ain

You stared at him with absolute seriousness.

“My lord… this is the sexiest moment of my life.”

“…I— what?” he stammered, his wings stuttering behind him as if they were embarrassed too.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a sacred truth. “I mean it. If you wanted me to fall to my knees, you could’ve just said so.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His expression shifted to confusion and then melting into flustered disbelief, then into something darker, warmer, far too pleased. A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“…You should not say such things so casually,” he murmured, voice dropping into something low and velvety, threaded with a possessiveness that made the air tighten. “Not when I have come to take you away.”

Your smile faltered. “Take me away… where?”

He stepped closer, shadows curling at his feet despite the glow.

“Back at my temple” he said simply, as if announcing the weather. “You will be treated with utmost care and respect.”

“That’s— that’s a big decision, my Lord—”

“You called me ‘sexy,’” he said, eyes narrowing in a way that was both offended and delighted. “I am taking that as consent.”

“That is NOT how consent works—”

He lifted a hand, and the air shimmered.

“Too late,” he said, flustered but determined. “I am already emotionally compromised.”

“My Lord—!”

Lesson learned: Never flirt with an emotionally constipated Titan. You will get kidnapped.

wc — 301.

You stared at him with absolute seriousness.

“My lord… this is the sexiest moment of my life.”

“…I— what?” he stammered, his wings stuttering behind him as if they were embarrassed too.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a sacred truth. “I mean it. If you wanted me to fall to my knees, you could’ve just said so.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His expression shifted to confusion and then melting into flustered disbelief, then into something darker, warmer, far too pleased. A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“…You should not say such things so casually,” he murmured, voice dropping into something low and velvety, threaded with a possessiveness that made the air tighten. “Not when I have come to take you away.”

Your smile faltered. “Take me away… where?”

He stepped closer, shadows curling at his feet despite the glow.

“Back at my temple” he said simply, as if announcing the weather. “You will be treated with utmost care and respect.”

“That’s— that’s a big decision, my Lord—”

“You called me ‘sexy,’” he said, eyes narrowing in a way that was both offended and delighted. “I am taking that as consent.”

“That is NOT how consent works—”

He lifted a hand, and the air shimmered.

“Too late,” he said, flustered but determined. “I am already emotionally compromised.”

“My Lord—!”

Lesson learned: Never flirt with an emotionally constipated Titan. You will get kidnapped.

wc — 301.

behind the back of their stoic professor, his students began making quiet bets on who his wife was. someone from the university also? likely. professor aglaea? most likely option, they were the perfect enemies in public, lovers in private trope.

on the other hand, you were the professor of literature. though you often shared moments of your life, you weren’t an oversharing professor.

sometimes, you brought cookies to class, not only as an incentive for students to come to the lectures, but also because you ‘made too many’. other times, you would slip pictures of your pets into the slides for your powerpoints, knowing how dry learning content could be for students.

on the first day of university, your introduction had been much more different to professor anaxagoras’: “my name is [name], i have a few pets and i do have a husband. any questions?”

the mention of such a young looking teacher being married had sent the class into a frenzy. your students shouted to have their voices heard, throwing question after question at you, until all you could do was laugh and sigh exasperatedly.

maybe this wasn’t the best thing to expose on the first day of the school year…

as soon as your students exit the lecture hall, they huddle in groups, whispering amongst each other, trying to decipher who your mystery husband is.

mydei? too fiery. after much debate, phainon is the fan favourite out of all of the possible options. he’s sweet, bubbly and overall the perfect match for you. on the other hand, ‘prof nax’ is dead last.

it began with the small, off hand comments. students who took both professor anaxagoras’ class and your class began to notice small similarities.

the same day you mentioned adopting a small orange kitten over the weekend, professor anaxagoras muttered under his breath how ‘his wife’s new kitten was shedding its ghastly orange fur absolutely everywhere.’ However, from the small smile that involuntarily ghosted across his face, the students knew he was already attached to the small gremlin.

on your birthday, you baked cookies for your class and anaxa’s to bring to the lecture. as the students watched professor anaxagoras fish around in a comically large shopping bag, they were stunned into silence, watching him reveal a box of cookies in a familiar tupperware container, the same choc chip cookies their beloved teacher brought her class.

when students skeptically asked their alchemy professor what the occasion was, he only shrugged, pretending to sigh about how his wife ‘insisted he treat his class to her amazing cookies’.

“be glad she knows her puppy eyes are too effective on me,” their professor grumbled, passing around the box.

the next incident happened on an unassuming tuesday afternoon. after their latest alchemy exam, some students had gathered outside the hall, swapping answers and complaining about the difficulty set by their ‘wonderful’ prof nax.

one student in particular had gotten very wound up, his distaste for the exam, fuelled by his frustration and (slight) guilt in not studying very well, boiled into spiteful words, until he was left red-faced and waving his hands about like a mad-man.

“can you believe that the stupid professor set us such an impossibly difficult question?” he snapped, arms crossed and foot tapping. his rambling kept going, until his friends felt like they were watching an unstoppable snowball of complaints rolling down the hill.

click.

click.

click.

the student’s friends heard the tell-tale sign of professor anaxagoras’ shoes echoing down the hallway, accompanied by a cheery voice chatting to him. anaxagoras’ voice was a quiet murmur as he replied.

rounding the corner with you, anaxa’s sharp ears caught the tail of the unfortunate student’s rants.

“and it’s ridiculous he insists we call him professor anaxagoras. i personally would call him nax.” the student’s brazen rants are brought to a halt when he feels a murderous aura boring into the back of his head, a heavy hand squeezing down on his shoulder.

“would. you. like. to. repeat. that?” anaxagoras challenged, face ashen. beside him, you had stopped your small conversation about some trip that the two of you took a few years back. familiar with the intensity of anaxa’s pet peeve about nicknames, you laughed awkwardly, patting at his shoulder.

“it’s fine,” you tried to intervene, turning to the offending student, “he didn’t mean it, did he?” the student, sweating and still as a deer in headlights, furiously nodded his head. his friends, faces a similar shade of pasty white, nodded in agreement, mumbling how ‘that’s how he usually is’ and internally thanking and praising you for saving their butts.

anaxa shot you a glare, though there was barely any malicious intent, just some leftover annoyance. you beamed innocently back at him, metaphorical sunbeams glowing from your face. finally, anaxa turned away, exhaling loudly – not satisfied than pissed, just that cold, anaxagoras-styled sigh that told you ‘you’re getting off easy here, buddy.’

before he could reconsider berating the student and threatening to take away marks on his exam, you grabbed anaxa by the hand, forcefully dragging him away with you, unaware of the chaos you’d leave in your wake.

as soon as the student’s legs stopped shaking from fear and he didn’t feel the need to piss his pants, his friends’ brains finally caught up to what they just witnessed as their professors departed.

“holy shit. professor [name] just grabbed professor anaxagoras by the hand and walked away.”

other students who had peeked their heads out of their own classrooms to observe the commotion began to yell over each other.

“no way!”

“we were seeing things right?!”

“i must’ve been so scared i hallucinated that.”

“WHAT.”

“did you hear their conversation before? they went on some trip together.”

whispers filled the corridor as students milled around to share their theories. some even chose to update their bets, choosing to wager their allowance on the less likely couple ships of their professors.

during one weekend online lesson, you’re in the midst of explaining literature concepts when your pesky orange kitten decides to jump onto your desk.

without breaking a sweat, you lift the little fuzzball into your arms.

“and here, is our little miso!” you introduced, waving miso’s paws in the air, as though in greeting. “she’s caused absolute mayhem for my husband due to her shedding, but it’s ok, he secretly loves her.”

the students immediately hop onto their group chat, sans professor.

‘didn’t someone in prof nax’s class say he was complaining about cat fur?’

‘surely that’s just a coincidence, right…?’

‘praying prof phainon has also mentioned having a ginger cat or else that’s my lunch money gone ㅠㅠ’

‘agreed.’

the theories and screenshots of your cat continue to flood into the group chat, even after you’ve let your cat scramble away to ‘go cause trouble for your husband’. in fact, they reach even further, flooding other group chats, some with students of professor anaxagoras’ alchemy students.

anaxa was really regretting leaving his door ajar. well, to be fair, how was he to know that his wife’s new kitten was so enamoured with him that she would squeeze through the door and jump onto his shoulder, tiny claws digging into his sweater.

the same time her furry ginger head through his hair, jaws fell and hit the desk.

students blew up the alchemy group chat and updated the literature kids who were generous enough to give a heads up.

‘holy fkn airball.’

‘i thought prof nax and prof [name] just went on occassional trips together…’

‘????’

‘THEY LIVE TOGETHER?!’

‘thats miso isnt it?’

‘[sent a picture]’

‘NO WAY PROF [NAME] IS MARRIED TO PROF NAX ㅠㅠ’

barely an hour after your cat causes mayhem amongst the students, the news that you and professor anaxagoras were married had spread like wildfire.

when you next see your students at the university lecture hall, the room is abuzz with curiosity. students steal glances at each other, whispering and nudging their friends, daring them to make the first move.

a singular hand shoots up into the air, asking the crucial question.

“prof, is it true that you’re married to professor anaxagoras?”

your signular nod of affirmation sends the class into frenzied chaos, until they’re all yelling to be heard.

“when did you get married?”

