Chapter Text
It began with the bells.
Not the soft tolling of church bells or the sombre Chimes of Mourning,
but the deep, resonant clang of the city's warning bells—
a powerful sound that reverberated through labyrinthine hallways,
and shadowed neighbourhoods,
casting an ominous haze through the night.
The young boy ran.
Flames curled around him like grabbing hands,
but coiled away at the last second,
as if he were immune to their touch.
He burst through the door and stepped outside—
not into the cool, refreshing air of a peaceful night,
but into an oppressive wave of heat that wrapped around him
in a way the physical fire never could.
Before him lay his kingdom.
Just yesterday so alive and bright,
now being eaten alive by the flames—
and those who lived within them.
The sky bled crimson.
The boy's world was burning.
He turned to his side, and there she was.
The girl he'd sworn to never forget—
Her soft pink hair bathed in glowing red from the flames.
She was smaller than him.
More helpless.
Yet, he did nothing as the building collapsed over her.
And then silence. Until—
"Phainon, won't you come play?"
came a girl's light voice from his side.
He whipped his head toward her—
and the world changed.
The blood-red sky faded into the soft light of morning.
Wheat flowed on as far as the eye could see.
There was no fire.
With her was an adolescent boy crouched close to the ground,
his white hair messy and soft, tousled by the breeze.
He wore a purple tunic and yellow pants stained from activities likely very similar to the one currently playing out.
He looked up fast when she addressed him, and his hand—still covered in dirt—went to the back of his head in a nervous tic, leaving a smudge where it touched his unblemished hair.
"Alright, Cyrene! Just give me one second..."
he mumbled, still focused on the ground.
She gave him a bright smile, unbothered by the obvious reluctance in his voice.
"Come on! Everyone else is waiting!
We don't have much time, remember?"
she laughed, extending her hand.
Her palm faced upward—soft and unblemished in the way only a youth's could be.
The boy hesitates before reaching out for her hand.
He is the boy now.
No longer remembering, but living it again.
He knows it by the breeze on his shoulders,
and the sight of the impossibly bright girl in front of him.
He knows her, too.
Small fingers close around his—just like they did the last time.
Her laugh rings in the air like a chime, radiant and free.
It rings in his ears like a memory.
"We don't have much time."
She repeats, though her voice has already begun to echo.
He blinks.
The wheat begins to wither.
The sky warps again, fading into deep red.
The young girl's smile falters.
"We never had much time, did we?"
she whispers now, the breeze pulling strands of pink hair across her face
like a curtain she never wished to wear.
Her hand is still in his—
but the skin is pale, drained.
Cold.
The air is burning—
but she is cold.
And then he's on his knees once again, screaming into the dirt and ash and mud
with the body of a lifeless girl in his arms.
A girl with bright pink hair and blue eyes who had been so alive.
Wood and blood and death rain down around them,
but the boy can't feel it.
Can't even think.
Other than one particular thought:
Why couldn't I die with her?
Why?
Why?
The bells return, louder now—
but they're not bells anymore.
They're voices.
They're—
From ashes of the past, a phoenix shall rise—
Gold—tear-stricken eyes.
Failure, if you forget them—
Remember, Deliverer—
Remember—
—
Phainon wakes with a scream lodged tightly in his throat.
He snaps up from the silk-draped mattress, heart pounding in the rhythm of the bells from his dream, chest heaving so heavily he couldn't remember how to breathe .
The room didn't come into focus. Not yet.
It's all wrong. There's no ash. No smoke. No fire. And no— no Cyrene.
There is no Cyrene.
The image of her face— smiling and cold and gone —rips through him like a blade.
He barely makes it to the basin in time.
There's an audible crack as his knees hit the floor before he hunches forward, his body convulsing once, then again, until everything in him finally revolts. He coughs against the stone for what feels like hours, breaths coming so rarely that even the basin blurs in his gaze.
Phainon gasps for air like he's drowning.
His fingers grip the sides of the basin so tightly they burn. His spine curls in on itself as another dry heave shudders its way through him, merciless in its wrath. There's nothing left in him, yet his stomach still twists as if there is. As if it won't stop remembering .
Breathe.
He needs to breathe.
He can't.
He can't—
He—
His vision flickers, edges blackening, narrowing to the shimmer of gold at the basin's rim. He sees himself.
Eyes dark. Cheeks sunken. And —
Golden tears.
Gold.
Like in the Prophecy.
He chokes on another breath, wiping them away roughly with the back of his hand. They smear across his skin like molten sunfire. He wants them gone. Needs them gone. Now.
The ghosts of the bells still ring in his head as he stands on unsteady feet, hand clamped over his own mouth to stifle either more vomit or an incoming sob. He nearly falls back, free hand catching himself against his vanity. His things topple over with a crash, yet he barely notices at all.
Window. He needs the window.
He stumbles toward it blindly, half-collapsing against the wall as he goes. His fingers don't cooperate at first as he fumbles with the latch before the fresh air finally hits him. It's cold.
It's cold, just like her—
He collapses against the window with a noise that isn't quite a sob but isn't anything else, either.
But he breathes.
Once.
Twice.
His breath catches in another sob, but he allows himself to feel it. Then he takes another breath.
This continues for a long time.
A deep, steadying breath.
A choked sob.
Another deep breath.
It continues until the deep blue of night gives way to the soft pink of morning.
Naturally, this reminds him of her.
Everything will today.
—
The pink of the morning fades to grey all too fast.
Phainon doesn't remember dressing. He only remembers the cold, and the crippling need to do something. Something other than remember.
So he walks. Barefoot at first, but he brings his shoes with him. The castle's stone is rough and cool beneath his feet. It's perfect.
He finds himself at the sparring grounds without even meaning to. Muscle memory, maybe. Or fate. He came here often during his first month, slashing violently at the wooden boards and flour sacks to let off some steam. Today, he plans to do exactly that once again.
