"All Good Things Need To Be Cherished, Deliverer"

by Aur0r4_a

Summary:

With the rising threats of the Black Tide, Lady Agleae sends Phainon as a representative of the Chrysos Heirs, and Okehma, to strike an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.

She will forever thank Aglaea.

~

Notes:

Sooo, I ended up getting Cerydra in three pity, and this fic is an apology for the Myphai angst.
Enjoy!

Chapter 1: I

Summary:

Phainon tightens her grip on Dawnmaker, the golden glow flickering faintly, and lets her lips curve into the smallest of smiles. “I'm Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae, travelling to Castrum Kremnos to deliver a message."

The man raises an eyebrow, "To who, may I ask?"

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you, by an oath." He rolls his eyes. "However, if you do know the way to Kremnos, I would very well appreciate it, given that I've saved you." 

He smirks, "You only delivered the final blow to the Titankin, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I very well could have taken care of myself," he continues, "My men and I are from Kremnos, however, and so, I'll lead you there, as a thanks for...saving my life, as you so gracefully put it."

Phainon takes everything back—this man is the rudest she’s ever met.

"Lady Aglaea? You called for me?" Phainon asks as she enters the older woman's study. 

"Yes, Phainon. How have you been?" Aglaea appears from a secluded corner, a soft smile on her face. Her distant gaze doesn't seem like it's fixed on Phainon, though it may appear so for many. "I have been well, Lady Aglaea. On what is the occasion that you have summoned me?" Her voice is curious as to what Aglaea has in store for her.

"Phainon, you know how the Black Tide is quite...tiring. I'm afraid we do not have many to keep away the plague. And hence, I have been considering an... alliance, if you'd like to call it that," she says, a bit of hesitancy in her tone. "With who, Madam?"

"Castrum Kremnos." 

Now, Phainon has heard lots of the kingdom she speaks of, ruled by Queen Gorgo, known for its fierce warriors. But truly, how could one even consider such a thought? The location of Kremnos was hard to even determine, and its people were also dependent. The kingdom had no need for an alliance!

"I know what you are thinking, my dearest Phainon. But we have no choice."

Alas, she was right! Okhema needed allies if they wanted to keep the Black Tide at bay. "So, what is the plan, Lady Aglaea?"

"I need you to send my message to Queen Gorgo, about our proposal."

Phainon wasn't called the Deliverer for no reason after all.

~

"Snowy, are you feeling a bit nervous?" Trinnon asks quietly. Phainon smiles at their concern, "Yes, Lady Trinnon," she chuckles at how her own voice wavers. She grips Dawnmaker tightly, preparing herself mentally for the mission. 

"Well, I would have volunteered to come, but I have to open the gate for you." They say, a bit of sadness in their tone. "Worry not, Lady Trinnon, I'll be safe!"

"Alright then," they say.

~

Its been days! Where is this blasted Kremnos?! 

Phainon has been aimlessly wandering the lands, annoyance slowly building up. Trinnon couldn't directly transport her to Castrum Kremnos because she couldn't pinpoint its exact location. So now Phainon had to search for the kingdom herself.

Its been rather hot and she's almost drained her water supply. If she intends on making it alive back to Okhema, she better find civilization. 

That's when she hears it, grunts and groans. Titankins. She can hear someone taunting the monsters in the distance, and her pace quickens, excited to finally see someone. Quietly, she follows the sound, her view hidden by a huge rock, and she takes a peek. 

Phainon sees a few men collapsed on the ground, bleeding profusely, and her fingers itch to help them. But she remains where she is, her eyes flicking of the ground to see a man, fighting Titankin.

And oh Kephale above, this man looks gorgeous. 

He's a well built man, who appears quite taller than Phainon herself. His messy, strawberry blond hair reaches his shoulders, and Phainon notices a little braid swaying atop his collarbone as he fights the Titankin. His gold earring glints under the sunlight, a blue stone shining at her. His eyes are yellow, and his body is covered with the most beautiful red tattoos Phainon's ever seen.

He wears a huge necklace, also gold, and she wonders how he's possibly able to breath with it on. His outfit consists of a dark maroon and bright red robe, which travels down his left shoulder and hangs past his knees. On his left shoulder he wears a golden pauldron and a metallic cuff on his right bicep. Mydei possesses two identical golden gauntlets, as well, Phainon notices.

Aquila would strike her down if she saw the way Phainon ogled the man

He's brutish in the way he scores punches, a few of his men aiding him. He shouts taunts, and Phainon can see the way he smirks at the monsters. Oh Titans.

The clash is deafening. The ground shakes each time one of the massive Titankin slams its fists down, spraying dirt and pebbles across the battlefield. Yet the man does not falter.

He moves with a brutal rhythm—more brawler than knight. Each punch he lands reverberates through the beasts, his golden gauntlets cracking against thick hide and bone with a metallic thrum. One of the creatures staggers, roaring, only to be met with his knee driving hard into its jaw.

“Come on!” he bellows, teeth flashing as he grins at the hulking monsters. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Phainon’s breath catches. His voice is rich, deep, carrying with it a dangerous sort of confidence. She can’t look away as he ducks a swing, his robe flaring as though it dances with him. He pivots, twisting into a devastating hook that sends another Titankin reeling.

His men aren’t so lucky—some are still on the ground, clutching at wounds, others barely managing to fend off the monsters’ blows. But the man fights like he has the strength of ten, planting himself firmly between his soldiers and the enemy. His braid whips against his chest as he throws another strike, and the tattoos across his body almost seem to glow under the harsh sun, vibrant red against sweat-slick skin.