“why didn’t you tell us it was him?”

you sighed, “i knew this would happen, so we usually keep it more toned down and plus, naxie hates when his students bombard him with questions about his personal life…”

that night, when anaxagoras returns home, he immediately flops onto the couch, hand laying over his eyes in defeat.

“that stupid cat,” he begins sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, “shall not be allowed in my office during lectures. she’s caused enough trouble as is.”

you only chuckle at his statement, knowing he’d definitely give into the kitten’s big eyes.

“at least now you can drop by whenever at the university.” you suggest, sitting on the floor beside the couch and peering up at him, the offending cat padding up to curl in your lap.

“that’s true,” he affirms, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together, “i’ll be able to bring you your daily coffee at the uni.”

anaxa admires the wedding ring on your finger that glints delightfully in the light, glad to be shown off. he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss right over your wedding band, while fireworks exploded in your stomach and across your face.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki, @nfekwefdskldm

DAN HENG

Dan Heng sees you camping by the hallway like the nosy person you are as soon as he gets home, hiding behind the slightly open door, eavesdropping on the couple, ex-lovers, or a pair with a romantic history (a gut-wrenching situationship) bickering. 

You immediately beckon him over, placing a finger against your lips to silence any of his questions, and by the time he arrives by your side you pull him aside: “They’ve been at it for hours.” You say, completely focused on a pair of a couple of strangers, eyes gleaming with the fervor as if you’re watching your favorite show on TV. 

“And you’ve been here for hours?” He replies, which you immediately hush him. It’s rather painful to admit, but there’s this feeling that boils in his chest, and he can’t help but be upset. Something sharp and unwelcome twists in his chest at how utterly captivated you are by this strangers' mess when he's standing right here, when he could be giving you his full attention. Why are you paying so much attention to someone that isn’t him?

“I don’t really know what’s going on but it looks so interesting, so I can’t help it.” You utter, still not sparing a glance at him. Clearly, you weren’t the only one as the others are doing the same thing—even the ones from a different floor are lingering by the stairs.

With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite mask his irritation, he hooks a finger in your collar and bodily drags you away from your makeshift opera show, ignoring your indignant squawks as he herds you back inside, effectively distracting you with something else.

PHAINON

There are some pretty loud sounds and creaking that has been going on in the apartment next door. 

At first, Phainon and you dismissed it. I mean, it’s not like those kinds of things are not normal and both of you weren’t the purest beings out there in this world. Besides, that was just the only time it’s going to happen, right? 

Wrong. 

You are completely and utterly wrong because for DAYS you have been enduring those damn sounds and for days you are losing sleep over it. It haunts you every single night for hours as soon as the clock strikes nine as if it was a damn routine of theirs. You tried knocking back against the wall, a signal, but they didn't stop. Matter of fact, they get louder.

By the time a week has passed by, or banged by, both you and Phainon have reached a level of zen-like resignation that would concern even the most seasoned monks. 

Night comes once more, his eyes are glazed over as the headboard next door pounds rhythmically against the wall in what can only be described as architectural assault. He’s long since given up on subtlety, muttering, “Good for them,” with the hollow cheer of a man who has accepted his fate. You, on the other hand, are biting your lip to keep from laughing at the way his eye twitches every time a particularly enthusiastic moan pierces the air. 

He suddenly rolls over, pulls you in his arms, and squeezes you tightly like you were a life-sized stress ball, “You’re laughing, we’re both miserable, and you’re laughing.” Perhaps it was better to bang at your neighbor's door tomorrow to give them a change of pace, or a new definition of pounding.

ANAXAGORAS

Anaxa is not one to be able to tolerate such things. I mean, how many times has this been already? Every single time there is a damn delivery addressed to your door, it’s not really addressed to you nor him, but to the person who lives next to you. You wouldn’t mind it if it was just a one-time occurrence, but no, because nearly every single day you’ll always have someone knocking and yelling: “Delivery for (insert name of your neighbour who is pissing you off and inconveniencing you with this thing)!”

From food, to jewelry, to clothes, to shoes, to flowers, you name it all. It feels like you had the entire mall fall into your entire doorstep already. It gets annoying especially when it overlaps with some of your expected deliveries. Imagine being so excited for your parcel to arrive that you’d run to your door, abandoning whatever you are doing, only to discover that it wasn’t even yours?!?

“This is getting annoying.” You grumble, invading Anaxa’s personal space as he reads from his book, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I agree.”

So what does Anaxa propose to do instead? Accepting the deliveries before his neighbour could open the door and tell the guy that it’s theirs. From then on, you are enjoying the luxuries of free food and items. Though it only lasted for five days because your lovely neighbor didn’t put your address as the delivery place anymore after your small squabble with them. Bummer.

Why were they even putting your address for deliveries anyway? Turns out your neighbour was scamming people left and right online and putting your address as to not get in trouble in case authorities get involved. Well, they did get involved and they also did end up at your door but you simply redirected them to the right place.

MYDEIMOS

As a great philosopher has once said, for one to arrange their furniture, one must do it in the morning. Not during the ass fucking crack of dawn when you’re already wandering and skipping in your dreamland, talking to a purple dinosaur. As soon as he hears that loud banging, screeching, and scraping of something coming from the place above, Mydei does not waste a single second.

“What the fuck.” You say, groggy and having just woken up from your sleep when a loud sound of something crashing is heard from above. You would have thought someone broke into your place until you saw Mydei right beside you, leaning against the headboard, arms crossed across his chest.

“What was that? Did you hear that?” You’re already bombarding him with questions, trying to make sense of what’s happening until you hear another sound of something scraping just above your ceiling and it doesn’t stop for a minute. If you were in a cartoon, your whole place would already be shaking just for the effect of it.

“I’m going to talk to them.”

“Huh?” You say, confused, watching as your lover gets out of bed. “Who?” Your eyes follow him as he randomly picks a shirt from his closet. 

Before he completely leaves, he crosses the room until he’s leaning over you, one hand cradling your cheek as if you’re something sacred. His thumb brushes beneath your eye and before you realize it, he’s already tilting your face up, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead.

When he finally pulls back, he murmurs, “Stay here.” And then you never see him again.

Just kidding, you do. Just a few minutes later when he slips back into bed and tells you to go back to sleep, while he embraces you. You don’t question him or what he did, and surely enough, your sleep was peaceful and quiet.

BOOTHILL

ASSERT DOMINANCE, Boothill claims as he’s already rolling his sleeves and preparing to take out the speaker system.

He was already not having it. Months of having to deal with his so-called neighbours, also so-called ‘friends’, and their never-ending parties that disturb your sleep to which they’ll compensate with a half-assed apology the next morning only to do the same thing again during the night. In addition to that nuisance too is how some of these dumbasses would occasionally stumble into your door, mistaking it for the party venue. Clearly, they don’t see the loud ass house with disco lights just behind them.

After another intoxicated fool ends up at your doorstep again, his already-broken composure falters as he swings the door open with a rather pissed off grin, gaze burning with so much intensity. "Lost, darling?" he purrs, voice dripping saccharine venom as the stranger blinks blearily at him. One glance at you who bore a tired look on your face and back to Boothill who's still hovering by the doorway, glaring, and the poor soul suddenly remembers they have somewhere else to be. That was it, that was the last straw.

So here you are, trying to stop him as he drags the speakers to the porch, firing up a playlist exclusively consisting of a guy imitating how Hugh Jackman would sing certain songs (please get the reference) and Mariah Carey’s entire discography.

Not long after, the neighbour’s party stops dead. Although a verbal argument did break out, with your lover’s amazing vocabulary and machine-gun like mouth, he won.

"See, darlin’? Sometimes the best way to shut a party down is to throw a better one."

In the end, both you and the neighbours got a noise complaint.

JING YUAN

There’s a couple breaking up across the street and they were yelling loud enough to wake up even the neighbourhood’s deepest sleeper. So like the chad Jing Yuan and you are, of course, you sit by your porch on the pretense that you are… simply sightseeing. Yes, sightseeing. 

That’s why you have your chairs out with glasses of juice along with some leftover popcorn that you made last night. Oh, and also, your binoculars. If only you could read lips to complete your experience, but it’s alright, because this couple (or not to be) is screaming and hollering loudly, as the lady throws into the streets what you assume to be his belongings. 

The spectacle escalates to something like you would see from a telenovela, shame there are no grand reveals and slapping involved. But the girl did fling a ceramic vase at him, to which the man dodges, unfortunately.

“I wonder what the guy did.” You mumble, taking a mouthful of popcorn. Your bucket was nearly empty now and at the same time, it seems like your show is coming to an end as the woman stomps back inside and leaves the guy behind. With that, Jing Yuan rises from his chair, stretching languidly before offering you his arm. 

"Shall we retire for intermission, my dear? I believe Act Two will involve either tearful reconciliation or a round two of their fight. Either way, we'll want fresh snacks." It’s no lie that your lover is positively radiant with amusement despite the disruption it created for your usually peaceful, warm afternoon.

SUNDAY

Sunday deals with the neighbours’ drunken chaos the way a saint tolerates blasphemy. Despite the nuisance it has brought with the loud bass that seem to shake the whole place awake, he’s still formal and proper in handling the situation.

The door opens after a few minutes of knocking and waiting and a lady greets him.

