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You’d think that a man who bore even the faintest resemblance to an Okheman would have the common sense to keep his head down in Kremnos.
You’d also think that, upon realizing he had the eyes of Kephale staring out of his skull, he’d maybe—just maybe—reconsider walking into the city whose sworn enemy for centuries was, in fact, Kephale’s lot.
And, if you were really generous with your assumptions, you might believe he’d at least invest in a hood. Or a scarf. Or, gods forbid, a shred of subtlety.
But then, you wouldn’t know Phainon.
Common sense and Phainon had parted ways the same way ships did at a harbor: with a quick nod, a shove, and a promise never to see each other again. Not because he was stupid. Phainon was many things—loud, reckless, stubborn as a mule tied to a post—but he was not stupid. He could do sums in his head faster than most merchants could cheat them. He could talk a man into selling his sandals while still wearing them. He knew better than anyone that walking into Kremnos with Kephale’s mark stamped in his very bones was like lighting a torch in a hayloft.
But he loved Castrum Kremnos. And when Phainon loved something, he did it with his whole damn heart.
He had since he was a boy in Aedes Elysiae, stretched flat on the floor of his uncle’s house, sneaking scrolls about Kremnoan wars and whispering them under his breath until he knew the names of every general, every battle, every glorious last stand. Kremnos: the Capital of Might. The city where warriors were hammered into legends. Where strength wasn’t just admired—it was worshipped. Where a man could earn immortality, not with prophecy or riddles, but with the cut of his sword and the way he fell bleeding, smiling, into history’s arms.
Cyrene had chosen Januspolis instead. She’d been drawn toward prophecy and divination, the art that their small village had dipped its hands in since forever under their patron titan Oronyx. She had an eye for that kind of thing while he didn’t. He’d considered going with her—he’d hated the thought of her being alone—but in the end, she had trusted him, and he trusted her. So they had parted cheerfully, clasping hands, promising to write. She to books and temples. He to blood and stone.
Which brought him here, to Kremnos. To the place he had dreamed of every night since he was twelve and decided that nothing—nothing—would make him happier than being punched in the face by a Kremnoan warrior. Ideally twice. Ideally in public.
Of course, there was the little issue of his birthmark: a neat half-sunburst blazing at his collarbone. And that symbol in his irises that made people whisper Kephale. Okhema and Kremnos might claim “peace” these days, but everyone knew what kind of peace it was. The kind with teeth still bared.
Did Phainon care? Absolutely not. Suspicion was just another kind of attention.
Which was how he found himself at a market stall, smiling as brightly as the sun itself at a vendor who looked like he was being robbed at knifepoint.
“Thank you, Menekrates!” Phainon boomed, clapping the man’s shoulder like they were long-lost kin. He hefted his prize—a modest bag of figs—and grinned like it was treasure wrestled from a dragon. “A kindness I’ll remember for the rest of my days.”
Menekrates blinked at him, unimpressed. Then he squinted at the figs like they’d personally insulted him. “Kindness? Boy, I think you just scammed me and three generations of my family.”
Phainon gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Scam? What nonsense is this? We were bartering. That’s the lifeblood of commerce, isn’t it?” He wagged the bag. “If anything, you should be thanking me. I kept your arithmetic sharp. Consider it a public service.”
From the next stall, a fishmonger snorted so hard it nearly rattled his crates. The man—gray-bearded, belly like a wine cask—slapped his knee. “Sharp? Ha! He gutted you like a carp, Menekrates!”
“Stay out of this, Akestor,” Menekrates snapped, glaring across the lane.
Akestor, naturally, did not stay out of it. His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Gods above, look at him! Smooth tongue, bright smile—he’s already robbed you blind and now he’s blessing you for it. That’s a Kremnoan man if I’ve ever seen one!”
Phainon raised his palms innocently, backing up half a step. “Now, now, let’s not quarrel on my account. I’m but a humble traveler—”
“Humble?” Menekrates’ voice cracked into a shriek. “You twisted my sums against me until I was nodding along like a halfwit!”
“Debate,” Phainon corrected smoothly, lifting one hand like a priest giving benediction. “It was debate. Nothing more noble than two men flexing their wits.”
Menekrates’ face bloomed redder than a pomegranate. “I’ll flex your skull—”
“Ha!” Akestor crowed, slapping his thigh. “If you had any pride left, Menekrates, you’d admit you got duped fair and square!”
“Duped?!” Menekrates roared, wheeling on him. “You dare—”
By the time their argument devolved into insults about whose mother smelled of rotten durian, Phainon had already collected his figs, slung the bag over his shoulder, and slipped into the tide of bodies moving through the market.
He whistled cheerfully as he went, weaving past women calling about fruit and boys hawking herbs. The voices behind him blended into the chorus of Kremnos itself: a city alive with strife, teeth bared in laughter and fury both.
Phainon breathed it all in.
Gods, what a perfect day to be alive in Kremnos.
The timing of Phainon’s arrival could not have been better.
The gates of Castrum Kremnos were usually a narrow throat—guarded, skeptical, opening only to the deserving or the foolhardy who could endure the questioning. But on this week, fortune smiled.
It was the season of the Symmachia, the grand commemoration of alliance.
Every year, the city honored the pact struck by King Eurypon himself—the same pact that bound Kremnos to the wills and natures of three Calamity Titans: Strife, Death, and Trickery. What had once been an era of devastation, when the Calamities scoured the land, was turned into an uneasy but lasting fellowship. Strife had wooed the two with the glory of Kremnos’s champions, Death by the promise of honor in battle, and Trickery… well, no one was quite sure what Trickery had gained, only that they had laughed, vanished, and left behind the ironclad oath that none of the three would raise their hands against Kremnos so long as the line of Eurypon endured.
So, in thanks and pride and no small bit of arrogance, Kremnos opened its gates once a year. Foreigners streamed in by the thousands, vendors sprawled their goods across every corner of the marketplace, and the usual fangs and claws of the city softened into laughter, wine, and revelry.
Phainon had practically skipped through the gates.
At first, the suspicion followed him, the way it always did: muttered words, narrowed eyes, a hand drifting toward a knife hilt before recognizing the festival banners and easing back. But suspicion had nowhere to root itself during Symmachia. Music played on every street corner, processions of masked dancers wound their way through alleys, and merchants hurled sweetbread at passersby like they were feeding pigeons.
Even Phainon found himself buoyed by it. The laughter caught, the wine flowed, and for the first time since stepping foot in Kremnos, he felt not merely tolerated but almost welcome.
A week later, he had a roof over his head.
That roof belonged to Alkippe, his landlady: a woman of late middle age with a spine like a spear haft and a tongue sharp enough to gut a soldier. She had given him dirt-cheap rent on the condition that he fix the leaky roof tiles himself and never, under any circumstance, sing in the house.
He’d agreed on the spot.
What Phainon paid in coin he tried to make up for in labor. He hauled barrels, patched cracks in the courtyard wall, ran errands—most recently carrying Alkippe’s list of groceries tucked under one arm while weaving through the streets with a bag of apples, barley, and whatever else she’d barked at him to fetch. He did it gladly. It gave him excuses to talk, to barter, to earn something precious in Kremnos: not trust, not yet, but tolerance.
Once, the market had spat him out like a foreign seed. Now, at least, it only rolled its eyes at him.
It was a victory.
He was still grinning about that small victory when a voice rang out:
“Oi, Okheman! Come help over here!”
Phainon slowed, sighed, and turned.
There they were again: the trio of neighborhood terrors he had somehow acquired over the past week.
The one calling to him—Dorian, gap-toothed, mop-haired, the loudest of the three—waved both arms like he was summoning a champion to a battlefield. His friends flanked him: Thaleia, small but wiry, straining against the corner of a massive stone block; and Nikandros, taller but all elbows, struggling beside her and looking two breaths away from collapse.
The three of them had first cornered him on his second day in Kremnos. He’d been fixing Alkippe’s fence when Dorian, never one to hold his tongue, had shouted across the street, “Why’s your face like that? You cursed?”
Ouch.
The interrogation had lasted an hour, ending only when Alkippe herself threatened to drown them in the cistern.
And yet somehow, despite himself, Phainon hadn’t shaken them since.
Now he planted his hands on his hips and called back, “As I’ve mentioned the last five times, Dorian, I’m not Okheman. My name is Phainon.”
Dorian grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Right, right, Phainon the Not-Okheman. Fine, whatever. Come help!”
Phainon tilted his head at the stone block. “What in all the gods’ names are you three doing?”
Thaleia, sweating and red-faced, puffed, “Carrying this… to Nana.”
Nikandros nodded solemnly, though his arms trembled.
“…You’re carrying a boulder to your grandmother.”
“It’s not a boulder,” Dorian corrected cheerfully. “It’s from the quarry. Nana says she needs it for the hearth. She can’t build it without a proper cornerstone. So! We’re helping.”
Thaleia shot Dorian a glare, then turned it on Phainon for good measure. “We don’t need help. We’re strong enough. We can do it on our own.”
Nikandros, face screwed up with determination, echoed, “Yeah.” His knees wobbled.
Phainon paused, watching the three of them struggle. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, Phainon chuckled.
The sound made all three freeze, turning toward him with identical looks of suspicion.
“What’s so funny?” Thaleia demanded, cheeks flushed.
“You,” Phainon said, smiling. “You’re adorable.”
Three sets of glares. He raised a hand. “Ah, no insult meant. Quite the opposite. You’ve got more fire than most grown men I’ve met.”
The glares softened, just slightly, though Thaleia was still frowning like she could chew nails.
Phainon crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes level with theirs. “But here’s the thing. Even the strongest heroes didn’t win their battles alone. Do you know the story of Demokles the Shield-Bearer?”
Dorian perked up. “The one who wrestled a boar barehanded?”
“The very same.” Phainon’s grin widened. “He didn’t carry his shield alone. His brothers took turns, three of them together, because that shield was heavier than iron. And you know what the poets said?”
The kids leaned in despite themselves.
“They said Demokles was twice as strong for having friends at his side.”
A beat of silence. Thaleia chewed her lip. Nikandros glanced at her, uncertain. Dorian was already nodding vigorously, eager to be convinced.
Phainon straightened, slipped the bag of groceries higher on his arm, and moved to the far end of the stone. “So. If I lend just one hand—not both, mind you, just one—then it’s not me carrying it for you. It’s me joining your company, like Demokles’ brothers. A fellowship, no?”
Thaleia’s eyes, for just a moment, flickered bright.
Phainon caught it, hid his satisfaction behind an easy yawn, and braced his palm against the block. “Now then. Shall we deliver this cornerstone to Nana?”
Dorian whooped. Nikandros straightened with renewed determination. And Thaleia, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, gave a single nod.
Together, the four of them heaved.
The cornerstone lurched forward at last, the four of them staggering with it like drunken porters.
“Now, if Nana doesn’t build an entire palace out of this thing, I’ll be very disappointed.”
By the time they were halfway across the neighborhood, the grand heroic trial of “Deliver the Boulder” had taken a predictable turn: two of the three brave warriors were utterly spent.
Thaleia was dragging her sandals against the dirt road, face red, little arms trembling around the edge of the stone. Dorian had long since abandoned all pretense of pushing, settling instead for leaning against it as if his sweat were a contribution to the effort. Thea kept insisting, “We’re fine! We’re fine!” but her voice cracked a little more each time she said it.
Phainon, for his part, was enjoying the spectacle. He let them strain for a while—because pride in Kremnos was a holy thing—but when Dorian finally groaned and flopped on top of the boulder like a dying soldier, Phainon caved.
“Alright, up you go,” he said, plucking the boy off the stone and perching him onto his shoulder as easily as if he’d been a sack of grain.
Dorian lit up instantly, grinning like he’d just been knighted. And if Phainon noticed the immediate jealous stares Thea and Melanthe shot upward at him, he very politely did not comment. Instead, he gave them a solution: “Well, heroes ride into battle. So why don’t you two brave warriors man the fort here?”
The two didn’t argue when he scooped them both onto the boulder. In one smooth motion, Phainon bent, gripped the underside of the stone with one hand, and lifted it like it was a barrel of olives. Groceries in the other hand, Dorian still perched like a tiny king, he started walking.
The children squealed in delight. Whatever pride they’d clung to earlier evaporated the moment they realized they could turn their rocky chariot into a makeshift game. By the time they reached the edge of the neighborhood, the three were giggling, clambering over each other, and arguing about who was the fiercest warrior in their “squadron.”
Phainon kept his steady, amused pace, ignoring the looks they earned along the way. Most of the adults gave him that familiar raised eyebrow, but more than a few cracked into smiles at the sight of the three little troublemakers chattering on their rock throne. It was hard not to laugh at the ridiculous picture: a foreigner and three rowdy kids shrieking like generals atop his prize.
Safe to say, when they finally arrived, their Nana’s face was priceless.
Thaleia hopped down the moment Phainon lowered the stone. “Nana, look what we got you!” she announced proudly.
Phainon wisely took several steps back as the three rushed forward, tripping over each other to present the boulder like a holy relic. Their grandmother—a wiry, sharp-eyed woman whose hair was more steel than silver—stared at the stone. Then at them. Then at Phainon.
“…What in Nikador’s name am I supposed to do with this?”
The children ignored her entirely, climbing into her lap, tugging her sleeve, insisting it was “for building,” “for the hearth,” and “because it was cool.” The grandmother groaned, but her hands still moved with the efficiency of someone who’d raised a brood before: steadying, patting, shushing without really shushing.
Phainon chuckled under his breath. He’d lost count of how many times these three had dragged him into situations like this. At least their grandmother—Kallista, if he remembered right—had stopped glaring quite so hard when he showed up at her doorstep. Hell, once or twice he could’ve sworn she almost looked sorry for him. Almost.
By now the kids had darted inside, voices echoing through the house as they plotted their next adventure. Which left Phainon and Kallista standing by the boulder.
A beat.
“Hello, Kallista,” he greeted, giving her a respectful dip of his head.
“…Hello, Phainon,” she returned, voice polite but clipped.
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the muffled shrieks within. Finally, she exhaled, rubbing her temple. “You let them rope you into this nonsense again.”
Phainon chuckled, shifting the groceries to one arm. “It’s good training. Builds character.”
“For them or for you?”
“Both, I’d say. I learn patience. They learn… well, nothing, apparently.”
That earned him a snort. She covered it quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Don’t let them grow used to you carrying their burdens,” Kallista warned, voice firm. “If you solve every struggle for them, they’ll grow soft.”
“Ah,” Phainon said easily, “but if I don’t swoop in dramatically at the right moment, how else will they learn the joy of being rescued by a dashing hero?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Dashing hero? That what you’re calling yourself now?”
“Not me.” He tipped his chin toward the house. “Them. You should’ve seen their faces. Fierce as lions—on their stone fortress, commanding the battlefield. They’ll remember that.”
Kallista gave him a long, assessing look. “…You talk a lot of nonsense.”
“Yes,” Phainon admitted. “But occasionally it’s useful nonsense.”
Her lips twitched again, unwillingly.
Only when he shifted the grocery bags against his hip, making ready to leave, did he ask it—smooth as any other idle thought. “Say, Kallista… during all this celebration, do the palace gates let visitors through? Or are the guards still their usual charming selves?”
Her brows furrowed. “The palace does not open for just anyone. Generals, proven challengers, diplomats—that is the custom. But with the festival, the guards are… lenient. One could get close without trouble.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Phainon scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “No reason. Idle curiosity. Thought I might wander up that way and see the lights, before Alkippe realizes I forgot half her order again.”
He turned half away when her voice stopped him. “Phainon.”
He glanced back.
Kallista sighed, rubbing her forehead like she couldn’t believe she was saying it. “…Don’t do anything stupid.”
Phainon hummed softly, a flicker of warmth threading through his chest. If she was warning him, that meant she expected him back.
“Of course not,” he said lightly. “Do you really think I’m that type of person?”
The look she gave him in answer was devastatingly clear: yes, absolutely.
Phainon chose to ignore it entirely. “Until next time, Kallista.” He gave her a jaunty wave, groceries slung against his hip, before heading off down the road.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae had always been accused of persistence. Some might’ve called it courage, others a tragic inability to take a hint. He preferred to call it optimism.
Which was why, after dutifully delivering the groceries to Alkippe, surviving her eagle-eyed tally of every last olive pit, and basking in a few glorious hours of festival dancing, feasting, and drinking his weight in watered wine, he now found himself standing before the bronze gates of the Kremnoan palace.
And standing.
And standing.
Two hours had passed.
The palace was not meant for loiterers like him. Its bronze gates were tall enough to shame a temple, flanked by brightness that spat light down the marble steps. The whole facade gleamed in the firelight, stern and unyielding as the gods themselves.
And yet Phainon’s optimism blazed just as bright.
The gate guards, however, had clearly used up all their optimism before dawn.
They stood with spears braced, helmets crested, bronze polished, expressions blank as a priest’s sermon.
“Good evening, distinguished guardians,” Phainon greeted for what had to be the seventh time, spreading his arms wide as though he were bestowing blessings upon them. “Fine weather, isn’t it? The gods themselves must’ve arranged it. Tell me—who commands such tireless warriors as yourselves to stand guard while the rest of Kremnos drinks, dances, and sings hymns of celebration?”
The taller one, jaw tight as a clenched fist, replied without turning his head.
“No.”
Phainon blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“Ah.” He tapped his chin, beaming. “And if I were to ask again—say, with all the charm and grace bestowed upon me by Nikador Himself—?”
The shorter one didn’t even blink. “Still no.”
Phainon gasped as though struck through the heart. “Tragic! Here I come, a humble guest of your radiant city, inspired by your people’s courage and virtue, begging only for the chance to duel Kremnos’ strongest—”
“No,” the tall one said again, so flat it could’ve been etched on a tablet.
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“You weren’t going to say anything new.”
The shorter guard snorted, which earned him a sharp glare from his partner.
Phainon pointed triumphantly. “Aha! He laughs! Did you hear that? Beneath that fortress of a chest beats a heart capable of joy.”
The shorter one cut him a side-eye sharp enough to peel skin. “Phainon.”
“Yes, Machaon?”
“Go home.”
“Ah, Machaon, such a name. Rolls off the tongue like a hymn.”
The taller one groaned. “Not this again.”
“And you, of course,” Phainon went on, flourishing a bow, “are Theokritos. A name fit for epic verse! You see? I already know you both. I’ve watched you guard these gates many times.”
“We know you too,” Theokritos said dryly. “Unfortunately.”
“Then you know my request comes from the noblest intent!” Phainon grinned. “Picture it: a duel before the palace! The people cheering! The gods weeping! And you two remembered forever as the men who permitted such a spectacle!”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“Come now, don’t be hasty—”
“Phainon,” Machaon growled. “If you keep talking, I will personally carry you into the gutter.”
Phainon raised both hands in surrender. “Now, now, let’s be civil. Surely there’s room for debate. Allow me to present my arguments—”
“No.”
“But what if I—”
“Still no.”
“You’re remarkably consistent,” Phainon mused. “A lesser man would’ve cracked by now.”
“Nikador preserve me,” Theokritos muttered, “if you don’t leave, I’ll—”
“—admit you admire my persistence?” Phainon supplied cheerfully.
Theokritos’ jaw clenched. Machaon muttered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer for divine mercy.
But Phainon was grinning wider than ever.
He was just drawing a deep breath, ready to launch a brand-new argument (this one involving destiny, honor, and possibly free wine for the guard shifts), when everything changed.
Theokritos’ gaze flicked past him. His spine straightened, spear angled sharp.
Machaon mirrored him instantly, shoulders snapping back, every trace of boredom vanishing. Their blank irritation hardened into soldierly precision.
Phainon blinked, taken aback. “…What’s this? Did I finally persuade you? Are we dueling now? Gods, don’t say I told you so—”
Neither of them even looked at him.
Their focus was locked just beyond his shoulder.
“Alright,” Phainon said slowly, glancing behind. “What in Zagreus’ hairy balls has got you two so—”
He stopped.
And very nearly swallowed his tongue.
Because standing behind him, framed in the golden spill of light and the hush that fell with his arrival, was the most breathtaking man Phainon had ever seen.
Phainon—usually quick with words—could only think one coherent thought as something unholy dropped low in his gut:
Holy fuck, that is the hunkiest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Phainon really didn’t know what he expected.
Of course, with the ceremonial procession snaking its way back toward the palace, someone important was bound to appear eventually. That much was obvious—he wasn’t a complete idiot. But this? This stranger?
This he had not prepared for.
At first, it was the robe that caught him. White ceremonial garb, draped long like a coat rather than a toga, embroidered in gold thread that shimmered with every step. The cut was indecent in that perfectly Kremnoan way, split open down the chest and lower as if ordained by the gods themselves that all must witness the sculpted terrain of his torso. And what a torso—each line of muscle looked carved straight from the marble statues of Nikador’s own human form.
Phainon’s gaze snagged on the abs. Then the pecs. Then back to the abs. Holy tits. Blessed, divine tits.
He was, in fact, staring. Drooling, maybe. Usually he had the good sense to enjoy Kremnoan physiques with a little discretion, half-hidden behind his usual wit. But this time? This time he couldn’t even pretend.
And then the details hit him: streaks of crimson tattoos curling across sun-warmed skin, winding sharp and deliberate down ribs and shoulders. Gold bands clasped tight at his wrists. The faint sheen of oil highlighting every line of muscle. His knees wobbled.
By the time his eyes climbed higher, the man’s face nearly finished him off.
Most of it was hidden beneath a gleaming half-mask, sculpted in the likeness of Nikador’s symbolic body and wings. It left only his mouth visible—full lips, curved faintly, framed by a strong jaw. His hair, pale beige with tips dipped in crimson, cascaded over his shoulders like fire spilling across parchment.
And then, oh gods have mercy, Phainon saw it: the faintest glint beneath the mask. Golden eyes. Cold, gleaming, holy. Staring straight at him.
Phainon’s jaw dropped further. His stomach did something sinful. His soul promptly abandoned his body.
Oh.
He understood now.
This was one of Nikador’s priests. Who else could look like that? Who else could carry divinity on his shoulders so casually, devastatingly? Robes, mask, tattoos, authority practically screamed it.
May the Lance of Fury forgive him, because Phainon had just committed the vilest sin imaginable—
He wanted to climb that priest like a tree.
The procession slowed. Because of course, he was still standing in the middle of the steps, gawking like a man possessed. The stranger stopped, and the world seemed to stop with him.
“Well?” Theokritos’ bark cracked through the silence, sharp enough to make Phainon flinch. “Are you going to move, or stand there gawking until you get skewered?”
Phainon’s mouth opened, closed. His brain, usually so sharp, so irritatingly fast with chatter, failed him completely. “I—I—uh—”
Golden eyes glinted faintly from behind the mask, waiting. The stranger tilted his head.
And Phainon—curse his soul—did the one thing he should never have done.
“So, uh…” he stammered. “I read Nikador’s holy scriptures once. Pretty inspiring stuff. Big fan.”
And then he finger-gunned at him. With the sound effect. Pew pew.
The silence that followed was biblical.
If the marble steps cracked open beneath him and Thanatos themselves dragged him straight to the Sea of Souls, Phainon would have thanked them for the mercy.
Theokritos’ face twitched violently, like he was choking on secondhand shame. Machaon covered his face with a hand, muttering what sounded like another prayer for patience. The breathtaking stranger only regarded him, lips unreadable.
A soldier finally stepped forward, seized Phainon by the arm, and began to drag him bodily away from the steps.
For once, he didn’t resist. Head ducked, ears blazing red, he let himself be hauled off like the world’s most humiliated criminal.
Because what the fuck was that.
Finger guns? To a priest? To Nikador’s priest?
By the time the gates disappeared behind him, he was already spiraling, his stomach clenched, his thoughts stuck looping in humiliation, and the tips of his ears still burning hot enough to fry him alive.
He didn’t think he’d ever recover from this.
May Talanton strike him down personally.
It was safe to say Phainon had shoved that humiliating festival incident into the deepest, dustiest corner of his mind and piled furniture on top of it. Every now and then it rattled its chains and threatened to crawl back into his memory, but he had a cure: swing his sword until his arms felt like lead, and the ghost of his embarrassment vanished into sweat. Almost.
Once the festival smoke cleared and Kremnos slid back into its natural rhythm, Phainon finally locked in. No more distractions, no more gawking around like a tourist—he trained like a man possessed. The city was a crucible, perfect for him. Training yards sprawled like open-air coliseums, sparring rings clattered with steel and shouting, and the arena itself sometimes opened to common bouts if you were lucky enough to claim a slot. He soaked it all in—watching the veterans drill, pestering instructors with so many questions that a few threatened to chuck him out, and studying the warriors who staggered home from expeditions, scarred and glorious, dripping with tales of conquest.
He even got to see the Hephaestion once. One of the Crown Prince’s appointed generals, and by far the leanest Kremnoan he’d ever laid eyes on. Not that it mattered—Phainon had watched him move like lightning, cutting down men twice his size as if they were clumsy children swinging sticks. Gone as quickly as he came, off to recover and visit his household, but still—Phainon carried the image like a brand. If he wanted to measure up here, he needed to be that good.
And he was getting closer. Slowly, painfully, stubbornly—but closer.
Outside the training grounds, he made himself useful: hauling crates for vendors, balancing baskets of figs over his shoulders, that stuff. Market women who once side-eyed him began greeting him with nods. The kids in the neighborhood dared each other to poke at the sun-mark on his neck—none ever succeeded. Cute as they were, he refused to let anyone touch it, that sensitive place hidden under his choker. They pouted, bribed him with sticky sweets, and once even staged an ambush, but he stood firm.
And through it all, he sparred. More than he slept. More than he ate. The strange thing? Kremnoans respected him for it. His joking, his pestering, his refusal to quit—mixed with the fact no one had bested him yet—earned him nods where once he might have earned scowls. He was starting to belong.
And then came Ptolemy.
They’d met when Phainon, lingering in the training yard too late, spotted the man sitting on the steps with his nose in a scroll. He looked like he belonged in a library, not ten feet from practice spears. Naturally, Phainon heckled him until he agreed to spar. To his surprise? The man could fight. Phainon had won, yes, but he’d had to earn it.
Now, after another round, both sat slumped in the sand, drenched and panting like hounds in summer heat.
“Good spar,” Phainon puffed, clapping Ptolemy’s back with a broad grin.
Ptolemy wheezed out a laugh, head tipped back toward the fading sky. “Good? Titans, you nearly murdered me. Haven’t had a workout like that in—” he broke off with another wheeze, “—ever.”
“Ever?” Phainon flopped backwards into the dirt, arms spread wide. “Don’t insult me. That means all your workouts before me were worthless.”
“My arms are going to seize tomorrow. You’ll have to haul me to the baths like a corpse.”
“I’ll do it. But I’ll demand payment upfront.” Phainon rolled his head toward him. “One scroll. Preferably one with pictures.”
Ptolemy barked a laugh. “All my scrolls would bore you to tears.”
“Try me.”
“Oh? You want to learn the political history of southern trade routes?”
Phainon blinked at him. “…You fight like that and then you read about trade routes?”
“Yes.” Ptolemy pushed sweaty hair out of his face. “Some of us exercise our minds and our bodies, you know.”
Phainon groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm. “This friendship is doomed. Doomed, I tell you.”
“You started it.”
That made Phainon scoff, and for a while they just sat there, letting the comfortable silence overtake him.
Eventually Ptolemy spoke again. “So what really brought you here? You’re not just passing through. People actually… talk about you. You’ve made a dent.”
Phainon tilted his head toward him, lips quirking. “Talk about me? What are they saying?”
“That you bug everyone. That you’ve never lost a spar. That you eat like a starving bear.”
“Lies. I’m a gentleman eater.” Phainon thumped his chest. “But fine. Truth is—I came here because… well, if you’re serious about strength, about becoming more—Kremnos is where you come, isn’t it? The heart of it all.”
Ptolemy nodded, thoughtful. “And? Living up to the name?”
“More than.” Phainon’s grin softened, almost sheepish. “I’ve been eating up every second. Training, sparring, watching—honestly? It’s been a dream.” He scratched his jaw, then added, “But… I’ll admit. My real goal? To find someone who matches me. An equal opponent.”
“Ambitious,” Ptolemy murmured, amused.
“I know, I know. But listen—” Phainon leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard the Crown Prince himself’s a monster with a blade. Part of me wants a duel just once. Just to see. But getting an audience with him?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Impossible. So, next best thing: one of the generals. Trouble is, they’re never home long enough to breathe.”
“That’s your dream? To fight the generals?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a dream. More like…” Phainon tapped his chin, as if in thought. “…a deeply unhealthy obsession.”
Ptolemy chuckled. “And the palace? Don’t tell me you haven’t tried to slip in.”
Phainon winced. “…Okay, maybe I tried once. Or twice. Or four times. But the guards act like I’m a stray dog every time. Can’t exactly charm my way through spears.”
“Mm. So you really want in.”
