Mydei recognized—and having grown up the way she did, she had been through plenty. Was this the Okheman idea of a penalty? Just being forced to walk around in the sun, wear a comfortable shirt, and eat honey-draped flatbread? Was Phainon trying to assert dominance over a competitor by spending her own savings on Mydei’s breakfast?

If so, it was a terrible strategy. Unfortunately for Phainon, Mydei didn’t find any of this punishing. In truth, she deeply enjoyed spending time with Phainon, even if she could not grasp the purpose behind whatever the hell this day was supposed to be.

They were currently navigating their way into a lively quarter that Mydei recognized as being full of high-end restaurants and taverns. Just as they had crossed into the district, Phainon had stopped and requested that they link arms. Mydei assumed it was a challenge. She had braced her core, expecting an impromptu, walking arm-wrestling match similar to the brutal grip-strength competitions she’d once lost against Castorice. But Phainon had slid her arm through Mydei’s, anchoring them together like chain links, and kept walking.

Mydei kept her bicep flexed, assuming the competition was actually a test of bicep girth. It was a bizarre metric to compete on; Mydei was confident Phainon would lose a contest of sheer muscle volume anyway. Granted, the way the other woman casually swung around a greatsword the exact same height as herself was nothing to ignore, but Mydei’s own arms were nothing short of a warrior’s pride.

Yet, as the paces stretched into minutes, Phainon did not try to trip her. She just walked close, her hip occasionally brushing against Mydei’s thigh, content to keep their limbs woven.

Phainon led them toward a stone staircase on the fringe of the street, winding downwards away from the worst of the heat. They stepped through a heavy door, and found themselves in a high-end establishment. A host stepped forward, bowing his head with deep respect. “Lady Phainon, we are so pleased that you and Lady Mydeimos have decided to dine with us today.”

Phainon offered a few pleasantries in return. It reminded Mydei vividly of when she had first brought her people to Okhema, having to navigate Phainon talking to her in that exact same confusing manner of political posturing.

The host led them through the main floor of the busy restaurant, weaving past crowded tables where patrons watched them pass. Finally, he ushered them into a secluded private room at the back. The small space was bathed in a warm glow, entirely illuminated by candlelight. Only when the door clicked shut behind them did Phainon finally untangle her arm from Mydei’s, breaking their chain-link bond.

Mydei let out a small, triumphant puff of air, rolling her shoulder out. “Hm. Admitting your defeat then?”

Phainon paused, turning to look at her. “…What?”

Without a word, Mydei turned her arm, flexing her bicep and grinning proudly. She held the pose, showcasing the hard peak of muscle she had been stubbornly maintaining for the last twenty minutes. It cramped a little bit.

Phainon stared blankly at Mydei’s arm. She looked up at Mydei’s smug face, then back down to the flexed bicep, her mouth parting slightly. She quickly shook her head and gestured toward the table. Insisting on a bizarre display of protocol, Phainon stepped past her to pull Mydei’s chair out first. Mydei sank into it with a skeptical look, watching as Phainon finally walked around to take the seat directly across from her. Another attempt at rubbing in the loss, surely.

“Am I to assume,” Mydei began, leaning her forearms on the wood, “that I will once again be deprived of the right to pay for our meal?”

“You assume correctly,” Phainon replied cheekily, leaning her chin on her hand. The golden candlelight caught the curve of Phainon’s face, making the way her eyelashes batted look utterly stunning.

Shaking off the momentary haze, Mydei looked around the empty table, her brow furrowing. “Why are there no menus in this place? How are we supposed to know what to order?”

“Why are you still fussing? I have already taken care of it. My only order for you now is to try the food, and tell me honestly if you like it.”

A moment later, the kitchen staff arrived, bearing heavy silver platters. As the lids were lifted, the savory aromas of roasted lamb with mountain herbs, dark barley flatbreads, and thick, salted lentil stews flooded the private room. Mydei stared down at the spread, her eyes widening in shock. It wasn’t Okheman food at all. Every single dish on the table was Kremnoan.