“My apologies for interrupting your revelry, but I’m afraid you’re disturbing everyone with your enthusiastic celebration.” Specifically you. The thought of you being weary and troubled as you lose sleep over this terrible disturbance is making his chest tighten. He doesn’t wish to see you suffer, so he ignores your insistence of just leaving the neighbours alone. “Some of us have work in the morning.”

The woman blinks slowly and cries, “I’M NOT READY TO DIE YET!” 

Hell is quieter than their playlist, that’s for sure. 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Please, it is clear that you are not of sober mind,” he forces a smile, “so allow me to make this simple for you. We would appreciate it if you were to immediately comply with local noise ordinance, lest we escalate this to the authorities. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

That seemed to have sobered her up, and though annoyed, the lady apologized and went back inside. Soon, the music comes to a halt and everything is embraced by silence. Relieved, he returns to your side after accomplishing what he was here for, bringing you a warm cup of tea to drink as he tells you of how his conversation went down, saying something about how some people wouldn't recognize peace if it bit them.

BLADE

You’ve just moved into the neighborhood, hoping to have a fresh, warm start together with your beloved. But life seems to have different plans for you.

There’s this group of teenagers making a commotion every day by the front of your house, coinciding at the same time that he’s away. From lighting up fireworks which resulted in burning off a few of your plants as it flew off the wrong direction, to laughing and playing loudly that you often find your afternoon nap being disturbed, and to even throwing eggs at your window as they compete with one another on who’ll get to hit the highest. It’s annoying, especially when you have already told them off many times before but they never listen. These brats.

Eventually, you’ve resorted to telling Blade about it, nearly breaking down in the process. I mean, it was stressing you out so much and although it could just be a small thing for others—reasoning it with how they’re just children and having fun—, it was making you frustrated. 

Blade makes an effort to comfort you, even reassuring you that he’ll deal with the problem. You just nod and accept it, knowing that he won’t be able to do anything against these young, wild, and free teenagers. 

You didn’t know that doubting Blade was a big mistake because somehow, when the next day comes, he had managed to bring them over to you and had them apologize, swearing that they’ll never bother you again.

“We’re so sorry!”

“We’re never going to do it again!”

“Please forgive us!”

You did scold them, kindly, before forgiving them and oddly enough, it was satisfying. It feels like a heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“What did you do?” You ask him as soon as the kids leave.

“Stared at them.”

AVENTURINE

In all honesty, it’s rare for you to hear anything scandalous or experience something frustrating, so things can get a little boring. But when drama does strike, you and Aventurine are front-row spectators, dissecting every juicy detail.

This time, however, the gossip seems to involve you. There is a girl, a stranger, standing in front of you, yelling and accusing you of things that you don’t even remember doing. Your confusion and silence, however, prompts the stranger to hesitate and stop.

“Wait, you’re not [Name]?”

“I am…?”

"You bitch! Are you trying to confuse me or what?!" Furious, her hand flies up—only for Aventurine to catch her wrist with ease, letting go of it soon after.

“Perhaps there is a small misunderstanding. If I remember correctly, there are two [Name]’s in here.” he shields you behind him, holding your hand as if to reassure you, “I believe that the person you are looking for is them.” He says, directing her attention to somewhere else.

And funnily enough, there is another girl a few steps away, attempting to cover their face with their purse, trying to run away before they get caught. But it’s too late as the girl finally realizes who her target truly is. 

“YOU!” She storms over, heels clanking loudly against the floor. “I knew it was you!” You beg to differ.

The scene immediately escalated into a catfight accompanied with yelling and spilling the most atrocious things like how this paramour was also sleeping with the man’s sister. Wow, messy.

“Should we call the security?”

“I already did.” Aventurine casually says, squeezing your hand as he tugs you away from the spectacle. Walking back to your home and away from the mess, he takes this moment to tease you:

“Babe, you should have told me you had another man.”

“I do not!”

GALLAGHER

“And what’s troubling my beloved?” Gallagher asks as soon as he sees your rather stressed state—bags heavy under your eyes, hair disheveled, and the demeanor of someone who’s been pushed to their limit. You groan, flopping face-first onto the couch with a muffled scream into the cushion.

Gallagher hums, already pouring you a glass of water before settling beside you. His calloused fingers card through your hair, listening patiently, as you rant about the latest neighborhood nuisance: there is this constant thump-thump-thump noise that happens at exactly 3 AM. 

You’ll find yourself waking up to it often, cursing at that repeated sound that’s making your head explode. It lasts for an hour, sometimes less than it, but it occurs at the same time of dawn. You’ve adapted to it now by covering your ears with some plugs you bought from the store after days of having it happen to you.

“It’s just so annoying! Does it not bother you?” You say, rolling over to your back and staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t recall ever waking up to anything with that sound.” Right, you forgot how this man can be such a heavy sleeper at times.

“Lucky you.” You groan. “It sounded like someone's bouncing a basketball? Or maybe hammering nails? I don't even know anymore."

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, gazing at you affectionately as he caresses your cheek. “Maybe we can talk to them tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we could, they’re just next door anyway.” You mutter, sitting up slightly to rub your tired eyes. 

Gallagher’s hand stills against your skin. “What do you mean next door?”

“You know, unit 305. The one right next to us.”

“My love.”

“What? You’re scaring me, Gallagher.” You whisper, pulse quickening as his gaze flicks toward the wall.

“Nobody lives there.”

i procrastinated on this for days then as soon as i finished i got informed i have a 150-page reading due

The forest hushed, or it seemed to. You stilled on your perch on the bough of the sturdiest tree, fingers twitching as they halted sparks of a spell. For a second, not even a breath permeated the air.

Your hat tilted, a flash of the smile that'd frozen on your lips over the dipped rim of the accessory, “My, did the Black Tide finally get to you?”

You knew as well as he did that that was not the case, but at the moment, it was the only response you managed to give without laughing in disbelief.

You threw another appraising glance over the hero, as if anticipating his face to contort into the mischief you were more familiar with. But he looks entirely too sober, holding your gaze with cyan aflame with all the graveness in the world.

Have you finally lost it? Is what you want to ask, but you will yourself to focus on the more rational one, “And why should I believe a word from the Family's loyal lap-dog?”

Phainon's shoulders slump (a bewildering feat) as a sigh forces past his lips, as if he'd predicted this.

“I know it sounds ridiculous. But just hear me out, alright?”

You lean back, “Uh huh,” eyes sweeping over your nails with all the time in Amphoreus.

A vein in Phainon's hand twitches against his grip on Dawnmaker's hilt, “This isn't about my pride, nor am I affected by anything right now. This is about the citizens of Okhema... and beyond, who've lost their lives in the aimless slaughter the Family has orchestrated over the past centuries in the name of the Ordinance.”

That gets your attention.

“And what makes you think the Family is in the wrong?”

Phainon suppresses a flinch, the mockery in your words not lost on him. “I can see the reality. If witches are the reason for all the misery of this continent, then how come the Black Tide can be systematically repelled through certain technologies, which have no connection to Xipe's powers?”

You tilt your head down, that look that Phainon would never admit titillates his nerves taking over your visage. You rest your cheek against your knuckles, apparitions of cogs churning flickering in your eyes set unblinkingly on his.

Phainon blinks as you suddenly vanish, gripping Dawnmaker as though to strike.

“For centuries you've burned innocent women, left children to starve by deserted fields all while singing praises to THEM.” your whisper is low, deadly calm against his ear. “And now, you're saying you finally see it?”

Phainon inhales sharply at the incredulity in your tone. His hand clenches, once, twice, before relaxing against the hilt of Dawnmaker.

He meets your gaze head on, “Trust me. I know better than anyone how it feels to see everything you once treasured crumble right before your eyes, all while you can do nothing but watch.”

You weave around his form slightly, only the hem of your clothes touching the forest ground from where you float. “Oh? Do you now?”

One of your brows quirks at the unwavering flicker of determination that paints him at the topic at hand, “You can always test me. Verify whether I really mean it or not.” he offers smoothly instead of answering the jab.

A thin veil of fog forms between you from the proximity of your breaths. A cricket dares to buzz in the otherwise weighted silence.

And then, you smile, breaking the unofficial staring contest.

“Follow me.”

—

Phainon blinks owlishly, in utter disbelief of where he stands. Dawnmaker momentarily set aside.

You brush past him, even humming a little tune. A snap of your fingers and the lanterns flicker to life, illuminating the interior of what he now knows is your cottage.

You turn back to his gaping form as if remembering his existence, “If you stay still any longer, you might just become a furniture.”

Phainon can't decide whether you have the survival instincts of a newborn or if you really have no care about the fact that you invited your arch-nemesis to your home.

Phainon clears his throat, though he does not offer a rebuttal, suddenly very interested in the blackened flame flickering in the hearth.

You were having none of it though, a startled yelp left Phainon as he scrambled to catch the object thrown his way.

“What is—?” he's not given the chance to finish as the scroll unravels in a smooth wave from his hand, sliding all the way down and halting right before your foot.

His face scrunches as his brain processes the words scribbled on the parchment : Prepare tea by sundown, dust the shelves, pick exactly six angel's trumpets—

“You wanted a test, didn't you? There it is. Complete the tasks listed on this scroll throughout the following week flawlessly, and I'll take you on my team.” your smile turns sickeningly sweet as Phainon's eyes flit to-and-fro over the words in increasing panic.