Phainon shrugged, awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Can you blame me? It’s the heart of Kremnos. If you’re chasing strength, how do you not want to step inside?”
The stars were blooming overhead now, the sky gone velvet-dark. Ptolemy stretched his legs, then, as casually as if handing over a grocery list, pulled something small and glinting from his pouch. He held it out between two fingers.
“Next time you want inside,” he said, voice light, “show this to the guards.”
Phainon blinked, sitting up. The object was a ring, carved of crystal, reddish and translucent, warm against his palm when he took it. Not the kind of thing you handed out lightly.
“…Wait—what? Why—how—”
Ptolemy only smiled faintly, eyes creasing. “You wanted to train here, didn’t you? Don’t limit yourself.” Then, glancing up at the sky, he added almost offhandedly, “Besides—it’s late. I should go.”
“Wait, hold on—” But Ptolemy was already brushing the sand off his clothing and heading toward the street, raising a hand in farewell without looking back.
Phainon sat there, stunned, the ring catching starlight between his fingers. A laugh bubbled up in his chest—half incredulous, half giddy.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head with a grin that refused to leave, “looks like I’ve finally got my ticket.”
Phainon had strutted up to those palace gates so many times that Theokritos and Machaon didn’t even bother rolling their eyes anymore. By now, it was a ritual: Phainon arrives, he makes some terrible joke, he gets turned away, rinse and repeat.
But today—oh, today—he had a secret weapon.
He swaggered toward them like a man already three cups into victory wine.
“Morning, boys,” Phainon said with a wink. “Miss me?”
Theokritos groaned like the words physically pained him. “Phainon…”
“Don’t sound so happy to see me, Theo. You’ll make me blush.”
“We’re on duty,” Theokritos said flatly.
“You’re always on duty. Maybe one day I’ll be your day off.”
“Saints spare me,” Theokritos muttered.
Machaon, who had perfected the art of glaring without actually moving his face, spoke up: “Whatever you’re planning, don’t.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Phainon patted his pocket. “This time, I’ve got proof. Real proof.”
Theokritos gave him the deadest of dead stares. “If this is another forged seal, I swear by Gorgo—”
“Relax.” Phainon slid his hand out with a flourish, holding up a crystal-red ring like it was the crown jewels. He presented it with both hands, chin lifted. “Behold! The key to your hearts. And also the gates. But mostly your hearts.”
Machaon squinted. “…What is that?”
“The future.” Phainon’s voice dripped with conviction. Then, catching himself: “Also the gates.”
Theokritos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Phainon—”
“Look closer.” Phainon all but shoved it under his nose. “Real as my glorious biceps.”
Machaon plucked it gingerly, turned it in the light. Then his brows shot up. “…Wait. This—this is—”
Theokritos leaned in, his jaw tightening. “…No. No way.”
“Yes way.” Phainon puffed out his chest like a rooster, praying to every deity that he didn’t look as sweaty as he felt.
The two guards exchanged a long, silent look. For once, Phainon’s grin faltered. He waited, stomach doing slow flips, until finally Theokritos exhaled through his teeth.
“I don’t know how the hell you managed this, but… fine. You’re cleared.”
Phainon blinked. “…Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Like—I can just walk through right now?”
“Yes.”
“…No trial by combat? No riddle? No blood oath? No—you’re joking. This is a prank.”
“By the Titans, Phainon,” Theokritos growled, “go before I change my mind.”
For the first time in living memory, Phainon was speechless. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. Then, scrambling to recover his dignity, he straightened his back, shot them a dazzling grin, and strode forward with a ridiculous swing in his step.
As he passed, he finger heart both guards. “Later, loverboys.”
“Please don’t come back out,” Theokritos muttered.
“Ever,” Machaon added.
But Phainon wasn’t listening. He was in.
For the first ten minutes, he was the very picture of composure. Jaw tight, eyes sharp, strides purposeful. No clowning, no stunts. Just a warrior on a mission.
Inside, though, he was buzzing.
The palace was alive around him: columns like frozen whirlpools of marble, mosaics underfoot so polished he could see his reflection in them (and admired it, briefly—damn, he looked good in palace lighting. His face was probably the only thing he wasn’t insecure about). The architecture was exactly what he imagined for Kremnos: grand without being gaudy, beautiful because it was strong.
He heard the clash of steel from outside, voices shouting commands in clipped Kremnoan. His blood thrummed. Who would he fight first? A captain? A general? Some daring courtier?
Phainon’s grin spread. He belonged here. He’d earned this.
And then—
“Shoot—!”
One misplaced step on a slightly raised bit of stone, and suddenly he was pitching forward like a sack of grain tossed off a cart. Arms flailed. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the skull-shattering smack against marble.
It never came.
Instead, he hit something soft. Warm. Solid, yes, but with a give to it that made his brain short-circuit. His face was buried in… fluff?
“Oh,” he mumbled into it, voice muffled. “Nice.”
And, gods help him, he leaned into it. Just a little. Maybe a nuzzle. Okay, maybe more than a little. Sweet Kephale’s tits, it was comfortable. Whoever made pillows this soft deserved a prize.
A throat cleared above him. Not loud—just a deliberate ahem.
Phainon, at first, didn’t move. “Mm. Yeah, yeah, one sec,” he muttered dreamily, still pressed into the warmth.
Then the sound registered. Slowly—painfully slowly—he tilted his head back.
Golden eyes stared down at him. Cool. Sharp. Amused? Annoyed? All of the above?
Phainon’s entire body jolted like he’d licked lightning.
“Oh FUCK—” He rocketed backwards so fast he almost tripped again. “I wasn’t—sorry—I mean, I was, but—not like—holy SHIT.”
The man towered, striking in a way that made Phainon’s jaw nearly unhinge. Gone was the priestly garb from before; in its place, far lighter, far more revealing clothes—cut the Kremnoan way, with every intention of showing off a body honed like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, chest bared with casual arrogance, golden eyes framed by a face too pretty to belong to a mortal.
Phainon’s brain short-circuited all over again. He glanced at the man’s face, then his chest, then back, then—betrayal!—back down.
Wait.
Wait a damn minute.
“You’re—the guy,” Phainon blurted. “From before! The man! Holy—”
The golden-eyed man raised one brow and said smoothly, “Watch where you’re going.”
Phainon’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He nodded far too hard, tried to laugh it off, then realized he was still staring directly at the man’s bare chest.
Sweet Kephale’s tits, he thought again wildly. Of all the first impressions, the gods gave me this?
Phainon, in a full-body panic, defaulted to the only defense mechanism his brain could conjure—go monk mode. His back snapped straight, chin dipped, palms hovering like he was two seconds away from breaking into a prayer chant.
“Respected—uh—honored one,” he began, voice painfully formal, strained through clenched dignity. “May the titans smile upon your… um… abdominals.”
He blinked.
Oh. Oh no. Did he just say abdominals?
The stranger’s stare was flat, merciless, and utterly unimpressed. Not even the merciful mercy-laugh you’d give a drunk uncle when he botched a toast.
Phainon cleared his throat so hard it could’ve counted as an exorcism. “What I mean to say is—you seem very busy. Very holy. Very… uh… wing-masky. And I—”
“You’re new,” the man cut in. “Why are you here without a guard?”
Phainon winced. Fuck. That did look suspicious, didn’t it? At least this was a question with an actual answer. Maybe. Sort of.
“I came to…” He scrambled, eyes darting everywhere but the man’s chest, “…uh… fight. I mean spar. I mean—fight someone strong. Spar-strong. Strong-spar-fight—uh—”
The words tripped over each other like drunks on a staircase. His smile twitched so violently it looked like he was being electrocuted. Internally, his brain was screaming: Kill me. Gods, smite me. Right here. Lightning bolt. I’ll thank you on the way down.
He tried to recover, coughing, smoothing his coat. “Spar. Yes. That’s right! I’m here to find someone strong to spar!”
The stranger gave the faintest scoff, a sound so dismissive it could’ve stripped paint off the walls. “Not with me. Step aside.”
Relief crashed over Phainon so hard his knees nearly gave out. Praise every god on payroll. He beamed, all gratitude and panic and absolute idiocy, and without thinking blurted:
“Oh, don’t worry! I wouldn’t ever want to fight you!”
The words cracked through the air like a bottle shattering on marble.
The man froze mid-step.
Phainon, oblivious, thought: phew, dodged a bullet there. And then—because he was a man constitutionally incapable of shutting the fuck up—he kept talking.
“No, really, I don’t!” he rushed to reassure him, both hands raised enthusiastically. “It’d be… wrong. Dishonorable. As in, fighting someone like you would be like—kicking a temple statue. Completely unthinkable. I mean, obviously you could fight, you look like you could, but that’s not the point, right? Clearly your calling is higher, sacred, spiritual, elevated.”
The man’s shoulders went rigid, every line of his body wound tighter.
“I mean, sure, I bet you’re strong,” Phainon barreled on, utterly deaf to his own funeral march, “but it’s… different-strong. Not the sweaty, smash-your-face-in kind. More like inner strength. Noble strength. And it would be horrible—truly, genuinely, soul-crushing—to risk hurting you. Even by accident! I don’t think I could live with myself if I did.”
He swallowed, mustering up every ounce of sincerity, and finished:
“So I would never fight you!”
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.
The man’s back was still turned, but he stood utterly still, like a statue carved in fury.
Phainon’s stomach sank through the floor. …did I just say something wrong? No, no, it was fine. Perfectly fine. Who wouldn’t appreciate that level of respect? He’s probably touched. Yeah. Touched.
He started edging backward, each step a quiet prayer that he could slip away before the silence shattered. Just a few more steps and he’d be home free, out the door, back to pretending none of this had ever—
An iron grip snapped down onto his shoulder.
Phainon flinched so violently he nearly headbutted the air. His body locked up as he turned, just enough to catch those eyes—colder than steel pulled fresh from glacier ice.
“Outside,” the man said, voice low, every syllable laced with promise of pain. “Follow me. Now.”
Phainon swallowed. Loud. Very loud.
…Well. Fuck.
By the time they stepped into the courtyard, Phainon was being half-dragged, half-herded like an unruly sheepdog. His boots scuffed along the stone, his brain still back in the hall trying to figure out what in the name of all twelve Titans had just happened.
The stranger finally let go of him, and Phainon stumbled forward, catching himself on surprisingly steady legs.
The place itself was… stunning. Pale stone stretched in neat geometric patterns, flanked by towering pillars. Sunlight spilled over the marble, making it gleam almost too brightly to look at directly. Banners hung lazily in the breeze, edges rippling like waves.
It was big. Really big.
“…Are we allowed to be here?” Phainon muttered under his breath, glancing around for scouts. Surely this wasn’t the kind of space a random swordsman should just stroll into. Then again, maybe Nikador’s priests had free rein to wander wherever they pleased. Or maybe Phainon was about to be arrested for trespassing. He decided to postpone that thought.
The ground trembled.
He whipped around so fast Dawnmaker nearly flew out of its sheath.
The man had taken off his gauntlets. And dropped them.
Correction: slammed them.
Stone cracked. The echo rang out like thunder striking the earth, bouncing around the pillars. The floor literally bore the dent of the impact.
Phainon gaped, jaw slack.
“…Those… were just your gauntlets?”
The man flexed his bare hands, knuckles cracking in answer. “I won’t even need them to beat you.”
Phainon blinked at him, then blinked again, as if repetition might soften the sting of that insult. Nope. Still sharp. Did he offend him already? That had to be a new record, even for him.
He shook it off. Nothing to do now but roll with it.
Phainon brightened, raising a hand in greeting. “Well, before we try to kill each other, we should probably exchange names, yeah? I’m Phainon. Pleasure to meet you.”
The glare he got in response could’ve carved through steel.
“…Call me Mydeimos. If you dare.”
Phainon tilted his head, grin twitching at the edges. Oh, dramatic. He liked dramatic. The name rolled around his mind, warm on his tongue.
“Mydeimos, huh? Bold name. Crown Prince’s, isn’t it? Parents must’ve had high hopes.”
He meant it as a joke—light, a bit cheeky. But as soon as he said it, his own thoughts tangled.
Right. The Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. Everyone knew the stories—the whole ‘he’d one day become the Strife Titan after defeating Nikador in battle’ and all that jazz. Some said it wasn’t even prophecy anymore. That it had already happened. That the prince had fought Nikador in single combat and won. The only reason he wasn’t Titan already was tradition—that old, stubborn Kremnoan formality that demanded coronation day be the day of ascension.
On that day, Kremnos wouldn’t just crown a king. They’d crown a god.
Phainon remembered that month. Everyone did.
The sky had curdled with storms that weren’t storms, clouds bent into strange colors. The earth had heaved, rivers boiling, fields collapsing into rot. In Aedes Elysiae, crops withered, cattle sickened, children woke screaming at night. Every evening, villagers prayed, clutching temple steps as though they might splinter under their knees.
But it hadn’t been the end of the world. It had been a fight. A fight so colossal its echoes had reached even their humble fields.
Phainon hummed softly at the memory, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it made sense, then, that parents would name their son after him. A kind of faith. Mydeimos. His day. Their day. Their promise of divinity.
He liked the thought.
But when his gaze slid back, Mydeimos was staring at him strangely, confusion flickering like a shadow across his face. His lips parted—
“What are you talk—” He cut himself off. Jaw snapped shut. “…Never mind.”
He turned away sharply. “Draw your sword.”
Phainon looked down at Dawnmaker. The blade rested against his hip cozily, carrying comfort with it.
He hesitated. “…Not sure if I should—”
“Draw it.”
The command cut like steel.
Phainon sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. But only if you put those gauntlets back on. Seems unfair otherwise.”
A scoffed. But Mydeimos did reach down, lifting the weapons from the ground. He didn’t wear them yet—just held them, loose at his side.
Close enough.
Phainon unsheathed Dawnmaker in one smooth motion. He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles already tightening with anticipation.
Mydeimos squared his stance. “Until one of us concedes.”
Phainon tilted his head, studying the firm line of his body. He hummed, smiling faintly. “Fair enough. Just know—I don’t pull blows, no matter who I’m facing.”
“Good.” Mydeimos’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but a sharp curl that promised one. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
Their eyes locked.
Phainon moved first, Dawnmaker arcing forward with clean, heavy force. Mydeimos met it with a gauntleted hand, and the impact rang like a bell struck too hard. The shock rattled Phainon’s arms. Gods, he was strong. Stronger than Phainon had expected—than he’d dared to expect.
They broke apart, only to crash together again. Steel against steel, gauntlet against blade, the rhythm pounding through the courtyard.
Phainon’s smile widened. He couldn’t help it—excitement lit him up from inside, bright as fire.
“Well,” Mydeimos muttered after a particularly vicious exchange, grudgingly impressed, “you’re better than I thought. Most would already be flat on their backs by now.”
Phainon let out a laugh. “Likewise! Haven’t had this much fun in ages.” He pivoted, swung Dawnmaker low, then added with a quick smile, “Guess I’ve still got a talent for delivering good fights.”
Something shifted. Mydeimos’s mouth finally curved—not in disdain, but in a smile. Sharp teeth glinted in the light, sharp as a lion’s.
Phainon almost shivered. Why was he like this?
“Well then, Deliverer,” Mydeimos drawled, “show me what you’ve got.”
Phainon tilted Dawnmaker, heart pounding in anticipation. “Let’s hope you can keep up, then. I won’t go easy.”
“I’d be insulted if you did.”
Their weapons met again—ringing out across marble and stone. The courtyard thrummed with the sound of battle, air splitting with the force of every blow.
And that was how it began.
Phainon had no idea how long it’d been.
A few hours, that’s what he’d expected. A clash, some pride bruised, maybe a cracked rib if they were lucky, and then one of them would call it. Done. Over. They’d shake hands, grab a drink, maybe glare daggers if the loser had an ego. Standard procedure.
But somewhere between the first dent in Dawnmaker and the tiles splintering like cheap pottery, he realized—yeah, this wasn’t ending anytime soon.
And he wasn’t complaining.
Every swing was lightning in his veins, every block a thunderclap that rattled through his bones and lit him up from the inside. Dawnmaker screamed against steel, sparks spat, his muscles burned, and Phainon grinned wider the more his body screamed for him to stop. Finally. Finally someone who didn’t fold in the first half-hour. Finally someone who pushed back.
The ground testified to their idiocy. Tiles shattered under their feet, entire chunks of marble sent skittering across the floor. Phainon’s boots slipped on rubble more than once, and when one arm swung past his head, the impact behind him was a crater the size of a bathtub.
He twisted out of range, breathless, laughing so hard it nearly cost him his head.
“Hah—what do they feed you?”
Mydeimos didn’t dignify that with a reply. He just pressed harder, gauntlets snapping forward like pistons.
Then, blood.
It came quick—Phainon was a heartbeat too slow, the block sloppy. Pain cut sharp along his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He hissed, hand coming back slick, and when he glanced down—golden.
For a second, even Mydeimos faltered. His eyes narrowed, though his face didn’t shift much otherwise. They just stood there, both staring, golden blood catching the light like molten metal dripping down Phainon’s chin.
Neither spoke.
Then Phainon spat it to the side, flashed a grin so wide it split his face, and laughed—loud, wild, giddy.
“Oh, now we’re talking.”
And he launched himself back in.
From there it only got worse. Dawnmaker split clean down the middle, and he kept using it anyway. Every swing was heavier, sloppier, and twice as vicious. Phainon was laughing between blows now, hoarse and breathless, riding the high of battle-drunk madness.
Mydeimos should’ve stopped. Any sane man would’ve. Instead, his movements just wound tighter, sharper, as if exhaustion only refined him. The bastard just kept coming at him harder.
And Phainon, grinning like a lunatic through the ache in his chest, knew damn well the man was enjoying this too.
“Not bad,” Phainon rasped, nearly tripping on rubble as he sidestepped another blow. “Really thought you’d fold by now.”
“Funny,” Mydeimos answered, sweat glinting down his jaw. “I was thinking the same.”
Phainon barked out a laugh that cracked mid-breath. He shouldn’t be able to keep going. His arms screamed, legs shaking, chest hollowing with every gasp—but gods, he’d never felt so alive.
And then—finally.
Phainon hooked the jagged edge of Dawnmaker’s corpse of a blade, twisted, and Mydeimos went down hard, marble cracking beneath his back. The priest grunted, gauntlets scraping against the stone as he tried to brace, chest rising and falling hard.
Phainon loomed over him, legs trembling, chest heaving like he’d swallowed fire. Golden blood still traced his jaw, his grip white-knuckled on the broken hilt. He looked wrecked. And yet, ecstatic in a way he hadn’t been in years.
Mydeimos wasn’t much better—but he was. Just slightly steadier. Enough that Phainon could tell he was on the worse end of this clash.
Didn’t matter.
He’d told himself he’d be fine with either outcome. Win, lose—who cared? He’d learned the gorgeous bastard’s name, and that was victory enough.
But staring down at him now, sweat dripping, heart slamming—no. Fuck that. Now he had to win.
Phainon leaned down close, voice raw and uneven with ragged breath.
“Looks like you’re down, Mydeimos. What do you say we call this one mine?”
“You wish.”
None of them spoke, only their ragged breaths were heard. Then, with deliberate slowness, Mydeimos added, “Just give it up. You’ve got nothing left to spend.”
Phainon’s grin didn’t falter. It sharpened. A dry, shaky laugh slipped out of him, broken in places.
“Nothing left?” His shoulders trembled as the laugh climbed higher. He was vibrating with exhaustion, and yet his smile split wider, feral. “If you want me to quit, priest, you’ll have to pry the victory from my cold, dead body.”
Something flickered across Mydeimos’s face at those words—gone before it could be named.
He shifted, bracing his gauntlets against the fractured marble, preparing to rise.
CRACK.
The broken half of Dawnmaker slammed point-first into the stone beside his head, close enough to stir his hair with the force. Dust rained down, and Mydeimos went still, his breath catching as he looked at him in shock.
Phainon leaned in, teeth bared while smiling, eyes alight with a manic glint.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
His voice was ragged from shouting and laughter, but that only made his taunts come faster.
“You fight like a god, priest, but you fall like a sack of bricks. Honestly, impressive balance of skills. Really shows your range.” A breathless, wild laugh. “And look at this—” he nudged the fractured blade “—you made me break my favorite sword. Not my fault, obviously. Shoddy craftsmanship. Who even makes swords like this? Probably mass-produced. Garbage work.”
He crouched lower, laughter bubbling in his chest. “Tell me—do they train you in temples to ruin perfectly good flooring with your face? Or is that a natural gift?”
Mydeimos said nothing. Just stared, heartbeat increasing.
Phainon didn’t notice. Couldn’t. The adrenaline had his nerves burning alive. He was teetering somewhere between high and hysteria.
“Look at you. Not a word at all. Do you glare at your food this way too? Do you stare down dinner until it yields?” He chuckled. “Because I swear to the gods, priest, you look like you’re seconds away from smiting me for existing and—fuck—don’t stop, it’s incredible.”
He was spiraling, taunts spilling wild, barbed and ridiculous, until—
Memory blindsided him.
Cyrene’s voice. Years ago. She’d been perched on a bench, chewing fruit like she owned the sun, watching him stagger back from yet another fight with ink-stained cheeks, because even as a kid he hated crying in public.
“Phainon…” she’d said flatly, making a little circle motion at her temple. “No offense, but you do go a little—” she twirled her finger again—“when you finally find a good spar. It’s creepy as hell.”
The memory slammed into him like cold water.
Phainon choked mid-laugh, the sound breaking into a cough. He froze, realizing with sudden horror just how he must look right now: grinning like a lunatic over a bloodied priest pinned to marble.
“…Oh, shit.” His manic grin faltered. Color rose to his face. Abruptly, he ripped Dawnmaker’s jagged half from the ground and flung it aside. It clattered uselessly against stone, far from its mark.
He braced for a glare. For anger. For disgust.
Instead—
Mydeimos was flushed. Not with fury. His cheeks burned scarlet, his lips parted just slightly, pupils blown wide like ink swallowing gold. He stared up, chest heaving too fast, too shallow.
Phainon blinked. Horror shifted to confusion. Oh gods. Did I actually hit his head too hard?
“Oh no—shit—are you alright?” Panic tripped over his words, scrambling to replace joy. He crouched again, hands hovering stupidly like he couldn’t decide where to check first. “Did I hit you? You’re burning up—fuck, you’re burning—did I break something? I swear I don’t always—well, okay, sometimes I do go overboard, but—fuck—are you alright? Please tell me I didn’t—”
His palm pressed clumsily to Mydeimos’s forehead, checking like some half-trained medic. He leaned closer, words tripping over themselves faster and faster, frantic guilt at play.
Mydeimos’s chest heaved once more. Then—quietly, low, almost too soft—
“…I yield.”
Phainon blinked, still mid-ramble. “What? No, no, don’t pass out, I’ll—wait, what?”
“I said,” Mydeimos repeated, hand dragging up to cover half his face, avoiding his gaze. His voice cracked faintly. “…I yield.”
Phainon froze, words dying on his tongue. He gawked at him. “…Are you—are you serious?”
The look Mydeimos shot him through his fingers was sharp enough to cut marble.
“…Right. Stupid question. Uh—thanks?” His voice cracked into a laugh, genuine despite himself. “Gods, that was—hands down—the best duel of my life. You’re… gods, you’re incredible.”
His chest still thundered, blood still humming in his ears. But his face softened, suddenly warm.
And then his vision tilted. The sky dipped sideways.
“…Huh.” He blinked hard, swaying. “Weird… is that a bird? Why is there a bird here?”
Mydeimos blinked. “…What?”
Phainon swayed harder. His mouth opened, and delirium betrayed him. Half-sincere, half out of his mind:
“Gods, what I wouldn’t give to—” a pause, eyes glassy—“eh, fuck it, cuddle you like a pillow.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Mm. Yeah. Pillow.” His knees buckled. “Okay. I’m done now.”
And then he went down like a felled tree. Flat on his back, out cold before his head even touched stone.
Silence fell heavy over the courtyard.
Mydeimos remained where he was, eyes fixed on the unconscious man at his feet. Blood stained Phainon’s jaw, but even in sleep, a faint smile lingered there.
The Crown Prince of Kremnos had never yielded. Not to gods. Not to kings. Not to any rival who dared challenge him.
Yet now, staring at this ridiculous, collapsed man—Mydeimos realized with dawning horror: he was utterly, hopelessly doomed.
Phainon didn’t know what he expected when he came back to himself.
Rough estimate? An hour. Maybe two. He never slept that well in strange places, even injured, so surely it couldn’t have been long. Maybe he’d wake up still on the ground, face-first in the dirt. Maybe someone had tossed him out like rubbish—his sprawled, broken body baking in the sun while people politely stepped around him. Embarrassing, sure. But logical.
What he didn’t expect was to open his eyes to white sheets.
Hospital sheets.
Now, a sane and rational person might’ve stayed there. Checked the extent of their injuries. Waited for a physician. Asked what the hell had happened. Maybe even—gods forbid—rested.
But we’ve already established Phainon wasn’t exactly the sanest.
So what did he do?
He panicked.
One blink at those sheets, one glance at the strange walls, and his heart jumped like a kicked beehive. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. They’re going to harvest my organs.”
Naturally, the most reasonable course of action was obvious: he found a window and jumped out of it.
It wasn’t graceful. His ribs screamed, his bandages pulled, and his left ankle throbbed in protest. But he landed, staggered upright, and promptly realized—
“…Where the fuck am I?”
What followed was one long, painful, shambling odyssey.
Phainon limped down sunlit streets, swaddled in unraveling bandages, looking less like a recovering duelist and more like a corpse freshly evicted from its grave.
People stared.
A woman gasped and made the sign against evil. A child tugged on his mother’s hand and whispered, “Mama, that zombie just asked me where the market is.”
Phainon wheezed a laugh, trying to muster humor through his cracked lips. “I’m not a zombie, thank you very much. Do zombies have this much charisma?”
The mother pulled her child away faster.
He groaned, clutching his ribs, asking strangers for directions in between limps. To his shock, most answered—albeit with the cautious tone of someone helping a rabid dog they hoped would keep walking.
An hour later, aching head to toe, sweat-soaked, blood-streaked, and still half-wrapped like a discarded festival offering, he finally staggered into familiar territory. His little abode. Sanctuary.
He was halfway to the door when—
“By the bones of Nikador—”
Phainon froze.
Alkippe stood outside mid-task. Task in question: hefting a ceramic crate that looked three times her body weight. (How her back hadn’t shattered decades ago was one of life’s great mysteries.)
The crate dropped with a crash that made the ground tremble.
Her jaw dropped further. For one terrifying instant, Phainon thought it might actually unhinge. He had never seen her face move like that.
“…Phainon?”
He managed a sheepish smile, wobbling dangerously. “Hello, Alkippe. I’m… back.”
She didn’t reply. She stormed forward so fast he thought she might knock him flat. Her hands flew over his chest, his ribs, his bandages, pressing, checking, muttering curses under her breath.
“What the hell happened to you? Where were you? Gods above, you look like you got dragged through a quarry—”
“Don’t worry,” he said quickly, weakly, his smile wobbling. “Just gone for a day, no need to—”
Her head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. “A day?”
“Yes,” he said, confident, nodding. “A day.”
“It’s been ten.”
The smile stayed on his face. “…What?”
“Ten days since anyone’s seen hide or hair of you. You dropped off the earth.”
His soul nearly evacuated his body.
Before he could crumple under that realization, she seized him by the arm and half-dragged, half-carried him inside. His feeble protest—“Really, I can handle this myself—” died the moment she shot him one glare sharp enough to skin cattle. He went quiet instantly.
After dragging him in the living room and then finally getting the bathroom, it smelled faintly of herbs and clay soap. Alkippe pressed him down onto a stool like dropping firewood. A towel hit the counter with a slap.
Without fuss, she began unwinding his filthy bandages. New cloth replaced them in brisk, firm movements. She muttered under her breath the entire time, things like “Reckless youth” and “what fool gods keep him alive.”
Phainon let her.
Normally, he’d have joked, teased, maybe tried to talk his way out of scolding. But not tonight. Tonight his limbs felt heavy, his mind a blur.
When her fingers found his hair, dunking it under warm water, working dried blood and grit free, he flinched once, then stilled as the water trickled down his temples. She scrubbed with surprising gentleness for all her annoyance.
Finally, with a long sigh, Alkippe wrung the last of the water from his hair and set the towel aside. Her hands paused just a moment on his shoulders, steadying him.
“Up,” she ordered.
He blinked, sluggish, but obeyed. She guided him down the short hall with a hand firm at his elbow, half-steering him like a child too tired to walk straight.
When they reached his room, she pressed him down onto the bed. Sheets rustled as he sank into them, boneless. She tugged the blanket over his chest with a briskness that tried very hard not to be concerned.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” Her voice was quieter now, final. A pat to his shoulder sealed the command. “Sleep.”
The door shut with a decisive click, leaving him alone in the hush.
He lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Silence.
His grip on the sheets tightened. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was holding something in.