A Titankin lunges, jaws wide, but he meets it head-on. With a roar, he slams both fists into its face. The beast collapses, the earth trembling beneath its weight.

And through it all—through blood, dust, and chaos—he’s smiling. Taunting the monsters, daring them to keep coming. His laughter carries over the battlefield, wild and fearless, and Phainon realizes she’s staring, heart hammering harder with each passing moment.

And finally, the Titankin are defeated, lying limp on the ground. The man turns away from the heaps of monsters, aiding men, whispering something to them. But he hasn't noticed one of the monsters raising back up, refusing to accept defeat. But Phainon has.

"Look out!

The man barely turns before a massive Titankin lurches up from the dirt, its shadow stretching long and jagged under the blazing sun. Its maw opens wide, ready to clamp down on him.

But before it can strike, a flash of steel cuts through the air.

Dawnmaker sings. The sword glints like fire caught in metal as Phainon bursts from her cover, her boots pounding the ground. With one clean, practiced arc, she slices across the beast’s throat. The sound is wet, guttural—then silence. The Titankin staggers, chokes, and collapses at the man’s feet in a quaking heap.

Phainon exhales sharply, steadying her grip on the hilt. The weight of Dawnmaker feels alive in her hand, its faint, golden shimmer rippling across the blade. She doesn’t bother wiping away the blood; it drips freely, seeping into the soil.

The battlefield is suddenly hushed. The surviving men, groaning where they lay, stare at her in disbelief. The man—gorgeous, brutal, untouchable—finally fixes his eyes on her.

And Kephale above, they’re even more striking up close.

Phainon tilts her chin, ignoring the way her heart thrums beneath her ribs. “You fight well,” she says, voice steady, though her pulse betrays her. “But you nearly lost your head just now.”

A beat passes. Then, the man smirks—slow, deliberate, as though amused she dared to step into his chaos. “And you wield that blade like it was born for your hand. Who are you, stranger?”

Phainon tightens her grip on Dawnmaker, the golden glow flickering faintly, and lets her lips curve into the smallest of smiles. “I'm Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae, travelling to Castrum Kremnos to deliver a message."

The man raises an eyebrow, "To who, may I ask?"

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you, by an oath." He rolls his eyes. "However, if you do know the way to Kremnos, I would very well appreciate it, given that I've saved you." 

He smirks, "You only delivered the final blow to the Titankin, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I very well could have taken care of myself," he continues, "My men and I are from Kremnos, however, and so, I'll lead you there, as a thanks for...saving my life, as you so gracefully put it."

Phainon takes everything back—this man is the rudest she’s ever met. She straightens, the gold of Dawnmaker glinting.

“You’ve an interesting way of showing gratitude,” she remarks, her tone dry enough to parch the air between them.

He chuckles, wiping monster blood from his gauntlet onto the hem of his robe as though the fabric were no finer than rags. “Gratitude is for the weak. Kremnos teaches strength, not pleasantries.” His eyes flick over her, from the dust on her boots to the fire in her gaze. “And you… You’re far too polished to be wandering these lands alone. Tell me, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae—how many heads has your weapon taken?”

Phainon bristles. “Enough to know when to step in and save a fool who doesn’t notice a beast at his back.”

That earns her a bark of laughter, unrestrained and loud, echoing across the silent battlefield. His men exchange wary glances, clearly unused to anyone speaking to him this way.

“You’ve spirit, I’ll give you that.” He steps closer, the golden necklace around his throat gleaming in the sun, and lowers his voice just enough for only her to hear. “But spirit can get you killed in Kremnos, if you don’t know when to hold your tongue.”

Phainon refuses to be cowed. She meets his gaze head-on, her chin tilted defiantly. “Then perhaps Kremnos ought to learn the value of listening.”

For a moment, they simply stare at each other—his smirk sharpening, her glare hardening—until one of his wounded soldiers groans, breaking the tension. He glances away, barking an order in a tongue Phainon doesn’t recognize, and his men begin dragging themselves upright.

“Come,” he says finally, jerking his chin toward the horizon where jagged cliffs rise like teeth against the sky. “Castrum Kremnos lies beyond those ridges.”

Phainon exhales, falling into step beside him, though every nerve bristles at his arrogance. Dawnmaker rests heavy at her side, a reminder of her oath, her mission. She casts him a sidelong look, lips tightening.

Kephale help her—if the rest of Kremnos is like him, this alliance may be far harder to forge than she imagined.

~

On her journey, to Castrum Kremnos, she speaks to a few of the men. She learns that the man she exchanged...pleasantries with was Mydeimos, the Crown Prince of Kremnos, and the son of Gorgo. One could only imagine Phainon's horror when she realized that she had spoken so rudely to him.

Kephale’s light, what a fool she must have looked, bristling and biting at the very man who could make or break this fragile truce. Dawnmaker feels heavier than ever at her side, as though even the blade knows the weight of her blunder.

~

Crimson dusk lay heavy over the land as Mydeimos led Phainon up the ridges. From the high ground, she saw it — Castrum Kremnos, rising like a fortress of iron and flame. The walls were vast ramparts of dark stone, sharp towers crowned with banners of blue, gold and silver, very much like Phainon's own outfit. What a coincidence.

The outskirts appeared raw and utilitarian — crude dwellings, forges that rang out with hammer on steel, training grounds littered with training swords, dummies, and shields scarred from repeated blows. Everywhere, warriors moved: shadowed figures stitched in the gold glow of torchlight, their armor clinking, their bodies taut. Castrum Kremnos was no gentle stronghold. It was a kingdom built on strength, discipline, on battles both past and to come.