His lips part with the beginnings of what can only be assumed is an incredulous retort but you're already a step into a portal glimmering like the night sky (when did you make that?).

“Wait! You're just going to leave me here? All alone? In your home??”

You pause your dramatic escape at his exclamation. Hair shifting as you turned to address him—

Only to be halted at the soft pitter patter of steps coming from the inner hallway.

Phainon goes still, clearly not having expected to have company besides you in your home. (And his mind immediately chimes, wait that sounds weird.)

“You have a... roommate?” Phainon says, very uncertain about the choice of word.

To his confusion, your smile softens with the traces of something genuine. The realization horrifies him even more.

“Ah yes yes, meet the true master of this house, the most gentlemanly of all—”

The hero finds himself holding his breath by instinct, clutching the scroll like a lifeline now. His brows furrow as he scrutinizes the direction of the approaching footsteps, leaning ever-so-slightly closer as a shadow given feline form struts into the room.

... Huh?

“Mr. Whiskers!” Phainon jumps as you all but leap ahead to meet the cat, allegedly Mr. Whiskers' happy pounce.

“Did you miss me, my little demonnnn?” a trill fills the air as ‘Mr. Whiskers’ rubs his little face against your cheek, his way of affirming.

The breath Phainon was holding onto heaves out of him. It's just a cat, just a cat. It must've been too loud though, as your eyes flicker back to him.

“My darling Mr. Whiskers here will be your examiner and judge. Consider yourself lucky!”

Cyan eyes sweep over the addressed feline, a twinkle appearing in them as he sees the distinguished red bow tied around Mr. Whiskers' neck and the monocle now slightly askew over his left eye. Cute, he can't help but think.

A chuckle tumbles out of him before he can hold it back, “The honor is all mine.” he shifts the scroll onto his other hand to free one hand, extending it towards Mr. Whiskers for a greeting.

And promptly regrets it as a vehement hiss pierces the air. All of Mr. Whiskers' dark fur spiked comically to deliver the message that he did not appreciate Phainon's presence, at all.

Your lips form an ‘O’, the hand not holding the cat rising to press against the smirk now blooming on your lips.

“Ahh, I seemed to have forgotten to mention, Mr. Whiskers... really doesn't like dogs.”

The Black Tide gave birth to many such creatures of the night. Some knew how to wield its powers, some could only suffer from its affliction and others relied on it for sustenance. Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany traverses the pages of history, seeking the truth of all things. Among generations that came and crumbled within a blink he's lived, unsuspecting, searching the answer to the question of what he truly is. Between his audacity to challenge the faith of the Family and to parade around under the open sun, one and one thing alone aided him onward — an apparent lack of bloodlust.

“Boo.”

The Sage watched with a face more blank than the sheet of paper spread on the table, the fingers of exasperation already creeping up his spine as you dangled upside down from seemingly nowhere a mere breath away from his face.

His visible eye caught the purse of your lips at his utter lack of reaction and a hypothetical chain of events were already being illustrated in his mind : you'd vanish for two whole seconds, muttering something about him being ‘as fun as a boulder’ before appearing again, this time perched right atop his desk, the heel of your shoe resting snugly on his thigh.

And that's exactly what happened.

The aqua of his eyes caught the dim lantern light as it swept over the scene, “Did you come here just to get on my nerves again?”

The rim of your hat tilts back as you cross your legs, increasing pressure on the heel just to spite him and your lips twitch upon noticing how he still made no attempt to pull away.

“You have such little faith in me. As much as I'd love to play with you—” a futile flash of warning in those magenta pupils, “I've come to inform you that I did it since you're on your monthly reclusive phase again. Your beloved student is now cleaning my cat's litter box, exactly as I said he would.”

Anaxa had a hunch that that was case, but that still didn't make it any less of a feat. Keep the true Holy Knight distanced from Okhema long enough until he's completely ridden of the brainwashing of the Family, so that he'd join you by his own volition. You were worth every stubborn promise you made. The scholar didn't let the surprise show though, crossing his arms, “And you just left him alone in your home like that? You aren't worried he might set a trap?”

You tutted, wagging a finger, “Oh please, he has a soft spot for animals. He wouldn't dare try anything with Mr. Whiskers there.”

(Anaxa didn't argue with that.)

“But that's not exactly why I'm here.” you looked directly at him now, suddenly devoid of mischief. “According to my estimates, he should've approached me two days later.”

A corner of Anaxa's lips twitched, of course you'd catch up, before being smothered by the firm grip you had on his chin.

“You gave him a little push, didn't you? ...Why?”

His lashes fluttered as he looked down at the way the nails of your thumb and index fingers dug ever so slightly on his skin, before settling pointedly at the pulse that thudded at the juncture of your wrist. It was so close, if he just leaned in towards that titillating scent, he could bury his fangs into the flesh.

You noticed his point of interest, grinning as you realized.

“Pity,” your thumb swiped over his bottom lip, bringing your wrist closer for just a millisecond, “I was actually planning on offering you a taste today. But you've disappointed me.”

With that, you withdrew, settling back with a sudden reasonable distance with deliberate poise. It never ceased to dizzy Anaxa how easily your moods swung.

He cleared his throat, turning his head away almost petulantly, “Do not flatter yourself. I don't offer you my valuable help for sustenance. I'm only interested because you swore that you knew the truth behind my origins.”

You twirled a lock of your hair, “And that, I do.” your words are almost sing-song as you note the traces of fluster in his otherwise unflappable countenance.

“But, I'm not going to tell you~” Anaxa turns to you so quickly that you almost get whiplash, the lock of hair you were twirling falls back, “Until you perform the ritual to bring the Holy City's barrier down, that is!”

That relaxes him and you're more than glad to see that flash of pure murderous intent no longer in his eye, “You keep on telling me that, but have you forgotten that an alchemical ritual of that scale will require a sizable sacrifice?”

That brings a wicked gleam in your eyes, you lazily sweep a look over the various sketches of dromases littered everywhere on Anaxa's desk, leaning your weight on one arm.

“No need to buzz like a mosquito yet,” you graciously ignore his scowl, “The sacrifice for that ritual, will be the Herald of Xipe.”

—

Phainon stares at the cauldron of water boiling over the fire for the past twenty minutes. Your home, still littered with traces of the Black Tide, caliginous in its glow, seems to be oddly lively now. He could faintly hear a muffled hoot from the owl (who he definitely did not discover while exploring for escape routes) that guards the backdoor— Ms. Hoot — as he later came to know. Phainon would've laughed at how witchy your cottage was, if he wasn't in as much disbelief as he had been.

“Uhm... I have a question.” his voice is almost pushed aside by the crackles of the water.

You hum, brows furrowed in comical concentration as Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “How... did you live through more than two centuries without ever learning how to crack an egg properly?”

A splat echoes as the 7th egg meets its demise in an ugly splatter over the kitchen counter, all because Phainon made the mistake of throwing the challenge that he was a better baker.

You muttered a curse at the increasing mess, “Magic, obviously.”

Mr. Whiskers decided to hop on the counter and cast his judgement on the scene, taking one small sniff of the splattered remains of unborn chickens before turning his head away in disgust, trotting away with his fluffy tail held high.

“And what about before you learned the magic on how to crack an egg?”

You shrugged, reaching for your eighth victim, “I had other people do it for me.”

The knight straightens up in alarm, “Stop!” completely unwilling to let you waste more food.

He takes a step closer, big mistake, as his foot slides on the massacred egg that'd fallen on the floor in the third attempt and which he completely forgot about. His reflexes kicked in and he reached an arm out to prevent himqself from crashing, a sound echoed as his hand braced against the counter right beside your waist, trapping you between him and the wood without intention.

And the door swings open right then, an exclamation of Ta-da! resounds, making you both freeze in place.

The footsteps halt abruptly and Phainon turns his head slowly slowly slowly, halting as startled cyan meet with pink-blue hues painted in equal alarm.

The uncrowned king of the seas, whose ships glimmer even from a distance from the hoards of gold weighing on them. They say he's traded his life in exchange of eternal reign over the ocean, but only a handful know that once a upon a time, even this king was forced to kneel. You first met the man on your way back to Okhema after two centuries of self-imposed banishment, and since the stars clearly love you so much, the ship you were on fell prey to pirates.

You had been in the middle of an experiment in your chamber when the commotion on deck reached you, the clashes of steel and the passengers' panicked screams had you immediately scrambling for your broom. But the pirates had reached your door too fast and you ended up misspelling a word ; resulting in you getting trapped in a fallen stone as all went dark.

When you came to, the first thing you noticed through your now green tinted world was the hunched figure of another person right next to you.

It took a considerable effort to make the details out of the person through the absence of light, but one look at the shackles around the person's wrists and their tattered clothes told you all you needed to know.

“Hey! Psst!”

The person jolted, dirty blond hair ruffling as they whipped their head around in search of the voice.

“Over here!!” you called again. After some more searching, at last, the person's eyes fell on the stone beside them half-covered by your fallen hat.

You felt your world tilt as the person lifted the stone up in their palm, “Yes yes! I'm here!” you affirmed again, the person blinked in incredulity.

“A... talking stone...?” by the timbre of the voice, hoarse from disuse, you could make out that it belonged to a man.

“Not a talking stone! I'm a— uhhhh, a magician!” you tried not to let how much you despised saying that show, “I accidentally got trapped in this stone!”