They started digging in. Mydei found herself thoroughly enjoying the meal; the meat was perfectly tender, and the rich blend of mountain herbs was a welcome comfort. It wasn’t prepared exactly the way it would have been back home, but she knew that was mostly because the ingredients available around Okhema were vastly different from those found in the terrain of Kremnos. Still, the kitchen had done an impressive job.

As she chewed, Mydei eyed Phainon. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting a smug lecture or an explanation of what advantage Phainon thought she was gaining by tracking down a specialty foreign kitchen.

But Phainon just sat across the table, enjoying herself immensely as she watched Mydei eat. Taking the cue, Mydei didn’t offer any conversation either. They spent the rest of the meal in a comfortable, heavy silence, watching each other eat under the glow of the candles. Mydei didn’t mind the quiet at all. Usually the Deliverer would talk her ear right off, spinning circles around her victim with her words alone.

When they were done eating, Phainon leaned back in her chair.

“Well, what did you think?”

Mydei wiped her mouth, unwilling to lie about something as sacred as a good meal. “It was incredible,” she admitted bluntly.

Phainon hummed, her eyes sparkling. “Then how are you going to thank me for such a great meal?”

Mydei leveled a deadpan look at her. “Well, you could let me pay for this great meal.”

Phainon frowned and shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

Before Mydei could argue, the door clicked open one last time, and a final dish was set down between them. Mydei looked down at it, her brow furrowing. It was a beautiful, golden-baked dessert. A rich, honey-soaked sweet cheese tatin dusted liberally with poppy seeds.

“That is not a Kremnoan dish,” Mydei observed out loud.

“No, it isn’t,” Phainon responded, her gaze dropping to the plate. “It is actually one from Aedes Elysiae.”

It was one thing for Phainon to hunt down Kremnoan ingredients to appease a captive princess, but it was an entirely different matter for her to open up a piece of her own heritage. Phainon was sharing a part of her home—a part of who she was before she became the Deliverer—with her.

They both picked up their cutlery, and as they reached for the dessert, their forks gently brushed against each other.

Mydei found that she was not only enjoying the rich flavor. She was captivated by the sight of Phainon eating it, as she savoured a taste that reminded her of good, peaceful times.

After dinner, they walked around the streets of Okhema for a while. Phainon would have found it incredibly romantic if the sky had darkened up, but alas, Okhema was a realm trapped in constant, eternal daytime. To fill the time, she had commanded Mydei to tell her a story, and she had listened closely, utterly enraptured, as the princess spoke with intense passion about one of her past war campaigns.

Before they knew it, they had arrived at the bathhouse. Phainon could tell from the subtle shift in Mydei’s posture that she was already assuming they were going to compete to see who could withstand the coldest or hottest baths. Instead, Phainon bypassed the public sections entirely, leading them right up to the Hero’s Baths.

To her immense relief, no other Chrysos Heir was present; the grand, shimmering space was entirely theirs.

For some reason, Phainon always felt the need to undress behind a privacy screen, emerging a minute later with a towel securely wrapped around her chest.

Mydei possessed no such reservations. She got straight to stripping right by the edge of the golden bath. Her heavy shoes, her armor, the simple linen chiton she had been forced to wear, her trousers, and her undergarments were all methodically folded and left in a neat pile on a kline. Reaching up, she grabbed a large hairpin, deftly pulling her hair into a loose bun and pinning it firmly in place.

Then, she stepped down the smooth marble stairs and submerged herself into the golden depths, letting out a soft, involuntary moan as the water temperature met her skin. It always felt just right, perfectly suited to her aching body.

Phainon emerged from behind the screen a moment later, her towel wrapped tight and one of the shopping bags she had acquired earlier clutched in her hand. Mydei watched her openly, tracking Phainon as she set the bag down on the stone ledge. 

