Chapter Text
Phoenix sits at the small, intricately carved wooden desk in the grand library of the palace, the flickering candlelight casting elongated, dancing shadows across the cold, stone walls. The air is still, save for the quiet resulting of pages as his fingers idly flip through a worn book on tactical warfare - a study of military strategy and battle tactics.
He’s not actually interested in the contents. He has read nearly every book in this library at least twice. History, philosophy, law – every subject has blended into a dull haze, with no real reading purpose for him beyond that of keeping up appearances. There is simply nothing else to do in this suffocating place. His every action is expected and every moment is controlled.
He eyes the ornate clock on the desk. 3.47PM. Just a few more minutes to pass before he has to make his way to his chambers and prepare for the King’s birthday celebration. Another formal event, another performance for the court.
It’s almost miserable how his life is now scheduled to a tee. Once, his days had been spent wandering freely, waking whenever he pleased (usually past 9AM), pursuing cases with passion, and basking in quiet moments of solitude. Now, every second of his life is mapped out – each day is orchestrated by the demands of courtly expectations and political necessity.
Now, he has to pretend.
He finds himself being weighed down by the countless rules of palace life – rules that have little to do with justice or truth. Now, he has to appear poised in clothes that he suspects no one actually feels comfortable in – seriously, how can one wear so much wool? – and overly grand. He has to endure celebrations and ceremonies where every smile, including his, is calculated and every word is carefully chosen.
And the worst thing of it all, he has to pretend to be cordial with the husband he doesn’t even share a room or bed with.
Prince Miles Edgeworth.
The thought of this very man himself brings Phoenix a pang of irritation. From the get-go, Miles had been cold, distant, and calculative – everything that Phoenix loathes about the rigid structure of this life. Every single interaction they’ve had since marriage seems to be a calculated move in some intricate game – always measured, always guarded. In front of the court and the kingdom, Phoenix has no choice but to feign civility.
He lolls his head back and stares at the vaulted ceiling of the library. The arches disappear into the shadows, unreachable even by the candlelight. The grandeur of the palace never ceases to mock him, its silent beauty serves as a constant reminder of just how out of place he is.
He knows he doesn’t belong here.
It’s been three long years and if Phoenix is honest with himself, he finds himself regretting his marriage.
Before he agreed to marry Miles, rumours about the prince were already swirling like a storm through the kingdom, whispered behind gloved hands and echoed in shadowy corners of courtly gatherings. Prince Miles Edgeworth, they said, was a man of cold precision and ruthless cunning – a prince who played palace politics as though it were laid on a grand chessboard, every move calculated to outwit his opponents.
As the years passed, the whispers only grew bolder – describing him as shrewd, unyielding and even demonic in his ways. The crown has only served to harden him into nothing more than a weapon, forged for power and survival alone.
Those were the days before Phoenix lived in the palace but he had heard all of it, of course. The kingdom was far from quiet when it came to its enigmatic prince. Friends, neighbours, even passing strangers had spoken about Miles Edgeworth as if he were some looming figure of legend—an untouchable shadow who inspired fear and awe in equal measure. They had told Phoenix he was a fool for dismissing such talk.
Phoenix simply refused to believe it.
Those rumours did not align with the man he remembered—the boy he had met all those years ago, the one with a sharp wit but a steady sense of justice, whose words carried the weight of conviction even when he was still learning the harsh lessons of the world. Phoenix had seen it back then: a mind that craved truth, a soul that wanted to protect, no matter the cost. It was unthinkable that such a person could become the heartless, power-hungry schemer that the rumours were describing.
Even now, Phoenix can recall the quiet strength in Miles’ eyes from that single meeting, the fire that had burned there, defiant and unrelenting. That fire could not have gone out—not completely. Perhaps it had been buried under the weight of the crown and the suffocating darkness of palace life, but Phoenix is certain it still smouldered, hidden away.
So when the summons came—when Phoenix was told of the arrangement that would bind him to Miles Edgeworth in marriage—he had clung to that certainty. He had held onto the belief that the rumours were wrong, that Miles was not the cold monster the court claimed he was. Somewhere, beneath the layers of steel and shadow, the man who once fought for truth and justice still existed.
Phoenix had believed it then with all his heart. He had to.