The man observed the stone with an odd look, most likely questioning his sense of reality. Fearing that he might just throw you aside as a hallucination, you rushed to add, “Those pirates took over this ship, right?! And you're one of their hostages, aren't you? If you free me from here, I'll take them down!”

A flicker of interest passed by his eyes and you held you breath. Gotcha, the thought echoed in your mind. The nameless hostage held onto the stone for a bit longer. There was no reflection matching the voice coming from within it, but an undenial weight of something he could feel from it as he furrowed his brows.

“No, tell me how I can take them down instead.”

You could feel your smile falling as you processed his refusal, the concept of a prisoner denying an easy way out to freedom shaking you off. “W-what? You?”

“Yes, me.”

“And what makes you think you can go against those hulking men?? They'll slice your throat before you can even blink!”

His shoulders tensed slightly at that before straightening again, “If you can take them down by yourself, as you say, then you can teach me how to do it as well.”

“Still no!”

He tilts his head back, loosening his hold on the stone, “Then consider yourself forever sealed here.”

Panic seized you at that, “Wait wait wait!”

He listened to your desperate call, halting from whatever he was about to do with the stone. You let out a long suffering sigh, “Look, it really is too dangerous for you, kid. I can feel it, they have weapons imbued with traces of the Black Tide.”

A silence takes root at your words, it's difficult to gauge if he understood the meaning of your words through the shadows covering his eyes.

“... I have a personal grudge to settle against them. They took my sister from me.”

The words are said in a whisper, but they weigh on the air with the bitter fury simmering just beneath them. It's your turn to fall silent.

After what seemed like an eternity but could've easily been half a minute, “... There's an ‘empty’ vial in the satchel over there. It's a type of poison that only has to be inhaled. If you can get them all in one room and uncork it, they'll drop like flies without any trace of what had happened.”

And against all odds, he'd succeeded. The agonized screams of the pirates still echo in your mind when you brush by the edge of the sea now.

When all was said and done, you returned from the stoned prison to the waking world once more, more than ready to leap out of the cursed ship, you'd paused as the nameless youth called.

He looked at his hands, like how one would seeking penance, or reveling in the chaos they'd caused, likely both. “What do I do now...?”

You tightened your grip on your broom for a bit, “I don't know? You have a whole ship to yourself now. Make do with this however you'd like.”

An exhale that sounded like a ‘huh’ left the blonde's lips, you were already muttering the spell to get yourself out of there when he noticed.

“Wait! Just a moment.” you tried your best to not let your irritation show, tilting your head to acknowledge him.

“At least tell me the name of the stone you were trapped in.”

Confusion crept in your eyes, of all things, he asks this? You do one last once-over to see if he's just taunting you, which ends in a sigh as his very serious pink-blue eyes stare back at you.

“Aventurine.”

—

You hold a piece of polished ruby to the lantern light, eyes narrowed in clinical observation, “Are these all you have for me this time?” the tip of your shoe brushes by the medium sized wooden chest on the floor, filled with gems and gold coins. “Are you getting stingy, or poor?”

Aventurine laughs at your tease, “Please, do you know how difficult it is to find you? I had to bribe lady Bonajade first, then that murder of crows by the southern post.”

You hummed, tossing the agate back into the chest. “Besides,” the pirate drawls, “It's not as if you are going to indulge in these. I know you spend everything for the Black Cat Sanctuary instead.”

By the kitchen, Phainon whisked batter in a bowl, pretending not to listen to the conversation taking place between you and the pirate he'd thought only existed in exaggerated tales.

Aventurine's visible eye flickers back to Phainon upon feeling his pointed stare, “I must say, I wasn't aware that baking skills were essential to be blessed by Xipe.”

His lips curl in a smile, which Phainon eagerly reciprocates, you raise a brow at the flash of vitriol passing by through the exchange.

“You'd be surprised. Baking is quite effective in developing skills such as skewering, mixing, measuring... and of course, learning how to maintain harmony.” Phainon chimes, every beat hit perfectly.

Aventurine drawls a very curious ‘ah’ sound, a muscle twitching on his forehead. You interrupt him before he can get a response out, not at all interested in a passive-aggressive quarrel, “Report on the situation on your end?”

The pirate turns to you, the glow of the lantern light intenerates his expression, “Everything is set. My crew already have the list you gave me memorized. Worry that pretty head of yours less, alright?”

You blink in surprise as Aventurine taps your nose, “The ocean will be your dance floor on the day of the Charmony Festival.”

Once upon a time, you too dreamed of shining princes who could sweep one off their feet in a flurry of courage and chivalry. When the days were simpler and fairytales seemed reachable, when your mother still hummed berceuse tunes to coax the restless young you to sleep. Somewhere along your journey away from the Holy City approximately one hundred and eighty years ago, you encountered one such prince. Though by then, you were far too disillusioned to the lies you were fed at the tender age of ten and he, Mydeimos, the Undying was the farthest thing from the dreamy princes in the stories.

Grappling with the loss of a happier childhood and the struggle to form a Resistance, you two found common ground to exchange thoughts before brewing battlefields and conspiracies, unexpectedly. Per your request, it was never written in the Kremnoan textbooks that the dethroning of the tyrant king Eurypon by the Kremnoan Detachment was aided by a witch — in exchange for Mydeimos letting you experiment with his body. The fruits of those experiments would later be used to prolong Mr. Whiskers' lifespan and any sillage of feelings crossing the bounds of friendly transaction would be buried in the past.

He'd asked once, when his mind was riddled with caution, “Why do you seem so intent on helping us?”

And that was the only time in your life where you're certain you used all your brainpower to form a response, brushing past ‘I just feel like it’, shoving aside ‘I just want a sample of your life force’, ducking under ‘You'll be useful to me in the far far future’ before finally settling on something even more ridiculous.

“Because... I harbor affections for you, my dearest axolotl!”

And the issue is, Mydeimos took it seriously.

Phainon stood as still as a statue beside you, you tsk-ed at the trails of blood painting rivulets on the grass of your backyard. His widened eyes flitted to and fro over the heap of unmoving flesh, a flash of light reflected from golden armor told him what exactly he was seeing here.

Soldiers. Fallen in the latest conflict that was subdued by Castrum Kremnos.

“Looks like he found out my hideout again. I thought I made it clear last time that I no longer need human bodies for experiments!” you huffed.

Slowly, Phainon turned to face you, his bewildered expression in place. “You... what? Who? What is— what are you going to do about this?” he sputtered, questions eager to tumble out all at once.

You shrugged, “Feed it to the crocodiles of the lake, I guess.” and your fingers were already moving to cast the spell.

It's not that Phainon was unacquainted with the sight of dead bodies, it's the fact that you were treating this as though Mr. Whiskers had brought you a dead mice instead of being offered fallen war soldiers as tribute which unnerved him.

“Wait!”

You halted, raising a brow, “Do you have a better proposal?”

Phainon took a deep breath, “These are soldiers, not ordinary men. Don't you think... that they deserve a proper burial at least?”

A most curious look took over your face, you tapped your cheek with a finger. “Have you... ‘properly buried’ every soldier you've killed?”

Phainon's mouth opened and closed the next second, a brief stretch of silence followed. Not even Ms. Hoot who was perched right by the nearest tree made a sound.

That was all you needed, “I thought so.”

“Answer me this at least,” a muscle just at the dip of your jaw ticked at being interrupted again, “Who sent you... this?”

You let out a long-suffering sigh, contemplating and inevitably deciding that there was no point in gatekeeping this fact. “That King of Castrum Kremnos.”

If Phainon had a gold coin for every shock he's gotten since he joined your side, he'd be able to buy an entire house. “You mean Mydeimos? He's in on this too?”

You waved a hand quickly and Phainon could've sworn you were flustered back there, “No no no no. He's not in on it— well, not exactly... ugh, it's complicated, alright? Don't ask.”

A snap of your fingers cut through the air, only the blood soaked earth stood testament to what had previously been laid out on it. You turned on your heels and rushed inside with an uncharacteristic hurry, leaving Phainon to ponder alone the weight of this discovery.

The passage of the Ordinance has seen many interesting turn of events. Once a man dared to oppose the witch trial and was crushed under the weight of his own defiance. At one point, an idiot came and wrote a book with the catchy title of ‘The Hammer of Witches’ and contrary to its name, it was not talking about your fondness for hammers at all. Though later, the book was debunked by one scholar, which was then buried by the concerned gentlemen of the Family. The marvels of society, really. Trouble began to stir again when the same scholar singlehandedly repelled the epidemic that'd seized thousands of life. That kindled the mass's disillusionment towards the Family, though the famed Doctor who can heal the dead remained a mystery.

You gingerly made your way to the backdoor to investigate the knocks, outside, winds stirred the beginnings of a storm.

The hinges of the door groaned as you swung it open and a bolt lighting descended close by just then ; setting the tall figure of the person standing still alight, shadows flickering over the ridges of pointy beaked mask.

You just barely managed to suppress a flinch, “Doctor! How many times have I told you stop wearing that hideous mask?!”

The figure's boot thumped heavily against your floor as he steps inside, shutting the storm behind him. Droplets of water from a distant rainfall cling to his coat, a gloved hand raises to pull the mask away just enough for sunset dyed eyes to lock with yours.