Except... Someone is here.
At first, Phainon thinks he must be hallucinating. Who other than him is insane enough to come here at this hour? But then the figure turns to face him, and it clicks.
It's Mydeimos, of course. Because who else would it possibly be?
And he's shirtless. Again. But this time without the slight modesty of a draped chiffon. His upper body is completely bare, his red markings curling around his skin like he had been dusted with fire.
The good kind of fire.
Not the kind that ruined Aedes Elysiae, but the kind that brought warmth to homes and the kind that allowed food to be cooked for families.
Phainon allows himself to stare for all of three seconds.
Then, he clears his throat and forces his voice to work.
"Early morning shirtless routine?" he croaks out, sounding far more unsteady than he means to. Mydei is already looking at him with that golden gaze that knows far more than he should, but there's also something else hidden behind it. Something Phainon only catches because he's seen it in himself.
Mydei doesn't answer right away. He just turns his attention back to the training dummy, where deep gouges already scar the dark wood. His movements are exact. Repetitive. Almost robotic. The kind of practice people do not to learn, but to forget. To cope.
He exhales slowly before he finally speaks, still facing the training dummy with his sword raised. "Could say the same to you. Mostly."
Phainon responds with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Mydei looks back just in time to catch it but forfeits commenting altogether, instead tossing his sword to Phainon before walking away to grab a replacement.
And Phainon catches it without thinking, because no words are necessary.
Phainon understands the invitation with ease.
He steps into the circle with no hesitation, watching Mydei as he tests the weight of his new blade. It has a curved blade unlike anything Phainon has ever seen before, but it suits Mydei perfectly. Something about it feels ceremonial. An heirloom meant for war. His eyes flick up to Phainon for a fleeting moment before he returns to observing his sword, and then he steps forward.
They fall into their positions as if they've done this thousands of times before.
And then they clash. Hard. And Phainon flashes the first honest smile he's had all morning.
Mydei jumps back and swipes at Phainon's side, movement only a shine of red and gold with how fast he moves. But Phainon dodges faster, falling to one knee as the sword just barely scrapes his hair. He takes advantage of his position to swing at the Prince's legs but is promptly stopped by Mydei stomping it to the ground before going in for another blow to Phainon's shoulder, which he twists away from and then rolls in the dirt to escape. The roll conveniently pulls his sword free from under Mydei's foot, and he hops back up with ease.
They exchange a quick glance before immediately falling back into place. Their dance continues for a while until both men tire enough to allow each other to land proper hits. The sound of steel on steel echoes through the sparring grounds. And with that, it finally begins to pick up.
"Getting tired already, Deliverer?" Mydeimos taunts as Phainon stumbles back from a shallow hit to his side. Golden blood stains his white tunic and pants, but he stands up straighter after a moment of reprise. He grins at Mydei once again.
"Of course not. I'm simply letting you think you're winning!" he speaks with a laugh like he's forgotten all his prior troubles before lunging for a blow at Mydei's side for revenge. With his distraction now successfully in motion, he sneakily slips a foot in between his opponent's legs.
And the Prince falls for it. Literally.
With a breathy noise, Mydei falls to the ground. Phainon wastes no time standing over him, his foot placed firmly against the man's chest, not to hurt, but to hold. Mydei hesitates for just a fraction of a second, a fleeting flash of frustration crossing his eyes before he lets his head drop to the ground below him. Sweat drips from Phainon's chin onto the Prince's bare chest as he keeps himself there over top of him, gasping for breath.
Their eyes catch once again. There's golden blood on Mydei's cheek, and Phainon doesn't know if it belongs to him or the Prince himself.
Mydeimos also bleeds golden. Because he's a Heir.
Of course.
The morning light catches on the liquid as it drips down his cheek, making it shine even brighter in the morning sun. Phainon methodically watches as it drops to the ground.
Gold, like his.
"Do you yield, Mydei?" he pants out after a moment, failing to hold off the satisfied grin that appears on his face. Mydei scowls at him from below, his blonde hair beautifully tousled in the dirt, yet he makes no move to resist. His golden eyes are soft as they look up at Phainon, with something almost akin to gratitude shimmering in them. Phainon blinks, and it's gone.
He takes a step back and holds out his hand for Mydei to take.
And he does, of course. But not before rolling his eyes. He holds Phainon's hand a beat longer once he's up, and for a moment, it's not about helping anymore— It's about the heat between their palms.
Mydei's gaze flicks down to their intertwined fingers one final time before he lets go, his hand falling back to his side in a tired-looking arc. Both men just stand there for a moment, catching their breaths in a mirrored motion, with Phainon breathing in when Mydei breathes out.
"You're upset," Mydei states after both of their breaths calm, and Phainon lets out a soft laugh as he steps back. The Prince is as observant as ever, even in the tired haze of early morning.
Of course he is.
"Wasn't exactly trying to hide it. Plus…” Phainon hesitates, wary of crossing a line, but pushes on, "You are too, yeah?"
Mydei looks up at him now, their eyes meeting at even height. No tilt, no distance—just eye to eye. "Obviously." is all he offers in response. He eyes Phainon cautiously once again.
Phainon reaches out and swipes some dirt off the Prince's shoulder to try and help with the caution. Mydei doesn't immediately recoil from the touch, so Phainon considers it a win in his own books.
He takes his chance to speak, "What's up, then?"
"Why should I tell you?" is Mydei's reply. Clipped, but not rude. Perhaps a genuine question, but poorly worded. Very Mydei.
Phainon raises his eyebrows and shrugs. There aren't real reasons other than curiosity and the urge to help, so he stays silent.
Mydei doesn't immediately respond, his eyes instead darting away like the words were caught somewhere between his tongue and his throat. And then he speaks, just as Phainon expected he would.