As they crested the last ridge, Phainon saw the heart of Kremnos proper — the inner walls rising higher, carved reliefs etched in stone showing scenes of glorious fights, sacrifices, and fierce beasts. Above the gate loomed an archway adorned with the roaring Lion’s Head (a symbol said to honor Gorgo’s legendary first kill), its eyes two lanterns gleaming like molten gold. Massive gates of iron and polished steel, reinforced with wrought bands stamped with the sigils of Kremnos, stood before them. Guards — clad in blue and steel — watched from high parapets, frozen silhouettes at the edge of torchlight.

Mydeimos pauses at the gate. The heavy hinges groan as it parts, and they enter a wide boulevard. The noise though — the clang of arms, shouts of commanders, feet dragging earth — it all thrums like a heartbeat. Torches line the avenue, mounted upon massive braziers, sending filaments of smoke into the sky. Stone towers on either side house barracks, training halls, storehouses. Statues of past heroes flank wide courtyards, many stained by time, some with chipped features. The architecture is harsh, functional, majestic.

She exhaled, steadying her grip on Dawnmaker. “Mydeimos… will you lead me to the palace?” she asked, keeping her voice calm.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “The palace? Why now? You haven’t said who this message is for—or why you need to see anyone inside.”

Phainon met his gaze, unflinching. "Its for the Queen,” she said simply, letting the weight of her words hang between them. “It’s… sensitive. I was instructed to deliver it in person, and the palace is where I must go.”

His golden eyes narrowed, curiosity and suspicion warring with the casual confidence he usually carried. “Sensitive… and I’m just supposed to lead you straight in?”

“You may lead, but do not ask questions,” she replied, voice firm. Dawnmaker hummed faintly at her side, as though sensing the tension. “That is all you need to know.”

For a moment, he studies her, the smirk fading to a serious line. Then, with a deliberate nod, he gestures ahead. “Very well. Follow me. But know this—Kremnos is no place for half-truths. Someone in these walls will notice.”

Phainon’s pulse quickens, but she keeps her chin high, stepping forward beside him. Every torch, every soldier, every shadowed statue feels like it’s watching, waiting. The palace gates loom ahead, and she can only hope that keeping her secret won’t unravel everything before she even reaches the throne.

The courtyard beyond the gates stretches wide, cobbled stones worn smooth under centuries of marching boots. Soldiers patrol in tight formation, their armor clinking softly as they move. Torches flare along the walls, throwing flickering shadows across statues of long-dead warriors, faces frozen in grim determination. Every step Phainon takes echoes, each sound swallowed by the cavernous expanse, making her acutely aware of how exposed she is.

Mydeimos walks beside her, strides measured and commanding. He doesn’t speak, but the faint tension in his shoulders tells her he’s alert to every detail around them. Phainon keeps her pace steady, her hand never straying far from Dawnmaker. The blade’s faint golden glow seems to pulse with the energy of the palace itself, as though it senses the eyes that follow her.

They reach a set of ornate doors, carved with depictions of battles long past, the craftsmanship intricate enough to make her pause and study it for a heartbeat. Mydeimos stops, turning to her with a raised eyebrow.

“This is as far as I can go before you’ll need an audience,” he says quietly. “Beyond this door, the Queen herself decides who may pass. You’ll have to speak carefully.”

Phainon swallows, the weight of her mission pressing down on her. “I understand,” she says, letting her hand brush the hilt of Dawnmaker. “Lead me inside.”

He gives a small, almost reluctant nod, and pushes the doors open. They swing wide with a soft groan, revealing a hall lined with banners and guarded by sentries whose eyes flick toward her, assessing, curious, wary. The scent of burning torches mingles with the faint tang of polished stone and metal.

Mydeimos gestures toward a long, ascending staircase that leads to the inner chambers. “Follow me, but remember—every step is watched,” he murmurs. “The Queen’s court is not forgiving of deception… or uninvited guests.”

Phainon’s grip tightens on Dawnmaker. Her heartbeat thrums in her ears, but her expression remains calm, composed. She follows, each step echoing her resolve. No matter what Kremnos expects, no matter the scrutiny, she will deliver Aglaea’s message. The future of the alliance—and perhaps the safety of Okhema—depends on it.

The staircase curves upward, each step bringing them closer to the heart of Kremnos—and to the Queen who waits at its apex. The glow of Dawnmaker catches the torchlight, a subtle signal of power, and Phainon can’t help but wonder if that gleam alone might be enough to command attention… or suspicion.

The path led them to the heart of the royal palace, a structure that blended martial might with regal elegance. Massive bronze doors adorned with intricate reliefs swung open, revealing a grand hall lined with columns and banners bearing the sigil of Kremnos. At the far end, atop a dais, sat Queen Gorgo.

Queen Gorgo, known for her ferocity in battle and kindness to her people, was a figure of both strength and grace. Described as a ferocious but kind warrior, she exuded an aura of authority tempered with compassion. Her presence commanded respect, and her gaze softened as she observed Phainon and Mydeimos entering.

"Phainon of Aedes Elysiae," she addressed the newcomer by name, her voice steady and warm. "I have been expecting you."

Phainon froze, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn't anticipated recognition, let alone such familiarity. Mydeimos, equally taken aback, exchanged a glance with his mother.

"How do you know her?" Mydeimos inquired, his tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Queen Gorgo smiled gently. "Through a message sent via the teleslate. Lady Aglaea of the Chrysos Heirs reached out, informing me of Phainon's arrival. She spoke highly of you, dear."

The revelation was a balm to Phainon's frayed nerves. Madam Aglaea had indeed arranged this meeting, and now, standing before the queen, she could fulfill her mission.