“And how many times have I told you that it is not ‘hideous’, but efficient?”

You scoff, crossing your arms, “Efficient in spiking my blood pressure, you mean.”

His fingers sweep off some rain-water from his shoulder, without missing a beat, “A taste of your own medicine, I would say. Consider it... a part of the treatment.”

—

You watch from where you reclined against the headboard of your bed as Dr. Ratio goes over the routine check-up, lips pursed in displeasure because he still has that offending, ugly bird-mask perched on one side of his head.

Your thoughts drift to other things to distract yourself from how much you want to yank that thing away, like how Phainon is completely passed out in the room adjacent to this, defenses crumbled against one cold wind and cozy blankets.

“Pulse is stable, the flow of Black Tide is tempered within... or at least, that's how it appears to be on the outside.” Ratio breaks the silence, you tense ever-so-slightly.

“Can't hide it from you, huh?” you jest by instinct.

“Obviously.” he states simply, eyes fixing on you with sudden clinical precision. “What did you expect to happen in the proximity of that man?”

The question is rhetorical, belying the subtlest condescension. Your fingers fist against the bedsheets for a second, “It's not him, Ratio. This has been going on for longer than he was born. You know that.”

Ratio blinks, and you wonder if you imagined his surprise in that gesture. Because he's just as quick to recover, clearing his throat.

“Of course. I was merely... proposing hypotheticals.”

You hum, folding your hands atop your lap calmly. Your eyes follow as Ratio reaches for the familiar vial of medicine in his suitcase that usually mitigates your aches, only for a shadow to dart between the vial and Ratio's outstretched hand.

Mr. Whiskers stands, fur poofed up as his hiss of indignation echoes through the air. For once, the cat's eyes are open, heated golden meeting with the sunset orange of Ratio's.

Right. There's that, too.

“Well well, it appears that your feline is happy to see me again.” Ratio mutters dryly.

You reach out to take Mr. Whiskers off the table before his claws can strike the man. For some reason, Mr. Whiskers absolutely hates the doctor. You think it's because of the time the doctor gave him a shot, not worrying too much, considering that the cat's list of tolerated humans was very short to begin with. The only problem is that it creates awkward moments like this.

“Sorry...” you offer, shifting a bit further away from the doctor with a very disgruntled Mr. Whiskers cradled against your chest. “I think it's because he doesn't recognize your scent. It has been a long time since you last visited.”

It's Ratio's turn to hum like he isn't convinced but won't voice it out either, strands of purple swaying as he tilts his head.

“Well, in any case, my work here is done.” he smoothly puts the vial in the drawer beside your bed, getting up from his seat.

The click of his suitcase closing shut mixes in with Mr. Whiskers' muffled meows. You also rise to walk Ratio towards the door, maintaining careful distance for the sake of Mr. Whiskers.

Suddenly, “I do hope you know the gravity of what you're getting yourself into.” he says without turning back at you.

You slow down your steps and even Mr. Whiskers falls quiet, as if sensing the shift in the air. You don't need elaboration to understand what exactly he's hinting towards.

Though he may never say it outright, Ratio has always cared, enough to listen to the plea of the ghost of your mother, enough to remind you to reconsider your rebellion against the Family without fail each time he visited.

The corners of your lips pull, tiptoeing the border of a smile.

“Thank you for the reminder, but let me make something clear one last time, Ratio. This rebellion isn't just about the Witch Hunting Ordinance anymore. Everyone has woken up, they're conscious of all the atrocities committed by Gopher Wood and his underlings and they will not stop until THEY have been dethroned.”

Ratio pauses right in front of the door, a gloved hand resting on the knob.

“... In that case, I offer you my best wishes instead.”

He doesn't turn all the way, merely shifts his head enough to catch the smirk now rooted firmly in place on your lips.

“Do stay alive... doctor. We will need you in the Age of Enlightenment.”

Oftentimes, you have a dream. Of days when it was alright to be ignorant, to not know about the slumbering malice hidden deep in the human heart, to think of the Black Tide as the single most terrifying curse cast upon the earth. Running through the halls of the Marmoreal Palace, chasing apparitions of those who you once called friends and having the privilege to crash into the arms of your family should you stumble along the way. When the most pressing concern in your mind had been how many more sweets you could hoard with Robin, or which performance you'd pick for the upcoming social season.

But alas, dreams woven by the strings of Xipe are so often fragile.

It's been a little more than a week since Phainon ‘betrayed’ the Family and joined your side. Well, ‘joined’ might be a stretch considering that he's still undergoing his trial.

Throughout the past week, Phainon has diligently completed every test you've given him. Your shelves are sparkling, your tea time is not disturbed, Mr. Whiskers' meals are provided sharply on time and he's even figured out a way to pick angel's trumpets without having an aneurysm all while keeping his sanity in tact.

Yet, there is not a trace of your so-called ‘master plan’ taking place besides that blonde pirate that came and went away. Not to mention, there isn't much acknowledgment from your end for his efforts, Mr. Whiskers still slaps him when he's passing by in the hallway and more concerning than that is how accustomed he's getting to your peculiar way of life with each passing day.

“The plan? It's quite simple, really.”

Phainon leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched you twirl without a care in the world. It took him days of hyping himself up to ask the question, and here you are, answering it like it isn't supposed to be state-secret level information.

A graceful step back, “On the eve before the Charmony Festival, you will resign officially from the Family. Every other knight and soldier will follow after you, save for a couple of die-hard brainwashed fools.” the skeleton's bony fingers almost slipped off from yours before you caught it back with a giggle.

“Anaxa will cast the alchemical circle to bring down the barrier that protects the Holy City.” cyan eyes traced the strands of your hair thrown in tune with the next twirl, “And then, the Kremnoans will ambush Okhema, which I'll leave to Aglaea to settle.”

Your body moved as though you've done this a hundred times before, steps tracing the memory of a song echoing only in your mind. “Aventurine will be waiting with his crew by the docks, ready to capture the fleeing Family members.”

“And I,” Phainon let go of a breath as the dance came to an end, “Will be there to collect Gopher Wood's head.” the skeleton's skull tilted to the side as you dipped it, as though signaling the finale of a symphony.

The plan did seem simple enough, at least from how you said it. But there was another question that Phainon has wondered since he found out your true motives of overthrowing the Family from the Holy City, that which you have avoided tactfully every time he'd asked.

“Can I ask another question?” you hummed, putting the skeleton back in a closet with exaggerated care. “Is making Gopher Wood pay... your only objective behind this rebellion?”

Phainon knew and he knew that you knew as well, there is no reason for a person to wait two hundred years with the utmost patience, only to see the downfall of one person who you could've easily killed in other, easier ways.

You went quiet, and it was the longest silence you've ever taken to form a rebuttal throughout the twenty years he's chased you.

“No, there's... something else.” you pressed your fingers atop your heart, or where should be a heart, “There is someone who betrayed me a long time ago, and... he needs to feel the same pain as I did all those years ago.”

A chill trails down from the nape of his neck to the ends of Phainon's spine. Not because there's fury in your eyes, but because there's a genuine, humane flash of hurt simmering just beneath the rage reflected in your eyes.

It reminds Phainon of a memory, one he now wonders how he hadn't remembered sooner.

Years ago, before Phainon embarked on his campaign to capture the Last Witch, the Herald of Xipe himself had called for him in his chamber to bless his journey.

Back then, because Phainon has never quite succeeded in stomping down his curiosity and since the Holy Emissary's benevolence had been apparent, he had asked.

“Is there... a specific reason behind your determination to eradicate the Witches this fiercely, Your Holiness?”

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass of his chambers, making silver feathers shimmer. The Emissary's golden eyes seemed to be fixated on the painting in betwixt the two large windows right behind his grand oak desk, the one that was always half covered.

The fingers of the hand that was clasped behind his back twitched in contemplation, the ivorine fabric stretching with the motion. At last, Sunday spoke, words fragile.

“I fight the Witches not because they're envoys of the Black Tide — though, there is no lie in that fact, but because they took someone I treasured from me. Someone I had a promise with.”

A breeze waltzes by just then, as if by divine decree or premonition, stirring the curtain aside just a little more.

Cyan eyes widened.

For the winds swept the veil, revealing measured brush strokes taking the shape of your eyes and smile.

"Mydei and I broke up."

The words barely have time to settle before you choke—loud, graceless, like you’ve just inhaled the ash from every cigarette butt ever discarded on the streets. It’s ugly. It’s embarrassing. It’s entirely expected.

Phainon, to his credit, is polite enough not to laugh or comment. He doesn’t even give you one of those insufferable, knowing smirks. Instead, he simply slides a cup of water toward you—because, despite everything, he’s a gentleman. You snatch it up, throat burning, lungs spasming in betrayal. Tiny tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as you desperately fight to suppress the hacking. You take a slow sip—careful, measured—because the last thing you need right now is to choke again and actually die before you can process what the hell you just heard.

"Sorry, one more time. I think I just had a brief hallucination," you say, blinking rapidly as if that might reset reality itself. Your voice wavers between disbelief and queasiness, your throat still raw from choking. There’s a ringing in your ears as your brain is actively rejecting the information, trying to overwrite it with something that makes more sense. Because seriously—what the fuck did you just hear?

