You stood at the base of the old fig tree, squinting up into its thick tangle of branches. Your fingertips brushed the bark, testing for the dampness. 

Good grip, you thought as you gave a satisfied nod. “Alright, just like before. Follow my lead.”

Without another word, you hoisted yourself up, sandals scraping against the bark and trunk pressing into your palms. The muscle memory guided you as you put your left foot on the knot and your right hand on the branch just above you. You have to admit it didn’t look elegant, but hey, it worked. 

“I-I really think we should head back,” Arielle said, wringing her hands at the base of the tree. She looked as if she’d rather face the head priestess than climb a tree.

“If you’d rather spend the entire Lucid Hour rewriting verses we’ve all memorized since we were ten, then, by all means,” You said, not even glancing down as you climbed higher. “But I’m going to see what Okhema has to offer today.”

Fortuna snorted with laughter and grabbed a low branch, pulling herself up with ease. “Come on, Elle. You can’t live in fear forever.”

You reached the branch that jutted over the temple wall and inched across it, balancing carefully as the leaves brushed your face. With practiced motion, you swung your legs over the edge, perched like the birds you often see.

“See you on the other side,” you whispered to them and jumped.

You landed on the grassy slope with a soft thud. A pulse of victory surged through you as you turned and threw a grin up to your friends. “Easy!”

Fortuna followed with a fluid leap, landing with the grace of someone who was clearly enjoying the rebellion a little too much. She brushed off her hands and turned around t look at Arielle. 

Meanwhile, the girl had just managed to crawl to the top of the wall. She sat there frozen, hands gripping the edge of the wall as she looked down with wide eyes. 

“Come on!” You called up, hands cupped around your mouth. “You’re not going to die!” 

“I’m not so sure,” Arielle muttered. 

After a lot of coaxing and a little peer pressure, she slid off the edge with a squeal that made a few birds fly from the nearby trees. She landed in a clumsy heap, dress tangled around her knees. Her face was bright red as she stood and attempted to dust herself off with whatever dignity she could salvage. 

“See? You survived!” Fortuna grinned.

“Barely,” you added with a snicker, patting Arielle’s shoulder as she groaned. “Let’s go. The market’s waiting!”

“What about your dad? What if he finds out?” Fortuna asked. 

“My mom visited yesterday and told me to pray for him during his travels to Akashic. He won’t be back for a while.” You shrugged.

As you led them down the winding footpath away from the temple, the city of Okhema opened before you. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, bursting with the colors of fruits, silk, painted trinkets, and books with cracked spines and questionable titles. The sweet and savory smell of food filled your nostrils. Children ran between carts, laughing.

You sighed, breathing in the air. 

The three of you browsed and bartered, your pockets nearly empty but your curiosity overflowing. You spent your last few coins on skewers and sizzling meat. You pointed to a quiet corner near the fountain, and the others followed as you sat and enjoyed your hard-won lunch.

Just as you raised your skewer to your lips, a familiar sound froze you in place. A sharp clearing of the throat.

You turned, stomach dropping to the nether realm. 

Your father stood there in his full military uniform, arms crossed, brow raised in a way that could silence a battlefield. His presence casts a shadow bigger than the temple walls themselves.

Fortuna’s smile vanished, and Arielle’s soul was probably already turning herself in to Lady Castorice in the nether realm by how pale she turned.

“What a surprise,” your father said dryly, voice flat with disapproval. “Didn’t realize temple training involved grilled meat and street musicians.”

“We were just — um — there was— I—” You tried,

Your father didn’t even blink. “All three of you. Back to the temple. Now.”

The walk back felt longer than your journey out. Heads ducked, feet dragging, you followed him like prisoners returning to their sentence. You glanced at Arielle and Fortuna. All three of you wore the same expression of dread and resignation. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Wow,” Phainon murmured, resting his head lazily on the pillow beside you. “Didn’t take you for a troublemaker, with how obedient and polite you acted when you first came here.” his chuckle was soft, almost amused, his eyes half-lidded with post-bliss after another intimate session. 

You snorted, your cheek pressed against the plush pillow as your body sank deeper into the mattress, your bare skin still warm beneath the blankets you both now shared. 

“Yeah, well… I learned my lesson. After that last escapade, the temple enforced stricter rules just for me. And my father? He made sure I got my fair share of punishment.” You exhaled through your nose, the memory still vivid enough to make you wince.

“My rebelling teenage days were cut short; the ‘Elusive Priestess’ was no more.” You dramatically cried.

Phainon sighed, “I don’t think that’s something you should be boasting about… especially to me,” he commented. 

“Don’t worry. Just because I used to sneak out of prayers doesn’t mean I forgot my devotion to you. All those stories they told about how brave and loving you were… they really did something to me.” You smiled wistfully, eyes distant with the memory of the Khaslana you once imagined.

Though, to be fair, there were times when it felt like you’d been coerced into loving him. By putting you in that temple, learning those prayers, lessons, and praises sung in his name… it had felt less like love and more like obligation.

But the man before you now was everything you had once dared to hope for. Kind, flawed, warm. You hadn’t been wrong about him. The path to get here had just been… a little rougher than expected. 

Phainon shifted beside you, turning to his side, his bare chest in full view, his white hair slightly tousled as he rested his head on his hand. 

“But wait,” He said, narrowing his eyes as the thought struck him, “Didn’t you say your father was supposed to be on a campaign? How was he even in the city that day?”

You smiled faintly.

“Funny you ask that. He actually said something weird at the time — he swore in your name, mind you — that a mountain had suddenly appeared where there wasn’t one before. He and his men had taken that road dozens of times, and it had always been flat. The maps didn’t show any mountains nearby either. He had to turn around and rethink the entire route.”

You laughed quietly to yourself at the memory. Your father’s face was twisted in frustration, gripping a map in one hand and cursing the magically-appearing-mountain under his breath.

But Phainon didn’t laugh. 

You turned your head, “Phainon?”

He was quiet, his expression blank for a moment before he blinked, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “Where exactly did you say your father was going again?”

“Akashic…” you replied slowly, narrowing your eyes.

Phainon let out a soft laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh dear,” he muttered under his breath, then looked at you again. “Okay, this is going to sound… bad, but do you know Mydeimos, the God of Strife?”

You nodded, “Yeah…”

“So… we sort of had this wager a while back. He claimed I couldn’t move one of Georios’ immovable mountains in a day. He said that if I failed, he’d get to rule Okhema for a full year.”

You stared at him, “You’re joking.”

“Nope. I took the challenge. Moved the mountain in under half a day. Tossed it near Akashic because it seemed out of the way. Crisis averted, Okhema remains under my jurisdiction.”

Your jaw dropped.

“So… you’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that my father wouldn’t have caught me sneaking out if you hadn’t moved an entire mountain into his path?!”

Phainon smiled nervously, inching slightly away from you. “Technically— yes?”

You squinted at him. “You absolute—!” Your hand shot out, grabbing his ahoge. That one rebellious strand that always sprang from his head.

“OW— Hey!” He yelped.

“Do you have any idea how many verses I had to write?!”

“OW! Not so hard!”

“My fingers were cramped for a month!”

“Forgive me!”

“You think a god would have some foresight,” you muttered through gritted teeth, twisting the strand lightly.

“Wait– why are you blaming me? It’s your fault for sneaking out– OW!”

With one final tug, you let go, watching him collapse dramatically onto the pillows with his hands shielding his hair. His eyes were glassy, and his lower lip jutted out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen— like a kicked puppy. 

“Come here,” you mumbled, pulling him into your arms. 

Phainon let out a pleased hum as you wrapped yourself around him, his face nuzzling your naked chest. You placed a firm kiss on his ahoge, slightly harder than necessary, and he chuckled again.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

“Barely.”

You kissed his temple, your earlier annoyance melting into soft affection. Your fingers combed through his white hair, soothing the pain. He had relaxed completely, limbs tangling with yours under the blanket. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your father let out a long sigh as he crossed his arms, watching you from across the room. You sat at the low table in the living room, hunched over a worn sheet of parchment, your cramped finger scrawling the same sentence, what must have been the thirtieth time.

I will not try to sneak out again.

The scratch of your pen was the only sound filling the air, save for the occasional huff of frustration you would let out. This was supposed to be your weekend of fun! You can even hear the sound of laughter from outside your house. Instead, you were trapped indoors under your father’s surveillance, paying the price for your latest stunt.

Your mother appeared beside him, placing a cool drink into his hands. She settled into the seat next to him with a small laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement as she glanced at your miserable figure. 

“What am I going to do with her?” your father muttered, not loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to his wife.

“I heard they found a map of ‘possible escape routes’ scribbled behind her desk at the table,” your mother replied, unable to stop the fond smirk tugging at her lips. “She definitely inherited your strategic genius.”

Your father groaned, rubbing at his temples as if the memory of his youth physically pained him. “And what does she do with it? She uses it to scale walls and dodge prayer sessions! I just want her to be ready… her future’s already been decided because of me. The least I can do is prepare her.”

His voice was softer and quieter, heavy with guilt.

Your mother’s gaze softened. She leaned into his shoulder with a knowing sigh. “Oh, like you were any better,” she said, nudging him gently. “You used to skip out of training just to see me in the market, remember? You climbed up those spiky fences once just to leave me a note.”

Your father tried to hide the flicker of a smile. “That was different.”

“Sure it was,” your mother said, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe Lord Khaslana will appreciate a lover with a rebellious streak. You know, someone who’s bold and witty. The kind who climb temple walls for fun.” She sipped from her own glass, her eyes twinkling with tease, “I accepted you, didn’t I?”

He raised a brow at her, deadpan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing!” she said quickly, rising to her feet with feigned innocence. “Phew! The weather’s hot today, isn’t it?” And with a teasing smile, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to grumble behind her.

Side Story II

“Wow! So this is Carmitis!” you gasped, eyes wide with wonder as they roamed the breathtaking cityscape. 

Built along the curve of a serene bay, Carmitis shimmered like a gemstone beneath the sun. The city was renowned across Amphoreus for its devotion to the arts. Sculptures adorned every corner of every plaza, and murals danced across temple walls in hues so vivid they seemed to glow. The sound of music floated on the sea breeze, even though no musician was visibly performing. The wind itself carried the ethereal tones of water lyres, instruments unique to this city, creating melodies that colored the air like threads of silk.

You had always wondered what other cities in Amphoreus looked like. And Phainon, ever the considerate husband, had kept his promise to bring you beyond the marble gates of Okhema. Now here you were.

Before your trip, Phainon had consulted the other gods for suggestions on where to take you at the Vortex of Genesis. Naturally, the ever-proud God of Strife, Mydeimos, had jumped at the chance. 

“You must visit Castrum Kremnos,” he’d said with a grin. “We serve the finest pomegranate juice in all of Amphoreus. The annual Kremnoan Festival is just around the corner. It’ll be held in the colosseum. Nothing stirs the blood like the clash of swords while drinking the taste of pomegranate juice with milk. Trust me, your little wife will love it.”

Phainon had barely stifled a grimace when Anaxagoras, God of Reason, interjected coolly.

“Do you want her to die of a heart attack from those brutal Kremnoans you’re always so proud of?” Anaxagoras stepped forward, arms behind his back, gaze steady. “I suggest the Grove of Epiphany instead. The public library there is extensive, from divine philosophy to romantic fiction. Knowledge deepens connection. Let her mind grow with yours.” 

Phainon had considered it. You did love reading, after all. The Grove of Epiphany, where Anaxagoras resided and had watched over, could be an excellent choice.

But…

“But, Anaxa, are there–” Phainon began.

“Anaxagoras,” the god corrected with a sharp glance.

“A-Anaxagoras,” Phainon tried again. “Are there… any other activities there besides reading?”

Anaxagoras frowned, as though the question offended him on a spiritual level. “What other activities should there be, when reading is clearly the pinnacle of shared experience?”

Before Phainon could reply, a soft, melodic laugh floated through the air. 

Aglaea arrived with grace, her heels clicking elegantly across the polished marble floor. Her arms crossed over her chest, expression full of amusement.

“Do not listen to these fools, Khaslana.” She said, her voice silken. She stopped beside a now scowling Anaxagoras and a very unamused Mydeimos, casting her eyes toward Phainon.

“The Grove will give you more trouble than pleasure,” She drawled, casually flicking her hair toward the God of Reason. “You’ll be too busy slipping over damp moss and avoiding overly curious scholars to enjoy a good book in peace.”

Then, with a coy smile, she added, “We wouldn’t want another storm to befall our beloved Amphoreus, would we?”

Phainon groaned under his breath. She was never going to let that incident go.

“Oh, and what, pray tell, would you suggest?” Mydeimos asked, raising a brow. 

Aglaea smirked like she had already won. “Trust the Goddess of Romance to know the answer.”

And for once, Phainon followed her advice without protest. Because standing there now, beside you, watching your face light up as the sea wind played music through unseen lyres, he had to admit that Aglaea was right. 

“Well,” he chuckled, “You really can’t go wrong with a city that worships the Goddess of Romance. It lives up to her name, that’s for sure.”

Phainon gently tugged your hand as the two of you strolled through the marble-lined streets of Carmitis. The scent of salt hung on the breeze, mixing with sweet hints of florals that spilled from balconies above. He led you through an ivy-covered archway, toward a villa tucked near the cliffs, its design both modest and elegant.

“She prepared this for us?” you asked, eyeing the delicate rosewood carvings on the doorframe.

Phainon nodded, though his lips curled sheepishly. “I originally planned for us to book an inn. You know, get the full ‘mortal couple on a trip’ experience. Maybe a rickety room with creaky floors and too many windows.”

You snorted. “Very romantic.”

“But... a private place like this?” He smiled faintly as he pushed open the doors. “It’s nice to have something that’s just ours.”

Inside, the house was bathed in warm light, soft drapery flowing with the breeze through open windows that framed the sea below. After setting down your travel essentials, you both ventured back into the city, arms brushing as you walked side by side, savoring the relaxed freedom of being unknown, unburdened.

“Aglaea said we’re welcome to visit her tailor shop here,” Phainon mentioned, glancing at you with a hint of mischief. “Anything we like, on the house.”

You blinked. “Wait, Aglaea has a tailor shop?”

“She’s a terrific businesswoman,” Phainon said, “Sewing and dressmaking are her passions.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Which one? Which shop?”

“I think it’s called... Romantic Threads?”

Your jaw dropped. “The Romantic Threads? The one in Okhema that books up three seasons in advance?!”

“...Possibly?”

Without another word, you latched onto his arm. “We are going. Now.”

Phainon let out a startled laugh as you dragged him down the main street.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The boutique was nestled between sculpted columns and surrounded by glowing flowers that never wilted. You stepped inside, and your breath hitched. The interior was all velvet drapes and mirrors kissed with gold. A soft instrumental hum floated through the air. As if summoned by your entrance, one of the Garmentmakers glided toward you, its elegant, floating form headless but perfectly graceful.

“Greetings, Lord Khaslana and his bride. Lady Aglaea has instructed us to offer you our full attention. Please, make yourselves at home.”

You could barely believe it. Garmentmakers flitted across the floor, carrying bolts of silk that shimmered like captured starlight. Phainon wandered curiously to a mannequin clad in a regal ensemble.

“Hmm… do you have this color in purple?” he asked, tilting his head. The Garmentmaker paused mid-glide, its hand tilting in acknowledgment before floating off to find alternatives.

You, meanwhile, stood in the center of the boutique, completely overwhelmed by the grandeur.

“I can’t believe it’s empty,” you murmured aloud. “In Okhema, you can’t even peek through the windows without a reservation.”

A nearby Garmentmaker turned toward you. “Lady Aglaea cleared the schedule. Today, this boutique belongs to you alone.”

Your heart warmed at that. You were ushered gently into a fitting chamber, the Garmentmakers taking precise measurements while whispering silks and satins floated from their unseen racks.

When you finally stepped out, you wore a dress crafted in hues of soft blue, white, and warm gold. A corset cinched your waist in elegant curves, engraved with delicate floral motifs that shimmered with each breath. The skirt floated just beneath your knees, perfect for walking near the sea. 

You saw Phainon was still busy asking the poor Garmentmaker for other colors. So, you cleared your throat to get his attention.

He turned. And froze.

His eyes widened as if he had forgotten how to breathe.

“You…” he exhaled, stepping forward as if drawn to you by some invisible thread. “You look… amazing.”

He circled around you slowly, fingertips brushing against the curve of your arm, then ghosting along the edge of your sleeve. His gaze was reverent, like a priest looking upon a miracle.