However, Queen Gorgo's next words brought a new wave of apprehension. "Mydeimos," she said, her gaze shifting to her son, "remain with us. As Crown Prince, it is important you hear this message as well."

Phainon nodded, understanding the significance. With Mydeimos present, the message would carry the weight it deserved. She took a deep breath, preparing to convey the delicate words entrusted to her.

"Queen Gorgo," Phainon began, her voice steady, "Lady Aglaea sends her regards. She wishes to propose an alliance between our kingdoms to combat the Black Tide. She believes that together, we can strengthen our defenses and ensure the safety of our people."

Queen Gorgo listened intently, her expression thoughtful. After a moment of silence, she spoke.

"An alliance, you say?" she mused aloud. "Lady Aglaea is wise. The Black Tide is a threat to all, and unity may be our strongest defense."

She turned to Mydeimos. "What say you, my son?"

Mydeimos, though still processing the unexpected turn of events, nodded. "If Lady Aglaea believes this is the path forward, I trust her judgment."

Queen Gorgo's gaze returned to Phainon. "You have delivered your message, Phainon. Rest now. We will deliberate and respond in due time."

Phainon bowed respectfully. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Mydeimos, I trust that you'll guide her to the Guest Chambers? It has already been prepared for her arrival."

"Leave it to me, Mother."

~

Mydeimos gestured for Phainon to follow, his usual smirk softened into something more neutral, almost contemplative. The palace corridors stretched long and winding, each turn revealing ornate tapestries and polished marble floors that reflected the torchlight like liquid gold. Servants and guards bowed as they passed, but Phainon’s focus remained on the weight of Dawnmaker at her side and the subtle awareness that Mydeimos’ presence—his golden eyes, confident stride, the faint gleam of his gauntlets—was both reassuring and unnervingly distracting.

“Guest Chambers,” he said after a moment, breaking the silence, “aren’t far from here. But… I must admit, I didn’t expect you to be carrying something so… formidable.” His eyes flicked to Dawnmaker, a mixture of curiosity and restrained admiration.

Phainon allowed herself a small smile, tightening her grip on the hilt. “It’s called Dawnmaker,” she replied simply, letting the faint glow ripple across the floor. “It helps me… in more ways than one.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll try not to get in your way.”

They arrived at a set of double doors carved with intricate patterns of warriors and beasts, symbols of Kremnos’ enduring strength. Mydeimos pushed them open to reveal a spacious room, furnished with a large bed, a writing desk, and a small balcony that overlooked the city. The golden light of the setting sun spilled in, casting warm shadows along the floor.

Phainon stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a soft thud. The quiet was almost foreign after the chaos of the battlefield, but she allowed herself to breathe, finally releasing some of the tension that had coiled tightly around her since she’d arrived in Kremnos.

“Mydeimos?” she asked, looking up as he lingered in the doorway.

“Yes?” His tone was soft, lacking the teasing edge he usually carried.

“Thank you… for leading me here. And for letting me… deliver the message directly to your mother. I know it wasn’t easy.”

He raised an eyebrow, though the faintest curve of a smile tugged at his lips. “You speak as if I had a choice.”

Phainon shook her head lightly, her lips curling in a small, grateful smile. “No, I suppose not. But still… I appreciate it.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Mydeimos tilted his head, gesturing toward the balcony. “The view here… it’s not so bad. Kremnos looks different from up high, doesn’t it?”

Phainon stepped toward the window, letting the cool breeze wash over her. She cast one last glance at the city below—its strength, its order, its unspoken promise of protection—and allowed herself a small sense of hope. “It is… magnificent,” she said softly.

“And,” Mydeimos added, a playful glint returning to his golden eyes, “I imagine it’s even more impressive when you’re not dodging Titankin.”

Phainon laughed lightly, the sound mingling with the wind. For the first time since leaving Okhema, she felt a flicker of peace, knowing the message had reached its rightful ears—and that, for now, Kremnos and Aedes Elysiae might stand together against the tide of darkness looming on the horizon.

"How are you related to Lady Aglaea?" Mydeimos asked curiously, standing next to her. 

"I am a Chrysos Heir, a part of the Flame Chase Journey that the Prophecy speaks of, enlisted by Lady Aglaea herself to bring the new dawn."  

Something sparks in Mydeimos' head because he murmurs, "The Deliverer, of course."

"You know of me?" 

"Everyone does in Kremnos. It's no wonder I found your name familiar when we first met."

Phainon blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his words. “Everyone… knows of me?” she repeated, trying to keep her tone even, though a ripple of unease coursed through her. She had grown used to whispers and wary glances in Okhema, but the thought that her name carried weight even here… it was startling.

Mydeimos’ golden eyes glimmered with a mixture of awe and respect. “The Deliverer,” he said again, softly this time, almost reverently. “Stories travel fast in Kremnos. Tales of your deeds, your courage… your skill with that blade of yours.” His gaze flicked to Dawnmaker, its golden sheen catching the sunlight. “I understand now why Lady Aglaea entrusted you with this mission.”

Phainon felt her cheeks warm, but she refused to let it show. “I am only doing my duty. The message… it is what matters, not me,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart thumped a little faster at his earnest gaze.

A small smile tugged at Mydeimos’ lips. “Humble, as well as capable,” he murmured. Then, with a tilt of his head, he asked, “And this ‘Flame Chase Journey’… does it truly speak of a ‘new dawn’? Or is it just tales to inspire?”