"Mydei and I broke up… yesterday," Phainon repeats, sounding almost sheepish as he drops his gaze back to his food—the same food he’s been absentmindedly poking at for the last few minutes, pushing grains of rice around. Which, in hindsight, should have been a massive red flag. This man, who has raided your fridge at three in the morning as a starving raccoon in the throes of a failed calorie deficit—who has, on more than one occasion, inhaled an entire meal before you even had time to sit down—has been sitting here, not eating.

Yup. You heard that right.

Phainon—the very same Phainon you were pretty sure was going to drop to one knee by the end of the year, who spoke about Mydei like the sun wouldn’t rise without him—is now single.

"I'll kill him. Where did you say he was now? I have a shovel in my trunk," you say, keeping your voice as serious as possible. Because there’s just no way Phainon did anything wrong—this man is the biggest green flag you’ve ever seen in your life. The kind of person who would help an old lady cross the street, return extra change to the cashier, and offer you the last slice of cake without hesitation.

Thankfully, Phainon laughs at your joke.

(It’s not a joke.)

His laughter is bright and full-bodied, the kind that fills the entire room and makes everything feel a little lighter, and the air itself is easier to breathe. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling with pure amusement. And, seriously—Mydei. How the hell did you fumble this bag?

"Please don't. I'd be upset if I couldn't see you again," he chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. But the laughter barely has time to settle before his expression dims, like a candle flickering against an unseen draft.

"It's not like that," Phainon says, his voice quieter now, more measured, "We still care a lot about each other, it's just… with me here finishing school and him moving back to Castrum Kremnos to take over his dad's company, the distance is… hard."

His fingers idly trace the rim of his cup, slow and deliberate, as if the motion alone can ground him. But his gaze—fixed somewhere on the table—is distant. Somewhere far away, lost in thoughts he isn’t saying out loud. It’s not just about the breakup. It’s the weight of everything unspoken, the quiet acceptance of something slipping through his fingers, of a future he must have once imagined but now has to let go of.

"Plus," he exhales, shoulders slumping just a fraction, "We barely even get a chance to see each other. So it's… for the best that we end things here before we start—before things reach the point of no return."

His words hang in the air, heavy yet resigned like he's already gone through every possible outcome and settled on the least painful one.

Ah. Healthy communication and putting yourself first. Can't relate.

"B-But… I mean, yeah, sure, but… maybe just go on a break?" you blurt out, your voice catching on the words as your fingers twist together, the nerves in your chest coiling tighter with every passing second, "I'm sure—no, I'm positive—that the two of you could work it out. I mean, from the sound of things, it’s not as if you’ve completely cut each other off, so…"

Your words spill out in a frantic tumble, desperate, scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto, because this doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Not when you know Phainon, when you’ve seen it all unfold from the very beginning. You were there for the late-night hangouts, for the bleary-eyed conversations stretching into the early hours, for the quiet moments when he thought no one was watching and the messy ones when emotions boiled over.

You were there that night at the bar, sitting across from him as his whole world tilted on its axis—watching in real time as he fell in love with that blonde guitarist, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and panic. You were the one who got blasted with late-night texts, Phainon slipping into full schoolgirl mode, overanalyzing everything—every glance, every word, every infuriatingly cryptic emoji Mydei sent back. He filled your notifications with fire emojis and tongue-sticking-out faces over literally anything Mydei did, as if each moment was proof of something bigger, something just out of reach. You were the one he ran to, sobbing in full-blown hysteria because he thought Mydei had a crush on Castorice, even though everyone knew Castorice was very uninterested. You were the one who sat beside him through the worst of it, suffering through the absolute shittiest action movies just to take his mind off things, pretending not to notice when his eyes stayed glassy long after the credits rolled.

So no, you don’t get it. You can’t get it. Because after everything—after all of that—how is he just letting this go?

"Mmm, perhaps," Phainon says mysteriously, his voice tinged with something you can't quite place, as he finally takes a bite of his food—food that's surely gone cold by now, the steam long gone. God, he looks like a sad puppy, his posture slumped, and the soft, distant look in his eyes makes something tighten in your chest.

"Don't get me wrong," he continues, chewing slowly, his gaze flicking back to the table, avoiding your eyes, "I'm not fine with this. With any of this. But with the way things are going... I don’t think we would have lasted long."

Bullshit, but okay. Go on.

"We have different futures that don't mesh well," Phainon says quietly, his voice thoughtful, "It would be unfair for me to ask him to drop everything, just as it would be unfair if he asked me to drop everything here and move back to Kremnous with him, to stay there for the rest of my life. You know, right person, wrong time. I know, on the outside, we looked fine, but I think I was unsatisfied with the relationship for a while. It wasn't what I was expecting, and even after we got together, things never really changed. Maybe that was for the best..."

Phainon doesn't elaborate on that last point, and though you want to ask, it's not your business, nor is it your place to probe. So, instead, you nod along slowly, trying to make sense of it all.

"Will you… be okay?" you ask tentatively, your voice soft with concern. Phainon looks at you, and for a moment, there’s a painful stillness in his gaze. Then, heartbreakingly, he shakes his head, the movement slow and resigned.

"No," he murmurs quietly, "not for a while."

Silence settles between you, thick and unfamiliar, as you absently fiddle with your utensils. Usually, conversations flow effortlessly between you and Phainon, even when you’re at each other’s throats over the stupidest disagreements. Snark, banter, teasing—it’s always been easy. But this? This is different. This Phainon—the one staring down at his barely touched plate, the one who looks lost in his own thoughts, like he’s carrying something too heavy to bear alone—is not the Phainon you’re used to. And you don’t know how to reach him. Do you pretend everything is fine? Crack a joke to lighten the mood? Leave it alone and hope he talks when he’s ready? Do you just… give him a hug? Would that even help? What are the steps you’re supposed to take here?

"Sorry, I must have brought the mood down. How did your presentation go? Get any of those snobby professors to laugh?" Phainon chuckles, but you can see it for what it is—a mask, stretched thin over something raw. Still, you play along.

You launch into a rant, hands moving animatedly as you recount the sheer terror of nearly blanking out the moment one professor looked at you funny. The kind of look that makes your stomach drop, that makes you feel you’re already failing before you’ve even opened your mouth. And then—just as you stepped into the room—she started writing something down. What did you do wrong? Did you breathe incorrectly? Or worse—did she somehow know about the bruises from when you ate shit on the pavement after tripping over absolutely nothing? Because let’s be real, at this point, it wouldn’t even be surprising. Maybe she had psychic powers. Maybe she could sense your inherent lack of coordination. It’s not your fault that you’re just a citizen. A normal human doomed to battle gravity every damn day.

As you finish your meals and prepare to leave, you find yourself locked in a battle over the bill, but Phainon is an immovable brick wall. Every time you try to grab for it, he skillfully evades—sidestepping, blocking, even flicking your forehead at one point as if you were a pesky little sibling. Before you can make a final desperate attempt, he effortlessly strong-arms you away, pressing his card into the hands of a bemused waitress with the confidence of someone who’s already won. With a satisfied smirk, he turns to you, adjusting his scarf as the wind picks up, threading through his hair and sending stray strands dancing across his forehead. It should be annoying, but of course, it only makes him look effortlessly cool—a true protagonist in a melodramatic film, standing against the backdrop of a crisp evening sky.

"Thanks for listening to me. I really appreciate it, especially since we haven't seen each other in a while," he says, a soft smile tugging at his lips. His voice is quieter now, the usual bravado dimmed just enough to make your chest ache.

You nod—maybe a little too rigorously—because of course. Of course, you’d be there for him. You always have been. And you know, without a doubt, that he’d do the same for you. It’s just who you are to each other. And you’re just… glad. Glad that Phainon, for all his easygoing grins and insufferable teasing, trusts you enough to let his guard down. That he knows he doesn’t have to keep up the act around you. That for once, he can just be—no witty comebacks, no forced smiles, no pretending. Just Phainon. But then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he tilts his head, mischief creeping back into his expression.

"When are you going to get a crush on someone? I've got at least three years of pining and dating woes on you."

He grins like it’s a joke, like it’s just another thing to tease you about, but your stomach twists, because—

Ah, right. That’s the thing, bestie.

I've been in love with you from the start.

---

Alright, I'll be back in 10 minutes on whether or not this man has scammed me. Your full 20k word fic rides on this buddy, don't disappoint me :)

You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner. 

Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?

You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here. 

It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.

Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide. 

Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”

Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light. 

From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones. 

The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.

When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine. 

It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure. 

“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.

That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders. 

You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.

You tried. You really did.

Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come. 

But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.

Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity. 

Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols. 

You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind. 

You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.

You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times. 

Then, light emerged from below you.

A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred. 

You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.

The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.

There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.

You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.

That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats. 

Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”

You weren’t sure if you believed it.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.

When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.

The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.

The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.

“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.” 

You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here. 

You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.

You even tried to make yourself look pretty.

You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?

Right?

You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?

You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?

You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.

Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.

Minutes passed.

Then hours,

The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.

Still, he did not come.

You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you. 

When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.

Was it supposed to be like this?

You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.

But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest. 

Were you not worthy of his presence?

Had you done something wrong?

A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.

Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?

Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.

After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.

The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”

That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”

You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice. 

The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.

You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.

Hesitantly, you spoke.

“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued. 

“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.

“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”

You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.

Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.

Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less. 

Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.

You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls. 

Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.

Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside. 

The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.

It had been a long time since you’d last visited.

You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.

You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.

You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.

You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.

You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?

You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.

You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.

You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night. 

You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom. 

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.

Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.

Has he… abandoned me?

You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.

CHAPTER II

You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze. 

The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.

You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now. 

So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.

“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…” 

The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.

The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.

As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.

As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.

“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”

Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea. 

Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air. 

You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.

But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.

For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.

What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?

Your heart skipped.

Could you even do that? 

It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore. 

You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.

Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take. 

With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This temple was built like a damn fortress!

Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest. 

Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple. 

You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. 

When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.

They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed. 

After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching. 

But then you saw it.

Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned. 

It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something. 

Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.

If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.

You would need luck. Even divine intervention.

The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?

You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?

You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god. 

You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.

But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.

Or straight into a trap.

You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face. 

Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.

You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.

It was almost suspicious, even.

You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.

With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.

Now.

You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.

You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded. 

Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration. 

You were finally here.

You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.

Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.

“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”

Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”

You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”

She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”

“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.

Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”

“Of course,” you said with a grin.

Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.

The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.

He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.

“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.

“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.

You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.

“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.

He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.

His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.

Your bag. A rustle.

You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.

“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.

You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.

A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”

He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.

The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.

You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.

He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.

Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”

You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…

You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.

You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”

He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”

“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.

He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”

The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.

You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.

Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.

“Thank you, pretty lady.”

You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.

The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.

Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.

You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”

He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”

You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”

You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.

Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”

Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.

You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”

Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”

You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”

You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.

“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”

She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”

You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind. 

“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”

You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”

He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”

Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.

“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.

You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face. 

Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.

You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”

An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.

“I never told you my name, did I—?”

But he was gone.

The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.

Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.

Maybe you would see him again.

CHAPTER III

Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.

You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.

That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.

…Were those snores?

Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?

But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through. 

There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.

Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it? 

You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.

They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.

You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.

The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps. 

Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!

For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber. 

You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.

Sleep came quickly that night.

The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.

You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder. 

“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced. 

You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed. 

You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.

The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”

Your breath caught. Then you blinked. 

What.

“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”

You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.

“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”

The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”

You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”

“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”

Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.

“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”

You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.

“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked. 

You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.

“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.

Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!

“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied. 

He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”

You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.

You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”

“Yes?”

You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”

The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”

You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…

Why won’t he speak to me?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it. 

You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue. 

Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.

You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.

“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile. 

He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades. 

The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled. 

And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.

You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.

“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”

Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.

“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”

You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.

Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.

“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.

You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.

Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.

You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.

Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.

You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.” 

Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.

Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it. 

You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.

And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…

But guilt. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.

The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.

Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.

Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.

Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.

Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.

If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned. 

Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.

When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf. 

You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—

“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”

You froze.

“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.

“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”

“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”

Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others. 

Just… before you came.

You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”

“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”

The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”

You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more. 

You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.

Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.

You ran.

You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.

You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.

Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs. 

You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone. 

The months of hoping for something — anything. 

“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”

She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”

Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”

You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”

“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”

“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”

You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you. 

“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.

Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar. 

But eventually, the moment had to end. 

You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.

“I love you, too, mother.”

You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now. 

You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.

“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. 

You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.

You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.

CHAPTER IV

The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.

The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his. 

Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened. 

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.

Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.

His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.

“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began. 

The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.

“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”

Ah. That exchange..

“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.

“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”

Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered. 

“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”

The Archbishop remained silent.

“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”

“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.

“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The wedding day arrived. 

Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.

You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.

And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.

Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.

He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon. 

As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed. 

As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.

His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?

He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?

That was his first mistake.

“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”

Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”

A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”

Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.

And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed. 

That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below. 

On you.

There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.

Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious. 

Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.

Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.

He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves. 

“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.

“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.

Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”

He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”

His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea. 

“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”

Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”

He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps. 

He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone. 

He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.

He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.

You were… fragile.

He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?

He withdrew.

Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.

He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised. 

And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.

He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.

It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection. 

You began to whisper your loneliness. 

At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.

But then, he noticed something… odd.

Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.

Suspicious. Curious. Restless.

Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.

And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost. 

Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.

Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.

Then came the night of your escape.

Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.

With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.

There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.

But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.

Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.

He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.

“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.

Then you looked at him expectantly.

Oh. You were waiting for a name.

He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.

Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.

He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—

“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”

He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”

“Then I'll insist.”

There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?

So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.

His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.

Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.

“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.

Your cheeks turned crimson.

Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.

He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.

He wanted more of that. 

But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family. 

After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.

But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks. 

“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”

His brows knit together. Him? Strict?

“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.

You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”

Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.

“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.

“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

The words landed like a stone in his stomach.

When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.

The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.

He owed you that much, at the very least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.

You had begun to bloom. 

Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar. 

You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.

It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.

Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.

Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?

But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.

He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.

You still remembered him.

Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.

After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.

It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.

Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.

He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.

And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.

You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.

You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.

You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared. 

He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain. 

To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.

But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.

A stranger.

That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?

No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.

When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.

When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.

He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.

The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.

Until he heard your sobs.

At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.

Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.

It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable. 

Then, loud sobbing.

Phainon stilled.

His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.

“What's the matter—?”

But Phainon was already gone.

He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.

“I hate him!”

He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.

“I hate him.”

No.

No, no, that can’t be right.

He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.

Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”

The air around him cracked. 

“I hate him!”

His heart stuttered.

“I hate him!”

Stop... please—

“He left me!”

No. No. I’m right here–!

“I don’t want to go back!”

That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.

I hate him. He left me. I don’t want to go back.

He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.

The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.

Why?

Why did you feel this way?

He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.

So why did you hate him?

He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.

Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.

The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.

It was all because of him.

Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.

And he didn’t understand.

Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.

This... this was heartbreak.

Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.

“You hate… me…” he whispered.

You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.

He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.

Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations. 

High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.

But this one had become… excessive. 

Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge. 

A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.

Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.

She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?” 

Without another word, she vanished from her realm. 

In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way. 

And there he was. 

At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.

Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.

No response. 

She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.

Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”

Still silence.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.

“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”

At last, his jaw shifted.

“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.

“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”

She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below. 

“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”

Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She said she hated me.”

Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”

“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”

“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”

His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”

“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”

“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.

Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.

“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”

Khaslana looked away.

“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”

Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”

The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling. 

“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.

“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”

“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”

“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”

Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”

Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”

He was quiet. Then, softly:

“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”

His claws curled against his palm.

“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”

Aglaea was silent for a long breath.

Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”

Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.

“She hates me.”

“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.

He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”

But Aglaea only stepped closer.

“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”

She stepped back.

“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”

And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed. 

For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day. 

You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal. 

Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening. 

Then came a knock at your door. 

You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed. 

“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.

You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him. 

He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence. 

He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled. 

“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders. 

“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.

The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”

You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.

“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”

His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”

You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”

The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his. 

“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it. 

You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”

He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said. 

Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.

You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him? 

You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger. 

You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was useless.

No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.

How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!

You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach. 

You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates. 

The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you. 

Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky.  The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step. 

But you pushed through it anyway.

Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.

By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier. 

“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came. 

The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.

“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.

“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.

“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.

“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster. 

A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.

A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.

He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.

Radiant and terrifying.

Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.

His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.

You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You dared a glance upward.

He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.

With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.

“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.

“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,

The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out. 

“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”

Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”

“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”

“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”

And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.

Phainon stood before you.

You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”

He frowned, looking away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”

“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”

“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”

“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”

“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.

“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”

His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”

Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.

You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”

You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”

Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”

Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.

It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.

Then another fell. And another.

You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared. 

You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything. 

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke. 

“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”

A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.

His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield. 

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”

“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. 

“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours. 

“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”

His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”

Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”

“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.

“I see…” You murmured.

Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”

Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.

Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”

Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.

He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake? 

But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.

You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”

His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.

When he looked up, he smiled.

“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.

You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”

CHAPTER V

When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.

You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.

“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”

And with that, he vanished.

Just like that.

You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.

No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.

Still…

You sneezed again—sharper this time.

You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers. 

Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.

Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.

You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.

Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed. 

“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”

Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”

And so you talked. For hours.

The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.

Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then. 

You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.

In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.

Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun. 

He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.

He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.

Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”

There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.

Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.

Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual. 

Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”

His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.

You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.

You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.

“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.

Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.

“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”

Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest. 

You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”

You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”

He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.

He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.

“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.

Phainon froze.

He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”

He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.

“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.

Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.

“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.

So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter. 

You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.

He chuckled.

You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.

“My turn.”

In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.

You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.

His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again. 

You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you. 

It was different now.

Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.

Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear. 

He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.

Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.

And then, he bites.

It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended. 

But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.

“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.

“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.

He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, It’s—”

“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.

“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.

Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.

Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.

He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.

You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.

Phainon noticed. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.

You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”

Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained. 

Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.

He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you. 

“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.

“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.

You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…” “More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer. 

“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.

Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you. 

“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.

“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.

“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions. 

He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head. 

“Okay… you can go a little faster.”

With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.

You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure. 

With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed. 

As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.

“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.

You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.

He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before. 

As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.

Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.

You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”

His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. 

With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you. 

His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.

But not this morning.

This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.

You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.

Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.

And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.

His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.

Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation. 

The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen. 

You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.

You had found him, and he had stayed.

For now, that was enough.