You giggled, cheeks warm. “Right? I’ve always wanted to visit this shop back in Okhema. But every time I tried, it was fully booked. I didn’t even know she owned it!”

Phainon chuckled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Next time, we’ll just ask Aglaea directly.”

The Garmentmakers helped adjust your accessories as Phainon disappeared into a fitting room of his own. You didn’t see the outfit he chose, but you were certain it was wonderful. (it's not) 

You decided to immediately wear yours while Phainon’s clothes were wrapped up. By the time you stepped out onto the street again, hand-in-hand, the world felt warmer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Unlike the structured stone markets of Okhema, Carmitis boasted a floating market unlike any you’d ever seen. Wooden platforms bobbed gently atop the clear turquoise waters of the bay, connected by arching bridges of woven rope and driftwood. Colorful stalls shaded by silk canopies swayed in the breeze, offering everything from exotic fruits to jeweled trinkets.

You found yourself drawn to a stall where strands of pearls gleamed under the sun, laid delicately atop deep blue velvet. Each pearl shimmered with subtle hues: rose gold, ocean silver, even a rare iridescent black, and for a moment, you were lost in their beauty.

Phainon had excused himself moments ago, promising to return with a delicacy he spotted. It was a charred fish skewer, seasoned with spices known only to this coastal region. You’d smiled and waved him off, humming softly as you browsed.

That peace didn’t last long.

A man sidled up beside you, a little too close for comfort. His voice broke the serenity. “These pearls are something, huh?”

You turned to him, instinctively taking a half-step back but offering a polite nod. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful.”

He grinned, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’ve lived in Carmitis my whole life. I’d remember someone like you.”

Your smile tightened. “I’m just visiting.”

That should’ve been enough, but he wasn’t finished. He launched into a stream of chatter—stories of his childhood, fishing trips on the bay, festivals he’d danced in, all the while inching closer. When you tried to change the topic, he pivoted. When you gave short answers, he filled the silence.

Then, as if you hadn’t already been trying to signal disinterest, he asked, “Mind if I buy you something to drink?”

There it was.

You exhaled sharply, keeping your tone civil but firm. “No, thank you. I have a husband.”

He blinked. “Really? Don’t see a ring on you.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile and glanced toward the stall owner, silently hoping for help, but the man behind the counter suddenly busied himself with rearranging necklaces, pretending not to hear.

Before you could conjure another excuse, you felt a shift behind you, like the air itself had thickened.

A sudden chill crawled down your spine, and a familiar pressure pressed in on your senses.

“Would a punch to your face suffice?”

The voice, low and dangerous, sliced through the tension.

You turned to see Phainon standing behind you. But this wasn’t the soft-eyed, patient Phainon who held your hand ever so gently. No, his posture was sharp and rigid. His usual ocean-blue eyes blazed gold, glowing with divine ire.

The stranger visibly paled. “H-hey, man, I didn’t mean— I didn’t realize—”

Phainon stepped forward once. “Get lost.”

The words weren’t shouted, but they echoed like thunder. The man didn’t wait for a second warning as he spun on his heel and stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.

You let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Thanks for saving me back there—”

But before you could finish, Phainon’s hand gently but firmly clasped your wrist. “Phainon?” you blinked, trying to catch up. He led you to a more secluded area, where no one was watching. 

You were about to protest, but it died in your throat as the world around you flickered, blurred, and folded inward. The scent of salt air was replaced by wood, and the hum of the market gave way to silence.

When your vision cleared, you found yourself standing inside your villa. In your bedroom.

You’d never get used to his teleportation.

Phainon stood with his back to you, shoulders still tense. You reached out instinctively. “Phainon, are you alright? I’m okay, truly. He didn’t hurt me.”

He turned slowly, and your heart skipped.

His golden gaze still burned, bright and unyielding. But it wasn’t anger that radiated from him now; it was protective, possessive, and unnerved. 

His lips parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at you as if confirming you were really there, unharmed.

“I know,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “But… seeing someone else speaking to you like that…” his jaw clenched. “It infuriates me.”

You stepped toward him gently, your fingers brushing the curve of his arm. At your touch, Phainon let out a shaky breath, the storm in his golden eyes beginning to settle. You reached up, resting your hand on his cheek, grounding him back to the moment.

He took your hand in his, his thumb lingering over your ring finger. The gesture was soft, but his expression turned pensive. You followed his gaze and realized what he was fixated on.

You gave a faint sigh. “I’m yours, Phainon,” you said softly, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You don’t have to prove that to anyone else.”

His shoulders relaxed at your words, and he leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms encircled your waist with a quiet desperation, as if anchoring himself to you. 

You chuckled lightly and ran your fingers along the back of his neck. It was something you’d discovered that calmed him in moments like this. He melted into your touch. 

The dress you wore slipped slightly as you shifted, baring more of your shoulder. Phainon’s lips found the newly exposed skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses there. 

At first it tickled, but then he added the slightest pressure with his teeth— gentle nips that sent warmth coursing through you. You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, then tugging lightly when he bites harder, your knees weak.

“Ah— Phainon…” 

He let out a quiet growl in response, his grip around you tightening. When his lips left your neck to meet yours, the kiss was unrestrained. It was messy and hungry, his emotions pouring into every movement. He guided you back toward the bed, easing you down as he hovered over you. 

His breathing was uneven, matching your own. He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the dazed look in your eyes. Then he smiled, a mix of affection and something more intense.

“I blame Aglaea,” he murmured, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a low huff. “Making you wear something this beautiful… now I have to protect you from pests.”

You laughed, breathless, watching as he fumbled with his shirt. There was something endearingly human about the way he struggled with it despite all his godly elegance. Once it was off, he leaned down again and pressed a softer kiss to your lips.

“As much as I adore you in this,” he whispered, fingers brushing the edge of your dress, “I want to see you out of it.” 

His hands moved with care, slipping away the layers of fabric with practiced grace. His gaze never left yours, reverent and full of fire, as if each inch of skin revealed was something sacred. 

He trailed kisses from your collarbone, leaving red blooming marks in his wake. Once his lips reached your breasts, he latched his mouth to your nipple, giving the bud kitten licks while his hand paid attention to the other, tugging and pinching at the flesh. You moan at the waves of pleasure crashing to you.

After having tended both of your breasts, his fiery kisses traveled lower to your stomach, then to the inside of your thighs. His muscular arms opened your legs wide. He pulled away, earning a whine of protest from you. 

He slid your panties down your legs with ease, letting them fall forgotten to the floor. His gaze flicked up to meet yours— your breath uneven, the back of your hand pressed to your mouth, eyes fluttering from the weight of pleasure. With a playful grin, he leaned in close, blowing softly against your wetness. You let out a frustrated whine, your body tensing in anticipation. He chuckled, clearly pleased by your reaction. 

“Don’t tease me.” You said, between breaths.

Phainon chuckled, lying down on the bed as he put your legs over his shoulder, “You’re making it hard not to, sweetheart.”

Your heart leaped at the pet name. But before you could calm yourself down, Phainon connected his lips to your folds, tongue lapping you up and down before pushing it inside. 

You arched your back from the pleasure. Usually, Phainon would be more gentle during intimacy. This time, it felt like he was impatient—angry almost, with the way he pulled you closer to his mouth. 

You reached down, fingers threading through the tousled strands of his hair. With a gentle tug, you felt him shudder below you— a low moan escaping his lips. The sound reverberated against your core, you ground your hips on his mouth, and the sensation sent a jolt through your entire body.

Phainon then inserted two fingers inside. A shameless moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, the sound far too indulgent for your own comfort.

Phainon finally pulled away from your vagina, lips glistening with your fluids. He hovered his body above you, fingers still inside as his gaze met yours. With hooded eyes, he watched you whimper and whine while he thrust his fingers roughly, grinning as your body would jolt with pleasure every time he hit that spongy spot inside you. Your hands flew to his arms, gripping his muscles tightly.

“Phainon–Phainon–Phainon,” you murmured his name like a prayer, breathless and trembling. A soft smile curved his lips as he leaned in to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

When Phainon curled his fingers, you couldn’t help but pull away from his kiss, letting out screams of pleasure as you near your high. 

“Come on, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go,” He whispered, rubbing his thumb on your clit. 

You came undone after a few more thrusts of his fingers. Your voice cracking as you felt the tight knot in your stomach snapped. Phainon slowed down his digits, calming you down from your high.

When your breath became steadier, he pulled his fingers out, causing you to whimper at the empty feeling. Still drunk from the euphoric feeling, you didn’t realize Phainon was flipping you over to your chest. He then lifted your hips with care, just as you heard the quiet rustle of his pants being pulled off from behind you.

“Phainon, what– ah!” 

Before you could even finish your sentence, Phainon had fully pushed his length into you, letting out a low groan as he bottomed out. His breaths quicken as he holds you still, watching you squirm and whine, still sensitive from your previous high.

You propped yourself on your elbows, and he leaned closer, placing his head beside yours, which only caused him to go deeper into you. You whimpered as your walls tightened around him; no matter how many times you've done it, you still had to get used to his size at first.

“I’m sorry, just—let me have my way with you—just this once. Okay, sweetheart?” He asked, voice pleading.

You calmed your breathing, adjusting to his size before nodding your head.

“Okay.” You said, breathless.

Phainon let out a contented sigh as he kissed your cheeks. He moved his hips backward, pulling out from you, leaving only his tip, before pushing his length inside you with force. Your body swayed with each push and pull, mouth hanging open from the sensation. Your moans were getting louder with every thrust, and the way his hands played with your nipples. 

Phainon wasn’t any better. He moans, groans, growls, and whimpers in your ears. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He murmured slurred praises into your ear, occasionally biting down on your neck and reaching his hand lower to rub your core.

“Oh, you feel so—mmh, s’good around me, sweetheart.” A hard thrust into you.

“You want me to go harder? Hm? You want that? Yeah?” He was already picking up his pace before you could give him an answer.

He pulled away from your neck, straightening up his body to get a better angle. The room pulsed with the sound of ragged breaths and bodies moving in rhythm. Every gasp, every whisper of his name, mingled with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You were sure that anyone who passed by the building could hear the melodic sounds you and Phainon let out.

His thrusts were getting sloppier, words he spoke were unintelligible. He leaned back down in your ear, his fingers rubbed your clot faster in a circular motion, urging you to finish.

“C’mon, sweetheart, come with me, yeah?” 

You nod frantically, choked moans escaping your lips with his every thrust. You chanted his name once more and tightened around his length, your knees growing weak. The feeling of your walls caused him to reach his edge.

“You’re mine. Mine. mine. mine.”

His hips still, unloading his seeds inside you. He gave a few lazy thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out. 

You let your hips sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and trembling from your climax. Beside you, Phainon collapsed with a deep, contented sigh, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the quietness of the room.

Then, he turned to his side and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest. The warmth of his skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek soothed the rest of your lingering tremors. He then pressed soft, slow kisses to your hairline.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly, his voice still rough, “Was I too rough?”

You shook your head, snuggling closer until his arms tightened around you. “No, you weren’t. I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice light with affection.

A light chuckle rose from your throat as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Did you get it out of your system, then?”

Phainon let out a long exhale, his brows knitting slightly with guilt. “Yes… Though I’m not proud of myself for taking it out on you,”

You reached up, brushing your fingertips gently against his cheek. His eyes had returned to his usual soft blue, no longer intense. “You didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed it… Really.” 

A playful glint entered your eyes as you leaned in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Maybe I should make you jealous more often.”

Phainon groaned dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. “Please don’t,” he mumbled.

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as you wrapped your arms around him tightly. “I love you,” you whispered, your words warm against his chest.

He plastered a grin, “I love you more.”

“Don’t start.”

Side Story III

Phainon stood at the heart of the temple gardens, now transformed into a soft dreamscape of ivory and gold, nervously clutching the small velvet box in his hand. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of trees above, painting dappled light across the petals scattered along the aisle. Every inch of the garden shimmered under careful touches of decoration, elegant and simple.

Today marked your wedding anniversary, one full cycle since the day you had been bound to him. But the memory still lingered heavily in his chest, that first ceremony marked more by duty and uncertainty than celebration or love. There were no kisses. No shared vows. Just a pact, divinely sealed and hastily delivered.

Phainon had spent weeks planning a proper wedding.. A wedding with laughter and vows, flowers and witnesses, and most importantly… a ring, crafted with the help of Chartonus himself.

He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight between his feet as he watched his friends (the other gods and goddesses) milling about the decorated garden space.

Flower garlands hung between ivory pillars, gentle lyre music drifting from unseen strings in the wind. Tables were arranged with modest care—Ambrosia, honeyed cakes, fruits, and traditional Okheman dishes lining the platters. A clear aisle of white petals led up to where he stood, waiting.

Aglaea stood beside him, regal and radiant. The Goddess of Romance had been both surprised and delighted when Phainon asked her to officiate the ceremony. She never thought the Deliverer would ever wear such a nervous expression over something so delicate.

Mydeimos looked at Phaino’s hands. “You’re holding that box like it’s going to explode.”

Phainon gave a tight-lipped smile. “It might. My heart’s been in it for weeks,” he then puts the box inside his pocket, fidgeting with his hands lightly.

A firm clap landed on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Khaslana,” said Anaxagoras, God of Reason, dressed far too formally for someone who had once argued weddings were ‘inefficient emotional rituals.’ “This is a wedding, not a battlefield.”

From behind him, a familiar lilting laugh rang out. “You should’ve seen his face when Aggy scolded him for his original outfit choice,” said Tribios, Goddess of Passage. “He looked like a child getting caught breaking something precious.”

Phainon scowled. “I liked that outfit. It was from Aglaea’s boutique.”

“Yes,” Aglaea said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And it made you look like a fool. How dare you mix violet and mustard in front of me, with my own designs no less?”

The laughter that followed was interrupted by a fluttering of wings. From above, Hyacinthia descended with her miniature pegasus, Ica, trailing glittering sky dust behind her. She landed gently, her heels brushing the grass lightly.

“I cleared every gray cloud from the sky just for today,” she smiled, brushing back strands of her pink colored hair. “No storm’s going to ruin this one.”

"Doot, doot!" Ica added.

“Thank you,” Phainon said sincerely, looking at each one of his friends.

Just then, Castorice, the Goddess of Death—pale and composed—peeked from between the garden hedges. “She’s coming,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.

Time seemed to stand still.

Phainon straightened. His heart thundered in his chest. He could already feel the warmth of your presence drawing near, the familiar hum of your soul that soothed his own. For all his power, all his light, nothing made him feel more undone than the sound of your footsteps approaching.

Then you appeared, the sunlight catching on the gold threading of your dress as if even the heavens wished to spotlight your presence. Your family followed closely behind.

The garden had never looked more beautiful. Flowers that normally only bloomed in different seasons now adorned the path in unison, their petals vibrant and full. Music floated through the air from invisible strings, harmonizing with the wind.

Your eyes scanned the crowd. Familiar faces looked back—Phainon had introduced them to you before, gods and goddesses of Amphoreus in their finest attire. Your eyes landed on Anaxagoras, Hyacinthia, Tribios, Aglaea, and then Mydeimos.

And then you saw him.

Phainon stood at the center of it all. He looked nervous, heart-bared, and unmistakably dazzling in a tailored robe. You recognized Aglaea’s influence immediately in the subtle elegance of the embroidery across his shoulders and cuffs. His hair was neatly swept back, though the familiar ahoge still bounced stubbornly in place. His blue eyes, brighter than ever, locked onto yours the moment he saw you.

“Phainon?” you breathed, stunned. “What is this?”

You turned in confusion, your voice filled with wonder, only to be met with a warm smile from your father. He stepped beside you, offering his arm.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise as you looked between him, the petal-strewn aisle, the altar at the end, and the dress your mother so stubbornly told you to wear today. A realization dawned over you. This wasn’t just a celebration—this was a wedding.

Your heart swelled. Slowly, you reached out and linked your arm with your father's.

As your mother and Atlas took their seats, your father leaned in slightly, his voice tight with emotion. “I’m glad,” he said softly, “that I’m finally, properly, giving away my daughter.” His hand tightened gently on your arm. “It may have started from a vow made for peace. But today, I know you’re walking toward love.”

You bit your lip, your vision already blurring with tears. “Thank you, Father.”

Both of you reached the end of the aisle. Phainon stepped forward and extended his hand. You glanced once more at your father, who gave your hand one final squeeze, tears already streaming down his cheeks, before placing it in Phainon’s.

Then it was just the two of you standing before Aglaea, who was holding a ceremonial scroll in her hand. Though she didn’t have to read from it.