Phainon met his eyes, letting the words hang in the space between them. “It is real. The Prophecy speaks of a balance, of hope reborn in the hearts of those brave enough to seek it. Lady Aglaea chose me… among others, to play a part in that balance.”

Mydeimos was silent for a moment, digesting her words. Then he nodded slowly. “I see… no wonder she speaks highly of you. And no wonder Okhema would trust you to deliver this message personally. You carry more than just words—you carry their faith.”

Phainon allowed herself the tiniest of nods, her grip on Dawnmaker loosening just slightly. The sun dipped lower, painting the city in gold and crimson, and for the first time since leaving home, she felt… seen. Truly seen.

“And,” Mydeimos added after a pause, a teasing note creeping back into his tone, “I suppose that makes me a very fortunate witness to this, Deliverer.”

Phainon’s lips twitched, resisting a smile, though the corner of her eye caught the faintest spark of amusement in his gaze. Perhaps, she thought, this alliance—though fraught with challenges—might not be as impossible as she’d feared.

 

•~•

Notes:

I'm apologizing in advance if updates are irregular. I'm quite busy at the moment, and am not sure when I'll be able to put up the continuation.
Thank you for reading! ♡

Chapter 2: II

Summary:

"Mydei, you can simply call me Mydei."

Phainon blushes abashedly, correcting herself, "Alright then, Mydei."

~

Notes:

I actually can't believe that its only been 1 chapter and the hits are already at 600+! Thank y'all for the support, I appreciate it a lot. I really hope y'all like this new chapter!

The Palace is quite huge. Phainon could hardly find her way. She gazed at the runes and paintings on the wall, her fingers itching to touch the grooves of the sculpted rock and inspect it closely. Stories of war and kingship were inscribed on the massive stone pillars.

The historian in her is bubbling, marveled at the information around her. Streaks of lavender light pours from the balconies, the dawn just beginning.

Her hand unconsciously toyed with her braid, playing with the messy strands of her hair.

As she walks down the winding hallways, she thinks of Aglaea and Tribbie. She misses them. Misses Aglaea's soft, but grounding voice, misses Tribbie's nicknames. She misses Okhema. She hasn't felt this close to a civilization since... Aedes Elysiae.  

No, she will not think about that. All of that was in the past, and now, she wills herself to come back to the present. 

"Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, there you are."

For a moment, she's annoyed, just as she stops thinking about it, someone else brings it up. However, realization comes clear to her and she turns around to see Mydeimos.

He's got a rather smug grin- Phainon now thinks its his signature expression- as he approaches her. 

"You're awake," He says, arms crossing as he looks her up and down, a judgmental look on his face. Phainon feels the urge to defend herself for whatever Mydeimos is thinking, but speaks nothing of it. 

"Yes, and? What's the matter with that?" She squares her shoulders, trying not to look small in comparison to him as he stands close. She refuses to be dominated so easily. "It's usually the men who are awake at such an early hour."

She glares at him, the feminist feeling rising in her chest, “Strange that you think strength or discipline belongs only to men. You’ll find me a poor believer in such lies.”

He only chuckles, tilting his head like a cat toying with prey. “So the Deliverer bites as well as she stares. Good. I was beginning to worry you were only sharp with your sword.”

Phainon’s eyes narrow. “And I was beginning to think the Crown Prince of Kremnos did nothing but smirk and posture.”

His grin widens, golden eyes gleaming. “Posturing? You wound me, Deliverer. This”—he gestures vaguely at himself, from pauldron to gauntlet—“isn’t posturing. It’s presence.”

She scoffs, folding her arms. “Presence doesn’t win battles. Steel and will do.”

“Then prove it,” he says, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low challenge. “Come with me to the training grounds. Show me if Dawnmaker’s wielder is more than just a messenger with a famous name.”

Phainon tilts her chin, refusing to back down. “Gladly. Just don’t cry when you lose, Crown Prince.”

Mydeimos barks a laugh, already turning down the corridor. “Kephale save me—this will be entertaining.”

~

Phainon tightened her grip on Dawnmaker, the sword’s edge humming faintly, alive with the weight of its name. Mydeimos cracked his knuckles, the gauntlets on his hands gleaming like gold-wrapped lightning.

Without a word, they lunged at each other.

Phainon’s movements were fluid, almost dance-like, each strike precise and controlled, the sword cutting arcs of silver through the air. Mydeimos met them with a roar, fists encased in deadly metal, blocking, parrying, and punishing with bone-shaking force. Sparks flew each time steel kissed gauntlet.

“You rely too much on your sword,” Mydeimos taunted, circling, eyes glinting with mischief. He feinted, then struck, the gauntlet slamming against her forearm. Phainon gritted her teeth, pivoting with a spin that sent him stumbling back an inch, though she didn’t pause.

“And you rely too much on brute strength,” she shot back, pressing forward. Dawnmaker sang as it slashed, the tip grazing his shoulder. Mydeimos' laugh echoed across the courtyard, low and dangerous.

“You’re fast. I like that.” He lunged again, fists like hammers, forcing her back step by step. “But let’s see if you can handle this.”

The gauntlets sparked against Dawnmaker, their impact reverberating through her arms. Phainon gritted her teeth, pivoted, and slashed in a wide arc, forcing him to dodge sideways. Each movement was a conversation: challenge met with challenge, tease countered with precision.

Sweat ran down her brow, but her eyes burned brighter. Mydeimos’ grin widened, blood pumping, every strike heavier, faster, more calculated. The clang of metal and echo of movement filled the training grounds, a deadly symphony, neither willing to yield.

Phainon lunged again, blade flashing, aiming for a high strike. Mydeimos tilted his head, letting her sword slice past inches from his face, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Careful, Deliverer,” he teased, “wouldn’t want to cut something… precious.”