Larry had tried to sway him. People change, Phoenix. That’s how growing up works. It wasn’t the fact that Larry was hardly the most grown-up person Phoenix knew but that he truly believed the Miles from the past was in there, somewhere.
He could save his friend.
And so Phoenix signed the proposal for marriage in a heartbeat.
Now, he’s not so sure.
Three years have passed since he arrived here. Three years since his name had been called, unceremoniously plucked from obscurity by the king’s advisors. A marriage for the sake of stability, they’d said. A match to bridge the widening gaps between the court and the common people. He’d been a symbol of unity, they said. A token of goodwill.
But Phoenix knows the truth.
He was convenient.
A commoner with no connections, no noble ties—easy to manage, easy to dismiss. Someone who could be married off to Prince Miles Edgeworth without a fuss. The palace had taken him from his life, scrubbed him clean of his past, and slotted him into a role that fit their agenda. He is not a husband. He is a tool.
Whatever excitement had stirred in Phoenix when he discovered that he was chosen to be Miles’ future husband – the joy that spread in his heart that his friend remembered him, and had affection for him – had gone out like a light when he overheard the whispers in the palace. I do not care for whoever you chose to be my husband, the ice prince had said, his words clipped, dismissive and devoid of any warmth or sentiment.
Phoenix tried to convince himself that it was just palace gossip, twisted and misunderstood. After all, words can always be taken out of context. But no matter how he tries to justify this, his days in the palace only continue to prove that Miles does not care for him at all.
The regal, untouchable, and eternally composed Miles Edgeworth had not so much as looked at him during their wedding ceremony. And nothing has changed since. Miles continues to remain distant, an ethereal figure glimpsed only at formal events where they stand side by side, a picture of propriety.
The entire kingdom knows they don’t even share a room.
In the rare moments where Phoenix has allowed himself to think about it, the reality of their marriage stings. He doesn’t exactly have a reference for what a good marriage looks like, but even he knows that he is now bound to a stranger who treats him like a ghost.
Phoenix shakes himself and forces himself to focus back on the clock. 3.53PM. Seven minutes left.
His gaze falls on the book in front of him again. “The art of war requires patience…” it began, and he snorts under his breath. “Patience? I’m practically an expert by now.”
The sound of his own voice startles him – he rarely speaks in here, especially not in this echoing library where the silence is as thick as a fog. He glances over his shoulder, half-expecting one of the palace servants to appear and chastise him for speaking out of turn. But the library is empty, as always.
No one lingered in here but him. The royal family has no need for dusty books when they have advisors who can provide all the answers they want. Miles, as far as Phoenix knows, rarely comes here either.
Phoenix swallows the dry feeling in his throat, reaching to close the book in front of him. The heavy thud echoes louder than expected, and for a second, he winces, as if he’s disturbed something sacred.
What would the old Phoenix think of me now?
The thought crept in uninvited, slipping through the cracks of his carefully constructed indifference. He remembers his small, cozy apartment from what feels like another lifetime. He remembers lazy Sunday mornings under blankets, messy desks covered in paperwork, and cheap takeout shared with Larry and their other friends as they argue over ridiculous card games. His previous life had been chaotic, messy, and imperfect. But it had been his.
Now…
His hand brushes the book’s spine as he stands, the chair scraping faintly against the stone.
Now, he is someone else. Someone who is shaped by the silk cuffs and velvet-lined corridors, by days planned down to the minute and by the shadow of a man who barely acknowledges he exists.
4.00PM. Time to get ready.
The celebrations for the king’s birthday will be extravagant, as always – another dazzling display of wealth and power. Phoenix knows exactly how the night will unfold. He’ll stand beside Miles at the head table, dressed in tailored finery that makes his skin itch. He’ll be introduced, toasted, and admired for his apparent grace and charm, even though none of it feels real.
And through it all, Miles will remain silent.
It’s a routine that Phoenix has memorised. Smile politely. Nod at compliments. Pretend to sip at his wine while the servants and nobles gossip behind their jewelled masks. Act as though everything is fine, as though he is not just another ornament in this palace.
Phoenix pushes past the massive library doors, the creaking hinges groaning in protest. A gust of cooler air sweeps in from the corridor outside, and for the briefest moment, he feels like he can breathe again.