“Dearly beloved,” Aglaea began, her voice carrying every corner of the garden.

“We gather here not to forge a new bond, but to renew one. This is no ordinary union, nor a formality. A vow spoken not by decree, but by choice. A promise not from god to mortal… but from soul to soul.”

She turned her gaze to you first, calling your name. “Today, do you vow yourself to him again? This time not as an offering, but as a partner? Do you give your heart freely, not to his divinity or power, but to his person?”

You swallowed back your tears and nodded. “I do. And I always will.”

Aglaea smiled, then looked to Phainon. “And you, Khaslana, God of Worldbearing. Do you vow yourself to this mortal not out of obligation, but out of love? Do you promise to show her not only your divinity, but your humanity?”

Phainon’s voice wavered slightly as he answered. “I do. More than anything.”

Then Phainon reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a small velvet box— one you hadn’t seen before. Your breath caught when he opened it.

Inside sat a beautiful ring, golden, forged with delicate sunburst patterns that shimmered faintly with divine warmth. In the center stood a diamond that glimmered slightly in the light. 

Phainon took the ring between his fingers, his hand holding yours. With great care, Phainon slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for you all along. Aglaea conjured her golden threads as they swirled brighter around the two of you, encircling your joined hands. 

“Then, as Goddess of Romance,” Aglaea said with a soft smile, “I bless this union, again and forever. Let the world bear witness to this second vow. You may seal this promise with a kiss.”

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and took your face gently in his hands as he kissed you, soft and slow. You reciprocated all the same, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. Everyone rose in applause, the wind turned musical as sunlight poured through the clouds above in radiant beams.

In that golden moment, with the gods as witnesses and romance as their blessing, two hearts vowed once more. This time, not by fate, but by love.

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.

“I missed you,” he murmurs before intertwining his arms around your torso, allowing your arms to fall around his neck comfortably. 

“You should bathe,” you say before parting, his skin still hot and sticky with sweat. 

“Do I smell?” 

“Awfully.” 

He frowns at you. “That’s not very nice.” 

“I’m only kidding,” you giggle, “you smell like a bed of fresh roses, just extremely sweaty and… testosterone-filled.” 

“I shall go wash soon, then. Care to join me?” 

“Do you invite everyone to bathe with you, Phainon?” 

“Only the ones I really like, so, please?” He’s pleading at you with those eyes of his, so bright, so innocent, so hard to say no to. 

Well, normally you have a hard time saying no, especially to an offer as tempting as bathing with your lover, but you remember your petty feelings of how he paid more attention to his claymore today, rather than you, so you decide to give him a piece of your mind. It’s what he deserves. 

You hum in exaggerated consideration, even scrunching your nose to make it seem like you were thinking hard, keeping him on his toes. 

“Pretty please?” The hero insists, anticipation shining in those bright orbs. 

“Depends on how well you behave,” you negotiate. “Now, sit down and change your shoes, I’ll get your clothes.” 

He pouts at you, signalling his dissatisfaction. “Alright.” 

You leave to pick up his outerwear from where he discarded it in the courtyard, probably thrown aside when it got too stuffy. Returning to him, the pout is still as present, and he seems to refuse to make eye contact with you, trying to get you to crack.

So, you drop the pile of clothes beside him and counter with a game of your own.

Standing between his legs, both of your hands go to rest on his cheeks, the skin warm and flushed underneath yours. Gently tilting Phainon’s head up, you think you hear his breath hitch as he obeys, looking up at you with those glossy eyes. Gone was the petulance, back was the puppy-dog expression as he stares at you with wonder, and you’re 90% sure that if he had a tail, it’d be vigorously swishing behind him.

He just might be the most simple man you know. Telling him that would only displease him, though, primarily because he doesn’t like it when you talk about other men. 

You giggle softly at the thought as you gently brush stray strands of hair away from his face. 

“I only accompany men who are good to me to the bathhouse,” you muse.

“I’m amazing to you- the best,” he flaunts. “Right?” 

Instead of responding, you slowly lean closer towards him, minimising the gap between your faces. First, you close your eyes when your nose brushes against his, and you keep going until your lips are so painstakingly close that you can feel his graze yours, skin ghosting against skin as you lure him in. Then, just before you can give him what he wants, you draw back, leaving Phainon to chase after a piece of a paradise you won’t grant. 

When he realises that the anticipated kiss wasn’t coming, his eyes slowly blink open. 

“Good boys don’t let their partner feel neglected by training for hours and hours,” you mumble, brushing his hair back before deserting him completely, letting your hands fall back to your sides before cruelly walking away. “You need to learn your lesson, Phainon.”

Still in a daze, he only just registers what you were doing before shooting to his feet. “Hey!” 

Leaving his precious claymore and clothes behind, he chases after your retreating figure.

Effortlessly, the Chrysos Heir catches up and winds his arms around your waist like a tight coil. “Y/n, darling, my light, I’m sorry, you’re right, I have committed a great dishonour today, I will amend it with my life.” 

Humoured, you turn to face him, a melting pot of determination and desperation swirling in those aquamarine eyes. “Well, you do not need to go that far, Deliverer.” 

“So then… a kiss? Or two? Or three? Please?” 

“How about you kiss that claymore instead? Since you spend so much time with it.” 

He whines in your ear, refusing to let you go when you try to slip away by pushing against his very muscular, very sturdy, and very naked chest. 

You spend a good few minutes rejecting his every plea, utterly amused by his growing desperation and how he offered the most preposterous things on Amphoreus for you to forgive him. So you pushed your luck as far as you could before giving Phainon what he wanted, and he breathed you in like air, insisting on wanting more again and again as he pulled you so close you thought you would merge into him.

When you feel his hands roam down your body, tracing your curves and lingering on your hips, you break away before he could get any more carried away.

“Next time you see me while training, you should know what to do, right?” Was all you said that day before moving on, going back to the courtyard to collect his items for him because he was too dazed to do it himself.

Now, you’re left wondering how hard that sentence hit him as Phainon obediently sits down, staring at you with intense eyes that indicated he wanted something from you. He was sparing with Prince Mydei a mere second ago, how did he drop his weapon as soon as you walked in and just… plopped down on the bench like that was the most natural thing in the world? And the other Chrysos Heir just agreed? 

Was there something odd in the air today? Normally these two would spar until there were chips in their weapons.  

Mydei gave you a firm nod in greeting when he walked past and you returned it with a slight bow, still left wondering what on Amphoreus just occurred as you watch his retreating back. 

Until a certain hero clears his throat, causing you to tear your gaze away and at your main source of bewilderment. 

“Did you send Mydei away because… of me?” You ask. 

He nods. 

“Why?” 

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” 

Your mouth falls slightly agape before the realisation hits. “I… I guess? I was hoping to watch you two spar.” 

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink, only stares you. When you don’t give him what he wants, Phainon impatiently pats his spread thighs and you oblige, stopping before him and letting your hands rest on his face. 

“What am I going to do with you?” You whisper against his lips before sealing the words against his lips.

Well, this was your fault, after all, so you should just do your best to make him happy.

Kneeling beside him, you gently prodded his shoulder. “Hey. Still breathing?”

A soft, pitiful whine escaped him, followed by a lazy blink. Then, like a puppy realizing it had finally been noticed, the man perked up almost instantly. Despite his obviously battered state, he offered you the most ridiculous, lopsided grin you had ever seen.

“Angel,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “Have I…died?”

You stared at him. He blinked up at you, expectant.

“…No, but you might if you keep bleeding all over my sidewalk.”

His grin widened, eyes gleaming under the dim light. “Then I must be in heaven, because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a short, exasperated sigh. “Great. You’re one of those types.”

Deciding that talking would get you nowhere, you looped his arm around your shoulders and, with a great deal of effort, hauled him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle beneath the torn layers of his dark hoodie.

“C’mon, Casanova, let’s get you patched up.” ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The clinic was quiet save for the rustling of medical supplies and the occasional hiss of pain from your unexpected patient. He sat on the examination table, swinging his legs slightly like a child as you cleaned a particularly nasty gash on his forearm. His hoodie had been discarded, leaving him in a black tank top that did nothing to hide the bruises blooming across his torso.

“You got into quite the fight, huh?” you mused, applying a fresh bandage.

He hummed, tilting his head. “You could say that.”

“You don’t look like the street brawling type,” you continued, noting the way his wounds were oddly precise—like someone had been targeting specific areas to incapacitate rather than kill. “Pissed off the wrong guy?”

“Something like that,” he said, watching you with an intensity that sent a small shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he reached out and poked your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re all serious, y’know?”

You smacked his hand away. “I will sedate you.”

He laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. It was such a stark contrast to his earlier state that you had to pause. This guy…was weird. But you’d dealt with weirder.

“Alright, mystery man,” you said, stepping back. “You’re patched up, but you should probably rest before you start running around and getting into more trouble.”

His expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flashing through his eyes. Then, just as quickly, he was beaming again. “So you do care about me, doc.”

You rolled your eyes. “I'm a doctor; if I don't care, I will lose my license.”

Little did you know, you had just invited the most dangerous, yet oddly devoted, presence into your life. And he had no plans of leaving any time soon.

It started with small things.

The next evening, Phainon showed up at your clinic’s doorstep, miraculously uninjured this time, holding a single flower in his hand. “For my angel,” he declared dramatically, offering it to you with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow. “You realize this is a medical clinic, not a flower shop, right?”

He pouted. Actually pouted. “Can’t I just appreciate my favorite person in the world?”

You huffed but took the flower, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

The visits didn’t stop. Each day, he came bearing small gifts—some fresh fruit, a book he claimed “reminded him of you,” even a plushie one time. You didn’t know where he got them, and you didn’t ask. He never overstayed his welcome, just long enough to chat, flash you that infuriatingly charming grin, and then disappear into the night.

There were…odd moments, though. Bruises appearing overnight. The way he sometimes winced when he thought you weren’t looking. You questioned him once, but he only ruffled your hair and said, “I’m just clumsy.”

You didn’t buy it. But you let it go. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

It was nearly 3 AM when you heard the familiar knock at your clinic door. You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Phainon, if you brought me another bouquet, I swear—”

The door swung open, revealing a very unimpressed Phainon holding a Tupperware container. “Stop eating instant noodles 24/7,” he deadpanned, marching straight to your desk.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I saw the trash,” he accused. “You are a doctor, and yet you treat your body like a college student cramming for finals.”

You gaped at him as he shoved the container into your hands. “I—You—Did you make this?”

He crossed his arms, looking almost smug. “Of course. You deserve real food.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, unexpected but not unwelcome. You sighed, popping the lid open to reveal a neatly prepared meal. “...Fine. But if this kills me, I’m haunting you.”

Phainon beamed. “Deal.”

And so, your strange dynamic continued—one clueless doctor, one overly devoted, not-so-secret vigilante, and an ever-growing pile of suspiciously extravagant gifts you pretended not to question.

But as the days passed, you couldn’t ignore it anymore—the way his grip lingered when he handed you something, how he always seemed to know when you were exhausted, the fleeting shadows in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

Something about Phainon was undeniably dangerous. And yet, when he smiled at you like you were his whole world, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The city breathed at night. It wasn’t the kind of breath that brought life—it was shallow, ragged, laced with rot. Beneath the neon glow of the skyline, the filth that called themselves "heroes" thrived, hiding behind capes and empty words.

Phainon had no patience for them.

He crouched on the rooftop of an abandoned parking structure, the cool wind ruffling his platinum hair. Below, the target moved, blissfully unaware of the predator watching from above.

Adrian Vaughn.

A hero by title. A parasite by nature. His record was pristine in the public eye—dozens of successful operations, multiple civilians "rescued," a shining beacon of hope for the people. But beneath that fabricated veneer, Vaughn was filth. Human trafficking, drug smuggling, bribery. He sold out the very people he was meant to protect, sending them into the hands of the highest bidder.

Phainon had been tracking him for weeks, studying his routines, his weaknesses. Tonight, he would erase his name from existence.

Vaughn turned into an alley, accompanied by two bodyguards dressed in sleek tactical gear. They weren’t ordinary thugs; they moved with the precision of trained killers. But Phainon wasn’t concerned.

He relished the challenge.

As Vaughn leaned against the brick wall, pulling out a cigar, Phainon dropped from the rooftop in complete silence.

The first man didn’t even have time to react. A dagger plunged into his throat, severing vocal cords before he could scream. Blood sprayed across the wall as Phainon twisted the blade, then yanked it free. The second guard barely managed to spin around, gun raised—

Too slow.

Phainon sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and snapped it with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the ground. Before the guard could register the pain, Phainon drove his knee into the man’s ribs, sending him crumpling. A swift strike to the temple, and the body hit the floor with a thud.

Vaughn stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror. “What the f—”

Phainon was on him before he could finish.

A brutal punch to the gut sent Vaughn reeling. He gasped, dropping his cigar, but Phainon didn’t let up. He grabbed the so-called hero by the collar and slammed him against the brick wall.

"Scared, ‘hero’?" Phainon murmured, voice dripping with mockery. His usual cheerful demeanor was nowhere to be found—only cold amusement remained.

Vaughn wheezed. "W-Wait—"

Phainon drove his fist into the man’s ribs, feeling something crack. Vaughn let out a choked sound of pain.

"Did your victims get to beg?" Phainon asked, tilting his head. "Did you let them plead before you sold them like cattle?"

Vaughn trembled. "I—I can pay you! Triple whatever you’re getting! Just—"

The words died in his throat as Phainon unsheathed a second dagger, pressing it lightly against Vaughn’s cheek. A thin line of blood beaded where the blade kissed skin.

"Oh, Vaughn," Phainon sighed theatrically. "You really think this is about money?"

Vaughn whimpered.

Phainon’s grip tightened. His blade trailed down Vaughn’s neck, slow, deliberate. He could feel the man’s pulse hammering beneath his skin.

"You pretend to be a savior," Phainon whispered, his breath warm against Vaughn’s ear. "But you’re just another parasite, feeding off the innocent."

With a flick of his wrist, he drove the dagger into Vaughn’s shoulder.

A scream tore from the so-called hero’s lips, echoing through the alley.

"Shh, shh," Phainon cooed, twisting the blade. "Screaming won’t help you. No one’s coming."

Vaughn gasped, clawing at Phainon’s wrist, but the grip was unyielding.

"Please—!"

Phainon’s eyes darkened.

He yanked the blade free and, in one swift motion, slashed downward. Vaughn’s body convulsed before sagging against the wall. His eyes, once filled with arrogance, were now lifeless.

A pool of blood spread beneath him.

Phainon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

Another name erased. Another stain cleansed.

Wiping the blood off his blade, he stepped over the corpses, retrieving the gun one of the bodyguards had dropped. He turned it over in his hands before smirking. A hero’s own weapon, used to kill his accomplices. The police would find the bodies in the morning and spin whatever story they wanted.

He didn’t care.

All that mattered was that Vaughn wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

The night welcomed him as he vanished into the darkness.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

You sat on the worn-out couch of your clinic, a half-eaten pancake held loosely in your hands. The morning air was still crisp, the warmth of your blanket cocooning you, yet something about Phainon felt…off.

He was smiling—he always was—but there was something different about it. A flicker of exhaustion hidden behind his golden eyes, the way his fingers drummed against his knee, restless.

Something had happened.

You swallowed a bite of your food, tilting your head. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Phainon blinked, then grinned, feigning innocence. “What? Me? Angel, I am the very picture of health.”

You narrowed your eyes, setting your plate down. “Phainon.”

He flinched. You rarely used his name like that, not unless you were serious.

"Okay, okay, maybe I took a tiny night stroll," he admitted, waving a hand dismissively. "But look! I still had time to make you breakfast. Aren't I the best?"

You huffed, standing up and walking over to him. He was still sprawled lazily on your couch, but you could see it now—the tension in his shoulders, the subtle twitch in his fingers, as if his body hadn't fully come down from something.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. "You're tense."

For the first time since walking in, he hesitated.

You weren’t stupid. Phainon was good at hiding things, slipping past questions with honeyed words and cheeky grins. But now, up close, you could see the faint traces of red beneath his nails, the way his hoodie sleeves were rolled just enough to hide fresh bruises blooming along his skin.

Blood that wasn’t his.

The realization hit like a whisper of cold air.

"You’re hurt."

Phainon blinked. Then he smiled—small this time, softer, a little weary. "Not really," he murmured. "I’ve had worse."

You sighed, grabbing his wrist more firmly now. "Sit up."

He raised a brow. "Bossy today, aren't we?"

You shot him a look, and with a chuckle, he obeyed, straightening as you moved to inspect him properly.