Anyone watching would think: ah. At last. Regret. Shock sinking in. A man realizing he’s nearly died, wasting away ten days he didn’t even know passed.
But then—
His eyes widened. His breathing quickened.
His ribs ached as his body curled tighter around the sheets.
The thought rose right after:
I need to meet him again.
The smile that ghosted across his bruised mouth was faint, but unmistakable.
Down bad. Broken ribs and all.
Phainon had learned something very important these last ten days.
Answering letters was worse than bleeding out.
Cyrene’s had come first—three pages, ink blotched from where she’d pressed too hard in her panic. Then another, shorter but twice as scolding. Then one from his parents: We heard rumors you were dead (again). Explain. Then another. Then another. By the time he’d scrawled his twenty-third “I promise, still alive, stop writing obituaries,” his hand cramped so bad he swore Oronyx themselves was punishing him for poor penmanship.
So naturally, he needed a break.
Where did a man go for peace of mind? A temple, of course.
Except… there was the problem. Nearly every place of worship in Kremnos belonged to Nikador. Impressive things, really. Beautiful. Inspiring. And utterly useless to him. He couldn’t exactly stride in, foreign-looking as he was, and light a candle to another Titan without half the city whispering he meant to insult Nikador directly.
He respected their zeal. He really did. But damn, they didn’t make it easy.
Did that stop him? Absolutely not.
If Phainon couldn’t find a shrine, he would build one.
It was a ridiculous solution, but ridiculous was his specialty. A battered old hourglass from a junk stall, a handful of mismatched candles, a circle of stones arranged with far more stubbornness than symmetry—and there it was. Faith, improvised. He even wrangled a handful of kids into hauling the heavier things for him. They’d whined the whole way and in the end he had to bribe them with candied figs before they left him in peace.
Finally. A makeshift shrine. Quiet at last.
Phainon lowered himself to the ground, cross-legged, his bruises making themselves known but he ignored them. The hush of the place wrapped around him like a blanket. For the first time in weeks, he let his shoulders ease.
He clasped his hands together loosely, humming under his breath as he thought. What was the right way to start? It had been a while. Months, actually. The last time he’d prayed properly had been back in Aedes Elysiae. He remembered the rhythm of it—the little villager’s prayers, simple and unadorned.
Strange how something so small could feel so grounding.
His mouth quirked into a smile. Maybe that was exactly what he needed. Nothing grand. Just the old words.
Closing his eyes, he drew a long, steady breath, and let it slip from him as easily as if he’d never stopped.
“Lord Oronyx,
Guide our steps along the path ahead,
Grant us restful sleep through the night,
Bestow upon us wisdom for the days to come…”
For a moment, there was only the soft rustle of leaves. His voice, quiet but steady.
And then just as he was about to continue—
“Bold,” a voice cut in. “Praying to another in Nikador’s land.”
Phainon’s stilled. His shoulders tensed instinctively as he turned, eyes narrowing, ready to meet whoever had decided to sneak up on him—
—and then his gaze caught on the man’s face.
Ah. Well, well.
“Mydeimos?” he said startled, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest twitch upward. A flicker of giddiness stirred beneath his ribs, impossible to smother.
The priest regarded him coolly.
Phainon tilted his head, brow raised. “Is it wrong, then? To pray to another?”
“Only if you’re Okheman.”
That earned a chuckle from him. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that.” He leaned back slightly. “I’m not.”
Something passed over Mydeimos’s expression—so faint it could’ve been imagined. The slight lift of an eyebrow. A shift in the air around him.
“…Color me intrigued.”
Mydeimos stepped forward, stretching his arms as though he had all the time in the world. Then, without ceremony, he lowered himself to sit beside Phainon. His posture was still formal, but the nearness carried an intimacy the grove hadn’t had a moment ago.
For a beat, he simply studied the makeshift shrine, then returned his gaze to Phainon.
“You may call me Mydei,” he said at last. “It will do. Titles only clutter the space between men and gods.” His eyes flicked back to the candles. “Go on, then. Continue. I would hear what words you choose for Oronyx here, of all places.”
Phainon blinked, then laughed under his breath. He could guess well enough how Mydei had found him. Those little traitors—sticky-fingered, sharp-eyed children—had probably scampered straight to the nearest priest with their solemn little voices: The foreigner is building a ritual altar in the grove. He could almost see them now, fists planted on hips, faces screwed up with righteous importance.
He sighed, fond despite himself, then glanced sidelong at Mydei, who remained still, expectant.
“Well?” Mydei said finally, impatient. “Are you going to speak, or are we sitting in silence until dawn?”
Phainon groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine, fine. Patience, will you?”
His grin slipped back, faint but wicked. “You’re worse than the kids.”
Phainon inhaled as though to pick up where he’d left off, lips parting to resume his prayer. But the weight of a stare pressed down on him, sharp as a spearpoint.
He let the air leak back out in a sigh, cutting himself off. “…You’re not going to let me continue, are you?”
Across from him, Mydei said nothing. He only studied him, as if committing each detail to memory. His gaze dropped, lingered, returned. Finally, in a dry tone, he said, “Well… if the shoe fits.”
Phainon winced, clutching his chest in mock agony. “Gods, straight through the heart.” He dropped his hand. “Fair point, though. Perhaps I should actually explain my rather humble origins, yes?”
That earned him the faintest curve of Mydei’s mouth. “By all means.”
“Very well.” Phainon leaned closer as if confiding a secret. “Brace yourself. I’m from… Aedes Elysiae.”
The solemnity lasted all of two seconds before a laugh tumbled out of him, unspooling like a knot finally loosened.
Mydei’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Phainon’s smile softened into something genuine. “It’s no city-state. Just a village. Small. Forgotten by maps. But Oronyx watched over us. Always. Their hourglass kept the days steady, their veil kept us safe.” He reached forward, brushing a finger against one candle, watching wax drip freely onto his knuckle. “It was enough.”
A pause. The cicadas filled it, the grove alive with their hum.
“…Unusual,” Mydei said at last. “A Titan’s blessing, without a kingdom to proclaim it.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Odd, yes. But it was home.”
They let that settle between them, a cozy silence.
Then Mydei’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Tell me. Why Kremnos? With your build, your capabilities, your… blood—” his gaze caught on the faint golden shimmer beneath one healing cut at Phainon’s wrist, “—you would be celebrated in Okhema. Welcomed as kin of Kephale.”
Phainon hummed low, tapping his knee with two fingers. “When you put it like that, it does sound strange, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Mydei said plainly.
“Embarrassing, really.” Phainon’s flamboyance returned, playful, though his eyes flicked aside as if weighing something. “But truth be told…”
He trailed off, drumming his fingers against his thigh.
“It’s ridiculous,” Phainon admitted finally. “But ever since I was a boy, I admired Kremnos. The stories—your walls of stone, the trials, the way you honored your Titan not with idle prayers but with grit and steel. It sounded… alive. Glorious.”
He laughed, a little too loud, and buried his face in one hand. “Listen to me—rambling like a child. Next I’ll be praising your city’s architecture.”
“You already are,” Mydei said dryly, though his mouth quirked faintly.
Phainon peeked at him between his fingers, then dropped his hand, cheeks warm but skin thick. “Point taken. But still—I meant it. I always wanted to stand here. To prove myself. Not as some wandering oddity with no ties, but truly… belong. To leave something of myself behind in Kremnos, and to say it mattered.”
This time, there was no jest in him. His voice was steady, earnest.
The weight of it settled.
Phainon looked away, suddenly aware of how much he’d revealed. “Forget it. You probably think it’s childish. Or foolish. Or—”
His words cut off when hands closed around his.
Warm. Steady. Intent.
He blinked, startled, head snapping back toward Mydei. The priest’s expression was unreadable at first—then, as silence stretched, it shifted. Serious, yes, but not cold. Earnest. Almost… tender?
“If it is glory you seek,” Mydei said, “I can help.”
Phainon’s breath caught. He stared, caught between disbelief and the sudden, traitorous thought that echoed in his head: Cute. Damn it. In addition to being handsome, the little priest had to be cute as well.
A laugh escaped him before he could help it, light and almost nervous. He squeezed Mydei’s hands once before loosening his grip. “Maybe another time.” His smile tilted, teasing, but not unkind. “For now, holy man, I’ll settle for something less ambitious.”
His eyes went half-lidded as he leaned closer, catching Mydei slightly off guard. “Though if it’s not beneath you… mind helping me carry some things back?”
The faintest color touched the priest’s ears. His grip on Phainon’s hands tightened before he straightened, composure sliding back into place.
“…Of course not.”
Phainon’s grin spread wickedly. “Excellent.” He clapped once, then bounded to his feet with more energy than he had any right to. “Let’s start now!”
Mydei let out a quiet huff—something almost like laughter—as he rose after him. He brushed leaves from his shoulder, his expression calm again. But his eyes lingered, just a moment too long, on the curve of Phainon’s smile.
What started as “help” quickly became something else entirely.
Phainon had only meant for Mydei to carry one bag—two at most—but Phainon’s stubborn refusal to let Mydei carry everything and Mydei’s equally stubborn insistence that yes, he could, turned it into a contest. Who could carry the most. Who could get back the fastest. Who would come out on top.
The result?
Phainon, red-faced and muttering, trudging up the street with aching shoulders. And Mydei—damn him—already waiting for him, not even winded, the rest of Phainon’s bundles tucked easily under one arm as though they were made of feathers.
The priest stood there with his arms folded, chin lifted, chest puffed out in a way that made Phainon want to trip him just to wipe that smug little curve from his mouth.
“I told you,” Mydei said, voice maddeningly jubilant, smugness dripping from every syllable. “You were too slow.”
Phainon groaned, dropping his last bundle in a heap. “Too slow? You cheated.”
“You dropped your bag,” Mydei corrected. “Not my fault.”
“And you mocked me the whole way!”
“That also was not my fault. You make it easy.”
Phainon glared daggers. Mydei didn’t even flinch. Huffing, Phainon scooped his bundle back up, but he did, grudgingly, let Mydei keep hold of a heavier bag. It was either that or admit he couldn’t manage it all at once with his injuries, and he’d rather wrestle Thanatos bare-handed than give the priest that satisfaction.
Yet strangely, no one commented on their antics.
By this time of day, the streets were usually alive: a neighbor shouting for him to help with a loose shutter, a baker waving a half-burnt crust at his head, someone jeering about how loudly he snored through the walls.
Today? Nothing.
No greetings, no laughter. Only stares.
Phainon frowned, slowing. People weren’t just staring—they were gawking. Like he’d sprouted wings. Like he’d dragged Aquila out the sky and chained them outside the bathhouse. Eyes wide, mouths half open, steps faltering as he and Mydei passed.
He blinked, then gave a cheery wave. “…Afternoon!”
Nothing. A few gawkers muttered behind their hands.
Phainon leaned in toward his companion, whispering, “What’s gotten into them? You’d think I’d stolen someone’s wife.”
Mydei hummed. “You seem to have a reputation.”
Phainon gasped, hand over his heart. “Slander! I only tease.”
“And that’s not the same thing?”
“It’s a public service,” Phainon declared, voice loud enough for two scowling matrons to hear. “Free smiles. Free laughter. You’re welcome.”
The matrons did not look grateful. Mydei’s smiled before he shook his head, as if already regretting accompanying him.
Normally, this quarter of the city felt like home, noisy and rough-edged. Now it was… uncanny. Like the city itself had decided to behave too politely all at once.
Hunger eventually cut through the strangeness, and Phainon tugged Mydei toward a familiar stall for skewers. Normally, Myrina the vendor tolerated him with the patience of a saint and the temper of a general. She’d bark at him, shove his money back, and threaten to brain him with her ladle if he loitered.
But today?
Her eyes lit up when she saw them. She bustled forward with the brightest smile he had ever seen from her in his life and pressed two skewers into his hands before he could even open his mouth.
“No charge,” she said firmly.
Phainon nearly dropped the food. “…What? Did I die on the way here? Am I where the West Wind ends?”
Myrina only beamed wider. “Eat.”
He fumbled for coin anyway, bewildered, but she waved it away with uncharacteristic warmth. Beside him, Mydei sighed—patient, long-suffering—took one skewer, and thanked her gravely. Then, without looking, he nudged the other against Phainon’s mouth until he bit down.
Phainon froze, staring. “Did you just feed me to shut me up?”
“Yes.”
He chewed slowly. “…Effective. Bold. But effective.”
Myrina munched down. Phainon was too thrown to argue.
The strangeness only grew. Neighbors smiled too brightly, or else fell silent when they passed. Children darted away when they spotted them, only to peek around corners like spies. Phainon laughed it off, but even he couldn’t shake the uncanny edge of it.
Eventually, he found the culprits—his favorite little traitors, the gaggle of children who’d tattled on him earlier. He swooped down on them with mock severity, wagging a finger. “You! You think I don’t know it was you? Little rats. Little spies!”
Usually, this would cue chaos—tongues stuck out, raspberries blown, shouts of “Old man!” or “Go away!” as they ran circles around him.
Instead… nothing.
They stood stiff as soldiers, eyes wide, lips pressed shut.
Phainon squinted. “What, no sass? No clever curses? Not even a raspberry?”
Still nothing. Their eyes weren’t on him at all—they were fixed behind him, burning with intensity.
Frowning, Phainon reached out and ruffled one boy’s hair, then pinched a cheek. No growls, no playful slaps. Just the same solemn, almost reverent stares.
Confused, he turned.
There stood Mydei, a few paces back, arms folded, expression idle as he waited for Phainon to finish. When their gazes met, Mydei arched a brow.
Phainon blinked. Then grinned and gave a silly little wave.
The children all but vibrated, torn between awe and horror at his audacity.
Phainon had no idea why.
By the time they’d left the children behind and wandered into quieter streets, a flicker of guilt finally caught up with Phainon. For a man who carried himself like an impatient gladiator, Mydei had shown remarkable patience with Phainon’s shenanigans.
Phainon slowed, then stopped where the lane curved toward his door. He shifted the last bundle to one arm and turned to him.
“That’s enough,” he said.
Mydei tilted his head, waiting.
Phainon smiled—soft this time. “Thanks for helping me out today. Really.”
Mydei only blinked, caught off guard. “…No problem,” he said eventually.
Phainon chuckled, clapped a hand to his shoulder. “You know what, Mydei? I think I really like you.”
That earned him a pause, then the huff of a laugh. “Don’t make a habit of this.”
“Me?” Phainon spread his hands in mock offense. “Perish the thought.”
He chuckled before sauntering off toward his door. Mydei stayed there for a moment.
“Goodnight, Mydei,” Phainon called over his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Phainon.”
It was by all accounts, a wonderful day.
Safe to say, Phainon did make a habit of it.
Every time he spotted Mydei, he dragged him into something.
Like the market incident. Phainon had insisted he needed Mydei’s help haggling—because, apparently, Mydei had a “trustworthy face.” Which, fine, was technically true, though Phainon himself had never lost a barter in his life. Still, there he was, nudging Mydei toward a fishmonger and stage-whispering, “Just stand there and look intimidating-but-honorable.”
Mydei’s response? An incredulous stare, followed by, “…I’m not doing anything.”
“Exactly! That’s the point. Do nothing. Perfection.”
Somehow, the prices dropped. Phainon, of course, declared it was all thanks to Mydei. In truth, it was just an excuse to keep him around while he picked over cabbages and argued about eels.
Then there were the groceries. Phainon always carried the lightest bag—strategically filled with bread or herbs—while Mydei trudged along behind him, both arms loaded with sacks. “Supervision is important,” Phainon said loftily. “Balance and distribution of weight must be observed.”
Mydei rolled his eyes but still carried everything without complaint, listening while Phainon rambled about neighborhood gossip or which wines paired best with lamb. Occasionally, Mydei even added a word or two, just enough to prove he was paying attention.
Phainon’s favorite, though? The bathhouse. Gods above, who knew Kremnos had one tucked away here? Twice a day—if he was near his district—Phainon tried to drag a half-asleep Mydei along, dunking him into hot water before he’d fully woken up. Mydei never really protested—grumbled, sure, but then leaned back against the stone, eyes closed, practically napping while Phainon talked his ear off. The man was the biggest enabler alive, whether he admitted it or not.
And of course—ah yes—the Temple Incident.
Phainon had been just a touch too loud while visiting one of Nikador’s grand shrines, rattling off details about carvings and gods as if he were the tour guide. Mydei tried to hush him aggressively. Failed. Twice. And then came the old priestess, walking up with the air of a woman who had seen every kind of fool pass through her temple. She looked Mydei dead in the eye and said, in the most deadpan possible tone: “Keep your unruly partner on a leash.”
They both choked so hard Phainon thought he’d pulled something in his throat. “Partner?!” he sputtered, red as a beet. Mydei wasn’t much better. They both stammered denials until Phainon declared it absurd, ridiculous, laughable. (And if he didn’t mind the implication, well—that was his secret to keep.)
Which is how they ended up here.
The Areiothíros.
The coliseum of Kremnos. The grand stage where warriors bled and beasts roared, where Titans were honored not with hymns but with steel and spectacle. The air was electric, thick with the pounding of drums and the roar of thousands. Sunlight blazed off the arena sands, where gladiators already stretched and tested their blades.
And somehow, somehow, they had premium seats. Close enough to see the fighters’ faces, high enough for a perfect view of the arena floor. Phainon had no idea how Mydei pulled that off. Probably “knew a guy.” Mydei always knew a guy.
Phainon, meanwhile, was losing his mind. He leaned over the railing so far someone was bound to grab his belt, hollering cheers, waving his arms, voice cracking with commentary like a boy at his first match. “Did you see that swing?! Oh, and the shield—look at the shield work, that’s—no, no, Mydei, look!”
Beside him, Mydei sat back, one hand half-covering his face, pretending very hard that he didn’t know the lunatic next to him. Still, his gaze slid sideways more than once. Not toward the match. Toward Phainon. Watching the way his whole face lit up with joy.
Phainon didn’t notice. He was too busy fangirling.
Gods, he’d only ever been to the small arenas before—dusty pits, back-alley fights, nothing like this. This was the Areiothíros! The living, breathing pinnacle of Kremnosian sport. If Mydei got him into the Garbaniphoro Library next, Phainon wouldn’t even blink.
Speaking of libraries…
He’d found a peculiar book recently. Or rather, had it forced into his hands by a red-faced young woman who bolted the second she gave it to him. Stranger still, when he opened it, he discovered it was—ahem—a romance. Between a Prince and a humble farmer. Utterly absurd. Completely ridiculous.
And he absolutely, definitely, did not stay up until dawn reading it cover to cover. No sir. Not him.
Phainon shook his head briskly, banishing the memory, and turned back to the arena. His grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. “Isn’t this all so beautiful, Mydei!?” he shouted over the roar.
Mydei’s eyes lingered on him a beat too long before he answered. “…Yes. Beautiful.”
Phainon, naturally, assumed he meant the coliseum.
He must’ve been too loud this time because Mydei finally tilted his head toward him, hand dragging down his cheek like he was physically weighing the decision of whether to strangle Phainon or not.
Phainon barked a laugh. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop.” He clapped his hands together. “Just—by the Titans, what a fight. That last sweep? Had me on the edge of my seat.”
The arena was settling now. Fighters escorted off, the thunder of drums fading to a low murmur. Intermission, Phainon realized—brief but welcome.
He leaned back, stretching until his spine popped, humming a little tune under his breath. His mind wandered, unhelpfully, to something he absolutely, definitely, positively hadn’t read. A cursed little snippet lodged in his head anyway, rising like a mischievous spark.
“You know…” he began, drawing out the words, grin tugging at his mouth as he rolled the thought between his teeth. “I heard in Kremnos, if someone beats the other in a spar and they’re considered equals, they can be seen as… courting, right?”
Mydei’s gaze slid sideways as if humoring him. A flicker of curiosity, nothing more.
Phainon leaned in, smirk sharpening. “So does that mean we’re married~?”
A pause.
Silence fell—too sudden for the joke to have landed right. Mydei didn’t scoff, didn’t glare. He stilled. Absolutely, utterly stilled. The only give was the faintest twitch of his ears, a betraying brush of color along them before he angled his face just enough away.
Phainon blinked. “…Oh.” His brain short-circuited. Then it hit him what he’d just said, and the only solution, naturally, was to explode into the loudest, messiest laughter known to man.
“HAHAHAHA—oh gods, ignore that, hah—” He slapped his knee, voice cracking in his own ears. “Wait, WAIT, look at that guy down there! Nice sandals, right? Pfft—”
His laughter bounced across the row, drawing more stares. Mydei’s composure returned, though his jaw worked once as if he were grinding out a thought best left unsaid. Still, he didn’t look at Phainon for a long beat, eyes fixed stubbornly on the arena.
Mercifully, the announcer’s booming cadence rolled across the coliseum again, declaring the next bout. Phainon clung to the distraction like a lifeline.
Then he caught sight of who was stepping in.
His eyes went wide.
“No way,” he breathed, leaning so far forward his ribs nearly pressed the rail. “That’s Alexander. Alexander of Thespidos!”
Mydei turned to him. “…Who?”
Phainon spun on him, scandalized. “What do you mean, who?!” He smacked Mydei’s shoulder light-heartedly. “He’s famous! Came from the city-state Thespidos—challenged the Crown Prince himself to a duel that lasted two days straight!”
Mydei’s face was confused, but there was a faint pause, like someone sorting through half-forgotten papers in a drawer. Then: “…Oh.”
Phainon jabbed a finger toward the arena. “Exactly! ‘Oh.’ That man’s insane. I mean, yes, he lost, and sure, he was dragged off half-dead while the Crown Prince looked fine—but still! To last that long? Impressive.”
He slouched back in his seat, eyes gleaming with admiration. “Gods, how I’d kill to duel Alexander.”
Beside him, Mydei’s eye twitched. Subtle. But it was there.
“Maybe it lasted two days because the Crown Prince was frustrated with the Elders,” Mydei muttered lowly. “And needed someone to take it out on.”
Phainon blinked, turning. “What was that?”
Mydei cleared his throat. “Nothing. The match is starting.”
And sure enough, the drums struck again. Alexander of Thespidos raised his weapon—a spear gleaming in the sun—while his opponent, a foreign champion hefting a gilded axe so massive it looked like it could cleave the earth, stepped forward to meet him.
Phainon looked like a madman, leaning forward on his elbows, lungs ready to scream raw all over again.
To say Phainon was excited would’ve been an insult to the word. No—excited was what you felt when your cousin smuggled honeycakes into boring family functions.
He leaned over the railing like a man possessed, eyes ablaze. Every clash of spear and shield jolted through his bones like a hymn, and Phainon muttered along to it in a quick, breathless litany.
“Gods above, did you see that pivot? Smooth as riverstone—no wasted movement—oh, oh, and that counter-thrust! Textbook! You can’t teach instincts like that, that’s born talent!”
Alexander moved like a thunderhead given flesh—towering, but fluid, all that bulk disguising a predator’s swiftness. He spun his spear into a broad feint, sand spraying, then lunged with devastating precision.
Phainon gasped. “Ha! Look at that stance! Absolutely flawless—”
“He leaves his side open.”
The interruption was soft, almost idle. It slid into Phainon’s ear so smoothly he nearly missed it. He blinked, turned, and found Mydei exactly as he’d been for the last few hours: still, composed, one hand hooked loose over the railing. But his jaw was clenched.
“…What?” Phainon asked.
“His guard’s too high.” Mydei’s gaze never left the sand. “Overcommits on the left. Someone fast enough would cut through him like silk.”
Phainon barked a laugh. “Hah! You think so?” He jabbed a thumb toward the arena, wild-eyed. “Don’t tempt me, Mydei. I’ll jump down there right now and prove it!”
A hum. Noncommittal. But Mydei’s fingers curled tighter on the rail.
Phainon shoved the thought off and whipped back toward the fight, gesturing madly. “Look! Did you see that? Quick as lightning, textbook reversal—”
“My stance is better.”
Phainon stopped cold. Slowly, his hand lowered. He turned again. Mydei hadn’t shifted; his eyes were still dissecting Alexander like prey.
For half a heartbeat, Phainon’s mind misfired. Then laughter tore out of him. “Pft—hah! Gods, listen to you. Confident bastard.”
A twitch of Mydei’s lip. Almost a smirk. Almost.
He swallowed, pointing fiercely at the arena. “Still! That stance—it’s—”
“Flawed,” Mydei cut in. “Too much weight forward. He’s begging to be thrown.”
Phainon snorted. “Relentless. Poor Alexander, can’t catch a break with you, eh?”
“You’d fight better.”
Phainon’s head snapped around. “…What?”
This time Mydei did glance at him briefly.
Phainon’s pulse stumbled. He blinked once, twice. “Oh, don’t tempt me. You’ll make me think you actually want to see me out there.”
“Maybe I do.”
He paused.
Phainon hadn’t meant to lean in so close, but there it was—his shoulder brushed Mydei’s as he spoke, “You think so?”
Mydei didn’t retreat. He shifted only slightly—shoulders rolling back, his body angling in a way that almost looked like pulling away. Yet somehow, the space between them felt smaller. A quiet, magnetic tug, reeling Phainon back in without a word.
It left Phainon’s pulse skipping, though he masked it quickly, throwing his attention back toward the arena.
The fight below had reached its breaking point. Alexander drove his spear down in a vicious arc, and his opponent collapsed onto the sand. A wave of sound thundered through the stands—cheers, stomps, rattling bronze cups, the roar of thousands packed shoulder to shoulder. Dust rose, caught in the torchlight as Alexander lifted his weapon high, basking in his victory.
Phainon whooped and slapped the rail hard enough to sting his palm. “Ha! Did you see that, Mydei? He won! What a match!”
Beside him, Mydei gave a low hum.
Then, almost bored: “I could beat him.”
Phainon paused, glancing over. “Of course you could. Who’re we kidding?” He thumped Mydei’s shoulder, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The laughter lingered, though something in him twisted faintly when he noticed Mydei hadn’t joined in.
“Hey, hey,” he said, tilting his head with a teasing look, “you’ll kill me one of these days with how serious you sound.”
Still nothing.
Phainon hesitated—then, almost reflexively, leaned back. “Tell you what,” he said, voice lighter now, “I’ve got a few hours to spare. You got any time for me?”
Mydei blinked, caught off guard, before looking up at him and saying sincerely, “Of course.”
His chest tightened, a warmth threatening to bloom unchecked. Ah, damn… so cute. He doesn’t even realize what he does to me sometimes.
“Alright then,” he said, snapping his fingers lightly as if brushing the moment aside, “let’s head out.”
He caught Mydei’s hand without thinking, tugging him into the crush of bodies spilling toward the exits.
As they wove carefully down the higher tiers, Phainon called over his shoulder, tone casual. “Oh—been hearing rumors, by the way. Supposedly Alexander’s looking to challenge the Crown Prince again. Maybe later this month.” He yawned, glancing back at Mydei. “Though honestly? Doubt His Highness would humor him a second time, right?”
Behind him came Mydei’s voice. “Trust me. He’ll be… eagerly welcomed back for round two.”
Phainon blinked, then forced a laugh as he turned back around, tugging Mydei further into the sea of people. “Hah. Uh. Right. Guess we’ll see then.”
He let the crowd swallow the rest of the words, carrying them forward into the night.
It had been about a week since the coliseum match, and to say Alexander’s luck had soured since then would’ve been generous. Word had spread fast—he’d gone back for a rematch against the Crown Prince.
And this time?
Well.
Phainon leaned back, smothering a laugh even now as he recalled the rumors. “Less than three minutes,” he’d heard, “flat on the sand before the crowd even finished cheering his entrance.” To be crude, the poor guy had been beaten so soundly they’d had to carry him out sideways.
Almost made him wish he’d been there to see it—if only to confirm how fast a man could go from triumph to tragedy. Tragedy, in this case, being face-first in the dirt with his teeth rattling out like dice.
But alas, Phainon had missed the spectacle. Busy elsewhere.
And then there was Cyrene’s letter.
That one still sat folded on his table, unanswered. Normally their exchanges were easy enough—little windows into temple studies in Janusopolis, harmless complaints, notes about the weather, reminders that they missed each other. This one, though… her tone had been different. Sharper. Uneasy.
He hadn’t figured out what to write back yet. And brooding alone over ink and parchment had never been his style.
So, instead of chewing his lip raw, he’d decided on something better for the soul.
Which was why they were here now.
The bathhouse pulsed with life—steam curling through high rafters, echoing laughter bouncing off tiled walls, the splash of water as bathers shifted. Attendants wove through the haze with towels folded neatly over their arms, and the air smelled faintly of herbs steeped in the hot pools.
Phainon let himself sink into the warmth with a long groan. The heat soaked into every knot in his shoulders, dragged tension out of his back, and pried a sound out of him he’d never admit to in public. “Thank Phagousa,” he muttered, head tipping back, “this beats the coliseum benches any day. I think I’ll just live here. They can wheel me food in through the door.”