Her eyes narrowed, and with a swift pivot, she slashed low, forcing him to leap back just in time. The edge of Dawnmaker caught the sunlight, glinting like fire. “Flattery won’t save you,” she said, voice sharp, yet a little mirth in her tone, “and neither will your golden toys.”

Golden gauntlets met silver blade again with a shower of sparks. Mydeimos’ laugh was almost a growl now. “Toys, huh? You wound me. These are extensions of me. I’d say they’re… charming, much like their wielder.”

Phainon’s lips twitched in irritation—or was it amusement? She pressed forward, blade dancing, striking fast and precise, testing him, probing for weakness. Mydei met her moves blow for blow, fists a blur of polished metal, each strike rattling her arms, each block reverberating through her chest.

Then—a misstep, a fraction of a second—he left an opening. Phainon’s blade swept low, aimed to catch him off guard. But he twisted, letting her edge graze his shoulder and feel the sting without harm. “Almost,” he murmured, eyes glinting with that maddening mixture of challenge and amusement, “but you’ll have to do better than that.”

Her chest heaved, but her gaze didn’t waver. Sweat traced lines down her face, catching in the sunlight. She pressed on, sharper, faster, every strike a question: Can you keep up?

And he answered with a grin that made her blood thrum. A brutal uppercut of his gauntleted fist sent her staggering back a step, and he leaned in close, voice low, teasing, dangerous. “Fiery, relentless. Makes the game worth my while.”

Phainon steadied herself, gripping Dawnmaker tighter. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to strike harder, move faster, to prove that the Deliverer was not just a name, but a force. Sparks flew, metal rang, and in that deadly dance of wills, neither could deny the thrill—they were pushing each other to the very edge.

The clang of steel against metal rang louder now, a sharp symphony echoing across the training grounds. Phainon moved like water, each swing of Dawnmaker flowing into the next, seamless and deadly. Mydeimos matched her blow for blow, fists hammering and gauntlets sparking, each impact sending tremors up her arms.

Then, without warning, he feinted low, shifting his weight in a blur, and launched a spinning uppercut. Phainon’s reflexes screamed; she twisted, catching his gauntlet with Dawnmaker just in time. Sparks flew between them, blinding and brilliant. The force rattled her grip, but she didn’t release the sword.

His grin widened, golden eyes gleaming dangerously close. “Now that… was fun.”

Phainon’s own lips curled, almost unwillingly, at the compliment. Her gaze snapped up, meeting his. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them: the hum of Dawnmaker, the glitter of gauntlets, the sharp taste of sweat and adrenaline.

Then he lunged again, faster than before, and for the first time, her heart skipped—just slightly—as he closed the distance. Dawnmaker met his strike with a sharp clang, and their faces were nearly inches apart, breaths mingling, eyes locked in the same fierce challenge.

“You’re… dangerous,” he murmured, low, teasing, like a promise and a warning all at once.

“Mhm, thank you,” she whispered back, voice taut with effort, just as how his own was.

A spark of something unspoken lingered between them. She pressed the attack, blade spinning in an elegant arc, forcing him backward, his gauntlets flashing like sunlit steel.

Every movement was a test, every block a conversation, every near-touch a silent dare. Sparks flew around them like fleeting stars as they danced their deadly duet—two forces, equally matched, equally relentless.

Mydeimos lunged once more, fists hammering in a furious rhythm, gauntlets flashing like lightning. Phainon parried, ducked, and twisted, every movement precise, every strike measured. Sweat stung her eyes, but her focus never wavered; the weight of Dawnmaker was an extension of her will.

He smirked, confident, unrelenting, but for the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed his golden eyes—he had met his match.

Phainon feinted to the left, baiting him into overextending, and in a fluid, almost serpentine motion, she spun to his right. Dawnmaker’s tip pressed at the gap between his gauntlets and armor, a lightning-quick strike aimed to unbalance him. Mydeimos reacted too late, his footing faltering.

“Careful now,” she whispered, the edge of her voice sharp as steel, “wouldn’t want you to fall before you’ve learned respect.”

With a final, decisive twist, she sent him stumbling back, Dawnmaker hovering at his throat—not harming him, but declaring victory. Mydeimos froze, chest heaving, grin replaced by a flicker of genuine awe.

Phainon lowered her blade, breathing steadying, heart still pounding from exertion and the thrill of the fight. “Looks like the Deliverer isn’t just a messenger,” she said, a faint, almost teasing curve to her lips. 

Mydeimos blinked, golden eyes scanning her with renewed respect—and something else, something unspoken lingering beneath the smirk that slowly returned. “…Impressive,” he muttered, voice low, almost reluctantly. “You truly are a force to be reckoned with.”

Phainon let the tip of Dawnmaker tap the ground once, the sharp clang echoing like a punctuation mark. Sweat dripped from her brow, muscles trembling from the strain, but in her eyes burned the unmistakable fire of triumph.

“Good fight,” she said, holding out her hand—fingers firm, open, an invitation neither mocking nor hesitant.

Mydei glanced at it, a flicker of surprise crossing his golden eyes, before he extended his own gauntleted hand. Their palms met with a solid, grounding grip, sparks from the duel still seeming to linger in the air between them.

“You didn’t just talk a good game,” he admitted, voice low, teasing, and yet undeniably sincere. “You proved it.”

Phainon’s lips curved into a sharper, almost triumphant smile. “And you… didn’t make it easy.”

They held the handshake for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of skill, challenge, and something unspoken threading between them—an unsteady truce, maybe, or the start of something dangerously compelling.