“Ah, there you are, sir.”
A palace servant dressed impeccably in black and crimson stands by the door waiting for him, a polite, unreadable expression fixed on his face.
“Sir Wright, I have been sent to collect you.” The servant’s voice is even, and deferential, but Phoenix detects the undercurrent of urgency. “The royal tailor has been expecting you. It is time to prepare for the evening’s celebration.”
Phoenix manages a tight smile, though it feels more like a grimace. “Right,” he says simply, brushing non-existent dust from his sleeves. “Please lead the way.”
As he follows the servant down the vast, empty hallway, he feels the familiar weight settle on his shoulders again – the invisible pressure of a life that is not his own. Outside, through towering windows, the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in muted hues of orange and violet. Somewhere in the palace, preparations are already underway – music, food, laughter – all the trappings of a grand celebration.
But Phoenix feels none of it.
Because tonight, just like every other night, he will smile and play his role.
And Miles Edgeworth will pretend that he does not exist.
The King’s birthday is a grand affair - an opulent display of wealth and power that sprawls across the great hall like a well-rehearsed performance. Phoenix stands on the marble balcony that overlooks the room below, his fingers gripping onto the golden rail as he watches the nobility weave between one another like silk ribbons - graceful, untouchable, and utterly distant.
The great hall still appears breathtaking to him despite having lived here for three years. The tall arched ceilings soar high above the crowd, adorned with banners that bear the royal family’s crest. Chandeliers of gold and crystal hang like fallen stars, their light bouncing across the polished marble floor. The edges of the room are lined with long tables that seem to groan under the weight of roasted meats, fruits and rows of wine.
Music spills from the violins and harps and laughter echo through the space - sharp and practiced - and Phoenix can already feel his head pounding, as though the noise is sinking its claws into his skull.
He does not belong here.
Phoenix is draped in deep blue formal robes that are embroidered with silver thread - a deliberate choice to match the royal family’s colours - and he feels instead that the fabric is wearing him. The high collar scratches against his neck and the tight sleeves make his every movement feel restricted. It’s as though the clothes themselves are reminding him of who he is in this place.
He tugs at his cuff absentmindedly, but the discomfort does not just seem physical. It’s the way eyes land on him in this room - curious, assessing, and some with thinly veiled contempt.
He does not need to hear the whispers to know what they are saying. He has long since learned how to read their looks.
What is this man doing here?
The commoner.
Why is he not with the Prince?
Phoenix swallows and forces himself to take a steadying breath. At least from up here, he does not have to face them directly. He can simply observe and disappear into the edges of the evening like a shadow.
He scans the crowd again in an attempt to find his husband but Miles does not seem to be here. Or at least Phoenix does not recognise him if he is present. It’s been 53 days since he last saw his husband. Not that anybody is counting.
Phoenix doesn’t linger long at the foot of the grand staircase. Instead, he straightens his shoulders, painting on a polite, neutral expression, and weaves through the crowd as unobtrusively as he can manage. He keeps his head lowered just enough to avoid catching anyone’s eye but not low enough to appear meek - a fine balance he has learnt to strike over the last three years of his life in the palace.
Even if he hates it here, he knows he wouldn’t be excused if he left before the King even arrived.
“Ah, Lord Wright,” came a familiar voice, honeyed and sickeningly insincere. Phoenix turns, already bracing himself, and finds himself face-to-face with Winston Payne, one of the King’s most vocal sycophants. Winston Payne is dressed in a robe so heavily adorned with gems that it threatens to sag under its own weight. “What a pleasure it is to see you in such fine form today. Might I say, your choice of attire is particularly… understated.” He regards Phoenix with the kind of smile one reserves for a bothersome insect. “How very fitting.”
Phoenix knows this game. “Duke Payne,” he replies smoothly, inclining his head in the barest semblance of respect. “I’m pleased you think so.”
Winston’s grin falters, offended that Phoenix has not taken the bait. “I’m surprised that you are not here with the prince. His Royal Highness will be joining us soon and he shall be disappointed to see that the two of you are not on speaking terms.”