Across from him, Mydei lowered himself in, steam rising to catch on the sharp lines of his face, and at first, he looked too stiff for the setting. Regal even here, as if the water ought to bow before touching him.
But then he sank lower. Shoulders slipped beneath the surface. Eyelids dropped half-mast. A quiet exhale left him, almost satisfied.
Phainon squinted at him through the drifting mist.
He loved dragging Mydei to the baths. The man always looked better for it, softer somehow, like the heat scrubbed out whatever invisible weight he carried. But today was different. He looked not just better, but almost… content.
“—Oh,” Phainon blurted suddenly, slapping the water as if it had jogged his memory, “speaking of the coliseum—heard our boy Alexander didn’t even get a grace period this time. Straight out cold. Poor bastard. Honestly impressive he even walked back in there after the last one, braver man than me.”
Mydei’s reply was a low hum. Eyes half-lidded, head tipped back against the pool’s edge, lips set in the faintest curve. He sank further into the water until his shoulders disappeared, looking, somehow, pleased.
Phainon snorted, mistaking it for pure bathhouse bliss. “What, don’t tell me you’re finally relaxing? Here I thought you were immune.”
Mydei’s lips curved a little further, another blissful sigh leaving him.
Phainon sighed in mock despair, letting his head fall back against the stones. “You’re a mystery, you know that? I drag you out here, and suddenly you’re the picture of serenity. Hells, maybe I should make this a habit. Although—” he pointed a finger, “don’t think I’ll start carrying you in like some pampered lapdog. You walk yourself.”
Mydei didn’t bother opening his eyes. “You’d trip on the steps.”
That earned him a laugh. “Rude. I’ll have you know, I was once called the most balanced boy in my village.”
One brow lifted lazily. “Balanced?”
“Alright, fine. They said I was less clumsy than the goat.”
A short sound escaped Mydei—an unguarded laugh before he caught himself and gave a slow shake of his head, like he regretted indulging Phainon even that much.
Triumphant, Phainon slapped the water. “There it is! Victory! I live to drag that sound out of you.”
The laugh lingered, warm in his ears. He chuckled again, softer this time—then faltered. The smile thinned. Something pricked in his chest, sour and unwelcome. He tried to chase it away with more chatter.
“Speaking of victories—did you know the priests of Talanton apparently keep entire scrolls on how straight a spear should stand in the rack? Absolute madness. Imagine getting punished because your weapon leaned a little left.”
Mydei cracked an eye. “…Tragic. The spear’s honor, forever stained.”
“Exactly!” Phainon leaned forward, splashing droplets across the mist. “That’s the problem with law-worshippers. Everything’s a trial, nothing’s a triumph. Gods forbid you live a little crooked.”
The words came too quick. His grin sagged as he realized it. He sank lower into the water, rubbing the back of his neck.
Mydei tilted his head, gaze pinning him easily. “What?”
Phainon waved a hand. “Nothing.”
The silence stretched. Long enough that it felt intentional.
Finally, Mydei sighed. “That face doesn’t mean nothing.”
“What face?”
“The one you’re making now.”
“This—this is just my handsome face,” Phainon tried, feeble.
“Mm.” Mydei didn’t buy it. He shifted, settling more squarely across from him. “Phainon.”
The weight in his voice left little room to dodge.
Phainon groaned, dragging a wet hand down his forehead. “Hell. Fine. You’re relentless. Have I ever mentioned I have a sister?”
That earned the barest arch of a brow. “Not that I recall.”
“Figures.” The heaviness in his chest eased just enough to let fondness through. “Her name’s Cyrene. Younger than me but sharper by leagues. She went to Janusopolis for divination, been clever with omens since she was a kid, while me…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “I would play hero.”
Mydei leaned back against the stone, quiet but attentive.
Phainon chuckled, softer now. “Anyway. We write. Little nonsense, little updates. It helps with the distance.” He caught himself and huffed. “I’m rambling.”
“Go on.”
Phainon’s chest loosened further. “Her last letter was different. Distressed. Apparently some travelers came through Janusopolis talking about a new decree from Dysiara. You know the city?”
A hum of acknowledgment.
“Larger polis not far from Aedes Elysiae. They worship Talanton. Always have. Which means ever since I was old enough to run errands, their magistrates and patrols have been sticking their noses in our lives. Nitpicking. Twisting minor things into crimes worth punishment. Didn’t matter how much we made, how much we held together. All they ever saw was what was missing. Like the laws meant more than the people trying to live under them.”
His voice had sharpened without him meaning it to. The words heated, spilling faster. “And now Cyrene writes saying there’s talk of ‘bringing order’ to Aedes Elysiae. Whatever that means. Probably another excuse to send their self-righteous thugs down to bleed a villager dry.”
He slapped the water, sending up a sharp splash. “They never cared about the harvest we pulled in, or the festivals we scraped together. All they ever saw were the weeds in the cracks, never the fields themselves.”
Breath rough, he caught himself. Rubbed both hands over his face. “Listen to me. Gods. I sound like some bitter drunk ranting at the agora. Sorry.”
Their knees brushed under the water. He blinked, startled, to find Mydei watching him fully now—expression not unkind.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mydei asked.
Phainon froze. Looked away. “…No.”
A quiet noise of acknowledgment. Then, with a shift so small it could have been accident, Mydei left the space for him to lean if he wished.
Exhaustion won out. Phainon’s head tipped against his shoulder.
The tension bled away at once, carried off with the heat and the steady weight of another person grounding him. He let out a slow, shaky breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “…Thank you,” he murmured, eyes slipping shut.
For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of water and his breathing finally steadying. He let himself sink into it. Warmth. Quiet. Relief.
Until—
“I could take the city.”
A beat.
Phainon lifted his head an inch, staring. “What?”
“Dysiara,” he clarified, as if there’d been any doubt. “If they’re a problem, I’ll deal with them.”
Like he was offering to carry Phainon’s groceries.
Phainon choked.
“You—you can’t just—what?” He sat up straighter, water dripping down his shoulders. “Take the city? Take the city? That’s not—” His hands flew up, uselessly carving shapes in the air. “That’s not what I meant!”
Mydei blinked at him, as if he were the one who’d grown two heads.
“You’re joking,” Phainon pressed, narrowing his eyes. “Tell me you’re joking. Please. Because if this is your idea of comfort, it’s—it’s insane.”
“You seemed upset,” Mydei said mildly, like he’d just pointed out that the sky was blue.
Phainon sputtered again, nearly slipping on the stone. “Upset, yes. But that doesn’t mean—by all the Titans, Mydei! What kind of priest offers to conquer a city just to cheer someone up?”
“The kind who can,” Mydei said, unbothered.
Phainon froze, staring. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Finally dragged a hand down his face with a groan. “Unbelievable,” he muttered into his palm. “Don’t priests take vows about this sort of thing?”
He sat there a beat, breath evening—then let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “If only it were that easy, Mydei. Who goes and conquers a whole city-state just because it irritates me?”
But the thought clung. His jaw tightened again, frustration clawing back in. “Damn bastards. Always posturing. If they set one foot in Aedes Elysiae—”
He broke off. A warm weight pressed against his back—Mydei’s hand, giving him one firm, grounding pat.
The contact was simple, but it cracked straight through his fury.
Phainon groaned, slumping sideways until his head found Mydei’s shoulder, as natural as breathing. “Help me,” he muttered. “You’re ridiculous.”
Mydei didn’t argue.
Phainon shut his eyes, everything unraveling at once—the tension, the outrage, even the brittle humor.
Mydei shifted just enough to angle his shoulder beneath him, as if he’d been waiting for this exact weight.
A low hum vibrated against Phainon’s temple. Then, casually: “So… if they were just sent a reminder to behave, you wouldn’t mind?”
Phainon huffed, half-asleep already. “Unless you’re the Crown Prince himself, I wouldn’t dare trouble you with that.”
“Mm,” Mydei murmured. Almost idly. “Sure.”
Phainon, too tired to catch it, only let out another groan. “Terrible man,” he said, already sinking deeper into his shoulder.
Mydei simply adjusted his arm, just enough to keep Phainon closer.
Well—half an hour later, both of them were about ready to crawl out. The steam had long since settled heavy in Phainon’s lungs, and his hair clung damp to his forehead. He stretched, yawned loud enough for half the chamber to hear, and muttered, “Alright, alright—if I sit here any longer, they’ll have to drag me out in a bucket.”
“You’d deserve it,” Mydei said.
Phainon glared. “You wound me, Mydei. After all the quality company I’ve given you.”
“Quality,” Mydei repeated flatly.
Phainon clutched at his chest as if struck. “Ah, tragic! No appreciation. I bare my soul to you, and this is the thanks I get.” He tipped his head back dramatically, then ruined the effect with another enormous yawn.
Mydei smiled. Just enough to make Phainon blink, warmth fizzing in his chest before he could think better of it.
They rose at last, steam curling from their shoulders. Towels waited at the edges, attendants hovering discreetly. Just as Phainon was gathering his limbs with something approaching grace, a familiar voice piped up.
“Lord Phainon! Back again so soon?”
Phainon turned, all smiles. One of the bath attendants, an older woman with was approaching with a smile. “What can I say? Your hospitality is too good. If I stayed away too long, you’d all miss me terribly.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “That tongue of yours, always working.”
“Someone’s got to keep the mood lively,” Phainon quipped, tossing his hair.
Apparently, someone nearby agreed. A man soaking in one of the corner pools leaned forward, elbows braced on the stone rim. “Ha! Well said! Not many have the breath left for jokes in here.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Phainon said brightly, delighted to have an audience. He gestured loosely with dripping fingers. “You should’ve heard me last week. Nearly got thrown out for insulting a magistrate’s sandals. Hideous things—looked like they’d been carved off a goat.”
The man burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink. “Gods! And what happened?”
“Oh, I lived to tell the tale,” Phainon said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Though between you and me, I think the sandals lived a harder life.”
That set the man off again. He leaned closer across the edge, grinning wide. “You’re wasted here—you could fill a tavern just with your stories.”
Phainon beamed. “Tempting offer. But then who would keep the baths entertained?”
The man laughed louder this time—too loud, a little too free. He lingered, gaze flicking over Phainon with a brightness that bordered on bold.
Behind him, Mydei’s head tilted. Not much. Just enough.
The stranger’s laughter stuttered. His throat bobbed. He glanced past Phainon, caught sight of the look aimed his way, and faltered mid-breath. “Ah—” He scrambled upright, water sloshing over the rim. “Excuse me, I should—go.”
Phainon blinked, halfway through another clever remark. “What was—?” He turned, baffled, but the man was already hurrying out, towel clutched like a shield.
“What was that about?” Phainon asked finally, incredulous.
Mydei straightened. “Nothing. We should leave.”
“Nothing?” Phainon echoed, still staring after the retreating figure. “He looked like he saw a ghost. Was it something I said?”
“Probably.”
Phainon gaped. “What do you mean, probably?”
But Mydei was already stepping out, water streaming down his frame as if the entire exchange hadn’t even registered. Phainon threw up his hands, following, muttering indignantly about rude bathhouse patrons and his tragically underappreciated wit.
By the time they reached the attendants, he was still grumbling. One of them moved forward with a folded towel, bowing slightly toward Phainon.
But before it could reach him, Mydei stepped in. Without a word, he plucked the towel from the attendant’s hands and draped it over Phainon’s shoulders himself.
Phainon beamed. “Aw, look at you—soft-hearted after all.” He rubbed at his hair with one end of the cloth, pleased as a cat. “Knew I’d win you over.”
Mydei simply adjusted the towel, fingers brushing deliberately across his collarbone, then let his hand rest a moment longer than necessary.
To Phainon, it was a rare flash of kindness, a little uncharacteristic thoughtfulness that left him beaming wide.
To anyone watching, well…
At least Phainon was happy.
It really was a lovely day.
The kind that coaxed even the most sullen Kremnoan veterans out into the sun, where they sat sharpening their weapons with something dangerously close to contentment.
Phainon was, as usual, taking a walk.
He hadn’t meant for it to become a habit, but there was something addictive about the air here. Today was busier than most—no surprise, considering the visitors.
If he remembered correctly, the rulers of Aidonia and Dolos had arrived that morning. Death and Trickery themselves, strolling through Kremnos like honored guests. Phainon still didn’t know whether to laugh or shiver at that pairing. Strife had shaken hands with them and no one had pulled a blade. It spoke of peace—or at least, familiarity. Enough that they could walk these walls without an army at their backs.
The people seemed lighter for it. Market stalls bustled, training fields rang with laughter instead of shouting, and for once, the air didn’t hum with tension. Even Phainon, who had no stake in Kremnos’ politics, felt the mood trickling into him.
That was fine, because Mydei had told him he’d be busier this week. Something about obligations, schedules, duties—Phainon had half-tuned it out, distracted by the way Mydei had absently tied his hair back while talking. Point was: no Mydei today. Which left Phainon with two choices.
One: go for a swim. Always pleasant.
Two: sign up to join one of the escorted groups heading into the hills, maybe help with a supply run or a “routine watch.”
Both sounded fine. His plan was simple: enjoy the sun, maybe learn another half-dozen impossible Kremnoan words, not get arrested.
Except—
Well. Except.
The shouting started first.
Clipped syllables barked across the street, sharp and guttural. Kremnoan, though faster than anything he’d studied. Phainon squinted as a handful of armored figures bore down on him, words tumbling too quick to parse.
“Er—yes?” he tried in their tongue, forcing a grin. His accent, he knew, was hopeless. Kremnoan didn’t say I love you like Elysian or Okhemans did—no soft vowels, no gentle consonants. Their version was something like I would bleed on your shield, which was beautiful in its way, but hell, hard to work into small talk.
The guards didn’t look charmed.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” Phainon said, not even sure if he was being accused of something or just yelled at for standing in the wrong spot. He raised his hands peaceably. “I swear I’ve committed no crimes—well, none today.”
That earned him three flat stares. Then, to his utter shock, one of them reached forward, seized him by the arm, and tugged.
“Hey!” Phainon stumbled, trying not to fall. “At least tell me where we’re going. I didn’t bring my good shoes for a parade.”
They ignored him, steering him down the street.
At first he assumed it was some misunderstanding—a fine, a lecture, maybe a scolding about foreigners needing permits or whatever—but then a voice called from a nearby doorway.
“Hold.”
An older man he recognized as his neighbor shuffled out, robes inked faintly with the dye of his trade. Phainon recognized him vaguely—papermaker? Scribe? Something that left his fingertips perpetually stained. His Kremnoan was slow, words aimed like spearpoints: respectful, but sharp enough to snag.
The guards hesitated, answering back with clipped phrases Phainon barely caught: foreigner, detain, no choice.
Another voice joined. An old woman, leaning on her cane, eyes sharp as glass. She spoke more firmly. Her gaze darted once to Phainon, and for a moment—just a flicker—he thought she might actually be siding with him.
The guards shifted, tone cooling into something more formal. A short argument flared, sharp as flint strikes, before dying down again. The woman’s mouth pressed thin, the man folded his arms. Both stayed where they were, standing a little behind him now.
Phainon exhaled. “Well, this is cozy,” he muttered. “Didn’t know we were holding court in the street.”
No response from the guards.
“Seriously, though,” he tried again, brightening his tone. “If this is about me feeding pigeons yesterday, I’ll have you know they started following me first. Blame them for loitering.”
Still nothing.
Phainon rolled his eyes skyward. “Tough crowd.”
The papermaker murmured something again. The guards didn’t yield. One tugged again, firmer this time.
Phainon gave the old pair a half-salute, half-wave as he was marched on. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll… uh. Send a postcard.”
The woman’s sigh deepened.
He let himself be herded through the winding stone passages, expecting—honestly—a lecture. Maybe an officer wagging a finger at him for some bylaw he’d tripped over unknowingly. Hell, maybe he’d accidentally walked too close to the Death delegation. That seemed plausible.
What he did not expect was to be shoved through iron bars into a cell that smelled of mildew and regret.
He caught himself against the wall, spun, and gaped. “Wait—hold on—surely there’s been a mistake!”
The guard’s only answer was the slam of the door. Bolts shot across, iron ringing against stone.
The echo rattled down the corridor, leaving silence in its wake.
Phainon pressed his palms to the bars, staring out, voice rising half in protest, half in disbelief. “You can’t just throw people in here without telling them why. That’s—” He squinted at the dripping ceiling. “That’s—illegal! Probably! Somewhere!”
No answer.
The silence stretched until the only sound was the steady drip of water and his own breathing.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall, lips twisting. He clicked his tongue. “…Damn.”
And that was how his four days of solitude began.
Phainon wasn’t joking about those four days.
He tried to make the best of it. Truly.
At first he sat on the edge of the bed—if it could even be called that, more a plank pretending to be furniture—waiting for someone to realize the obvious mistake. Any minute now, surely, a door would creak open, a guard would shuffle over, and someone would say ah, you, Phainon, wrong paperwork, terribly sorry, off you go. He even rehearsed what he might say in response. Something charming, casual, something that would let him walk out with dignity intact.
The minutes dragged. He hummed to himself to fill the silence, tried counting the bricks in the wall across from him. Eighty-seven and a half, depending how one judged the cracked one at the corner. He asked the guards, politely, if they knew the official ruling on that half-brick. They didn’t answer. He tried again, louder, and was met with the same stony silence.
By the time he finally lay back and shut his eyes, the damp patch beneath him had begun creeping insistently against his ribs. He sat up again immediately, glaring at it as though it had done him personal wrong.
So much for optimism.
The next day he decided to entertain himself. Better than rotting in silence. The rats became his audience. He named the first one Tychon. The second one, smaller, missing part of its tail, he called Hero, because it felt ironic. By the time a third appeared—white streak across its back—he was applauding his own wit. “Look at this one, My Lord Albios, Knight of the Filthy Floor. Fine company, fine company indeed. Loyal companions, brave warriors, fearless scavengers—”
The guards passed his cell without pause. He tried calling out to them, compliments this time, figuring maybe that would win him some goodwill. “Excellent helmet shine today, my friend! Reflects the torchlight wonderfully. Truly, artistry.” When they ignored him, he upped it: “You could blind a man with that visor polish, I swear it. Handsome work. Do you use beeswax? I’d use beeswax.”
Still nothing.
In a fit of ingenuity, he folded his coat into a pillow, smugly propping his head up. It lasted three hours. Then one of the guards opened the door just long enough to snatch it away and leave him staring in betrayal.
“Rude,” he muttered, lying back down on wood that smelled faintly of mold. “Deeply, profoundly rude. Pillow theft. Unthinkable.”
He dreamed that night of a better pillow. Soft, feathered, kissed by the gods themselves. When he woke, he swore out loud at the plank.
By the third day, the novelty had worn itself raw. The food they gave him was some grayish slop that tasted of overboiled roots and despair. He forced it down the first two meals, joking aloud that it probably built character. By the third, he just stared at it until his stomach curled, then shoved it aside. Hunger set his head buzzing. His hair itched from the damp. His shoulders ached from curling up on hard wood.
He started talking to himself more, voice filling the cell in a desperate attempt to pretend he wasn’t alone. He held long, dramatic debates with the rats about philosophy, war tactics, and whether or not one of them was planning to kill him in his sleep.
“I see that look, Hero,” he whispered one night, glaring at the tailless one. “Don’t think I won’t defend myself.” Then louder, to the other two: “He’s plotting, I know it. First it’s crumbs, next it’s my toes.”
When a guard passed, he leaned against the bars, hair a mess, grin slightly unhinged. “How do you do it, hmm? Day after day? Don’t you ever get bored? Want to play a game? No? Oh, come on, you’d love charades. Classic pastime.”
The silence was a wall heavier than stone.
By the end of that third day, his jokes were faltering. He laughed anyway, a sharp sound in the dark. “Of course Cyrene’s worrying about me. She worries too much. Probably thinks I’ve wandered into a fountain or something. That’d be better than this, wouldn’t it?”
The silence that followed that little joke was worse than the damp.
By the fourth day, he didn’t even try. His throat felt raw from too much talking, his stomach twisted from too little food. He picked at the bowl when they shoved it through the slot, swallowed only enough to keep the cramps from doubling him over. His companions lost their titles. Tychon was just a rat again. Hero, too. They skittered and he didn’t care. He didn’t name the new one.
He didn’t count bricks anymore. Didn’t hum. Just sat against the wall, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed on nothing, feeling time smear out in long, meaningless strokes.
So when the door clanged open at last, he didn’t even lift his head right away. It was only when hands gripped his arms and hauled him upright that he blinked, sluggish and half-asleep. His legs wobbled under him.
His voice cracked on the first word. “That fast?”
A hoarse chuckle caught in his chest, more breath than sound. He managed to shape one more word as he stumbled into the torchlight.
“Nice.”
And then they dragged him out again.
Phainon wasn’t exactly thrilled to be hauled through unfamiliar stone corridors, but after four days in a cell, he found himself grateful just to move his legs again. His calves burned, his stomach was a hollow pit, his throat still scraped raw from disuse. So he did the only thing he knew how to do when silence pressed in too tightly: he started talking.
“Y’know,” he wheezed, trying to inject some life into his rasp, “you guys really ought to consider uniforms with brighter colors. The whole thing you got going on? Been done. Very edgy. But imagine—” he wiggled his bound wrists, “—just one little splash of purple. Or maybe a nice sun motif. Would really help you stand out in a crowd.”
The guards didn’t answer. Their boots drummed steady on the stone, sharp as drumbeats. Phainon stumbled along between them, wrists tugged forward in a rough grip.
“That’s fine,” he muttered under his breath, “don’t take fashion advice from the guy who’s been rotting in a box for four days. What do I know, right?” He gave a thin laugh, more air than sound. His lips cracked with the effort. “Honestly though,” his eyes flicked around, “where are we even going? You can’t just drag a man around like luggage without telling him the destination. Bad hospitality.”
For the first time, one of them answered. His voice was flat as if discussing the weather.
“The Execution Chamber.”
The words dropped into the corridor like a stone in still water.
Everything went silent.
Phainon blinked. His mouth opened, then shut. He blinked again, as though waiting for the word to change into something more comforting—court, hearing, release, anything. His face twitched, then slowly stretched into a smile.
He tilted his head, peered just past the nearest guard’s shoulder, and said softly, almost conversationally:
“…oh look. Is that a bird?”
The guards’ heads turned, reflexive. Just a fraction of a second. But it was enough.
Phainon shoved off the stone wall, twisted his bound wrists under one guard’s arm, and shot off down the hall like a bullet.
“Byeee—!” he hissed under his breath, boots skidding against the polished floor. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. Anywhere but “execution chamber.”
“STOP HIM!”
The shout tore down the corridor like thunder. Instantly the air filled with sound: the pounding of boots, the rasp of metal, the shouts of coordination.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit—” Phainon muttered as he pinwheeled around a corner. A halberd swiped out, close enough that he felt the cold kiss of air, and he ducked just in time. His feet hit the steps of a side stair, he vaulted the railing instead, and immediately regretted it when his knees absorbed the landing with a painful jolt.
A sound blared behind him. Sharp. Blasting. Calling reinforcements.
“I didn’t even do anything!” Phainon yelped, more to the walls than the people chasing him. He darted around another corner, nearly colliding with a maid carrying linens. The sheets billowed into the air like sails as she shrieked. “Sorry! My bad! Don’t mind me, just falsely convicted, nothing serious—”
A spearhead slammed into the floor inches from his foot. He yelped again, spun, and bolted in the opposite direction.
The guards weren’t sloppy. They didn’t stumble or trip or blunder like a mob; they moved like a net, tightening with every corridor. Phainon could feel the strategy—cutting him off, driving him deeper into the maze. Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs were knives. His chest heaved like a bellows as he careened around another bend—
Only to find three guards already waiting, spears leveled.
“Ha—ah—okay,” Phainon wheezed, throwing up his hands. “I see the problem. I’m in the wrong room. My bad, gentlemen.” Then he feinted left, juked right, and bolted through a side passage before the spears could jab.
“This is fine! Totally fine! Just a casual jog for my life, thanks for the escort—”
The pursuit became a storm behind him—metal ringing, orders barking, boots slamming stone. His own steps echoed like panic given form. His vision tunneled.
And then—up ahead.
A door. Big. Ornate. Carved beautifully white, banded with gold, standing out like a promise.
He didn’t think. He charged, shoulder-first, and slammed it open.
“PLEASE BE A WINDOW!”
He stumbled inside—then tripped over the threshold and went sprawling. His nose hit stone with a resounding smack. Pain flared white-hot. “Ow—fuck—”
For a second, he just lay there, groaning. Instinct screamed: get up, run, move. He pressed his palms to the floor, half-scrambling to rise—
And froze.
The noise stopped.
No pursuit anymore. Or shouts. Or thunder of boots. Only silence, warm and velvet, wrapping around him like a blanket.
The air smelled faintly of tea, polished wood, incense. The scrape of porcelain. The rustle of cloth. A quiet so profound it was jarring after the chaos.
Phainon lifted his head.
Two women sat at a low table. One, with long lavender hair, paused mid-pour, a porcelain teapot tilted delicately in her fingers. Her gaze was surprised but not alarmed. The other, grey-haired and yawning, stretched lazily, only to blink at him—then grin, eyes gleaming with sudden amusement.
Behind them, elevated on a platform, stood a throne-like seat. Not ostentatious, but commanding. Crimson curtains draped behind it like a tide of blood.
And above them—two banners hung proudly.
The silver emblem of Aidonia.
The gold-stitched sigil of Dolos.
Phainon’s breath hitched. His mind stuttered, scrambled, clawed to make sense.
…Delegation? So the sovereigns. Which meant—
His gaze drifted forward, inexorably, to the curtained throne.
The fucking Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos.
Oh no.
His chest hollowed. His legs folded. He exhaled shakily, and let gravity drag him back down to the stone. His head thunked with a dull crack.
“Damn,” he whispered to the ceiling. He’s fucked.
Phainon had barely finished muttering that when the sound of pursuit finally thundered through the hall.
The double doors he’d just slammed through burst wider, one slamming into the wall with a crash. Boots hammered against ground, and in spilled the guards he’d outrun, breath steaming in the air.
And at their head—oh, perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Square jaw, scar at the temple, shoulders built like a fortress wall. Phainon’s stomach sank to his ankles. “…oh,” he whispered, staring like he’d just seen a ghost.
Ajax. Not his real name, probably, but that’s what Phainon had been calling him in his head since the day the man had clamped down on his wrists.
Of course Ajax would be the one to find him here.
And of course “here” turned out to be… well. The palace. Because when you run screaming from your execution guards and throw yourself through a random set of massive, gilded doors, it only makes sense you’d land in front of two sovereign delegates and—Phainon swallowed hard—the prince of the nation.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
Before he could start screaming again, the grey-haired woman lounging at the table stirred. She tilted her head lazily, smiling as if she’d just been handed a dessert menu. Phainon faintly remembered the delegate from Dolos had been called Cipher.
“Well, well, well,” she drawled, drumming her fingers on her teacup. “What’s this? A runaway criminal? Or a guest who missed the invitation?”
Phainon straightened, brushing dust off his face with bound hands as if that restored any shred of dignity. “Uh. Neither. More of a—uh—misunderstood tourist?”
“Tourist,” Cipher echoed, her grin widening. “In rags. And covered in bruises. That’s a bold travel aesthetic.”
Phainon opened his mouth—probably to dig himself deeper—when Ajax stepped forward. His boots struck hard against the floor, the weight of authority in every movement. Then, in one smooth motion, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head toward the throne.
The words came formal, clipped, every syllable polished to obedience:
“Your Highness. Forgive this interruption. The prisoner is no more than an Okheman spy whom we apprehended. I accept full responsibility for allowing this disgrace into your presence.”
Phainon’s throat closed up. His gaze jerked toward the crimson curtain drawn around the elevated seat. A faint silhouette rested behind it.
Ajax—the iron wall of a man who had thrown him into a cell for four miserable, humiliating days—was kneeling. Not to the delegates. Not to him. But to the figure behind the curtain.
Phainon swallowed so hard it hurt.
And then Ajax’s words hit him in full.
Spy. Okheman spy.
Something inside him snapped.
“Wait!”
The word cracked through the chamber. Cipher’s smile jumped wider, Castorice’s (He’s assuming it isn’t Pollux, they were twins if he remembered correctly) eyes lifted in faint surprise.
“YOU JAILED ME FOR FOUR DAYS THINKING I WAS OKHEMAN?!”
Silence. Thick enough to choke on.
Phainon froze mid-shout, suddenly aware of how every eye in the room was on him. He rubbed his temple with his hands like he could massage his way out of this disaster. “…okay. That might’ve sounded a little aggressive.”
But he wasn’t done. Oh, no.
“You know what? No. I am aggressive!” His voice climbed, shaky but sharp. “I nearly had to eat BUGS to survive in there! Do you know what they fed me? Gruel! Watery gruel! Every. Single. Day!” He jabbed his finger at Ajax. “And today—today—you were gonna execute me! For being Okheman! I don’t even look Okheman! Wrong accent, wrong complexion—how in Cerces’s name do you mistake me for that?!” He’s ignoring the fact he looks like Kephale reincarnated but point still stands.