"My Mother ordered me to stay in Okhema. Indefinitely," he offers, his tone deceptively unaffected. Phainon can hear a hint of something underneath it. Anger, maybe.
"Ah," Phainon answers neutrally. "Because of the Prophecy?"
"Yes," Mydei starts, voice clipped. "And even though I understand why... I'd still rather be at home," he pauses, eyes dropping to the ground in upset, his body language closed off. "Especially because she's..." he trails off, because he knows Phainon already knows what he's referencing.
Mydeimos's eyes look back up again, still blindingly gold in the soft morning sun, yet narrowed with anger. "And I understand why she wants me here. That doesn't mean I don't hate it."
Ah, Phainon repeats as a thought. I don't really relate personally, but it makes perfect sense for someone like him. I'd be just as mad.
And that's what he says. He tilts his head before speaking, his voice soft with familiarity as his eyes meet the Prince's. "I can't say I fully understand, but… I know what it feels like to be stuck in a place you don't want to be, and I also understand where your mixed feelings come from. You understand her reasoning, so it feels weird to be mad, right?" he pauses, giving Mydei a chance to let his words sink in.
He continues after a moment of easy silence. "But I think you're allowed to feel however you want, you know? Especially after her keeping her pregnancy from you for so long. I can imagine that would hurt."
Mydei's jaw tightens at his words of advice, golden eyes narrowing just slightly enough to be noticeable. There's a flicker of frustration in them, and then something else— something raw, but it leaves just as fast as it appeared. Mydei's fingers twitch against the hilt of his sword, and for a fleeting moment, Phainon thinks he's about to strike— But instead, he shifts his weight away from Phainon, turning to his right to view the mountains dusted along the horizon. North. The direction of Castrum Kremnos.
"You're telling me things I already know, Deliverer," Mydei responds, yet there's a lack of the usual bite to his tone. It's exactly the response Phainon was expecting.
He lets out another small laugh, "Then, how about this? Let's go to the infirmary. No more talking until we're there. We gotta get your cheek fixed up, yeah? You're bleeding, after all." he proposes as he steps forward to stand beside Mydei, hands lightly brushing where they lay relaxed at both of their sides. They aren't quite touching, but they're close enough that Phainon can feel the warmth of Mydei's skin.
Close enough that he doesn't feel so cold anymore.
Mydei doesn't answer right away, but his eyes flick downward—toward the shimmering blood still trickling from the cut along his cheek. And then he raises his head, grabbing one final look at the faraway mountains before spinning around with a huff.
"…Fine."
Phainon follows without hesitation.
—
The infirmary smells like crushed herbs, alcohol, and something distinctly floral. Phainon lets out a breath as he enters, half expecting Hyacine to be asleep on a couch somewhere, but a gasp echoes from his left, and there she is. Very awake.
"Oh my stars," the young girl starts, coily dual-coloured pigtails bouncing around as she runs over to the two men bleeding rudely onto her pristinely white floor. "Did you two fight? I thought I heard swords earlier, but..." she trails off, eyeing the wounds littering both of their bodies.
"We only sparred, Hyacine. Don't worry," Mydei offers from behind Phainon, and Phainon simply nods in agreement.
"I woke up early and found Mydeimos there, so..." Phainon starts, tiredly rubbing at an eye before continuing, immediately regretting it as the dirt and blood begin to make it sting. "We decided to spar. Since we both happened to be there, you know?" he grimaces when he realizes that he somehow made the actual truth sound like he was lying.
Hyacine frowns, her delicate brows knitting together as she assesses the two of them—both bruised and bloodied. She finally lets out a soft sigh, turning to a cabinet and grabbing a jar of salve before turning back to the men. "I thought sparring was meant to be a test of your strength without drawing blood?" she asks as she grabs Mydei's hand, leading him over to sit on a small bed. Phainon follows with the pair, letting Hyacine gently push him down to sit beside Mydei.
She sets the salve down on a table nearby and takes off to find other necessities; bandages, alcohol, wet cloths, and... Castorice, apparently? Hyacine rounds back around the corner with the Heir of Death in tow, trailing softly behind her. Phainon looks to Mydei for an explanation, but the man simply observes the two girls as if it were a normal Tuesday morning. Which it technically was.
Castorice looks over to the two men on the bed and offers them both a small smile before grabbing the wet cloths from Hyacine. She pulls a chair over to sit in front of the two of them, close enough to help but far enough away to be respectful.
"Good morning, Your Highnesses. You're both bleeding quite badly." is what she says as she sits down, already beginning to delicately wipe at some dried blood on Mydei's arm. He remains as still as possible, allowing her to work with ease. And Phainon does not stare. He never stares.
"Phainon, do you mind removing your tunic? I have to treat your cuts." Hyacine asks gently, sliding over a chair to put next to Castorice. Phainon nods and does as he's told, sliding his now ripped and blood-stained tunic over his head with a grunt. His bare shoulder accidentally brushes Mydei's when he's slipping the tunic off the tips of his arms, and both men flinch away so fast that Castorice gasps, almost dropping the container of salve she was holding to apply to Mydei's wounds.
Phainon bites at his lip, unwilling to break the stillness yet still overly aware of how the air between him and Mydei has shifted. Even if only for a moment, it hangs around them like a cloud of fog.
"Sorry," he mutters, though he's not quite sure who he's apologizing to. His voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, seemingly exhausted from both his earlier breakdown alone and his challenging spar with Mydeimos.
Hyacine gives him a knowing smile, settling down into her own chair before leaning forward to clean Phainon's abdomen. The cut on his side is the worst one by far, but it isn't even deep enough to need stitches from the looks of it. The pain hums lightly through his skin, but if anything, it grounds him more than it truly hurts.
"It's only been a day, but it seems like you two are already getting along quite well, hm?" Hyacine speaks to break the tense silence, frowning as she tries to scrub around the wound on Phainon's side.