Your hands were gentle, fingers tracing over his knuckles, noting the split skin. A fresh bruise painted the side of his hand, likely from impact. His sleeves had smudges of something darker—wiped-off blood.

You didn’t ask who it belonged to. You didn’t think you wanted to know.

Instead, you focused on tending to him, pulling out your medical kit. "You always come to me like this," you muttered. "How many times do I have to patch you up before you stop throwing yourself into trouble?"

Phainon leaned back against the couch, watching you with a lopsided smirk. "Mm… I dunno. How many times are you willing to fix me up?"

You paused, fingers hovering over his bruised skin. He always did this—teased, danced around the weight of his actions. And yet, the way he looked at you now, cerulean eyes searching, waiting—

It made your heart stutter.

"You're an idiot," you murmured, dipping a cloth into antiseptic before pressing it against his hand.

Phainon winced slightly but didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into your touch.

"Maybe," he hummed, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. "But I'm your idiot, aren't I?"

Your breath hitched.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft rustling of bandages as you wrapped his hand. He was watching you too closely, his usual playful mask slipping into something else—something heavier.

You could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his breathing had slowed. His free hand—uninjured, warm—lifted slightly, brushing against your wrist.

A silent question.

You swallowed.

"...You are," you admitted, barely above a whisper.

And that was all it took.

Phainon grinned, lazy and triumphant, before tugging you forward by the wrist. You barely had time to react before you found yourself half in his lap, your knees pressing against the couch cushions, his warmth seeping into your skin.

"Phainon—"

"Shhh," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was softer now, playful but laced with something deeper. "Just let me have this, angel."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You could feel his breath against your lips, the lingering scent of blood and something sweeter—cinnamon, from the breakfast he'd brought.

"You’re ridiculous," you mumbled, feeling heat creep up your neck.

Phainon chuckled, fingers brushing against your cheek. "And yet, you’re still here."

You wanted to argue, to shove him away and scold him for always making your heart race like this—but you didn't. Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a moment.

The air smelled like rust and rain. Blood pooled into the cracks of the pavement, seeping into the earth like ink on paper. Phainon flicked his blade once, crimson droplets splattering against the nearby wall, before slipping it back into its holster.

The "hero" at his feet gurgled one last, pitiful sound before falling silent.

Pathetic.

Phainon sighed, running a gloved hand through his pristine white hair, pushing back strands that had fallen loose from his usual messy style. His blue eyes gleamed under the dim glow of a streetlamp, their usual mischievous shine dulled by the weight of his work.

"You done being dramatic, or should I start playing sad violin music?"

A voice, flat and unimpressed, cut through the night air.

Phainon turned his head, spotting a familiar figure standing against the alley wall—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking as grumpy as ever. Mydei.

Phainon grinned. "Aw, come on, don’t be like that, Mydei. You’re making it sound like I don’t do good work."

Mydei sighed, pushing off the wall with an irritated huff. His white uniform, pristine even in the grimy alley, barely had a speck of blood on it—contrasting Phainon’s more…chaotic approach. His ash-blonde hair with red tips was in a loose ponytail, with a braid out of place from his left side, and his sharp golden eyes burned with constant disapproval.

“I swear, working with you is an exercise in patience,” Mydei muttered, stepping over the corpse with little care. “You take too long.”

Phainon shrugged, stretching his arms above his head lazily. “Art takes time, Mydei. You can’t rush greatness.”

Mydei gave him a look. “We’re not painting a fucking masterpiece. We’re eliminating scum.”

“Eh, same thing.”

Another sigh. Mydei pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine. “Just tell me it’s done so I can leave.”

“It’s done,” Phainon confirmed, rocking back on his heels. “You know, I don't get why you're always in such a rush. You should take time to appreciate the little things in life. Smell the roses, bask in the moonlight, think about the people you love—”

Mydei groaned. “Oh my god, do not start.”

Too late.

Phainon’s golden eyes softened, and a ridiculous, lovesick grin spread across his face. “Speaking of which, you won’t believe how adorable my angel looked this morning.” "Phainon shut up."

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion. It was late—too late for anyone to still be working, and yet, there you were, hunched over a stack of medical files, barely blinking as you scribbled down notes.

Phainon leaned against the doorframe, watching with mild amusement and growing concern. He had come to visit—not because he was injured (for once), but because, well… he missed you. Not that he’d ever say it outright.

But the moment he stepped inside, he noticed something off.

Your movements were sluggish, and your usual sharp focus seemed dulled by exhaustion. There were dark circles under your eyes, your lips slightly chapped, and your uniform was wrinkled—like you hadn’t had a proper break in days.

Phainon frowned.

“Hey, Angel—”

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered, barely looking up from your work.

“Alright, alright. [Name].” His tone softened slightly. “How long have you been at this?”

You hummed distractedly, flipping a page. “Since morning.”

Phainon’s brow twitched. “…It’s midnight.”

“Mm.”

Oh, hell no.

Before he could argue, you sniffled slightly. Then—

A single drop of red hit the page in front of you.

Phainon stiffened. His cerulean blue eyes widened slightly as he watched another drop fall.

You blinked. Touched your nose. Oh. Blood.

“Ah…” you mumbled, finally acknowledging your own state. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Phainon echoed incredulously.

You waved him off, already reaching for a tissue. “It’s fine. I just need to—”

“Sit. Down.”

Your hands froze.

When you finally looked up, Phainon was giving you a look. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced with something serious. It wasn’t often you saw him like this—jaw tight, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

"Phai, I still have—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You’re overworking yourself to the point of bleeding, [Name]. That’s not normal.”

You scoffed. “It’s just a nosebleed.”

“It’s not just a nosebleed when you’ve been running on fumes for who knows how long,” he shot back. “Have you even eaten today?”

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

Phainon sighed, dragging a hand through his messy white hair. “Unbelievable.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving. You barely had time to react before he grabbed the chair you were sitting in and spun it around so you were facing him. Then, to your surprise, he crouched down in front of you, resting his arms on his knees as he looked up at you with an unreadable expression.

The change in height was jarring. He was always towering over you at 6’2, but now? Now he looked genuinely concerned.

“Hey,” his voice softened. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, but you met his gaze.

“…When’s the last time you slept properly?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You swallowed. “Um.”

“That’s what I thought.” He clicked his tongue. “Angel—”

You shot him a weak glare.

“Fine, fine. [Name].” He sighed again, softer this time. “You can’t keep this up.”

You glanced at the files on your desk. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “The world isn’t gonna end if you take a break.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Phainon reached out and—

Tapped your forehead.

You blinked in surprise.

“Rest,” he murmured, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic warmth. “For me?”

For a moment, you just… stared at him.

The cerulean blue of his eyes was unusually soft, like the glow of the sky just before dawn. His messy white hair framed his face, strands falling over his forehead, but he made no move to fix it. He was just there, crouched in front of you, waiting.

You sighed. “…Fine.”

A slow, satisfied grin stretched across Phainon’s face. “Good.”

Then, to your utter horror, he stood up—grabbed you by the shoulders—and physically dragged you out of your chair.

“Phai—! What are you—”

“Bed. Now.”

“I hate you.”

“I know,” he said cheerfully, leading you toward the break room. “I’m amazing.”

You groaned. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Shut up.”

He only laughed.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

For the first time that night, the clinic was quiet.

The usual hum of your overworked mind had finally been silenced—replaced by the soft, even breaths of sleep. Phainon leaned against the doorway of the break room, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You had knocked out almost immediately after your head hit the pillow. Figures. Your body had probably been screaming for rest, and yet, you'd kept going until you'd collapsed.

He sighed through his nose, running a hand through his messy white hair.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no bite to his words.

The dim clinic lights cast soft shadows over your face, highlighting the exhaustion that had settled deep into your features. He had never seen you like this before—not just tired, but completely worn down. It made something tighten in his chest.

You always worked too damn hard. Too much responsibility. Too much weight on your shoulders.

Phainon hated it.

His cerulean blue eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally moved. Quietly, he stepped forward, pulling the blanket over your shoulders. You barely stirred, only sighing in your sleep as you curled further into the warmth.

He huffed a quiet laugh, crouching down beside you.

"You really do too much, y'know," he murmured, mostly to himself. "What would you do without me, huh?"

Silence.

A small smile ghosted over his lips.

His gloved fingers brushed against a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. You always looked so sharp, so focused—yet here, like this, you looked… peaceful.

He let out another sigh, softer this time.

“…Rest, Angel,” he murmured.

And for once, you did.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the silence.

No beeping machines, no shuffling patients, no ringing phone. Just the soft, comforting quiet of a world you weren’t used to.

Then, the second thing hit you.

You felt… rested.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Your eyes shot open, and the moment you glanced at the clock, your stomach dropped.

2:07 PM.

You had been asleep for over thirteen hours.

Panic surged through you, and you shot up so fast that the blanket slipped off your shoulders. "Oh, shit—I—"

"You’re finally up, Angel."

Your head whipped toward the source of the voice.

Phainon leaned lazily against the doorframe, his usual easygoing smile in place. He looked completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just let you sleep through half the day.

"Thirteen hours?!" you nearly shrieked, throwing the blanket off yourself. "Why the hell didn’t you wake me up? I have patients—I have work—"

"You don’t," Phainon said smoothly, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward you. "I told the nurse to cancel all your appointments for the day."

You froze.

"You what?"

Phainon only grinned, placing his hands on his hips like he’d done something heroic. "Today, you’re gonna rest and take care of yourself."

Your brain short-circuited. "Phai, you canceled my entire schedule?! Do you know how many—"

"Yup. And I’d do it again." He patted your head before you could dodge, his cerulean eyes glinting mischievously. "You're lucky I didn’t call a damn intervention."

You smacked his hand away with a scowl. "You can’t just decide that for me!"

"Yeah?" He arched a brow. "Then tell me, oh mighty doctor—when’s the last time you actually got a full night’s sleep?"

You opened your mouth—then closed it.

He had a point.

You hated that he had a point.

"...Exactly." Phainon ruffled your hair again, this time dodging your half-hearted attempt to swat him. "Now, c’mon. I made breakfast."

You blinked.

Your eyes trailed past him, toward the break room, and sure enough, you smelled it—the unmistakable scent of eggs, toast, and something slightly sweet.

Your stomach betrayed you with a low grumble.

Phainon’s grin widened.

"...Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms. "But only because I’m starving."

"Uh-huh," he teased, motioning for you to follow. "C’mon, Angel, let me spoil you for once."

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, warmth curled in your chest. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

After reluctantly agreeing to Phainon’s so-called "rest day," you made your way to the bathroom, still half-convinced this was some elaborate prank.

But the moment you stepped into the warm shower, feeling the tension in your muscles slowly melt away, you realized just how much you needed this.

For once, you weren’t rushing.

No patients waiting outside. No phone buzzing with emergency calls. No back-to-back shifts looming over your head.

Just peace.

You took your time—longer than usual—letting the hot water soothe your overworked body. Once you finally emerged, refreshed and slightly dazed, you dried your hair, slipped into comfortable clothes, and stepped out into the main clinic space.

And the first thing you saw was him.

Phainon sat on the couch, casually twirling something between his fingers. The moment his cerulean blue eyes landed on you, his entire face lit up.

Like a puppy seeing its favorite person.

"You look cute all cozy," he teased, tilting his head.

You scoffed, but before you could throw back a retort, he suddenly reached for your hand.

You blinked as he placed something cold and sleek against your palm.

A… black credit card?

You stared down at it, then back at him. "Uh, Phai? What the hell is this?"

His smile only grew. "Your new best friend."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why do you have a black credit card with no limit? And why are you giving it to me?"

He leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Because," he drawled, tapping the card in your hand, "I want you to spoil yourself."

You deadpanned. "Phai."

"Angel."

"Phainon."

"[Name]."

You groaned. "This is insane! I can’t just—"

"Sure, you can," he interrupted smoothly, flashing you a grin. "Buy whatever you want. Clothes, skincare, a new bed, hell—buy a whole damn island if it makes you happy."

"Why are you like this?" you muttered, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Because you deserve it," he said, voice softer this time. No teasing, no smugness—just pure, genuine sincerity. "You work your ass off for everyone else. So, let me take care of you for once, yeah?"

You bit your lip, suddenly unsure how to respond.

The idea of spending his money—let alone this much money—felt ridiculous. But the way he looked at you, so effortlessly warm and unwavering in his care, made your chest tighten.

"...I’ll think about it," you muttered, shoving the card into your pocket.

Phainon beamed. "That’s my girl."

You flushed. "Phai—"

"Shhh." He grinned, standing up and ruffling your hair. "Now, go pick something. Or better yet, let’s go out, and I’ll help you spend it."

You were lounging on the couch, finally allowing yourself a moment of rest, when you heard a loud thud.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Phainon stumble back, one hand clutching his forehead after walking straight into the wall.

For a second, there was silence. Then—

"Ow."

Your stomach dropped. "Phai?!"

Without thinking, you shot up from your seat and rushed to him. His cerulean eyes blinked in mild confusion as you cupped his face, tilting it down so you could examine his forehead.

"Let me see," you mumbled, scanning for any signs of bruising. "God, you’re such an idiot. How did you even—"

Before you could finish, Phainon suddenly turned his head—

And pressed a soft kiss against the inside of your palm.

You froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours, impossibly fond and teasing all at once.

"Don’t worry, Angel," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "You won’t lose me that easily."

Your breath hitched, heart thudding a little too fast. "Phai—"

But before anything else could happen—

The door slammed open.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

You jolted in shock as a familiar figure stormed inside.

Dressed in his usual crisp uniform, Mydei stood at the entrance, his golden eyes immediately narrowing at the scene before him. His already grumpy expression twisted into something even darker the moment he spotted you—cupping Phainon’s face—while Phainon was holding your wrist way too tenderly.

For a long, tense moment, there was silence.

Then—

"BRO GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY SISTER!"

Your brain short-circuited. "…What?"

Phainon, to your absolute horror, simply turned to him with a shit-eating grin. "Ohhh, so now you decide to show up?"

"PHAINON, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"Wait, wait, wait," you cut in, still trying to process literally everything. You looked between the two men—one your unbearably clingy not-so-secret admirer, the other your grumpy older brother who should not be here. "What do you mean ‘sister’?!"

"What do you mean ‘now you show up’?!"

Mydei scowled, ignoring your question entirely. "I knew something was up. The way you’ve been talking about some ‘angel’ non-stop—"

"Ohhh," Phainon mused, leaning back slightly. "Now it all makes sense."

You turned to him, utterly bewildered. "What makes sense?!"

He simply beamed at you, still completely unbothered. "Angel, did I forget to mention?* Your brother and I are coworkers.*"

You blinked. Then, slowly—painfully—you turned to Mydei. "You what?"

Your brother pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about "just one damn night without problems." Then, exhaling sharply, he shot Phainon a glare that could’ve killed a man on the spot.

"This is exactly why I told you not to get involved," Mydei growled. "But nooo, you just had to imprint on my little sister like a lost puppy—"

Phainon grinned. "You call it imprinting. I call it fate."

"Phainon, I swear—"

"Everyone shut up!" you finally snapped, massaging your temples. "Someone start explaining before I actually lose my mind."

Mydei glared at Phainon like he was this close to throwing him out the window. "You first, dumbass."

Phainon chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Where do I even start? The part where we’ve been hunting down corrupt heroes together? Or the part where I fell for your sister the moment she patched me up?"

Mydei’s eye twitched. "Get the fuck out."

"No can do, big bro," Phainon said, grinning. "I live for danger, and your sister happens to be my favorite one."

Mydei clenched his fists. "I am so going to kill you."

Meanwhile, you just stood there, completely overwhelmed.

Your brother was a secret vigilante.

Phainon was his partner in crime.

And apparently, Mydei had no idea that Phainon had been sneaking into your life like a love-struck idiot this entire time.

You let out a slow, suffering sigh. "I need another bath."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Its been 47 fucking minutes and those two gigantic men are STILL arguing

You inhaled sharply through your nose, gripping the bridge of your nose as both Phainon and Mydei continued their bickering like two overgrown children.

"I swear to god," Mydei seethed, jabbing a finger at Phainon. "If you so much as breathe near my sister again—"

"Too late," Phainon interrupted smoothly, looking completely unbothered. "I’ve already done much more than breathing. Did you know her hands are so soft—"

"PHAINON, I WILL MURDER YOU."

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!"

Your voice boomed through the room, silencing both men immediately.

They both snapped their heads toward you, wide-eyed, as you glared at them with the force of someone who had been through way too much in one day.