Cipher choked on a laugh, hiding it behind her hand. “Ohhh, I see what you saw in him…”
Phainon faltered mid-rant. “Huh?”
Her eyes flicked past him, toward the throne. Castorice said nothing, but the tiny crease between her brows deepened. Her gaze lingered on the bruises ringing his wrists.
And then—
From behind the curtain, a faint hum.
Thoughtful.
Phainon’s chest locked up. His skin prickled. His breath stuck in his throat.
Then came the voice.
“I see.”
A pause. Then, as casually as if ordering tea:
“Execute him.”
A pause.
“The guard I mean.”
…
Phainon’s jaw dropped so hard he thought it might crack against the floor.
Ajax flinched, but he didn’t speak. His bow deepened, teeth grit. He knew. Everyone in the room knew. To mistake a guest—even a supposed one—for an enemy spy was a humiliation to Kremnos. A shameful insult to their vaunted hospitality. The Crown Prince had demanded blood, and Ajax would go to the block without a word.
Phainon’s panic flared white-hot. His stomach lurched.
“WAITWAITWAIT—no, no, I was JOKING!” He scrambled forward onto his knees, nearly tripping over himself, throwing up his hands like a shield. “Hahaha, see? Prisoner humor! That’s all it was! Nobody deserves to die for that!” His laugh pitched upward into a panicked squeak. “Oh gods.”
Cipher burst into open laughter now, head tipping back. “So this really is the Elysian you’ve been sighing about.”
Phainon’s brain short-circuited. “…Excuse me, the what now?” He spun around. “Who’s been sighing? Who even—what are you talking about?!”
No one answered.
He clicked his tongue. His body sagged. Slowly, without meaning to, he lowered himself until his forehead touched the polished floor. His voice came cracked, raw.
“Please. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill anyone. I-I’m not from Okhema, I swear. I didn’t mean—please. Please.”
His words faltered, chest heaving. Damn it how’d it come to this.
The silence stretched taut. His pulse pounded so loud it hurt.
Finally—
“…Fine.”
Just one word. But the pressure in the chamber snapped like a bowstring.
Phainon exhaled so hard he nearly collapsed flat against the floor. Relief made him dizzy.
Until reality hit.
He had just groveled, on hands and knees, in the middle of the single most important alliance meeting of the era. In front of the chosen rulers of Death, Trickery, and Strife. And him? Dusty, bruised, bound.
A pathetic speck.
He pushed himself shakily upright, legs wobbling. A sheepish grin plastered itself onto his face. Then he began scooting backward. Slowly. Maybe if he was quiet enough, no one would—
“Please.”
The word was soft, almost delicate. He froze.
Castorice.
Her gaze held him, calm and elegant. “See that he is treated. Properly.”
Phainon blinked. “…treated?”
Her eyes lingered on his wrists. His state.
One of her attendants bowed immediately, stepping forward.
Phainon’s throat bobbed. “Uh. Th-thank you,” he stammered, heat crawling up his neck.
As the attendant guided him toward the door, he felt it.
A stare.
He didn’t dare look back.
But he knew. The Prince’s eyes were locked on him.
Stalking him like prey.
Phainon hadn’t realized just how disgusting he felt until the attendant’s hands pushed him down into a steaming bath.
It wasn’t a luxurious soak in a golden tub, nothing with rose petals or delicate perfumes. No, this was more like dunking a mangy stray dog and scrubbing until the water turned gray. And yet—by the gods, he wasn’t complaining. The heat melted four days of grime and cold from his skin. Soap stung at cuts he hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten. His tangled curls were tugged through with more efficiency than gentleness. He should have been embarrassed, but instead he nearly melted into the water, a sigh slipping out of him that sounded suspiciously like a purr.
By the time they dragged him out, his eyelids were drooping. Swaddled in a robe that smelled faintly of lavender and starch, he felt… human again. Clean for the first time in days. Blissful. He could’ve fallen asleep standing.
So when the attendant guided him along, he barely noticed the change of scenery. Corridors blurred into streets, lamplight smeared by his heavy eyes. Wherever they were going, he wasn’t about to ask. Questioning usually led to shouting, and shouting led to ropes and cells. He’d learned that much.
But when they stopped at a warm-lit doorway and ushered him inside, something about the air caught his attention. He blinked harder, sluggish curiosity cracking through the fog.
This was no palace chamber. The room looked… cozy. Homey, even. Wooden shelves lined with jars of herbs. Linen curtains stirring faintly in the draft. The faint scent of mint and smoke lingering in the air. Not clinical—lived-in. His brows knit, trying to place it.
The attendantl noticed his confusion. Her voice softened, almost apologetic.
“The physicians in the palace would have tended to you promptly,” she explained, folding her hands. “But I thought you might be more comfortable here. Forgive the delay.”
It took him a second to process. He rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm, forcing himself to stand straighter. “Ah. No, no, it’s fine,” he mumbled, voice rough from exhaustion. “Here’s… good.”
And it was, he realized the longer he looked. Whoever owned this place had built it for comfort. Little mismatched touches here and there—a chipped teacup on the shelf, a blanket folded crookedly across a chair—that spoke of someone who hadn’t grown up in Castrum Kremnos. A foreigner, maybe a long-time one. Something about that eased the tightness in his chest.
“Thanks,” he added after a beat, fumbling for politeness. The word came out weak, but the attendant inclined her head gracefully, as though he’d said something far more impressive.
He was still blearily cataloguing the shelves when a new voice chimed in, bright and sing-song.
“Welcome to the Twiligh—oh dear.”
Phainon startled, turning toward the curtain that had just swished open.
A girl had stepped in, balancing a stack of folded cloths. Pink hair bounced in twin pigtails as she froze mid-step, her wide eyes sweeping over him from damp curls to raw wrists to the way his robe was half-slipped off one shoulder. The cheerful lilt of her voice softened, replaced by a faint crease of concern.
Phainon froze, then made a clumsy attempt to adjust his robe, tugging it back over his shoulder. He was in polite company, after all. He even raised a hand, though it flopped limply in the air as though he couldn’t decide if he was greeting her or flagging someone down for help.
“…Hi?” he offered.
There was a beat of silence. Then her lips curved into a small, reassuring smile that chased away the worry in her eyes.
And just like that—Phainon met Hyacine.
Phainon had never been good at lying still. Even when he was a boy, back when “resting” supposedly meant staying in bed after scraping himself bloody climbing trees or chasing stray dogs barefoot across rocky streets, he’d always found some way to fidget. If not wriggling under the blankets, then tapping the bedframe, then counting cracks in the ceiling until his sister threatened to smother him with a pillow.
So being stuck now—bandaged, bruised, propped up against pillows that felt more like restraints—was torture.
At least the room was nice. Cozy, in fact. Sunlight leaked in through thin curtains, turning dust into glitter. Shelves along the walls held jars that smelled of herbs, smoke, and something faintly sweet, like honey. A kettle burbled softly in the corner. And over it all, Hyacine hummed, bright and off-key in the kind of way that sounded more alive than polished.
“Your injuries aren’t serious,” she said, tugging his bandages snug with a knot. “Give it a week and you’ll be back to full strength.”
Phainon gave her a smile, head still foggy but never one to waste a good line. “That’s good. Because I was already debating climbing the walls after a week locked up. Another week and I’d have been on speaking terms with the mold.”
Hyacine giggled, shaking her head. “You’ve been through plenty. It’s all right to rest.”
“Rest,” Phainon repeated solemnly. Then immediately leaned forward, trying to sit upright. The world lurched sideways, his ribs screamed, and he muttered under his breath, “Brilliant idea, Phainon.”
Hyacine’s hand was on his chest in an instant—not rough, but firm in that terrifyingly gentle way only doctors seemed to master. Her smile stayed radiant, but her eyes glinted with something that translated to lie down or so help me.
Phainon wilted back into the pillows. “…Right. Not moving. Perfect plan.”
“Good patient,” she teased, patting his shoulder like rewarding a particularly obedient puppy.
For a beat, the clinic was quiet again, save for her humming and the scratch of cloth against skin as she rechecked a dressing. Then Hyacine tilted her head, thoughtful.
“It surprises me,” she said softly, “that you were let go. Just like that.”
Phainon blinked, then let out a humorless little laugh. “Surprises me too. I was half-convinced I’d be wallpapering their dungeon forever.”
He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, tone turning wry. “Maybe Castorice decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. Or maybe they needed the cell for someone more exciting. Can’t say I’d blame them. I’d get sick of me, too.”
Hyacine’s lips pressed together, sympathy flickering.
Phainon chuckled, lighter this time, brushing it off. “Real shock’ll be if Cyrene and Mydei didn’t tear half the city down looking for me. A week without me—unthinkable.”
That earned a pause. Hyacine’s hands stilled. One brow arched. “Mydei?”
“Mm?” he said absently. “Oh. Mydeimos.”
Silence.
The name hung there, heavy as a bell toll.
Phainon froze, eyes going wide. “Not the Crown Prince obviously!!” he yelped before she could even blink. He tried to sit up in his panic, winced, then flailed his arms anyway. “Just—a priest. Tall guy, absurd body, actually we’re friends now, long story—”
Hyacine’s smile was polite, but her eyes had sharpened into tiny scalpels.
Phainon, blind to the danger, barreled on. “I first met him during a procession. Ended up dueling him. Won, by the way.” His smirk returned, smug. “Since then he’s been… hanging around.”
His smirk softened unconsciously. “Ridiculous stamina. You should see how he trains—it’s not human. His physique is so—” He gestured vaguely, searching for words. “—well, it’s the kind of body that makes you want to strangle him, then ask him to write a manual. But he’s… sweet, too. Awkward sometimes. He tries, though. I don’t even think he realizes how likable he is. Which is unfair, honestly.”
He sighed, the sound fond enough to make even him blink at himself. “Anyway. He’s important to me. But again—just a priest. Same name. That’s all.”
Hyacine hummed politely, though her fingers had whitened around the roll of bandage. “Right. Of course.”
Phainon, oblivious, tilted his head at her. “You don’t seem local either. Why Kremnos?”
Her smile brightened. “I’m an assistant to Anaxagoras, of the Grove of Epiphany. Usually, after helping him with his lectures, I go to the Twilight Courtyard. But when I have breaks, I come here. This clinic’s smaller, but it reaches people who’d never get to the main one. The others manage things when I’m away.”
“The Grove—wait.” Phainon shot upright again before her hand pinned him back down. His eyes were huge. “Did you just say Anaxagoras?”
Hyacine blinked, amused. “Yes?”
“The Anaxagoras?” His voice was in awe now. “Cyrene and I—gods, we’ve dreamed of studying under him. We thought it impossible, but—”
“You wanted to study with him?” she asked, surprise shifting into delight. “Then I’ll put in a good word.”
“You’d—?!” His whole face lit up, like someone had just promised him the keys to the world. “That would—he’s exactly the kind of mind I want to learn from. Someone who questions, who refuses to accept things just because some god decreed it.”
Hyacine’s smile softened, faintly fond. “They call him ‘the Blasphemer’ for that. He scorns all the Titans. Many hate him for it. He can be… difficult. But he sees differently. Bravely.”
“That’s why,” Phainon said fervently. “That’s the courage I want. To chase truth, no matter who it offends.”
She let him talk, didn’t cut him off once.
By the time his energy wound down, she was finishing his wrappings. “By the way, is there anything you’re missing?” she asked lightly. “Something we could fetch from the jail?”
Phainon tilted his head, thought. “My coat, maybe. But it’s not important.” He waved it off. Then, brightening suddenly, he raised his right hand. “Besides, I’ve got what matters.”
A signet ring gleamed there, sunlight flashing off its face.
“Mydei gave it to me a month ago to replace a ring I got from my friend Ptomely,” he added cheerfully. “Good friend, right?”
The sound of glass shattering cracked the air.
Hyacine stood frozen, shards at her feet, eyes fixed on his hand.
Phainon blinked. His grin faltered. “…What?”
Phainon wiggled his fingers again. “Not bad, right? Fits me, too. Bit tight, but I’ve got lean hands, so—”
The sound Hyacine made was like a sharp inhale dragged down low in her chest.
“…Phainon,” she said finally, voice thinner, “that’s the signet ring of the royal family.”
Phainon blinked at her. Then he laughed. “Funny. Good joke. You should try comedy—would kill at a festival.”
Hyacine didn’t even twitch.
Her eyes stayed locked on the ring. Her voice, when it came again, was flat. “That is Queen Gorgo’s ring. The one given to her son.”
The grin slid right off his face. He stared at her, then at the ring, then back again. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Wrong guy. Mydei’s too—” he gestured vaguely, flapping his hand like that might summon words—“too much of a dork to be royalty. Trust me. He loves cutesy drinks. He—he loves sugar like a cavity. He—he tripped over air last week. You don’t trip if you’re a Crown Prince. That’s—there are rules.”
Silence stretched.
Hyacine didn’t look away.
Phainon’s mouth went dry. His hand shook faintly, the ring glimmering like it had turned into something sharp. “Wait. It can’t be.”
Hyacine’s tone softened, but the words didn’t. “Who else could have given it to you?”
Phainon opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again, fumbling. “It’s… it’s just a ring. Maybe it’s a—replica? You know, like the cheap ones you buy in markets, the ones that turn your fingers green—”
“That crest,” Hyacine interrupted gently, “is carved only once every generation. It was on the hand of the Queen herself. And then it passed to her son.”
Something in his brain snapped like a bowstring.
He stared at her. Then the dots, all the stupid scattered dots, began sliding into place whether he liked it or not. Mydei never quite bowing when others did, but others half-bowing to him. Mydei slipping out of ceremonies like it was normal he was there. Mydei who knew every goddamn law by heart, who deflected questions about his family like it was a game, who had stamina like a warhorse, who could hold a spar better than three men, who had a priest’s robes but not a priest’s eyes—
“No, no, no,” Phainon muttered, shaking his head, but the momentum of the realization was too strong now, tumbling, crashing into itself. “He’s just—he’s just Mydei. He snorts when he laughs. He falls asleep mid-sentence. He—he told me once his favorite color was ‘pink.’ That’s not royal, that’s insane!”
The silence after that landed like a hammer.
Phainon’s laugh finally broke, too high, too shaky. “…Oh.”
Hyacine stepped forward slowly, as if approaching a startled animal. Her hand hovered near his arm, uncertain whether to comfort or not.
Phainon beat her to it, forcing out a crooked smile. “Well. Guess I… really did strike gold. Crown Prince as a best friend. Who knew.” He swallowed, the joke curdling in his throat. “That’s… something.”
His voice cracked, wobbling like glass. He swayed where he sat—then promptly keeled sideways back into the pillows.
Hyacine sighed, long-suffering, and set down her tools. With the air of someone who’d done this more than once in her life, she picked up a folded paper fan from the counter and started wafting air over his flushed face.
“Honestly,” she murmured, shaking her head with faint fondness, “you’re hilarious.”
Phainon blinked blearily up at her, dazed. Then, very slowly, he whispered, “Hyacine. I yelled at the Crown Prince last week to pick up the pace because his legs were too long.”
Hyacine’s lips pressed tight. Her cheeks pinked as she tried—failed—to smother her laughter.
“Go to sleep, Phainon,” she said, gentle but firm. “See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His eyes slid shut, the fan’s rhythm carrying him down into oblivion.
Phainon was losing his mind.
Two days. Forty-eight hours of pacing, muttering, gnawing at his own temper like a dog at a bone. Two days without seeing so much as a shadow of Mydei.
He had scoured every usual haunt. The gardens? Not a trace. The riverbank? Empty but for ducks and a very judgmental fisherman. The market? Nothing except a fishmonger trying to sell him trout and three chickens that chased him for daring to stare. He even circled the outskirts twice, then a third time just to be sure.
Still nothing.
By the end of the second day, it was obvious.
Mydei was avoiding him.
“Stupid tall princes hiding in stupid tall towers,” Phainon growled under his breath, boot connecting with a pebble that skittered down the path. “What’s next, refusing to step outside unless the light hits your royal cheekbones just right? Oh, can’t bruise the divine jawline, heavens forbid.”
He kicked another pebble. Harder. His scowl was sharp enough to cut through stone. Anxiety had rotted into restlessness, and restlessness had curdled into pure, smoking irritation.
So when his feet carried him toward the training fields, it wasn’t out of hope. It was grim determination. One more box to tick off. If Mydei wasn’t here, Phainon was out of options short of carving rude messages into the walls to bait him out.
The training fields hit him like a wall. Hot air thick with sweat, the metallic tang of steel, the sharp bark of orders from instructors. Dirt churned beneath stamping boots, shields clashed, blades rang against one another with the steady rhythm of war-drum practice. A crowd of onlookers ringed the central pit, shouting encouragements, jeers, bets.
Phainon shoved through the press, eyes darting, heart tight. Nothing.
He was about to spin on his heel, frustration bubbling hot, when two warriors suddenly collided into him mid-spar.
“By the Titans!” He yelped, stumbling, barely catching himself before tumbling into the dust. “Great. Amazing. Exactly what I needed—flattened into a pancake.” He swiped irritably at his coat, muttering, “Five stars, would recommend the Kremnos welcome committee.”
He bent to brush the dirt off his boots—then paused.
A clang, louder, sharper, cutting through the others. It made the hair on his arms rise. He looked up.
And there he was.
Mydei.
In the center of the training grounds, bare chest gleaming with sweat, hair sticking damp to his temples, three opponents circling him at once.
Phainon’s throat closed up.
Mydei moved with that impossible blend of strength and perfect grace: arm snapping up to deflect a blow, gauntlet sweeping in a counter that rattled teeth in the audience, legs shifting with the balance of someone born to fight. He wasn’t even pressing the advantage—he was teaching them, testing them, holding back with infuriating restraint. He could have ended the bout in seconds. Instead, he danced.
Phainon stared shamelessly. Utterly, indecently shameless.
Gods.
The man was a walking prayer statue. Every muscle flex made Phainon’s brain short-circuit. Sweat rolling down his chest was basically holy water at this point. And the way he moved—like violence itself had decided to dress up as art for the evening—
“Oh no,” Phainon whispered hoarsely, “he’s hot and terrifying. Disgusting. I want him biblical.”
He slapped his cheek hard enough to sting. “Focus, idiot. You’re supposed to be angry. Remember? Pissed. Not—whatever thirst trap this is.” His voice cracked, coming out strangled.
In the pit, Mydei pivoted, caught one fighter’s strike on his shield, twisted to disarm another, then ducked the third’s swing with insulting ease. His opponents grunted, breath coming ragged, sweat spraying with every desperate strike. Mydei, by contrast, looked steady, almost idle.
Then—between rounds, blade hanging low for a heartbeat—his gaze flicked up.
Straight to Phainon.
It was a split-second, but the world seemed to catch on it. Mydei froze mid-motion. His grip faltered, just enough that one of his sparring partners stumbled in surprise. The rhythm shattered. Confusion rippled through the ring.
That small, betrayed flicker of surprise across Mydei’s face told Phainon everything: he hadn’t expected him here.
Phainon’s chest tightened. His lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a scoff.
“About damn time.”
Phainon didn’t hesitate. The instant Mydei’s eyes landed on him across the sparring ring, he shoved his way forward like a man storming a battlefield. Boots hit the dirt hard, jaw set, the kind of expression that promised someone was about to get an earful.
The crowd parted. Not because anyone knew him—why would they—but because his face screamed I am one second away from homicide, and it won’t be pretty.
And Mydei noticed. Gods, did he notice. His shoulders drew back, spine lengthening, chin tipped high. The sword in his grip dropped into a looser guard, and his whole frame seemed to click into place like armor snapping shut.
Even the onlookers sensed it; the air grew taut, whispers cutting off mid-breath.
Phainon didn’t care.
He barreled to the edge, finger already lifting like a blade about to strike. Two days’ worth of frustration perched on the tip of his tongue, sharp and ready—
And then he stopped.
Shit. Right. Not just Mydei. Not just his irritating, battle-crazy friend. The Crown Prince.
Aedes Elysiae had taught him many things—how to wrestle hogs out of cabbage patches, how to sing off-key while milking goats, even how to cheat at dice if you were quick with your hands. They had not, however, taught him how to properly yell at royalty without ending up in stocks.
His hand faltered, dropped, then shot back up in a limp wave.
“…Uh—you! Your highnessy-lord? Sir battle-prince? Majesty of muscles??”
The training grounds went silent.
Like, funeral silent. Even the clang of sparring swords stuttered out as a hundred eyes swiveled toward him in perfect unison, all wearing the same did he just expression usually reserved for uncles dancing drunk at weddings.
Phainon’s ears went red enough to roast chestnuts. Immediate regret. Immediate wish for death.
And then—
Mydei exhaled. Not irritated. Just… soft. Relieved, even. And when he smiled, it wasn’t the stiff, polished curve he wore for the crowd. It was smaller.
“Just call me Mydei.”
Phainon’s heart shot clean into his throat.
Oh, no. Absolutely not. Why did he smile like that? Why was he so unfairly gorgeous? Why did Phainon suddenly want to bite through a brick just to cope? He was supposed to be mad, not melting like candle wax in the sun.
A soldier coughed awkwardly. The spell broke. Mydei straightened, handing his blade off to a nearby fighter. “That’s enough for now. Take a break.”
The men obeyed, still casting side-eyes at the idiot who’d just yelled Majesty of muscles across the training yard. Phainon ignored them, too busy trying not to combust on the spot.
Then Mydei glanced at him again—a simple look, but clear as words. Walk with me.
Phainon attempted cool nonchalance, rolling his shoulders, stretching like he wasn’t seconds from foaming at the mouth.
Of course, Mydei strode off like a damn warhorse. Phainon had to jog half a step to catch up. “Could’ve slowed down,” he hissed under his breath. “Not all of us have Zagreus’ speedrunner legs.”
Mydei didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he rummaged in a satchel by the weapons rack and, without ceremony, pressed a small paper bag into Phainon’s hands.
Phainon blinked at it. “…What, post-battle snacks?”
Inside, wrapped neatly in cloth, sat honeycakes.
“Mydei—”
“I picked them up at the market,” Mydei said matter-of-factly, like this wasn’t the most deranged tonal shift of Phainon’s life. “Usually I keep a few for children who wander near the grounds. But…” His mouth quirked. “I suppose I can spare one for you.”
Phainon’s chest fluttered like it was full of moths. Big scary warrior-prince man casually handing him sweets? He was finished. Done. Someone get a grave ready.
He tugged out a honeycake, deliberately brushing Mydei’s fingers as he did. The smile he fought down curved at the edges of his mouth anyway. With all the subtlety of a cat marking territory, he bumped Mydei’s shoulder.
“Guess this makes up for abandoning me for two days,” he muttered around a bite. “Bribing me with sugar until I forgive you, huh?”
Mydei hummed.
Phainon wagged the honeycake like a weapon. “Careful, your majesty. Acts like this’ll make people think you’re sweet.”
That earned a low laugh, warm enough to melt through Phainon’s ribcage. “And what would be so bad about that?”
Phainon’s pulse stuttered. He was seconds from jamming the entire honeycake into his mouth just to shut himself up.
Instead, he leaned in close, voice dropping playfully. “Guess I’ll have to stick close. Can’t have anyone else stealing the Crown Prince’s honeycakes.”
That got him a sidelong glance.
Phainon chomped down another bite, cheeks hot, pretending very hard to be normal. “You’re still not forgiven, though.”
Mydei didn’t miss a beat. “Good. I’d hate to see you run out of excuses to follow me around.”
Phainon choked on the honeycake.
“Mydei, this is getting ridiculous.”
Not that it hadn’t been ridiculous for weeks already.
Phainon had started keeping a mental tally—not on purpose. It just… built up.
Like the meals.
Every damn time, without fail, Mydei would swap plates if Phainon’s looked even slightly off. A burnt edge on his bread? Gone, replaced with Mydei’s. A smaller cut of fish? Switched before he could blink. And if they split a sweet, Mydei somehow always ended up with the smaller piece. Outsiders whispered about princely courtesy. Phainon knew better. He’d seen it too many times to be coincidence.
Then the markets. Crowded, bustling, noisy. Mydei always positioned himself between Phainon and the crush of strangers like some living wall. Once, a vendor had leaned over the stall to hand Phainon a carved charm. Mydei intercepted it, smooth as breathing, then passed it down without comment. Phainon nearly bit his own tongue in annoyance.
And the little things—the hair brushing from his face, the half-hug that lingered a heartbeat too long, the way sparring always left him brushing against Mydei’s orbit no matter how he moved.
Oh, and the robe. The stupid robe. He’d been cold one evening, and Mydei had insisted, draping it over his shoulders with a look that was way too serious for just a coat. Phainon teased him about it immensely, especially considering that was the only upper article of clothing he wore, shoving him lightly, rolling his eyes. And then kept it. Because Mydei “forgot” to ask for it back. Phainon still caught him looking whenever he wore it.
It was all… fine. Irritating, but fine. Manageable.
Until today.
Because this—this had gone too far.
The library was supposed to be safe. Neutral ground. He only wanted a new dictionary, something more updated than the one he’d been using to polish up his Kremnoan. Mydei, of course, had offered the Grand Library, but Phainon preferred the local one. Smaller, quieter, less intimidating. The air smelled of lemon oil and dust, and the old librarian always smiled kindly when he mangled words.
He found the book easily enough. Heavier than expected, bound in worn leather. He flipped it open, lips moving faintly as he traced through entries. The rhythm of it was oddly soothing. Familiar.
And then—
He froze.
Phainon /Fai-non/
I. A young man with eyes bright as the clear sky and hair radiant as fresh-fallen snow.
II. A noble soul, steadfast in honor, whose word endures as stone endures storm.
III. A beacon of virtue, whose presence rouses courage; like dawn breaking after the long dark.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Shut the book. Opened it again. The words didn’t vanish. They stared back at him, smug.
His stomach flipped over itself, and he had the deranged urge to laugh. Or cry. Or possibly fling the dictionary into the nearest brazier and pretend this never happened.
He skimmed lower—there were more. Lines written in the same elevated, poetic tone. But he couldn’t make himself read them. His brain refused.
“This is—no. Absolutely not.”
And so, with the righteous fury of a man on the edge of a breakdown, he stormed out of the library, dictionary clutched like a weapon, and found Mydei.
He didn’t bother with greetings. He slammed the book down open on the page, words glaring up between them.
“What’s this, Mydeimos?”
The full name cut sharper than he meant, but it was too late to reel it back.
Mydei blinked blearily up at him, like a cat disturbed mid-nap. He yawned, rubbed the side of his jaw, and leaned forward lazily to look.
“Strange,” he said at last, voice mild. “Must’ve been added recently.”
Phainon’s eye twitched. “Mydeimos.”
“Hm?”
“Don’t play dumb! Why the hell would my name be in a dictionary unless someone deliberately wrote it there?”
Mydei studied him for a long moment, then leaned in further, bracing an elbow on the table. “If it bothers you so much, I can always add another entry.” His voice dipped mockingly thoughtful. “‘Phainon: A hopeless swordsman who whines endlessly.’”
Phainon sputtered. “You—! I—!” His hand jabbed between the book and Mydei, once, twice, before falling uselessly. “Unbelievable. Absolutely—ugh!” He groaned, slammed the dictionary shut with enough force to rattle the inkpot, and dropped into the nearest chair.
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t know why I even bother.”
He slumped, muttering something vicious under his breath, hair falling forward as he glared at the table instead of the infuriating man across it.
Mydei, of course, was unbothered. Like Phainon’s temper was the most interesting performance he’d seen all week.
“Fine. Whatever.”
Phainon shoved the dictionary across the table with more force than strictly necessary. The heavy cover thudded against the wood, making the nearest person at the next table glance over with a wince. “Clearly, this is pointless.”
Mydei simply slid his own book back into view—something thick and battered with diagrams of troop formations across its margins—and flipped it open with one thumb. Without looking up, he patted the empty spot beside him, a lazy gesture.
“If you’re not going to do anything useful,” he drawled, “sit down. Read with me. Might actually learn something.”
The audacity.
Phainon narrowed his eyes, but his body betrayed him, already moving to sit before he could scrounge up another protest.
“Read with you?” he scoffed, leaning just far enough over Mydei’s shoulder to glance at the page. Rows of blocky Kremnoan script interspersed with stiff illustrations of shields and spears. “You mean let you flex until I pass out?”
“No.” Mydei tilted the book toward him. “I mean I’ll correct you when you butcher the words.”
Phainon paused slightly, then widened his eyes in surprise. “Wait, you can read?”
That got him.
The offended silence hit first, followed by a look so sharp it could’ve cut papyrus. Mydei’s jaw ticked. His pride, dented in real time, was glorious.
“You son of a HKS—”
Phainon burst out laughing before he could finish. He folded over just enough to bump his shoulder against Mydei’s. “Oh gods, don’t pout. It was too easy.”
“I don’t pout.” Mydei said while pouting before catching himself.