No response from either of them.
"He sure got you good here, huh..." she mumbles to no one but herself as she cleans, possibly to make it less awkward. She replaces the wet cloth with an alcohol cleaner. "This will sting a little, but it's gonna help with disinfecting, okay?"
Phainon nods in permission, and Hyacine immediately gets to work wiping the wound down. She does the other minor cuts while she's at it, humming a little song to herself that Phainon doesn't recognize while she works. It's peaceful.
Too peaceful, apparently, because Phainon starts to feel his eyelids drooping closed as he watches Hyacine's methodical work. Clean, disinfect, salve, bandage.
Clean, disinfect, salve...
Disinfect...salve
Bandage...
He's jostled awake by his head falling against something soft. And for a fleeting moment, before he fully comes back to himself, he stays there. And it's warm. And it smells good.
And then he realizes what he's doing and jolts back up so fast he sees stars in broad daylight. Because what his head had hit wasn't a soft pillow or blanket but was, in fact, the crook of the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos's neck. Who was, and still is, very shirtless.
And who is also looking directly at him with a face that reveals absolutely nothing. Nothing, that is, except maybe the faintest twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.
Which makes it infinitely worse.
Phainon clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the wall of cabinets across the room. "Wow. Okay. Uh. That was not a pillow."
Silence.
"I didn't sleep well," he adds as if that excuses fully using a political ally's clavicle as a headrest. "Sorry."
Mydei doesn't blink. Doesn't smile. Just raises one eyebrow as he continues to stare. Castorice is still diligently working on a cut on his arm, ignoring the boys with practiced precision, and beside her, Hyacine is attempting to do the same. Still, her eyes keep darting between them like a show she can't bear to miss a moment of.
Mydei tilts his head a fraction like he's examining a relic in a museum, or a silly looking creature. Maybe both.
"Didn't sleep well," he echoes. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Phainon exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if that'll somehow wipe away the last five minutes of his life. He can tell his face is beet red. He can feel the heat.
"Yes," he says finally, with all the false dignity of a man already buried in his own shame. "That's what we're calling it. Unless you'd prefer me lying and saying you beat me so bad in sparring that I passed out from exhaustion. Which didn't happen, because you didn't even win!"
Mydei tilts his head again, eyes narrowing. He still wasn't quite smiling, but he was clearly very close. "You won because you cheated."
"I did not cheat," Phainon snaps in defence.
"You distracted me and tripped me," Mydei counters, calm as ever.
Phainon throws his hands up. "You tried to cut my head off! "
"It was a sparring match."
"You aimed for my head!"
"You ducked."
Phainon gapes. “That’s not a defense!”
"Mydei finally cracks a smile, and Phainon immediately forgets all the arguments he has ready to throw back at the Prince the moment he speaks again.
"Now—now look at who's cheating!" he stutters out, to at least try and preserve some dignity.
Mydei leans closer before speaking in a low, teasing voice, "What, because I smiled at you, Deliverer?"
Oh, my gods.
Phainon makes a choked noise and jerks back, finally deciding he needs to give this guy a taste of his own medicine.
Or at least try.
So he takes a deep breath and says, with all of his available courage, "I'm starting to think you just wanted me to faint dramatically into your lap."
"You missed," Mydei replies without missing a beat. "Aim better next time."
And that's it.
That's the moment Phainon decides he's going to walk directly into the sea.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
Nothing coherent comes out. Only a sound close to a groan, yet somehow also a sigh, is what he manages to create.
"Are you like this with everyone?" he finally chokes out, his voice abnormally high-pitched. But before Mydeimos can reply, Hyacine stands up, clapping her hands together with a grin. Bless her. Truly.
"All finished! You're both free to go!" she says, tone overly cheerful for it being just after sunrise.
Phainon blinks at her, feeling like he's just been jolted awake for the third time that day. "Right. Thanks, Hyacine," he mutters, quickly standing up—but carefully, to avoid irritating any newly-stitched wounds.
Hyacine offers a small nod in return, unfazed. "Breakfast should be soon," she says, her tone casual. "I think Miss Aglaea wants us all there. Kind of like... a debrief, because of yesterday?"
Mydeimos frowned from where he still sat on the bed. "She didn't mention anything to me."
"Well... she's still mad at you, I think?" Hyacine replies with a slight shrug. Suddenly, the air turns tense once again, the memories of yesterday's arguments and events suspended around them like fog.
Phainon coughs into his fist to break the silence, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through his side. He doesn't let it stop him. "You're still an Heir, though. Would feel weird without you there, y'know?" he tries, voice a little pitchy, still echoing that earlier flustered edge.
Mydeimos doesn't answer right away. He looks away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, and Phainon can't tell if he's annoyed, hurt, or just tired. Probably all three.
"I'll be there," Mydei says eventually, standing with that usual calm demeanour. But he winces just slightly when he straightens, and Hyacine shoots him a silent look.
Phainon, standing close but not close enough to feel weird, catches Mydei's eye. There's a flicker of something there. It's not quite the same teasing glint as before. Something quieter.
"Come sit next to me at breakfast," Phainon says, blurting it before he can think better of it and the moment can pass. "If—if you want! It's an invitation. It might help keep Aglaea from doing... Whatever it is she does? To you."
Mydeimos stares, blinking once.
Then again.
And for a long, quiet moment, he says nothing. And, because of course, Phainon starts to panic. He opens his mouth to spit out some random excuse— but Mydei just huffs, barely audible. Not annoyed. Amused.
"You think I need protection from Aglaea?" he asks flatly, one brow twitching upwards.
Phainon stares. Blanks. And then comes up with an excuse that isn't even truly an excuse because it's very true.
"No. But I definitely do, so..." he finishes weakly, already regretting every word he's ever said in his life.
Mydeimos's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite anything else. He looks away again, but this time, it's less avoidance and more contemplation. And then he speaks.