~

Phainon leaned back against the polished stone wall of her chamber, letting out a slow breath. The sweat of the duel still clung to her brow, her muscles tingling from exertion. With a small sigh, she washed her face and hands, letting the cool water chase away the lingering heat. Dawnmaker rested safely in its scabbard beside her, its weight now a reassuring presence rather than a challenge.

As she finished, a quiet knock sounded at the door. A messenger entered, bowing low and presenting a sealed note stamped with the insignia of the Crown Prince.

"M'lady, Queen Gorgo has invited you for a banquet to discuss about the message you brought forth."

A small smile tugged at her lips. She had expected as much. “Very well,” she murmured, voice calm but firm. "Thank you for informing me, kind sir."

~

She let her gaze drift to Dawnmaker for a moment, tracing the familiar curves of the blade, then straightened, adjusting her attire with precise, practiced movements. The soft rustle of her garments was the only sound in the otherwise silent chamber.

By the time she arrived at the hall, the flickering candlelight painted the polished wood in warm golds and ambers. Banners bearing the Crown Prince’s sigil hung neatly along the walls, and the long table was laid with carefully arranged plates and goblets. The air carried the muted hum of conversation, the subtle clink of cutlery, and the faint aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine.

Phainon stepped forward, her posture straight, every movement deliberate. Her eyes caught Mydeimos across the table, leaning casually against a chair with that same smirk from the morning’s duel. Golden eyes gleamed with curiosity, perhaps amusement, as if he were silently grading her composure after the fight.

“Ah, the Deliverer arrives,” he murmured, loud enough for her to hear, though still polite to the rest of the hall. Phainon’s lips twitched with a faint, controlled smile.

Gorgo, seated at the head of the table, inclined her head slightly. “Welcome, Phainon. Let us begin our discussion regarding the proposed alliance. There is much to consider, and time is of the essence.”

Council members shifted their attention, leaning forward slightly, the conversation immediately taking on a formal cadence. Yet Phainon could feel the unspoken thread weaving through the room—the quiet challenge of diplomacy, the lingering heat of the morning’s duel, and Mydeimos’s teasing gaze, ever-present across the table.

She took her seat, hands folded neatly before her, eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. Each word, each gesture would matter tonight. And Phainon intended to ensure that every measure of her skill—both in combat and in counsel—was clear to all who watched.

The first to speak was an elder with silver-streaked hair, voice measured and deliberate.

“Phainon, you come before us bearing news of your people’s intent. Can you elaborate on the terms they seek in this alliance? Our understanding is limited, and precision is paramount.”

Phainon inclined her head slightly, hands resting lightly on the table. “Our people seek mutual protection and cooperation, particularly in trade and defense. We offer resources, trained forces, and intelligence in return for Kremnos’s support in securing contested borders and ensuring stability in neighboring regions.”

She mimicked Lady Aglaea in the way she replied, trying to sound as formal as possible.

A younger councilor, her tone sharper, interjected. “And what assurances can you provide that these commitments will be honored? It is no small matter to risk lives and wealth on promises alone.”

Phainon’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “Our word is backed by both law and tradition. Furthermore, these are the words of Lady Aglaea, herself, leader of the Flame-Chase Journey.. Should any terms be breached, consequences will follow swiftly and without ambiguity.”

Another councilor, a broad-shouldered man with a lined face, leaned forward. “Your people are known for their martial prowess, yet alliances are tested not only on the battlefield, but in governance and diplomacy. How do you intend to maintain cohesion between our forces?”

Phainon’s fingers lightly traced the edge of her goblet, voice calm and precise. “Integration of command will follow clear hierarchies and mutual respect. Training and shared protocols will ensure unity. Lady Tribbios and I will personally oversee coordination until the alliance proves its stability.”

The questions continued, each probing the feasibility, logistics, and reliability of the proposed alliance. Phainon answered each with measured clarity, her tone firm yet diplomatic, never faltering, never yielding ground.

Through it all, Mydeimos observed silently from across the table. He made no interruption, no teasing remark—his gaze sharp but restrained, respecting the weight of the discussion. Yet his presence was palpable, a quiet reminder of the duel earlier and the tension still threading between them.

When the final councilor leaned back, satisfied, Gorgo inclined her head. “Your answers are precise and well-considered, Phainon. The Council and I will deliberate further, but your clarity leaves little room for doubt.”

Phainon allowed herself the slightest exhale of relief, posture unyielding, eyes still alert. The first step toward the alliance had been taken—and she had proven that she could hold her own, whether in combat or at the table of power.

~

The remaining part of the banquet was more peaceful. Some asked about Okhema, how it looked like. Phainon had shown them photos using her teleslate. 

A woman seated beside her tilted her head, voice quiet and curious. “I've heard stories of Lady Aglaea. Is she truly as beautiful as they claim?”

Phainon’s lips curved into a small, almost fond smile. “She is,” she said simply, her gaze thoughtful. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Madam. Not just in appearance, but in the way she moves through the world—graceful, steadfast, impossible to overlook.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly, clearly impressed. “It seems Okhema produces remarkable women as well as remarkable warriors.”

Phainon chuckled softly, a rare, gentle sound that drew a few glances. “We take pride in both,” she replied, her tone calm but warm. “Strength and beauty are not mutually exclusive, after all.”

Across the table, Mydeimos’s golden eyes flicked toward her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though he remained silent. 

The rest of the banquet passed in this measured, civilized rhythm—questions, laughter, and polite commentary.

~

"You did well, Deliverer." A rather gruff voice says. 