“Mmhm.” Phainon smirked, drawing it out like a weapon. “Sure.”
“Anyway—” He plopped down properly, head tipping the barest fraction against Mydei’s shoulder so he could see the page. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’m about to read this perfectly. Every syllable. No stumbles. Brace yourself.”
“You?” Mydei leaned back just slightly, enough to look down at him with undisguised disbelief. “Please. Go ahead, HKS. Impress me.”
Phainon lifted his chin, theatrically clearing his throat like he was about to recite an epic in front of the Council of Elders. Then he hesitated. “Actually, before we start—”
Mydei’s brow rose. “What now?”
“Come with me to a temple later.”
That gave him pause. The steady drumming of his fingers against the book’s edge stilled. “…Which temple?”
Phainon’s grin went sly, too pleased with himself. “Secret.”
Mydei watched him sidelong, suspicion simmering, lips pressed into something caught between exasperation and reluctant intrigue. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, slow and resigned, like a man already regretting every decision that led to this point.
“…Fine. Just get started before I change my mind.”
Phainon’s laugh was soft, satisfied. “Your faith in me is inspiring.” He tapped the page with a finger, smile sharpening. “Alright, Crown Prince. Prepare to witness history.”
And Mydei—despite himself—looked entertained. Not warm, exactly. But the spark in his eyes promised he was more than ready to mock every mistake.
Well. After that thoroughly humiliating reading lesson—a lesson Phainon had already blacklisted from memory under pain of death—and a few more rounds of petty competition (one involving a pebble-skipping contest Phainon definitely won, one involving arm-wrestling he absolutely didn’t), he finally dragged Mydei to the temple he’d been hinting at.
And lo and behold.
The place was enormous.
Columns shot into the sky like spears, etched with curling reliefs that seemed to ripple in the sun. Banners of crimson and bronze hung heavy above the marble steps, snapping in the wind with a sound like drumbeats. The air smelled of incense and heated stone, layered over with the tang of iron from nearby braziers.
Even he had to admit it was awe-inspiring.
Mydei’s verdict?
He craned his neck, gave the towering facade the kind of slow once-over one might give a badly built fence, and deadpanned:
“…What the fuck is this.”
Phainon burst out laughing, loud enough that a few pilgrims glanced over in alarm. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for that one.” He clapped a hand to Mydei’s back, “Glad I asked.”
Then, before Mydei could bolt, he caught his wrist and hauled him forward.
“Don’t even—” Mydei tried to dig in his heels, but Phainon wasn’t budging. “You are not dragging me into—”
“Oh, I absolutely am,” Phainon sang, already tugging him up the marble steps. He threw a look over his shoulder, wicked. “C’mon. Pretend you’re flattered.”
At the entrance, two guards crossed their spears, muscles taut beneath their bronze armor. Their eyes flicked between the pair, suspicion sharp—until they landed on Mydei.
The shift was immediate. Their shoulders eased. Spears lifted. Without a word, they stepped aside.
Phainon blinked at them, then at Mydei, then wisely clamped his mouth shut.
Inside, the temple was better.
Vaulted ceilings stretched higher than Mydei’s patience. Frescoes of battle scenes sprawled across the stone, warriors locked mid-strike, gods looming overhead. Shafts of sunlight spilled through narrow slits in the roof, hitting polished walls until the whole place glowed like a forge. The central altar gleamed as though someone polished it hourly with their tears.
Phainon slowed near the middle of the hall, the weight of the space pressing down on his shoulders. He turned to glance at Mydei, expecting at least a flicker of awe.
Nothing. The bastard looked like he was waiting in line for bread.
“Beautiful place,” Phainon said lightly, tone dripping casual as he spun a slow circle to take it all in. “Almost like it means something.”
“Hm.” Mydei’s grunt carried all the enthusiasm of a dying mule.
“Strange, though,” Phainon continued, letting the pause drag just long enough to be unbearable. “That you never mentioned it.”
He spread his arms, mock-innocent, like he was unveiling a masterpiece. “A temple dedicated to you? Gods, Mydei—you could’ve told me.”
That earned him something—finally.
Mydei turned his head with a look halfway between confusion and are you actually this stupid. His mouth parted, then shut again, like he was physically recalibrating his entire worldview.
“…Huh.”
The sound was so flat it could’ve been mistaken for boredom.
Phainon had been waiting for the big reveal. A confession. A sly smirk. A “yeah, this is all mine, kneel, peasant.”
Instead, after staring up at the spear statue like it was just another decorative column, Mydei shrugged, completely unbothered.
“Oh. Yeah.”
That was it.
Phainon groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re kidding me. That’s your response? ‘Oh yeah?’”
Mydei turned, lazy-eyed, the picture of boredom. “What response do you want? Trumpets? A parade? Maybe I should’ve hired bards to jump out of the incense pots and serenade you.”
“Don’t tempt me!” Phainon jabbed a finger at the massive spear looming above them, its shadow cutting a clean line over the temple floor. “I want you to admit something! Anything! Don’t act like you don’t know. The rumors. The whole ‘beat the Lance of Fury at his own game, destined to ascend, become Kremnos’s new king-slash-god’ thing? That? And all you’ve got is ‘oh yeah’ like you forgot your sandals at home?”
Mydei frowned faintly, like someone being accused of murder when all he’d done was finish the olives. “…What are you even talking about.”
Phainon flung his arms in the air so hard his voice cracked. “Oh, come on! Don’t play dumb with me. You’ve heard it, I’ve heard it, every city-state is obsessed with this one. They swear you knocked the Lance of Fury on his ass, and the poets spun it into prophecy by the next morning. And look around you! Temple built like a fortress, frescoes of battles you probably actually fought, guards letting us stroll in like we’re VIPs at some divine nightclub—” He swept his arm wide at the walls where painted heroes bled across golden plaster, incense smoke curling in shafts of sunlight. “—and you’re telling me that’s coincidence?”
“You already think you know.” Mydei said stone-faced, eyes narrowing. “So why bother asking me?”
Phainon gawped at him like a fish gasping on dry land. “Because I wanted to confirm it! Gods, you’re impossible.”
“That’s my secret,” Mydei muttered, monotone, like it was the punchline of a joke only he found funny.
The urge to strangle him wrestled violently with the urge to laugh. Phainon’s eye twitched. He forced composure back into his bones, clapped Mydei’s shoulder a little too hard, and ground out, “Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care.”
They moved deeper into the temple. The crowd thinned until the last murmurs of pilgrims faded into the distance, swallowed by silence that pressed like a weight on the chest.
The inner sanctum was cavernous, almost as oppressive as it was isolated (He assumes this is a restricted area). Pillars carved with serpents and jagged waves rose into darkness, their coils vanishing overhead. Firelight from braziers painted the marble floor with molten glow, while colossal statues loomed from every side—warriors, gods, beasts locked in perpetual struggle. The air was thick with frankincense, sharp and cloying, like breathing smoke and honey at once. Each step echoed too loudly, as though the walls themselves were eavesdropping.
Finally they stopped before the centerpiece: a Titan hewn from black stone, towering twenty men high. The ceremonial spear angled down, casting a shadow across the floor as though the Titan meant to pin every mortal in its path. It radiated menace and reverence in equal measure, the sort of artistry that made you instinctively want to bow your head.
Phainon, of course, just smiled. “Since we’re here, I might as well offer a prayer, no?”
Mydei gave him the kind of side-eye usually reserved for children licking statues. “Seriously?”
“Tradition,” Phainon said brightly. “The petitioner stands under the spear’s shadow, perfectly aligned. Speak your prayer from there.” He puffed his chest, voice sliding into tour-guide pomp. “Problem is, no one can center themselves perfectly alone. Always need a second person to adjust posture. From behind.”
He said it with the gravity of unveiling a sacred secret, conveniently ignoring that Mydei had literally grown up in this city and probably knew every temple better than its architects.
“You’re tall enough,” Phainon added, chin tilted in challenge. “I mean, I’m taller, but still. You can line me up.”
He braced for sarcasm. For Mydei to scoff, roll his eyes, tell him to do it himself. Instead, Mydei made a noise like he’d choked on his own spit, covered it with the most unconvincing cough in history, and blurted out rather enthusiastically:
“Mhm. Yes. I’d love to help.”
Phainon blinked. “…You what?”
Mydei cleared his throat so hard it could’ve been weaponized. His voice dropped back into its usual monotone, like flipping a switch. “Ahem. I mean. Sure. If you’re going to waste everyone’s time praying, might as well get it right. You going to start, or do you plan on standing there all day?”
Before Phainon could snark back, Mydei closed the distance in two strides. Too close. His chest pressed against Phainon’s back, one hand bracing casually on his shoulder like this was the most normal, platonic temple activity imaginable.
Phainon mouth opened, ears burning. “You—”
“The shadow’s off,” Mydei interrupted, shoving him an inch to the left with insulting precision. “There. No. Little more. Now hold still.”
“I am holding still,” Phainon hissed through clenched teeth.
“Not very well.” Mydei leaned in closer, close enough that his voice ghosted against Phainon’s ear. “You have to hold until the bells ring. Tradition, right?”
Phainon’s brain short-circuited. Bells. Shadow. Prayer. Yes. Totally fine. Absolutely normal. Nothing at all derailing here.
“R-right,” he stammered, nearly cracking on the consonant. “Guess we wait, then.”
“Mhm.” Mydei’s tone was flat, but there was no hiding the smugness oozing underneath. He sounded almost cheerful—horrifyingly so. “Take your time.”
And if Phainon swore he heard the bastard beaming behind him, well—he’d never admit it.
Truth to be told, Phainon had stopped praying about ten minutes ago. He’d muttered the last half-hearted words, something like “may your gaze turn from me to someone worthier,” and let silence take over. His arms were still obediently raised under the Titan’s spear, but his shoulders were screaming, his knees begged for mercy, and his stomach had growled loud enough to echo off the marble.
Atheism was starting to look like a sweet deal. At least atheism didn’t make you endure this.
He was two seconds away from whispering “fuck this” straight to the Titan’s stone face when it happened.
At first, it was nothing. A shift, the barest adjustment of pressure at his waist. Easy to ignore. He almost did—until the pressure moved.
Mydei’s hand slid up. Not far. Just slowly, palm dragging across his stomach in a slow, idle sweep.
Phainon’s breath caught.
It was the kind of touch that was too casual to be an accident, too steady to be a mistake. A line traced up his abs, slow enough that Phainon felt every ridge, every flex, every stupid quiver he tried to suppress.
He swallowed hard. Don’t shiver. Don’t— gods above, don’t.
This was alignment, he told himself. Mydei was adjusting him, keeping his posture centered. That was it. Perfectly reasonable. Definitely alignment.
…Except alignment usually didn’t feel like someone mapping you inch by inch, like you were a piece of terrain to conquer.
The hand lingered. Tested. Climbed higher.
Phainon locked his spine straight, forcing stillness, because if he moved, if he gave anything away— He felt heat rise up the back of his neck. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, humiliatingly loud.
The sanctum was silent save the crackle of braziers. Even the smoke seemed to pause mid-curl.
And then—salvation.
The bell tolled.
Phainon jolted like lightning shot through him, arms dropping as though the Titan himself had finally given permission to quit. He barked a laugh, brittle as snapped glass. “Well! That’s the end of that—fantastic tradition, really. Loved every second. Would do it again. Maybe.”
But Mydei didn’t move.
If anything, he leaned closer. His chest pressed more firmly against Phainon’s back, his head tilting just enough that Phainon swore he felt the ghost of breath against his neck.
Phainon went perfectly still.
Then Mydei’s voice came, almost yawning as if he were half-bored, half-falling asleep on his shoulder: “What were you praying about?”
Phainon’s brain scrambled. “…That’s a secret.”
“Mm.” A hum, like he expected that answer.
Phainon tried again, filling the silence before it swallowed him. “Oronyx, as usual.” He forced his tone lighter, casual, like his skin wasn’t currently burning. “Not their temple, I know, but… time doesn’t stay trapped inside walls. They hear, no matter where I ask. They always do.”
Something in the air changed.
The fingers at Phainon’s side tightened—barely, but enough. Subtle as a vice grip, enough to make him falter midsentence.
And then, under the dying echo of the bells, Mydei muttered, almost to himself: “You’re in my temple, yet you pray to others?”
The words split the quiet like a blade.
Phainon froze, pulse stuttering. Slowly, he turned his head, catching just a sliver of Mydei’s face in the flicker of braziers. “…What did you say?”
The grip vanished. The weight lifted from his shoulder. Mydei stepped back at once, mask snapping back on to place.
“Nothing,” he said, looking past Phainon as though the statues demanded his attention. “You misheard.”
Phainon narrowed his eyes, suspicion curdling. He drew it out, savoring the syllable like a blade on a whetstone. “No. I don’t think I misheard.”
Mydei’s attention was still locked on the Titan statue like it was about to descend from marble and swing at him. Which was extra funny, considering Phainon had seen that same stone-cold look on Mydei’s face right before he stomped some poor bastard into the ground.
“Ohhh,” Phainon breathed, grin blooming wide. “I get it now.”
At last, Mydei flicked him a look.
“You wanna be worshipped,” Phainon declared, smug as a cat catching a canary.
The side-eye sharpened into a glare. “Careful.”
“Ooooh, scary,” Phainon crooned, rocking back on his heels. “ ‘Careful,’ he says. Gods forbid someone finds out the great Mydei’s ‘interest’ is a little devotion. What’s next, you want offerings? Wine? Gold? My firstborn?”
“Phainon.” Warning.
“C’mon. I’m serious.” His grin widened. “What would your temple even look like? Not this one, I mean. Big scary statue, yeah, but with that scowl carved on it? People would think it was a curse. Maybe a plaque at the front: ‘Grumble here in his honor.’”
“Phainon.” Louder now.
“And you’d love it,” Phainon shot back, laughing, shoulders shaking. “Don’t lie— you’d stand there all solemn and broody, but inside? You’d be kicking your feet like, ‘Finally, someone gets it.’”
“Enough.” His tone was heavy, but his ears— oh, his ears were pink.
Which was fatal, because Phainon smelled blood in the water.
“You know…” Phainon tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “…if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you liked me.”
He expected the raptor-snap. The immediate denial, the insult, the punch to the gut.
But instead? Mydei stopped. Just for a second. His hand twitched, his mouth pressed thin, and his gaze darted away like the walls suddenly became fascinating.
Phainon blinked. Huh. Strange. Whatever—if Mydei wasn’t gonna swat him down, then why stop now?
“Right, right, obviously not,” he barreled on, smile feral. “Because if you did, that would explain a lot. Like how you always ‘coincidentally’ sit next to me when we go out. Even when there are ten other empty seats.”
Mydei’s jaw worked once. No reply.
“And how you followed me to the archives when I said I didn’t wanna go alone. Even though you swore you had ‘better things to do.’ Then spent three hours holding an upside-down scroll. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
A faint exhale through Mydei’s nose.
“Oh, and the best one.” Phainon slapped the altar, cracking up. “When you nearly broke that guy’s jaw for flirting with me. Flirting! You acted like you were defending my honor, but nope, you were jealous. Admit it.”
Mydei closed his eyes like he was begging the ceiling for mercy.
“You see it, right? All the signs are there! It’s basically a love letter. You’re practically confessing every time you open your mouth.”
No answer.
Which made it funnier. And sadder. And funnier again.
He kept going—but slower now. Laughter thinning, words softening into something sharper.
“…You always walk me back,” he murmured, grin faltering. “Even when you swear it’s a hassle.”
The silence stretched taut.
“And you…” His voice dropped, unsteady. “…you never let me fall.”
Oh.
Phainon’s chest rose and fell once, twice. His laugh was gone, his smirk gone—just his slowly widening eyes, heart hammering as the world tilted on its axis.
“Oh. Oh, holy shit.” His voice cracked like glass. His whole body went rigid as the realization detonated in his skull. “You like me.”
The words landed like thunder. Every past moment flashed back at him in one brutal, blinding rush—every shove that was secretly protective, every word lined with care, every too-close touch, every—
Mydei, poor bastard, just stood there suffering in silence, looking like he’d rather be crucified than confirm it.
Phainon actually staggered back a step, one hand clapping over his mouth like he could shove the words back in. His heart slammed against his ribs, too loud. “No. No no no no no.” His eyes went wide, breath stuttering. “You—you actually—you’ve been—you like me.”
The words rang in the air like a dropped bell.
He jabbed a finger at Mydei like he’d just uncovered a grand conspiracy. “You’re the worst at this! Do you even realize?! Most people give flowers!”
Mydei dragged a palm down his face. “…Phainon.”
“No, don’t even—don’t you dare! You give me rocks, Mydei! Rocks! And don’t you even fucking say it. Don’t you dare say, ‘flowers die but rocks last,’ because I know you, I know that cursed brain of yours, and gods help me, you’d say it, and it’s actually—fuck—it’s actually romantic—oh gods, this is real, this is actually real—”
Mydei looked skyward, muttering like he was asking the heavens to smite him. “…This is not how I wanted it to go.”
That broke something loose in Phainon. He let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh that cracked into a wheeze. “You had a plan? You had a plan?” He spun half a circle like the floor might split open. “You—you! Of all people—you like me. You realize how insane that is? You’re insane! I’m insane! This whole thing—”
He stopped, clutching his hair like he needed to hold his skull together. The laugh died in his throat. His mouth opened, shut. His chest heaved. “Oh, shit.” His voice dropped. “I like you too.”
The silence that followed punched the air out of him. He swallowed, dizzy.
“…That was fast,” Mydei said, face burning red.
“What do you mean fast?!” Phainon snapped, suddenly defensive, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do with this flood drowning him alive? “Mydei, I’ve been halfway in love with you since the first time I tripped and landed in your chest like a fucking idiot. My poor, fragile heart has been doomed since the beginning!”
“Fragile,” Mydei echoed, incredulous.
“Yes, fragile!” Phainon jabbed a finger at his own chest. “Do not break me. Handle with care. I swear, if you even think about making this short-term I’ll—”
“Phainon.”
“—if you so much as look at another statue instead of me, I’ll—”
“Phainon.”
He was unraveling, hands flapping, words tripping over each other. “I’ll—oh gods, I can’t even finish that thought, I’m already—fuck, Mydei, I really—”
“Phainon.”
This time, Mydei cut him off the only way that worked: by grabbing him by the collar and yanking him forward.
The world snapped white.
Phainon let out a strangled noise that dissolved into nothing as Mydei’s mouth crashed against his.
For one heartbeat, he froze—hands mid-gesture, eyes wide, every nerve sparking. Then he cracked into a muffled laugh, disbelieving, giddy, high. The sound melted into a groan as his knees went weak, bones dissolving under the heat of it.
It wasn’t clean. Their noses bumped, teeth clicked, Phainon’s hand scrabbled blindly for purchase on Mydei’s shoulder. But gods, it was nice. Mydei’s mouth was heavenly, kissing him like he’d been starving and finally got a taste. His teeth caught Phainon’s lower lip, dragging, tugging until Phainon gasped into him—only for Mydei to swallow the sound whole.
Phainon tilted his head, lips parting, and Mydei didn’t hesitate. Tongues clashed, sloppy. Mydei’s hand fisted tighter in his collar, dragging him closer until they were pressed chest to chest, no space left to breathe. His fingers curling into Mydei’s hair as if he’d drown if he let go.
He laughed again against Mydei’s tongue, delirious, shaking with it. “Oh—this is—fuck—this is real,” he murmured, voice high, lips sliding messy and slick.
Mydei answered by biting his lip, hard enough to make Phainon flinch, before shoving their mouths back together harder.
The kiss turned filthy. Tongues tangling, breath mingling, saliva slicking their mouths until it was messy enough to make heat coil low in Phainon’s gut. He kissed back like he’d been waiting his whole damn life for it.
When they finally broke apart, lips swollen, breath ragged, Phainon sagged against him, dizzy. “…wanna make out?” he panted, not sure what to do now.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
And then he kissed him again, even harder.
Now, Phainon had expected a kiss. Maybe two. Three if Mydei was feeling daring.
He’d braced for clumsy hands, a few stolen touches, the kind of heated nonsense they could laugh off tomorrow with red faces and muttered excuses.
He had not expected this.
Not the altar at his back, cold stone biting through thin fabric. Not the way his shirt hung half-open, collar stretched wide where Mydei had yanked it loose. Not Mydei himself—mouth hot at his throat, tongue tracing the thrum of his pulse like he wanted to brand it.
“Fuck—” The sound broke out of him when teeth nipped at the edge of his jaw. His head tipped back helplessly against the stone.
They’d started soft. Careful, almost sweet. Lips meeting, a press too long to be casual. But then he’d made a noise—something needy he hadn’t meant to—and that was it. Mydei had shoved him back like a man starved, chasing every gasp, drinking every sound like it was owed to him.
Now Phainon clutched his shoulders just to stay upright, half-dizzy with the sudden heat of it all.
“Mydei—” he tried, words breaking as a hand slid under his shirt. “Now? In a… damn temple—?”
The protest shattered when Mydei’s thumb found his nipple, pinching sharp enough to send his spine arching off the altar.
“My temple,” Mydei answered against his throat. His mouth never stopped moving, breath hot, words vibrating into skin. “My altar. Where else would I put you?”
Phainon’s lips clamped shut, a bitten sound stuck in his throat. He wanted to argue. He really did. But the shirt was gone before he could catch his breath—peeled open with rough impatience, candlelight spilling over his bare chest.
And then Mydei’s mouth was there.
“—ah!” The cry tore out of him as heat clamped over his nipple, wet and merciless. Mydei sucked hard, lips dragging until the bud went stiff against his tongue. The other side wasn’t spared—Mydei’s fingers pinched and rolled, rough pads working him until his chest jolted under every touch.
“You can’t just—” Phainon choked, knuckles whitening where he gripped the altar.
“I can.” Mydei didn’t even glance up, lips still tugging, tongue flicking quick and sharp. Then his teeth grazed down, bit just hard enough to sting.
Phainon gasped like he’d been shocked. His hips twitched, cock straining uselessly against his pants. “Titans—”
“No Titans.” Mydei licked a circle. “Just me.”
He switched sides with no warning, mouth fastening hard on the neglected peak. His free hand never stilled, rough fingers tweaking the spit-slick nub until Phainon’s chest heaved, nerves alight under every scrape of tongue, every sharp bite.
Phainon writhed, hips grinding against stone, desperate for friction. “Wait—wait, I—”
“You’re still hard,” Mydei cut in, finally glancing up with lips wet, chin shining. “Don’t lie to me. You’re squirming like I’ve already got my hand down your pants.”
Phainon made a wounded sound, somewhere between indignation and arousal. “…shut up.”
Mydei chuckled, pleased, before bending to bite again. “Say that again and I’ll keep you here until you cry for me.”
“Cocky bastard,” Phainon muttered.
“And you like it.” Mydei’s voice was smug, but his touch was worshipful. His tongue dragged lazy, wet circles, then flattened broad and slow across both reddened nubs, savoring the shiver it wrung out of Phainon.
“Fuck—” Phainon’s thighs shifted restlessly, cock leaking against fabric. His chest was a mess of spit and marks now, every nerve sparking alive under relentless attention.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Mydei murmured against his skin, squeezing his chest as though he could mold it into shape. “Seriously, I could keep you like this for hours.”
Phainon’s eyes squeezed shut, lips parting on a strangled sound.
“Hours,” Mydei repeated, more to himself than anything, before sucking hard again until Phainon’s back bowed. “Would you let me?”
Phainon managed a weak laugh, lightly shoving Mydei. “Seriously, you’re—insufferable.”
Mydei lifted his head, eyes glinting, lips wet. “And you’re with me.” He said it like fact before dragging his tongue flat over both abused peaks again, slow, like he was sealing the claim.
No matter how much Mydei seemed to enjoy tormenting his chest, he didn’t linger forever. At last he pulled back, eyes flicking down like he had a destination in mind.
Before moving, though, he squeezed. Both hands cupped Phainon’s pecs, palms rough and appreciative, kneading slow like he couldn’t resist.
Phainon let him, then huffed through his breath. “What, testing the quality of the merchandise?”
“Perfect craftsmanship,” Mydei retorted, thumbs brushing over swollen, spit-slick nipples as though he were cataloguing each tremor. Then his eyes cut up. “Hands. Behind you.”
Phainon raised a brow but obeyed, leaning back on his palms against cold stone. The posture stretched him open, chest thrust forward, vulnerable.
“Good,” Mydei said, satisfied.
Phainon whistled. “You’re bossy as hell for the same guy who begged me to spar the second time we met.” He still remembered how guilty he’d felt after their first match—enough that he’d almost refused—until Mydei had all but pestered him into it.
Mydei’s lips twitched. “You’re still holding that over me?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Mydei bent lower, lips to sternum, tongue dragging slow down the line of his chest.
Phainon swallowed, and because he couldn’t help himself, muttered, “So this is what I get for finally winning another fight against you.”
Technically, ‘the fight’ had been verbal, with that mess of a confession to which Mydei was too embarrassed to say anything—but still.
Mydei stopped mid-kiss, shoulders stiff.
Phainon grinned, unrepentant. “Guess this makes it… my spoils of war.”
He paused. Then, very seriously: “Which is you. You’re the spoils.”
Mydei just stared.
Phainon doubled down. “Mm. A very… shiny… prize.”
He wiggled his eyebrows.
The silence was instant.
“…Phainon,” Mydei said flatly, forehead pressing against his sternum like he was praying for strength. “Don’t ever—ever—do that again.”
Phainon burst out laughing, the sound ricocheting off temple stone. He tried to stifle it but failed miserably. “Oh, come on, that was good!”
“Hands,” Mydei growled, ignoring him.
Still laughing, Phainon obediently planted his palms back against the altar. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave. For now.”
Mydei muttered something in return, then resumed his course. His mouth trailed lower, kissing over ribs, biting just enough to make Phainon jolt. His tongue left wet streaks down the ridges of his stomach, mouth moving unhurried as if savoring every inch.
The laughter bled into a breathy gasp when teeth caught just above his hip.
Mydei smirked against him, nosing into the crease, biting a new bruise into tender skin. His palms dragged with him, one wide hand splayed over Phainon’s side, the other flattening across his stomach, keeping him pinned as he writhed.
By the time he reached the line of his trousers, Phainon was restless, hips jerking upward despite himself.
Mydei ignored the obvious strain, cruelly bypassing it. Instead he kissed the sharp cut of bone, then mouthed the crease beside it, lips hot and maddeningly close.
“You’re leaking already,” he teased, dragging his tongue across the hollow just above. “And I haven’t even had a taste.”
Phainon’s fists clenched against stone. He groaned through grit teeth. “Then stop narrating and do it.”
That earned him a soft laugh against his skin. “Impatient.”
“Not impatient,” Phainon glared. His hips rolled up again. “Just not letting you think I’ll lie here quietly while you have your way with me.”
Mydei bit his lower belly, sharp.
“Quietly?” Mydei lifted his head. “Phainon, you’ve been shaking since I touched your chest.”
Phainon’s answering tone was sing-song. “And you’ve liked me since before you kissed me~”
Mydei scoffed, jaw tightening—then smirked before bending to suck another mark into his hip.
Phainon swore against cold stone, the laughter gone from his throat.
When Mydei finally dragged his mouth down to the waistband, and Phainon knew what was coming. He knew it. His cock ached with the certainty of it, the front of his pants soaked dark where he’d already bled through.
“About time,” he muttered, hips jerking up to meet him.
Instead of obliging, Mydei hooked his thumbs beneath the fabric and tugged. The scrape of knuckles down his hips made Phainon shiver, and then—freedom. His cock sprang out, hard and flushed, the head wet and gleaming in the dim light.
Heat crawled up Phainon’s throat. Being stripped bare on an altar with someone kneeling between his legs made him feel more exposed than any battlefield. Still, his mouth worked quicker than his shame: “Enjoying the view?”
“Mm.” Mydei’s hum was deep, appreciative. His eyes never left Phainon’s cock, heavy and leaking against his stomach. “Better than I imagined.”
The bluntness knocked the air out of him. He coughed a laugh, trying not to squirm. “You’ve imagined this?”
“Every night since we sparred.” Not a hint of embarrassment. Mydei’s hand curled around the base with a grip that made Phainon’s breath hitch.
“Oh—” His head tipped back. His knuckles went white against the altar’s edge as Mydei’s thumb dragged over the swollen head, smearing precome down the shaft.
Then lips grazed the tip. Just a kiss—soft. Enough to rip a grunt from Phainon’s chest. His hips chased it before he could stop himself, desperate for more.
“Impatient?” Mydei teased, breath a hot gust over sensitive skin.
Phainon laughed, ragged. “Impatient? You’ve had me up here like a sacrifice for half an hour—what do you expect me to be, serene?”
“Half an hour,” Mydei murmured, his thumb dragging lazily over the slick trail before smearing it higher. He leaned down, tongue catching a bead clinging to his lip, savoring it slow. “Already making a mess of yourself.” His gaze lingered, sharp and amused. “Pathetic, isn’t it? With a mouth that sharp, I expected you to last longer.”