Phainon stepped into the pool, only unfastening and removing the towel when she was already mostly submerged beneath the shimmering water. As Phainon reached back into the shopping bag to grab something, Mydei found herself completely distracted. The golden light of the bath reflected upward, catching Phainon’s wavy white hair as the tips dipped into the water. It looked almost golden itself underneath the surface, shifting like liquid metal.

When the Deliverer began wading her way, holding a small object, Mydei realized this was a significant development. During their usual bathhouse visits—competitions or not—they never sat close to one another. But as Phainon closed the distance, Mydei found that, once again, she didn’t mind their proximity at all.

“Turn around,” Phainon ordered.

Mydei blinked, looking at her blankly. “What? And face the outer edge?”

“Yes.”

It was a command, so Mydei did exactly as she was asked. She turned her back to Phainon, crossing her bare arms and resting them heavily on the smooth stone ledge of the bath. Behind her, she heard the splashing of Phainon stepping closer through the water. There was a faint, distinct pop as Phainon uncapped a small vessel, followed immediately by the paper-like sound of palms rubbing vigorously against each other. A sudden, potent wave of scent like wild mint bloomed into the steamy air.

Before Mydei could process the soothing scent profile, Phainon’s slick, oil-warmed hands pressed against the bare skin of her back.

“What are—”

“Shh. Relax.”

Mydei went rigid. She considered objecting. Then Phainon’s thumbs pressed into the muscles beside her spine, and Mydei’s entire train of thought vanished. A low sound escaped her before she could stop it.

“Ah—” She stiffened again, slapping a hand over her own mouth.

Phainon paused. “Actually, new command. No muting yourself today.”

“I despise you.”

Phainon’s hands resumed their work, sliding outward across the muscles of Mydei’s shoulders before pressing firmly into the knots gathered there. The mint-scented oil warmed beneath her palms, and like she’d studied her body beforehand, Phainon knew exactly where Mydei carried the most tension.

Another groan slipped out. Mydei closed her eyes. It was humiliating. Phainon touching her did not bother her as much as it should have. It was mostly the fact that Phainon was good at this.

Her thumbs found the tight spot beneath Mydei’s shoulder blade and worked into it with enough pressure to make the ache flare before melting into relief.

Mydei’s head dropped forward. “Titans…”

Phainon laughed softly. “There?”

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”

“You’ve been carrying all your tension right here.” Phainon pressed again.

Mydei’s fingers curled against the stone. A helpless, gravelly groan rumbled from her chest. She narrowed her eyes. “Is this part of the humiliation? You, making me sit here while you make noises come out of me.”

Phainon moved her hands higher, kneading the muscles at the base of Mydei’s neck. Mydei’s eyes closed again despite herself.

“Another good spot? Relax. You’re holding yourself so stiffly I could balance a cup on your shoulders.”

“If you tell anyone about this, I will deny everything.” Mydei sighed and rested her cheek against her folded arms, all but surrendering. The warmth of the bath had seeped into her bones while Phainon continued working the tension from her shoulders with maddening patience.

Mydei hated how quickly she was getting used to it. More than that, she hated how safe it felt.

“…You’re strangely good at this.”

“I’ve had practice. Farm work makes everyone’s back hurt.” Phainon’s hands moved lower, carefully working along the muscles between Mydei’s shoulder blades.

Mydei exhaled slowly. “Still,” she groused, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

Phainon hesitated. Then her voice came quietly from behind her. “Because I like taking care of you? You looked like you were about to fall apart when you woke up.”

Mydei frowned, a sudden spark of irritation prickling through her relaxed state. “Is that what all of this has been for, then? So you can have a warm feeling inside knowing you’ve cared for someone?”

Tightness coiled in her chest. She felt incredibly upset, realizing it might not have been all for her specifically. Phainon may have just wanted someone to dote on, and it just so happened that Mydei was the one who had lost their competition.