"Then I'll sit next to you. Save me a seat," he says simply.
Phainon stares at him like he's just been handed a sacred antique. "Oh."
A beat.
"Cool. That's… that's good. I will."
Hyacine coughs delicately into her sleeve, and Castorice busies herself with reorganizing the supplies, a soft smile ghosting her lips. The girls exchange a quick, knowing glance that neither of the men notices.
And Phainon? He makes a beeline for the exit. Because if he stays any longer, and Mydeimos says absolutely anything else, he might just explode and die. Which he surprisingly does not want at the moment. For once in his entire life.
"Save me a seat, " he mutters under his breath once he's out the door, attempting and failing to mock Mydei's earlier words. It comes out dazed instead. Slightly fond.
Stupidly fond.
He pauses, pressing both his hands over his face before groaning softly. "Gods above, I'm doomed."
Then he continues walking, because breakfast is soon, and he needs to arrive early.
He does have a seat to save, after all.
—
Phainon quickly runs—well, speed walks , because of his wounds—back to his room to bathe as best he can with bandages in the way, scrubbing off the sweat, blood, and grime from the morning's spar.
His head is still spinning. The cold water somehow doesn't help at all.
He has to save Mydei a seat. And get to the hall early.
Breakfast is soon.
Too soon.
So he sprints, ignoring the sharp protest from his abdomen. It'll be fine. Wounds can heal—but missing this chance with Mydei would be harder to recover from. Hyacine's healing magic is also already beginning to work, so he doesn't have to worry much about bleeding again.
He bursts through the doors just in time to nearly slam into Cipher, who is halfway through stealing a pastry from the kitchen, her mouth stuffed with what must be several other stolen goods. She reflexively jumps back about five feet, immediately hiding the pastry behind her back.
"Mmgh?" she manages to say, her words muffled by pastry stuffing her cheeks. Phainon grabs the doorframe to steady himself, panting like he just ran a marathon. Which, functionally, he has.
"Morning," he breathes out, mind already reeling as he prepares himself for Cipher and her inevitable antics.
Cipher quickly chews, swallows, then gives him a quick once-over— eyes catching on the bandages along his arm and the cuts across his face. She raises a brow and takes a slow bite of her pastry like it's popcorn.
"Long morning, hm?" she grins, one hand on her hip like she already has him all figured out.
"You don't know the half of it," Phainon mutters, pushing off the door to walk past her.
But, of course, because she's Cipher, she spins on her heel and trails after him.
"Who'd you fight, huh~?" she sing-songs, cutting in front of him and leaning forward like a gossip gremlin.
Phainon is way too tired for this.
"Uh," he says, swallowing. "I sparred with Mydeimos. Not like— as a fight. A spar. Just sparring."
"Ah. Foreplay?" Cipher deadpans, taking another step toward him.
Phainon's jaw hits the floor.
"What?" he chokes out like a man struck by divine lightning.
Cipher just grins, lazy and feline. "Foreplay, you know? It's what you do before you—"
"I know what foreplay is, Cipher!" Phainon hisses through his teeth, body still frozen where he stands in the doorway.
Cipher raises her eyebrows with a smug grin on her face. "So you're claiming sparring while half-naked in the ungodly hours of the morning isn't foreplay? What else could it possibly be?"
Phainon stares at her. Takes a deep breath.
"Training? Therapy? Both?!"
Cipher cocks her head, taking another bite of her stolen pastry like Phainon just told her the sky was green. "You know, calling it therapy isn't much better. That's, like, really romantic."
Phainon lets out the most strangled noise known to mankind. "It's not romantic, Cipher! It's violence!"
Cipher pauses in her assault on her stolen pastry and shrugs. "That's wrong. Depending on what you're into, violence can be very romantic!"
Phainon looks to the ceiling, hoping the Gods will take mercy on him and strike him down.
They don't, because they hate him. Clearly.
"Well, I'm not into violence like that," he mutters out, "At all. Sorry to disappoint."
Cipher hums thoughtfully, tapping her chin with one pastry-smeared finger. "Well, thats a shame. You're missing out."
Phainon scrubs a hand down his face like he wants to wash his own brain directly out of his head. "Can we not discuss kinks only an hour after sunrise? I can't do this right now."
Cipher makes an act out of letting out a very dramatic sigh, spinning on her heels to walk back to the table in the middle of the room. "Fiiiiiiiiine. You're being boring. I'll interrogate our Crown Prince of Shirtlessness when he arrives instead."
She smirks over her shoulder as she walks. "You go save him a seat or whatever, kay? Because you're gay."
And then she pauses.
And raises an eyebrow.
And gestures with her chin to somewhere behind Phainon. And Phainon's heart drops, because he doesn't even need to look to know who's there
He turns his head slowly, painfully slowly, to look behind him.
And there he is.
Mydeimos. Fully clothed for once, but it's somehow even worse. His hair is wet, and he's looking at Phainon with one eyebrow raised, which immediately tells Phainon that the Prince has heard everything.
Or at least enough.
"Morning," Mydei speaks, voice perfectly low and emotionless and disgustingly sexy.
"Hi," Phainon manages in response. "I saved you a seat," he lies, gesturing in the general direction of the table.
Mydeimos blinks lazily. "Did you? I can't see it."
Phainon is going to kill him.
"Uh. It's beside my seat, which is beside Cipher's seat. Because she's a great friend and was saving one for me," he stutters out, turning around to shoot Cipher a look that screams help me. And surprisingly, she does.
"Yup!" she starts, popping the p. "I was just greeting my best friend Phainon before I was going to escort him to the seat I kindly saved for him. Care to follow us, Your Highness?"
Phainon doesn't wait for Mydei's answer before he all but sprints to the seat he assumes is beside Ciphers, because there's a jacket draped over the back with cat ear cutouts in the hood, and a plate piled full of pastries placed in front of it.