The word made Phainon’s cock jerk in his hand. Gods, he hated how good it sounded.
“Careful,” he rasped, voice rough. “Keep saying stuff like that and you’ll find out how pathetic I can make you.”
That earned him a grin, sharp and wolfish. Mydei’s grip tightened, pumping slow, deliberate strokes from root to tip. He wasn’t rushing—he was dragging it out, the kind of rhythm meant to unravel him. Each time he squeezed just beneath the head, Phainon swore his spine would snap from the tension.
His thighs trembled. His body betrayed him, arching up into every cruel stroke. Mydei’s eyes flicked up to watch, enjoying the way Phainon’s chest heaved and his mouth went slack around curses.
Every stroke felt like an eternity—Mydei’s palm twisting, his thumb rubbing circles into the slit, smearing mess across flushed skin. He leaned in and pressed wet, teasing kisses to the very crown, tongue flicking out like he might finally take it in—before pulling back again.
“Goddamn it, Mydei,” Phainon groaned, sweat slick at his hairline. “Stop playing—”
The words cut off when Mydei’s fist squeezed tighter, stroking him twice. Stars burst at the edge of his vision. He was close, closer than he wanted to admit, his whole body taut like a bowstring.
And then Mydei’s hand slid away.
The loss made him snarl. His cock stood rigid, dripping, throbbing untouched. His eyes snapped open, glare sharp enough to cut stone. “You—”
Mydei ignored him. He rose up just enough to press a kiss to Phainon’s hipbone, maddeningly casual, then set his hands firm on his thighs. With calm authority, he pushed them wider.
“What the hell are you—”
“Relax.” Mydei’s voice was unhurried. He nudged until Phainon eased back against the altar, until his hips tipped just enough, until he was half-sprawled and spread open.
Phainon barked a laugh, incredulous. “You’re manhandling me like a ragdoll.”
“Fragile isn’t the word I’d use.” Mydei’s eyes flicked up. “Not for you.”
Heat flooded Phainon’s chest. Why the hell did he sound so sweet right now—when Phainon was bare-assed on stone, legs pried open like some offering? He clenched his jaw and looked away, thoughts spiraling. I’m going to hell for this. Absolutely damned. And all I can think about is riding him like a dromas.
Mydei’s thumbs stroked over tense muscle, soothing. “Good. Just like that.”
Phainon exhaled, long and shaky. His knees fell wider. Shame burned his ears, but the ache in his cock screamed louder. “Don’t you dare st—” His voice cracked. He forced a tense smile, covering the heat on his face. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”
The only reply was Mydei’s smile—hungry yet soft enough to gut him.
And that was worse.
Because when Mydei bent again, mouth hovering lower, Phainon realized with a jolt he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t prepared.
The first lick caught him off guard.
Hot, slick, and precisely there.
Phainon jolted like he’d been branded, spine bowing off the altar with a strangled curse. The shock snapped down his nerves, and before he could think his body moved on instinct. His thighs clamped shut with enough force to make the stone beneath him groan.
CRACK.
The sound ricocheted in the temple, sharp and ominous.
For a heart-stopping instant Phainon thought he’d just crushed Mydei’s skull. His eyes flew wide, panic flooding cold through his veins. “—Mydei? Shit—are you—are you okay?!”
No answer. Just muffled noise between his legs.
“Mydei?!” His voice climbed an octave, mortified horror sinking in. His thighs were iron, goddamn iron, and right now they were clamped around the prince’s head like a goddamn bear trap.
The flashbacks hit.
Cyrene, lounging in Aedes Elysiae with a watermelon on her lap, waving him over like he was a kitchen utensil. “Hey, come here. Don’t bother with a knife—just crack it open for me.”
He’d stared at her, scandalized. “I’m not a—what the hell do you think I am?”
“You’ve got the thighs for it.”
He had done it, too, because she refused to get up. One sharp squeeze, rind bursting, pink flesh spilling across the floor. He’d sworn never again.
Now here he was, about to turn the crown prince into pulp for trying to eat his ass.
“Mydei, gods, I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t think—” He pried at his own legs, desperate to free him before he caused actual damage. His heart hammered. Strongest muscle in my body isn’t even my damn biceps—it’s my cursed thighs. This is how I go down in history: manslaughter by thigh-adjacent strangulation damn it.
And then—
Muffled laughter. Against his skin.
Phainon froze. “…what.”
The laughter deepened, turning into a delighted rumble. Mydei didn’t even try to pry free. If anything, he pressed closer, his breath burning against the place Phainon was most desperate to keep untouched.
“If this is how I die,” came his muffled voice, absurdly calm, “at least it’s between your legs.”
Phainon gawked. “…excuse me?”
Mydei tipped his head back just enough to look at him. “What?”
“‘What’?! You just—! I almost crushed you!”
“And I liked it.” He said it without shame, like it was the most natural confession in the world.
Phainon’s jaw worked uselessly. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” Mydei’s hands slid higher, bracing Phainon’s trembling thighs, thumbs stroking into the muscle with reverence. “But if you break my neck like this, I’ll just come back and go right back in. Don’t test me.”
“…That’s not—Mydei, that’s not a normal thing to say! What are you, immortal?”
Mydei went quiet, clearing his throat suspiciously in Phainon’s opinion. Then he just pressed another kiss to the inside of Phainon’s thigh, maddeningly slow, and murmured, “We’ll talk about that later.”
Phainon blinked, stunned. “I was joking. What do you mean ‘later’? What the fuck does that even—”
“Later.” Another kiss, closer now. His hands held Phainon steady when he tried to shift back, grip firm, grounding.
Panic surged again. He grabbed at Mydei’s hair, tugging, not hard but enough to say stop, wait. “No, no, no—don’t just say stuff like that! You can’t drop a bomb and then bury your face in my—”
Mydei lifted his head, and gods help him, the bastard looked happy. Too happy. His eyes were alight with something deranged and unprincely, sharp with arousal, soft with devotion. It hit Phainon square in the chest.
The words died in his throat.
A moment stretched. His heart thundered. Mydei wasn’t letting go. Wasn’t even pretending to. And the longer he stared into that uncharacteristic eagerness—the shameless want—the more his own resistance cracked.
Finally, he groaned, dragging an arm over his burning face. “The things I do for you.”
Mydei looked triumphant.
“You’re impossible,” Phainon muttered, muffled into his own arm. “Absolutely impossible. Anyone else and I’d have left them in a ditch.”
“Lucky me.” Mydei kissed his thigh again, lower this time.
Phainon shivered. His cock ached, leaking against his stomach, humiliatingly hard despite the chaos. “You’re—this is—”
A sudden, sharp drip landed warm on his skin.
He flinched, glanced down, and then froze. “…Mydei, you’re bleeding.”
Mydei blinked, dazed. Golden blood trickled from one nostril, bright against his pale skin.
“…Hm? Oh. Irrelevant.” He wiped it with the back of his hand and dove right back in.
“Irrelevant?!” Phainon’s voice cracked, scandalized. “You’re bleeding gold out your nose because you’re too horny and that’s irrelevant?”
“Correct.”
Phainon dropped his head back with a strangled groan. I’m in hell. Actual hell. And I’m letting him do this. Gods save me.
But his thighs didn’t move. If anything, they loosened. Just a little. Enough.
Mydei hummed against him like he’d won something greater than a battle, his voice warm against overheated skin. “Spoil me more, please.”
Phainon’s soul nearly left his body.
At first, Phainon thought he could endure it.
Thirty minutes. That was the number in his head. Thirty, maybe forty if he was generous—let Mydei indulge this bizarre, humiliating fixation of his, then shove him off and pretend it never happened.
Instead, time had melted away into something unbearable. Hours, it felt like. The stone altar dug into his back until it ached, his arms had gone slack from bracing, and his throat was raw from half-swallowed groans. And still Mydei showed no signs of stopping.
I was worried about hurting him, Phainon thought distantly, sweat dripping down his temple. His thighs had nearly caged him to death once already. Now I’m worried I’ll never get him off me.
The prince was relentless. Committed like this wasn’t sex at all, but sacrament.
Phainon’s cheeks burned, because in a way it was sacrilege. His knees pushed wide, legs spread obscenely over the altar like an offering. His cock ached against his stomach, leaking freely, ignored for hours now. All of Mydei’s attention was below, where his tongue pushed and dragged and worked with single-minded purpose.
When Phainon squirmed, Mydei’s hands clamped down hard, palms gripping his ass to keep him spread open. When Phainon gasped too loud, Mydei only hummed encouragement into his flesh, as if coaxing him to keep going.
“You—” Phainon bit down on a groan, glaring through the heat in his face. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Mm.” Mydei licked him wide, wet and deep, spit trailing down his mouth. His voice was hoarse, as though he’d been feasting for days. “You seem to enjoy it.”
“S-screw you,” Phainon spat, though his voice cracked halfway, humiliatingly unsteady.
“You’re letting me,” Mydei replied, and pushed his tongue back inside.
Wet, loud, sucking noises echoed off the walls. Every drag of his tongue sent tremors sparking down Phainon’s legs. Every time he pulled back to spit, then dove in again, Phainon thought he’d go mad.
He tried to hold himself together—breathe through it, not grind, not move—but the pressure built and built until his body betrayed him. A sharp rut downward, grinding his ass against Mydei’s mouth.
His blood froze. Mortification hit him like a slap.
“I—, I didn’t—” He started to pull back, apology on his lips.
Then Mydei moaned into him. Low, guttural, the vibration tearing a gasp out of Phainon’s chest before he could stop it.
He froze, panting.
Mydei looked up briefly, eyes glazed, then shoved his face back in as though to prove a point.
Phainon’s head fell back, shame and pleasure twisting until they were indistinguishable. “…goddamn it.” His thighs flexed, not in rejection this time, but to push him down again. He ground deliberately, testing.
Mydei groaned louder, hands dragging him open, tongue plunging deeper.
“Oh, fuck—” Phainon’s hand flew to Mydei’s hair without thinking, gripping hard, intent to yank him back. The second his fingers tangled and pulled, though, Mydei shuddered, moaned, tongue pushing in deeper like the pain only spurred him on.
Phainon’s heart stuttered. He clenched his fist, dragging Mydei closer instead.
“What am I doing,” he muttered under his breath, horrified at himself, even as his hips tilted up to meet each stroke of Mydei’s tongue.
Every time Mydei sucked at his rim hard enough to pop, Phainon flinched, then sank deeper into the altar, moaning before he could catch himself. Every time he felt spit trail down his ass, dripping hot and humiliating, he thought he’d stop—but then Mydei would tongue him open again, steady and unrelenting, and all thought dissolved.
At some point, his arm fell over his face, covering his eyes. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear to see the expression on Mydei’s face, not when he himself was this far gone.
And still, Mydei didn’t stop.
Phainon was starting to go insane with the endless wet drag of tongue and the way his body trembled under it.
And then—worse—Mydei started adding little torments. Suction at his rim, then a hot breath ghosting over the raw, wet flesh before plunging back in. His fingers kneading Phainon’s ass, spreading him wider each time, until Phainon wanted to close his legs but couldn’t. Mydei licking lower, spit slicking down his taint, then working back up in long, messy strokes that made Phainon’s cock twitch helplessly against his stomach.
“Stop—” His voice cracked, but his body sagged, pliant, betraying him. “Stop doing that—”
“Say it like you mean it,” He nuzzled back into the mess he’d made as though drunk. “Or keep moaning. Don’t waste your energy on useless things.”
Phainon’s breath hitched. His thighs trembled, strength leaking out of them in shudders. He’d gone lax now, unable to muster the fight he had at the start. It was easier to lie there, arms thrown over his face, mouth open and panting, while Mydei worshiped between his legs like a man possessed.
He wanted to glare at him, wanted to snap “enough,” but the words died somewhere in his throat, strangled by the molten need twisting low in his belly. Damn it he was a bigger freak than Mydei.
“This is filthy—” Phainon started, but his insult collapsed into a strangled gasp when Mydei latched on again, sucking at his rim until his whole body shuddered. “—you sound like a beast in rut.”
Mydei only hummed, lips wet against him. “Taste better than a feast,” he muttered into the mess. The wet slurp punctuated the words like proof.
Phainon’s cock ached. It was leaking freely against his stomach, untouched and throbbing with every clench of his rim around that relentless tongue. He hadn’t been stroked once, and yet he was already so close it was unbearable.
His muscles locked, thighs trembling, body at the mercy of someone who wouldn’t even give him the courtesy of a touch.
“Stop—don’t—” His voice cracked, breathless, shame already burning before the sound slipped free. “Please—”
It was begging. Real begging. His first humiliating admission.
And it stopped Mydei cold.
Phainon’s hand had knotted tight in his hair, tugging.
Mydei pulled back, panting, chin slick, lips swollen. “What is it?” He wiped his mouth with his arm.
Phainon’s chest heaved. He pressed his forearm across his mouth, muffling his own shaky breaths. Embarrassment clawed at him—yet he forced the words out. “…Maybe—” His throat rasped, then steadied. “…maybe fingers instead.”
The request landed heavy.
Mydei stilled completely.
Phainon refused to meet his eyes, pressed forward. “It’s just—well, it’s my first time.” The words slipped out firmer this time, but his gaze still darted aside. He forced himself to keep going, voice trying for confident. “If I’m going to come, I’d rather it be when you’re actually—” he exhaled, sharp, then said it, “—inside me.”
Silence. Weighty.
Phainon frowned, risked a glance—and froze.
Mydei’s grip tightened around his wrist, not painful but startlingly firm, and his expression… that wasn’t his usual face. His eyes burned, wide, locked on him like nothing else mattered. Out of everything Phainon had said, only one line had sunk in.
“…I’m your first?”
It wasn’t a question.
Time stopped. The air between them thickened, sweat crawling down Phainon’s neck, his pulse a hammer in his throat. He hadn’t expected this.
Phainon’s lips parted, dry. “I—” He faltered, then laughed low, trying to cut through the tension, though it sounded a little too sharp. “…Never mind. Do you want me to, ah, change positions?”
Mydei tilted his head, still staring.
Phainon cleared his throat, forcing himself to keep eye contact. “I mean—I could just show you.”
He moved before Mydei could answer, humming like it was casual, though his heart was racing. He shifted onto his front. Mydei’s hands darted out, instinctively steadying his waist, protective—but Phainon swatted him off with a small shake of his head. “Don’t. I’ve got it.”
A moment later, he was chest-first against the altar, ass arched up, adjusting his knees until the position felt right. He’d heard once it was easier this way. Maybe it was.
He glanced over his shoulder, lips curved into a teasing smirk. “Well? Are you going to get on with it, or—”
The sight made him pause.
Mydei was frozen. Staring at him like he couldn’t breathe.
Phainon chuckled. “…Cute.”
He tilted his head, voice teasing. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve.”
Then, softer still. “It’s alright if you’re not ready. I don’t mind waiting. Another time, if you want.”
That should’ve been the end. A gentle out.
But then Mydei’s hands clamped onto his waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, dragging him back against his body. Phainon gasped as he felt the solid bulge grind against his ass, Mydei bending low until his lips brushed his ear.
“Are you kidding?” Mydei’s voice incredulous, burning hot.
Phainon shivered, then smiled slightly.
“…Good answer.”
Mydei’s palm slid from Phainon’s waist, lingering for a beat before pulling away. The loss made Phainon twitch faintly, chest pressing harder into the cool altar stone as if he missed the touch immediately. He craned his head just enough to glance back.
Two fingers hovered by his mouth. Mydei tapped them lightly against his lips.
Phainon blinked, confused. “What are you—”
Mydei just raised a brow, gaze steady, silent. Waiting.
The silence stretched—until Phainon huffed a soft laugh through his nose. His lips curled, that small crooked smirk tugging at the corner, and he parted them.
Mydei slid his fingers in slow. Past his teeth, past the hesitant brush of his lips, until the pads rested warm and heavy on his tongue.
Phainon started tentative, his tongue tracing over the rough calluses, tasting him. He flicked one glance upward, caught the molten gleam in Mydei’s eyes, and let the smirk deepen just slightly before sucking them further in. Hollowing his cheeks, he took them down until his lips kissed Mydei’s knuckles.
The wet sound was indecent in the temple’s hush.
He lingered there for a second. Sucking, tonguing, drawing heat and spit with each languid drag. He hummed low in his throat, vibration thrumming around the fingers.
Mydei’s breath faltered. The sight of him—arched over the altar, obedient mouth wrapped around his hand—made his blood roar. His other hand flexed against Phainon’s hip, grounding himself.
“You catch on quick,” Mydei murmured.
Phainon let go with a wet pop, lips shining as he tilted a look back over his shoulder. The smirk was sharp now. “Could’ve just asked.”
Mydei’s smile curved helpless. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Phainon chuckled, then sank forward again, folding his arms under his head as if to get comfortable. His ass tipped higher, blatant in its invitation.
Mydei dragged his spit-slick fingers down the slope of his back, tracing the curve of his spine until he reached the cleft of his ass. He circled lazily at his rim, spreading the slick, teasing until Phainon squirmed and let out a sound too close to a whine.
The first push came careful. Just enough pressure to part him, to stretch.
Phainon jolted, a sharp breath breaking out of him, muscles seizing before they remembered how to give. The prep from earlier helped—there wasn’t pain, not really—just the blunt intrusion, hot and startling.
Mydei stilled instantly, thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles around the edge. He didn’t press further. He waited, patient as stone.
Phainon’s chest heaved once, twice. The next exhale came steadier, his body easing into it. Shoulders slackened, hips tipping back just slightly to take more.
“…Sorry,” he muttered after a moment, a sheepish laugh muffled against his arms. “Bit nervous, truth be told.”
Mydei bent closer, voice warm. “No need to be sorry. Nervous just means you care what happens.” A beat, softer still: “And I like that you’re trusting me with it.”
That reassurance made Phainon exhale again, this time with a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He tilted his head, smirk flashing despite the flush creeping down his throat. “You’re making it sound like I’m indulging you. As if this isn’t entirely for me.”
Mydei’s lips twitched, fond and sharp all at once. “Oh, believe me—” His finger pressed deeper, easing him open, slow and unrelenting. “It’s not just for you.”
The tight ring of muscle yielded by degrees, Mydei coaxing him through each inch. He sank in to the knuckle, thumb still stroking little arcs into his rim. His gaze stayed locked on Phainon’s body—the tremble in his thighs, the subtle way his hips finally dropped back into the intrusion, the shudder of surrender.
“Better?” Mydei asked quietly.
Phainon laughed, breath ragged, low in his throat. “Better. You’re—hah—you’re very attentive, you know.”
“Attentive,” Mydei echoed, leaning close enough for his hair to brush over Phainon’s shoulder.
Phainon angled his face slightly, smirk curving wicked even as his voice shook. “Mm. Like a doting wife.”
Mydei’s grip on his hip tightened reflexively, a sound breaking out of him—half laugh, half snort. He pressed his finger deeper, twisting just slightly.
“Then let me spoil you properly.”
Mydei’s hand never left his hip. Solid, anchoring, thumb drawing idle little circles into his skin like he had all the time in the world. Then—another shift, another press—suddenly there were two fingers pushing inside, stretching him wider.
Mydei kept his palm pressed firm against him, holding him steady, coaxing him through the burn.
It stretched, sharper than before—spit-slick but snug, dragging slow and deliberate. Too much and not enough. Phainon bit off the sound that threatened to leave him, forehead pressing harder into his arms.
Mydei’s voice was steady. “Easy. Relax, Phainon.”
The words slipped through him like a low current, and then the fingers began to move. Scissoring apart, patient drags that pushed and stretched, widening him little by little. Mydei’s thumb rubbed soft, lazy circles into the swell of his ass—an almost tender counterpoint to the sting.
“Well,” Phainon muttered into his arms, voice rough. Then, trying for levity he couldn’t quite hold: “…You haven’t even bought me dinner.”
That earned him a scoff, warm against his ear. “I’ve quite literally bought every meal you’ve eaten since we met.” The words sharpened as Mydei scissored his fingers wider, forcing another stretch. “Don’t test my generosity.”
The reply should have earned a laugh, but Phainon only managed a broken gasp—because Mydei curled his fingers up, angled them until they brushed something deep inside. His body jolted violently, arms trembling under him, his breath punching out in a startled, raw cry.
For Mydei, it was like watching a god unravel in front of him. His chest tightened, his cock throbbed, his hand tightened possessively at Phainon’s hip. He stilled, savoring the way Phainon clenched down around his fingers, every tremor shivering through him. Then, with ridiculous precision, he pressed again. Harder.
Phainon bucked, choked, his thighs quivering against the altar’s edge.
Mydei hummed against his ear, fascinated. “…So that’s it. That’s your weak spot.”
Phainon’s reply broke, desperate and half-angry. “Gods—shut up—just—do it again.”
The curve of Mydei’s lips brushed his skin, his breath hot at the nape of his neck. “As you wish.”
The next thrust came sharp, cruel in its accuracy, fingers curling firm and dragging across that spot until Phainon cried out, unrestrained this time, his arms buckling against the altar.
Mydei worked him open like that—slow at first, mercilessly teasing, then faster, sharper, each stroke calculated to wring sound out of him. And every time his fingers landed, Phainon’s body clamped down so hard it felt like he’d drag Mydei’s hand in whole.
“Listen to you,” Mydei muttered, half-filth, half-worship, his voice rough with arousal. “Clenching like you want to swallow my fist.” His thumb stroked soothing circles at his rim even as his fingers drove deeper. “Greedy thing.”
Phainon groaned, his voice strained. “Shut—ah—fuck—”
But his hips betrayed him, rocking back, offering himself wider.
Mydei’s grin sharpened. He rewarded the surrender by scissoring his fingers further apart, stretching him. Phainon’s nails raked at the altar. A sound escaped him—half-whimper, half-curse—and Mydei silenced it with a kiss to his shoulder, absurdly gentle against the filth of his hand.
“Just a little more,” Mydei coaxed, patient. “You’ll take it for me.”
And then a third finger pressed in alongside the others.
Phainon gasped, forehead digging into his arms, his hips jerking violently as his body struggled to stretch around the intrusion. Too much—until Mydei curled them all together and ground them across his prostate. The shock tore a moan out of him, echoing in the temple’s silence.
“Fuck, fuck—” His thighs trembled, his whole body shaking.
Mydei chuckled. “Look at you. Shaking apart on three fingers.” He curled again, harder, milking that swollen spot. “And I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”
Every thrust now was deliberate, three fingers stretching and scissoring as they pounded across that sweet spot. Phainon’s arms gave, his chest collapsing against the altar, but his hips kept moving—rocking back, begging without words.
Mydei’s breath shivered out of him, his cock straining against his clothes. “You’re certainly eager, taking it like you’re made for me.” His pace quickened, fingers curling deep until Phainon’s moans came hoarse and broken against the wood.
And still Mydei didn’t stop—pressing, stretching, wringing every tremor out of him, lost in the single-minded worship of Phainon’s body.
Phainon’s voice cracked again, ragged, torn between begging or sobbing. “Mydei, just—”
Mydei bent close, lips at his ear, voice reverent and ruined all at once. “Say it. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it.”
Phainon lifted his head a fraction, lips wet against his arm, words scraping out rougher than he meant. “You’re… good at this.”
It was meant as sincerity. Maybe even gratitude. But the way it left his throat—low, uneven—sounded too close to flirtation. Coy. Almost inviting.
Mydei stilled. His fingers stayed buried deep, only twitching once inside, but his breath caught sharp against the back of Phainon’s neck. Then whatever fragile leash he’d been holding snapped.
He drove his hand into motion, sudden and brutal. No more coaxing. Four spit-slick fingers speared into him, hard and fast, knuckle-deep every thrust. The slap of it was wet, sharp against the chamber, relentless as he curled rough with every stroke.
Phainon choked on a sound that was half-cry, half-cough, arms collapsing tighter under his face. He tried to bury it, smothering the noises into his arms, but Mydei’s pace left no room to hide. Short, breathless gasps broke out of him, little stuttering bursts that came too quickly, tumbling over one another until they spilled into ragged moans.
Mydei’s palm locked him in place, pressing hard against the curve of his ass, keeping him still as his fingers pounded in merciless rhythm. Every curl dragged viciously across that swollen spot deep inside, grinding until Phainon’s thighs shook, his knees knocking against the altar’s base.
“Listen to you,” Mydei said, voice harsh with filth he didn’t bother to swallow. “Clutching around me like you’ll break my hand in two. You’d take my arm if I let you.” He twisted his wrist, shoved deeper, curling sharp—Phainon’s whole body bowed off the altar in answer.
“Myd—ah—fuck—” The words splintered as his forehead hit stone. His legs trembled so violently his knees nearly gave, his hips bucking helplessly back into each punishing thrust. He tried to hold himself together, but the betrayal of his own body showed in every shake, every roll of his hips begging for more.
Then his voice cracked. The begging ripped raw out of him, stripped of bravado, unguarded. “Please—don’t stop—please.”
That was the end of Mydei’s restraint. He growled low in his throat and hammered his hand faster, rougher, fingers pistoning hard enough to rock Phainon forward into the altar with every thrust. Each curl was ruthless, dragging over his prostate like Mydei’s entire focus had narrowed to breaking him apart.
Phainon came undone. His arms collapsed entirely, chest slamming to the altar’s surface. His moans spilled freely now, unrestrained, every thrust tearing another sound from his throat until it blurred into continuous noise—wrecked, breathless, loud.
And then—the snap.
Mydei’s fingers curled just right, and Phainon shattered. His hips jerked violently, cock spilling untouched as his release streaked down his thighs, dripping messily onto the altar stone. His moan broke on itself, climbing until it collapsed into a whine, his whole body trembling so hard it looked like his knees might buckle beneath him.
He slumped forward, shaking too hard to brace, forehead pressed to the cold stone. His hair stuck damp to his temples, his shoulders heaving. His hips twitched back involuntarily, clenching around Mydei’s fingers even through the aftershocks, body refusing to let go.
Mydei didn’t stop. He slowed, yes, but kept his fingers buried, curling and grinding purposefully across the oversensitive gland, pulling every last shiver out of him. Only when Phainon whined brokenly and shook his head did Mydei relent.
He dragged his fingers free, slick and obscene, then smoothed his palm across Phainon’s back. The touch was mockingly steady, thumb rubbing lazy circles like he was soothing him.
Phainon wheezed against the altar, still shuddering. Mydei gave his shoulder a pat, almost cheerful. “There, there.”
Phainon groaned, voice muffled. “If you ever pat me like a dog again—”
“—you’ll what?” Mydei cut in. “Collapse harder next time?”
Phainon made a strangled sound that was definitely not a denial.
Phainon was still trembling against the altar when Mydei’s hand slid up into his hair. Fingers curled firm, then yanked.
His head snapped back. Throat exposed, lips parted, lashes wet. He blinked up dazedly, like the air had just been stolen from him, every nerve still sparking from the aftermath.
Golden eyes caught him. Bright, steady, pinning him there. A bead of sweat slipped down Mydei’s temple, but his expression wasn’t mocking.
Phainon’s gut tightened. He braced for it anyway, some cutting jab, the inevitable smug: already?
It didn’t come. Mydei only studied him, long enough that Phainon’s chest heaved. Then, simply:
“…That’s a good expression.”
Phainon’s mouth twitched. He managed a rough, half-breathed, “…Pervert.”
The word earned him another pull, his hair tugged tighter, dragging a choked noise from his throat. Mydei’s tone stayed maddeningly even, almost casual as he leaned close enough for his breath to stir Phainon’s ear.
“Say that again.”
Phainon swallowed, throat working under the grip. His lips parted like he might—then closed again. His lashes lowered, stubborn.
He didn’t.
Instead he pushed himself upright, dragging in breath. His hair clung damp to his temples, his thighs twitching, but he managed to lift his chin.
“Well,” he said, mouth quirking faintly, “I might’ve finished early—but I’m not the type to leave my partner… unattended.”
The word partner landed heavy, maybe a little too deliberate. Mydei’s thumb kept tracing idle circles at his waist, more absorbed in the heat under his hand than in what was being said. A hum, nothing more.
Phainon sighed, braced his palms, leaned forward—only to be stopped cold.
“Don’t.”
One seamless motion, and Phainon was flat on his back. The altar bit cold into his spine, breath punched out of him as Mydei leaned over, golden eyes shadowed. Then softer: the brush of a thumb across his cheek. “If we’re going to continue… I’d rather see you.”
Phainon’s stomach tightened. His voice came out dry, despite the knot in his throat. “Then you should probably take off the few actual articles of clothing you’re still wearing.”
“You can just say you want to see my—”
“Mydei.”
A huff, but he let it drop. The robe slid off easily enough, leaving nothing but muscle. Phainon knew that body as well as his own—had trained against it, wrestled it, memorized every line of strength. None of this should’ve been new. And yet, with the air between them charged, it felt different. His hand twitched upward before he caught himself. Damn Mydei. Damn those shoulders. Those pecs.