The words are dripping with venom but Phoenix continues to restrain himself, not rising to the challenge. Just like how rumours fly about the smallest things in the palace, he is certain that all who pay heed to the whispers would know that he and the prince do not associate with one another outside the main events of the kingdom. Prying eyes from the servants would gather that Phoenix and Miles do not even live in the same quarters, much less share the same room. There is a reason Phoenix has not seen his husband in 53 days and that is not from lack of trying.
Phoenix murmurs something about needing to find his seat and slips away from Winston. Despite the man’s sharp reminder of the state of his marriage, Phoenix does not intend to engage the petty man in his power game. He already knows there is no winning.
He knows what everyone says about him when they think he cannot hear - a pauper playing noble, a shameful mark on the royal family. Some people say that the King has taken pity on him and others whisper darker things, conspiracies that suggest he is a pawn in some political manoeuvre beyond his own comprehension.
None of it matters.
What stings the most is that Miles, the one person who can dispel such talk, has chosen to remain silent.
“Lord Wright,” another voice calls - not any softer but definitely kinder. Phoenix turns with surprise and is relieved to see Franziska von Karma approaching him, her usual air of superiority tempered by a surprising gentleness. She is dressed in a deep sapphire gown with bell sleeves, the cut elegant and severe, much like the woman herself.
“Franziska,” Phoenix greets her, unable to keep the small, genuine smile off his face. She is, perhaps, the closest thing to a friend he has in the sea of nobles - or at least as close as anyone like Franziska allows herself to be.
She eyes him critically and crosses her arms over her chest. “You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping at all, or do you spend all your time buried in that ridiculous library of yours?”
Phoenix sighs, subbing the back of his neck. “I sleep just fine, thank you.” Better if I had my husband with me. “And the library is not ridiculous.”
“Hmph,” Franziska scoffs, though her expression softens. She lowers her voice as she steps closer, glancing briefly over her shoulder to ensure that no one is eavesdropping. “You need to take care of yourself, Phoenix. These vultures are waiting for you to stumble. Do not give them the satisfaction.”
The concern in her tone catches him off guard but warms his heart all the same. Franziska is sharp with her words, but thankfully, Phoenix knows that she cares.
He had learnt that his first winter at the palace as the cold settled deep into the stones of the sprawling halls. Fireplaces were apparently not lit for those the court deemed unimportant. Shivering in a forgotten corner of the library with books he could not focus on, he was startled when Franziska strode in, her boot heels clicking like a metronome against the marble floor. She proceeded to demand why he was so insolent as to look miserable in her presence.
At that time, Phoenix has simply blinked at her in confusion, too cold and too tired to muster the energy to argue back. But then she’d noticed the thin cloak he was wearing, a far cry from the furs and velvets that the nobles favoured. With an irritated sigh, she pulled her own shawl - lined with wool, soft and heavy - from her shoulders and flung it unceremoniously at him.
“You look pathetic,” she’d snapped. “If you plan on being useless here, at least do it with dignity.”
Phoenix stared at her, stunned, but when she turned to leave, he managed to stammer, “Thank you.” It was the first genuine kindness anyone in the palace had shown him, even if it came wrapped in barbed words.
From that moment on, Franziska took it upon herself to educate him - or so she claimed. She taught him how to navigate the unspoken rules of the court, how to wear the uncomfortable silks without fidgeting, and how to answer questions with just enough detachment to keep the sharks at bay. Over time, her sharp words softened - slightly- and Phoenix began to see past her abrasive facade.
She is lonely, too.
In a palace filled with people vying for power, trust was a rare commodity. And though Franziska would never admit it aloud, Phoenix knew that their unlikely companionship had given them both something to hold onto.
“I’ll be fine, Franziska,” Phoenix says, offering her a faint smile. “You don't have to worry about me.”
“Foolish man,” she mutters, stepping beside him again. She had seen it, too. She knows and hears of how her brother treats his husband. “Stop torturing yourself.”
“I’m not,” Phoenix replies quietly, though even he does not believe it. His chest aches with something he cannot name, and as the ballroom erupts into applause to honour the King and the Prince, Phoenix slips further into the shadows, a man out of place in a celebration that isn’t his to enjoy.
Tonight, he will play his role, as he always does.
And Miles Edgeworth will remain as distant as ever - close enough to see, yet forever out of his reach.