"I don’t care who kills who," you hissed. "I don’t care who works with who, and I especially don’t care about your dumb territorial bullshit. Both of you, just—SHUT UP."

A thick, heavy silence filled the air.

Then, very slowly—

Phainon’s expression crumbled into the most heart-wrenchingly sad look you had ever seen.

His cerulean eyes went wide with devastation. His lips wobbled slightly. His shoulders slumped. His entire demeanor changed into that of an abandoned puppy who had just been kicked out into the rain.

And then—he sank onto the floor.

"...Okay," he mumbled, looking utterly defeated.

You blinked. "Phai, what are you doing—"

Before you could finish, Mydei also stiffened.

Your brother—grumpy, terrifying, merciless vigilante Mydei—visibly swallowed, his golden eyes darting between you and Phainon. Then, hesitantly, with all the grace of a cat who didn’t want to admit guilt—he sat down beside Phainon.

"...Sorry," he grumbled.

You stared at them.

One sad, abandoned puppy.

One guilty, grumpy cat.

Sitting on your floor.

Like two children who had just been scolded by their mom.

You let out the biggest sigh of your life and rubbed your temples. "You both have got to be kidding me."

Phainon, still looking like he had been emotionally devastated, peeked up at you through messy white bangs. "Angel… are you still mad at me?"

You exhaled sharply. "No."

Phainon immediately perked up, tail-wagging energy returning. "Okay, cool. So I can—"

"DON’T PUSH IT."

"Okay," he whispered, sitting back down.

Beside him, Mydei grumbled under his breath before side-eyeing Phainon. "...Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Phainon turned to him and blinked. "Because you sat down."

"I sat down because she was mad at me!"

"Yeah, and she was mad at me too."

"So what, you just copied me?"

"Pretty much."

Mydei groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I hate you so much." "But your sister loves me ;)"

Phainon was a regular at the market, always dressed in simple but elegant clothes that seemed to catch the light just right. His hair, a cascade of silvery waves, framed a face that could only be described as otherworldly. His eyes, a shade of blue so deep it was almost unsettling, seemed to hold the mysteries of the ocean itself.

“Good morning” he said, his voice smooth and melodic, like the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. He smiled at you.

“Morning, Phainon” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “The usual?”

He nodded, and you handed him a small pouch of dried lavender. He always bought the same thing, every time. You’d never asked why, but you liked to imagine he used it to scent his home, or perhaps to brew tea. He paid with a few coins, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment.

As he turned to leave, something slipped from his pocket—a small, intricately carved seashell. You called out to him, but he didn’t seem to hear, already weaving his way through the crowd. Without thinking, you grabbed the shell and hurried after him.

The market thinned as you followed him toward the edge of the village, where the cobblestones gave way to a dirt path leading down to the beach. The sound of the waves grew louder, and the air grew cooler, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and seaweed. Phainon walked with purpose, his pace quickening as he neared the water.

You were about to call out to him again when he suddenly stopped. You froze, hiding behind a large rock, unsure why you felt the need to conceal yourself. Something about the way he moved, the way he seemed to blend with the sea, made you hesitate.

And then it happened.

Phainon’s form began to shift, his body elongating, his skin taking on a faint, iridescent sheen. His legs fused together, transforming into a powerful, shimmering tail. The silvery waves of his hair seemed to merge with the scales that now covered his body, and when he turned his head, you saw the faint outline of gills along his neck.

Phainon wasn’t human. He was a merman.

You stood frozen on the beach, the seashell clutched tightly in your hand, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it even from beneath the waves. The water rippled, and then Phainon emerged, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in the air was palpable. He moved toward you with an eerie grace, his tail gliding effortlessly through the shallow water.

"You saw"

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. You knew you should say something—anything—to defuse the situation, but your tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of your mouth. Phainon’s gaze darkened as he closed the distance between you, his tail shifting back into legs as he stepped onto the sand.

"You shouldn’t have followed me" He reached out, his fingers brushing against your neck, and you felt the sharp edge of his nails—no, claws—grazing your skin. Your breath hitched, and your survival instincts kicked in.

"Wait!" you blurted out, your voice cracking. "You’re… you’re really pretty!"

Phainon froze, his hand still hovering near your throat. For a moment, there was silence, and then—he laughed. It wasn’t the warm, melodic laugh you’d heard at the market.

"Pretty?" he repeated, his lips curling into a smirk. "Is that really what you’re going with?"

You nodded frantically, your brain scrambling for something—anything—to keep him from killing you. "And—and I taste bad! Like, really bad. You wouldn’t like me. I’m all… bitter and gross. Like old seaweed. Or—or barnacles. Yeah, barnacles. You don’t want to eat me."

"Barnacles, huh?" he said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I’ll have to take your word for it."

He stepped back, releasing you, and you nearly collapsed with relief. But his eyes never left yours, and the intensity in his gaze made it clear that this wasn’t over. "You’re an interesting one," he said, his tone light but laced with something darker. "I’ll let you live… for now. But if you tell anyone what you saw, I won’t be so generous next time."

You nodded vigorously, clutching the seashell like a lifeline. "I won’t say a word. I swear."

Phainon’s smirk softened into something almost playful, and he turned to walk back toward the water. "Good" he said over his shoulder. "I’ll see you at the market tomorrow. And… meet me alone after the day ends. Don’t be late."

And with that, he slipped beneath the waves, leaving you standing there, your heart still racing and your mind spinning.

The next day at the market was agony. Every time Phainon approached your stall, your hands trembled as you handed him his usual pouch of lavender. He acted as though nothing had happened, his smile as charming as ever, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, the unspoken threat lingering in the air. The other villagers greeted him warmly, completely unaware of what he truly was, and you forced yourself to smile and nod along, keeping your mouth shut as promised.

When the market finally closed and the sun began to dip below the horizon, you made your way to the secluded spot on the beach where Phainon had told you to meet him. Your stomach churned with nerves, but you knew you had no choice. He was waiting for you, leaning against a rock, his silver hair catching the last rays of sunlight.

"You came," he said, his voice smooth and teasing. "I was starting to think you’d run away."

"I didn’t think running would help" you admitted.

Phainon chuckled, "Smart" he said. "But don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you… yet. I just want to talk."

You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or more terrified. But as he began to speak, his voice low and hypnotic, you realized that this was only the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The tension between you and Phainon was palpable as you stood on the beach, the waves lapping at the shore in a rhythm that felt almost mocking. You couldn’t help but blurt out the first thing that came to mind, trying to lighten the mood.

"Should I, uh, offer you some fish or something?" you stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the water. "You know, so you don’t get hungry and… eat me or whatever?"

"Fish?" he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. "Do I look like some common sea creature to you?"

"Well, I mean, you are a merman" you said, "I just thought—"

"I don’t need your fish," he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "And I’m not going to eat you. Not today, anyway."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off again, his smirk widening. "Honestly, you’re more entertaining alive than you would be as a snack. So stop worrying so much."

You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or insulted, but before you could say anything else, Phainon’s expression shifted. His gaze flicked over your shoulder, narrowing slightly. You turned to follow his line of sight, but all you saw was the shadow of a figure disappearing into the trees.

"Who was that?" you asked.

Phainon’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of mild irritation. "No one important," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just someone who doesn’t know how to mind their own business."

You didn’t press further, but the encounter left you feeling uneasy. When Phainon finally dismissed you, you hurried back to the village, your mind racing with questions.

The next day, you weren’t at your usual spot in the market. Phainon noticed immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the stalls for any sign of you. When he didn’t see you, a flicker of worry crossed his face—though he’d never admit it. If you’d revealed his secret, he wouldn’t still be standing here, free to roam the village. So where were you?

He began asking around casually, his charm and easy smile masking the urgency he felt. "Have you seen the seller with the honey and herbs?" he asked one of the villagers, his tone light. "I was hoping to buy something from them today."

The villager shrugged. "I think I saw them heading toward the woods earlier. Maybe they’re gathering more herbs?"

Phainon’s smile tightened, but he thanked the villager and made his way toward the edge of the village, his steps quickening as he entered the forest. It didn’t take long for him to find you—or rather, to find the man who had been watching you the night before.

You were cornered against a tree, the man standing too close, his expression a mix of anger and desperation. "You’ve been spending a lot of time with him" the man spat, his voice trembling. "Phainon. Everyone loves him, but he’s not what he seems. And you—you’re always so nice to everyone. Why can’t you see me?"

You tried to step back, but the tree trunk pressed into your back, leaving you nowhere to go. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about" you stammered, your voice shaking. "I’m just trying to do my job."

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out to grab your arm, but before he could, a voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Let them go."

Both of you turned to see Phainon standing a few feet away, his expression cold and dangerous. The man hesitated, his grip on your arm loosening slightly.

"This doesn’t concern you" the man said, though his voice wavered.

Phainon took a step closer, "Oh, but it does," he said, "Now, I suggest you walk away before I make you."

The man glanced between you and Phainon, his face pale. Finally, he released your arm and took a step back, muttering something under his breath before turning and disappearing into the trees.

You let out a shaky breath, your legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. Phainon stepped closer, his expression softening slightly.

"Are you all right?"

You nodded, though you were still trembling. "Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for… you know, not letting him kidnap me or whatever."

"You really do have a knack for getting into trouble, don’t you?"

"Apparently," you muttered, rubbing your arm where the man had grabbed you.

"Come on," he said, gesturing for you to follow him. "I’ll walk you back to the village. And don’t worry—I’ll make sure no one bothers you again."

You hesitated, but something in his tone made you feel a little safer. As you walked beside him, you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mess you’d gotten yourself into—and whether Phainon was really the dangerous one, or if the real threat was lurking much closer to home.

The next day, you found yourself back at the shore, the salty breeze tugging at your hair as you stood beside Phainon. The events of the previous day still lingered in your mind, but there was something almost… comforting about being near him now. Maybe it was the way he’d protected you, or maybe it was the way his smirk softened just slightly when he looked at you.

"So," you began, glancing at him sideways, "am I, like, a pet to you now? Or… what exactly is going on here?"

Phainon turned to look at you, his eyebrows shooting up in amusement. "A pet?" he repeated, "What is in that crazy mind of yours? Do you really think I’d keep a human as a pet?"

"Well, I don’t know!" you said, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "You’re a merman who could probably eat me if you wanted to, but instead you’re just… hanging out with me. It’s weird!"

He laughed, "You’re overthinking this" he said, shaking his head. "I don’t keep pets, and I don’t eat humans who make me laugh. Consider yourself lucky."

You frowned, not entirely convinced, but you let it drop for now. The two of you continued walking along the shore, the sand cool beneath your feet. You bent down to pick up a shell, turning it over in your hands.

"Do you blow this for music?" you asked, holding it up to him. "You know, like a mermaid—or merman—flute or something?"

Phainon glanced at the shell, then at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "Do I look like a sea bard to you?" he said dryly. "No, I don’t blow shells for music. What even goes on in that head of yours?"

You shrugged, grinning despite yourself. "I don’t know! I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re kind of a mystery, you know."

He rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Good luck with that," he said. "I’ve been around for centuries, and I still don’t understand humans."

Before you could respond, Phainon’s expression suddenly shifted. His eyes darkened, and he turned his head sharply toward the water. You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.

"Are you okay?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a step back, his gaze still fixed on the ocean. "I need to go" he said abruptly.

"Wait, what? Why?"

But he was already moving, his form beginning to shift as he waded into the water. You stood there, shell still in hand, staring at the spot where he’d disappeared.

"Okay, then," you muttered to yourself, tucking the shell into your pocket. "Guess I’ll just… wait here?"

But Phainon didn’t resurface, and after a while, you turned and made your way back to the village, your mind buzzing with questions. What had just happened? Why had he left so suddenly? And why did you feel a strange pang of worry for a creature who could probably swallow you whole if he wanted to?

The early morning light was just beginning to filter through the trees as you prepared your stall for the day. The market was still quiet, the villagers only just starting to stir. You were arranging jars of honey and bundles of herbs when a noise caught your attention—a sharp, guttural sound that sent a chill down your spine. It came from the edge of the forest, near the shore.

Your heart raced as you followed the sound, your footsteps quick and silent. When you reached the source, your breath caught in your throat. Phainon was there, but he wasn’t the charming, enigmatic figure you’d come to know. His eyes were wild, his teeth bared, and beneath him was the lifeless body of a man. Blood stained the sand, and Phainon’s hands—no, claws—were slick with it.

For a moment, you froze, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. This wasn’t the Phainon who teased you, who laughed at your ridiculous questions, who walked you back to the village to keep you safe. This was something else entirely.

But before you could think too much about it, your instincts kicked in. You rushed forward, grabbing Phainon by the arm. "We need to go. Now," you hissed, your voice low but urgent.

He looked at you, his eyes still clouded with something primal, but he didn’t resist as you pulled him away from the scene. You led him to a secluded spot further down the shore, where the trees provided cover. Once there, you turned to him, your hands trembling but your voice steady.

"Stay here," you said. "I’ll take care of it."

Phainon didn’t respond, his breathing ragged as he slumped against a rock. You hurried back to the body, your stomach churning as you dragged it into the water, letting the current carry it away. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would have to do. You then scooped up handfuls of sand to cover the bloodstains, erasing as much evidence as you could.

When you returned to Phainon, he was still in the same spot, his head bowed. You knelt beside him, cupping water in your hands to wash the blood from his skin. He flinched at first but didn’t pull away, his eyes slowly clearing as the cold water brought him back to himself.

"I didn’t mean to… I lost control. The hunger—it’s been worse lately."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" you asked softly. "I could’ve helped."

He looked at you, his expression a mix of guilt and something else—something vulnerable. "I didn’t want you to see me like this," he admitted. "I didn’t want you to be afraid of me."

You sighed, sitting back on your heels. "Well, it’s a little late for that," you said, "But I’m still here, aren’t I?"

He didn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. You stood, brushing the sand off your hands. "Wait here," you said. "I’ll be back."

You hurried to the market, grabbing a few fresh fish from one of the stalls. You skewered them and grilled them quickly over a small fire, the smell of the cooking fish filling the air. When they were done, you brought them back to Phainon, holding one out to him.

"Here," you said. "Try this."

He hesitated, then took the skewer, biting into the fish cautiously. His eyes widened slightly, and he devoured the rest in a few quick bites. "This… helps," he said, his voice quieter now. "More than I expected."

You nodded, sitting down beside him. "Good. I’ll make sure you have some every day. No more… incidents, okay?"

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched between you, comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. Finally, you broke it.

"My parents… they’ve been urging me to find a partner" you said, staring at your hands. "To settle down. They’re getting older, and they want to see me happy before… well, you know."

Phainon’s head snapped toward you, his expression darkening. "A partner?" he repeated, his voice tight. "And what do you want?"

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. But they’re not going to stop asking."

He was silent for a long moment, his jaw clenched. Finally, he spoke "You don’t need a partner. You’re fine as you are."

"I mean, it’s not that simple—"

"It is," he interrupted,"You don’t need anyone else."

You blinked, unsure how to respond. But before you could say anything, he looked away.

"Just… don’t rush into anything," he said quietly. "Not for them."

You nodded, though your mind was racing. What was he implying? And why did the thought of finding someone else suddenly feel so… wrong?

As the sun rose higher in the sky, you sat there beside him, the sound of the waves filling the silence. And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need to look for a partner at all. Maybe what you needed was already right beside you.

The days that followed were a strange mix of tension and quiet understanding. You kept your promise, bringing Phainon freshly grilled fish every morning, and he, in turn, seemed more like himself—charming, enigmatic, and just a little dangerous. But there was a shift between you now, an unspoken connection that neither of you dared to address.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found yourself sitting with Phainon on the shore. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the faint smokiness of the fire you’d built to grill his fish. He ate quietly, his gaze fixed on the horizon, while you fiddled with a piece of driftwood, your thoughts swirling.

"You know," you said, breaking the silence, "I’ve been thinking about what you said. About not needing a partner."

"And?"

"And… I think you might be right" you admitted, "I don’t need someone to make me happy. I’m fine on my own."

"But?"

You hesitated, then sighed. "But my parents… they won’t stop pushing. They’ve even started introducing me to people. It’s exhausting."

Phainon’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his fingers curling into fists. "They don’t understand," he said, "They don’t see what I see."

"And what do you see?"

He turned to you, "I see someone who doesn’t belong in their world. Someone who’s… different. Like me."

"Phainon, I’m not—"

"You are," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You’ve always been different. That’s why I chose you."

"Chose me?"

He didn’t respond right away, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle.

"You’re mine. You always have been. I just didn’t realize it until now."