The soft sound of cloth shifting cut through his thoughts. A belt tugged loose. Fabric sliding down.
He should’ve been paying attention. He wasn’t.
Silence.
Phainon blinked, finally looking lower—
—and his brain stalled.
The trousers were open. Slid low. And fuck.
Phainon’s legs clamped shut before he even thought about it, knees knocking. Breath caught sharp in his chest. Because Mydei was—
“…you’ve got to be joking.”
He was hung.
Thick. Heavy. Long enough it made Phainon’s stomach flip. And impossibly—still not fully hard.
His voice cracked. “That’s—that’s not fitting anywhere.”
One brow lifted. Mydei wrapped a hand lazily around himself and stroked once, slow enough that the thick length shifted heavily against his palm. “Funny. That’s not what you were saying earlier.”
Phainon’s mouth opened, shut. Words died. Because gods—he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t drag his eyes away as Mydei’s hand kept working, casual, unhurried. Veins standing, the head flushing darker, swelling thicker. Getting bigger. As if he hadn’t been enough already.
Phainon swallowed hard. His ears burned, his chest a mess of panic and arousal. And beneath the disbelief, something shameful coiled low in his gut. Want. Need.
A ragged exhale slipped out. “…Well. A deal’s a deal.”
He forced his gaze up, his voice steadier than he felt. “You can have your way with me. Adjust me however you like.”
Mydei’s hand slowed, gaze pinning him. “You’d better not regret saying that.”
Phainon’s lips curved. “How hard can it be?”
It turned out, in fact, to be quite hard.
“Mydei~”
Phainon’s head knocked back against the altar, sweat stinging his lashes, lungs pulling in uneven gasps. His legs were bent high, thighs shaking with the effort to stay braced as Mydei pressed him open. The stretch had him seeing stars—gods, he was sure he’d been split in half already.
“—oh,” he choked, clutching at Mydei’s shoulders like a lifeline. His nails dug sharp crescents into solid muscle, teeth bared. “Is it in yet?”
“…Almost. Two-thirds.”
Phainon gawked, indignant. “Two-thirds? Don’t bullshit me. I trust a three-year-old’s counting more than yours. Remind me—hah—to get you lessons after this—”
His protest dissolved into a startled moan as Mydei shifted his hips and pushed deeper in retaliation.
“You—fucking—asshole,” Phainon spat, though the words trembled with pleasure. He raked his nails down Mydei’s back, not gently.
“Mm.” Mydei’s voice maddeningly calm. “Big words, considering you’re the one squeezing around me like this.”
Phainon’s gaze flicked down despite himself—immediately regretting it. His mouth went dry. His body was stretched taut, swallowing down thick inches of Mydei that still weren’t fully seated. He was stuffed, unbearably full, and it was only halfway.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, though his leg jerked, hooking tighter around Mydei’s waist as if to drag him deeper.
That earned him a faint huff of laughter against his throat. “You say it’s too much,” Mydei murmured, leaning in so close his lips brushed skin, “but you keep pulling me in.”
Phainon barked a weak laugh, breath hitching. “Why not? I happen to enjoy this with you—” His voice caught again, interrupted by another careful thrust that had his head spinning.
He gasped, nails digging harder into Mydei’s back, then ground out between clenched teeth: “Keep that up and I’ll scar your shoulders for life.”
“You’d like that,” Mydei answered without missing a beat, the corner of his mouth quirking even as his focus remained steady.
Phainon cursed under his breath, then abruptly shoved at him—not to push him away but to yank him closer, with a burst of raw strength that slammed their chests together. The movement knocked the wind from both of them.
“Phainon—” Mydei started, but the words cut short when Phainon buried his face into his neck, breath hot, clinging like he’d never let go.
For a second, Mydei went still. Then his arms tightened, hands sliding firm to Phainon’s waist. He adjusted, lifting him just slightly so the angle aligned better, his hips settling closer. The shift had him pressing deeper, the stretch pulling another helpless sound from Phainon’s throat.
“Better,” Mydei said before rolling forward again.
Phainon moan against his skin, legs locking tighter, his body convulsing between fight and surrender. His voice came out disbelieving. “You’re… you’re actually trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Not kill.” Mydei’s lips brushed his temple, deceptively gentle. “Mess with you, maybe.”
Phainon groaned, his nails dragging ragged lines down Mydei’s back. He clung on harder, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and gods help him—wanting more.
Phainon tried to choke it back, tried to grit his teeth and keep his dignity, but the sound cracked anyway—breath splintering into a moan that tore free of his throat.
“Too much—hah—too much, slow down—”
His body writhed under the sheer stretch, chest heaving as he struggled to take it. His lashes clumped with wetness, tears pricking despite himself. Not from pain—just from being overwhelmed, filled past reason.
Mydei paused instantly, thumb swiping the corner of his eye, catching a tear before it could fall. He smirked. “Crying already? I haven’t even started moving.”
Phainon glared. “Shut—up—” He turned his face away, only for Mydei to grip his jaw and tug him back, forcing him to meet that infuriating stare.
“Cute,” Mydei murmured, brushing his thumb across damp lashes with a tenderness that made it worse. Then his mouth curled. “Should’ve brought a handkerchief.”
“Fuck you—”
“You’re trying.” Mydei pressed deeper.
Phainon gasped, a raw sound ripped out of him as his body strained to take it. His nails dug crescent moons into Mydei’s shoulders, torn between dragging him closer and shoving him off. His legs tried to wrap around Mydei’s waist—only for the pressure to split him wider, leave him even more stuffed.
And still Mydei pushed in, steady, unstoppable, until finally—
The last inch sank home.
Phainon’s back arched off the altar, a hoarse cry breaking in his throat as tears spilled hot at the corners of his eyes. His whole body trembled, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling as if he’d run himself ragged. Stretched. Full. Claimed.
Mydei groaned with him, the sound rough and unrestrained, forehead dropping against Phainon’s. “—shit.” His voice cracked as he tried to catch his breath. “Tight enough to snap me in half.”
Phainon’s laugh came weak, but still cocky. “Don’t flatter yourself.” His voice was a rasp, nails raking down Mydei’s back. “I’m just… incredible like that.”
Mydei huffed, his hips holding firm, refusing to move. His palms spread over Phainon’s sides, grounding him as both of them fought for composure.
“Adjust,” he muttered, tone sharp but edged with strain. His hand skimmed down, steadying Phainon. “Take the time you need. I need it too.”
Phainon should’ve taken the advice. Should’ve breathed, adjusted, gotten his bearings.
Did he?
Absolutely not.
His palms pressed into the altar, arms trembling faintly from the strain. He lifted off Mydei’s cock just enough to feel the drag—slick, every nerve sparking as his body clenched tight around the thickness stretching him open. His jaw locked, his breath caught. For a second, it looked like maybe he’d slow down, take the reprieve.
Then he dropped back down, all at once.
The slap of skin echoed sharp off the stone. Mydei’s breath tore out of him in a ragged curse, his teeth bared, one hand snapping hard to Phainon’s hip while the other fisted in his hair to anchor them both.
Phainon’s laugh cracked into a moan, triumphant. “What? You’re already done? That’s it?”
Mydei’s chest heaved, golden eyes wide for a moment like he’d just been blindsided. No words. No comeback. Just the ragged sound of him fighting for composure.
Phainon’s grin faltered as he stared—because, fuck, Mydei was gorgeous. Not the polished, princely front he showed everyone. This was messy, bitten lip, flushed cheekbones, pupils swallowing the gold of his eyes. A sight Phainon knew belonged to him alone. And gods help him, he wanted to hoard it.
That heartbeat didn’t last. Mydei’s composure slammed back into place, his grip in Phainon’s hair tightening until his neck arched taut. His voice was harsh, sharp with lust and mock fury.
“You brat. I try to be nice, and this is what you do?”
Phainon’s breath stuttered, but he still managed to smirk. “Worked, didn’t it?” And, just to twist the knife, he stuck his tongue out.
Mydei’s patience snapped. His hand clamped hard on Phainon’s jaw and yanked him into a kiss that wasn’t a kiss at all—more of a collision. Open-mouthed, teeth clashing, tongue shoved in deep like he meant to take control of the very air in Phainon’s lungs.
Phainon groaned into it, nails carving down Mydei’s back, trying to hold on as the rhythm shifted. Mydei had had enough of being played—now he set the pace. Thrusts sharp, deep, each one landing with a brutal smack of hips that reverberated through Phainon’s bones.
Every time Phainon tried to spit another remark, it broke into a ragged moan that Mydei swallowed from his mouth. By the time their lips finally tore apart, spit strung between them, Phainon was gasping like he’d surfaced from drowning.
“—fuck, slow down—” The words came out hoarse, useless. His plea cut off in a sharp yelp when Mydei’s hand slid from his jaw to his throat, pressing just enough to pin him back against the altar. Not choking, but undeniably there.
“Look at you.” Mydei’s voice grated rough, the smirk curling despite the sweat dripping down his temple. His hand fisted tighter in Phainon’s hair, yanking his head back so their eyes locked. His hips slammed forward again, making Phainon jolt. “So cocky—and you can’t even keep your mouth shut.”
Phainon hissed through his teeth, nails biting into Mydei’s shoulders. “Bite me.”
“Tempting.” Mydei said as another thrust punched the breath from him.
The pace tore him apart. Phainon’s facade cracked, remarks dying before they left his lips, swallowed by moans he couldn’t choke down. His chest heaved, sweat slicking his skin, eyes blurring. He blinked hard, tried to force the tears back, but the pressure only made them gather faster at the corners of his lashes.
Shit.
He hoped Mydei was too far gone to notice.
He wasn’t.
Mid-thrust, Mydei froze—just stopped, staring down at him. Phainon glared back, cheeks flushed scarlet, jaw tight, red-rimmed eyes refusing to admit a thing.
Well. He noticed.
Shit.
Mydei let out a low whistle, teeth flashing as his head tilted. Golden eyes swept over Phainon, amused, a smile tugging slow at his mouth.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “So you really are crying.”
Phainon’s gut tightened. There it was—the barb he’d been braced for. His glare sharpened, words already spitting like sparks on his tongue.
But Mydei didn’t sink it in. Instead, he sighed, his grip in Phainon’s hair loosening. His thumb brushed across the corner of Phainon’s eye, catching the wetness before it could fall. A kiss pressed to his temple, too brief, too grounding, heat curling at his skin.
“Honestly,” Mydei murmured. “You mouth off like you can handle it, and fold the second it hits you back. Don’t chew more than you can swallow.”
Phainon’s lips parted, breath stuttering.
His fingers curled tight into Mydei’s hair and yanked, petty and sharp.
Mydei grunted, barely shifting. The smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.
“HKS,” he muttered, like he was commenting on the weather.
Phainon blinked. “You’re the HKS.”
Unbothered, Mydei rolled his hips once, sudden and deep.
“Sure,” Mydei said, smirk widening as his hips ground in again.
The shift was maddening—no thrust, no withdrawal. Just a deep, rolling grind, dragging his cock in thick circles inside Phainon until every nerve lit up. Phainon’s breath hitched, his spine snapping off the stone. He would’ve been embarrassed if he weren’t too far gone already.
He clenched down without meaning to, the sensation burning through him like lightning. Gods. Fuck. This should be illegal.
“Right there,” he gasped, clutching at Mydei’s shoulders. His nails scraped over skin that flexed and shifted with muscle. “Don’t move—don’t—”
But Mydei did. He moved again, eyes locked on his face like he was memorizing every twitch. The bastard was enjoying this—cataloguing him.
Phainon tried to rock up, to force the friction he craved, but Mydei pinned him flat, pressing all his weight down until he could do nothing but tremble and leak against his own stomach. His cock ached, every throb screaming for release that Mydei refused to give.
“Move,” Phainon hissed, jaw tight, frustration curling hot in his chest. He yanked at Mydei’s back hard enough to leave streaks of red, head tossing against the cold altar. “Mydeimos—please.”
The word tasted bitter. It made his teeth clench. But it made Mydei’s grin widen.
“You weren’t half this polite a minute ago.”
“Irrelevant—”
The retort cut short with a strangled noise when Mydei fisted his hair and yanked. His throat arched bare, pulse hammering under the hand that pressed lightly there.
Phainon’s lashes fluttered, the shameful wave of heat rolling low in his belly. He hated how it made his cock jump, how it made his hips jerk like he was begging for it.
The bastard stilled, cock buried to the hilt. His chest heaved against Phainon’s, hot and damp. “Say it again.”
Phainon’s jaw worked, pride flaring—then collapsing when Mydei squeezed just a little at his throat. “…Move,” he ground out. His pride crumbled further with every second of aching stillness. “Please.”
That earned him a savage kiss. Teeth clashed, lips crushed, Mydei’s tongue forcing past his in a claiming press. And then—finally—Mydei slammed into him, driving so deep that Phainon’s back arched clean off the altar, a scream ripped silent into Mydei’s mouth.
It unraveled fast after that.
The teasing edge was gone. What replaced it was unsteady, consuming, as if Mydei couldn’t get close enough, deep enough. Their foreheads pressed together, sweat dripping into their mouths when they kissed. Hands everywhere—gripping Phainon’s waist, pulling at his hair, dragging him closer with a kind of fevered desperation that bordered on madness.
Phainon clung back just as hard. He hated how much he wanted it—how much he wanted him. Every thrust jolted through him until he was dizzy, vision blurring at the edges. He couldn’t keep his voice down anymore; noises poured out, sharp and wet, filling the cavernous space around them.
Somewhere in the haze, his mind betrayed him. Fantasies curled hot and filthy through his chest, overlaying reality: Mydei bending him over this same altar, forcing his face into the stone while grinding him open; Mydei making him kneel, choke on his cock until tears streamed down his face; Mydei flipping him onto his stomach and taking him from behind, one hand fisting in his hair like reins.
The thoughts alone made him clamp down tighter, made his cock twitch against his belly, drooling pre-cum into the mess between them.
He wanted all of it. He wanted it so badly it scared him.
Mydei must have felt it—he moaned enthusiastically into his mouth, driving harder, his hand finding Phainon’s hair again just to wrench another gasping cry from him.
“You said I’m your first,” Mydei panted, voice breaking against his ear. The rhythm faltered into harder snaps of his hips, punctuating each word. “Then I’m the only one. No one else—” thrust, deep enough that Phainon’s eyes rolled, “—gets this. No one else gets you.”
Phainon’s mind reeled. The possessive edge should have ticked him off, should have made him shove the words back down Mydei’s throat. Instead, it only sent heat rushing under his skin.
“Right?” Mydei’s voice cracked, fever-bright. His forehead pressed hard to Phainon’s, their breaths tangling in desperate gasps. “Say it. Say it’s only me.”
Phainon tried—gods, he tried—but his voice shattered on a cry when Mydei bottomed out and stilled again. He writhed helplessly, body strung taut, clinging tight enough that his nails left angry crescents in Mydei’s skin.
The stillness killed him. The thick, grinding pressure sent sparks shooting through his belly. His cock jerked untouched between them, every nerve raw.
“Say it,” Mydei demanded again, hips rolling in a slow circle that had Phainon bucking, begging without words.
His pride cracked, melted, dissolved into nothing but need. His throat worked, broken sounds spilling. Finally, breathless, he muttered—anything to stop the torture. “Only you.”
The effect was immediate. Mydei groaned like the words undid him, crashing their mouths together again.
Phainon didn’t have time to brace. The overstimulation detonated inside him, body seizing up as his cock spilled untouched between them, painting their stomachs hot and sticky. His whole frame shook, nails clawing down Mydei’s back in frantic streaks as his voice broke on a sharp cry.
Mydei followed in the same heartbeat. His thrusts turned messy, erratic, before he shoved deep and stayed there, burying himself as he spilled inside Phainon with a low, guttural sound. His body locked, every muscle straining as he held Phainon down and let go.
The aftermath was a blur of panting and sweat. Mydei slumped against him, still inside, twitching with aftershocks. Their chests heaved together, skin stuck with sweat and cum, every shift dragging sparks through Phainon’s raw body.
He hated how much he liked the weight. How much he liked being held down.
But then Mydei shifted again. The drag made Phainon hiss, oversensitive, head tossing weakly. “Don’t—” he started, voice broken.
And then Mydei slammed back in.
Phainon cried out, whole body jerking, eyes snapping wide as Mydei’s hand clamped him down again.
Phainon’s pulse was jittering against the back of his teeth when he rasped, “…Mydei… what are you—”
The words faltered. Mydei hovered above him like he was caught mid-collapse, sweat dripping from his jaw, chest heaving too fast. His whole body shuddered with restraint that looked moments from snapping.
And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wild, unfocused, fever-bright, like hunger had eaten through every layer of calm he usually wore.
Phainon’s throat clicked. He had seen Mydei smug. He had seen him kind, mean, collected, gentle. He had never seen him this.
“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,” Phainon muttered, trying for steady, but it came out thin, shaky.
Mydei’s lips twisted, almost a grimace. “I can’t stop.” The words rasped out like he’d clawed them up from his chest. He leaned closer, voice dropping to a frantic whisper against Phainon’s cheek. “I thought I was done. I thought I could stop. But I can’t. I need you again. I need to be inside you again, just—” His voice cracked, broke off, then came back worse. “Just once more. I’ll be careful. I swear I’ll be careful. Please.”
Phainon’s gut twisted hard. He’d expected a taunt. Not this.
“…You’re insane,” he managed, swallowing so hard it hurt. “You’ve wrung me out already. How the fuck do you even still have—”
He didn’t finish, because Mydei lunged down, mouth crushing his. The kiss wasn’t sharp or punishing like before. It was messy. Starved. A man drowning, clinging to air. Mydei kissed like he could climb inside him, like he could swallow every protest before it could form.
Phainon gasped against it, hands twitching uselessly between pushing him off and dragging him closer. He still wants more? The thought hit like a punch. He still wants me.
When Mydei tore back, panting ragged, he caught Phainon’s wrists. Slowly—almost reverently—he guided them up, pressing Phainon’s palms flat against his flushed face. His skin burned, damp with sweat, trembling faintly. He pressed harder, like he needed the contact to ground him.
His lashes fluttered, his words tumbling out too fast. “Don’t pull away from me. Not now. I’ll take it—I’ll take whatever comes of this. I don’t care. Just don’t tell me no. Please.”
Phainon stared, speechless. His hands twitched where they cupped Mydei’s face, feeling the wild thrum of blood in his jaw, the frantic heat under his skin.
“You…” His voice caught. “You sound pathetic.”
“Pathetic? I’ll own it.” Mydei’s grip tightened. “Call me pathetic, call me obsessed—I don’t care. I’ll crawl if I have to. Just give me another round—I swear I’ll make it worth it. Phainon… let me have you one more time.”
Phainon’s stomach swooped. His throat was tight.
“…You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, softer this time. His fingers curled slightly against Mydei’s skin, brushing damp hair from his cheek. He paused once before he surrendered, weakly, “…Fine. One more. That’s all.”
The enthusiasm that washed over Mydei’s face was staggering. His whole body jolted like Phainon had pulled him back from a ledge. His eyes were locked onto Phainon’s, blazing with a look that pinned Phainon in place.
“Good enough,” he said.
Phainon sagged back against the altar, muscles giving out. His pulse skittered, already bracing for what he’d just allowed.
May his back be spared in the morning.
You’d think that a man who bore even the faintest resemblance to an Okheman would have the common sense to keep his head down in Kremnos.
Well. Except Phainon, of course.
It wasn’t just that he had the wrong face in the wrong city. No, no—if it were only that, there might still have been hope. A tilt of the chin lower, a quieter tongue, the grace to walk a step behind instead of two steps ahead, and he might have faded into the background like any other foreigner smart enough to know their place.
But Phainon? He was carried through the streets. In broad daylight.
Carried—not dragged like a criminal, not slung over a soldier’s shoulder like a sack of grain, but borne in the arms of the crown prince himself. Held close with a disarming gentleness, half-swaddled in the prince’s own robe, as though he were something fragile that might shatter if exposed to the open air too long.
It was a sight to stop even the busiest market square.
Now, to an outsider, you’d expect uproar. You’d expect sharp intakes of breath, hands flying to mouths, and old matrons fainting in horror at the scandal. A prince, parading his affections so openly? A foreigner, no less, being displayed like some prized jewel? Surely this would ignite whispers of impropriety, mutterings of weakness, debates in the Senate chambers, generals with gray beards shaking their heads at the downfall of morals. Surely.
But then again, you wouldn’t know Castrum Kremnos.
The fortress-city had never been built on propriety. Or modesty. Or much of anything soft. Its stones were cut by discipline, its walls raised by blood and loyalty, its people forged in the fire of resilience. A scandal, in Kremnos, was only scandalous if it undermined strength. If it endangered the state. And what did this supposed scandal reveal? Only that their crown prince, who bore the weight of the city on his shoulders, smiled more easily now than he had in years.
If the man in his arms had been anyone else, the story might have been different. If another foreigner had so much as brushed too close to the throne, the response would have been swift, brutal, and decisive. But Phainon—well, Phainon had wormed his way into their city like a pest between the stones. Somewhere between infuriating and impossible, he had survived, lingered, and—against all odds—earned a begrudging respect.
Kremnoans might grumble about him, yes. Might roll their eyes, complain, mutter darkly under their breath. But somewhere along the way, they had started to accept him. To trust him, even. To believe, quietly, that if anyone could match their prince strike for strike, sharp word for sharp word, it might just be him.
So then. All is well, you ask?
Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.
Which brings us, neatly, to the present.
Phainon was curled deep in a bed so large it could have slept four men across. The mattress was sinfully soft, the linens finer than any silk, and the pillows had the audacity to try to swallow him whole. He was clean now, scrubbed down until not a trace of the night before clung to his skin, the ache in his muscles dulled to a bearable thrum. It was, against his better judgment, cozy. Too cozy.
And Phainon, for the record, hated it.
He might have managed to stay hidden beneath the mountain of blankets had the door not creaked open.
The smell came first: savory, crisp, laced with the bright lift of herbs and the sweetness of bread still warm from the oven. A smell designed to drag even the most stubborn sleeper out of hiding. He wrinkled his nose against the pillow, fighting the twitch that threatened to give him away.
But when he cracked an eye open, there was no mistaking it.
Mydei stood in the doorway, tray in hand. Restored. Hair like a mane, robe belted, posture sharp as ever—the very picture of the crown prince again. And yet, there was a tilt to his head, a softness at the corner of his mouth that betrayed him.
“I made you breakfast,” he said.
Phainon groaned low, curling tighter under the covers, a mound of stubborn linen and silence.
Mydei did not, however, leave him to his sulk.
A quiet sigh filled the room, followed by the soft pad of footsteps. The tray settled onto the bedside table with the faintest clink of porcelain. And then the bed dipped behind him. A new weight pressed in, steady, unhurried, and altogether too close.
Warmth radiated against his back through the blanket.
“Phainon,” Mydei murmured, voice brushing his ear.
A shiver trailed down Phainon’s spine, no matter how tightly he tried to curl away. His jaw clenched. His hands fisted under the blanket. He refused to answer.
Mydei didn’t press. He simply stayed there, presence solid and steady, like he could outwait every ounce of Phainon’s stubbornness.
And of course—that was infinitely worse.
“Phainon.”
“No.”
“Mydei.”
“Leave me alone.”
A pause. A sigh. “…Phainon, please.”
That word snapped him like a bowstring. He whipped around, hair sticking up like a madman, eyes flashing. “Please!?”
Mydei blinked at him. Slowly. Like a very large, very handsome cat who had just been informed the fishbowl was empty.
Phainon threw his hands skyward, then collapsed back into the bed with a groan loud enough to rattle the rafters. He dragged his palms down his face. “Mydei. I can excuse the fact that last night was definitely not just ‘one round’—”
Mydei cut in idly. “That was an estimate.”
“Do not.” Phainon pointed a threatening finger before burying it back in his hair. “Do not finish that sentence. But I cannot excuse that you carried me—in your arms, in the streets—like I was some blushing maiden. With your robe draped over me, no less! Do you have any idea what people assumed? Especially since you refused to hide your damn marks—”
“Oh.”
Phainon lifted his head. “Oh? That’s all you have to say?”
Mydei, ever unbothered, folded his arms. “It isn’t what you think. Kremnos isn’t like other city-states. Public affection is… commonplace. Valued, even. No one cares if they see two lovers close to each other.”
“That—” Phainon sputtered, cheeks coloring. “That is not the point!”
“And besides.” Mydei added, casually, as though discussing the weather. “I am their Crown Prince. Whether they approve or not, they will behave.”
Phainon paused. Something hot and inconvenient flipped in his stomach. Damn it. Absolutely not the time to be flustered by authority kink. He shoved it down, hard. “Still not the point.”
Unhelpfully, Mydei added, “Also, it looked like I’d been mauled by a bear. Displays of strength are prized in Kremnos. To carry you only showed I had chosen a partner strong enough to—”
“Stop talking!” Phainon practically shouted, dragging the blanket over his face. His voice was muffled, strangled, mortified. “Do you not think twice? I was carried. By you. Do you know what that implies?”
Mydei shrugged faintly. “That I can carry you.”
Phainon dropped the blanket just to glare. “Fine. Fine, I can almost—almost—get over that. But it wasn’t even the worst part.”
Mydei leaned an elbow against the headboard, utterly at ease. “Then what was?”
Phainon sat up, voice cracking in disbelief. “The part where we bumped into your father!”
The halls had been mercifully quiet, the late hour dimming lights and emptying corridors. Phainon, half-swallowed in Mydei’s robe, clung to some tattered scrap of dignity by keeping his face buried in the prince’s chest. Every step jostled his poor, useless legs—and he prayed to every god on record that no one would appear.
Naturally, the gods despised him.
For who should round the corner but Eurypon, King of Castrum Kremnos.
He was a man carved from marble and iron: broad-shouldered, severe, immovable. He stopped mid-stride, gaze landing squarely on his son. His son, who was carrying an equally grown man bridal-style through the palace, both of them marked up like they’d gone twelve rounds with wild dogs.
The silence that followed was biblical.
Mydei halted. Straightened his back. Met his father’s eyes with the cold, sharp gravity of a man who had wrestled gods and would wrestle them again.
Phainon, meanwhile, ceased to exist. His soul evacuated his body. His muscles locked. He’d faced titankin, monsters, assassins—but this? This was true, unadulterated death.
The stare-down lasted an eternity. Neither man moved. Torches guttered. Somewhere in the distance, a servant sneezed, realized the atmosphere, and fled for their life.
Phainon, stuck in Mydei’s arms like a decorative vase, wanted to scream. To vanish. To sink into the stone floor. He couldn’t even twitch his legs, thanks to the night’s… exertions. For the first time in his life, he—Phainon, who had spat in the face of titans—was afraid.
Finally, Eurypon’s eyes narrowed. Mydei’s chin lifted a fraction.
And then Mydei, without breaking gaze, nodded once, cool—before walking forward.
Past his father.
Still carrying Phainon.
Still with the bite marks.
Still with his robe around him.
Eurypon did not move. Did not blink. Did not breathe. He simply stood there like a statue left behind after the gods were done with the world.
Phainon had never known terror like that. He was certain his obituary had already written itself.
Back in the present, Phainon buried his face in his hands. “I can never face your parents again. Ever. Your father will kill me with a look. Your mother will probably smite me. I should just fling myself off the balcony and save them the trouble.”
“Oh, that?” Mydei’s tone was maddeningly mild. “Don’t worry. If he doesn’t accept you, I’ll duel him.”
Phainon peeked through his fingers. “That’s not the point.”
“I can beat him,” Mydei added, reassuringly.
“Mydei.”
“He’s slowed with age. It won’t be difficult.”
“MYDEI!”
Phainon launched into a tirade, voice rising higher with every word. “You don’t get it—I am ruined. Absolutely ruined. Your father saw me half-dead, barely decent, being carted off like an offering to your bedchamber. I cannot undo that image. It is seared into his mind forever. The next time I see him, he’ll just know. He’ll know. And then I’ll die. Or worse, he’ll give me the look again and I’ll implode on the spot, and then what will you do? Carry my corpse through the streets too? Parade me around like a victory trophy? Gods, you probably would—”
His rant was abruptly cut short by lips pressing firmly to his own.
Phainon stopped. His body screamed at him to resist, to hold onto his indignation. But after a beat—just a beat—he melted, every muscle unspooling like water poured from a jug.
The kiss lingered until Phainon forgot why he was angry at all. When Mydei finally pulled back, his hands framed Phainon’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Seafood boil?” Mydei murmured.
Phainon sniffed. “…Yes, please.”
Mydei’s mouth tilted in victory. “Good. I’ll fetch it.”
“Wait,” Phainon muttered, tugging him back by the sleeve. “If your father walks in this time, I’m diving under the bed.”
“Then I’ll carry the bed too,” Mydei said without missing a beat.
Phainon groaned. Loud. Dramatic. And despite himself, laughed.