He sits like a child that's been yelled at. It isn't much different.
And Mydei, because he clearly wants to kill Phainon, takes his sweet time walking over to his seat beside him. And he sits. And adjusts his hips and spreads his fucking legs while he's at it.
Phainon looks away and steals a pastry from Cipher's plate to shove in his mouth so he doesn't say something stupid.
"How was sparring, Your Highness?" Cipher asks, tilting her seat back so she can look at Mydei on the other side of Phainon.
Mydeimos hums, pouring himself and Phainon a glass of water before answering, "Fine. We both needed it," as if it wasn't an extremely romantic thing to say in the eyes of Cipher.
And she raises her eyebrows, tilting her chair back far enough that Phainon has half a heart to be scared that she'd fall. But then he remembers she's Cipher, and he stops caring.
"What's that supposed to mean, Your Highness~?" Cipher teases, voice lilting with mock innocence.
And Mydei, unfazed as ever, takes a sip of water. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Phainon actually watches it happen. Because he hates himself.
Gods. He's losing it.
Mydei takes his time setting his glass down. The pause seems deliberate, like it's just long enough to let Cipher's words hang in the air for a moment before he answers.
He tilts his head, gaze slow and unbothered. "It means," he begins calmly, "That we were both bothered by something. And sparring was a good way to blow off some steam."
Cipher looks absolutely delighted to hear this. "So Phainon wasn't bluffing when he said it was therapy!"
Luckily, just as Phainon opens his mouth to all but beg her to stop talking for the thousandth time, the double doors to the room open with a loud groan from the hinges.
And in enters Aglaea, as beautiful and composed as ever. Anaxagoras trails in behind her, looking like he hasn't slept in a week and resents all those who have. Book and papers in hand, of course.
"For being divorced, they're sure together often, hmm?" Cipher whispers into Phainon's ear, and for once, she has a point. And she continues with, "She probably dommed him. Still does, actually."
Which makes Phainon promptly choke on his water and spill it all down the front of his freshly cleaned tunic.
"Good morning, Cifera. We can both hear you." Aglaea drops as she sits at the head of the table, with Anaxagoras settling to her left. His eyes rise to meet Ciphers for a fraction of a second, glaring, but then they fall back down to his book as if he had decided it wasn't worth the pain to argue.
And then doors creak open again. Thankfully.
This time, it's not just one or two people. It's an entourage. A parade, even.
"Careful, careful, you'll wrinkle your dress again!" Hyacine whispers urgently as she enters first, followed by Castorice, who is all but dragging a protesting Trianne behind her by the wrist. Tribbie and Trinnon trail behind them, both calmer than their sister by a long shot.
"Good morning! We had a dream that Snowy had a bad dream." Tribbie announces, skipping over to her seat across from Mydei. Phainon coughs into his fist to hide his surprise.
Trinnon strikes next, floating up to calmly sit beside her sister before continuing, "There was wheat and fire and a girl with pink hair," she says softly, her voice as matter-of-fact as if she were reciting the weather.
Phainon stills.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Not at first.
"Did she have a name?" Cipher asks lazily from across the table, tail flicking in intrigue.
"Mmhm," Trianne hums, from where she finally crawls up to sit beside her sisters. "It was Cyrene. She told us that, silly."
A silence spreads so thick it feels like fog.
Across the table, Castorice stops mid-pour of tea. Aglaea's fingers, still on the stem of her goblet, pause halfway to her lips.
Everyone's eyes find their way to Phainon.
"Cyrene," he repeats after a deep breath. His voice is quiet. Unsteady. His hands shake as he holds his water. "She told you her name?"
Trianne nods cheerfully, completely unaware of the chaos she's just unleashed. "Uh-huh! She said not to be scared. And that she misses you."
Phainon's lungs collapse in on themselves.
But he doesn't move. He just... stays there. Hand gripping his glass of water like a lifeline.
He opens his mouth, but he can't think of anything to say.
"She said she misses you," Trianne repeats, as if he didn't hear her the first time. And then she goes back to buttering her toast like she didn't just drop the worst and best thing Phainon has heard in the last ten years of his life.
"Okay," Phainon says, but it's not really a word. It's just sound. It falls flat. Dead.
And then he drinks his water.
Not because he's thirsty, but because it's something to do.
It's something tactile. Something to occupy his hands, which are beginning to tremble again. Just a little.
Mydeimos' leg brushes his own from under the table, and for once, he doesn't flinch away or blush. He just appreciates it.
And then, with a quiet breath, he speaks, "She was a friend. A sister, basically," another breath. A pause. "She died during the fires. I watched it happen."
The table is silent.
Even Cipher doesn't speak.
Even Cipher.
Phainon just focuses on the glass in his hands. The cold press of it. The tremor he still can't stop.
"I was just a kid," he says after a short pause, his voice rasping like it's been rusted shut by time. "The bells were already ringing by the time I got out. The sky was red. The city was gone. She—"
His voice catches. He swallows. Tries again.
"She didn't scream. That's the part that I don't get. I never will. She didn't scream when the building collapsed. She just looked at me like like she forgave me. And I just— I did nothing. I stood there. I could've done something." he speaks all in one breath, hand slipping from his water to the table. It hits hard, and he sees Hyacine flinch in the corner of his vision.
Then Cipher sighs from beside him, plucking a muffin off of his untouched plate before smoothly sliding it onto her own. "What is it with us and our tragic backstories!" she starts, taking a bite before speaking, "We have... What? Three dead sisters, one being a twin. Many dead parents. A de-aged demigod who got split into three people... Just wait, there's more," she pauses, taking in a dramatic breath.
She continues after a moment. "A demigod who's been alive for so long she's losing her humanity. A dude who had to kill his own dad, who was also King of an entire nation, like a month ago. And... Hyacine? Who seems concerningly fine. Hyacine, are you traumatized?"