There was something terrifying about his words, but also something undeniably alluring. You’d always felt drawn to him, even when you didn’t understand why. And now, as you looked into his eyes, you realized that maybe you didn’t need to understand. Maybe you just needed to accept it.

"Phainon" you began, your voice trembling, trying to resist some invisible force "I—"

Before you could finish, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark with something primal, something that made your heart race.

"Stay with me" he said, like a command "Forget the village. Forget your parents. You belong here, with me."

You hesitated, your mind racing. This was madness. He was a merman, a creature of the sea, and you were… just you. But as you looked into his eyes, you realized that maybe madness was exactly what you needed.

"Okay...." you whispered, "I’ll stay."

Phainon’s lips curved into a smile, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you.

"Good" he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "You won’t regret it."

The villagers noticed your absence, of course. At first, they assumed you’d gone on a trip, or perhaps decided to move to another village. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the rumors began to spread. Some said you’d been taken by the sea, while others whispered that you’d run away with a lover. Your parents grieved, but they never stopped hoping you’d return.

What they didn’t know was that you were still there, just beyond the shore, hidden in the depths of the ocean. Phainon had built a life for you beneath the waves, a world of shimmering coral and bioluminescent light. It was beautiful, but it was also isolating. You rarely saw other humans, and when you did, it was from a distance, watching as they walked along the shore, oblivious to the danger lurking just beneath the surface.

The villagers never found out what happened to you, but sometimes, on quiet nights, they swore they could hear a voice singing from the sea—a voice that sounded almost like yours. And though they didn’t understand it, they felt a strange sense of unease, as if the ocean itself was watching them, waiting.

“You’re wasting your time” you had told them. “Someone like you doesn’t even stand a chance.”

It was a ritual at this point. Someone dared to approach Aventurine, and you made sure they didn’t try again.

Now, he was watching you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You know,” he drawled, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

You scoffed, flipping your hair—or at least making a show of ignoring him. “I’m just doing a public service. The sooner they realize they have no hope, the less embarrassing it is for everyone.” Then, with a sweet tilt of your head, you added, “You should be thanking me, really.”

Aventurine chuckled, stepping closer, invading your space just enough to make it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. “Oh? You want a reward now?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “At the very least, some praise. Go on, tell me how amazing I am.”

“You’re amazing.”

You blinked. He was rarely this direct. Before you could react, he laughed, stepping back. “But, my dear, if you keep scaring them all away, people might start thinking I belong to you.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up. “Maybe you do.”

His laughter stilled for half a second. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze. Then, just as quickly, his easy going mask slipped back into place.

“That would be interesting.”

Little did you know, he intended to make sure of it.

Graduation day was a spectacle. You and Aventurine stood among your peers, the center of admiration in your own right—him for his effortless charm, you for your sharp wit and unshakable confidence.

As the ceremony ended and students parted ways, he found you near the exit, hands tucked into his pockets, his ever-present smirk in place. “So....where’s someone like you planning to go after this?”

You hummed, pretending to consider before casually dropping the name of your chosen company. His eyes flickered with interest. “That’s my parents’ company”

You widened your eyes slightly, feigning mild surprise. “Oh? What a coincidence.”

“A very lucky one.”

Fast forward to your first day at work. You walked into the sleek office, greeted by murmurs from other employees—new hires always drew attention, but you? You already stood out. The air of confidence you carried made you someone to watch.

And then, the moment you had anticipated arrived.

Aventurine stood at the front of the department, looking effortlessly composed, dressed in a tailored suit that only accentuated the arrogance in his stance. His gaze locked onto yours, something smug and knowing flickering in his eyes.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You blinked, tilting your head in well-practiced confusion. “You work here?”

He knew. But he played along.

“As your head of department, no less.” He took a step forward, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “I look forward to working with you.”

Under Aventurine’s leadership, and your own subtle influence, your department quickly became one of the most efficient in the company. Projects were completed ahead of schedule, deals closed with impressive success rates, and while other departments struggled with internal issues, yours remained a well-oiled machine.

Of course, much of that was thanks to an unspoken system between you and Aventurine.

While your official role had nothing to do with it, you ensured that any overeager admirer who got too close to Aventurine was dealt with—politely discouraged or, if necessary, intimidated into staying away. He, in turn, did the same for you. If anyone showed too much interest, Aventurine had a way of making them disappear from your orbit, whether through well-placed rumors, strategic work assignments, or outright dismissal.

It was a silent game between you two, one that no one else noticed.

Months passed, and your department’s success led to a well-earned celebration. Drinks flowed freely, and you, usually composed, had more than your fair share.

At some point, as the night blurred into a haze, you found yourself leaning against Aventurine, your voice slurred but your words unusually sincere.

“You know” you murmured, “I like you.”

He stilled. You were drunk—too drunk to lie, too drunk to scheme. It was the truth, raw and unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Aventurine’s smirk softened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He had always known, had seen the signs, but hearing it from you, in your own words, was something else entirely.

He let you ramble a bit more, basking in the moment.

But the next morning, when you groggily woke up with a pounding headache and no memory of your confession, he understood.

You had forgotten.

And so, he continued his act. He remained your close friend, the same as always, pretending not to know the truth you had once let slip.

After all, if you didn’t remember, then he’d simply wait for you to say it again—this time, when you were sober, when there was no excuse to take it back.

-----

Aventurine had always known you belonged to him.

So when he noticed your colleague, some pathetic, overeager fool—clinging to you more than they should, he saw it as a challenge. They laughed too easily at your jokes, found excuses to be near you, and worst of all, acted as if they had a right to your time.

Aventurine smiled through it all, of course. Played the role of the charming superior, never letting on how much their presence grated on him. But behind the scenes, he was already setting things in motion.

It was almost too easy. A misplaced document here, a poorly handled report there, all leading to a mistake so significant that termination was inevitable. When the announcement came, Aventurine watched you closely.

You barely reacted. You had always been sharp—if you had truly cared, you would have noticed the setup. Instead, you continued as if nothing had changed, your attention fixated on him alone.

You bought him lunch without hesitation, stayed in his office under the guise of "helping" him, indulged his whims with a familiarity that sent a thrill through his veins.

Yes, this was where you belonged.

And then, the perfect opportunity arrived. A chance to lure you into his trap.

This time, you would walk into his web willingly.

The bar was a familiar comfort—a place you frequented enough that the staff knew your usual orders. It was no surprise, then, when a friendly female worker greeted you with a warm smile.

"Hey, you're back! Here, have some on the house." she said, sliding a small plate of treats toward you.

You took it without much thought, but Aventurine’s gaze darkened ever so slightly. His fingers tapped lazily against his glass as he watched the exchange.

Jealousy coiled inside him.

She was just being nice, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t like seeing anyone treat you as if they had the right to your attention. That was his privilege.

Still, he smiled, as he always did, masking his displeasure beneath a charming facade.

"Seems like you’re quite the favorite here." he mused, pouring you another drink.

You shrugged. "I come here often."

"Clearly."

He didn’t need to do much after that. You were already comfortable, already drinking at a steady pace. Aventurine, ever the attentive friend, made sure your glass was never empty, nudging you to drink just a little more, his own intake carefully controlled.

By the time the night deepened, you were warm and pliant under his gaze, your sharp edges dulled by intoxication. Perfect.

“You’re staying at my place” he murmured, guiding you up with an arm around your waist.

You barely protested. Why would you? He was always by your side.

One of his many houses was nearby, a private sanctuary where no one would disturb you both. He led you inside, settled you onto a plush couch, and before you could drift into unconsciousness, he struck.

"Say," he leaned in, "why do you always chase off my admirers?"

Your head swayed slightly, your inhibitions stripped away. "Because I don’t like them."

He chuckled. "Oh? You don’t like them or… you don’t like them around me?"

You groaned, running a hand down your face. "I hate it. I hate watching you with other people. You always act like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke, but it’s not."

Aventurine remained still, letting you pour your heart out.

"You tease me so much, but you don’t take me seriously," you continued, voice slurring slightly. "You make me feel like I’m just one of the people you play with, and I hate it."

Slowly, he reached into his pocket, ensuring the recording was saved—proof, undeniable, that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

Carefully, he wove his fingers through your hair, tilting your face toward him. "I’m sorry" he murmured, his voice dripping with honeyed remorse. "I didn’t know I was making you feel that way."

For a moment, it seemed like everything was going exactly as he had planned.

And then—

You lurched forward, and before he could react, you puked.

Right on his expensive designer shoes.

Aventurine stared, utterly speechless for the first time in his life.

"...Well," he finally said, voice strained, "that was unexpected."

The next morning, you woke up with a pounding headache, the aftermath of last night's drinks weighing heavily on you. Blinking against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, you quickly realized something was off.

You weren’t in your own bed.

Instead, you were nestled against him, Aventurine’s warmth pressing against your side, his arm draped lazily over your waist.

Before you could process anything, a familiar voice—far too smug for your liking—broke through the silence.

"Good morning, darling" Aventurine purred.

You groaned, sitting up. "Why am I here?"

He stretched leisurely, then reached for his phone. "Well, you had quite the night," he mused. "And I have proof."

Then, with a single tap, he played the recording.

Your own voice filled the air—raw, unfiltered emotions spilling out. I hate watching you with other people. You always act like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke, but it’s not...

You were busted.

Aventurine watched your reaction, "You know," he murmured, "you could just admit it. Save yourself the trouble."

You clenched your jaw, glaring at him, but there was no way out of this. He had you cornered.

"...Fine, bastard." you muttered.

"Fine?" His grin widened, and before you could take it back, he pulled you closer. "Say it properly."

You huffed, cheeks burning. "I like you, okay? Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic." he whispered before pressing a kiss to your temple.

A blur of fur launched onto the table, scattering dice and knocking over carefully placed pieces. Rowan let out a sharp gasp, while you barely had time to react before a tiny, wriggling body landed in your lap.

"Pebble!" Rowan groaned, throwing her hands up. "You little demon!"

The ferret chittered, unbothered by the accusation, tail flicking as she burrowed into the crook of your arm. You chuckled, stroking her soft fur. "Guess that means I win by default."

"Absolutely not!" Rowan pointed an accusatory finger at you before hastily trying to reset the board. "We are starting over, and you are losing."

Before you could argue, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—and suddenly, all interest in revenge seemed to vanish. "Oh! Did you hear about that lucky egg dispenser? The one that spawns magical pets?"

That caught your attention. You adjusted Pebble in your arms, intrigued. "Magical pets?"

"Yeah, people have been posting about it all day." She turned the phone toward you, showing images of small creatures—some glowing, some covered in intricate patterns, others curled up beside their new owners. "You said you wanted a pet, right? Maybe you'll get something cool."

That was all the convincing you needed.

The shop was tucked into a quiet alley, the kind of place that felt almost hidden from the rest of the world. The machine itself stood against the wall, an old-fashioned thing with a glass front and faintly glowing buttons. A small crowd had gathered, some holding eggs that shimmered with warmth, others already introducing their newly hatched companions to the world.

You fed a coin into the slot, anticipation thrumming in your chest as. Light swirled within the chamber, forming the shape of an egg—

But something was wrong.

Instead of the warm glow of the other eggs, yours was a deep, icy blue. The second it materialized, the temperature dropped. A thin layer of frost spread beneath it, creeping outward in sharp, crystalline patterns. The air turned crisp, your breath misting in front of you.

Rowan took one look and backed away. "Nope. Absolutely not. That thing is cursed. You are on your own."

You barely heard her. The cold should’ve been biting, unbearable—but as you reached out, it didn’t sting. Didn’t hurt.

You lifted the egg carefully, cradling it against you. Beneath your touch, the frost settled.

"You're seriously keeping that?" Rowan asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. I think I am."

Taking care of the egg wasn’t easy.

It never warmed, never pulsed with life the way Rowan said hers had. Other people who had gotten lucky eggs spoke about how their eggs glowed, moved, or made soft noises from inside. Yours did nothing.

It just sat there, an unmoving sphere of frost.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to worry.

Even when Pebble curiously prodded at it with her tiny paws, even when Rowan kept side-eyeing it like it might explode, you simply… waited.

The egg sat in a nest of blankets on your desk, cold as ice but never spreading frost beyond its immediate space. When you touched it, the chill wasn’t painful, just sharp—like the crisp bite of winter air. You spoke to it sometimes, like it could hear you.

“I wonder what you’ll be,” you mused one night, resting your chin in your hand as you watched it. “Something fluffy? Something with wings?”

But on the third night, something changed.

crack.

You bolted upright, heart leaping, just as another fracture splintered across the egg’s icy surface.

"Oh, shit—"

The cold surged outward, a sudden blast of frigid air so intense it made the lights flicker. Pebble scurried under your bed with a startled squeak. Rowan, who had stayed over out of curiosity, jolted awake on your floor, rubbing her eyes blearily.

“What—” she started, but then the egg broke.

Not in gentle pieces.

It shattered.

Shards of ice burst outward, frost curling along the floor. You instinctively shielded your face, but the cold didn’t harm you. Instead, a figure emerged from the mist, stepping forward as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

Tall. Broad shoulders. White hair. Blue eyes.

He reached for you, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. He was freezing. Ice clung to his clothes, frost still trailing from his skin, but his hold was desperate.

Like he had been waiting an eternity to touch someone again.

"...You're real" he murmured against your shoulder, voice low, almost disbelieving. "You're here."

Rowan made a sound—half gasp, half incredulous choke. "Okay, WHAT—"

The man’s head snapped up. His arms tensed around you, and before you could blink, a blade materialized in his grip.

Rowan barely had time to move before he pointed it at her.

"Wait!" You moved, stepping in front of Rowan, shielding her with your body. “Stop! She’s not a threat!”

The cold thickened, sharp and heavy in the air. His grip on the weapon didn’t waver.

But then, his eyes met yours again.

And, slowly—reluctantly—he lowered the blade.

Rowan, to her credit, didn’t push.

After witnessing a fully grown man emerge from an ice egg and nearly skewer her with his weapon, she looked between you and him—expression torn between concern and absolute disbelief, then slowly exhaled.

"You know what? I’m gonna go."

"Rowan—"

"Nope. You two clearly have… whatever this is to sort out. And I, for one, do not want to be on the receiving end of a sword again.”

She grabbed Pebble—who had poked her head out from under the bed, curiosity outweighing her fear. “Text me if you need backup. Or if he starts doing creepy ice magic. Or if he tries to murder you in your sleep.”

“I won’t need backup.”

“You say that now.”

Then, with a final suspicious glance at Kevin—who had yet to move from where he stood, silently watching—she left.

The moment the door clicked shut, you turned back to the stranger in your room.

“Alright. Spill.”

He didn’t respond.

You crossed your arms. “Who are you?”

Silence.

“How did you come from the egg?”

Nothing.

“Why did you almost stab Rowan?”

Still nothing.

Your patience thinned. His unwillingness to speak was quickly becoming frustrating.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Look, you can’t just show up, nearly give my best friend a heart attack, hug me like you’ve known me for years, and then say nothing.”

“…Kevin.”

You frowned. “Kevin?”

“That’s… my name.”

Kevin.

The name felt familiar. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Your phone buzzed, breaking the tense silence. You glanced at the screen. A text from Rowan.

ran into my ex. send help. or maybe a meteor.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head before replying.

You’ll survive. Just avoid eye contact.

Another buzz.

fine. but now you’re stuck babysitting ice man. enjoy.

You sighed, slipping your phone back into your pocket before turning to Kevin. “Looks like it’s just us for the night.”

His posture shifted slightly at that.

“…What does that mean?”

“It means I’m stuck taking care of you.” You stretched, rolling your shoulders before glancing back at him. “And since I doubt you’ve eaten in… well, ever, we’re getting food.”

"…Food?"

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Dinner. You do eat, right?”

“…With you?”

“…Yeah,” you said, “With me.”

For the first time since he hatched, Kevin looked almost… happy.

Taking Kevin out in public turned out to be more of a spectacle than you anticipated.

From the moment you stepped into the restaurant, people stared.

You couldn’t exactly blame them. Kevin wasn’t exactly inconspicuous—towering over most of the patrons, clad in unfamiliar clothes, the way his presence seemed to subtly lower the temperature of the room—it was no wonder people were sneaking glances, whispering behind their hands.

Kevin, for his part, didn’t seem to care.

Every so often, his fingers would flex at his sides, like he was resisting the urge to reach for something.

You nudged him lightly. “Relax.”

He glanced at you. “…I am.”

“You look like you’re about to start a fight with the waiter.”

He didn’t respond, but his posture eased just slightly.

You reached the counter, scanning the menu before placing your order. When the cashier turned to Kevin expectantly, he hesitated—clearly unsure of what to do.