Behind her, Phainon’s hands instantly left her skin. Sensing the sudden shift in the air, Mydei glanced around over her shoulder.

Phainon was staring back at her, looking entirely like a kicked puppy. Her golden-tinted eyes were wide and vulnerable. “Mydei,” Phainon said, her voice dropping into a hurt whisper. “Do you really believe I would do this for just anyone?”

Mydei blinked, unsure what she had said to make Phainon so sad, but a heavy wave of guilt washed over her anyway. She shifted uncomfortably in the water. “You are... you are known for being kind to everyone in Okhema. I think I’ve just been the luckiest one today.”

Phainon stared at her, her expression twisting as if she were desperately overthinking something, her mind visibly racing beneath her wet, silver hair. Then, before she could stop herself, she quickly blurted out, “Mydeimos, do you have any idea how badly I wish to court you?”

Mydei’s jaw nearly dropped. She spun around fully in the water to face her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Phainon said, her chin lifting with determination, though her cheeks were flushed. “I don’t just want anyone to cherish. I want you.”

Mydei stared at her, completely frozen. They were still technically naked and bare in front of each other, the shimmering water doing little. She looked at the smooth line of Phainon’s collarbone, the warmth in her eyes, and the knightly sincerity on her face. She could not believe Phainon may actually want every single part of her.

“…Carnally…?” Mydei managed to choke out.

“Well—I meant it romantically! But... yes... that too…”

Mydei let out a long breath, the pieces of the entire day finally crashing together in her mind. “So this is why you're always staring at me?”

“Please, do not say it like I’m stalking you,” Phainon complained, though she couldn’t hide her sheepish smile. “But yes…”

Mydei let out a heavy sigh, but the tension completely drained from her as she finally relaxed.

“I’ve been told I am a straightforward person. Do you recall the time when I had only just met the chimeras in the garden of life for the first time? A woman said ‘You’re so cute, I could eat you up’—”

“—and you quickly picked up the chimera and ran away with it,” Phainon interrupted. “Yes, I remember it fondly. Do you mean to say that you expect to be courted up front? I’ve certainly tried to make it obvious.”

“It is not so much an expectation as it is bafflement,” Mydei admitted quietly, her gaze dropping to the rippling golden water. “I was never interested in anyone before I arrived in Okhema. I had figured, with the way my life was going…”

“Had anyone bought you flowers before?” Phainon asked softly, stepping a little closer.

“If they had, it was unmemorable,” Mydei muttered. “And my ‘coronation’ was not ideal, as you know.”

Phainon’s expression melted into something incredibly tender. She reached out, her fingers hovering just over the water near Mydei’s. “So then... to my proposal?” she asked, as if her heart really would break if Mydei said no.

As if there were a universe where Mydei would say no.

Mydei looked at her for a long moment, then let out a soft, resigned huff. “Of course you can court me. But I am never drinking with you again.”

Phainon’s jaw dropped. “What? But—but you clung to me!”

“Never again.”

“No!!” Phainon protested, splashing the water in disbelief. “You have to drink with me—we have to share all of our drinks! Did you know that there is a grape shortage in Okhema??”

Ignoring the complaints, Mydei decisively pushed herself up out of the water, stepping onto the smooth marble tiles and reaching for a thick white towel left on the kline. The towels in the baths were as luxe as the water, honestly.

Phainon spluttered, watching her retreat. “Wait! Why are you leaving me? Don’t go!”

Mydei paused, wrapping the towel tightly around herself. She turned back to look at Phainon, slowly cocking an eyebrow with a sharp, knowing smirk.

“Your cape is still in my bedroom. Aren’t you going to collect it?”

Phainon’s eyes went wide. She got out of the baths so fast she nearly slipped on the wet marble, scrambling for her own towel with a desperate yelp.

By the time they hit the eternally sun-drenched streets, the formal terms of the wager were entirely forgotten, transformed instead into a breathless, laughing race all the way back to Mydei’s home.