Hyacine blinks, halfway through pouring herself tea. "Um," she squeaks. "No? Should I be?"
Cipher smiles. "No, no. Someone here needs to be sane. Stay pure, Cinny. We all love you."
And then, silence. For a moment too long.
Phainon doesn't even breathe. Because what?
Nobody moves. Even the triplets are all wide-eyed and still.
"Cipher," Aglaea warns, tone low and measured. She finally sips her wine before continuing. "That was far from necessary."
Cipher shrugs, taking another bite. "He was about to start crying. I had to do something." she retorts, gesturing towards Phainon with the half-eaten muffin in her hand.
But then a fork clatters. It's Castorice, of all people, who drops it.
She doesn't speak right away. Her purple hair catches in the light as she leans forward, her voice soft and clipped, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Don't talk about my sister, Cipher. Please."
Cipher freezes with a bite of muffin halfway to her mouth, and her ears flatten just slightly.
"Right," she says, quieter than usual. "Sorry, Cassie. Just trying to let Phainon know he isn't alone."
She seems apologetic, but the damage has already been done, not only to Castorice—but to the table collectively.
Because now everyone is staring.
And for once, it isn't at Phainon.
Across the table, Aglaea slowly lowers her cup with the caution of someone trying not to shatter it, but it never reaches the table. Beside her, Anaxagoras slowly shuts his book. No slamming like normal. Just a slow, slow movement as he puts the pages back together, following them with his eyes.
"Cipher," he starts, voice abnormally quiet. He doesn't look up. Doesn't have to. "You think that was the best way to let Phainon know he isn't alone?"
Cipher opens her mouth to reply, but he simply raises a hand to stop her. She does.
"You think that was the best way?" he repeats, slower this time. "You made a joke about our grief to distract from someone else's."
The table is quiet once again. Mydei shifts beside Phainon, absent-mindedly pouring them both another glass of water.
Finally, Tribbie speaks. Her voice is cautious and quiet, but it holds more wisdom than anyone who is physically six years old should ever have. "I don't think Cipher meant to hurt everyone, even though she did," she pauses, taking a small but deep breath, "She was trying to show Snowy we've also been through hard things. She just did it in a very Cipher kind of way..."
Tribbie's words hang in the air like incense —faint, fragrant, yet impossible to ignore.
Cipher doesn't move at first. Her eyes are fixated on her plate. She takes a deep breath after a long moment of simply blinking, speaking without glancing up.
"I wasn't trying to be cruel," she says at last, voice as genuine as she can manage. "I just— he looked like he was about to fall apart. And I panicked. So I joked. That's what I do, you know? Joking. Trickery. That's my thing."
She doesn't look at anyone as she says it. Not even Phainon. She just picks at the half-eaten muffin, crumbs falling with a small clink to the plate below.
The silence that follows is different now. Tender. Still uneasy, but soft.
Castorice is the one who breaks it. Quietly.
"I know," she says, folding her hands in her lap, her voice hoarse but steady. "I know you didn't mean it. But it still hurt."
The others all nod in agreement.
Cipher's ears twitch back and her tail curls around her waist like a hug. "Yeah. I get that. I'm sorry, Cassie. Everyone. Really."
Phainon finally decides to speak. He calmly turns his head towards Cipher, trying to make eye contact so she knows he's genuine. When she finally looks up at him, he starts.
"Thank you, Cipher. Actually. You could've phrased it much better, obviously... But you just wanted to help me. And I do appreciate that." he manages, speaking quietly enough it feels like the words were only meant for her despite the others being able to hear him.
He continues after a breath. "Besides, knowing everyone else has gone through similar stuff... It really does make it easier. I got into my head, you know? Felt sorry for myself, like I was the only one who's ever experienced that kind of loss. I forgot I wasn't alone. Now I know im not."
Silence once again follows his words, but it isn't jagged or heavy. It's full of understanding and shared grief. It's full of words people don't say, yet they still float around the air like smoke.
Phainon coughs into his hand. "Anyway," he starts, desperate to change the mood. To Move on. Anything. "Prophecy debrief, Aglaea?"
Aglaea holds his gaze for a long, unreadable moment. Then, finally, she sets her goblet down with a quiet clink .
"Yes," she says simply. "Let's carry on."
She gracefully brings a napkin up to her mouth to dab at nothing. Possibly a buffer for her to gather her thoughts.
Phainon gets it. Even Aglaea, as composed as ever, isn't immune to her trauma being tossed around the table like it's a fun fact.
"The events from yesterday," Aglaea begins, tone even, "The Prophecy. We need to speak about what we heard, read, and saw. Starting from the beginning. Anaxagoras will start us off."
Anaxagoras clears his throat to grab the room's attention, already flipping through the pages of his notebook like a mad scientist. "So, you all read the full Prophecy yesterday. Before I start, I have to ask— Phainon, do you have the paper from yesterday with you?"
Phainon startles at the sudden question but shakes his head. "No. It's in my room. Why?"
"Because I want to know how the Prophecy reacts when it is spoken aloud, but without the paper nearby," he replies, carefully extracting a loose page from his notebook. "I conducted an experiment last night utilizing my own notes of the Prophecy and the verses to get ahead. While I observed a faint reaction, it was far less pronounced than the original response when it was linked to your original writing."
He pauses to breathe, eyes darting down to his notes. "My hypothesis is as follows: the intensity of the reaction elicited by the spoken words correlates directly with proximity to the paper. Holding the paper itself appears to amplify the effects, which is likely why Cipher experienced the most pronounced effects during yesterday's incident."
"He's monologuing again..." Cipher mutters under her breath, and Phainon is almost glad that she seems back to normal. Almost.