“Just get whatever looks good.”

He studied the menu for a moment before quietly repeating what you ordered.

The cashier, still eyeing him curiously, nodded and rang it up.

As you moved to find a seat, you caught snippets of hushed conversations.

“—he has to be a model, right?”

“Did you see his eyes? They glowed for a second, I swear—”

You glanced at Kevin to see if he noticed. If he did, he didn’t react. His focus remained entirely on you.

Even when you sat down, even as people continued stealing glances, his attention never strayed.

“…Do you always attract this much attention?”

“Attention?”

“The staring. The whispering. You’re kind of hard to ignore.”

He blinked, then looked around—like he was only just noticing the way people’s eyes flickered toward him before quickly looking away.

“I don’t care”

You exhaled, leaning back. “Of course you don’t.”

----

Life with Kevin was… an adjustment.

At first, he was quiet—always watching, always listening, rarely speaking unless spoken to. But the more time you spent together, the more he started to change. A comment here, a question there. Then, one day, Rowan nearly choked on her drink when he suddenly cracked a joke.

"Why did the scarecrow win an award?"

You and Rowan exchanged glances. "…Why?"

Kevin, completely deadpan: "Because he was outstanding in his field."

A beat of silence.

Then Rowan smacked you on the arm, wheezing. "What have you unleashed?!"

From that moment on, there was no stopping him. Every opportunity, every silence, every meal—another dad joke. Some so bad they made Rowan dramatically fake her own death on your couch. Others that made you snort into your drink when you least expected it.

And then there was the cooking.

Kevin, for all his strengths, sucked at it.

You tried to be patient. You really did. But after the third time he turned a simple omelet into something that looked—and smelled—like a crime scene, you had to intervene.

"Kevin. What did you do to this?"

He looked at the mess on the plate, completely unfazed. "I followed the instructions."

Rowan peered at the destruction. "…Did the instructions tell you to make it explode?"

He looked at the pan like it had personally betrayed him. "It didn’t do that last time."

"Last time?" you echoed in horror.

In the end, you took over the cooking duties, while Kevin begrudgingly stepped back—though not without very intense supervision.

"No, Kevin, you don't need to set the heat that high. Lower it. No, lower."

Despite all the chaos, it… worked.

Somehow, between Rowan’s teasing, Kevin’s terrible jokes, and your constant attempts to keep everything from burning down, the three of you settled into something that felt almost normal.

Kevin spoke more now. He wasn’t just an observer anymore. He and Rowan still had their moments (mostly involving his near-murder of her that first night), but they got along better than you ever expected.

And even though you didn’t have all the answers about him—where he really came from, what he was hiding—it didn’t feel like he was a stranger anymore.

He was just… Kevin.

---

The more time you spent with Kevin, the more you noticed something off.

It wasn’t just the cold that followed him. That, at least, you had gotten used to—the way the air seemed to crisp slightly when he was deep in thought, or how frost would creep along the glass whenever he stared too long out the window.

No, it was something else. The way his eyes would linger on the night sky, a faraway look in them. The way his posture would stiffen whenever a particular song played, or when Rowan made an offhand comment about history, or war, or things lost to time.

Like he was remembering something.

Something he refused to talk about.

“…Kevin?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, finally, he murmured, “The world feels… different.”

“Different how?”

He wasn’t sure how to explain it.

“Lighter.”

You stepped closer. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“…No,” he admitted. “But it makes me wonder.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“If this world was always like this… or if it was made this way.”

You didn’t understand what he meant.

----

You worked as a dungeon monitor—watching adventurers as they delved into the depths, tracking their progress, recording statistics, and ensuring that if something went horribly wrong, help could be dispatched.

That day, things almost went very wrong.

The team that entered was experienced—one of the best—but halfway through their expedition, the cameras cut out. The entire monitoring system flickered and failed, leaving your department blind to whatever was happening inside.

Then, the readings spiked.

Unstable energy fluctuations. High threat levels.

Something was in there with them.

You and the others scrambled to restore visuals, but it was useless. No way to see what they were facing, no way to tell if they were even still alive.

Then Kevin, who had been standing silently behind you the entire time, spoke.

“I’ll go.”

You turned to him, startled. “What?”

“I’ll go in.”

The room fell silent. Some of your coworkers exchanged uneasy glances. Others whispered among themselves, unsure whether to take him seriously.

“Kevin,” you said carefully, “we don’t know what’s in there.”

“I’ll handle it.”

You knew how strong he was. You’d seen glimpses of it—his unnatural speed, his ice-cold aura, the way he carried himself like someone who had fought things far worse than this.

But going in alone?

“…You sure?” you asked.

Instead of answering, he raised his hand.

A sudden heat flooded the room.

For a moment, you thought he had activated his ice abilities again—but then you saw it. The shift in temperature. The faint glow of embers at his fingertips, the flicker of something red-hot forming at his side.

The blade he summoned burned fiercely, searing through the cold that usually followed him. The contrast was almost unnatural—his frozen presence clashing with the heat of his weapon, a contradiction made real.

The room was dead silent.

Then Kevin turned, walking toward the entrance of the dungeon without another word.

Kevin returned an hour later.

Injured, bloodstained, but standing.

And he wasn’t alone.

One by one, he carried them out—some limping, some unconscious, some… unmoving. He didn’t stop. Even when his arm was clearly wounded, even when a deep gash trailed down his side, he did not leave a single body behind.

The survivors were in shock—some barely coherent, others whispering about what they had seen inside. About the monster.

About him.

The other department arrived shortly after—the clean-up team, tasked with handling whatever remained inside the dungeon. You sat with the injured, helping where you could, while Kevin leaned against a wall, silent as medics tended to him.

Then the reports started coming in.

The mess he left behind.

The ice-covered battlefield, frozen over in jagged, unnatural formations. The smoldering remains of the creature—the way its body had been carved through by searing heat, its flesh torn apart by both fire and frost.

The kind of destruction that shouldn’t have been possible by one man alone.

One of the cleanup officers returned, pale-faced and visibly shaken. He pulled you aside, voice low.

“That guy…” He glanced warily at Kevin, who hadn’t moved from where he sat, “What is he?”

You looked at Kevin—the quiet, frostbitten warrior who told dad jokes and failed miserably at cooking.

And the man who had just single-handedly taken down a monster that nearly wiped out an entire team.

“…He’s Kevin” you said simply.

The officer gave you an incredulous look, but you didn’t elaborate.

Because the truth was, you didn’t know either.

Kevin was quiet on the way home.

He was thinking.

When you finally reached your place, he sat on the couch, arms resting on his knees, gaze unfocused. His wounds had been patched up—though not without some grumbling from Rowan about how “mystery ice man is way too durable for his own good”—but he didn’t seem concerned about them.

If anything, he looked… frustrated.

You watched him for a moment before nudging his foot with yours. “Something on your mind?”

“…I shouldn’t have been injured.”

“Uh. What?”

Kevin frowned slightly, staring at the bandages on his arm. “Those attacks shouldn’t have hurt me. Not like this.” His fingers curled slightly. “I haven’t fully recovered.”

You exchanged glances with Rowan, who raised an eyebrow. “Recovered from what?”

His gaze flickered—first to you, then to Rowan, then back again.

“Something else isn’t right,” he murmured. “The effects of the dungeon. You should have been affected.”

You tilted your head. “We weren’t inside.”

“That doesn’t matter.” His brow furrowed. “The energy—its reach should have been wider. You were close enough to be impacted.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But you weren’t.”

You exchanged another glance with Rowan.

Rowan crossed her arms. “I felt something,” she muttered. “Like a headache, maybe? It wasn’t great, but it didn’t kill me.”

Kevin seemed to consider that, his expression unreadable.

You, on the other hand, just shrugged. “I felt fine.”

That made him look at you again—longer this time, like he was trying to figure something out.

“…Why?”

You just huffed, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Maybe I’m just built different.”

Rowan snorted. “Or maybe you’ve been exposed to so much weird dungeon energy that your body just gave up trying to resist it.”

You rolled your eyes before nudging Kevin again. “Besides, why are you so surprised? You’ve literally been sitting in my apartment acting like a human air conditioner. Maybe I just got used to it.”

Kevin blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…You’ve been using me as an air conditioner?”

You shrugged. “It’s convenient.”

Rowan lost it. Kevin just stared at you, utterly unreadable.

----

Kevin didn’t hesitate.

The moment he got Rowan’s message “Emergency. We’re in trouble. Come fast.”—he was already moving.

By the time he arrived, the situation was bad.

Inside the monitoring room, you and your coworkers were forced to your knees, hands restrained, faces pale with fear. Armed men stood around you, their presence suffocating. And at the center of it all, towering over the rest, was a man—easily over six feet, built like a fortress, but it wasn’t just his size that put Kevin on edge.

It was the energy radiating from him.

The moment Kevin stepped in, every pair of eyes turned to him.

The leader grinned.

“There he is,” he rumbled, “The one we’ve been looking for.”

“You... were expecting me?”

The man spread his arms, like this was some grand occasion. “We search for power. Real power. And you…” His eyes gleamed. “You are exceptional.”

Kevin didn’t respond.

The man chuckled. “Come with us.”

Kevin’s eyes flickered—first to you, then to Rowan, then to the others.

Then, the man’s grin widened.

“But if you refuse,” he said, almost lazily, “I wonder… who will you save?”

At his signal, his men moved, pressing weapons closer to throats, tightening their hold.

He had to choose.

You, or the others.

The air turned ice-cold.

Kevin’s fingers twitched at his side, the temperature around him plummeting. The leader’s grin never wavered, but the air shimmered subtly around his body—like something unseen was suppressing the cold before it could reach him.

A countermeasure.

Kevin didn’t react, but you knew he noticed. Knew he was already calculating his next move.

Think, Kevin.

You weren’t the only ones in danger. Your coworkers—terrified, vulnerable—were too close. Too easy to kill. And these men… they weren’t bluffing.

The leader chuckled. “Decisions, decisions.”

Kevin didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he moved.

The shift was so fast it was almost imperceptible—one moment he was standing still, the next he was on them. His hand shot forward, ice crackling at his fingertips, aiming for the nearest enemy—

Only for the leader’s presence to surge.

A crushing force slammed into Kevin like a wall. His momentum stalled.

For the first time since you’d met him, Kevin staggered.

“Not so easy, is it?”

Kevin clenched his jaw, already adjusting, already adapting.

But you knew.

He wasn’t at full strength.

And these men knew exactly what they were doing.

The leader didn’t give Kevin time to recover.

Before Kevin could strike again, the pressure intensified—crushing, suffocating, like an invisible force pinning him in place. You saw his muscles tense, his body resisting, but for the first time, Kevin wasn’t just unstoppable.

He was being held back.

"You feel it, don't you?" he mused. "The weight? The restraint? It's designed for people like you. Those with overwhelming power, too dangerous to be left unchecked." He smirked. "You’re strong. But strength means nothing if you can’t use it."

"You have two options," the leader continued, gesturing to the hostages. "Join us, or decide which of them dies first."

The temperature spiked.

The suppression was strong, yes. But Kevin was adaptive. And right now, his ice was useless. But fire?

Fire was different.

And Kevin, despite his injuries, moved fast. In one swift motion, he grabbed you—yanked you toward him, shielding you with his body as a blast of heat surged through the room. The suppression cracked just enough for him to act.

But not without cost.

Because in that same moment, a blade slashed through his side.

The leader had expected this. Counted on it. And Kevin, despite his speed, despite his strength, wasn’t untouchable.

His body jerked slightly at the impact, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he twisted, using the momentum to hurl you out of immediate danger, straight into Rowan’s grasp.

Then he turned back to the fight.

He had made his choice.

He wasn’t going with them.

And he wasn’t letting them win.

The battle ended in chaos.

Kevin had won. The leader was down, the remaining men either unconscious or fleeing. The oppressive force that once restrained him was gone, shattered beneath his relentless strength.

But something was wrong.

Pain flared through your body—You barely registered the moment you collapsed, barely noticed the blood staining your clothes.

"No!"

He was at your side in an instant, faster than your mind could process. His hands hovered over, the fear in his eyes couldn't be hid.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Distantly, you heard Rowan’s voice—panicked, but it was Kevin’s grip that stabilized you.

"Stay awake," he ordered, "You have to stay awake."

You tried to respond, tried to tell him you were fine, but the words wouldn't come.

Then, for the briefest moment, you saw something in his face—something haunted.

As if he had seen this before.

---

Relief flooded his expression when he realized you were still breathing, still alive. His hold tightened slightly, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

When you woke up, everything hurt.

Your vision was hazy, the dull beep of a heart monitor filling the quiet room. The air smelled of antiseptic, the blankets felt too stiff, and—

Why is there so much yelling?

“You don’t understand.” Kevin’s voice—low, firm, but unmistakably angry. “Let me in.”

“We can’t—” Someone—probably a nurse tried to reason with him, but Kevin wasn’t having it.

“Move.”

“Sir, we have rules—”

“Kevin, please,” Rowan’s voice now, exasperated and desperately apologetic. “You can’t just barge in like a walking snowstorm—”

“You think rules matter?” Kevin sounded genuinely offended. “Y/N almost died.”

You sighed, the noise barely above a whisper, but apparently, it was loud enough.

Because within seconds, the door slammed open.

Kevin stood there, looking like he was two seconds away from freezing the entire hospital. Rowan was right behind him, muttering rapid apologies to the poor staff, who were wisely keeping their distance.

“You’re awake.”

“…Yeah”

Kevin was at your side in an instant, looking you over, as if making sure you were still real. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should.

Rowan sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, now that you’re here, can you stop acting like a wild animal?”

Kevin ignored her.

“…You’re okay?” His voice was quieter now, barely above a murmur.

You blinked up at him, tired but amused. “Dunno, Kev. You tell me. You’re the one scaring the doctors.”

Rowan snorted.

Kevin looked unimpressed. But the tension in his shoulders eased. Just a little.

Kevin didn’t leave your side after that.

Not when the doctors checked your vitals, not when Rowan tried to convince him to go home and rest, not when visiting hours technically ended. If anyone even thought about kicking him out, one look at his expression shut them up immediately.

You weren’t going to win this one.

So, you sighed, shifting slightly in bed. “Kevin.”

His attention snapped to you instantly.

“You don’t have to hover,” you muttered. “I’m not dying.”

Kevin didn’t look convinced. His gaze flickered to your bandages, to the faint strain in your voice. “…I won’t leave.”

Rowan groaned, rubbing her temples. “Of course you won’t.” But she didn’t argue anymore. Instead, she stood, stretching. “Fine. If you’re gonna stay, I’m going home. Someone has to make sure Pebble doesn’t eat my shoes.”

You gave her a weak thumbs-up as she left, mumbling something about ferrets and stress.

Then it was just you and Kevin.

He pulled a chair closer, settling in, still watching you carefully.

You raised an eyebrow. “Gonna stare at me all night?”

“…I can tell you a joke.”

Oh no.

You groaned, already regretting everything. “Kevin, no—”

He ignored you. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

You turned your head, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Kevin.”

“Because they don’t have the guts.”

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a pained wheeze. “Please stop.”

Kevin almost looked pleased with himself. “You’re smiling.”

You wanted to be annoyed, but you couldn’t. Not really. Because for all his bad jokes, all his stubbornness, all his silence and hidden thoughts

You looked at him from the water’s edge. A haunting silhouette against the crashing waves.

He had been told sirens lured men with songs, full of honeyed lies, but you did not sing. You did not need to. Something deeper, something older called to him. The tide lapped at his boots, coaxing, beckoning.

He should have turned back.

Instead, he returned. Again and again. Until the sea smelled less like salt and more like you, until the nights on his ship felt hollow without your gaze watching.

The first time, it was a corpse.

Phainon stood at the water’s edge, the scent of blood thick in the air. The body—a man, throat slit clean, slumped from his grasp and hit the waves with a hollow splash.

“I thought of you” he murmured, “While I was cutting him open. I wondered if you’d like it fresh.”

The second time, the offering was still alive.

The man kicked, thrashed, screamed. Phainon held him by the hair, forcing him to kneel in the shallow water. The fear in his victim’s eyes was nothing compared to the madness in Phainon’s own.

“She’s watching” he whispered to the struggling man, “You should feel honored.”

Then he looked up, as if seeking approval. His hands trembled—not with hesitation, but with exhilaration. “Do you like it better this way? When they’re still warm?”

Phainon smiled. “I’ll bring more.”