"I know," she replies teasingly, waiting for him to stand next to her. "Walk with me?" Mydeimos says, and Phainon can't bring herself to refuse.

They strode in silence, until Mydeimos quietly asks, "Would you like to go to the marketplace? I assume you must be getting bored being cooped up in the Palace. Phainon's brows furrow, she has not bored in this magnificent stronghold, for she's been trailing her fingers, trying her best to read the Kremnoan Scriptures, but failing miserably. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Professor Anaxa.

"Alright, Mydeimos."

"Mydei, you can simply call me Mydei."

Phainon blushes abashedly, correcting herself, "Alright then, Mydei."

~

The marketplace is nothing like she had thought of. Her first impression of Kremnos was grim, and dark. However, she was proven wrong. It was bright and lovely, with children running about. People alike were staring at Mydei and Phainon. She spotted women whispering and pointing at her, some having disdainful looks at Phainon. It did hurt her a bit, but she willed herself to stay strong.

"They're all wondering about your identity," Mydei comments quietly.

"I guess you have quite the fan club, huh?" Phainon teases, and notices the soft pink settling on Mydei's cheeks, "It's very annoying, to say the least. All these women swoon over me, and I can't find myself to care."

"Is that what makes me special then, Mydei? Because I'm not like all the other women?" She asks, a smug grin plastered on her face. He rolls his eyes, "You are far more competent than those women is all I can say. And more skilled in fighting."

"Aren't the women of Kremnos equally skilled?"

"HKS, for the love of the Titans, please shut up." 

"What did you just call me?" Phainon says, folding her arms, pointedly looking at Mydei. He meets her glare with a groan, "Bastard. I called you a bastard."

"That's the Kremnoan word for it?" She asks incredulously, and Mydei blinks, expecting her to be hurt about it. "Yes, Deliverer. Anything else?"

She elbows him in the rib and its his turn to glare at her. "I was being considerate!" He exclaims, wincing and gently rubbing his side.

Phainon smirks, "As you say, Mydei."

The two of them continued weaving through the market, the sun casting a warm glow over the cobblestones. Street performers entertained the children, merchants called out for attention, and yet for Phainon and Mydei, the world had shrunk to the sound of each other’s words, the quiet rhythm of shared laughter, and the subtle tension humming in every glance.

At a stall selling vibrant silks, Phainon paused, letting her fingers brush across the fabric. “You know,” she said, looking up at Mydei, “I thought Kremnos would be grim, as I imagined from the palace exterior. But there’s life here. Brightness. It… surprises me.”

Mydei’s lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile. “Life often hides where you least expect it,” he said softly.

"How poetic. If you were not born into royalty, maybe you would have found a future in poetry."

Mydei raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference, though her heart thumped a little faster. “Flattery, Deliverer?” 

“Observation,” she corrected. His eyes lingered on her longer than necessary.

The teasing, the subtle glances, the light touch of elbows and nudges—they moved through the marketplace like a dance, each step weaving the playful tension from the duel and the palace into something far more intimate.

~

"What's that?" Phainon asks the old lady selling confectionary, pointing at a specific basket of candy. She's always had a small sweet tooth, and this little stall piqued her interest.

Mydei had gone somewhere, telling Phainon to stay put and not get lost, because he noticed the way she excitedly walked. "You seem more childish than you are, Deliverer. Perhaps try to behave like an adult?" He said before saying he'd be back soon.

Although, she wasn't proving him wrong. Here she was, buying chocolates and sweets. 

The old woman smiles at him, a sort of amused look on her face, "Its a special toffee. Known for giving boosts of energy when required." 

Hm, maybe that's what Phainon needs. "Could I have a sample?" She asks politely, and the lady smirks, before picking one out of the basket and handing it to Phainon. 

She studies it like its some sort of jewel, a deep red that reminded her of Mydei. It sparkled in the evening light and Phainon was just about to pop it into her mouth, before someone knocked it out of her hand. 

She's about reprimand whoever did that, but stops when she sees Mydei next to her, glaring angrily at the old lady. 

"Old hag, haven't you learnt your lesson at all?" He's mad, demanding an answer from the woman. "Oh, its you again," the woman rolls her eyes, and Phainon felt a bit creeped. 

He glanced down to see the toffee, stepping on it, grinding it against the stone floor. 

"Come Phainon, we're going back to the Palace," he says, grabbing her wrist and turning around, dragging her away, the crowd around them watching. She flushed when she noticed their audience, "Mydei, what are you doing? Let go of me, I'm capable of walking on myself!" She exclaimed indignantly. 

He doesn't respond, hell-bent upon pulling her from the market place.

~

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" She cried out when he finally released her wrist.

He glares at her, "Do you truly have no sense of danger, HKS? Did you not see the way that woman looked at you? Those were not any ordinary confectionary, Deliverer!"

She falters for a second before biting back, "What were they then, hm? Do let me know, Mydei, because I felt like I was losing my dignity when you were dragging me around like some doll in front of maybe the entire population of Kremnos."

He mutters something under his breath, along the lines of 'losing more than just dignity', and Phainon was truly intrigued.

"It's poisonous. That's all you need to know. And as an esteemed guest of the Queen herself, I cannot let you fall sick."

She eyes him, "Come on, Mydei, you're hiding something from me, aren't you? What is so secretive about it that you refuse to tell me?"

He merely ignores her question, "You may go to your chambers and freshen up for dinner."

She groans as he turns around, walking away in confident strides."

 

•~•

Notes:

Muahahha cliffhanger! What do you think the candy is? Comment your theory!
Y'all you won't believe it but I found a Kremnoan Translator. I've never been more happy.