Anaxagoras doesn't even look up before continuing, even though he most definitely hears Cipher's comment. "I also wonder if the strength of the reaction isn't only based on proximity but also based on belief. As in, I don't normally believe in Prophecies, so there's a chance that the magical reaction being minor is also due to my hesitation. And before anyone asks, yes, I obviously believe this. Not the Prophecy, but the spell it's tied to. This is clearly also physical magic, and that is what I believe in."
He takes one more breath before he starts again, flipping the loose page over to the other side. "My final guess is related to importance. If Phainon and I were to recite the Prophecy aloud from an equal distance to the paper, I wonder whether the magic might react more strongly to him since he is very clearly linked to the Prophecy much more than I am. This would not stem from a difference in belief, but rather from the weight of importance he holds in relation to the Prophecy itself."
Anaxagoras finishes his thought with a sharp inhale, his hands suspended over the notebook like a conductor preparing a score.
"Which is why," he says, glancing up at last, "I'd like to run some small tests. Now. Including Phainon, myself, and a neutral third party that believes in the Prophecy but is not mentioned in it."
Phainon snaps back to focus at his name, caught somewhere between still mulling over the trauma Cipher threw into the air like confetti and trying to stay awake during Anaxagoras's rant.
"A neutral third party who believes in the Prophecy," Aglaea echoes, folding her hands on the table. Her expression is thoughtful. "Who do you believe would be best, Anaxa?"
"Hyacine and Castorice are my top choices," he answers, standing from his seat with a new paper in hand. "I'd like to have Hyacine available for healing in case someone requires it, however. So, Castorice, if you don't mind?" he asks, directing his attention to the Heir of Death.
Castorice, seemingly still recovering from her earlier statements, jumps slightly when Anaxagoras says her name. But she stands and nods, pushing her chair back to go stand beside him. Phainon takes that as his sign to do the same, leg brushing against Mydei's one final time before he mirrors Castorice and walks over.
"I will recite the first stanza written here on the paper," he says, his finger pointing to the top of the page he had set on the table. "And then Castorice will speak after me once the magical reaction has calmed down. Phainon speaks last."
He steps back, placing the paper down flat on the table.
And then he takes a deep breath and begins to read.
"In the shadows where fates intertwine through the vines,
A child of the stars falls from an ancient line."
Anaxagoras finishes the stanza with practiced precision.
A faint shimmer ripples over the page.
No explosions. No echoing. No gold.
Just a glint of light, like sunlight reflecting off glass.
Anaxagoras hums under his breath, clearly pleased.
"Noted," he murmurs, scribbling something down without looking up. "Minimal reaction when recited by someone with little prophetic ties and low belief. Expected. Very similar to my experiments from yesterday. Castorice, you may speak."
Castorice nods silently and steps forward, voice catching for a moment before she begins.
"In the shadows where fates intertwine through the vines,
A child of the stars falls from an ancient line."
This time, The moment the words leave her lips, the light intensifies. A ripple of gold dust fans out from the page, and it hits her chest like a gust of wind. She stumbles back a step, but Phainon is there to steady her with a hand before she falls.
Anaxagoras is already writing again.
"More of a reaction. I expected it. It seems like the specific paper doesn't matter at all. Whatever the Prophecy is written on becomes a vessel."
And then he pauses and steps back.
"Phainon, I'm going to ask you to take a few steps back from the paper when you speak next. It doesn't give me exact results, but I have a feeling it may respond strongly to you. This is for safety."
Phainon nods silently, just as Castorice had, before taking several long steps back from the table.
He hasn't ever spoken the Prophecy out loud before.
Not even back then.
But he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and does.
"In the shadows where fates intertwine through the vines,
A child of the stars falls from an ancient line."
And the room immediately explodes in golden light.
The paper lifts completely off the table, hovering at least an inch in the air, and Phainon's voice echoes as if the words have become divine. His eyelids do nothing to cover the glowing gold coming from behind them and snap open after the second word. The glowing script now dances along the edges of the page, just as it had the day before, but infinitely stronger, as if the very words have evolved into molten gold.
And the exposed sun marking on Phainon's neck shines in the exact same colour as the words do. Blindingly so.
And then he stops, and everything ends.
Just like that.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The room seems even darker than before now, too, like the Prophecy took all the remaining light with it on its way out.
Phainon exhales shakily, swaying a little on his feet.
Hyacine rushes over before he can fall, catching his arm. "Your nose—" she murmurs, pressing a cloth gently to his face. When she pulls it away just a moment later, she gasps.
He blinks down at it.
Gold, not red. Of course.
He'll never get used to that.
Anaxagoras clears his throat, and everyone looks up.
It's not his usual tone, however—it's kinder. More hesitant.
"I—" he begins, then stops. He glances at his notebook, then at Phainon, then at Aglaea, then back at the paper now lying still on the table. "That confirms several things. Thank you all for your cooperation."
Another bout of awkward silence.
Cipher is the first to break the tension once again, her voice back to her normal playfulness, but not without a hint of concern.
"Sooo… golden blood, glowing eyes, and divine karaoke powers?" she mutters, lifting a brow at Phainon. "You're like a better version of me from yesterday. Rude, but also scary."
Phainon coughs out a laugh. It comes out hoarse, like his throat wasn't built to carry divine words. Judging by the stinging glow still throbbing from the mark on his neck, it maybe wasn't.
"I didn't know we were competing," he says shakily, rubbing at his nose with the cloth again, still smudged gold.
Anaxagoras continues writing in his notes, his pen scratching loudly against paper. But it's clear—he's shaken. Not just awed—disturbed.
Aglaea, meanwhile, has remained still. Her fingers are still laced together tightly, knuckles white against the soft golden of her skin.
"That level of reaction is not just magic," she says finally, her voice low and unreadable. "It's divinity."
"No shit," Cipher responds.
Everyone looks to Phainon.
And Phainon, still glowing faintly gold, mutters, "I really need to sit down."