---

Phainon sat on the shore, a strange grin playing at his lips. The moonlight turned his silver hair ghostly, his hands moving deftly over the instrument. He did not look surprised to see you—no, if anything, he looked satisfied.

“You’re here” he mused, fingers never faltering.

The melody shifted, softer now, coaxing. It did not pull like a siren’s song, but it lingered in the air, refusing to be ignored.

“Can you understand me?” His voice was almost teasing, “Or have I been speaking to the waves all this time?”

You replied him with nothing but silence.

Phainon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. His hands stilled on the strings. “You know,” he said, “I’m an expert.”

“If you don’t come to me, I’ll find a way to get you myself.”

The tide licked at the shore, rising as if in warning. Phainon's fingers pressed idly against the strings of his instrument, though the song had long since faded.

“I was starting to think you were nothing but a shadow in the water.”

You did not respond.

The wind howled between you both, salty mist clinging to your hair.

“You believe you can take me?” You asked at last.

Phainon laughed. It was not the laugh of a man deterred, but of a man entertained. “Oh, dear siren,” he murmured, standing slowly, his boots sinking into the wet sand. “You mistake me.”

“I don’t need to take you.” His fingers brushed over the hilt of the blade at his hip, not as a threat, but as a promise. “I just need to make sure you never leave me.”

----

Humans had no strength in the water. You knew this. Had seen them flail and drown, helpless against the current. Humans were fragile creatures swayed by fear, by curiosity, by the gentle pull of the tide. You did not need to sing, nor whisper sweet deceptions. You only needed to wait.

And they came.

The first was a sailor. He did not see you at first—only the glint of something pale beneath the waves, something shifting in the current. He stepped closer.

By the time he realized his mistake, the ocean had already swallowed him whole.

The second was younger, trembling as he peered over the railing of his ship, searching for whatever force had dragged his crewmate down. He never saw the hands that pulled him under.

The third did not even scream.

One by one, you took them, the water welcoming their bodies, their struggles fading into the deep. The abyss always called, and they, like all before them, answered.

splash

Phainon.

You turned, expecting him on the shore, but no—he had come from above, from a ship lurking just beyond the reach of the waves.

And before you could move, something cold snapped around your wrist.

Bracelet?

Phainon grinned, hair fanning in the water like silver thread, eyes burning with something near-manic. “Got you.”

Phainon had no place in the water.

He was human— no matter how steady his hands, no matter how many monsters he had slain. The ocean did not care. It did not recognize him.

And it swallowed him whole.

The weight of his own foolishness dragging him down. He had leapt in willingly, with no plan, no survival in mind.

Typical.

You swept him under without hesitation.

The current embraced him instantly, pulling him deeper, his body twisting in the tide. His fingers brushed against you, grasping for something, anything. But you had already let go.

Bubbles burst from his lips, frantic, uneven. His arms thrashed, desperate to break the water’s grip. It was pathetic.

You turned away.

And yet—

Something in you twisted.

A pull urging you to turn back.

You did not want to.

But you did.

You moved before you could think.

Your arms wrapped around him, dragging him up, breaking through the surface with force. His head lolled against your shoulder, his breath nonexistent. The waves carried you both, faster than they should have, as if the sea itself was trying to rid itself of him.

You pulled him onto the sand, his body cold, heavy. For a moment, you hovered, staring at the rise and fall of his chest—shallow, struggling, but alive.

You should not have done this.

With one last glance, you turned and slipped back into the depths, vanishing into the tide before he could wake.

----

The thing on your wrist pulsed, faint but constant, sinking into your skin like rot. A weight that did not belong, that was not of the sea. And worse—

It would not come off.

You clawed at it, pried at the lock, but the metal held fast, unyielding. The more you struggled, the more it burned, a creeping heat that should not exist in the abyss.

It was wrong. It did not belong here.

Phainon.

Even now, his presence lingered, his touch wrapped around you in this cursed thing he had left behind. He was not here, but somehow, he had still reached you.

And for the first time in your existence, the ocean did not feel safe.

---

The cave was silent, save for the steady drip of water against stone.

You sat near the entrance, where the tide reached just enough to lap at your legs. The bracelet on your wrist gleamed dully in the dim light, unyielding no matter how many times you tried to pry it off.

Your nails scraped against it, frustration curling deep in your chest.

Phainon had done this.

You did not know how, did not know why, but the truth was undeniable.

You should not have saved him.

Fine.

If you could not remove it yourself, you would find the one who had placed it.

And this time, you would not hesitate.

---

You had tracked him to this place. A hidden inlet carved into the cliffside, shielded from the open sea, the entrance barely visible against the jagged rock. It was a place humans rarely came, yet his scent lingered here, fresh, undeniable.

He had been waiting.

You emerged from the water slowly, deliberately, stepping onto the slick stone with movements far too steady for something that should not belong on land. Your tail had given way to legs, but the shift felt sluggish, unnatural. The bracelet burned against your wrist as if resisting the transformation, as if tethering you to something unseen.

You did not call for him. You did not need to.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

“You came.”

Phainon stepped forward, into the dim light filtering through the cave’s mouth. His clothes were damp, his silver hair still tousled from the ocean air.

“I knew you would.”

Your gaze drifted to his hands, resting casually at his sides.

Slowly, you lifted your wrist, the thing glinting dully in the weak light.

“What did you do?”

“Ah. You noticed.”

“Remove it.”

“I could,” he admitted, his voice light, conversational. “But why would I?”

“You have no power here, human.”

Phainon hummed, stepping closer, unbothered by the threat laced in your tone. “Don’t I?”

You stiffened. A slow, creeping heat crawled up your arm, spreading through your veins, dragging at something within you.

Phainon watched you carefully, eyes gleaming with that same maddening certainty.

“You feel it, don’t you? Now you’re bound.” His fingers twitched at his sides. “To me.”

“You think this will keep you safe?”

Phainon exhaled a laugh “Safe?” He leaned in just slightly, as if daring you to move. “Who said anything about safe?”

“I can take you with me,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “But I didn’t.”

The accessory on your wrist pulsed, a silent reminder of his touch, his claim.

“I gave you your freedom.” He tilted his head, studying your expression, his eyes gleaming like a predator waiting for its prey to realize it had already been caught. “And that’s generous of me.”

His smile sharpened, his chest rising and falling just slightly faster, as if he had been waiting for this—waiting for you to acknowledge him, to see him, to let him stand in your presence.

“Ah…” His voice came quieter, more breath than sound, as if he had to steady himself. “You’re—”

He cut himself off, exhaling a soft, shaking laugh.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee.

Not in surrender.

In devotion.

You stared at him.

Phainon—kneeling, breathing uneven, staring up at you as if he had finally reached the thing he had been chasing all this time.

This was a human. A creature of land, of fleeting years, of brittle bones and fragile flesh.

You did not take things like this.

You consumed, you drowned, you let them sink into the abyss and never resurface. You did not let them linger, did not let them follow you, did not let them worship you like this.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“You think you have done something that matters.” You lifted your wrist. “You think this changes what you are.”

His grin widened.

“Oh, I know what I am.” He tilted his head, silver hair falling over his forehead, breath still slightly uneven as he watched you, enthralled. “The real question is—do you know what you are now?”

You did not answer.

Because you did not need to.

You were what you had always been. A creature of the abyss. A hunter that did not chase, a being that did not need to lure, because all things that crossed your path fell eventually.

Phainon was no different.

And yet—he was still here.

Still breathing.

Still kneeling before you.

You lowered your wrist slowly. “You will get nothing from me.”

Phainon’s grin did not falter. “I already have.”

You moved before he could react.

Sharp teeth sank into his flesh, the taste of salt and blood blooming across your tongue. His breath hitched, but there was no pain—no fear—only that same maddening exhilaration.

You ripped yourself away, your eyes locking with his for the briefest moment—one final warning, one final denial—before the sea surged around you.

And then you were gone.

The cold water swallowed you whole, the ocean embracing you once more. You did not look back.

But Phainon—

He remained kneeling, staring at the crimson dripping from the fresh wound on his hand.

Slowly, he exhaled, his fingers flexing as if memorizing the sting.

Then he smiled.

A deep, satisfied grin, as if the pain only proved something he had already known.

You had left your mark on him.

And that, to him, was enough.

----

The land felt unnatural beneath your feet.

It was not the first time you had taken this form, but it had never felt like this before—heavy, constricting, a shape that did not suit you.

Still, you moved without hesitation.

Phainon’s dwelling was easy to find. He had left traces of himself everywhere—the scent of salt and steel, the remnants of blood staining the docks, the unmistakable pull of the thing on your wrist that told you he was close.

He had made no effort to hide.

You entered with ease, silent as the tide, your presence slipping through the space like a current unseen. He would not know you like this. He could not. To him, you were just another figure in the world of men, another stranger walking paths that were never meant for you.

“You should’ve knocked.”

His voice cut through the still air.

Phainon stood just beyond the dim candlelight, leaning against the wooden frame of the room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked... amused.

“Well?” His eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

Your gaze flickered past him, tracing the walls of the dimly lit room.

They were covered in remnants of things that did not belong on land.

Bones, scales, preserved limbs from creatures that had once moved through the depths with silent grace. And among them—stuffed figures, carefully stitched, resembling the very things he had hunted. Trophies. Proof of conquest.

A silent declaration of power.

This was the world he belonged to.

You turned your attention back to him. “I apologize,” you said, your voice smooth, carefully measured. “I did not know this was your home.”

Phainon’s gaze didn’t waver. He was studying you now. Not like when he looked at you in the water. Not like when he had dropped to his knees, breathing uneven, his voice trembling with something unhinged and worshipful.

This was different.

Because he did not recognize you.

You offered the slightest tilt of your head. “My name is—” you paused, giving him a name that was not your own, one that fit the form you had taken.

Phainon didn’t react immediately. He simply held your gaze, as if assessing whether you were worth acknowledging at all.

“Hm.” He pushed off the wooden frame, stepping fully into the dim light. “And what do you want?”

To hunt the monster in front of you. Him.

----

You moved carefully, your steps barely making a sound against the worn floor. Phainon had already gone to sleep—or so you had assumed. His breathing had evened out behind closed doors, his presence heavy but unmoving.

It gave you time.

Your fingers ghosted over surfaces as you searched, slipping between shadows, eyes scanning the strange collection that surrounded you.

The house was decorated with death.

Everywhere you looked, pieces of creatures long lost to the sea were displayed like trophies—monsters pinned to walls, their hollow eyes frozen in expressions they had never worn in life. A cruel mimicry of their existence, preserved only to serve as proof of their defeat.

And among them—

Some were familiar.

The curve of a fin, the shape of a claw, remnants of things that once swam in the abyss where you ruled.

You turned your attention back to your search. You needed something—anything—to break the annoying thing on your wrist.

Eventually, your steps led you into a smaller chamber. The air was damp, cooler than the rest of the house.

A bathroom.

Your eyes flickered toward the tub—and stilled.

The water was filled to the brim.

Strange. Phainon had gone to sleep. Humans did not need water in such quantities.

The liquid was still, reflecting the dim glow of the lantern outside the doorway. But as you stepped closer, a ripple passed through its surface—slow, unnatural, like something unseen had disturbed it from below.

You ignored the faint unease creeping into your chest, instead stepping toward the sink. If nothing else, you would wash your hands, rid yourself of the lingering sensation of this place before continuing your search.

The water ran cool over your skin, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, muscles relaxing just slightly—

Then your gaze drifted back to the tub.

The water’s color was wrong. Dark, shifting. A shade that did not belong in a home on land, thick with something more than just salt. It almost seemed to breathe, pulsing in slow waves against the porcelain edges.

Your brows furrowed.

Push

A force slammed into your back before you could react, knocking you off balance. Your hands caught the edge of the tub for the briefest second before another shove drove you forward—

And then you were submerged.

The second the water swallowed you, your body betrayed you. Pain lanced through your legs, twisting through your bones like an unseen force was dragging you back to what you were meant to be. The shift came violently, your skin splitting, merging, reshaping.

The familiar weight of your tail returned, but—

Your upper body remained unchanged, still locked in its human form, even as the rest of you was forced back into what you truly were. Panic surged, but before you could push yourself free, fingers curled over the edge of the tub.

Phainon. Again.

His grip was steady, his knuckles white against the porcelain as he leaned over you, looking down with something unreadable in his gaze.

This had been planned.

“Caught you.”

"You know," he murmured, flexing the mark of his injured hand, the blood welling where your teeth had sunk deep, "I almost didn’t recognize you."

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over your face, your body—your still-human form above the water, the betraying flicker of your tail below.

"But you should’ve been more careful."

A breath of laughter escaped him, "The way you move. The way you watch." His eyes gleamed, sharp with something close to amusement. "You were always so quiet."

He leaned down, one hand braced against the porcelain, keeping you caged.

"But no human has ever looked at me the way you do."

"No human hesitates before speaking like you do."

"And no human would ever think they could hide from me."

His free hand lifted, trailing over the water’s surface, fingertips barely grazing the liquid that had forced your transformation.

"Now that you’re here…" He hummed, his expression unreadable, but his next words were clear, "I think I’ll keep you."

Water surged as you twisted violently, your tail thrashing against the porcelain. With a sharp flick, you sent a wave straight into Phainon’s face, forcing him to pull back, the liquid splattering against his clothes, his skin.

You didn’t waste a second.

Hands gripping the sides of the tub, you tried to pull yourself free, the weight of the water slowing you down but not stopping you. Your muscles tensed, every instinct screaming to get away, to get out, but a strong hand clamped onto your shoulder.

Before you could react, Phainon shoved you back down.

The force sent you crashing beneath the surface, the water swallowing you whole. It dragged at your skin, the strange substance wrapping around you like a second set of hands, pulling, twisting—

And then the last remnants of your human form shattered.

Your body shifted entirely, the final traces of your disguise ripped away as your tail fully emerged, scales gleaming dark beneath the unnatural light.

You gasped sharply as you resurfaced, claws scraping against the slick porcelain, but before you could lash out, something warm pressed against your shoulder.

Teeth.

A sharp sting bloomed as Phainon’s mouth closed over your skin.

A growl rumbled in your throat, low and threatening, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers dug into your arm, holding you in place, his breath warm against your damp skin.

The pressure of his teeth lingered even as he finally released you.

Then he lifted his gaze to meet yours, and the look in his eyes sent a chill down your spine.

"That," he said, "was for trying to run."

Before you could pull away, his grip on your wrist tightened.

Then, without hesitation, he sank his teeth into your hand.

A sharp sting shot up your arm.

"Let go."

You did what you must, you commanded him to.

For a moment, his fingers slackened, his pupils dilating slightly. His body swayed just the faintest bit forward, caught on the hook of your call, just as countless others had before.

But then—

His breath steadied.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips.

And from beneath his soaked shirt, he pulled something into view.

A dark, worn amulet hung from a chain, the metal glinting in the dim light, etched with carvings you could not immediately decipher.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" His voice was calm, almost amused, his grip tightening once more.

"Why do you think I can hunt other ones?"

Your eyes snapped to the amulet, realization settling in.

That was why he had been able to hunt. Why your kind had never been able to pull him into the depths as easily as the others.

Your attempt to escape was swift—your body surged forward, water splashing violently as you twisted, tail coiling with the force needed to propel yourself away.

But Phainon was faster.

A hand shot out, seizing your wrist with a strength that sent a jolt through your bones. Before you could react, before you could tear yourself free, a sharp yank sent you crashing back into the water.

The tub overflowed, liquid spilling onto the floor, but neither of you cared.

You thrashed, snarling, claws raking against his arm. But Phainon only gritted his teeth, his grip ironclad as he pressed down, forcing you deeper into the water.

The strange substance swirled around you, clinging, binding, warping.

Your muscles locked. A cold sensation seeped into your skin, into your veins—an unnatural weight, something that latched onto the very essence of what you were. Your vision blurred for a moment.

You tried to lurch forward, but your body barely responded.

And Phainon—Phainon only watched.

"You feel it, don’t you?"

You bared your teeth, refusing to acknowledge it. Refusing to let him see the way your chest tightened, the way your limbs felt heavier.

But he already knew.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing the bracelet still bound to your wrist.

"It’s not just some ordinary restraint," he continued, tilting his head. "You thought I was careless, didn’t you? That I just let you slip away before?"

He leaned in, "I was never letting you go."

You hissed, tail lashing, but the motion was sluggish, weaker than before.

"Fight all you want," he mused, fingers pressing lightly against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "It won’t change anything."

"I told you, didn’t I? If you wouldn’t come to me…"

His fingers trailed down your throat, resting lightly against your collarbone.

"I’d find a way to take you myself."

You had underestimated him.